“We need to get you out of this cold water.”
Keeping a tight grip on her hand, he led her toward the bank, the stones beneath their feet slick and uneven. Shouts reached them from a short distance upriver, another raft on its way through the stretch of rapids that had landed her in the water. Right after they stepped onto solid ground, it came into view. Several heads turned their direction. Grant released her, and they both waved.
“So what now? Is Sam going to come back and get us?”
“No. They’ll wait for us, but we’ve got to go to them.”
For the next several minutes, they made their way along the river’s edge, alternating between wading and making the trek by land, whichever was the easier route.
Grant stepped onto a rock and helped her up. “You, Samantha and Holly seem close.”
“Yeah. We’re as different as night and day, but we’ve been best friends pretty much all our lives. Sam and I were together in school, and Holly was a year behind us. Sam was the tomboy. Usually you could find her hanging with the boys, climbing trees or building a fort. Holly was the opposite, a girly girl all the way, frilly dresses and all.”
Grant nodded. “I can see that. So what happened to Samantha?”
“When she was sixteen, she ran into a burning barn to save her horses. A flaming beam fell on her.”
“It doesn’t seem to have slowed her down any.”
She bent to pass under a low branch, then smiled back at him. “There’s not much that can hold Sam back.”
“So she was the tomboy, and Holly was the girly girl. What about you?”
“I was the dreamer, always had my head in the clouds. Some people say I still do.” At least one person did.
“Hey, that’s not a bad thing.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Without the dreamers we wouldn’t have any inventions or books or art or technology. We’d still be walking around with our clubs and spears and hunting woolly mammoths.”
He lowered himself back into the river, then extended his arm. The bank had become a sheer rock face, leaving them no other route. When she took his hand, it was cool, but warm in comparison to hers, which was slowly turning to ice. The specks of sunshine peeking through the dense growth at the river’s edge did nothing to warm her. The water around her legs was so cold it hurt, and her shorts and shirt clung to her skin, wet and stiff.
“I’m having fantasies right now about a hot shower and dry clothes. I’m so cold my goose bumps have goose bumps.”
Grant laughed. “You are starting to look like a Popsicle. Your lips are turning blue.”
They moved around a sharp bend, and as they waded, the large raft came into view, held in place by a downed tree.
When they reached the others, Sam cast them both a scolding glance. “You’re supposed to enjoy the Nantahala from inside the raft.”
Jami shook her head. “I don’t even know what happened. One minute I was paddling furiously, and the next I was flying face-first toward the water. Now I’m freezing my rear off.” As if to prove her point, another violent shiver shook her body. “At least this happened toward the end of the trip. Dry clothes are only twenty minutes away.”
Her estimate was right. Twenty minutes later, she stood with Sam and Holly at a series of lockers, retrieving wallets, towels, clothing and shoes. By the time they emerged from the restroom, Grant was already waiting, wet hair combed back away from his face.
He smiled when he saw her. “Feel better now?”
“A hundred percent.”
“Good. Before we leave, I need something to drink. Can I get you ladies anything?”
Jami watched him walk away, a darkened semicircle forming where his wet hair touched the collar of his shirt. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, the way to a woman’s heart was with selfless acts of chivalry. She sighed and turned to see both Samantha and Holly staring at her with conspiratorial grins. “What?”
Samantha turned to Holly. “Jami’s in love.”
Holly nodded. “I think you’re right. She’s positively glowing.”
“I don’t think she ever glowed with Robert, do you?”
Holly shook her head. “Never.”
Jami cleared her throat. “Hello. I’m right here. And no, I’m not in love.”
“Uh-huh.” Her friends responded in unison.
“I’m not.”
Of course she wasn’t. Sure, she liked him and enjoyed spending time with him. There was no denying the attraction between them. That kiss had pretty well turned her world upside down.
But falling in love with him? That would be stupid. Their lives were hundreds of miles apart. Even if he decided to keep the McAllister estate and relocate to Murphy, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing could ever develop between them. He wouldn’t let it.
But her heart wasn’t listening. Grant made her feel special. He respected their differences instead of trying to change her. And he could make her pulse race just by walking into a room. She’d finally found it, the stuff of fairy tales, the spark that was always absent with Robert. It was there every time Grant looked at her, every time he smiled.
But in one crucial way, he was no different from the other men in her life. Soon he was going to walk away, and she’d never see him again.
TEN
Jami stepped up onto the McAllister porch, savoring the mouthwatering aromas. After whitewater rafting yesterday, Grant had headed right to the estate, claiming he had a dinner date to get ready for. So she’d spent the evening alone with the dogs, thinking of him, alternating between telling herself a kiss like that had better not happen again and hoping with everything in her that it would.
At least she’d gotten one unpleasant task out of the way. She’d made the phone call to Beulah. That had been twenty-four hours ago, plenty of time for her to spread the word to everyone in Murphy, including Missy’s twins. Robert was due back Friday night. He still hadn’t tried to contact her. She wasn’t complaining.
She reached up to ring the bell, and moments later, the door swung open. Grant stood in the foyer, his clothing protected by a stiff, new apron. A reddish dribble had blazed a trail down one pocket.
