Trust My Heart

by Carol J. Post

  “You planned this almost a year ago. Two weeks touring Europe is the trip of a lifetime. Relax and enjoy it.”

  He heaved a sigh. “When I get back, we’ll work on our wedding plans.”

  The moths that had settled down while they chatted went into a frenzy, and her insides drew into a knot. What was wrong with her? She’d made her decision. So why did she feel like a prisoner listening to the cell door clang shut?

  She forced a casual smile. “Why rush things?”

  “Rushing? We’ve dated off and on now for, what, eight years?”

  Nine, if she counted the hayride. But most of that had felt more like friendship.

  He continued. “I’m twenty-five, and you’re twenty-three. I’ve got my accounting practice, and you’re finished with school. We’ve been talking about marriage for months. There’s no reason to wait.”

  No, he had been talking about it. She’d been pulled along for the ride. Now her foot was itching for the brake pedal. “You’re talking wedding plans, and I haven’t said yes yet.” She released a wry laugh, born more of uneasiness and frustration than humor. “Actually, you haven’t asked.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Not exactly.” Every time he broached the subject, it was to tell her that once she finished school, they’d move ahead.

  “Maybe not, because I thought it was a given. But I’m asking now. Jami, will you marry me?”

  She twisted her napkin in her lap as she listened to the dings and rings and buzzes coming from the arcade area. Her gaze traveled to the vines trailing along the ceiling, the wall painted a faux concrete-block design. It was a fun, casual atmosphere, a great place to get together with friends.

  But a wedding proposal? Where was the candlelight, the romantic music and the white linen tablecloth? The getting down on one knee and taking her hand, the hinged satin box? Robert was too practical for all that. Those sappy, romantic gestures were nonsense. Part of those wedding plans he mentioned would be taking her ring shopping to pick out something she liked.

  Robert snapped his fingers near her face. “Earth to Jami.”

  She swallowed an annoyed sigh. He’d said it like he was joking, the same as he always did. But she recognized the quip for what it was—one more admonition to get her head out of the clouds.

  Another moment passed in silence. For the first time, doubt flickered in his eyes. “You’re going to marry me, aren’t you? Come on, we’re perfect together.”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing would come out. He was right. They were perfect. They’d grown up together and knew each other’s secrets. Spending time with Robert was like wrapping up in a down comforter in front of a roaring fire at Christmas, a hot cup of cocoa in her hands. She was comfortable with him, just like she was comfortable with Holly and Sam.

  And that was the problem. There was no spark because Robert was just another close friend.

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t right now . . . or ever?”

  She picked up the paper napkin in her lap and started tearing small pieces from its edge. The moths were gone. The few bites of salad and single slice of pizza she’d managed to eat had congealed into a doughy lump. “I’m sorry.” She forced the words through her constricted throat. “All I feel for you is friendship.”

  His brows drew together, and his gaze dipped to the table. For several moments, he sat in silence, straightening the napkin holder, making each side perfectly parallel to the edges of the table, then doing the same with the salt and pepper shakers. His jaw was tight, and a vein throbbed in his right temple. Robert didn’t do outbursts of emotion. But the pain swimming in his dark eyes was unmistakable. Her heart twisted, knowing she was the one who’d put it there.

  He again met her gaze. “Have you met someone else?”

  “No.” Her tone was emphatic. “There’s no one else.”

  He gave a small nod, then stood. “You know, Jami, you can’t live your whole life afraid you’ll repeat your mother’s mistakes.”

  Her jaw dropped, but he’d already turned and was walking toward the door, his pace brisk. Missy and her husband, John, walked in just then, each holding a baby carrier. Several others had entered over the past thirty minutes. The dinner crowd was arriving.

  Jami crumpled in her chair, doubt chasing regret through the corridors of her mind. Was that what was wrong with her, why none of her relationships worked out? Was she really letting fear keep her from a happy, satisfying future?

