One More Summer

by Liz Flaherty

  Feeling herself blush, she recalled him kneading her feet, his thumb stroking the polish on her toes. Those same toes curled against the hardwood kitchen floor in reaction, and she felt a peculiar liquid sensation in the private place between her thighs.

  “Sit down,” she invited woodenly. “There are plenty of pan…crepes. Coffee?”

  “Please.” Dillon led Maxie back to her chair, pressing Jonah’s shoulder as he passed his chair. “Where’s Promise?”

  “Faith took her to Holston Valley this morning for pre-admission stuff,” Grace replied. “Then they’re going shopping.”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  She scowled at him again and dipped her head fractionally in Maxie’s direction. “They don’t like the way I shop.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And how is that?”

  She reached for her plate and leaned against the counter to eat. “Quickly. I get what I need and get out.” Her wardrobe was a direct testimony to that fact—the gray sweats and torn red T-shirt she wore this morning being a shining example.

  Dillon wore Dockers shorts with a neatly pressed shirt. Who ironed shirts in the summertime? Although her mind insisted he was one of those people who could wear anything and carry it off, her subconscious knew better. For the first time in recent memory, she was embarrassed by the way she was dressed, and she heartily resented Dillon Campbell for being the cause of it.

  He rose and came over to her, taking the plate out of her hands and placing it on the table. “Don’t stand and eat. You get fat feet.”

  “Maxie won’t like it,” she whispered. “She thinks I’m the housekeeper. And let go of my arm.”

  “I’ll tell her it’s all right,” he whispered back, not releasing until she was seated. His expression was decidedly wicked when he bent to say in her ear, “She likes me.”

  After a breakfast more suited to Oz than to Peacock, Tennessee, Dillon coaxed Maxie to rest. “Jonah will help you upstairs. I’m sure you’ll feel better when you wake.”

  “You’re right, darling, of course.” Maxie beamed at him. “We’ll have vichyssoise and baked sole for lunch,” she told Grace. “And champagne.”

  “Yes, Miss Tyler.” Grace dipped her head subserviently, not raising it until Jonah led Maxie from the room. “She’ll be all right when she wakes up,” she told Dillon. “At least, she always has been before.”

  He refilled their coffee cups. “What’s the story?”

  She started to sit down again, but his hand around her arm urged her to the back porch, where the morning sun poured through the screens. Louisa May and Rosamunde scrambled out among their feet, then sat expectantly at the wooden screen door that led outside.

  “Okay, okay.” Grace let the cats out to sun themselves, then sat across from Dillon at the table. “I don’t have time for this,” she said crossly. “I have to—” She stopped, her mind blank. Her schedule was clear for the rest of the week. Other than reading to the kids at the library today instead of Thursday, she didn’t have anything she had to do. It was unsettling.

  “Tell me about Maxie,” he requested again. “I know you think I should remember her, but I don’t.”

  “She was in a TV soap opera years ago. I don’t remember which one. Rafe was her lover on the show and her husband in real life, though I take it they lived apart most of the time. She got written out after the coma, but Rafe stayed. Other than some voice-overs, whatever they are, Maxie never acted on TV again. There was some stage work for a while, but eventually that fizzled out too. I guess she and Rafe had a fairly scandalous divorce and she never married again. She lived up north so her son and daughter could stay near their father afterward, then moved to Tennessee after they were grown.”

  “Why Tennessee?”

  “It’s where she’s from. She’s a cousin of Mama’s, once removed, or something like that. They grew up together, though Maxie was a bit older. We saw her a lot when we were kids. She was very glamorous, but her life was always in some stage of high drama. I think the reason her mind goes back to the soap opera days is because that was the time she was happiest.”

  “How did she end up staying here?”

  “She came to Papa’s funeral and asked me point blank if I’d rent her a room now that he was gone.” She shrugged. “I didn’t see any reason not to and, most of the time, she’s great. It’s like she’s been around forever, not just a month or two.”

  “What about Jonah? Where did you get him?”

