When she didn’t answer, he halted on the first step and pivoted toward her. “You’re a really intense person. I’m getting vibes that you’re going to be trouble.”
She jerked her eyes to his. “What do you mean? Why would you say that?”
He grunted. “I don’t even know you, yet, I can tell you’re surrounded by mystery. That empty envelope is one indication.” He took the stairs two at a time. “Add to that I’m a guy; you’re a gal. Not to mention a really good-looking gal. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Still, it’s that empty envelope and the hair standing up on the back of my neck that has me worried.”
She followed him up the stairs. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as straightforward as you are.”
“And that’s a good thing,” he quipped. “Isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s a good thing, and thanks for the compliment.” She couldn’t help but laugh, and add in a mocking tone resembling his earlier comment. “...but let me add, don’t go getting any ideas.”
If any other man had called her trouble and complimented her in the same breath, Rayna may have felt wary, hesitant to spend the night, but even as attractive as Trent Jones was, he had a non-threatening, easy going nature. She was surprised that she felt comfortable with him. Even safe. It was a good thing. Getting mail at a residence she didn’t own or know existed only a few minutes after hitting town was nothing short of creepy. And that Trent Jones would predict she was trouble…well, she hoped he was wrong. Yeah, there was a certain amount of mystery surrounding her. She’d always felt it, but it wasn’t anything he needed to worry about. He’d done his part. Allowed her to spend the night in the house. And now that she was inside, nothing short of dynamite would scare her away.
Nothing.
****
Rayna was exhausted but wound up, too excited to sleep. She wandered around the room, eyeing the three locks on the door. Why were they there? Who had lived in this room, and why hadn’t they felt safe? Obviously, they hadn’t been locked in or the locks would have been on the outside of the door. No, whoever this room belonged to felt threatened. Her mother? She forced the thought away.
She wanted to explore every nook and cranny, but she made herself put sheets on the bed. When she finished, she surveyed; one five-drawer chest, a mirrored dresser, and two bedside tables. She was tired, but her time was limited. She would search.
Tugging the top dresser drawer open, she peered inside. Dingy articles of clothing were folded neatly. With her thumb and forefinger, she pinched a piece of the fabric, pulled it out, and let it fall to the floor. Then another and another. She fought disappointment when she’d emptied the chest and found nothing. She even examined the bottom of each drawer and the crevice from which it came.
“Don’t know what I thought I’d find,” she mumbled. She eyed the dresser with its tarnished mirror. A hand mirror with a matching brush and comb were neatly arranged on a yellowed crocheted doily. A flash of memory pierced her brain. A woman brushing long brown hair. She closed her eyes. Tried to capture the image, but it faded away.
She couldn’t help but believe that luck was on her side. Maybe when Trent gave her the grand tour, she’d be able to recognize more—wallpaper, a specific room—maybe she’d feel something that jogged her memory and gave her a clearer picture. She kept playing and replaying in her mind everything he’d said to her. He didn’t act as though he knew more about the house than he was telling her. Oh, how she wished she could stay here indefinitely—at least until she had answers.
The last time she looked at the clock, it was three a.m. She didn’t wake up until almost eleven the following morning. Very late for her, but the long drive from South Louisiana and the adrenalin that had pumped through her veins when she found the house, had taken its toll. Once she’d showered and made herself presentable, she went downstairs. She smiled, surprised to see Trent Jones sitting in the kitchen with a mug of coffee resting on the scarred breakfast table. He wore a faded A&M t-shirt with a tear on the shoulder. His thick brown hair was askew, as if he’d washed it but hadn’t combed it. His jeans were worn, faded from many washings.
He looked as if he’d been waiting for her and for some reason her face grew hot.
“Morning, sunshine. How’d you sleep?” he asked.
“When I finally wound down, it was pure heaven.”
He motioned to an extra cup on the counter and a pot of coffee. “Help yourself. If you don’t drink coffee, there’s milk and juice in the fridge.”
“Coffee’s great.” She took the cup, poured her coffee, and got milk out of the refrigerator. The coffee looked strong, so a little extra milk was in order. Then she sat and looked at him. “You didn’t waste any time getting the utilities turned on.”
“The Realtor did it. That was the deal—that she’d take care of everything for me, have it ready before I got here.”
“So you aren’t from here?”
“Texas. My family owns one of the biggest flea markets in Texas and several antique stores in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Some people call me a picker, but I don’t pick. I usually grab and run.”
“Grab what?”
“Anything that’ll make a buck.”
She took a sip of coffee and wished she had soy milk instead of regular whole milk “And you figure this place is going to make you a buck? That’s what you plan to do—resell?”
“She’ll bring a pretty penny when I’m finished with her.”
She wilted. “I really wanted this house.”
He eyed her. She could almost see the wheels turning inside his head.
“Why would you want this place? You’re pretty young. If you don’t mind my asking, what do you do for a living?”
She pretended to be insulted, jutting her chin in his direction. “I’m a very mature twenty-seven, but you’re right. I really didn’t have the money to buy it. Enough for the down payment, but then I’d have to take out a huge loan. I’m a PA, a physician’s assistant.”
