by Hope Ramsay
Now, there was an idea. “You know, Mr. Levine, I think I might just do that,” she said.
Mr. Levine nodded and headed off in the direction of one of the Adirondack chairs. Ashley continued across the lawn, approaching the live oak as Ella finished the haunting piece she’d been playing.
“What was that music?” Ashley asked.
“It’s an old ballad called ‘The Streets of Derry,’” Ella said, taking the fiddle down from her chin.
“It sounded so sad.”
“All Irish ballads sound sad, but this one has a happy ending. The Irishman is saved from the hangman at the last moment when his lady love gets a pardon from the king.” Ella’s eyes sparkled with mirth. She sat up in the tree like a wood sprite, her red hair wind-tossed and her large eyes catching the blue of the spring sky.
“It was beautiful, but…”
“But you don’t want me disturbing the guests? Sorry.”
“Oh no, not at all.” Ashley studied the young woman. “You should stop apologizing.”
“What?”
“You apologize all the time. Did you know that?”
“I’m sor— Uh, what were you about to say?” A blush rose to the young woman’s cheeks.
“I was going to ask why you’re sitting up there in the tree. Did Jackie put you up to this?”
“Not exactly.” Her blush deepened.
“No? I’ll bet he asked you to play for the ghost.”
Ella’s shoulders stiffened a little. She seemed suddenly nervous. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe in his ghost. But I needed to practice. So I came out here to play. I didn’t want to annoy anyone in the house, you know, who might be trying to get an afternoon nap or something.”
Did this young woman not realize how talented she was? Obviously not, if she was going out of her way to hide her light under a bushel basket. Ashley had to do something about Ella. And not because she was related to one of the Piece Makers, but because she deserved it.
“It’s fine if you want to come out here and play. In fact, it’s more than fine. The guests seem to like it. And now that we’re talking about it, what would you charge to play during our Saturday-afternoon teas?”
“Uh, well…” Ella’s eyes grew even bigger.
“What’s the matter? I know you’ve booked gigs before.”
“I have. I used to manage Urban Armadillo’s tours, but—”
“Urban Armadillo?”
Ella rolled her eyes. “That was the name of the band I was in. Cody thought it was a fabulous name. And who knows? Maybe aficionados of outlaw music thought it was fab. I always thought it was a bit ridiculous, but I’m not from Texas.”
“Outlaw music?”
“It’s a branch of country music, which is about as far from what I was just playing as you can get and still be in the traditional music genre.”
“Ah, I see. You’ve always been in a band and never a solo act.”
Ella shook her head.
“Well, maybe now’s the time to make a change. I’d like to book you for next Saturday’s tea. How much do you charge?”
Ella looked off toward the bay for a moment before naming a fee that was far too low, but Ashley wasn’t going to argue with her. Ella needed to figure that out for herself.
“I’ll book you as a trial on Saturday from three-thirty to five,” she said, without renegotiating the price. If it worked out, she would increase the fee by at least fifty percent.
“Thanks,” Ella said. “I appreciate it, especially after the mess I made this morning.”
Ashley shook her finger. “No more apologies. Now, I have another request. My babysitter just crapped out on me. Were you planning to be out this evening?”
“No.”
“If you don’t mind, could you keep an eye on Jackie?”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.”
Ashley turned, checking her watch. She was now running late. She scooted into the house, picked up her purse, and headed off to the parking lot where Rev. St. Pierre was waiting for her.
Since the Rev lived right across Lilac Lane from the inn, it seemed foolish for them to drive separately to this evening’s museum board meeting. So they had arranged to carpool.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said as she unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat. The Rev had to fold himself into the tiny front seat of her old Toyota. He was maybe six foot three and filled up almost any space he entered. He had a presence about him, and her car’s cabin was too small to contain it.
His body heat invaded her space, and the scent of his aftershave tickled her nose in a pleasant way. A minister shouldn’t smell as good as he did.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Micah asked in his deep baritone. She jumped at the sound of his voice, surprised to discover that she’d managed to start the car and drive halfway down Harbor Drive to City Hall on autopilot. Where had her mind been?
Thinking about Rev. St. Pierre’s aftershave, evidently.
She wasn’t about to admit that, so she said the first thing that came to her mind. “I was thinking about what cake to make on Tuesday. I haven’t made German chocolate cake in a while, but not everyone likes that one.”
“Ashley, why do you keep baking cakes for the Piece Makers?”
She glanced at him and then back to the road as she turned into the parking lot near City Hall. “Because I like to bake.”
“BS.”
Hearing the preacher of Heavenly Rest Church use the initials for manure was a bit of a shock. But then he’d been a chaplain in the US Navy for many years, so he’d probably heard and said worse. He’d just called her on her little white lie, and she hated it.
It invaded her privacy or something. If she wanted to bake cakes for the Piece Makers, then it was none of his business. And the fact that she found his aftershave pleasant was certainly none of his business either.
She pulled into a parking spot and stopped the car with a noticeable jerk.
“Whoa,” he said, grabbing the handle above the passenger door even though he was strapped in.
