by Patricia Kay
"I deserved that, too," he said.
The man was full of surprises. She took a swallow of her wine. "Now that we've got that out of the way, perhaps I can tell you why I'm here."
"All right," he said. He placed his bottle of beer on the floor and leaned forward. His eyes had an earnest look. "But before you do, will you please listen to me for a minute?"
Ronnie shrugged, but her breathing quickened. Damn him. He certainly could turn on the charm when he wanted to.
"I know we started out on the wrong foot, and I know it's my fault we did, but I really would like for us to be friends. Do you think we could forget about the past two days and start all over again?"
Ronnie stared at her glass of wine. Could she trust this man? More importantly, could she trust herself around him? She slowly looked up. He was smiling, but it wasn't a knowing smile. It was a sweet, inquiring sort of smile. A nice smile. Maybe, just maybe, he was for real.
Ronnie took a deep breath and said, "I'd like nothing better than for us to be friends, Alex, and I hope you'll still feel that way after I tell you why I'm here."
"Why don't you tell me then?" he said. The smile became broader, and his eyes twinkled.
"I'm afraid Miss Agatha thinks you've taken something from her again." When Ronnie saw his mouth open, she raised her right hand and said, "Wait. I know it's crazy, but she insisted I talk to you about it. She said when you went over there today to talk to her, you left with one of her prized Hummel figurines. I told her you didn't take it, but she wouldn't believe me."
Now the smile became a grin, then Alex laughed out loud.
Ronnie felt extremely foolish but was glad he was taking it so well. Then at his next words, she did a double take.
"Don't be so quick to judge Miss Agatha, Veronica," he said between chuckles. "This time she's right. I did take her Hummel."
Chapter 4
Ronnie's mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened. "You did take her Hummel?"
Alex's chest bounced with laughter, and his gray eyes sparkled. "That's what I said."
"But why? Why on earth would you steal Miss Agatha's Hummel?"
Alex lifted his bottle of beer and took a deep swallow. Then he said, "I didn't say I stole the Hummel. I said I took it."
"What's the difference? I don't understand..."
"I took it because the old lady is playing some sort of game with me, and I thought I'd stir the pot and have some fun with her ... see what happens." His eyes took on a wicked gleam. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you tell her I'm a kleptomaniac, and we'll see what she says."
For a few moments Ronnie just sat there. The clock on the mantel chimed softly. Then she took a deep breath and said, "I think I'm going crazy." Either that, or everyone she knew was in a conspiracy to make her look and feel ridiculous.
Alex chuckled. "I know. I felt that way at first, too. But now I can hardly wait for tomorrow's episode. That's what we've got to do, you know. Think of this as the way you would a soap opera, with each day bringing a new installment, a new surprise."
Ronnie set her glass of wine on the coffee table and stood up. "You know, Alex, despite what you may think ... I really do have serious business to attend to. I don't need to be running around on wild goose chases."
The smile teetered and almost disappeared. Almost.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I was just having a little fun."
"At my expense."
The look on his face reminded her of little Jason Traymore's when she'd caught him soaping her car windows last Halloween. Alex lowered his eyes. Ronnie wavered. She almost said, "It's all right, Alex. I'm not mad." But she forced herself to remain silent and wait.
Alex looked up. "I guess I didn't think about you when I pulled my little stunt. I really am sorry. Will you forgive me?"
When he spoke in that husky, intimate tone, Ronnie's insides felt like butter on a stack of pancakes. Calling on every ounce of her willpower, she kept her voice level and her face calm.
"Yes. But you've got to square things with Miss Agatha."
"I will. And I'll behave from now on," he said meekly.
"And," Ronnie added firmly, "you've got to promise me you won't stir up any more trouble with Miss Agatha. Specifically, that you won't take anything else from her shop. I don't want to have to come over here for the same reason again."He raised his right hand. "Scout's honor." Later, as Ronnie remembered the twinkle he hadn't been able to banish from his eyes, she wondered if she could believe him. Somehow she had the feeling Alex Summerfield would continue to disrupt her life one way or another.
