For the kids, Miranda had lined up face-painters, a caricaturist, and even Pebbles the Clown who was driving in from Albuquerque to make animal shapes out of balloons. She shivered, hoping that wasn’t a mistake. Because, let’s face it, clowns could be creepy.
Best of all, the gorgeous man on the other side of the park, a fluffy poodle strapped to his back, was putting the finishing touches on the gazebo the town had worked so hard to raise money for him to build. And he was hers. For a little while longer. He promised even the landscaping around it would be complete by festival day, so he hadn’t looked up from his work all afternoon. She’d stolen looks at him every chance she got, though. Especially when he bent over.
She’d done it. She’d organized the best damn Hot Rides and Cool Nights Festival yet. Without the almighty Mrs. Wilkinson’s help.
And speak of the she-devil, here she came, marching toward the announcer’s stand with a sour look on her face. Her cross bounced more than usual today. Miranda looked heavenward and sent up an apology for Mrs. Wilkinson’s poor example. Just in case. Because Miranda was pretty sure the cross was a disguise to distract from her forked tail.
Clydelle and Francine, who shared a sixth sense as big as their attitude, hurried across the street on a collision course with Mrs. Wilkinson. Clydelle’s cane steadily thumped against the pavement, and Francine’s purse steadily thumped against her leg.
“You have a problem,” Mrs. Wilkinson spat.
Yes, Miranda’s biggest problem was standing in front of her wearing her Sunday best, even though it was a weekday. “What would that be, Mrs. Wilkinson?” Miranda did her best to sound civil.
“You don’t have enough entries for the parade.” Old Lady Wilkinson let loose the first sincere smile Miranda had yet to see on her bitter, pinched face.
Miranda held up the clipboard. “I have them right here.”
“Count them.” Mrs. Wilkinson tapped her foot.
An uneasiness settled in the pit of Miranda’s stomach. She counted the entries one more time. “Sixteen.”
“The festival bylaws say there has to be at least twenty.” Old Lady Wilkinson crossed her arms.
There were bylaws? News to Miranda.
“And you just happened to forget to mention the bylaws?” Clydelle accused. “You’ve been in charge of the festival for years, and no one else has a copy, I’m guessing.”
Mrs. Wilkinson ignored this. “Twenty is the minimum by the day of the festival.”
Before Miranda could ask “Or what?” Mrs. Wilkinson gushed the answer. “Or you have to cancel the whole thing. Instead of cavorting around in public like a hussy, maybe you should’ve researched the rules.” Mrs. Wilkinson turned on her heel and marched off.
Francine made a gesture with her bony finger at Mrs. Wilkinson’s back.
“Now, ladies.” Miranda tapped her clipboard, fighting off the urge to use some sign language of her own. “No need to give her more ammunition. I’ll fix this.” Even if it was the last thing she did in this town.
“Darn right, we’ll fix it.” Clydelle waved her infamous cane in the air. “Count us in for the parade. We’ll get the senior center’s van to drive us, and we’ll decorate it up real nice.”
Miranda wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. These two characters might end up driving down Main Street with a float carrying the Chippendale dancers, but she’d chance it if it meant not having to cancel the festival.
Miranda narrowed her eyes as the wicked witch of the Southwest stomped down the street. Miranda hadn’t come this far to fail now. The whole town was behind her for the first time in her life. Or at least that’s how it felt. She’d earned their respect, and she wasn’t going to give up easily.
She pulled her phone from her back pocket and dialed her mom’s number. Come on, Mom. Come through for me just this once.
Talmadge found himself whistling as he directed his crew of volunteers to paint the gazebo and finish shingling the roof.
Hell. He didn’t whistle. But life was good here in Red River with Miranda. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled as she walked toward him. If she got much hotter his work goggles might fog up. Rounded hips sashaying, wavy hair bouncing around her shoulders as the sun glinted off of it, lips parting into a knowing little smile when her gaze caught his, the dimples that appeared on each cheek when her lips curved up. All of it, the entire package that she’d kept wrapped up tight and had saved all these years for only him . . .