She clamped her jaw tight as she set the parking brake. “I like to bake,” she said, hoping to end this conversation.
She killed the engine, but before she could open the door, he said, “I know you do. You bake every day for customers, but you’ve as much as told me that baking for the Piece Makers has become a chore.”
He wasn’t going to let this go, was he? She shifted in her seat and met his stare. He had deep, soulful brown eyes that demanded confession. Lying to Micah was impossible, but telling the truth wasn’t an option either.
Besides, Micah was the last person on earth she wanted rummaging around in her feelings and thoughts. He might do serious damage if she let him in.
She squared her shoulders and pushed back. “I just told you that I like baking, so can we—”
“I know what you said. But that’s not how you feel.”
What the heck? Was he picking a fight? The Rev was the last person she wanted to argue with, but she wasn’t about to let him run roughshod over her either. She needed to end this conversation.
She yanked the car door open and got out. He followed suit, and even with her battered Toyota as a barrier between them, Micah was able to unsettle her with his stare. What was wrong with him? What did he want from her? She was afraid to ask, and she wasn’t going to volunteer anything.
“You can get the heck out of my feelings, okay?” She locked the car door and stalked off in the direction of City Hall. It didn’t take him long to catch up to her. His legs were incredibly long.
“I’m not trying to pry, you know. Have you ever considered that you bake for the Piece Makers because you’re trying to honor your grandmother’s traditions? Maybe it’s time to give up some of those traditions. Maybe it’s time to recognize that knocking yourself out for the Piece Makers won’t ever bring your grandmother back.”
She stopped halfway up the stairs to City Hall’s front doors
and crossed her arms over her chest. “Micah, what in the Sam Hill are you driving at? Because right now you’re ticking me off.”
“Ashley, have you ever considered seeing a grief counselor?”
“What? I’m fine. I’m more than fine.”
He nodded. “Yes. I can see that you’re managing. And I’m sure that you’ve fooled a lot of people into thinking that you’re okay. I mean, your business is thriving. But I remember how things were when I first moved back here. You were struggling to make ends meet. You were ready to give up. And then Jenna showed up and gave you a helping hand. You needed a helping hand then. Maybe you do with other things in your life.
“I’m not asking you to stop caring about Adam or your grandmother. But you can’t keep them alive in this world anymore. And trying to do that is keeping you from finding joy in your life. I hate to see you so sad all the time.”
Whoa, she thought they’d been talking about Grandmother and the Piece Makers. How the hell had they segued into a conversation about her late husband? Adam was the last thing she wanted to discuss with Micah, precisely because she sometimes noticed the scent of the minister’s aftershave.
And that seemed disloyal. And scary. And inappropriate.
“I’m never going to get over Adam, Micah. That’s just the way it is.”
“Of course not. But you’re hiding your heart behind your grief. You’re letting the grief close doors that you could open.”
“Just…leave me alone,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. Then she turned away from him, hurrying up the stairs so he wouldn’t see her tears.
So what if she still loved her husband. So what if she still mourned what she’d lost. She’d lost everything: her best friend, her lover, the father of her child, and all the things they’d planned to do together. She’d lost her life. And she could never go back to the way things had been. She had to be happy with the way things were now. She didn’t need anything else to make her life complete.
She was fine. She’d built a business. She had a place in this town. Of course she’d been carrying on Grandmother’s traditions, baking cakes for the Piece Makers every week. She’d made a good life, even if she missed her old life with Adam. Micah had a hell of a lot of nerve suggesting that her life needed improvement.
What? Did he think she should go out looking for another husband?
Nothing irritated her more than people who thought she needed another husband to complete her life. Maybe those people were well meaning, but to Ashley just thinking about dating again required her to jettison the man she loved more than life itself. Adam would always be important. His loss was still like a burning hole in the middle of her chest. And you know what? She almost liked that pain. It reminded her of how much she’d loved Adam in life. If she hadn’t loved him so fiercely, she wouldn’t grieve his loss so deeply.
No. She didn’t need a new husband, or even a boyfriend. Surely the minister understood that? Didn’t he?
Chapter Nine
Ella left Howland House directly after breakfast service on Saturday morning and walked all the way to Bayview Vistas, the new condos on Redbud Street. March was in full bloom this morning, the azaleas in Lavender Lane Park putting on a show of rich magenta and deep purple. It struck her how much she’d missed this verdant landscape all those years she’d called El Paso her home base.
Not that Cody had a real home in Texas. He’d inherited a run-down ranch house from his grandparents, but he’d never lifted one finger to keep the place up. Over the years, it had deteriorated, and half the time the boys in the band squatted on the land, living in a couple of run-down RVs out back.
The house in El Paso was like a metaphor for her life. It needed some serious renovation. And yet she felt a little better about herself this morning. She hadn’t made any mistakes in the dining room this morning, and she was anticipating her gig this afternoon. She’d already made her set list, which consisted of a wide variety of genres, from pop and country to traditional and classic.