* * *
The next afternoon Alex whistled as he stood outside Miss Agatha's door and knocked. He felt absurdly happy. For some reason he had been very productive in his writing this morning. In fact, he'd almost effortlessly come up with a solution to one of the problems he'd been having with a scene in the second act. If every morning went as well as this morning had gone, he'd easily have all his revisions done by the time Bernie came up at the end of July. At the very least, he'd have the second act finished and be well on his way to completing the third act.
Filled with a sense of wellbeing, he buried his nose in the bouquet of flowers he held in his left hand. The heady perfume of roses filled his senses, and he breathed deeply.
"Yes?"
Alex peered through the screened door. "Hello, Miss Richardson," he said cheerily. "Is Miss Agatha home?"
"Yes." She gave a disapproving sniff. "I'll call her."
Alex smothered a grin. The starchiness in the housekeeper's voice was a clear indication of her opinion of him. He shifted the two wrapped parcels under his arms and looked around. The profusion of furniture and odds and ends covering the huge porch delighted him, but he wondered what Miss Agatha did when it rained. A trickle of excitement ran through him as he waited. Miss Agatha and her eccentricities had given him the glimmer of a story idea.
The screen door creaked open. Miss Agatha, dressed in a white cotton dress covered with purple polka dots, said, "Good day, Alex. My goodness, are those for me?" Her dark eyes gleamed with pleasure.
Alex handed her the bouquet. "I come bearing gifts," he said, "and apologies. May I come in?"
"Of course." She turned, and he followed her into the entry hall. "Would you like to sit out on the back porch, or shall we go upstairs into my sitting room?"
"It's such a beautiful day; why don't we go outside?"
Miss Agatha led the way down the hall and through the enormous kitchen. Alex took a quick look around before following her brisk figure through the back door and onto the wide back porch. It, too, was full of furniture, but these pieces were placed in a cozy group inviting relaxation and conversation.
The grounds were covered with a profusion of tall elms, white birch, and maple trees. Pine trees in varying sizes dotted the broad expanse of green. Rose bushes, lilac bushes, boxwoods, and several varieties of evergreens Alex wasn't familiar with were planted helter-skelter around the yard. A large garden with already-tall tomato plants, tender new lettuce leaves, onions, carrots, and a smattering of other vegetables and herbs occupied the entire left side of the yard. A white gazebo sat saucily on a rise of ground to the far right. A large birdbath stood at attention in the middle of the yard. Several small birds chattered as they sipped and strutted around the lip of the bath.
"What a wonderful place!" he exclaimed.
Miss Agatha smiled. "Yes, I think so. Please have a seat."
Alex held out the two wrapped parcels. "Also for you," he said. Then he sank into a large wicker chair and sighed contentedly. Dozens of windchimes tinkled merrily as the soft breeze played against them.
Miss Agatha slowly unwrapped the smallest parcel and placed the white tissue paper on a large glass-topped wicker table. "Ahhh ... I thought so. My little newspaper boy." She held the Hummel up to the light and admired the delicate blues and browns of the fine porcelain figurine.
"Yes, I'm sorry you were worried about it," he said. Then
he waited for her to make the next move. But she made no other comment, just unwrapped the larger parcel and removed the slim book.
"The Poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning," she read. She raised her dark eyes, and Alex could feel the force of her strong personality as she captured his gaze. For a long moment neither one spoke. Then her lips curved in a knowing smile. "Thank you. I know I shall enjoy reading this."
Wasn't she going to ask him about the Hummel?
Her silence on the subject puzzled him, but Alex forced himself to stick to his plan of waiting until she questioned him about his motives for taking the figurine.
"Would you like hot tea, iced tea, or something stronger? I have a bottle of Glenfiddich."
Alex raised his eyebrows. The woman was full of surprises. "I'd love a glass of Glenfiddich. With just a little water," he added.
"Hannah!" she called.
Minutes later the housekeeper put a large crystal old-fashioned glass three-quarters full of amber liquid in his hand and a tall tumbler of iced tea in front of Miss Agatha, who had seated herself across from him.
