SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club Book 4)

by Christie Ridgway

  “Sure,” her mom answered.

  Avoiding discussing the night before seemed imperative because the avocado vigil was the only thing on Harper’s mind since she’d dropped Mad off in Harry’s parking lot. The old truck had become the size of a tuna can during those hours alone, but she’d inexplicably prolonged their time together—and then ended up at their old make-out spot!

  What was that all about?

  She ordered the two lemonades, and took her time making her way back to their own stand by checking out the other offerings. Kettle corn, flowers, jerky in all flavors—even teriyaki emu—soaps and shampoos. Olive oil, avocado oil, and sunflower oil. A woman in a paisley apron sold hand-sewn dolls and prairie bonnets, not to mention table linens. Harper tasted local cheeses, olives, grapes, and a piece of a chocolate chip cookie that could bring about world harmony if it could be globally marketed.

  With the sun shining down on her face, it was no wonder she couldn’t think of any place she’d rather be. The thought sent her scuttling back to her mom, just as patrons began wandering through the market. Remembering her training from years ago, she chatted and bagged and smiled.

  “You haven’t forgotten a thing,” her mom murmured.

  “Been making change since I was seven years old,” Harper reminded Rebecca, as they waved off the latest patrons, now laden with fresh corn, oranges, and a bunch of basil.

  “Yes, but your dollars and cents have been Euros and wons and forints lately.”

  “Vegas, Mom, remember? Though admittedly that’s more casino chips and credit card slips.”

  Her mother looked down and made a minute adjustment to a display of yellow squash. “You know, you could stick with the dollars and cents. Stay with family at Sunnybird Farm.”

  Stay with family. Harper gave her mom a sharp look as a pang of worry struck close to her heart. “You’re really worried about Grandpop, aren’t you?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Mom—”

  “Truly. He was already putting weight on his foot at lunch.”

  “You said he wasn’t getting any younger.”

  Her mom looked away, looked back. “I miss you, Harper. There. I said it.”

  Harper stared. Not one person in her family had ever expressed any sort of judgement about her life choices. They’d been happy to see her when they or she visited, of course, but they’d been very supportive of her travels. Very follow-your-bliss.

  “I’ve always felt as if I…well, as if I somehow was responsible for pushing you out of the nest.”

  “Mom, all children grow up and leave home.”

  “They don’t all grow up and leave the country.” Rebecca fiddled with the stack of glossy zucchinis.

  “We’ve talked about this,” Harper protested. “You didn’t have anything to do with that. It comes from my dad’s side, I think.”

  Her father, known only to her mom as Joe Jones, had shown up at the farm when they hired help for the harvest. He’d stayed for months, and she’d fallen in love and gotten pregnant with Harper, knowing the entire time that Joe Jones had a far-off gaze. He was determined to see the world, which made him even more appealing, her mother had once shared. A romantic dreamer.

  “You should have gone with him,” Harper said now. “And had your own out-of-this-world adventures.”

  Her mom hesitated, then squarely met Harper’s gaze. “I might have exaggerated a little about…about your father’s wanderlust.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  One of her mother’s shoulders went up, down. “It might have made him seem more…exciting to you. More interesting.”

  “He didn’t want to see the world?”

  “He wanted off the farm, that’s certain. He’d had enough after harvest. And you know I didn’t realize I was pregnant until he was gone. I’ve told you I didn’t have a way to trace him once he left.”

  Harper took a moment to absorb this. She’d known her father had hitchhiked out of town before her mom had seen a plus sign on the pregnancy test, but perhaps he didn’t have a global wanderlust after all? “I always envisioned him visiting the Eastern Steppe or exploring the wilds of the Amazon River.”

  Now that she said it out loud, it sounded almost silly. A childish image, for sure.

  “He could be doing those things,” her mom hedged.

  Harper laughed a little. “Or you’re saying he could be in a trailer park in Death Valley.”

  Her mom’s eyebrows drew together. “Harper…”

  “Still, Mom, when he left the farm, if you were so in love with him—”

  “I was,” Rebecca said quickly. “That’s completely true. Head over heels.”