  No, Robert was wrong. Fear had nothing to do with it. She just had high standards and wasn’t willing to settle. Besides, she wasn’t always the first one to bail. She’d been the dumpee as many times as she’d been the dumper. Neither was much fun.

  She wadded up her napkin and retrieved her purse from the chair beside her. What if she’d just made a huge mistake with Robert? What if she realized, years down the road, that her standards were out of reach, that what she was holding out for didn’t exist? By then, Robert would be married to someone else.

  Whatever happened, one thing was sure.

  Tonight she’d lost one of her closest friends.

  TWO

  Jami settled in at one of the desks lining the left wall of the Cherokee Scout office. Not sure how her stomach would react to a full breakfast, she’d opted instead for a protein shake. And even that seemed revolting.

  She’d had a rough night. After her shortened dinner with Robert, she’d gone home to her empty house and tried to find something to distract her. She’d given up reading almost immediately and decided on a movie. That wasn’t any more successful of a diversion than the book had been. While the characters worked through their issues, she played the events of the evening over and over in her mind and kicked herself for letting things with Robert go on as long as they had.

  But this morning, her problem was 100 percent nervousness. It was her first day on the job, and she felt every bit as green as she probably looked. Thinking about the experience of those around her didn’t do anything to quell her jitters. Most of the Scout’s employees had been there for years and were top-notch.

  She drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Maybe she didn’t have the experience they did, but she had enthusiasm and persistence and education. That shiny new diploma at home was solid proof of the latter.

  Besides, Bernie would be sitting right next to her, helping guide her over the bumps. She was as long-term as some of the others and wore two hats—staff writer and part-time ad person. And she’d been instrumental in getting Jami the job.

  Jami’s eyes drifted to the desk to her left, which was currently unoccupied and had been since she’d arrived. Bernie had waltzed in ten minutes ago and made a beeline for David Brown’s office in the back corner.

  As the publisher, and her new boss, David had already met with Jami, taking her through the facility and explaining what was expected of her. During the half hour since then, she’d skimmed through last week’s paper and jotted down several story ideas.

  She shifted her gaze to the back office as Bernie emerged and crossed the large room. Most of the bottom floor of the Scout was open, with rows of desks and a long counter separating the work area from the lobby.

  Bernie stopped at the desk beside Jami’s and plopped into the chair. “It’s good to see you. Are you glad to be home?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Especially now that the situation with Robert was settled. She was embarking on a new life—completely unattached, a reporter instead of a student, an independent adult.

  “The next three months are going to be a whirlwind.”

  Jami raised her brows. “They are?”

  Now Bernie’s expression mirrored her own. “A September wedding?”

  No. He didn’t. “Robert told you we’re getting married, didn’t he?”

  “No, he told Beulah, and Beulah told me.”

  Jami groaned and put her head down on her desk. “That’s even worse.” Beulah Fines wasn’t just Robert’s
aunt. She was Murphy’s most notorious gossip.

  “So you’re not marrying Robert. What made you change your mind?”

  She lifted her head to frown at Bernie. “I didn’t change my mind. He’s been talking about it, but I never said yes. Last night I gave a distinct no.”

  “Interesting.” Bernie nodded slowly. “Beulah said you guys were having a September wedding and going to Key West for your honeymoon. After that, you were going to be moving into his house in town and putting yours on the market.”

  She shook her head. “While I was finishing school, he was planning out the rest of my life.” He’d always been a take-charge kind of guy, but that was extreme even for Robert.

  “I can’t say I’m disappointed to hear there won’t be wedding bells. I like Robert, but when you were around him, you always seemed like a bird with its wings clipped.”

  “I never thought of it that way.” But Bernie had a point. It had happened so gradually she hadn’t even noticed. There were the little things, like his penchant for being early, which required she set her watch ahead, his gentle lectures when she made choices that didn’t turn out so well and his playful jabs about her lack of structure and having her head in the clouds. But lately, the lectures and playful jabs had felt more like criticism.