She scanned the length of him. “You really look the part.”
“I guess I do. I picked this up when I went shopping for the food. If you’re not wearing at least a splatter or two by the end of meal preparation, you’re not getting into your cooking.”
He closed the door behind her, and she drew in another deep breath. Grant was apparently a superb cook. And it was obvious he enjoyed it. Pleasure rolled off him, infectious enthusiasm. If he was passionate about anything, this was it.
As he led her toward the kitchen, she glanced around her. Sometime since yesterday, he’d had the place cleaned. The wood floor was swept, mopped and polished, the layers of dust that had covered the surfaces gone.
“Wow, everything looks good.”
“Yeah, I thought we might want to sit somewhere after dinner without having to battle dust bunnies. Besides that, I got a call from Brenda, my Realtor, and she’s bringing someone by to look at the place tomorrow.”
Disappointment shot through her, and she scolded herself. He wasn’t keeping the place. She’d known that from the start. Besides, if Brenda found a buyer, Jami wouldn’t have to worry about Vanguard’s heavy machinery in her backyard.
Grant continued. “Bernie recommended I hire Andrea Jenkins, who jumped at the chance to earn some money during her summer break. She did an awesome job.”
“Andrea’s really conscientious. Of course, she’s my cousin, so I’m a little partial.”
He stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you related to everybody in Murphy?”
“No, it just seems that way. Aunt Lily had eight children, and all but the youngest two have children of their own now. So that gives me lots of cousins. And the number keeps growing. Andrea’s the daughter of Jerry, Aunt Lily’s oldest.”
“She was worth her
weight in gold today.”
He turned, and she followed him into the kitchen, where she stopped short. Everything had been cleaned and polished to a brilliant shine, but it was the nook that drew her attention. White linen covered the table, elegantly set with china, crystal and silver, no doubt his grandmother’s. Candles burned atop three brass candlesticks in the center. It was a setting fit for a fairy-tale princess. The only thing missing was the string quartet, but the orchestral music drifting in from somewhere else in the house was a good substitute.
She tilted her head toward the nook. “So was that you or Andrea?”
“Andrea washed the windows.” He pointed at the large bay, where outside ever-lengthening shadows stretched toward the woods. A patch of wildflowers grew among the downed limbs and underbrush, delicate beauty in the midst of chaos.
“And the table?”
“That was my doing.”
“I’m impressed.” Actually, she was more than impressed. White linen, fine china, good music and candlelight. And he’d done it for her. Warmth filled her chest, and her insides went all quivery. How was she supposed to not fall for him?
He pulled out a chair for her to sit, then laid a linen napkin across her lap. After hanging the apron on a hook, he took two bowls from the table and returned them filled with tomato bisque.
“I feel like I’m in a swanky restaurant.” She brought the first spoonful to her mouth and, eyes closed, savored it, rich and smooth against her tongue. She could get used to this. But she wouldn’t have the opportunity. Everything with Grant was temporary, as fleeting as the first snowfall, melting as soon as it hit the ground.
Unless she could convince him to stay.
She almost laughed at the ridiculous thought. Maybe he’d use some of his upcoming vacation and spend a little extra time in Murphy. But once that was over, he’d be gone. He’d been burned too badly to commit to anything more serious than friendship. He’d pretty well said as much. No, there was no future for them, no matter how much Bernie wanted otherwise. Unfortunately, Bernie wasn’t the only one with hopes.
“So tell me what you’ve got planned for this weekend. What’s Fields of the Wood?”
“It’s a Bible park.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Church, then a Bible park. What are you trying to do, convert me?”
If only. “You’ll enjoy Fields of the Wood. There’s Ten Commandments Mountain, where they have the Ten Commandments spelled out in huge concrete letters on the side of it. You can drive up the back, but it’s more fun to climb the stairs in the front. I counted them once. If I remember right, there are three hundred thirty-six of them if you go all the way to the lookout at the top. After that, we can climb Prayer Mountain. That one has over three hundred steps, too.”
“You’re determined to get me in shape.”
Her eyes dipped to his muscled chest and arms. There was no getting necessary. He was already there. “The other exhibits aren’t so strenuous. There’s a duck pond and some nature trails, too.”
“Sounds like a nice place.”
“It is. I thought we could go Sunday afternoon, start with a picnic lunch. Of course, the morning is church.”
“I was planning on it.”
She gave him a crooked smile. “That was easy.”
“I know. I figured while I’m having all these new experiences, I’d go all out.” He grew serious. “Actually, since meeting you and your friends, I’m thinking I should reassess my opinions about the church and who goes there.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” God was working on him. Already he seemed a little more at peace, less cynical.
She tipped her bowl to spoon the last of the bisque into her mouth, not willing to waste a single drop. When she looked back up at Grant, he was watching her. She pointed downward with her spoon. “Delicious.”
“Thanks.” He took their empty bowls to the sink and returned with two plates of salad he’d retrieved from the refrigerator. “Course number two. I hope you brought your appetite.”
