Trust My Heart

by Carol J. Post

  And he owed it all to Jami. Guilt pricked him. He should go ahead and give her permission to use what she needed for her article. If she hadn’t used it already. When he returned to Murphy last Friday, he’d been gone a week. She may have turned the piece in during that time. It may have even run by now.

  “How is your feature going?”

  “Oh, it’s going. I tried Flora again, but the number is no longer in service.”

  “Yeah, I discovered that, too. I tried it a couple days after you gave it to me. She apparently had it disconnected right after you called her.” He flashed her a teasing smile. “You must have made quite an impression.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t have the opportunity to make much of an impression. As soon as she found out I was a reporter, she said what she did and hung up the phone.”

  “And changed her number.”

  She grinned. “That, too. Anyhow, I spent some time at the library last week, poring over old newspaper articles. And I talked to Hilda some more.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “I got a few interesting tidbits to use for my article. Nothing as good as what was in the box, though. So if you change your mind . . .”

  So she hadn’t included his mother’s deceitfulness in her article. Evidently she was keeping her promise. If he didn’t give her the go-ahead, would she continue to keep that promise? Or would she print what she wanted once he was gone? Probably so. She would have no reason not to. Other than her word.

  Her gaze locked with his. “Just so you know, I’m not the type of reporter who likes to dig up dirt on people for the sake of being sensational. If I were to include what we found, it would be tastefully done. I wouldn’t paint your mother in a bad light.” She gave him a sad smile. “Her part in this is more tragic than devious.”

  He nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to give in to her request. He wanted her to prove him wrong, to show him she could be trusted, to once again restore his faith in people.

  She cut off a piece of chicken and put it into her mouth. “Why did you stop cooking?”

  Her question jarred him from his thoughts. She’d asked it before, and he’d told her he’d been too busy. “Lost interest, I guess.”

  “The same time you lost interest in your music?” Based on her tone, she didn’t buy that answer any more than she had the other one.

  “Something like that.” He motioned toward her half-empty glass. “Are you ready for a refill on tea?”

  “My tea’s fine.” She studied him, lips turned downward in a frown.

  He lowered his gaze to his plate and picked at the slivered-almond-and-tomato mixture topping his asparagus. Anything to avoid looking at her. Because if he did, she would be able to see right past the indifference he tried to project.

  “You just changed the subject.”

  “No one wants to hear my hard-luck story.” And he didn’t want to tell it.

  “If I didn’t want to hear it, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Several moments passed while he deliberated. When the pain was still raw and fresh, he had confided in his friends. But soon he found himself distanced from them. Craig’s and his mutual friends didn’t want to take sides. His married friends no longer seemed comfortable around him, and his single friends felt he was a drag. He couldn’t blame them. He was a drag.

  So for two long years, he’d bottled up the pain and anger, not opening up to anyone. How could he even consider that level of sharing with Jami after just two and a half weeks? He drew in a labored breath and once again met her eyes. And the understanding he saw there shattered the last of his reservations.

  “I came home one day and found my wife in bed with my best friend.” He released a heavy sigh. “I didn’t have a clue. I could read my witnesses better than I could read my own wife.” Disgust laced his tone. The majority of it was aimed inward. He’d never forgiven her, but he’d never forgiven himself, either.

  She reached across the table to put her hand over his, which maintained a death grip on his fork. “Your ex-wife was an idiot.”

  He stifled a snort. “Well, she had me fooled, so I’d say I was the idiot.”

  “You’re not the first man to be snookered by sweet words and a pretty face.”

  He didn’t comment, just released the fork and turned his hand over to squeeze hers. Some strange kind of energy flowed between them, connecting them in a way he hadn’t felt with anyone, not even Bethany.

  “She told me if I had given her what she needed, she would never have turned to Craig.” He looked down at his plate. “I was working long hours. She didn’t understand what it took to climb the ladder of success. And I didn’t understand that there’s more than one way to define success.” He again met her eyes. “I climbed that ladder, made it all the way to the top. But after Bethany left, I wondered if it was leaning against the wrong wall. I’m still not sure.”

  She squeezed his hand. “We’ve all let things get in the way of our relationships. The best thing is to learn from our mistakes and try not to be too weighed down with regret.”

  He gave her a small nod, then released her hand to stab some of the asparagus he’d played with earlier. “That’s when I stopped creating gourmet meals and gave up the horn. I poured myself into work, taking on more and more cases. I figured if I could keep busy, I’d stay ahead of the emptiness always chewing at my heels.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Yes and no. Everything was fine while I was working. But no matter how hard I drove myself, eventually I had to come home to an empty apartment.” He released a sigh filled with regret. When he continued, his thoughts were no longer in the past. “That’s when it’s always the worst, in the wee hours of the morning, with nothing to distract me from what a fool I’ve been.”

  She flashed him a sympathetic smile. “Stop beating yourself up. Everyone’s entitled to a mistake or two, even if they’re doozies.” She speared her last piece of chicken. “So what about now? Now that you’ve jumped back into cooking again, at least for one night, what’s your next step?”