  “I think you need to get out and celebrate your freedom. What have you wanted to do but couldn’t with Robert around?”

  She thought for a moment, then broke into a smile. “Get a puppy. Robert always insisted they’re not practical for people who work full time.”

  Bernie dismissed the argument with a wave of her hand. “Ah, pooh. Who says you need to be practical? If you want a puppy, you should go by the Humane Society tonight and take one home.”

  Jami nodded, a sudden sense of freedom sweeping over her. “I just might do that.”

  Bernie crossed an ankle over her knee and settled back in the chair. “Guess who I ran into at the Daily Grind this morning. Elizabeth McAllister’s grandson. And whoo-wee, is he a fine one!”

  “Isn’t he a little young for you?”

  “I’m not thinking of me, silly girl.”

  “Well, don’t think of me, either. I’m not looking.” Her name was going to be mud once Beulah got ahold of the news the wedding of the century was off. The last thing Jami needed was to check out the newcomer. At least she would have a short reprieve. Since Robert left for Wisconsin early this morning, he probably hadn’t had the time or the desire to fill his aunt in on the latest development.

  “Methinks thou protesteth too much. But that’s okay. He’s staying at the Holiday Inn, and you’re going to go see him.”

  “What?” She blurted the word. Several people looked their way, and she lowered her voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your first assignment. I already ran it by David, and he agreed wholeheartedly.”

  Jami narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t another one of your harebrained matchmaking schemes, is it?”

  “You’re unjustly accusing me, my dear. When I walked into David’s office, that was the furthest thing from my mind. Remember, I thought you were engaged to Robert.”

  “And now?”

  Bernie tilted her head and shrugged. She was an incorrigible matchmaker. She just wasn’t very good at it. Over the years she’d orchestrated dozens of disasters. Her few successes were people who’d gotten together in spite of her matchmaking attempts rather than because of them.

  “I’ll never tell. But you’ll be doing a feature article on the McAllisters—the estate, the McAllisters themselves, all the secrecy surrounding them. And,” she added with a wink, “this red-hot grandson.”

  With that, she turned to face her monitor and began to click away on the keyboard. Jami shook her head. In spite of all the matchmaking Bernie had tried for others, she’d never found that special someone for herself. He would have to be one jewel of a man to put up with all her eccentricities.

  Jami flipped the page back on her legal pad, exposing a clean one. At the top, she wrote McAllister Feature, emphasizing it with a double underline. This assignment was going to be fun. She would get to do some in-depth reporting, digging into the past, uncovering the mystery that had always shrouded the McAllisters. Thirty-something years ago, they were the crème de la crème of Charlotte society and awed the residents of Murphy with grand entertainment and lavish parties. Then, with no explanation, they sold everything, holed up at the Murphy estate and became hermits. Her job was to find out why.

  She would start with an online search and see what she could pull up on the McAllister family. She would also pore over old issues of the Cherokee Scout, maybe even talk to Hilda Parker, who’d been head librarian for a couple of decades before retiring a few years ago.

  But her most valuable source would be Flora Jenson—if she could find her and if Flora would talk. She’d been the McAllisters’ housekeeper for upwards of forty years and the only one to step foot inside the sprawling house since the day the doors of hospitality had closed for good. After Franklin McAllister died and Elizabeth McAllister was moved to Shady Meadows, Flora went back to Charlotte, and no one had seen or heard from her since.

  Jami picked up her pen and wrote google McAllisters, then Hilda Parker and Flora Jenson, scrawling a star beside the latter name. That was enough to get her started. But she wasn’t finished.

  Regardless of what nefarious plans were circling through Bernie’s head, she had to add one more name:

  Red-hot grandson.