"Now, where were we?" she asked.
Alex smiled. The old lady was certainly foxy, he'd give her that. Yes, she'd make a wonderful character in a play. "I didn't know we were anywhere," he hedged.
"I think you've just trumped my ace," she said slyly, "and now you have to explain why."
"Doesn't that depend upon whether we're partners or opponents?" Alex countered.
"We're not opponents," she said.
"Ahhh." A tiny germ of an idea poked into a recess of Alex's mind. "Then I don't know what to say."
"What did you tell Veronica?"
Alex considered saying, "About what?" Instead, he chuckled and said, "I just told her I knew you were playing some sort of game and had decided to throw a new element into the pot to see what happened." He watched her face as she considered his words. Her shrewd eyes sparkled, and there was a glimmer of a smile on her face. "You know," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "you're much too smart a lady to have misplaced that brooch. No, there's some reason you accused me of stealing, and I want to know what it is."
"I really have no idea what you are talking about," she said firmly. "But it is a great relief to know you only took the Hummel to see what I'd do. I would hate to think I had so misjudged you." She sipped at her tea. "Well, now that we have settled that matter, what shall we talk about next? Tell me your impressions of Juliette and the people here."
Alex considered pushing the subject of the brooch and the Hummel, but quickly discarded that idea. He'd find out Miss Agatha's motives when she was ready to expose her hand and not before. But he thought he now had a pretty good idea of what she was up to. He smiled and relaxed and passed a very pleasant hour in Miss Agatha's company. No other mention was made of the Hummel or her accusations.
* * *
Ronnie looked forward to Fridays. Although she was always on call, officially she didn't work weekends, and although she loved her job, she loved her free time, too. She could never understand people who were bored with life. To Ronnie, life was one long series of adventures, of interesting pastimes, of fascinating subjects to explore. Most of the time there weren't enough hours in the day to do everything she wanted to do. But this particular Friday she couldn't shake the feeling of confusion and embarrassment caused by her visit to Alex Summerfield the evening before. Nothing had gone right since she'd met him on Wednesday. She hadn't felt this inept since she'd been fresh out of college and a rookie at her job. Everything about Alex Summerfield disturbed her: the way he looked, the way he acted, the way he made her feel, and the way their relationship had progressed. Progressed? What a joke. Regressed was more like it. Progression implied improvement. Instead, each meeting strained the threads of their fledgling friendship.
Ronnie sighed. No matter how much she thought about him or the events that had happened since she'd met him, nothing changed. She still felt foolish about the circumstances in which Alex had seen her. Except for their first meeting, Ronnie felt she had not shown herself in her best light. Investigating a catnapping, losing control of her temper, and running around accusing people of stealing—none of these incidents had been ones she was proud of.
Now she wondered if Alex Summerfield would ever view her as anything other than a joke. Well, she had no intention of letting him have another opportunity to poke fun at her. Although she wouldn't be able to avoid seeing him occasionally—after all, they lived only a few feet from one another—she would stay as far out of his way as she possibly could. Never mind her fantasies. Alex Summerfield didn't belong in her world.
With another heavy sigh, Ronnie bent over her desk and put the finishing touches to her monthly report. She signed her name with a flourish, and just as she picked up the day's mail, the telephone at her left elbow buzzed.
"Sheriff?" Maisie's voice came clearly through the intercom.
"Yes?"
"Alexander Summerfield on line two."
A tiny leap of excitement coursed through Ronnie. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, then picked up the phone and punched the button.
"Sheriff Valentine," she said briskly.
"And how's my favorite sheriff today?" His rich voice sent shivers down her spine.
"Busy."
"Then I'm really glad I called. If you're busy, that means you'll be tired tonight and you'll need relaxation, won't you?"
She thought she could hear a trace of amusement in his words but couldn't be certain. "I guess so," she said hesitantly.
"No guessing about it. It's a known fact that when you work hard during the day you must relax at night."
Ronnie smiled in spite of herself. "Says who?"
