Trust My Heart

by Carol J. Post

  “It’s all right. I never knew my dad. He was killed in an accident before I was born.”

  “I never knew mine, either. He wasn’t sober long enough to get acquainted.” She forced a smile, but there wasn’t any humor behind it.

  Okay, maybe this idealistic, young newspaper reporter wasn’t as sheltered as he’d thought. She likely had some surprises hiding beneath that innocent exterior. But he wasn’t sticking around long enough to find out. He polished off the cookie he held. “I’d offer you milk, but all I have is bottled water.”

  “Water’s fine.” When he returned, she took the bottle from him. “So how long are you here?”

  “Five more days. I’m flying out next Thursday. Meanwhile, I’m trying to get as much of this stuff sorted as I can.”

  He frowned at the boxes stacked against the adjacent wall. A lot of personal effects had been packed up before he arrived. Judging from the layers of dust on the boxes, it wasn’t recently. “It’s nice someone tried to take care of some of the packing, but I think it’s been more of a hindrance than a help.”

  “My guess is Flora boxed some things up before she left.”

  “Who’s Flora?”

  “Flora Jenson, the McAllisters’ housekeeper, and for the past thirty years, the only one of the staff left. After your father’s accident, your grandfather sold all his holdings in Charlotte, and overnight, he and your grandmother became recluses.”

  As Jami talked, his pulse picked up speed. Flora Jenson would have known his father. “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “You can’t. I already tried. She said she won’t disrespect Elizabeth McAllister’s memory by allowing me to sensationalize her story.”

  “Whoa, I guess she told you.”

  Jami smiled. “She did. I tried to convince her I don’t write like that. But she wouldn’t budge.”

  Grant reached for a cookie. The poor girl was running into resistance everywhere she turned. He actually felt sorry for her. Just not sorry enough to give her the interview she’d asked for. “I’m guessing you found a listing for her.”

  “Yeah. You thinking of calling her?”

  “I bet she’d talk to me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Number one, I’m not a newspaper reporter. Number two, I’m Elizabeth McAllister’s grandson. I’m an orphaned boy, searching for my roots. How could she refuse that?” He grinned at her, a gesture as uncharacteristic as the spontaneous laughter. Apparently the laid-back mountain atmosphere was draining away some of his ever-present tension. Or maybe it was Jami’s effect on him.

  She returned his smile. “You’ve got a point. If she suddenly decides to get talkative, I’d appreciate it if you’d put in a good word for me. I really am harmless.”

  With those sincere eyes and the sweet smile, he could almost believe it. But she was a reporter. So no, she wasn’t harmless.

  She laid her water bottle on the table and reached for a second cookie. “I guess you’ll be back and forth for a few weeks until you get all this cleared out.”

  “I’ll make one more trip back to wrap up the last of it. Then I’m taking off for a couple of months.” Nothing was going to cut into that two-month sabbatical if he could help it.

  She nodded. “Vacation?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He raised his brows. “A little nosy, aren’t we?”

  “I’m supposed to be nosy. I’m a reporter. So where are you going?”

  “No idea. Away. Wherever my mood takes me.”

  She watched him, her expression intent. “Funny, you don’t strike me as a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy.”

  “What kind of guy do I strike you as?”

  She pursed her lips. “A planner, someone who thinks things through in advance.”

  He opened his water bottle and took a swig. She had him pegged. Structure was his middle name. That was probably how he’d gotten himself into the rut he was in. Maybe throwing away some of that structure would help him get out of it.

  “You’re pretty good at analyzing people.” Maybe too good. He put his bottle on the coffee table. “Anyway, I want to get as much wrapped up this trip as I can. After my second trip, I’ll have the contents auctioned off and donate whatever’s left over.”

  “When you get to that point, there are several thrift stores that could use this stuff. We’ve got REACH for battered women and both Logan’s Run and the Humane Society for animals, to name a few.”

  “Abused women or helpless, little animals. That’s going to be a tough decision.”

