by Duncan Leigh
Margaret folded her hands primly in her lap. Her shoulders stiff, she leaned forward. “A small wedding? In Italy?”
“In a way.” Fighting the urge to smirk, she nodded. “I’ve rented an Italian villa and…”
She let the moment draw out as she studied Margaret’s approving glance.
“And only invited my closest friends.” The sprawling estate would easily accommodate their three hundred guests, plus the caterers, florists, and musicians required for the wedding of someone with their own star on Hollywood Boulevard.
Encouraging Bradley to spend some time in his hometown had been a stroke of sheer genius, if she did say so herself. While he was safely tucked away, she’d be able to finalize plans for their gala celebration without worrying about his reaction. Or his interference.
“I should have known you had a plan,” Margaret cooed. “Now, tell me all about it.”
A flicker of unease passed through Catherine as she settled in for a nice, long chat with her best friend. She shoved it aside. A wedding was far more than the mere exchange of vows. For people in show business, more publicity was always better. And nothing, not even the Academy Awards, drew more attention than a wedding. In the weeks leading up to the big event, her fans would go crazy! They’d obsess over her gown, her veil, the way she wore her hair. They’d ooh and aah over Bradley’s tux, and hearts all over the country would positively melt if he sang one of his love songs during the ceremony. She made a mental note to suggest it.
The man she intended to marry would certainly come around to her way of thinking once he saw what a boost it gave their careers. With that in mind, she brought Margaret up to date on everything she’d done to make her wedding an extravaganza befitting a woman at the top of Hollywood’s A-List.
Chapter Three
This must be how a goldfish feels. Bradley eyed the glass walls that stretched to the ceiling above dark, waist-high panels in the president’s office of the Mill Town Bank. He propped his Stetson on his knee and leaned back against the dark leather guest chair. He glanced across James Fargo’s immense wooden desk and wondered if always being on display had given the man his perpetual squint. Figuring he’d do them both a favor and get the meeting over as soon as possible, he got straight down to business.
“I’m just here for a day or so to sell the house.” And, if the muse was kind, start working on a new song for his next album. “I figure there’s no point in holding on to it.”
James flipped through pages in the folder on his desk. “Well, it looks like you paid off the mortgage years ago. And the, uh, the maintenance staff that takes care of the house is on retainer, so all you need to do is put it on the market.”
“Great.” The sooner the For Sale sign went up, the sooner he’d head back to Catherine and the life he’d spent the last ten years building. Eager to sign whatever papers were necessary, he glanced at James, but instead of sliding a few forms across the massive desk, the man only stared at the paperwork.
Uh-oh. Bradley took in a deep breath and steeled himself against the condolences that were bound to follow.
“I, I, uh, remember what happened to your folks.” The bank president gave his wedding ring a nervous twist and swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed. “It, it was a huge shock to this community. One of the toughest things—”
“Sir.” Bradley stood. James was obviously ill at ease. So was he, for that matter. He might as well put them both out of their misery. “So, I guess that’s all the business we need to take care of.”
“Right, right.” As if glad to get back on firm footing, James sprang to his feet. “I will put you in touch with Sally Hartford. She’s the local real estate broker we use here at the bank. She can put your house on the market, take care of everything.”
Bradley bit back a mild oath as, on the other side of the glass wall, a customer hurrying past James’s office glanced his way. The woman stopped so suddenly that coffee in the cups she carried sloshed onto the floor while recognition flared in her eyes. Unable, or unwilling, to wrench her gaze off him, she stood in the middle of the corridor wearing the same goofy smile he’d seen on a thousand faces since the night he’d won the Grammy. The familiar expression served as a warning to leave before anyone else noticed his presence.
Turning aside, he extended a hand to James. “I appreciate that, sir. Thank you.” He left quickly, his long strides eating up the short distance from the office through the lobby and to the taxi that waited for him at the curb. “Let’s go,” he told the man behind the wheel seconds before his adoring fan emerged through the bank’s doors.
In all likelihood, she only wanted an autograph, maybe a picture of the two of them standing at the entrance to the bank, but experience told him there was no such thing as just one signature, one quick snapshot. Before he knew it, a crowd would gather and it’d be hours before he could break away. As much as he hated to disappoint any fan, he’d been looking forward to enjoying Mill Town’s peace and quiet while he settled his parents’ estate.
His cell phone buzzed. Hoping Catherine had found a minute to call him—something that rarely happened when she was on set—he pulled the device from his pocket.
Instead of his fiancée’s image, a photo of his publicity manager appeared on the screen. Without so much as a single inquiry into Bradley’s well-being, the man launched into the most recent list of photo ops, interview requests, and public appearances he’d accepted on his client’s behalf.
Bradley shook his head. Earlier in his career, opportunities like these had been far and few between. Now, so many requests filled his schedule that he had a hard time carving out an hour or two to work on his music. Still, as Catherine often reminded him, if he wanted his songs to stay at the top of the charts, he had to chat with radio show hosts, drop in on late-night television shows, maintain his connection to industry movers and shakers. Suppressing a sigh, he listened while the man on the other end of the line discussed the details of upcoming events.