"Dr. Zummerfeeeld." His voice had taken on a thick European accent. "Dr. Zummerfeeeld prescribes for you ze relaxed dinner with a nice gentleman."
The smile stretched. Ronnie could feel it fill her face. "Oh? And who might that gentleman be?"
He dropped the accent and said, "Someone who feels his relationship with you hasn't gone exactly the way it should. Someone who feels he owes you a really nice, normal evening to show you he's not the unfeeling lunatic you probably think he is." Then his voice lowered. "Someone who likes you very much and meant it when he said he wanted to become friends."
Ronnie's heart refused to obey her silent command to be still. It raced around like an energetic toddler running from its mother. How could this man cause such turmoil in her body with a simple invitation? Ronnie hadn't felt like this since she'd been a teenager and madly in love with Mr. Winniger, her geometry teacher.
"What do you say?" Alex said.
"I ... I'd love to have dinner with you."
"Good." He sounded pleased. "I'll expect you at seven." Without waiting for her reply, he hung up.
"Wait!" Ronnie called, but it was too late. He was gone. She'd been going to ask him where they were going so she'd know how to dress. Maybe she should call him back. Then she decided she'd just wear her new, much-too-expensive green silk dress— the one she'd told herself she could wear anywhere, which justified buying it.
Seven. She glanced at her watch. It was already four o'clock. Only three hours before she'd see Alex Summerfield again. And this time, she'd make sure she stayed in control at all times. They'd have a new beginning, and even though she knew nothing could ever come of it, Alex Summerfield would begin to see her in a different way.
* * *
At five minutes before seven, Ronnie put a small dab of Joy behind her ears and wrists and in the hollow of her throat, took one more look at herself in the mirror, and picked up her small black purse. Her palms felt clammy, and her breathing quickened as she carefully picked her way down the steps and walked the twenty feet to Alex Summerfield's door.
She picked up the brass knocker and listened to its loud clack as she let it fall against the plate. The sun had begun to lower in the west, and a golden glow suffused the evening sky. The smell of freshly mown grass drifted o
ver the hedges at the edge of the gravel drive. Ronnie could hear Kathy O'Hara, her next-door neighbor, calling her children in for dinner.
The windows to the carriage house were open, and strains of Carly Simon's mellow voice floated through. Ronnie lifted the knocker and banged it down again.
The door opened. Alex stood in the doorway and smiled at her. "Come on in," he said. "You're right on time. I like that." His eyes traveled the length of her body, and Ronnie could see the approval in their gray depths. For a long moment his eyes held hers. An almost tangible undercurrent of electricity seemed to pass between them.
Ronnie swallowed, then wet her lips. Alex reached out and clasped her hands, pulling her inside at the same time.
"You look beautiful," he said softly.
"Thank you," she said. She thought he looked beautiful, too, but she didn't want to say so. Tonight he wore dark gray slacks and a soft-looking white shirt, open at the throat. Once again she could see dark, curly hairs poking through the opening. She caught the spicy scent of sandalwood and took a deep breath. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to touch him. Frightened by her strong feelings, she lowered her eyes.
Alex saw Ronnie look away suddenly. Her thick eyelashes lowered, and her body trembled slightly. God, she looked wonderful. He wished he could gather her in his arms and kiss her the way he had yesterday. The green dress she was wearing clung to her body and swayed gently around her legs as she moved. He could see the soft swell of her breasts in the deep "V" of the neckline and the rounded contours of her hips, the enticing curve of her small waist, and her firm little bottom as the dress adjusted itself to each of her movements.
As Ronnie moved past him and into the living room, he caught the subtle scent of roses again, as well as the clean, fresh smell of healthy girl. Alex felt the sudden tightening in his loins, and he mentally chided himself. He wasn't a teenager on his first date. Besides, he'd already decided to keep his relationship with Veronica Valentine strictly one of friendship. He cleared his throat. "What would you like to drink?" he asked as Ronnie placed her small purse on the coffee table and sat in the wing chair she seemed to regard as hers.