Zoey Phillips

by Judith Bowen

  Deep down, she knew she’d come for another reason, too: to rub the town’s nose in her success. Just a tiny bit… No one in Stoney Creek, except Elizabeth and Mary Ellen and Mrs. Bishop, the school librarian, had ever taken her seriously.

  She’d been a skinny, scared, brainy brat when she left. A good education, a terrific job, hair that was a nice ordinary dark-auburn now, with a little assistance—everything had changed in her life. She was no longer one of the six gawky Phillips girls, all redheaded, all wearing hand-me-downs and living in a ramshackle house on the wrong side of the tracks. She’d even lost most of her freckles.

  Times had changed. Zoey Phillips was definitely somebody now. And, with the exception of the freckles, she’d done it all on her own.

  RYAN DONNELLY WAS sitting at the large table near the window.

  At one point, Elizabeth got up to help Tessa take a trip to the bathroom and Zoey saw her smile and wave. She gave Zoey an exaggerated wink.

  Zoey glanced toward the table in question to see that a man, who’d had his back to them, had turned slightly and was staring at their table. Ryan Donnelly. Her heart nearly stopped in her chest. She smiled but to her shock he didn’t respond, his gaze moving to Arthur and Becky before returning to her for a few seconds. He smiled uncertainly and Zoey made a tiny gesture, a sort-of wave.

  Ryan leaned toward the other man, the one she’d seen in the shoemaker’s. He turned and Zoey caught the glimpse of recognition as he noticed her. She smiled distantly; what else could she do? Ryan never looked her way again.

  She would’ve known him anywhere.

  Well, that was that. She’d seen him and he was as handsome as he’d ever been, maybe more. Zoey quickly scanned Ryan’s table. Besides the man who’d recognized her from their brief encounter that morning, there were two women—one of them a blonde, one of them quite a bit older—and a young girl.

  Zoey felt oddly let-down as she resumed eating her cherry cheesecake. Her cheeks were hot. What had she expected—that Ryan Donnelly would rush over and fall onto his knees and exclaim that she’d been the girl he’d loved all along? She, Zoey Phillips, and not the gorgeous Adele. That she’d broken his heart when she’d left Stoney Creek, that he’d never married because no other woman had quite measured up to her…

  Zoey found herself smiling. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?

  She’d been on pins and needles ever since she’d arrived the day before, thinking she might run into him—on the street, in a café, in the hotel. Okay, so she’d seen him now. Next step was actually talking to him. She could handle that.

  “You up for an hour or so at the firemen’s dance—oh, excuse me, it’s firefighters now, I forgot,” Arthur said with a cheerful smile. Zoey realized he was addressing her. “We’ve got a couple of women on the roster so maybe it’s firepersons, I don’t know. Should be fun. I promised the girls a few dances.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Zoey said, surprising herself. Well, she was…now. Would Ryan be there? Idiotically, she wished she’d dressed up a little, worn a skirt, paid more attention to her makeup.

  Elizabeth hustled back to the table, red in the face. Tessa’s bottom lip stuck out stubbornly. Now, what was that all about? Some kind of mother-daughter disagreement. Zoey loved to visit her nieces and nephews, but motherhood was a total enigma to her. She didn’t know what she thought about kids; sometimes she yearned for a family of her own, a husband and children, and other times she wondered what all the fuss was about.

  “Finish your dessert, honey,” Elizabeth told her daughter, then straightened and sent another quick smile toward the Donnelly table.

  “Whew!” She sat down. “Okay, everybody ready to go?”

  Arthur went over the bill, item by item, refusing to let Zoey contribute. There was an error in the addition and by the time he’d figured it out, paid, and carefully counted out a generous tip, Elizabeth had her daughters’ coats on and was trying to convince Tessa to wear her woolen cap. No luck.

  Zoey glanced toward the table by the window again. It was empty. Ryan and his friends were already gone.

  They’d dated, they’d held hands, they’d kissed in the Rialto. They’d danced together at the spring prom. Sure, it was all a big joke. And it had been ten years ago, nearly eleven. Still, she couldn’t understand why he hadn’t walked over to their table to say something. Hello. Having a good life? Where’ve you been? Nice to see you. Anything.