  “Maybe you can do more than one. It might be easier than choosing. Let’s see, what else might you need while you’re here? I can recommend some restaurants, a good church, if you practice a faith . . .”

  “I did an online search for places to eat, and I’ve been content with what I’ve tried so far.” He wasn’t going to even acknowledge her other suggestion. His attending church was about as likely as his granting her interview request.

  She cast a glance at the three boxes on the other side of the coffee table, each with the word trash written in black marker on top. “Would you like me to drop those by the landfill this afternoon?”

  “I can take them. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “It’s no trouble. I’m going anyway, my usual weekend run. We don’t have trash pickup out here.” She cast a glance at the boxes. “So what’s in there, anyway?”

  “Photo albums, letters from my grandmother.”

  Her brows pulled together, forming small vertical creases between them. “You’re throwing them away?”

  “I’m just interested in things that belonged to my dad, so if you’ll drop this junk by the landfill, I’ll say good riddance.”

  “Don’t you want to hang on to them for a while? I mean, what if you change your mind?”

  An itchiness crawled through his veins, the sense of annoyance that had become an increasingly frequent companion. He tamped it down. “Remember, my grandparents disowned my dad and never wanted anything to do with me or my mom. Now they’re dead and gone. It’s too late for them to make things right.” He’d successfully curtailed the annoyance. But bitterness had lent a hard edge to his tone, and he couldn’t seem to soften it.

  Jami shrugged. “It’s your decision. I’ll get rid of them if that’s what you want.” She swallowed the last of her cookie, then took another swig of water. “Any bites on the house and property?”

  “Not yet.” He sat back on the couch, glad for the change in subject. “I’m meeting with a Realtor at eleven, and I’ve got a three o’clock appointment with an investor from Charlotte.”

  Her face fell, and creases of worry settled in. “Durham Vanguard.”

  “You know him?”

  “Several of us do.”

  Judging from her tone, she didn’t think much more of the man than he did. During their brief phone conversation, Vanguard had come on strong, slicker than a car salesman at month’s end. As soon as he heard the McAllister name, phony camaraderie gushed through the line. More than once, Grant had been tempted to disconnect the call. But he’d gritted his teeth and held on. If their dealings would result in a quick sale, he could put up with a lot, even an overbearing, puffed-up blow bag. It was a brief business transaction, not Christmas dinner.

  Jami set her water bottle on the coffee table and angled her body on the couch to face him more fully. “He’s had his eye on this place as long as I can remember. There’s a vein of gold running through some of the properties on Ranger. We’ve also got gemstones in the area.”

  “So he wants to do mining?”

  She nodded. “When I was a kid, a couple of the residents tried, on a small scale. The gold is deep, embedded in a vein of quartz. Vanguard is apparently sure he can make it profitable.” She shrugged. “He’s hit most of us up at some point or another. I think he was hoping we’d be able to persuade the McAllisters to sell. But
none of us want his operations out here. He’d completely destroy the beauty of the land.”

  She stared back at him with the same pleading gaze she’d used in the Holiday Inn parking lot. It wasn’t going to be any more successful here than it had been there. What he did with the property was a business decision, something he made with his mind, not his emotions.

  She set her empty water bottle on the table and stood. “Your Realtor will be here in another forty-five minutes. If you want to help me load this stuff, I’ll let you get back to your sorting.”

  He picked up a box, then followed her to her car. Once he had all three loaded, he rested a hand on the faded metal roof. “Thanks for taking them. And thanks for the cookies and the visit. I enjoyed both.” More than he’d expected. The irritability that had gripped him while sorting through his grandmother’s stuff had all but disappeared.

  “Me, too.” She slid into the driver’s seat. “See, I kept my word—no interview. Just a friendly, neighborly visit. But after today, all bets are off. Come Monday morning, I’ll be back in reporter mode, determined to get my story.” Her lips curved upward in a quirky grin.

  “Thanks for the warning. So I guess I should make myself scarce.”