He nodded. “And?”
“And?” she echoed.
“I assume you have a job lined up here. Though probably not since you didn’t even have a hotel room. What’s the deal? Okay, so you lived here once. Is that really it?”
She squirmed in her chair. “I think I may have been born here.”
He smiled. “You don’t remember where you were born? I recall all the details of my birth.”
She made a you’re-way-too-funny-for-your-own-good face at him. “I grew up with a foster family in Louisiana. Well, they’re related in a weird sort of way, but they know nothing about me, at least nothing they could or would share.”
“That sounds fishy. If they wouldn’t tell you anything, how’d you hear about this place, and why would you think you were born here?”
She took another sip of the coffee. “I saw an ad in a Louisiana magazine.”
“Me too. I was sitting in the New Orleans airport thumbing through it. Next thing I know, I’m on the phone with the Realtor and making an offer.”
She grinned. “Lucky you. I should have looked at the magazine as soon as I bought it. I might be the proud owner instead of you.”
“With a huge loan, remember. And, you would have been a poor owner. Can’t you see all the work that needs to be done?”
He was right. The country kitchen showed signs of age in the light of morning. The scarred cabinets and countertops would have to be replaced. In fact, the entire room needed a facelift.
Trent interrupted her thoughts. “So you saw a picture and just felt you were born here?”
“Yeah, more or less. It felt right because...” She didn’t plan to tell him—show him—everything. He’d have to take her word for it. “The emblem—the Wounded Heart brand by the front door—it looks familiar to me. It jogged a memory that hasn’t exactly made itself understandable yet, or clear.”
They looked at each other for a moment longer before she spoke again. “Are you going to give me the grand tour and tell m
e your plans for the place?”
“Yep, I’m going to show you every little dust bunny. But first, how about some breakfast? Eggs and bacon with toast or biscuits? Or maybe it’s too late for breakfast.”
Her stomach growled before she could answer. Trent got up from his chair. “That’s good enough for me.”
Rayna laughed. “Please don’t go to any trouble.”
“No trouble at all, and I’m starved myself. Besides, you probably didn’t eat yesterday, and I didn’t have the good manners to offer you anything before you went to bed last night. I mean...this morning. So I’m giving you the works. It’s coming up.”
Rayna didn’t want to waste time arguing with him, but she couldn’t help sharing what she had eaten the day before. “I ate peanut butter and crackers all the way here. I didn’t want to stop too often. I wanted to get here.” She stood. “Let me help you.”
He turned and pointed to her chair. “Not on your life. Sit.”
Within minutes they were sharing breakfast and talking as if they were old friends.
Trent told her about his family—his widowed mom, two brothers and three sisters—back in Dallas. “I’m the baby of the family,” he said. “And yes, I’m used to getting my way.”
“I’ll remember that,” she teased. She envied him his huge family but even more, she liked his good-natured personality. He came across light-hearted and easy to talk with. She couldn’t imagine anything upsetting him or making him angry.
After the breakfast dishes were piled in the dishwasher, Trent folded a towel across the counter and looked at her. “So, ready to tour this sorely neglected old lady?”
She let out a sigh. “I thought you’d never ask!”
“Good. On the right, we have a—” His voice took on a teasing tone, “run of the mill Maytag fridge with icemaker and—”
“Trent!” she shrieked and grabbed his arm with both hands. “We’ve spent way too much time in the kitchen. Let’s move on.”
****
The minute she said his name and their skin connected, his breath caught in his chest as if she’d sucker-punched him in the gut. It was exactly like when she’d introduced herself last night and held out her hand for him to take. He wondered if she’d noticed. He didn’t think so. She was too focused on seeing the house. And he was already too focused on her.
Her lips were full, her eyes wide-set, just like he’d seen on TV a few weeks ago when a news commentator explained the perfect facial requirements in symmetry and proportion for the most beautiful women in the world. Rayna would qualify. On her worst day, she’d give the most beautiful girl in the world a run for her money.
His first thought when he saw her tiptoe up onto his porch and peek through the window was, How lucky can one guy be? A beautiful woman at midnight.
That thought echoed through his head in a singsong manner. His first look at Rayna Guilbeau wasn’t too different from his first look at this house in the magazine. Odd.
“Trent? Trent! Earth to Trent!”
He zoned back to the present. He needed to get a grip. He was probably more right than he realized when he’d labeled her trouble.
“Let’s go into the living area,” he suggested, not looking at her. “You can tell me what you think of the wood floors and the thirteen foot ceilings.”
“Without seeing either, I can tell you I like both, but I’m more interested in why someone left all this stuff behind? The Realtor said that a lot of this furniture has been here for a long time.”
“Yeah. But it’s not all antiques. Some of it is junk from discount stores, but there’s a lot that will bring a great price.”
“Oh no! You plan to sell it all?”
“That’s my job.”
“Then I assume your family will be joining you here to take a look.”
“No, they won’t.” He pressed his lips together and ground his teeth before he answered. “Actually, they aren’t involved in this deal. I ran it by them but they weren’t interested. This success or failure will be all mine.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand. They didn’t like it?”
“They thought it was too risky. And it is. We don’t usually buy houses.”
