“I kind of fell into it, I guess. I got started by helping my father do credit checks. The business grew from there.”
“Then you two must be getting along better these days.”
He hesitated. “We do okay.”
His tone had tightened, and she could tell there was a wealth of words left unspoken. “Does he still live in the same house?” she asked.
“Yeah. It’s too big for one man, but he likes the space.”
“You don’t live with him anymore?”
“No, I have a place of my own. That’s why we get along better.”
Though she was tempted to pursue this, it would be wiser to leave the subject alone. Hank had been close to his father when he’d been very young—he’d often shared fond stories of things they’d done together during his early years. Their relationship had become strained when his mother had been diagnosed with cancer. After her death, Basil Jones had dedicated most of his time and energy to his business. He had worked hard to maintain a loyal customer base in the area, and he’d had a ready smile and a friendly handshake or slap on the back for everyone, yet he’d been distant and critical with his only son. Amelia hadn’t witnessed any arguments—that hadn’t been their style. They’d had a lot of silences instead. They’d shared a roof, but not much else. Hank had made sure to earn whatever he’d been given. The old car he’d driven around had been a good example. He’d preferred to rebuild a junker rather than get a vehicle from the family car lot at cost. Judging by the nondescript sedan they were currently sitting in, he still didn’t take favors from his dad. Will had to be wrong about Hank’s business being propped up by his father.
Amelia had often been troubled by the ongoing tension in the Jones house, since her own family had been so different. They had been too passionate to tolerate silences. They’d had their spats, but like any storm, the arguments usually blew over as quickly as they arose. There hadn’t been any doubt about the love that lay beneath everything they said and did. Her parents had extended their warmth toward Hank, too. Her mother had felt sorry for the skinny, motherless boy, and had enjoyed pushing her homemade carrot cookies and granola bars at him every chance she got. Even Will had been friendly toward him, once he had gotten over his protective-big-brother glowering.
“I’m sorry about your mom and dad,” Hank said.
The change of topic took her off guard. Then again, it wasn’t that unexpected. His thoughts had likely paralleled hers, leading from his father to her family. She pulled his jacket more tightly around her legs. “Thanks.”
“I was in Fort McMurray. By the time I heard about the accident, the funeral was already over. I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I would have liked to have gone to it. They were good people.”
She focused on the water that ran down the windshield. This was another subject she should leave alone. Although she and Hank had broken up several months before the car accident that had abruptly ended her parents’ lives, she’d been hurt by his absence, which was crazy, because she’d already begun seeing Spencer. It was Spencer who had driven her home from the University of Toronto and stayed beside her during the service, had squeezed her hand at the twin graves, and slipped his arm around her waist to steady her steps on the snow-covered path as he’d led her back to his car. She’d still been angry at Hank, and wasn’t sure she would have spoken to him if he’d been there, yet his presence would have helped ease the pain. Maybe if he’d been there, she wouldn’t have been such a vulnerable, gullible fool over Spencer.
But it wouldn’t be reasonable to blame Hank for not attending the funeral. After their breakup, he’d left town within weeks of her own departure, heading to Alberta to work on the oil sands. One local tragedy on an icy road wouldn’t have made the news half a continent away. “It was a shock to everyone.”
“I phoned the house, but you’d already gone back to Toronto.”
“I didn’t know you had phoned.”
“Will answered.”
She could imagine the conversation. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant one. “You could have called my apartment. One of my roommates would have passed on your message.”
“Will wouldn’t give me your number.”
No, he wouldn’t have. He would have thought he was protecting her.
“Would you have talked to me if he had?”
She shrugged. “We’ll never know, will we?”
“Well, I’m still sorry.”
Lightning flashed through the darkness. Thunder followed immediately, loud enough to shake the car and jolt Amelia’s pulse. An afterimage of the lightning seared her retinas. She blinked at a sudden rush of tears. “Why did you go out west, Hank?”
“I got a job there.”
“You could have had a job with your father.”
“It wouldn’t have paid as much.”
“So it was only about a job, not about getting as far away from me as you could?”
He hesitated. “It was a good job. I earned a good wage.”
“What did you need it for? It’s not as if you spent it on clothes or cars or going on dates since you’d just dumped your girlfriend.”
“I never dumped you, Amelia.”
Had she thought the hurt was buried? The humiliation was over? Hank’s patently false claim brought back the whole painful event as if it had happened yesterday. “Excuse me? What would you call it when a boy breaks up with a girl the day before she leaves for university?”
“I thought it was for the best.”
“For you, sure. You strung me along all through high school, but as soon as I wanted more you backed off. You thought once I was gone, I’d be out of sight, out of mind.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Oh, right. I remember now. You called it ‘setting me free.’ That’s what you said. Of all the cheesy lines. That’s as bad as when you’re trying to get off the phone and you tell the other person, ‘I should let you go,’ as if you’re doing them a favor when the truth is you want to watch the hockey game or make a sandwich or are just bored with the conversation. You dumped me, Hank.”
“I’m not good with words. Not like you.”
“You were that time. I got the message loud and clear.”
“And I got yours. Especially the loud part.”