“I never leave home without it. That and my handy-dandy spiral notebook. But I left it in the car. I do have my pack of Post-its, though. Those stay in my purse.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed your preoccupation with neon-colored notes.”
She stabbed a bite of salad—tomatoes and cucumbers on a bed of mixed greens, decorated with three whole Kalamata olives and a generous sprinkling of pine nuts. “An idea pops into my head and I don’t want to lose it, so I grab the nearest thing to write on. Since I’ve got them in every room of the house, that’s usually a Post-it.”
She put the bite in her mouth. Grant had made some kind of citrus vinaigrette dressing. At least she assumed he’d made it, because it didn’t taste like anything store-bought. It was heavenly.
“My system’s not as disorganized as it sounds.” She stabbed some more salad. She would probably drive an ordered, methodical person like Grant crazy. “Every few days, I collect up all the Post-its and put story ideas in one stack, grocery items in another, stuff to go on the calendar in another, et cetera, et cetera. Then I take care of one stack at a time.”
“Hey, whatever works.”
She hesitated, waiting for the but—but it would be easier to . . . but it would be better if . . . The but never came. A tension she hadn’t even noticed drained from her, and she smiled. “Most of the time it works great. But sometimes a Post-it disappears, and I find it stuck to the back of something a month later.”
She took a swig of her iced tea and continued. “But don’t worry. Tonight the Post-its are staying in my purse. No jotting down story ideas and no interview questions. Everything is off the record.” Not that it would matter to Grant. He probably wasn’t planning to share any earth-shattering family secrets.
“How long have you wanted to be a journalist?”
“Since I was about ten. But I’ve always loved to write. When I was in fourth grade, I decided I was going to pen the next great American novel and filled two spiral-bound notebooks before I ran out of steam.” She grinned over at him. “Years later I came across them, saw how bad the writing was and ran every page through my mom’s shredder. I didn’t want to give anyone fuel for blackmail later on.”
Grant laughed. “I bet the writing wasn’t half bad for a fourth grader.”
“I guess it wasn’t.”
“So was that your last attempt at novel writing?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid not. I’ve got a few more started.” Seven, to be exact. Although she wasn’t ready to own up to that many failed attempts. “I’ve always dreamed of writing a book, but I guess I’m not very good at seeing things through to completion.” Especially with someone pooh-poohing what she was doing every step of the way.
“What’s stopping you?”
“From finishing one?” She shrugged. “It’s not very practical. I mean, thousands of novels get written every year, and only a small fraction of a percent ever get published.”
“Dreams aren’t supposed to be practical. If what you wanted was practical and easy, you would walk out and do it. Then it wouldn’t be a dream.”
His eyes met hers over the dancing flames of the candles, the encouragement there resonating with something deep inside her. Why did he have to be so perfect? Well, not perfect, but someone who understood and appreciated her eccentricities, who encouraged her to fly rather than trying to clip her wings.
She laid her fork across her now-empty plate and sighed, pushing aside the wistful thoughts. “You have to admit, if it never gets published, that’s a lot of hours wasted.”
“Do you enjoy writing?”
“I love it.”
“Then it’s not a waste of time, even if you never get published.”
She sat for several moments, letting his words sink in. She had another longtime dream. But it was even less practical than writing a novel. Opening a bed and breakfast took money and resources she simply didn’t have.
But G
rant was right. If she wanted to write a novel, it didn’t matter how much time she spent at it. For so many years, Robert had imposed his opinions on her, his ideas for what was best. But it wasn’t overt. He didn’t push and demand that she change, just slipped in the back way with his disparaging comments. She was only now recognizing that friendship for what it was—toxic.
Grant reached across the table to lay his hand over hers. “Hang on to your dreams, Jami. Don’t ever let anyone try to talk you out of them.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. What would it be like to have a man like Grant? A man who supported her endeavors? Who encouraged her to reach for the stars?
He squeezed her hand. “Promise me you’ll get out one of those incomplete novels and try to finish it.”
She swallowed, then drew in a deep breath. “Yes, I’ll do that.”
“Good. I’m going to hold you to it.” He stood and walked away with their salad plates, leaving her sitting alone.
She’d made a promise. She was going to finish one of her books. Knowing Grant, he would hold her accountable. That was okay. Because pretty soon, her evenings were going to be her own. Once Grant left, she would have all the time in the world to write.
It wasn’t a thought she relished.
Grant returned to the table with the main course—chicken cordon bleu, potatoes au gratin, and steamed asparagus, complete with parsley sprigs and lemon wedges for garnish. He always took pride in preparing tasty dishes, but tonight, he’d taken extra care with presentation. He’d wanted Jami to feel special.
She sampled each item, savoring every bite. “Mmm, this is wonderful. The whole meal has been amazing. You can cook for me anytime.”
Contentment swelled inside him. It was more than just her compliment. It was everything. From the moment he spread out ingredients on the island’s butcher-block countertop, he’d felt as if he’d suddenly come to life. When he finished his sabbatical and went back to New York, maybe he would start entertaining again. Maybe he would even pick up his French horn and join a community orchestra. After two long years, he was finally awakening from the dead.
Trust My Heart Page 13