  “No, I’m not that scary. Determined maybe, but in a lovable way.”

  She was teasing, but he had to agree. Her hounding him was almost fun.

  Fun. The word had become a foreign concept, at odds with his drive to finish his education and climb the corporate ladder. The melancholy that had settled over him when Bethany walked away with his heart had put the simplest pleasures even more out of reach.

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets, then watched the old Sunbird circle the dilapidated fountain and head toward the road. She’d warned him. Come Monday, she would be back in reporter mode. Maybe he should just give her the interview. Then she’d leave him alone. One pesky reporter out of his hair.

  Instead of relief, the thought left him with a vague sense of disappointment. Maybe he didn’t want her to leave him alone.

  He shook his head. What was wrong with him? Even at his worst, he was always decisive and in control. He mapped out his course and charged ahead, not one to second-guess himself.

  Now he didn’t know what he wanted. The problem was Jami stirred something in him, and it threatened to completely upset his ordered life.

  The jury was still out on whether that would be good or bad.

  Jami skidded to a stop a few parking spaces down from the Daily Grind. She was running late, which wasn’t anything unusual. To Robert, it had been a constant source of annoyance. To her other friends, it was just something to tease her about.

  This morning, though, was worse than normal. First, she’d overslept. Once showered and ready, she had hurried to the front door and hit a puddle, which sent her foot flying from under her and her body landing in an unladylike sprawl. Her hip and elbow were still screaming in protest. She didn’t even know who to blame. Both dogs had looked down at her with eyes equally contrite, then rolled onto their backs in submission. With her unplanned change of clothes and second shower, her usual five to ten minutes late had grown into almost twenty.

  She sprang from the car and sprinted down the sidewalk. As soon as she swung open the glass door, a figure just inside turned. Her pulse picked up, and her stomach made an unexpected flip. She tried to ignore both, chalking them up to nervousness, pressure to get the story.

  Grant eyed her with suspicion, underscored by a hint of teasing. “Are you stalking me?”

  “No. Actually, I am, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m meeting friends for coffee.” She stepped inside and let the door swing shut. “Follow me, and I’ll introduce you.”

  After several greetings and hugs from the people who hadn’t seen her since her return from school, she finally reached the table where Holly and Samantha waited. Holly’s lips were quirked upward, her eyes lit with unspoken questions. She was as bad as Bernie. Jami would set her straight as soon as Grant was out of earshot.

  “Holly, Sam, this is Grant McAllister. I’m doing an article on his family, and he’s going to help me.” She gave him a wink. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Without confirming or disputing her claim, he shook Holly’s hand, then Sam’s. For a brief moment, his gaze snagged on the side of Sam’s face. Below the ever-present baseball cap, pale, mottled skin stretched tightly across her right check, over her jawbone and down the side of her neck, the result of a barn fire. Jami hardly noticed the scars anymore. Sam’s exuberance and love for life were so infectious her physical imperfections seemed to slip quietly into the background.

  Grant gave Sam a warm smile, but a coarse voice rose above all the others in the Grind, drowning out his “Pleased to meet you.” Bernie moved toward the bar, clad in a neon-green pantsuit trimmed in hot pink. The clothing was typical Bernie. The hair wasn’t. Last night must have been dyeing night. Besides the usual orangey-red hue, she’d somehow managed to get streaks of purple running throughout. Not many people could pull off a look like that—only twentysomething rock stars and one flamboyant, old newspaper reporter.

  Bernie’s gaze shifted toward them, and she made a beeline for their table. “Well, hello, ladies. And gentleman. You’re all lookin’ mighty fine this mornin’.” She patted her poufy locks. “What do you think of the do?”

  Holly nodded. “I like it. But tell me the truth. Was it planned?”

  “Yes and no. Last time I accidentally ended up with some orange streaks, which got me thinking. So this time I went for dramatic instead of the same old, boring thing.”

  Jami laughed. “Bernie, you couldn’t be boring if you tried. But you definitely succeeded with the drama.”