“After the way you treated me, what did you expect?”
“You got over it fast. You sure found a replacement boyfriend in a hurry. What was it, three weeks? Two?”
“It was longer than that, but what would you care?”
“You said you loved me, Amelia.”
“It wasn’t love, Hank. It was teenage hormones and proximity.”
“Sure, I realize that now, but for a while I’d sure thought it was love.”
“It was a mistake. It ruined a perfectly good friendship.”
“You got that right. Time proved that we wouldn’t have suited each other, anyway.”
“No, we wouldn’t. We’re too different. You’re too...careful.”
“You’re too reckless.”
“And you’re afraid to take chances.”
“I took a big one when I let you go. Look how well that worked out.”
“Why are you doing this? Are you trying to rewrite history so you don’t come off as the bad guy? You dumped me, plain and simple.”
“Simple?” He leaned over and grasped her cheeks between his hands. “Nothing about you is simple, Amelia.”
The sensation of his touch on her face scattered her thoughts. His palms were smooth and warm. His grip hummed with restrained strength. These weren’t the hands of a boy; they were the large, capable hands of a man. He skimmed the ridges of her cheekbones with his thumbs. The caress wasn’t hard but it wasn’t tentative, either. It was...just right.
This was pleasure, not love. She was old enough to recognize the difference. But oh, it felt wonderful. She allowed herself to enjoy it for a guilty, crazy few heartbeats, then caught his wrists. “This isn’t a good idea.”
&n
bsp; “I know.”
“Hank...”
“Hey, I never pretended to be smart, especially where you’re concerned.” He leaned closer and eased his hands into her hair. Though his touch was gentle, a tremor went through his fingers. That held her in place more effectively than force.
More lightning flared beyond the windshield, painting harsh shadows in the angles of his face, making her more aware than ever of the changes time had brought. She could push him away if she wanted, but instead she curled her fingers around his forearms. His mouth was inches from hers. She felt his breath puff across her lips and she remembered that other storm, and the boy’s kisses, and she wondered how a kiss from the grown-up Hank would feel....
A car horn sounded behind them. It hadn’t been lightning that had illuminated his face, it had been headlights.
She took longer than she would have liked to process what the headlights meant. She released his arms. “It must be Forsythe. He’s home!”
Hank didn’t move. “We need to finish this conversation.”
“Not now.”
“Amelia...”
“We’ve said more than enough already.”
The headlights swerved as the approaching car pulled alongside them. The horn tooted again.
Hank drew back to his side of the car. He rubbed his face and muttered a short, pithy oath.
Amelia dragged his denim jacket off her legs and shoved it into his lap. She reached for the door handle.
He flung his arm in front of her. “Wait!”
She pressed back into the seat to avoid his touch. “We have to talk to him.”
“Sure, but—”
“Hank, stop. This isn’t the time or the place for a personal discussion. I shouldn’t have dredged up the past. It’s over and done and there’s no going back. The only thing that matters is my painting. That’s the reason we’re here, remember? It’s my top priority. It’s the only reason I came to you. What I need is for you to stick to business.”
“Yeah, but you’re also going to need this.” He completed his motion by leaning over her. His chest nudged her shoulder, his arm brushed her knees, and she was once again enveloped by his warmth. The sensations lasted only an instant before she realized he hadn’t been reaching for her, he’d been reaching for the door. He pulled something from a recess beneath the handle and placed it in her hands. It was a collapsible umbrella.
Amelia swallowed, her throat tight. Of course, a man who carried a handkerchief would also be organized enough to have an umbrella. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He opened his door, swung his jacket over his head and stepped into the rain. “It’s all part of the service.”
* * *
THE INSIDE OF the brick bungalow was what Hank would describe as a work in progress. Plastic drop sheets covered the living room floor and draped the furniture. Paint cans and a stepladder formed a crooked pyramid in the center of a rough archway that had been ripped through one wall. Except for scattered smears of white plastering compound, the other three walls were completely bare.
He glanced into the shadowed room past the archway. Lightning flickered through a set of patio doors, revealing more plastic sheets covering the floor and a bulky dining table and chairs. Nothing hung on what he could see of the walls there, either.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess. I’m renovating the place.” Kemp Forsythe peeled off his wet windbreaker and tossed it over a wooden coat tree beside the front door. He used the tail of his shirt to dry his glasses, then fitted them back on his nose and finger-combed his salt-and-pepper hair from his broad forehead. A thin beard skimmed down his cheeks and outlined his prominent jaw like a helmet strap. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, although he projected the energy of a much younger man. “This’ll be one big room when I’m done.”
“You’ll have a great view of the countryside,” Amelia said, turning in a circle while doing her own scan for the painting. “It won’t matter where you sit.”
“Exactly!” Forsythe beamed at her. His reaction to Amelia was another factor that made him appear younger than his years. He regarded her as if he’d never had a woman in his house. Maybe he hadn’t. Hank suspected if he’d come to interview Forsythe without Amelia, he wouldn’t have been invited inside as readily.
Amelia could have that effect on an otherwise rational man, make him do things that weren’t all that sensible. Act like a fool who was starved for female companionship, regardless of the consequences.