  Grant stepped from his room and pulled the door closed. The same as at home, he’d started out the day with exercise. The hotel’s information on its amenities said limited fitness center, with limited being the operative word. It was nothing like what he was used to, but five miles on the treadmill had given him a pretty good workout. After a shower and a change of clothes, he was ready to face another day at his grandparents’ place.

  He headed down the hall toward the elevator. When he had finished his shower, he’d discovered he had a message. A Jami Carlisle was trying to reach him. He’d made the call, hoping for a prospect interested in the McAllister estate. Instead he’d gotten a newspaper reporter.

  He shook his head. He didn’t do interviews, under any circumstance. He’d learned that lesson two years ago. The tabloids had had a heyday with his high-profile divorce, taking every word his socialite ex-wife said as fact and plastering it on the front page. The whole thing had left him with a bad taste in his mouth when it came to reporters. As far as their integrity, or lack thereof, he ranked them right up there with certain politicians.

  In another life, he’d have had a hard time turning this one down. She seemed so sweet. She spoke with a musical lilt, a soft drawl that’s only hint of the North Carolina mountains was a slight lengthening of the shorter vowels. And she sounded young, maybe even brand-new at reporting. As she’d pleaded with him to let her interview him for the little weekly paper he’d carried to breakfast, he’d listened, patiently letting her have her say.

  But this wasn’t another life, and once she’d finished, he’d dashed her hopes without a twinge of remorse. Because no matter how sweet Jami Carlisle sounded, beneath that innocent exterior was the motto of every ambitious reporter—anything for a story.

  He opened the door of the lobby and stepped under the hotel’s porte cochere. When he pressed a button on the key fob, the lights on his rental car flashed once and the locks clicked up. He’d just reached the front quarter panel when an older-model Pontiac Sunbird pulled into the parking lot and shuddered to a stop in the next space. Hopefully it wasn’t the newspaper reporter. In his experience, one word described a reporter going after a story—relentless.

  He reached for the door handle of the Mercedes, still focused on the Sunbird. If this was Jami Carlisle, he had her pegged right. She was young, maybe even fresh out of school. What he was looking at was definitely a starter car, a please-keep-running-until-I-get-through-college-and-can-afford-something-better car. He remembe
red those days well. An ’88 Honda Civic had gotten him all the way through law school.

  As he slid into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, the door to the Sunbird flew open. A young woman sprang to her feet and hurried around the front of his car. Either someone was extremely eager to discuss the purchase of the estate or he was about to be accosted by a cute but determined newspaper reporter.

  She skidded to a stop at his open door. “Grant McAllister?”

  He hesitated. He could say no. Or he could pull the door shut without saying anything. Except he wasn’t a liar. And although he was often accused of being firm and unyielding, he was never rude.

  “Yes, I am.”

  She thrust out her hand. “Jami Carlisle, reporter for the Cherokee Scout.”

  He accepted the handshake, but before he could respond, she rushed ahead. “I know I already asked, and I know you said no, but I dropped by to ask you to reconsider. Just one little interview. I promise it’ll be painless. I’ll even treat you to lunch at the Murphy Chophouse.” She talked fast, her words sounding winded, likely from nervousness rather than the short sprint around his car.

  She tilted her head, her lips curved up in a pleading smile. That would have affected him in another life, too. So would the rest of what he was seeing. Auburn hair with golden highlights flowed in soft waves around her face and over her shoulders, and her green eyes sparked with enthusiasm. The gray tailored jacket hugged her curves. Black high-heeled sandals peeked out beneath the matching pants, a splash of burgundy adorning her toes.

  But he was long past being swayed by a pretty face. He shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.” The Chophouse was good. He’d had dinner there last night. But he would pay for his own meal and eat alone.

  She heaved a sigh and shifted her weight to one foot. “Oh, come on, it’s my first paid assignment. I can’t go back and tell my new boss I couldn’t even get the interview.”

  “Sorry, miss. I can’t help you.”

  She lifted her brows in a pleading gesture. What she lacked in sophistication, she made up for in exuberance. “Please?”