The Cottage on Rose Lane

by Hope Ramsay

  “So you chased me down because you want me to invest in your nonprofit?”

  She wasn’t going easy on him, was she? And he probably deserved it. He tried to remember the stuff Micah said, and then he leaned a little closer. “No. I want you to invest in love,” he said.

  Her eyes filled up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He opened the car door and pulled her out so that they stood chest to breast. He ran his palm down over her wayward hair. It was so soft. As soft as the look in her eyes. “Micah explained about his sermon. And you know what? I don’t, for one minute, blame you for what happened to Reel Therapy. You are not responsible for the bone-headed actions of my father. He’s been an accident waiting to happen, and I couldn’t stop it no matter how hard I tried. I guess he had to screw up royally before he hit bottom and realized he needed help. He’s in rehab now.”

  “But I—”

  He put his fingers over her mouth. “You. Are. Not. Responsible. That’s something I just learned myself. And Micah is the one who helped me see it. He learned some real useful stuff in the navy, apparently.”

  He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “I was mad about you paying for the salvage, but I’ve gotten over it. It was just your way of trying to make the world right again.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about. To be honest, I’m blown away by the fact that you wanted to do a kindness for me and for Ashley. Who does a thing like that?”

  “You know about the roof?”

  He nodded. “But that’s not all of it, Jenna. I’m blown away by the fact that you actually understand why I don’t want my people shoved into a museum. And I’m blown away by the fact that you understand about the seagrass. And I’m sorry I judged you.”

  “You judged me?”

  He nodded. “I put you in a box and labeled it ‘white woman’ and ‘tourist.’ And while you are a white woman and nothing’s going to change that, you are not a tourist. I get this feeling that you’ve been crying all the way down the highway because you don’t want to leave Jonquil Island.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder, and it felt good to hold her up. “I don’t,” she said. “But when I sat down with Patsy and Harry this morning, they made me feel like the biggest outsider. Like I had no business even visiting. And they have issues with me and you being together.”

  “Well, they can keep their racist views to themselves.”

  She backed away. “No, no. Not because we’re from different races. Jude, don’t you realize how much they love you? I mean, it’s like you’re their adopted nephew or something.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, Harry could have helped me out with that vote.”

  “Okay. So maybe not. But they warned me off because they think I’m bad for you. They’re confusing me with my mother. They’re afraid history will repeat itself or something. And it’s not logical, of course, because there’s so much hurt and sorrow and loss…” Her voice cracked.

  “They think I’m not Jamie’s daughter. And I let them convince me of that. But I just talked to Milo, my lawyer, and…” Tears overflowed her eyes, and her chin began to tremble.

  “Of course you’re Jamie’s daughter,” he said as he pulled her into his arms. “I’ve seen pictures of him, you know, in Patsy’s kitchen and living room. He’s all over that house, really. And you have his eyes.”

  She looked up at him, her cheeks streaming with tears. “I do?”

  “Yeah. Harry has the same eyes. Anyone who was looking hard enough would see how much you and Harry resemble each other.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her cheek. “Forget about Harry and Patsy, Jenna. They’ll come around or they won’t. The important thing is, I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay. And I want to build a relationship with you. I’ve been looking for someone like you for a long, long time. I always thought she’d look different, but you can’t fight fate, you know?”

  “Fate?”

  He shrugged. “What’s that word you use? Synchronicity?”

  “Woo-woo stuff, in other words.”

  “Or maybe just love at first sight?” He leaned in and nuzzled her neck and then whispered in her ear, “And I have fallen for you, Jenna Bauman. Hard. I wouldn’t have come chasing after you if I hadn’t. And I probably broke nineteen different traffic laws doing it, which is risky behavior for a black guy.”

  She backed away. “I don’t want you doing anything like that ever again, okay? Because, the thing is, there’s a good chance my mother kept me a secret from my grandfather and from Patsy and Harry. So the only family I ever had was her. And when she died, I was left completely alone.