After Ashley’s pep talk out by the live oak, she was also starting to think about the upcoming wedding season. Maybe she could score a few gigs at wedding ceremonies and receptions. Heck, maybe she could play for Mom and Jim’s wedding, although that might be risky.
Mom always had something to say about her violin performances. Unfortunately, Mom had always been a better violinist than Ella, so her opinion counted more than anyone else’s.
She was a little sweaty by the time she made it to Granny’s new place, but then, she’d probably be grimy before too much longer. Her grandmother was moving into Bayview Vistas today. The movers had been out to the old house yesterday and moved whatever furniture Granny was planning to keep. The rest was going to be sold at a gigantic yard sale next Saturday. Today Granny needed help arranging the furniture and hanging pictures and unpacking boxes.
The new condo building was three stories high, with an antique brick facade broken by large windows and balconies with wrought-iron railings. Large palms and colorful flowers graced the walkways. Granny’s apartment was on the second floor, so Ella took the stairs and turned left to the end of the hallway.
When she arrived, the door was propped open, and a couple of delivery men were angling a large refrigerator through the narrow portal.
“Hey, Granny,” Ella hollered past the appliance dudes, “I’m here. Finally. It’s a longer walk than I thought.”
The men got the fridge through the door, and Ella followed them into Granny’s open-concept kitchen, which had cabinets in a cherry finish and midtone granite countertops. It had state-of-the-art appliances, except for a refrigerator. Granny had evidently spared no expense on the new one being hauled through the door.
“Hey, sugar,” Granny said, reaching out to give her a warm, lavender-scented hug. Ella’s grandmother seemed more happy than stressed over this move, which seemed strange to Ella because she couldn’t imagine letting go of her beautiful old house to move into a cookie-cutter place like this.
“You’re really okay with moving out of the old house?” Ella asked.
“Oh, honey, I am so glad to be rid of it. I should have moved out years ago. I don’t know why I thought living in that house was the only way to keep memories of your grandfather alive.” She shook her head and grabbed Ella by the arm. “Come on, you can help organize the bedroom until these guys are finished installing the fridge and the washer and dryer.”
Granny pulled her through a generously sized living room with windows which provided a distant view of the bay that fell a bit short of a vista.
“The master bedroom’s over here,” Granny said, gesturing to the right. Ella stepped into the room, which already had one too many people in it.
Jim was up on a ladder hanging Bahama shutters. Mom was unpacking stuff into the bureau and had her back turned toward Ella, and Dylan wasn’t doing anything, except sitting on the bed with a huge-ass bandage on the side of his head.
Oh, crap. She’d really injured him.
Instead of a button-down shirt and a bow tie, he wore a pair of faded jeans and an ancient Clemson University T-shirt that had a hole in the neck. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days either, suggesting that he hadn’t been to work for a while. Or maybe he was just one of those guys with a heavy beard.
She froze like some nocturnal animal suddenly caught in a flash of light. He was altogether too handsome. Too male. And too focused on her right at the moment. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t make her legs move.
She hadn’t expected Dylan to help unpack her grandmother. And really, now that she thought about it, having Jim here was a bit of a surprise too. Her extended family had always consisted of three women, and that had seemed compact enough to manage. But now her family numbered five people, one of whom she’d seriously injured with a breakfast tray.
Were they judging her for her mistake? Probably. Anxiety made her feel hot and sweaty. She wanted Jim and Dylan (mostly Dylan) to disappear so things could go back to
the way they’d always been.
Mom looked up from the bureau. “Oh, there you are,” she said. Was that a judging tone, or was Ella letting her angst run away with her emotions?
“Hey,” Ella managed to say in a neutral tone. She didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone in that room. Unfortunately, the room was so jam-packed that the only safe place to look was down at her feet.
This wasn’t going to work. She needed to escape her own embarrassment, so she turned to her grandmother and said, “Maybe I can help somewhere else. You seem to have the bedroom covered.”
“Hmm, you know, maybe you could get started on the bookshelves in the living room.”
“Great,” Ella said, turning around and running like a fox, hoping the hounds didn’t give chase.
The living room had a gas fireplace and built-in shelves on either side that were perfect for Granny’s voluminous collection of mysteries. Ella got busy opening boxes of books and arranging them by author. She’d made it through half a box when Mom came into the room.
“I need to talk to you,” she said in that judgmental voice that Ella had grown to hate as a child. Every time she had failed to perform flawlessly at an audition, Mom always began the conversation with these words.
She didn’t respond to them now but kept putting books on the shelf.
“Honey. Look at me.”
She shelved the P. D. James mystery in her hand next to a collection of Dashiell Hammett stories, then turned toward her mother. Mom wasn’t frowning, which was a good sign.
But it didn’t matter because she’d seen the size of the bandage on Dylan’s head, and that was sufficient to make her feel inadequate and guilty even without Mom’s frown-of-death to contend with.
Mom leaned in and spoke in a near whisper. “Honey, I know you and Dylan got off on the wrong foot. But I hope you didn’t throw that tray at him on purpose. I mean, my goodness, he had to have several stitches, and Jim says he’s got a mild concussion.”