  What was she—invisible? Zoey swallowed her disappointment. So much for first loves. Just as she’d always maintained, they were better forgotten.

  ZOEY HAD ARRIVED in Stoney Creek the day before— Friday—to a mix-up with the hotel. She’d thought she had a room for the full five weeks, but the man at the desk told her they were closing for the winter after hunting season, the end of the following week. She’d have to find another place to stay.

  The Fullerton Valley Hotel was old but charming, with sloping floors in the corridors and a creaking, slow-as-molasses elevator. She’d remembered it as being quite a bit more charming and a whole lot less old, but that was the way memory seemed to work. Between a high-school basketball tournament and hunting season, the place was full. They’d put her in the top-floor honeymoon suite.

  Honeymoon suite. She’d wanted to giggle. Well, at least she’d get a peek inside one, since it was starting to look as though she might not get there in the usual way. She’d dumped her most recent boyfriend, Chad Renwick, Jr., when she discovered him attempting the horizontal mambo on the office sofa with his new receptionist four months ago, and she’d had absolutely no prospects since. Not even bad ones.

  First things first. Zoey had changed out of the fleece pants and jacket she’d traveled in and stretched out on the giant-size bed, propped up by half a dozen soft pillows. There was a large mirror on the ceiling that she decided to pretend wasn’t there. She called Elizabeth to say she’d arrived, accepted the invitation to join the Nugents Saturday night, then called down for room service only to discover it didn’t exist.

  Figured. She found the phone book and dialed a pizza joint two blocks away that said they’d deliver.

  Dawson, Dodson, Donaldson… Zoey leafed through the phone book and let her eye stray down the columns. Donnelly. Hmm. Five Donnellys. The schools were probably populated with all kinds of cute little Donnellys.

  Fielding, Furtz—wasn’t that the shoemaker who’d been so kind to her father? She’d definitely go see him the next day.

  Hanson, Hoare—she recalled how the poor Hoare girls had been teased—Hopewell, Hoskins, Jenkins, Jones, Jonker. That was Elizabeth’s mother and dad.

  Probably a whole lot of the kids she’d gone to school with had stayed in Stoney Creek. Maybe, with Elizabeth and Mary Ellen in tow, she’d visit some of them while she was here.

  As soon as the stores were open the next morning—cold, bright and crystal clear, with the snow-capped Coast Mountains majestic in the west—she’d headed for Mr. Furtz’s Saddlery and Shoes. It was exactly as she’d remembered it. Various pieces of dusty leather paraphernalia adorned the street-front window, along with some fancy-stitched cowboy boots, children’s sandals, a few samples of out-of-style high-heeled shoes, leather dog leads and harnesses and several trade publications—she made out Canada Shoe and Boot and Leather Forever—fanned artfully near the window to entice the passerby, their covers pale and sun-bleached.

  She pushed open the door with the old-fashioned jangling bell.

  “Joey Phillips! My goodness.” Mr. Furtz had actually remembered her before she’d had to introduce herself. Zoey felt a warm rush of gratitude. Until then no one she’d seen in town had recognized her. Mr. Furtz pronounced his js with a y sound, in the German way, so even the name she’d discarded didn’t sound too bad. Yo-ey. “My, my, such a beauty, too,” he went on, eyes twinkling. “All you Phillips girls were lovely girls, just like your mother. How is your father, my dear?”

  “Just fine. Dad’s got a new job, with a municipality in Sa
skatchewan. Rosetown.”

  The old man nodded his head vigorously, making the few hairs he’d wound across the top of his mostly bald pate bounce dangerously. “Oh, yah, yah! Good for him. He’s a good man, your father. A very fine man.”

  Zoey felt her eyes water slightly. Most people had regarded her father as a hopeless loser. Mr. Furtz was still smiling broadly when Zoey heard the bell jangle again.

  “Oh!” The harness-maker looked up toward the door. “Ah, there you are!”

  Zoey turned. A tall, dark-haired man, obviously a cowboy of some sort from his dress—worn Wranglers, a broad-brimmed hat, chambray shirt, sheepskin vest, scuffed boots on his feet—had entered the store.

  “You mind, my dear?” Mr. Furtz whispered loudly. “A customer—?”