  “Jude, I love you, and I love your aunts and your cousin, and your brothers too. I’d also like to meet your friends and become a regular member of your sailing club and invest in Jonquil Island in ways that will keep Santee Resorts from ruining what’s good about the place. I want to be connected.”

  “I think we can make that happen,” he said, right before he leaned down and kissed her like a man in love. And she kissed him right back like a woman who had finally found the place where she belonged.

  Epilogue

  It was springtime, mid-March, and the tourists were flocking to Jonquil Island to enjoy the sight of thousands of naturalized daffodils blooming in wild abandon. It was an annual festival, without a specific date. The flowers bloomed when it got warm enough.

  This particular Saturday, another festival was happening in the clearing where Old Granny’s house stood. Over the winter, Jude and Colton, with occasional help from Micah, Daddy, Old Uncle Jeeter, and Annie’s big sons, had demolished the newer portion of the house, revealing the old cabin that stood in the center of the structure, which had been built in 1867. The tumbling-down chimney had been rebuilt, the porch now rested on a solid foundation, and the shutters had been re-created and painted heaven blue—the right color to keep the haints away.

  Today the porch railing was bedecked with flowers and streamers. Off toward the back, Annie and Aunt Charlotte had set up a big drum barbecue, and the smell of their pulled pork hung on the air. Folks wearing bright African colors and headcloths and neutral yacht club navy blue mingled in the yard.

  And in the middle of it all stood the love of Jude’s life, the newly minted Mrs. Jenna St. Pierre, wearing a slim, ethereal white dress that she’d made herself, with a little help from Louella Pender and Ashley Scott.

  Jenna wore flowers in her hair. Not daffodils, but buttercups, which she explained were from the same narcissus family as jonquils and daffodils.

  She wasn’t the woman he’d expected, but she was the woman he loved. She belonged to him. And he belonged to her. And once they had stopped fighting the messages the universe had sent them, the truth had revealed itself.

  Not just to the two of them, but to their families and friends as well. Micah had performed the ceremony today. Jenna’s business partner, Ashley Scott, had been the maid of honor. Colton had been his best man. Little Jackie had been the ring bearer. And Harry Bauman had given the bride away.

  And now, there she was, laughing with Patsy Bauman as if they’d been friends all their lives. Who would ever have thought that a St. Pierre would marry a Bauman?

  Jenna. That’s who.

  She turned and smiled at him, her eyebrow lifting just so. It was an invitation. Are you ready? it seemed to say.

  Hell yeah. He was ready. Annie’s food had been heavenly. The music by his second cousin’s garage band had been loud and almost good. The company had been fun.

  But it was time to go.

  She walked toward him, the rest of the people fading to gray as he got lost in the lusty gaze of his wife. When she reached him, she put her arm around his neck and pulled him close. “Let’s go christen the boat,” she whispered.

  He took her by the arm, and they left the party. No one stopped them.

  They reached the pier, where the new sailboat, the forty-four-foot, 1981 L
aFitte Jude had purchased and refitted with a business loan from Citibank, was anchored. He’d insisted on financing his charter business on his own. And Jenna had agreed. She had plenty of other local businesses to invest in.

  “You ready for this?” he asked.

  She nodded, and he climbed down into the cabin and came back with a bottle of champagne.

  “Why do women christen boats?” she asked as he unwired the cork and popped the bottle without spilling a drop of wine.

  “I have no idea. But it’s tradition. And we sailors are a superstitious lot.”

  “Should I break the bottle?”

  He rolled his beautiful tawny eyes. “It’s not a steel battleship. It’s made of fiberglass. We’ll pour the champagne, okay?”

  He handed her the bottle, and she headed toward the sailboat’s bow. “I christen thee… Synchronicity,” she said right before she poured the wine over the boat’s bow. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Now we go belowdecks and christen the new bed in the captain’s quarters.”

  “And then?”