  And still true, Harper thought, since all indications were her mother never dated anyone else. “If you were so in love, you could have gone with him.”

  “He never asked me.”

  The four words sent a jolt through Harper. She put a hand to the nearest table to steady herself, uncertain why she felt so shaken. Before she had time to analyze it, a blonde sprite appeared beneath their tent.

  “Sophie!” she said, as her old friend moved in for a hug.

  “I just can’t get used to turning a corner and finding you.” The other woman’s smile beamed sunshine.

  “What are you doing here?” Harper asked, as her mom moved away to help another cluster of customers. “We do the Sawyer Beach market on Sunday afternoons. You couldn’t wait?”

  Sophie scanned the produce on the tables. “Everything looks wonderful, for sure. But I visit several markets when I can. I told you I have that catering business on the side, right?”

  “Right. I heard that.” Harper spread out her hands. “What are you looking for?”

  “Well…” Sophie seemed to consider then she gave another smile, this one infinitely impish. “The truth is, I came for the cheese from Tony and already bought it.” She held up a string bag, with squares wrapped in paper inside. “What I need from you is the dish.”

  “What dish?” Harper asked, hoping for innocence but having an idea of where this might be leading.

  “I work at Harry’s,” the blonde said. “You don’t think I wouldn’t hear about you and Big Bad Mad leaving together last night?”

  “The rumor mill,” Harper said, grimacing. “It was nothing. We started off, uh, chatting, and then…”

  “And then?”

  Harper narrowed her eyes. “You are way too interested in me and Mad.”

  “Give a woman a break. If I can’t have romance, at least I want to hear about it.”

  That’s right. Sophie had admitted to those unrequited feelings for Hart. What could Harper do but spill a little?

  “We were not being romantic,” she said firmly. Their time together had been nostalgic. And a little dangerous. Because Big Bad Mad had been so big and so kissable and it had been a long time since her blood had run so warm.

  Hot.

  So hot she’d been off her game enough to make a stop at their old make-out spot.

  “Harper?”

  Yeah, she couldn’t reveal that to Sophie. Or the fact she’d considered kissing him again and letting nostalgia—or whatever else you wanted to call it—take away her common sense and inhibitions and take her down to that wide bench seat with Mad’s delicious weight on top of her. With a hand, she fanned her burning face. “Um…”

  A pair of people wandered into the tent. Harper glanced at them. Reprieve! “I should go.”

  “Okay.” Sophie grabbed her hand. “We’re having a beach party tomorrow night. Lots of people you know. Please come.”

  “Oh…” Would Mad attend, bringing memories of the past and temptations of the present? Regret for not sliding down on that wide bench seat and pulling Mad on top of her rushed through her. Bad Harper.

  “And Hart will be there,” Sophie said. “So I could use the distraction. Please come.”

  Once again her friend made it impossible to refuse. “All right. Sure.”

  “An
d if you want to dance with the flames of an old fire…” Sophie winked and was gone.

  With a chagrined shake of her head, Harper turned toward the newcomers, strolled closer. “Can I help you?”

  Two teenage girls smiled, wearing cut-off jean shorts and T-shirts that grazed their belly buttons. One gripped the handle of a red wagon, the bed holding a healthy pile of tomatoes in various hues. Harper gave them a cursory look. “We have some zucchini on special today. You could make a ratatouille like my grandmother or we put them in tomato sauce—”

  “Oh, we don’t want to buy. We’re looking to get some money for these.” One girl tilted her head with its shiny, flat-ironed hair toward the wagon.

  “You have to arrange beforehand with the organizers of the market to sell,” Harper said. “I can point them out and they can tell you the procedure—”

  “It’s just the one time, see?” Cut-offs #1 glanced at her friend. “We have some extra that came from my, uh, grandmother’s garden.”

  “Hello.” Harper’s mom walked up, her attention on the produce. “What are those beauties? Do I spy a Brandywine and some Black Krim?”