  “Please! Go right ahead,” Zoey said, stepping back as the customer approached the counter. He seemed vaguely familiar but she was quite sure she’d never met him. One cowboy looked pretty much like another, in her view, and Stoney Creek was full of them. “No hurry. I’m staying in town for several weeks,” she said into empty air.

  Both men were bent over a piece of equipment on the counter. A little embarrassed, Zoey moved away to inspect the articles on display. Purses, more shoes, Birkenstocks, a whole rack of boots of various kinds. She could feel the stranger’s gaze on her back. Her cheeks burned. She turned quickly toward the counter, but he was absorbed in examining whatever piece of horse equipment the shoemaker had repaired for him. She must have imagined it.

  “Nice job, Raoul. Very nice work. Hell of a note getting it caught in the binder like that and tore up. I figured I’d have to throw it away.”

  Raoul?

  “Never! Something’s made of leather, it can be fixed. No problem. That man-made stuff, vinyl, plastic, now that’s another story. I—”

  “How much?” The stranger reached in his back pocket and removed several bills from his wallet. He tossed them onto the counter. “That do?”

  “Oh, yah. Maybe too much,” the shoemaker said doubtfully. “It was an easy job.”

  “For you, maybe. Take it.” The stranger laughed and Zoey felt the sound echo along her ribs. She glanced at him again. He was attractive, in a rough-hewn, serious way. Not knock-down handsome at all. But attractive, nonetheless.

  “Yah, yah! Good joke. Ha, ha.” The shoemaker rang up the transaction on his old-fashioned cash register. “‘Easy for me,’ yah!”

  He handed the customer a receipt and the man slung the bridle onto his right shoulder, giving her a curious glance as he turned away. There was no mistaking it, he had looked at her—this time.

  That made her feel a bit better somehow. That he’d noticed her at all.

  Of course, any stranger in Stoney Creek would stand out to a local. Even on a busy weekend like this, with the town full of hunters and basketball players.

  “I’ve known you all these years, Mr. Furtz, and I never knew your name was Raoul,” she said, smiling, when the customer had gone. “Was your mother Spanish or Italian?”

  “Oh, no! Austrian, from the Tyrol, like my dad.” Mr. Furtz’s blue eyes twinkled. “But she was a romantic woman, my mama. You know what I mean? Very, very romantic!”

  POOR MR. FURTZ! Zoey thought now, looking around at the crowded arena. She wondered if he was here. The entire town and surrounding district of Stoney Creek seemed to have put in an appearance at the volunteer firefighters’ dance, which was being held at the curling arena, with sheets of plywood laid out over the ice. She had no idea what his story was. As far as she knew, he’d never married. No wife, no children. But Zoey was sure she knew exactly what he meant when he’d said his mother was romantic and she suspected that Mr. Furtz was a romantic at heart, too.

  She wasn’t particularly romantic herself. She’d always viewed herself as sensible and clearheaded. A smart woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it. A risk-taker, but sensible. Impulsive? Sometimes. Adventurous? Always. Romantic? No, that was for teenagers and sentimental old women.

  There was a five-dollar “donation” to get into the dance, and a band was tuning up on the makeshift stage when they arrived. She needn’t have worried about how she was dressed. Her slim charcoal slacks with the matching jacket and the ivory silk short-sleeved sweater under it were businesslike, yes, but she preferred businesslike to the elaborate confections of skirts and crinolines some women wore. Others had on plain jeans and cowboy boots and, among the younger set, bare tummies and low-rider pants were in evidence, complete with tattoos and body piercings.

  Arthur led the way and found a table near the bandstand.

  “Drinks?” he mouthed, over the noise, and then disappeared to the refreshment concession. All proceeds—drinks, donations at the door, silent auction items ranged on tables around the rink—went to the local Boys and Girls Club, which was in the process, Elizabeth had told her, of raising funds for a building of its own.

  Zoey spotted a dark-haired woman on the other side of the room smiling and madly waving so she waved back.

  “Who’s that, Lizzie?” she muttered, leaning across Becky. “Over there in the pink shirt?”

  “That’s Sherry Porter, used to be Rempel—you know her! She was one of the cheerleaders for the basketball team. We never made the squad.” Elizabeth laughed and waved, too. Zoey felt pleased that someone had remembered her. The shoemaker yesterday and now this Sherry Porter, who, she was sorry to say, she could barely recall.