  “Nothing for the time being. I’ll be on the road for the next two months.” Unless he spent the time in Murphy. Which he might do. None of his travel plans sounded like fun anymore if they didn’t involve Jami.

  He stood to clear away their dishes. “Are you ready for dessert?”

  She put her hand against her stomach and groaned. “I’m stuffed. But I’ve got to at least have a taste.”

  He returned with two plates, each holding crepes drizzled with a strawberry glaze and topped with a dollop of whipped cream.

  She cut off a generous bite. “A perfect end to a perfect meal.”

  “You’re just easy to please.”

  “I am, but that’s beside the point.” She grinned over at him. “So what dreams do you have?”

  “I’m not much of a dreamer.”

  “Come on, you must have something. Tell me.”

  Yeah, he had a dream, and he’d given it up before finishing high school. He shook his head and crossed his arms. “Uh-uh. It’s stupid.”

  “No dreams are stupid. Tell me. I told you mine.” Eagerness shone from her eyes, making her look very much the nosy reporter.

  “This is off the record, right?”

  “Scout’s honor.” She gave him a mock salute.

  “I’ve always wanted to own a fine restaurant.”

  Her features went slack. “That’s it? That’s not a stupid dream.”

  “I guess it wasn’t originally. When I was in high school, I wanted to be head chef in a fancy restaurant. But with my GPA and SAT scores, my mom and my guidance counselors pushed me toward law school. So that dream got tossed aside.”

  “It’s not stupid now, either. Based on what you fed me tonight, you could do it. New York’s finest chefs wouldn’t have anything on you.”

  Or Murphy’s. The thought came from nowhere. He shook his head again. “It would be totally impractical. I went to school for seven years to b
e a lawyer. I can’t walk away from my law practice.”

  “Dreams aren’t supposed to be practical or easy. You said so yourself. Does cooking make you happy?”

  “Totally.”

  “Do you get the same happiness from practicing law?”

  “Frankly, no.”

  “And could you live on what you’ve put back until you started turning a profit?”

  “I could.” Especially with everything he’d inherited from his grandmother.

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  He shrugged and began to clear away their empty dessert plates. “My life has taken another direction. I can’t change it now.”

  “If you’re still breathing, you can change the path you’re on.”

  She stood and followed him toward the sink. Once they’d rinsed and put all the dishes in the dishwasher, he squirted some liquid soap into the compartment and closed the door. When he straightened, she was leaning back against the counter a couple feet away, watching him.

  “Thank you for dinner. I’m glad you invited me.”

  He stepped closer. “I’m glad I did, too. This has been . . . good.”

  She reached up to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. A fresh, clean fragrance drifted past, a subtle hint of lavender. And a memory that had plagued him since yesterday afternoon crashed forward—the distant roar of the river, her arms around his neck, her warmth pressed into him, his lips on hers. And although he told himself he shouldn’t, he wanted nothing more than to relive the experience. Again and again.

  He moved closer. Now he was right in front of her, her back still against the counter. His gaze dropped to her mouth. He couldn’t help it. There was something mesmerizing about the shape of her lips, touched with peach-colored gloss. He tilted his head down, testing her. He’d said it was a mistake. She had agreed.

  Nothing in her expression hinted at those doubts now. Her eyes drifted shut, and he pressed his mouth to hers. Her arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, and he gladly complied. Heat flowed through him, thawing those areas long frozen over and sending life coursing through his veins.

  He tightened his embrace. She was firm yet soft, so willing and responsive. The walls he’d kept around his heart for so long crumbled, joining the rubble of the reservations he’d carried all the way from New York.

  When he finally pulled away, she opened her eyes and drew in a shaky breath. “And was that kiss a mistake?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t be a good judge of that right now.”

  Actually, he wouldn’t, either. At that moment, he wouldn’t recognize a mistake if it slapped him in the face. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake—the kiss, dinner, his coming back to Murphy. But it didn’t feel like one. Something deep within whispered this was where he belonged, right here in Murphy.

  Over the past couple of weeks, he’d begun looking at the place through eyes less jaded. The quaint little town had grown on him. Its laid-back atmosphere that forced him to take life a little more slowly. The friendly people who made him feel like a long-lost friend who’d finally returned home. And one quirky newspaper reporter who had the potential to upend his entire existence.

  Now he didn’t want to leave. Not next week. Not in two months. Not ever.

  But Jami was the kind of girl who would require commitment. A lifetime promise. Was he ready to strip himself of every last protective defense, to let down his guard so completely there would be nothing left between bliss and total heartbreak?

  He wasn’t sure. The only thing he knew was that after just two and a half weeks and two exquisite kisses, he was dangerously close to doing something he’d sworn he would never do again—fall in love.

  ELEVEN

  Grant cruised down 64, headed toward the old house. With Andrea’s cleaning job yesterday, on top of the packing he’d accomplished before heading back to New York, the place was starting to feel like a home. Not enough to consider giving up his comfy room at the Holiday Inn, but he was making progress. Today he’d tackle some more of the mess.

  The light ahead turned yellow, and he eased to a stop. Hot Spot sat to the right, a gas station and convenience store. He had frequented it a few times. It was a great place to pick up needed items without having to drive all the way to town.