  “He was a friend of Papa’s. He helped me so much with Papa during the last year that I finally asked him to move in. I knew he’d lost his money and he knew I was losing my mind, so it’s worked out very well.”

  “It’s hard to imagine your father having friends.”

  “It was me he didn’t like,” she said flatly. “He did all right with other people. He was proud of Steven and adored Faith, even though he didn’t treat them that great, either.”

  “What are you doing today?” he asked suddenly.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, “other than going to the library at two. It would be a good time to go into Papa’s rooms and start clearing out.” She sighed.

  Dillon looked mildly shocked. “You haven’t done that?”

  “Oh, his clothes and personal effects are gone. Steven helped take care of that when he was here. But the furniture’s still there. The depressing wallpaper and rug.”

  “Why don’t you call the Salvation Army or Goodwill to come and get the furniture and the rug? I’ll help you get it out.”

  Grace stared at him. “Why would you want to do that? I don’t need your help.”

  He was counting again. She saw the anger kindling in his eyes. Silver glinted in his eyes when he was mad too. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Get a grip.

  “I’m sorry,” she said grudgingly. “That was uncalled-for and unfair.”

  “And you always like to be fair.” There was a snide edge to his voice she decided to ignore.

  “Yes,” she answered primly, and was rewarded by his snort of laughter.

  “Well, come on. That stuff won’t dispose of itself.”

  Jonah came downstairs before they’d even begun to move the heavy, ugly old furniture from her father’s suite. Citing their superior strength and lack of clumsiness, the men invited Grace to leave the work to them and she found herself washing breakfast dishes and fuming.

  Pushing people around was one thing. Being the one who was pushed was another entirely.

  By the time the dishes were done and the table and counters clean, the furniture had been moved. She rolled up the rugs that covered the parquet floors of the bedroom and sitting room of the suite. After folding the heavy drapes and laying them on top of the tubes of carpeting, she yanked the ancient Venetian blinds from where they were anchored in the windows.

  When the men came in from setting the furniture outside to wait for pickup, she had a wobbly stepladder on a throw rug in the bedroom and was ripping wallpaper like a mad woman. She saw Jonah and Dillon exchange a look before they picked up one of the carpet rolls and left the room.

  “I think it’s called exorcism,” she heard Dillon say.

  “Yeah, well, in my day, they called it, ‘She’s on a roll. Stay out of the way.’” Jonah’s rumbled response made Grace grin.

  Dillon took the other stepladder to another wall when he and Jonah returned from their last trip to the curb. Jonah, singing Elvis Presley songs in a grumbly baritone, patched holes in the walls as they were exposed. Pretty soon, they were all singing even though Jonah and Grace made fun of Dillon’s less-than-stellar voice.

  Maxie came into the room as they worked. She’d changed her makeup, her hair and her clothes, and other than being rather pale, seemed once again to be herself. “I did it again, didn’t I?” she said without preamble, standing at Grace’s ladder.

  Grace dropped the strip of paper she was loosening and leaned down to kiss the older woman’s cheek. “It’s all right, Maxie. You’re fin
e now. Jonah’s due for a break. Why don’t you two have something to drink, then walk down to the library and help set up for this afternoon? My reading today instead of Thursday has thrown them off down there, so they could use the extra help.”

  “Good idea.” Jonah laid down the scraper he was using on the wallpaper. “I could use a glass of sweet tea.”

  “Yours is in the jar with the yellow lid,” Grace reminded him. “I saw you sneak real sugar into your coffee this morning.”

  His dancing eyes accentuated what a handsome man he still was. “Can’t get anything by you, can I, girl?”

  She smiled at him. “Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem.” He gave her a pat on her dusty cheek, then followed Maxie in the direction of the kitchen.

  At eleven o’clock, Dillon left his ladder in the sitting room and went to where Grace was still peeling paper from the bedroom walls. His hands at her waist made her shriek as he lifted her from the ladder with a spinning motion.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, dangling in the air like a life-size marionette. He liked the look, he decided, and liked the feel of her hands on his shoulders where she clutched him for balance.