  The lights dimmed and the crowd immediately quieted. Zoey noticed Arthur on his way back to their table, balancing a tray filled with glasses.

  A man dressed in a white shirt and tie and a rumpled sports jacket had mounted the stage and stood by the microphone.

  “Just before the music starts, I want to remind all you folks that every cent raised this evening goes to the Boys and Girls Club.” He pushed his glasses higher on his nose.

  “The mayor,” Elizabeth whispered, leaning toward her. “Herb Trennant, did you know him?”

  Zoey shook her head.

  “I think he was in Arthur’s class,” Elizabeth continued and her husband raised a finger to his mouth to shush her. She made an impatient gesture back and returned her attention to the stage.

  “I recall moving to Stoney Creek when I was ten and didn’t know a soul,” the mayor said. “A Boys and Girls Club back then would have made things a little easier,” he went on. “Moving to a new town can be a mighty lonely experience. Our own young people who grow up here could use a place like this, too, so be generous, folks! It’s for a good cause.”

  The crowd clapped and the band struck up a Shania Twain tune, “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?” and people began to take to the dance floor. The mayor’s words had struck a deep chord in Zoey. She remembered so well the feeling of being alone and new at school, a stranger in town. It had happened so many times. Youth could be highly overrated; she wouldn’t be fifteen again for anything.

  “Dance, Lizzie?” Arthur bent gallantly over his wife’s hand. “You’re next, Becky,” he addressed his daughter with a grin and she giggled. “You, too, Zoey. You can get in line.”

  At that moment, Zoey spotted Ryan Donnelly pushing through the crowd, headed toward their table. Her heart lodged in her throat. She’d just been thinking she wouldn’t be a teenager again—and here, standing practically in front of her, was one of the reasons.

  “Lizzie!”

  Elizabeth turned, still holding her husband’s hand.

  “Yes? Oh, Ryan, I didn’t see you here.” Elizabeth shot a triumphant glance Zoey’s way.

  Up close, Ryan was even handsomer than he was from a distance. His eyes, blue as the summer sky, were vivid and expressive. His hair, a rich tawny color, was neatly trimmed. He had on a dark blue shirt and black jeans, cowboy style.

  “Hey, listen,” he said, with a warm glance at Zoey. “I saw you in the hotel.” He grinned, still the grin that could melt a girl’s bones. “Who’s your friend, Lizzie? Introduce me.”


  Zoey wanted to sink into one of the cracks in the ancient wooden fold-up she was sitting on. Ryan Donnelly hadn’t recognized her in the restaurant! Had she changed that much? Or had she meant so little that he’d completely forgotten her in the ten years she’d been gone?

  “Friend? You’re kidding, right?”

  Ryan shook his head. He looked truly mystified. Arthur was grinning.

  “For Pete’s sake, Ryan, that’s Zoey Phillips—don’t you remember Joey Phillips? You went out with her!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  RYAN STARED at Zoey. Her face, then the rest of her. Zoey felt her cheeks burn all the way down to her toes.

  Then, with a shout of laughter, he pulled her into his arms. “So it is! Well, well. Man alive, little Joey Phillips!” And he kissed her—right on the mouth! Zoey nearly fell over, she was so surprised. “Welcome home, Joey. Welcome back to Stoney Creek. You stickin’ around for a while? I sure hope so. Man, have you turned into some kinda babe!”

  “About a month,” Zoey said, her face still burning. Babe! “If I can find a place to stay, that is. They’re kicking me out of the hotel on Friday. By the way, I changed my name. Decided Zoey was a little more grown-up.” She knew she was babbling. Ryan’s greeting had totally unnerved her.

  “No kidding!” Ryan’s gaze hadn’t shifted. He was giving her a look of admiration she’d rarely seen from him before. Certainly not directed at her. “Zoey. Zoey Phillips.”

  He glanced around. Zoey noticed that the man and child who’d been with Ryan in the hotel restaurant had followed him to the table. “Hey! This is my brother’s little girl, Melissa. Lissy, we call her.” He patted the child on her head. “And this is my brother, Cameron. Cam? You remember the Phillips girls? Bunch of good-lookin’ redheads? Maybe you knew some of Zoey’s older sisters?”