The sad look on her face made his heart lurch in his chest. She sympathized with him. He liked that. When she turned in a circle to encompass the entire room, he had to smile. She loved the place as much has he did and wasn’t afraid to show it. He imagined her own heart pounding now, just the way his had the first time he layed eyes on this three story eyesore. He’d never been so taken with a house before. A woman either, for that matter. Her face colored when she caught him watching her. He liked that too. The word special flashed before his eyes. He wiped it away with both hands. His original thought had been right. She was trouble. Lots and lots of trouble.
“Why this house, Trent? What drew you to it?”
He brushed the top of his dark hair with his fingers. “Darned if I know. I told you I was sitting in that New Orleans airport, browsing the magazine and...I turned the page and there she was looking like something...” He hesitated, hated to say the word aloud, wondered if she’d know he thought the same about her too. He took the chance. “... special. I couldn’t resist.” He massaged the side of his face. “But now—”
“Buyers remorse?”
“No, of course not. I’m wondering how I’m going to recoup.”
She laughed. “And you called me crazy!”
He grinned. The sound of her laughter made him feel good, connected. “Weird coincidence, isn’t it? Two crazies in one old house that they both fell in love with from a picture in a Louisiana magazine.”
“Jeeze, when you put it that way, it’s a little creepy.” She moved around the room, touching furniture. “How are you going to sell everything? I mean, how do you go about it? And when?”
“I’ll inventory and research everything. And when I find out what’s valuable, I’ll create descriptions, get organized, and then the sale begins.” The expression on her face told him that it wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. “Hey, that’s how I make a living.”
“That’s sad.”
“Sad? What’s sad about buying and selling? And making money.”
“I mean it’s sad that all this stuff, this home will be broken up. It just seems wrong. I wonder why the owners walked away from this furniture and which of it really belongs in this house.” She plopped down on the sofa. “Don’t you ever fall in love with things—wonderful pieces like that old desk?” She pointed across the room. “Or that banker’s bookcase with the glass doors?”
“I won’t answer that on grounds it might incriminate me.” He wouldn’t add his own screwiness to the mix, admit he’d fallen love with the tired old monstrosity, and that since he’d gotten here, he’d actually entertained thoughts of making it his home. He hadn’t said the words out loud, much less given serious thought to them. He’d have to, though, but that was something for another day, maybe a dark rainy day when lightning jabbed the sky. He did his best thinking during thunder storms.
She caressed the sofa as if it were a baby. His heart beat faster. Before he could stop himself, before he even realized what he was saying, he was speaking, showing her too much of his thoughts, his feelings, his heart. He moved toward the vintage writing desk and caressed the top of it.
“Some of this stuff is really special, some of the best treasures I’ve come across in a long time. If I’d lived here, I certainly wouldn’t have walked away from it, but maybe they died off. Maybe if you’re a relative, you crawled on this floor, pulled yourself up on that old desk.” He heard the melancholy in his voice. Not good. He corrected his mood. “Hope you weren’t teething and chewed on the window ledge. I’m sure there’s a lot of lead-based paint in here.”
She left the sofa and bounced over to inspect the window. “I don’t see any marks so I guess it’s safe to say no teethers grew up here.” She leaned on the back of a chair and stared at him. “Funny, this
room feels so comfortable to me, but I don’t remember anything. If only I had more time.” She said the words more to herself than to him.
“Time’s no problem. Want a job? Live up there on the third floor and work for me?”
Eyes wide, she stared at him in astonishment.
He shrugged. “I was just wondering.”
The excitement on her face took his breath away. He focused his eyes toward a picture on the wall. When she returned to the sofa and sat, as if his offer had knocked the breath out of her, he moved to the window, gazed outside. He formed his words carefully before he turned back toward her. “I need help doing the inventory, organizing this stuff, going through paper work, researching and putting a value on the glassware, the antiques, and all. You interested?”
She still looked as if she didn’t understand, as if his lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear his words, or maybe she just couldn’t believe her ears.
Words finally gushed out of her, a whisper that sounded like a swoosh of wind through a flower garden. At least that’s what he thought of when she spoke.
“You mean you’d actually let me hang around here and help? Live here in my—in this house?”
“If you want to help me.”
She jumped off the sofa and moved toward him. “You’d actually pay me to go through all of this stuff?”
He laughed. “No, I won’t pay you. Who said anything about paying you?”
Her smile disappeared.
He grinned. “That is, I won’t pay you in money.”
Her expression turned suspicious. “Should I be moving toward the door with my keys and pepper spray in hand?”
He waved her words away. “Stop those dirty thoughts! Here’s the deal.” He leaned against the wall. “I’ll give you room and board and give you free run of this dump. You can explore and search and snoop as much as your heart desires. Sound interesting?”
She squinted at him and crossed her arms as if she planned to negotiate. “First say it’s not a dump.”
“Okay, okay, it’s not a dump, now do you want the job or do I need to go grab that old woman walking down the street? She walks by every day so working here wouldn’t be out of her way at all. And she probably knows how to use a computer too.”
The Last Daughter (Tales of the Scrimshaw Doll) Page 2