“You folks want coffee or something?” Forsythe asked, his gaze still on Amelia. “I’ve got plenty of Coke, too. The real kind, not that diet, decaffeinated stuff. I mean, what’s the point in drinking it if it doesn’t kick back?”
“No, thanks, Mr. Forsythe,” Hank said. “We wouldn’t want to take up your time. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure, sure. And it’s Kemp. You’re the first private eye I’ve ever met. Didn’t know we had any around here. And you said you tracked me down through my car?”
“That’s right.”
“Incredible. Right out of a TV show. Come on back to the kitchen,” he said, leading the way past the redecorating debris to a horseshoe-shaped alcove filled with kitchen appliances. He stopped at a counter that appeared to serve as his table and pulled out a stool for Amelia. “Have a seat. Don’t worry about dripping on it. I covered the cushions with vinyl and put two coats of Urethane on the wood. This is some rain, isn’t it? My uncle says the corn needs it. Good thing they already got the wheat in, or the rain might have flattened it. That happened two summers ago, left most of it in the mud.” He opened the refrigerator, made a happy exclamation and hauled out a slender blue-and-white can. He popped the top and took a long swig. “I forgot I still had some Red Bull. There’s plenty if either of you want one?”
Amelia smiled as she declined, giving the kitchen a careful perusal. The only thing on the walls here was a calendar from a John Deere dealer. She hooked her feet on the lowest rung of the stool. Her heels bounced up and down. “All the redecorating you do must be a lot of work.”
“I don’t mind. It’s my hobby. Along with my car. I like fixing up old things. You should have seen this place when I bought it. What a wreck. People think a brick house doesn’t need maintenance but there’s the roof and the window frames, just to mention the obvious.” He took another drink of the super-caffeinated soda, suppressed a burp, and used the can to gesture at Hank. “So, what’s this about? Did someone see my car? Was I supposed to be a witness or something? I had it out last weekend for the show in Port Hope, but I don’t remember seeing an accident or anything.”
Hank hitched himself onto the stool beside Amelia’s. “Actually, Kemp, we’re hoping you could help Miss Goodfellow out. Her sister-in-law had a yard sale last weekend.”
“Miss Goodfellow?” Kemp asked quickly.
She smiled again. “Amelia.”
“What a beautiful name. Like Amelia Earhart. My cousin’s got a Cessna and sometimes he takes me up. He keeps it in the hay field back of the pig shed and he needs to cut a runway first if the hay’s high. They baled at the start of June, so it’s growing in again.”
In the old days, if Hank and Amelia had encountered a character like Kemp, they would have shared a private smile over his pinball-style conversation. Or more likely, they would have avoided making eye contact with each other so they wouldn’t laugh out loud. Hank found nothing amusing about the situation now, though. Judging by the continued nervous bouncing of her feet, neither did Amelia. She hadn’t met his gaze since they’d left the car, so they wouldn’t be sharing a smile or anything else.
It was just as well. Otherwise, he might get confused again about why they were together. “About that yard sale,” Hank said, nudging the conversation back on track.
“I stopped at a yard sale while I was in town. It wasn’t far from the high school. House was a story and a half, white clapboard with black shutters. Looked as if some work was being done on it. I s
aw a pile of drywall in the garage. Pregnant woman in front of the house.”
Amelia’s heels slid off the stool and thumped to the floor. “Yes! That was my sister-in-law. You definitely were there.”
“I didn’t see you. I would have remembered if I had.”
“I was at work.”
“I used to open the shop on Sundays, but hardly anyone came in, so now I don’t bother. It’s just not worth it. I might around Christmastime when people are more inclined to open their wallets. Too bad you had to work on such a nice day. I hope this rain stops before tomorrow. One summer it rained every weekend and was sunny all week. That’s enough to drive a working man nuts.”
“Kemp?” Amelia’s voice shook. “Did you buy a painting at that yard sale?”
“You mean that sappy landscape of the farm?”
“Yes!” She got to her feet. “Yes, that’s the one!”
“No offense, but the artist wasn’t much good. I liked the frame more than the painting. That frame alone was worth the thirty bucks I paid, since I planned to fix it up and use it on something else.”
Amelia paled. “Did you take the painting out of the frame?”
“No, too busy. How did you know I bought it?” He snapped his fingers. “The car, right? Someone remembered my car. It was this washed-out shade of blue when I got it and you could see brushstrokes in the paint. Can you believe it? Using a brush to paint a car? Takes all kinds. It took me weeks to sand it down. I considered tangerine for a while but I settled on yellow.”
“It’s a great color,” Hank said. “They made cars roomy back then, too. Must have been easy getting the painting in the trunk. Was it hard to get it in the house?”
“You kidding? I’m used to hauling lumber. The big stuff I bring in through the patio doors. I knew a guy built a rowboat in his basement one time but had to take it apart to get it out.”
Amelia took three steps toward Kemp. Her hands twitched as if she wanted to shake him. “The painting you bought was sold by mistake. I would like to buy it back from you.”
Winning Amelia Page 7