Stunning. Scrumptious. Sexy as hell.
That was the problem. He cared about her so much that he’d been selfish and hadn’t wanted to jeopardize their bond, their connection. But he couldn’t stay quiet any longer. Tonight he was going to tell Miranda everything when they were done with the long day’s work and alone. And to hell with his inheritance. He really was going to forfeit it for a rec center here in Red River, regardless of what happened with Trinity Falls. Then his lie would become the truth, albeit after the fact. But he still planned on telling Miranda everything, because she deserved to know.
He swiped at a bead of sweat on his forehead as she approached. But then she didn’t just approach. She walked right up to him, leaving no space between them.
“Hi,” she said, with a sultry look and sexy tone.
“Hi yourself. How’s it going?”
A glimmer of worry raced across her face, but then it was gone. “Nothing I can’t handle.” She was somehow different than she’d been several weeks ago. Oh, Talmadge had always seen her strength. How could he not? But now she saw it too. He was proud of her and what she’d accomplished in such a short amount of time. More importantly, she was obviously proud of herself.
“I checked on the inspections a little while ago. Seems to be going well,” he told her.
“Thank you.” The amber flecks in her eyes glowed.
“Are you ready for the festival?” he asked. A gentle breeze blew a lock of wavy hair across her face, and he tucked it behind her ear.
“Ready,” she said with confidence.
“Felix is coming by the inn again tomorrow to film the last of the renovations, and the home show is going to call you to set up a date to film the rest after you open.” He adjusted the straps of Lloyd’s carrier on his shoulders.
“Thank you again.” Her gaze fell.
“You’re the one knocking them dead in front of the camera. I just made a few calls.”
“Why didn’t the home show film the whole thing?” Her brow wrinkled.
Because he needed to keep his presence in Red River low-profile and out of the news until he could get back to Washington in a few days. Another little detail he had to disclose tonight. “On sabbatical to rehabilitate his injured arm” was the only comment his firm would make to the reporter sniffing around. If his investors knew he’d been renovating an inn and building a gazebo in New Mexico, they’d be pissed, especially after that reporter ran a story about him neglecting the very thing he was trying to prevent—an environmental catastrophe.
He smiled down at her. It took a hell of a lot of willpower not to kiss the heck out of her right there in broad daylight. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight. When we talk.”
Her smile faded.
He took in the flurry of activity going on around them as he spoke. “I’m a patient man, Miranda. I’ve been waiting to talk to you about some important things.” He hadn’t really put up much of a fight when she kept shutting him down. “But it’s time. You might not like what I’ve got to say, but we’re going to talk. Tonight.”
She pursed her lips, trying to hide her emotions, and the faintest hint of her dimples appeared. That was nearly his undoing. He’d give anything to make this right.
She cleared her throat. “I’ve arranged an interview with the Record.”
Good. That would give her another opportunity to showcase her intelligence. Her skills. Her worth in the community that had been overlooked for far too long until now.
“You’re doing this one, Tal
madge.” The happiness in her eyes returned, setting his heart on fire. “The planning committee and the city council have decided to award you the key to the city during the festival celebrations.” Her smile widened.
His didn’t. He’d managed to keep what a shit he really was a secret for years. Buried the truth about his parents and pretended to be the good boy who would make his grandparents proud. Hell, that’s why he’d devoted his career to environmentally conscious building projects. It was a way of doing penance, giving something back because he’d so selfishly taken so much.
He had an office full of awards back in Seattle, all to recognize his accomplishments for blazing the trail in sustainable designs and environmentally friendly building. HGTV practically stalked him to do one feature segment after another.
But the key to the city? In Red River, where he’d hurt—was still hurting—the people he loved most? Even though they didn’t know it, his conscience had limits, and he’d reached them.