  “Starving,” he replied equably. “I got us reservations for lunch at the Deacon’s Bench, but we need to shower and change first.”

  “I can’t do that. I have to fix lunch for Maxie and Jonah. Put me down, Dillon.”

  “No, you don’t. Jonah’s taking Maxie out to the Cup and Cozy. We already discussed it. If I put you down, are you going to go quietly, or are we going to fight about it?” He hoped she agreed to go quietly—she was getting heavy.

  “All right,” she acquiesced, a little too quickly to be believed.

  He drew her toward him, sliding her body down his as he lowered her to the floor. Oh, hell, she felt good—awful clothes and wallpaper dust and all. He slid his arms around her. “It will be nice, don’t you think? Lunch you don’t have to cook or serve. I’ll enjoy it too. I hate eating alone.” He didn’t, really. He usually scribbled notes while he ate, abstract facts or bits of dialogue that he wanted to use. Since moving into the guesthouse near Grace, however, he’d discovered the occasional white lie served a useful purpose.

  She glared up at him in mutinous silence, and he tightened his hold on her. He grinned with the delight of her small breasts pressing against him. “You’re not going to make me eat by myself, are you, Grace?”

  Her lips parted, and he saw the pink tip of her tongue flick between them as she weighed her options. He thought about kissing her, and could scarcely believe how badly he wanted to. When had she become more than Steven’s little sister— one he scarcely liked—to him? And what was he going to do about it?

  “I’ll go.” She nodded as she spoke, and he released her. She stepped away and glared at him. “But I don’t like being manhandled.”

  What a whopper, Grace admitted as she stepped from the bathtub. Few things in her life had felt as good as the length of Dillon Campbell’s body against her own, with the tingling in her nipples when they hardened at first contact with his chest.

  The rosy crests stiffened again in response to her thoughts, and she looked down in surprise, then at her reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door. “You’re becoming a frustrated old maid.”

  Wearing the denim jumper that was her sole outfit not designed for either church or the garden, she slid her feet into sandals and returned to the bathroom to fluff her hair and put on makeup. She was certain no one went to the Deacon’s Bench with pale cheeks and nonexistent lashes.

  She picked up the eyelash curler. “See if you can do this just once without pinching your eyelids,” she mumbled. “Damn.”

  Apparently she couldn’t.

  A few minutes later, she studied her reflection on the bathroom door once again. She had shaved her legs, applied makeup and put on a dress. All in the middle of the week and without Promise or Faith haranguing her to do so.

  Well, Faith never harangued, but when someone looked as wonderful as she did, Grace felt awful if she didn’t at least try to clean up a little.

  Promise was another story. She pushed, prodded and bitched incessantly over the issue, then, conversely, accepted Grace exactly the way she was.

  “You look nice,” Dillon said when she went downstairs.

  So did he, but she didn’t tell him so, just muttered a terse, “Thanks,” and accompanied him outside.

  The Deacon’s Bench was full, but seemed neither crowded nor loud as the young and pretty blonde hostess led them to a small table beside a stained glass window.

  “What are you going to do with your father’s rooms?” Dillon asked after they’d eaten lunch and he was enjoying a piece of lemon meringue pie. Without offering to share a single bite.

  She eyed his plate longingly. What had made her refuse dessert? “Paper them in something bright and Victorian, hang lace curtains and furnish them with antiques if I can find any I can afford. If Elliot House ever becomes a reality, that will be the best room. It can have a daybed or something in the sitting room so it can sleep more than two. It has its own bathroom and outside entrance with a private porch.”

  He studied her across the table. “You like pretty things, don’t you? That’s why you have flowers everywhere. But you hide behind the wardrobe from hell.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do, and I wonder why.”

  Because this way, no one knows. I don’t have to explain anything or think about it or remember it. I can just be the lady in funny clothes that everyone leaves alone.

  Unable to say that, Grace sat silent for a moment, then said, “Tell me about Chapter Seven. How’s it coming?”