  “And then tomorrow we take her on a shakedown cruise.” He held out his hand. “You coming?”

  “I will be,” she said with an impish grin.

  And, hand in hand, they went belowdecks.

  You can enjoy more of Hope Ramsay and her Southern charm

  in her Last Chance series.

  Please turn the page for an excerpt from Welcome to Last Chance.

  Available now.

  One ticket to Last Chance,” the agent said as he took Jane’s money. “The bus leaves in five minutes.”

  Jane picked up the flimsy slip of paper and hurried through the Atlanta, Georgia, Greyhound terminal. She found the gate, climbed aboard the motor coach, and sank into one of the plush seats.

  She tried to think positive thoughts.

  It was hard. She had five dollars left in her pocketbook, a zero balance in her checking account, and bad guys in her recent past. Her dreams of making it big in Nashville had just taken a dive over the cliff called reality.

  Thank you, Woody West, you peanut-brained weasel.

  The diesel engines roared to life, and the bus glided out of the parking lot heading toward South Carolina, which was not where Jane really wanted to go.

  She took three deep breaths and tried to visualize her future the way Dr. Goodbody advised in his self-help recordings. If she could just unleash her inner consciousness through positive thinking, the Universe would give her a road map for success.

  That seemed like a good plan. She needed a road map to a better future in the worst way. And where better to seek a new start than a place called Last Chance? She had never been to Last Chance, but the name sounded hopeful.

  She sank back into her seat and tried to see the place in her mind’s eye. She imagined it like Pleasantville, where the streets were picturesque, the people friendly, and the job opportunities plentiful.

  Eight hours later, reality intruded.

  The Greyhound left her standing on a deserted sidewalk right in front of a place called Bill’s Grease Pit. Fortunately, this establishment was not a fast-food joint but an auto-repair service that doubled as a bus terminal. Both the garage and the terminal were closed for the night.

  She looked down the street and knew herself for a fool. Last Chance had exactly one traffic light. The only sign of life was the glow of neon shining like a beacon from a building two blocks down the main drag.

  Okay, so Last Chance wasn’t Bedford Falls, from the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. She could deal.

  She told herself that where there was Budweiser and neon there was hope of finding some dinner. Although how she was going to pay for it remained a mystery. She fought against the panic that gripped her insides. She hugged herself as she walked up the street, running through her usual list of positive affirmations.

  She would get herself out of this mess. She had done it before. And the truth was, she should have read the warning signs when Woody walked into the Shrimp Shack six months ago. If she had read those signs, she wouldn’t be standing here today. Well, every mistake was an opportunity to learn, according to Dr. Goodbody.

  The bar bore the name Dot’s Spot in bright blue neon. It sported a dark wood exterior and small windows festooned with half a dozen beer signs. Jane stood in the garish light cast by the signs, thinking it would be truly awesome if she could walk through that doorway and find Sir Galahad waiting for her. But wishing for Sir Galahad was not positive thinking. Heroes didn’t magically appear in southern honky-tonks on a Wednesday night.

  Besides, this particular fantasy of a knightly rescue had gotten her into trouble every time she allowed herself to believe it. So she pushed it out of her mind. She needed to focus on manifesting a hot meal and a place to spend the night. Period. She fixed that positive plan of action in her mind and pushed through the front door.

  Hoo boy, the place was like something right out of a bad country-and-western tune. Smoke hung over the place and a five-piece country band occupied a raised stage at one end of the barroom. They played a twangy Garth Brooks tune in waltz time. No one was dancing.

  The men in the band were, by and large, a bunch of middle-aged geezers, with beer bellies and wedding rings and receding hairlines.

  Except for the fiddler.

  Jane stared at him for a moment, recognition washing through her. No question about it—there stood another peanut-brained weasel in the flesh. She could tell this because he was a big, powerfully built man with a ponytail and facial hair. He also wore a black Stetson, and a black shirt, and black jeans that hugged his butt and thighs, and a gem that sparkled from his earlobe like a black diamond.

