Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings)

by Michele Summers

  Her sister’s son had been lost as a little boy and was even more lost as a grown man. Too many times in the past she’d held her tongue or didn’t intervene as his mother, Angelina, made rash decisions after the death of Keith’s dad. And Francesca regretted it. She wasn’t going to stand by and allow Keith to make the same mistakes…especially with Maddie.

  As for Bertie, she needed a little guidance and a lot of love and support. Francesca considered Bertie her own daughter and only wanted to see her happy and fulfilling her own dreams. She needed a nudge in the right direction, which was not three hundred and fifty miles south to Atlanta, where she’d be working a menial job for practically no pay, for some overpriced snotty designers.

  Francesca patted Bertie’s hand. “So nice of you to come on short notice. Why don’t we have our meeting here and then we’ll retire to the dining room for a little supper?”

  “Meeting? What meeting?” Bertie asked.

  “Come.” Francesca steered Bertie by the elbow. “Sit on the settee. And, Keith, stop scowling like an angry bear. You’re scaring the wits out of Bertie. Have a seat.” Francesca indicated a chair with a flutter of her hand.

  Keith didn’t move. His eyes narrowed and his scowl deepened.

  If she hadn’t changed his diapers and looked after him when he was just a baby, she might be a tad bit concerned. She had a feeling his expression would get a lot worse before it got better, after he’d heard what she had to say.

  Francesca retrieved a legal file from the antique inlaid secretary by the French doors. She placed her reading glasses on her nose and sat in a gilded French chair across from Bertie. Keith continued to stand guard at the door like a soldier. Bertie blinked her big, green eyes as she fiddled with the buttons on her colorful bouclé jacket.

  Francesca cleared her throat. “Bertie, I’ve called you here because I have a proposition for you that I think you’ll accept.” Francesca glanced in Keith’s direction. “I’m sure you remember hearing me speak about Keith in the past.”

  “Vaguely about a nephew, but I didn’t make the connection,” Bertie said cautiously.

  “Nevertheless, he has recently moved to Harmony, as you know, and he has a darling ten-year-old daughter, Madeline, who is unfortunately at boarding school, but who should be—”

  “Cut the crap, Francesca,” Keith thundered, making Bertie jump in her seat. “What do you want now, and how much is it going to cost me?”

  Francesca shot the look of death at Keith. “Fine. I’ll cut the crap. You want it straight? Here are my terms,” she said with steel in her voice. If he couldn’t stop wallowing in his own pool of self-pity, then so be it. But he was going to do right by his daughter if it killed Francesca. And it might.

  Francesca slid her gaze back to Bertie. “Bertie, I want you to design and decorate Keith’s home. You have exactly three months to get the job done. At the end of three months, if the house is completed you will receive a bonus of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Bertie gasped. “What?”

  “Of course, you will be paid your usual fee for your work, and Keith will pay for the renovation,” Francesca added. “But your job is to fix that house and make a comfortable, beautiful home for Maddie.”

  Bertie blinked as her hand flew to her mouth.

  Francesca turned her full attention to her angry nephew. He might hate her after this, but it was a chance she had to take. She leveled her gaze at Keith and observed the tension cording his neck and shoulders.

  “Keith, you will make timely decisions regarding the house and not prevent Bertie from doing her job. And in that same three-month period, you will put forth all your energies and charm into obtaining a wife and mother for Maddie.”

  “What the fuck!” Keith exploded from the door. “Francesca, you have gone too far. You have no right. Find a wife…really? I’m not agreeing to any of this.”

  Francesca tapped the folder sitting on her lap. “Keith, I will do whatever it takes to ensure that Maddie has a good, healthy, stable home. You know that I have what it takes to fight you for full custody. Are you willing to take that risk?”

  “So, you’d rather I pimp myself out and get a wife so Maddie can have a mother?” Keith snarled, towering over Francesca.

  “No. I’d rather you make a conscious effort to stop drowning in self-pity and make something of yourself.”

  “This is bullshit. I don’t have to listen to this. I’ve got money too, Aunt Francesca…more money than I know what to do with. You think I won’t hire an entire firm of lawyers to fight you?”

  Francesca tilted her head up at an angry Keith, standing rigid as a board. “Son, what I think is that you won’t drag Maddie through the court system if you really love her like you claim you do.”

  Keith went perfectly still and then his shoulders slumped as he exhaled a ragged breath. At that moment, her nephew looked much older than his thirty-three years.

  The pain of the last six years showed in his weary eyes. “Getting married is not going to make a happy home for Maddie. I’ve tried marriage once…it was a disaster and you know it.”

  “No. It ended tragically and you stopped caring. It’s time to change all that…for your daughter.”