  He sighed, and she knew it was only the manners instilled by his mother that kept him from rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “It’s doing fine. I’m not going through the motions.”

  “Good.” She grinned at him. “I knew you had it in you.” She squinted at the clock on the wall behind him. “I need to go. I have to get my clothes changed before I go to the library.”

  He kept his hand at the back of her waist as they left the restaurant, and the spot stayed warm even when she was in the passenger seat of his car.

  Sometimes it was nice not being left alone.

  Chapter 8

  She was mesmerizing.

  Dillon had intended to work quietly on his laptop in the reference section while Grace read her hour’s worth of stories to Peacock’s already-bored-with-summer children. However, he’d become mystified when all the parents he saw traipsing into the library with children in tow didn’t traipse back out again to enjoy their hour of leisure.

  Then he heard the roar.

  Startled from a cut and bleed perusal of Chapter Four, he jumped and made ready to run into the children’s section to sling Grace over his shoulder and escape to safety. Once on his feet, he realized the children’s section was where the noise was coming from.

  Since he was standing anyway, and was discouraged by how many times he’d used the word “just” in the chapter he was revising, he meandered behind the desk and down the hall to the large area devoted to Peacock’s young.

  And old. And all ages in between.

  The area was packed to the rafters with humanity. There were people in wheelchairs, a sheriff’s deputy in uniform, Dr. Jake Sawyer still in the lab coat he wore in his office, two attorneys Dillon remembered from high school as a rich kid and a hoodlum, and more elementary age children than he’d have suspected even lived in Peacock. Reverend Deacon Rivers, a huge black man with a powerful voice and a heart that had the consistency of fresh marshmallows, sat on the floor with toddlers tumbling over him like puppies.

  In the center of it all, wearing a straw hat and bib overalls with a flannel shirt, Grace sat Indian-style in an oversize rocking chair. Her bare feet with their shiny cranberry-colored toenails were crossed in front of her, a book open over her knees and reading glasses low on her nose. Silent and sm
iling, she waited for the clapping and cheering to stop.

  In all of his life, Dillon had never seen such a beautiful smile.

  When silence finally reigned, she began to read.

  Except that after the first few lines she didn’t read at all. She was on her feet performing the story, striding among her audience with long, graceful steps. She shouted when the characters shouted, wept loudly when they sobbed and lifted a two-year-old into her arms to dance when they danced.

  A memory crowded the edge of Dillon’s mind. Little John, squealing with laughter as Dillon swung him around the room in an exaggerated waltz. Oh, sweet boy… The pain of the remembered time almost took him to his knees.

  At the story’s end, when Grace’s sweet contralto lifted in a song, the other voices in the library joined hers. Then the incredible noise happened again. The cheering and applause should have lifted the roof of the low building.

  “What shall we have next?” Grace asked, looking around with that smile that was like an embrace.

  “Anne! Anne! Anne!” It was a chant, taken up by children and adults alike.

  “Oh, yes, our kindred spirit Anne.” Grace reached under her chair and drew out a tattered copy of Anne of Green Gables. “Oh, no, I’ve lost my place. Where were we?”

  “The mouse in the milk!” several young voices yelled, and Grace laughed.

  Grace laughed! Dillon closed his eyes and wondered why he felt like weeping.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Here we are.”

  She read in a clear, carrying voice. Dillon leaned against a bookcase and listened, becoming lost in the lives of Anne, Diana, Gilbert, Marilla and Matthew. He felt a light touch on his arm and turned to see Promise and Faith. He smiled a greeting and pulled them in front of him so they could see Grace on her rocking throne in the middle of the crowd.

  When she read about Anne and Diana, Anne’s “kindred spirit” best friend, Grace’s eyes sought Promise’s over the crowd, and Dillon understood that she read to her alone.

  When she mentioned Gilbert Blythe, whom Anne didn’t yet love, Grace’s eyes met Dillon’s. An unaccountable thrill flowed through his limbs.