  What was that thing? A sapphire?

  He was the real-deal, bad-for-any-females-who-came-within-range package. Someone should hang a big yellow warning sign on his neck that said “danger.”

  Guys like him didn’t rescue girls. They rode around on Harleys, and were mean and tough and bad, and got into lots of trouble with the local law. They also had really big shoulders that a girl could lean on, and in a moment of confusion, a girl could confuse one of these bad boys with Sir Galahad, only on a motorcycle.

  Good thing Jane planned on rescuing herself, because this guy was like some walking embodiment of Murphy’s Law. The spit dried up in her mouth, and her heart rate kicked up. The Universe had just thrown her another curveball.

  So she looked away, sweeping the room with her gaze. The rest of the pickings were slim and ran to old men and floozies, and a few obviously married guys in John Deere hats. She might be about to do some serious flirting in order to get a drink and some food, but she would not hit on any married men. That ran counter to her moral code.

  She scanned the bar. Bingo. Two prospects, twelve o’clock.

  Prospect One wore a dirty Houston Astros hat, his chin propped up on his left fist as he watched the World Series game on the big-screen television. He was devilishly handsome, but the words “hard drinking” scrolled through her mind.

  Jane turned her attention to prospect Number Two. He turned on the stool, and she got a good look at him. He was a smaller-than-average guy, with sandy hair, a widow’s peak, and regular features. He wore a blue work shirt with his name—Ray—embroidered above the right pocket. Unlike the other two hunks in the room, this guy wore work boots. He wasn’t a cowboy, and he didn’t look dangerous at all.

  He looked up from his drink.

  Okay, he would do. Kindness shone from his eyes. She concentrated on holding his gaze… counted to three… then dazzled him with a smile.

  He blinked two or three times like a deer caught in a hunter’s sight. But she wasn’t a hunter, not really. She was vulnerable, and scared, and hunted herself. And that explained why she was about to do something not very nice—something she would most likely regret in the morning.

  The bodacious brunette hit Dot’s Spot like the hurricane expected to arrive tomorrow. She wore high-heel boots and a little tank
top that barely constrained her assets. Clay Rhodes had never seen her before, which had to mean she’d just gotten off the nine-thirty bus from Atlanta.

  She waltzed her butt through the door and captured the attention of every male in the place, except maybe Dash Randall, who was concentrating on the World Series. She stopped just inside the door and gave the place a once-over.

  It took all of three seconds for her to look Clay’s way, and about fifteen for her to catalog him and move on. But that was all it took for Clay Rhodes to feel the unmistakable pull of lust centering right behind his belly button. Yeah, he could go for some of that, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a responsible, almost middle-aged grown-up, and she looked like trouble on high heels.

  He pulled the fiddle down and tried to put some feeling into his harmony line on “Night Rider’s Lament,” but since he had played this song about five thousand times, it was hard to do.

  The little gal distracted him as she scanned the room. It didn’t surprise him one bit when her sharp gaze lingered on Dash. The ex-jock was unaware of it, though. He sat at the end of the bar wallowing in self-pity and doing battle with God-only-knew-how-many demons as he watched the baseball game.

  The girl was interested, of course. Dash was a fine-looking man, but a woman would have to be nuts to tangle with a guy like that. Clay gave her points when her gaze shifted and moved on.

  He pulled the fiddle up to his chin and played the bridge, while Kyle tried his hardest to sound like Garth Brooks. Kyle failed, like he did every night, which was no surprise to anyone.

  What happened next, though, surprised the heck out of just about everyone in Dot’s Spot.

  That girl aimed her laser-beam look at the back of Ray’s head and darned if the boy didn’t jump like he was some kind of marionette with a nervous puppeteer. He jerked his head around, and disaster struck about twelve hours earlier than expected.

  The woman aimed a smile at Ray that had all the subtlety of a Stinger missile, and poor Ray didn’t have any defenses for something like that.