  “Do you want to sell these from your booth?” the second girl asked the older woman, hands clasping under her perky teenage breasts. “We’ll give you a good deal.”

  “Our grandmother could use the extra cash,” Cut-offs #1 added.

  Rebecca raised her eyebrows.

  “I started to explain you need a certified producer certificate to be a vendor here,” Harper said. “And that we can’t offer items from them without it either.”

  Her mom glanced over, then glanced back at the two girls. “That’s true.” Her hand went into the front pocket of the canvas apron she wore. “But I will buy a few myself to take home.”

  The girls seemed somewhat satisfied and Harper stepped back as the transaction commenced.

  She scanned the crowd wandering the aisles, then straightened. Was that Mad in the distance? A thrill shot up her spine and she found herself smoothing her own apron and then brushing her hair away from her face. She glanced around, trying to find an attractive spot to pose near. By those zucchinis? The pile of bright lemons?

  Determined to appear casual, she gave her attention to the meager supply of basil bunches, arranging them and then rearranging them. Yet no Mad tapped her on the shoulder or called her name in that deep, sexy voice.

  She tamped down her irritation. Was he going to ignore her then? Come to the farmers market yet skip the Sunnybird Farm space? Had he already forgotten their connection the night before? Surely he must have felt the way the air in the truck’s cab pulsed with the old chemistry, that dangerous, bubbling, sensation that advocated abandoning adult sensibilities to give herself up to uncontrolled passion.

  After a few more seconds, she stole a glance over her shoulder.

  Oh. The Mad-guy in the distance, now closer, was not Mad at all, but some wannabe Mad. This man was less tall, less built, less…him. Disappointment sluiced through her.

  She felt silly. First-boyfriend silly. Teenage silly.

  The girls with the wagon finished their business with Harper’s mother and trundled away. That’s who she’d been when she’d first met Mad. A girl with shiny hair and no idea of the way the world worked. That love could turn into an empty, lonely pining that scooped out your soul.

  She was older and wiser now.

  Mature.

  Mature enough to know not to play in any rekindled fires.

  Mad found his father in the backyard, frowning at the pile of just-delivered split seasoned oak logs as he picked out one to measure with his metal tape. “Did Randy fail in his task to deliver exactly as ordered, Dad?”

  Since his parents, Peter and Gwen, had taken a trip to Switzerland a few years back, his father had become obsessed with the idea of creating an orderly woodpile as he’d seen all over that country. Randy, of Randy’s Wood in the foothills of Sawyer’s Beach, had taken the specificity of his dad’s wishes in stride. Each fall, he supplied a winter’s worth and Mad helped his father achieve the stack of his dreams.

  “It looks fine,” his dad said with a satisfied nod, then tossed the piece into the waiting wheelbarrow. From there they’d take it to the firewood rack on the other side of the house.

  A professor of mathematics at the nearby university, Peter Kelly was a quiet man who usually kept his thoughts and passions to himself. His artistic streak—at least as it came to woodpiles—had come as quite a surprise to everyone.

  Familiar with the process by now, Mad and his father worked in silence until they’d transported enough of the oak to get started on building the precise arrangement already constructed in the older man’s head. Until it was time to bring another load in the wheelbarrow, Mad’s job consisted of playing nurse to the surgeon—handing pieces over when his dad reached out a hand—and making echoing grunts of appreciation.

  Really, the whole endeavor was relaxing, and he settled in, experiencing a peace he hadn’t felt in days.

  His dad reached back for another log that Mad placed in his palm. “So Harper Hill is back in town?”

  Mad’s eyes widened, surprised his dad would mention it. Or knew about it. “How did you hear?”

  “Your mother told me.”

  Mad stole a quick look at the house. “Where is mom?” Now she would have heard right away and it was only a matter of time before she probed him about it.

  “With your sister.”

  “Inside?” If so, neither would stay there for long. Could he make up some excuse and run for his SUV?

  “Shopping, I think they said.” His dad reached for more wood.