  While he waited, a white van pulled away from one of the pumps, giving him a clear view of the parking spaces in front of the store . . . and a familiar red Sunbird. He glanced at the gas gauge. Five-eighths of a tank. He could top it off. It would give him an excuse to see Jami before she headed in to work.

  The light changed, and instead of continuing down 64, he turned in to Hot Spot and pulled up to the pump opposite a faded blue pickup. An overall-clad figure stepped from the cab, and Hank turned and nodded a greeting.

  “Are you enjoying your stay in Murphy?”

  “I am.” More than Hank would ever know.

  The older man pocketed his credit card and began to pump his gas. “It’s a great place, with some of the world’s best people.”

  Yeah, one person in particular. He swiped his card and put the nozzle into the tank. While he waited for it to authorize, he let his gaze shift toward the building. Jami was inside, standing at the counter, talking to the clerk. She threw back her head and laughed, and though the sound didn’t reach him through the thick glass, her sparkling laughter wove through his thoughts, infusing him with warmth and contentment.

  When it was time to go back to his regular life, maybe Jami would come back with him. There were papers in New York, a lot of them. He even had an acquaintance who worked for the New York Times. Justin probably wouldn’t mind putting in a good word for her. If not the Times, one of the smaller papers. With her vibrant personality, she would have no problem landing a job.

  Even as he contemplated the possibilities, doubt cast its shadow over his optimism. Jami had lived her life in nature, surrounded by mountains and woods and streams. Would she be willing to give up the clean air and open spaces for smog and traffic and skyscrapers?

  If so, he’d make it up to her. He’d do whatever he had to do to make her feel at home, to feed her creative side. He’d take her to museums and Broadway shows and parks. And he’d take her to church, as much for his own benefit as hers. Sitting with her at MountainView Sunday had stirred something in him, awakening a longing he didn’t even know he had.

  When he turned back to the pump, Hank’s eyes were on him.

  “Are you checking out Jami Carlisle?”

  Was he that obvious? Yeah, he probably had it written all over his face, like a lovesick teenager. He put a hand to the pewter heart resting against his chest. Other than when she’d taken him whitewater rafting, he hadn’t removed it since she gave it to him. “She’s a special lady.” No sense denying what he felt.

  Hank nodded. “She sure is. But don’t be getting any ideas.”

  A vise clamped down on his chest. “Why not?”

  “She’s already spoken for.”

  The vise squeezed harder, and he struggled to take in a shallow breath. “What do you mean?”

  “Robert Demming. He and Jami have been sweethearts off and on for years. Now that Jami’s finished with school, they’re finally tying the knot. It’s going to be a September wedding, if I heard right.” He turned off the pump and replaced the gas nozzle.

  “Jami’s engaged?” She couldn’t be. There had to be some mistake. She couldn’t be that deceitful.

  “Yep, she’s engaged all right. The official announcement was made about a month ago, but everyone knew it was coming.” Hank’s eyes dipped to the nozzle protruding from the tank of the Mercedes. “Are you gonna pump your gas?”

  Grant lowered his gaze. The fingers gripping the handle seemed to be attached to someone else’s body. Jami was engaged. How could he have not known?

  The same way he hadn’t known about Bethany and Craig. During his orchestra concerts, Craig had sat in the audience with Bethany, and he had been a regular
guest at the dinner parties they hosted. Grant had even come home a few times to find his friend there alone with his wife and had never questioned it. He’d been stupid and naïve.

  And now he’d done it again. He’d been taken in by a pretty face.

  Shame washed through him, pushed along by self-loathing. While he and Jami had shared meals and stories and adventures and quiet moments in nature, she’d been playing him. The genuine air that had intrigued him from the start was all a facade. She was engaged.

  Engaged. The word echoed in his mind, taunting him for his naïveté. His fingers tightened, sending gas flowing into the tank. If Jami was engaged, where had the elusive fiancé been for the past week and a half?

  He turned back to Hank, who was now getting into his truck. “I’ve never seen her with anyone. Does he live somewhere else?”

  “He lives here in Murphy. But he’s been gone the past week or so. Had a wedding to go to up north, then was going on a trip to Europe.” He slid into the seat and cranked the truck. “See you around.”

  As Hank drove away, the pump clicked off, and Hot Spot’s glass door swung open. Jami stepped into the early morning sunshine, and a dazzling smile spread across her face. Except now it didn’t warm his heart. It sickened him. Because it wasn’t real.

  Nothing about her was real.

  He hung up the nozzle, and when he turned again, she was hurrying toward him. His jaw tightened. Five minutes earlier, and he’d have been down the road. But if he’d been five minutes earlier, he might have missed Hank.

  What was she trying to pull? He hadn’t jumped to conclusions, reading more into their relationship than he should. She’d kissed him, for Pete’s sake. They’d spent time together and shared their joys and hurts and dreams. They’d bonded. At least he thought they had.

  He needed to give her a chance to come clean. Maybe things were rocky between her and her fiancé and she was planning to call off the engagement. But even then, she should have told him. Being engaged was a pretty important detail to omit, even with imminent plans to break it off.