“Who made that absurd decision?” His voice was harsher than he’d intended.
Miranda’s eyes widened. “I . . . I told the planning committee your plan to build a community rec center in Bea’s honor.”
Did she mean the rec center he’d twisted the truth about to get what he needed from her? Yeah. That was probably the one she was talking about.
“Why would you do that?” His volume and tone were close to a bellow.
“It’s a great thing you’re doing for Red River,” she said. “We want to recognize it.”
Talmadge shook his head. “No.”
Miranda’s face blanked, communicating her confusion. She meant it as an honor. A show of gratitude. But he couldn’t accept it.
“Find someone else to give it to.” He pointed to Miranda. “You deserve it. I don’t.”
Before she could respond, he turned and trudged to his truck. It was time to man up. First, he’d pick up some flowers and spend some time at the cemetery. Then he’d finally tell Miranda what a selfish asshole he was.
So much for life being good. His life was shit right now, no matter which state he was in. And it was about to get even worse when Miranda heard him out tonight.
Miranda shoved her clipboard at Lorenda, who was hanging a Brooks Real Estate banner in a booth. “You’re in charge.”
“What? Wait!” Lorenda yelled after Miranda as she hurried to her Jeep.
“Just follow the schedule, and you’ll be fine,” she hollered over her shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”
As she approached the Red River Market, Talmadge’s truck jetted out of the parking lot and headed west, tires squealing. He sped up, which left her trailing behind at a distance. And damn well confused.
So like her entire history with Talmadge.
She followed him along Highway 38. His driver’s side window was rolled down, and one elbow jutted out. His thick hair fluttered in the breeze. After a few miles, he turned left without a blinker and entered the Red River Valley Cemetery.
Sorrow tugged at her heart. She’d been so caught up in her own problems she hadn’t considered that Talmadge hadn’t fully mourned Bea’s loss. The grief he’d kept bottled up since Bea’s funeral might be ready to blow like a cork.
She pulled to a stop on the far side of the cemetery and blinked. He wasn’t standing over Bea’s grave. He placed a fresh bouquet of flowers in front of two headstones that stood side by side about fifty feet from where they’d laid Bea to rest.
Miranda killed the engine and watched Talmadge. His lips moved, hands were shoved in his pockets.
And then he rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses.
Miranda’s heart stuttered.
She got out of the Jeep and walked up behind him. When Lloyd saw Miranda, he yapped through the driver’s window of Talmadge’s truck. Talmadge didn’t turn, just stood in silence as he stared at the headstones with the names Pamela and Gerald Oaks carved into the fine granite, an angel on one and two interlocking hearts on the other.
His mom and dad. The dates of their deaths were identical.
She slid both arms around his torso, locking her hands in front, and leaned her cheek against his arm. His quick, shallow breaths told her how upset he was. A gentle breeze kicked up, rustling the evergreens like a soft, sad song that whispered across the acres of marked graves.
“Would you rather be alone?”
His strong hand clamped over hers. Another vehicle motored into the cemetery and parked on the other side of a crop of evergreens, still offering them some privacy.
“It’s my fault.” He reached back with his other hand and brushed her thigh with his fingertips.
“What’s your fault?” Miranda asked.
“My mom and dad.” His voice cracked. “I killed them.”
“Talmadge . . . that can’t be true.” Miranda smoothed a hand up his back.
He nodded. “I did. The accident was my fault.”
From behind, Miranda slid a hand inside his coat and gently placed a hand over his heart where it drummed against her open palm. “What happened?”
“I was young but big and tall for my age. All the makings of a pro athlete, Dad thought. He demanded that I win at everything. Second place was for losers.”
The pain of those memories threaded through his words.
“He drank a lot. If I didn’t win, he’d go into a tirade.” His fingers slid under his polarized sunglasses to massage his eyes.
He went quiet like he was remembering.
Miranda could sense what was coming, and it broke her heart. She snuggled her cheek against his shoulder and held him close. “I’m listening,” she whispered against his shoulder.