  ***

  Fascinated, Bertie sat on the edge of her seat during the heated exchange between Keith and Aunt Franny. It felt like being in the middle of the live taping of a soap opera. She should leave the room and allow Aunt Franny some privacy with Keith, but she couldn’t make her legs move. Too many thoughts swirled around in her head. One hundred and fifty thousand of them. One hundred and fifty thousand big ones to stay in town…for three months. She could do that. Three months of designing the old Victorian and bringing it back to life. Twelve weeks of working for Keith Morgan. Mr. Perfect Kiss with a chip on his shoulder the size of a tractor-trailer. Oh gawd.

  A groan slipped past Bertie’s lips. Keith turned as if he had noticed her for the first time. He approached in slow motion, like all his joints hurt to move, and slumped down onto the settee next to her. Bertie didn’t dare look his way, but she could feel his hot gaze burning a laser-like hole in the side of her head.

  “Bertie, what do you say?”

  “Excuse me?” Francesca had asked a question, but Bertie had been distracted by Keith sitting so close that she could smell his enticing, musky scent.

  “Will you stay and fix the old Victorian for the next three months?”

  “Uh, well, I can certainly start the project, and then Gary can implement—”

  Francesca shook her head and waved the file folder in the air. “No. That’s not the deal. No farming it out to Gary and no phoning it in. This offer is only valid if you stay in town and complete the job in three months. You’ll have to put off moving to Atlanta. Will you do it?”

  “Uh…” Bertie pictured her packed bags stuffed in the back of her car, pulling out of her driveway, waving good-bye to Cal and Gary. Then she pictured sitting in bumper-to-bumper morning traffic on Interstate 285, trying to get to work in downtown Atlanta. “Can I have some time to think about it?”

  Francesca gave a curt nod. “I’ll need an answer tomorrow by two, before I meet with my attorneys.” Francesca raised an elegant eyebrow. “Keith?”

  Dread seized Bertie’s lungs as she held her breath, expecting another explosion from Mr. Angry as he stiffened next to her. Keith’s deep voice filled the tense silence, sounding really close to her left ear.

  “So, it’s come down to this. I find a wife or you’ll file for custody of Maddie.”

  Francesca smoothed the hem of her gray skirt. “Yes. You need to make a concerted effort. It shouldn’t be that hard. You’re famous, good-looking, and you have more money than you know what to do with.” She slipped her reading glasses off, folding them on top of her file. “I have all the faith in the world you can do this.”

  �
��And I suppose my true love is somewhere hidden in this Leave It to Beaver town,” Keith drawled.

  A slight fissure of alarm crept its way up Bertie’s spine at his silky tone. She glanced down at her hands fisted in her lap.

  Francesca nodded. “Harmony has some lovely young ladies. I suggest you get out there and meet them.”

  “What if I’ve already found one?” Keith’s thigh brushed against Bertie’s.

  Francesca looked at both of them, lifting a skeptical brow. “Really?”

  Keith’s hard thigh deliberately pressed into hers as he leaned closer. “Yeah, she’s talented…on many levels. I don’t know about her mothering skills, but I’d bet she’d catch on real quick.”

  Bertie sat rigid on the settee. Heat flushed her face, and her heart slowed to a low thud. Keith’s voice had become silkier, and the idea of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was the only thing that kept her from jumping up and running from the room.

  Francesca’s lips thinned into a tight line. “If she’s from Harmony, I have no doubt she’s a nice young lady.”

  Bertie sneaked a sideways glance at Keith. His dark eyes burned with fury, and anger lines bracketed his firm lips.

  “I wouldn’t know about nice, but she’s pretty hot.” His gaze locked with hers.

  Bertie jumped up as if she’d been poked with a cattle prod. “Aunt Franny, I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow. I’m…um…going to go now. The food’s in the kit—”

  “I don’t approve of you fooling around and breaking her heart simply to make a point with me.”

  Francesca and Keith both rose from their seats, boxing Bertie in between them. Francesca had interrupted Bertie as if she hadn’t been speaking, never breaking eye contact with Keith, who stood too close to her back. Proprietarily close. Like boyfriend/girlfriend close.

  “Are you saying she’s off-limits or just fooling around is off-limits?” Keith’s sexy voice rumbled above her head. Afraid to move, Bertie kept her eyes trained on the lustrous sheen of Francesca’s gray pearl necklace.

  “I’m saying, tread carefully. I will not have the people I know and love hurt because you’re angry and want to get back at me.” Francesca’s voice crackled with anger.

  “If I agree to your form of blackmail, then anyone is fair game. You’re not exactly giving me tons of time for this miraculous courtship.”

  Francesca gave a regal toss of her head. “Oh, I don’t know. You always seem to do your best work under pressure. I recall you being the prince of tiebreakers and winning tennis matches under pressure. Three months is more than enough time.”

  “Especially if she’s right under my nose.”

  Oh my mama pajama. Bertie suspected a diabolical grin crossed Keith’s face, like a pirate forcing his victim to walk the plank.