Sometime later, while the publicist asked about his schedule, he caught a glimpse of lush farmland and a barn from the window of the cab. “Yeah, I’m going to be here in Texas for the next day or so,” he answered. “Then, I’m going to head to my studio in Nashville and I’ll try to write some more music before I head out on tour.”
Through the windshield, he spotted a weathered sign for the Circle M Ranch mounted on rough-hewn logs. When he was a kid, he’d ridden his bicycle past this very spot on his way to school every day.
Resisting the urge to scratch his head, he hurried to end the phone call with a quick, “Hey, I’m going to have to call you back.” As soon as he disconnected, he leaned toward the driver. “I didn’t give you my address, did I?”
“Aw, everybody knows where your house is.” The man behind the wheel turned off the main road onto a familiar dirt track. “You’re pretty famous here in Mill Town. They’ve got a sandwich named after you down at the diner.”
“Really.” Bradley chuckled. The driver’s Southern drawl was as thick as the cane syrup his mom used to pour over his biscuits.
“Oh, yeah.”
Well, what d’you know. A Grammy and a sandwich named after him. His star was definitely on the rise. His leather jacket creaking, he pressed closer to the driver. Something about the man’s voice triggered a memory of blackboards and white chalk. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”
“Yeah.” The driver stared into the rearview mirror. “We went to school together. Sam Harper.”
“Sammy Harper?” Recalling a freckle-faced kid who’d sat beside him in Mrs. Ferguson’s music class, he grinned. Sammy and he had been the only boys in the fifth grade who could carry a tune. He relaxed against the seat. “I do remember you.”
“Uh, hey. I play lead guitar in a band in town.” Sammy glanced over his shoulder. “We play all your hits.”
“Great.” It was too bad he wou
ldn’t be in Mill Town long enough to stop by and listen, but he’d only be here for a day, two at the most. He pulled a hundred from his pocket while Sammy braked to a stop in front of a two-story house that bore a fresh coat of gray paint.
“Here you go.” Bradley handed over the money. He waited just until Sammy tucked the bill into the pocket of a windbreaker before he grabbed his overnight bag and slid toward the door.
“Oh, hey. Don’t you want your change?” Sammy asked.
“You keep it.” He clapped his childhood friend on the shoulder. Sammy almost certainly needed the money more than he did. The man certainly wasn’t going to get rich playing in a cover band down at the local honky-tonk or driving a taxi in a town with a population the size of Mill Town. He should know. He’d worked his fair share of odd jobs and bars before he’d gotten his big break.
For a long moment, he simply stood and watched the dust that rose from behind the departing taxi. This was it. After all these years, he’d finally come back home. What would it be like, walking into the house where he’d spent the first thirteen years of his life? Back then, an icy cold had stung his feet when he’d jumped out of bed before dawn to help his dad milk the cows on winter mornings. By the time they’d finished, his mom had breakfast ready, and the good smells of fried bacon and eggs, biscuits made from scratch and hot coffee had filled the air. Every afternoon, he’d charge down the steps of the school bus and race for the house, eager for a fresh-baked cookie or a slice from one of the pies that cooled on the window over the stove. After supper each evening, their little family would gather in the living room around a crackling fire. While his mom had read aloud from library books, his dad had most often sat in the corner and strummed an old six-string.
He hadn’t let himself think of those days in a dozen years or more, and tears stung the corners of his eyes. He took in a deep, cleansing breath and let it out while he won a hard-fought battle over his emotions. Hefting his suitcase, he headed up the sidewalk toward the house that held too many memories of a time he thought he’d forgotten.
Long strides took him past the rose garden his mother had loved. The neatly trimmed bushes fairly bristled with new buds, and that surprised him. He’d half expected to find a thorny thicket of overgrown plants. Someone had obviously been tending the flowers. He made a note to find out who and thank them. As for the rest of the trees and shrubs in the front yard and the climbing vines over the porch, considering the house had been sitting vacant for a more than a decade, he thought they were in pretty good shape.
His footsteps slowed when he reached the back porch. A sudden urge to head straight to Nashville and let the bank handle the sale of the house swept over him.
He shook the thought aside. He’d come here to sort through his parents’ belongings, pack up a few mementos of his childhood, maybe write a song or two. The sooner he got started, the better. His purpose renewed, he let a series of firm steps take him up the three stairs to the door, where he dug around in his pocket for the key James had pressed into his hand.
Seldom-used hinges complained when he swung the front door open. He swore he could almost hear his dad playing a mournful tune on the harmonica as he stepped into the narrow hallway that ran the length of the house. His movements stirred the stale, dusty air, and he sighed. Every reminder of the life he’d lived here had been packed away in dozens of boxes that crowded the floor around the bare kitchen counters. In the living room, sheets and heavy plastic draped the lamps, the furniture. More boxes hid beneath a thick coating of dust and dirt.