Talmadge’s voice grew shaky. “I was just so damn sick of his ranting and him pushing me.”
Miranda closed her eyes, her cheek still flush against his back, which rose and fell in sharp succession.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I was playing little league baseball. I struck out and lost the game.” His hand tightened over hers. “My dad went insane. It was so bad that my grandparents insisted I ride home with them. They took me for ice cream. I suspect to give my dad time to cool off before they brought me home. My parents never made it.”
His voice broke and he heaved in a breath.
“Oh, babe,” Miranda whispered. She moved to stand in front of him and lifted a hand to caress his cheek. “You can’t possibly blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was.” His voice was desperate, and he pulled her against him, burying his face in her hair. “I struck out on purpose. I wanted to lose the game to get back at my dad.”
And for the first time, Miranda understood the quiet, private pain Talmadge had carried around in his expression. Why his smile never fully formed when they were teenagers. She had thought he took his grandparents’ love and the pride Bea carried for him for granted, and that’s why he didn’t come back to Red River much. She’d thought he had it easy growing up.
She’d been wrong.
“You were just a kid, sweetheart.” Miranda tried to soothe him. Tried to take the pain and the guilt he’d obviously been carrying around for years. “There’s not a kid on this earth who hasn’t done something similar at least once.”
Talmadge straightened, and his voice went steely. “I doubt their childishness caused their parents’ deaths.” He hesitated like he wanted to say something else, a silent, painful plea in his eyes. “And the worst part is . . .” He stumbled over the words. “I didn’t miss them. My mom wasn’t much of a mom, because she was so preoccupied with trying to keep my dad happy. My grandparents were so good to me that I was relieved when I went to live with them. They grieved for their son, and I didn’t.” He blew out a choked laugh. “How messed up is that?”
“It sounds to me like you did grieve.”
He looked away, but she framed his face with her hands and turned his gaze back to hers. “You grieved for the kind of parents your mom and dad should’ve been. I know what
that’s like.”
“I’m not the person you think I am, Miranda. I’m not what anyone thinks I am.” That sad, lost look of private pain was back in his eyes.
“Don’t say that, Talmadge. I . . .” She swallowed. “I love you.”
The plea in his gaze turned to sorrow. “Don’t.” He shook his head. “I can’t accept the key to the city. It’s the one award my conscience could never live with, because I don’t deserve it. Not here in Red River.”
He turned to walk away.
“Talmadge, wait!” Miranda hurried after him and grabbed his arm.
He whirled on her. “It’s the reason I rarely came back to visit. Too many bad memories. When I was here for more than a few days, they started to suffocate me.”
What he said next made her heart drop to her feet and tears threaten.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “I twisted the truth about Bea’s will. At least some of it.” His jaw turned to granite. “The money she left wasn’t for a rec center. The only way I could inherit it was if I stayed to help you open the inn.”
He’d lied, in other words. “You . . .” She didn’t hear him right. “You used me for money?” Oh God. She’d become her mother. Maybe she’d taken a different path to get there, but she was there nonetheless. She’d staked everything on a man—her dream, her reputation, her savings. And yes, her heart. And that man had just driven a stake right through it.
“I lied. I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t.”
His eyes said he was sorry, but so what? She’d accepted his help with the renovations out of respect for Bea. She’d agreed to his help with the gazebo because his idea was so brilliant. And he’d been dishonest. Made her feel like he wanted to be there helping her . . . for her. But it was all for money.
She’d been played like a song during the dance hour at Cotton Eyed Joe’s, and she’d danced to Talmadge’s tune.
“I wanted to tell you. I tried several times.” He took a step toward her.
She took a step back. “But you didn’t.”
He looked away as if to say, You got me there. “Bea loved you. She wanted you to be a success. I figured it would be a win-win for both of us.”
It's In His Smile (A Red River Valley Novel Book 3) Page 25