  Then thankfully lapsed back into silence.

  Mad breathed easily again.

  “I always liked her.”

  He refused to twitch. “She’s likeable.”

  “But she left town.”

  “That’s right. Six years ago.”

  Peter Kelly adjusted the last log, taking it out, then nestling it against another. “I remember six years ago.”

  Okay. Mad grimaced. His dad’s way of testing the waters? Because while his dad wasn’t a loud man, he wasn’t stupid, he’d likely noticed—and remembered—that Mad had been somewhat…surly after she’d gone. “Look, Dad, I’m not interested in—”

  “Why did she leave? Six years ago, I mean.”

  To see the world? To escape Sawyer Beach? To get away from him? “She got a job teaching in Korea. Then some other places, I think.”

  “But you never looked her up on your own travels?”

  And bash his healing heart with a sledgehammer? “No.”

  Peter stood back, assessed his work while stroking his chin. “Why didn’t she come back?” he asked absently. “Before now, I mean.”

  Avoiding Sawyer Beach? Avoiding him? “I have no idea.”

  “You could always ask her,” his father suggested.

  Mad’s temper sparked. “I’m not going to get involved with Harper again, Dad.” He shoved his hands through his hair. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Oh, I never worry about you, Maddox.”

  The claim didn’t cool him. “Dad—”

  “You are a levelheaded, cautious man. Why, there’s probably not an impulsive bone in your body.”

  “Coming from you, who’s always aware of every angle, Dad, that’s quite a compliment.” But somehow it didn’t feel complimentary. It felt…dull. Lifeless. Burned out.

  No, that’s how he’d felt right before Harper Hill had blocked the road in front of him several days ago.

  His father fished another piece of oak from the wheelbarrow. “Aren’t you going to be late for your beach party?”

  “What?”

  “Your mother stashed a six-pack of that hard cider you like in the kitchen. Take that with you.”

  “I already bought some of that hard cider I like.” Mad decided getting away from his father sounded like a good idea about now. Levelheaded. Cautious. “I’ll
borrow an ice chest, though.”

  “Go right ahead,” Peter said.

  “I’m on my way then.” Mad turned.

  “Son?”

  He paused. “Yeah?”

  “If you see Harper again, say hello for me.”

  Grunting, Mad continued on his way. He wasn’t going to see Harper again because that was a bad idea. Incautious. Un-levelheaded. Impulsive.

  Not something a man like him would pursue at all.

  He reached the beach, dragging one ice chest behind him with another propped on his shoulder via the narrow path that took him through marshes and sand dunes. You had to know the place to find it. The late afternoon sun turned the shallow cove the temperature of summer, though he could smell smoke from a couple of fire rings already lit.

  His poker buddy Boone approached on his huge feet. “The cop is here!” he shouted, then lifted the cooler off Mad’s shoulder. “Your usual hard cider?”

  “Yeah.”

  The big man yanked on the grocery bag tucked under his arm. “Pork rinds, of course.”

  Okay, they’d been his snack of choice since those three weeks in Costa Rica. “I don’t always bring pork rinds.”

  “Sure you do.” Boone punched him in the arm. “To the beach, hard cider and pork rinds.”

  Rubbing his bicep, he frowned as his friend trudged off in the direction of the patchwork of blankets and beach towels spread over the sand. A crowd was gathered there, around drinks and food set out on portable picnic tables that someone had packed in from the lot where they’d left their cars. Music blared over the sound of the surf from a rhinestone-encrusted boombox that had to be a leftover from junior high.

  “Hard cider and pork rinds?”

  Mad glanced over, frowning deeper at his friend Hart. “I don’t always bring hard cider and pork rinds.”

  “Sure you do. Pork rinds and hard cider to the beach.” Hart grinned. “You’re predictable.”

  “Well, you’re too damn skinny,” Mad said. “Boone’s going to start bench pressing you instead of going to the gym.”

  Instead of taking offense, Hart punched him in the same arm that still throbbed. “Let’s get something to eat.”