The rest of the day sped by as he sorted and cleaned and rearranged. Someone had propped his dad’s old guitar in the corner. The strings wailed like a troubled cat when he strummed them. He told himself all the instrument needed was a little love—a little tinkering with the fret board, a new set of strings—and it’d be right as rain again, but loss punched him in the gut. He sank onto one of the cloth-covered chairs and mopped his face with one hand.
Even though he knew it was impossible, he’d somehow pictured the house as it used to be, had dreamed of seeing his mom at the stove, of hearing his dad complain about the weather. But those days, and his parents, were long gone. As for himself, he had a new life now, success beyond his wildest dreams, a future to look forward to with a woman he loved and admired.
With that, he took a good, hard look around the room. If he wanted the house to fetch top dollar, no doubt he’d have to do something about the all-around clutter. Shrugging off his jacket, he rolled up his sleeves and set to work.
By the time he had the kitchen squared away, he was ready for a late afternoon pick-me-up. For the first time since his arrival in town, he missed having an assistant on hand to cater to his every whim. As long as he stayed in Mill Town, if he wanted coffee, he’d have to make it himself. But that was okay. He’d done everything for himself during the lean years.
In minutes, he unearthed an ancient coffeemaker from one of the boxes. Two tall shopping bags and a basket of fruit sat on a table in the breakfast nook. Poking through the supplies James had been kind enough to provide, he found everything else he needed. While the rich aroma of a fresh-brewed pot filled the room, he searched for something to pour the coffee into. His gut tightened when he pulled the Best Mom Ever mug from a box of cups and bowls. After tucking it away among the few things he’d take with him when he left, he chose a nondescript mug that had no painful memories attached. Then, figuring he’d accomplished enough for one day, he carried his drink outside.
In the shade of a mammoth oak tree, he sipped the slightly bitter coffee while he rocked back and forth on the glider his dad had erected in front of the house. Mature evergreens dotted the gentle slope down to a graveled road. The view made a good selling point. Or it would, if it weren’t for the tumble-down fence that surrounded the ranch next door. A tighter scrutiny of the barns and sheds at the Standors’ place revealed loose boards and missing roof shingles on buildings that could use a new coat of paint.
He swigged the last of his coffee. The neighboring ranch had probably changed hands in the years since he’d moved away. Maybe he’d drop by, introduce himself to the new owners and let them know he’d be around for a day or two. He tossed the dregs from his cup on to the grass. There was no time like the present, he told himself as he cut across the field that separated the properties.
Spotting a pick-wielding ranch hand bent over a horse’s hoof just inside the gate, he called, “Excuse me, sir. I was looking for the family who used to live in this house.” The guy straightened…no, the woman, with a decidedly feminine figure.
Despite the warmth that flooded his cheeks, he chuckled. In the years since they’d last seen each other, Sarah Standor had changed. For the better. “There was a skinny little girl with freckles?” he teased.
“I saw an interview you did once where you said you’d come home to Mill Town when pigs fly.” Sarah propped her gloved hands on her hips and tipped her head. Her brown eyes sparkled as she stared at the cloudless sky. She lifted cupped hands in the air. “Sky seems clear of swine.”
He laughed out loud. That sounded like something he’d say. “Sarah Standor.”
“Bradley Suttons.” Her wide grin flashed beneath a well-worn cowboy hat. Twin braids the color of burnished copper brushed her shoulders when Sarah shook her head.
“You look…so different.” The cocky tomboy had grown into a woman who’d retained all the wholesome good looks of the girl-next-door.
“Well, you seem to have outgrown your awkward phase, too.” Her hands regained their purchase on slim hips. “But I don’t know if that’s true,” she corrected herself. “You never had an awkward phase. You’re just as handsome as ever. What brings you to town?”
“I’m selling my parents’ house.” Bradley spared the old homestead a quick glance. “I should have dealt with it years ago, but I never found the time to get back here.”
“Wel
l, time does fly when you’re busy winning Grammies, becoming a super star.” Her smile deepened. “We’re all real proud of you.”
“Thanks.” What else could he say? He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“You know, I’ve been keeping up your mother’s flower garden.”
“That’s real nice of you. She would’ve appreciated that.” Though he was glad to know who to thank for the effort, he couldn’t help but wonder why Sarah had spent all that time trimming and caring for the roses. He waited, hoping for an answer while she untied the horse’s lead rope from the fence post. When she headed for the barn, he fell in step beside her.
“I felt like it was the least I could do for her. She’s the one who taught me how to plant and grow flowers. Now I have a big garden out back. I supply flowers for most of the local florists.”
That seemed like a large undertaking for a ranch like the Standors’. “Your family still raising race horses?” He hadn’t been around horses much at all these past few years, but the one that trailed Sarah looked a little soft for Belmont.
“My parents moved to Florida.” Sarah’s tone drifted up, as if she still couldn’t believe they’d moved away. “This place is a horse rescue ranch now. People give me their old horses, their sick horses, and I take care of them.” Stepping into the shade of an evergreen tree, she opened the gate to the paddock.
That didn’t sound like a lucrative business plan, and probably had something to do with the peeling paint on the side of her house and the fences that needed repair.