  Bernie hooked one arm through Jami’s and the other through Grant’s. “Let’s go get some coffee.”

  After guiding them to the counter, she hiked herself onto the only unoccupied bar stool. Next to her, Hank Dorchester sat, sipping a cappuccino. When he didn’t immediately turn, she heaved a sigh.

  “What kind of a gentleman are you? A lady sits next to you and doesn’t even get greeted. Didn’t you hear me come in?”

  Grant watched, obviously amused. But Hank didn’t seem to notice Bernie’s conspicuous entrance. He took another long sip, then set the cup on the counter in front of him. When he finally turned to face Bernie, his gaze swept the length of her before bouncing back up to settle on the halo of red hair. “Bernie, you’re so loud I can hear you coming even when you don’t open your mouth. Although that rarely happens.”

  For the next several moments, Bernie’s guffaw drowned out whatever conversations were going on around them, and she slapped a hand on the wooden counter. “Hank Dorchester, you’re an ever-lovin’ mess.”

  After the server had waited on them, Jami gathered her Danish and coffee and turned to Grant. “You’re welcome to sit with us if you’d like.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to crash your breakfast with your friends.” He raised his cup of coffee in farewell and turned in search of other seating.

  As Jami made her way back to the table, Holly continued to watch her with the same knowing half smile. But it was Sam who spoke.

  “Let me guess. Bernie somehow finagled an assignment that would force you to spend some time with this Grant McAllister.”

  Jami put her coffee on the table and slid into a seat. “You got it.”

  “I don’t think I’d fight Bernie on this one.” Holly’s eyes were still on Grant. “What does he do?”

  “I’m not sure. But he doesn’t seem very thrilled with the inheritance. I get the impression he doesn’t need the money.”

  It wasn’t just his attitude toward the estate. It was everything about him. The designer clothes that gave him the appearance of having just stepped off the cover of GQ. The way he carried himself—confident, suave, sophisticated. The air of classiness that surrounded him.

  “Good-looking and successful. You better nab him.”

  Jami sho
ok her head. “I’m not looking, and I don’t think Grant is, either. Right now, I’ve got other concerns. I need that interview, and he’s not budging.”

  Samantha sank her teeth into her egg-and-cheese biscuit. No coffee and Danish for her. When she strayed from her usual morning concoction of freshly juiced vegetables mixed with some kind of green powder, it was never for anything remotely decadent. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to convince him to let me interview him. I’ve got to. I can’t fail at my first assignment.” She puffed out a frustrated sigh. “I’m afraid the next person who tells me what a great reporter Howard was is going to find my fingers wrapped around their throat.”

  “That would be quite a headline for the Cherokee Scout.” Samantha looked past Jami and tilted her head. “I think Grant’s having trouble finding an empty table.”

  When Jami turned, Grant was moving past a family of tourists, with some kind of croissant sandwich in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She lifted an arm to motion him over.

  Holly lowered her voice to a whisper. “When it comes to Bernie’s matchmaking schemes, you’ve got to admit Grant is a better choice than Eddie.”

  Jami groaned. “He was so full of himself. He couldn’t pass a storefront without flexing or rearranging his hair.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think I was ever going to get rid of him. When I found out Bernie had been egging him on the whole time, I could have strangled her.”

  Samantha laughed. “When you finally got rid of him, she tried to hook him up with me.”

  Grant laid his breakfast on the table and slid onto the only empty stool. When his shoulder brushed hers, Jami’s heart picked up speed. The more time he spent with her, the more likely she was to get the story. That was the only reason for her reaction.

  But she couldn’t argue with Holly’s assessment. Grant was good-looking. The angled lines of his face, straight, proud nose and chiseled jaw radiated strength and masculinity. His eyes weren’t just blue. They were that brilliant green-blue color of the Caribbean Sea. Judging from his jet-black hair, he apparently took after his mother’s side of the family. He looked nothing like the pictures she’d seen of his redheaded Irish grandparents.