  She pushed back with her elbow into Keith Morgan’s rock-hard abs and sidestepped away from the dueling blackmailers. “Okay, here’s the thing…I’m not really sure what or who you’re talking about and”—she held her hand up like a stop sign—“I don’t want to know. But I’m also not a fuzzy yellow tennis ball to be volleyed back and forth.”

  Bertie bent down for her handbag she’d dropped on the carpet. “Aunt Franny, I need some time to think. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned to bolt from the room when Keith snagged her elbow, pulling her to a halt.

  “Hold up. I’m coming with you.” He pierced Francesca with a harsh stare. “What do you want, boss…daily or weekly reports?”

  “I forbid you to date her,” Francesca commanded loud and clear.

  “I can’t make that promise,” Keith said, shaking his head. He hustled Bertie from the room, and neither one looked back to see the faint smile curling Francesca’s lips.

  Chapter 4

  Keith pulled Bertie toward his black Porsche Cayenne. She tried stopping him, but the wedge shoes she wore didn’t give good traction.

  “We need to talk,” he growled as he yanked open the passenger door and tried shoving her inside.

  “Hold on a minute. Where do you think you’re taking me? I haven’t agreed to work for you. I’m not about to get in your car and head for parts unknown.” Bertie crossed her arms over her impressive chest and glared up at him. Keith barely knew her, but he recognized the mulish tilt of her chin, and he figured he’d better start talking if he wanted answers.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled the crisp evening air. It was mid-March, the sun had gone down and the temperatures had dropped into the fifties. The cold pierced the gray henley sweater he wore over his long-sleeve cotton T-shirt and he fought the urge to shiver. He still hadn’t acclimated to the cooler climate, even though most considered the Carolinas mild. Keith had lived among the palm trees and salty breezes of the Atlantic Ocean for years. Anything in the fifties was considered freakin’ cold in Miami.

  He rubbed his hands together and said, “Look, can we go somewhere and maybe grab a cup of coffee? I want to sort this whole thing out. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  Bertie’s sea-green eyes narrowed. Keith fought the urge to grin. She may look like Betty Boop, but he had a feeling she was no dummy. “No more cheap shots. What do you say?”

  “Well…”

  “Come on. I’m freezing my ass off out here.” He held the passenger door open. Bertie hesitated, peering up at him as if he bullied small children and stole their lunch money. She gave a curt nod before hiking herself up into the leather bucket seat. He caught a brief glimpse of a very fine ass encased in a pair of tight jeans. He was in hell.

  Keith drove the short distance from Aunt Francesca’s neighborhood, where statelier, wealthier homes graced acre lots in Harmony, to the corner of Main and Oakwood, near the center of town. He parked in the side lot to what looked to be the local watering hole. The Dogwood Bar & Grill had small-town charm, with its gabled roof and covered porch entrance. Hunter-green shutters and window boxes with blooming yellow flowers decorated the front. He strolled with Bertie up the paved walkway lined with several dogwood trees waiting for their blooms. His hand pushed the bronze handle on the wavy-glass front door, which obscured the interior, and ushered Bertie through. Once Keith stepped over the threshold, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  His head snapped back in stunned surprise. The “quaint” bar was bursting with a kaleidoscope of color. Straight ahead, aqua blue and green bell jar lamps hung over the dark brown wooden bar with chrome barstools covered in zebra-striped vinyl. Diners sat at old, plank pine tables on painted, ladder-back chairs in bright orange, pink, and lavender. And people jammed the booths, sitting on green and yellow Dalmatian-spotted vinyl, drinking out of aqua-colored mason jars. Chicken wire pendant lights illuminated each booth with colorful crystals and old-timey lightbulbs. The floor created a wave-like pattern in speckled orange, green, and blue terrazzo that led to a point directly in front of a wooden stage. A small local country band played in front of a pink and silver hexagon-patterned backdrop.

  “Goddamn. What blind person decorated this place? It looks like someone tripping on drugs opened a bunch of paint cans and went spider-monkey crazy,” Keith said.

  “Ummph,” he grunted as Bertie’s elbow connected hard with his ribs in a swift jab.

  “I did, you big, stupid oaf!” She glared up at him then stormed off, leaving him standing in the small, purple-painted entrance all alone.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Aunt Francesca wanted this color-blind, acid-dropping decorator working on his house?

  Like bloody hell.

  He watched Bertie and her fine ass weave her way toward the bar like she owned the place. Customers called out her name and she waved, stopping to speak with a few. Her thick, shiny hair bounced around her shoulders, and her tight jeans caught the attention of some of the guys. Keith witnessed more than a few heads swiveling in her direction. His mouth tightened into a grim line.

  When she rea
ched the end of the bar, Keith recognized her brother, the one he’d met earlier, handing her a martini with lots of olives as if he’d been expecting her. It figured everyone knew her since her brother obviously worked as a bartender. A waitress approached wearing a neon-pink, V-neck T-shirt with The Dog written across her chest in sequins. He refrained from rolling his eyes, figuring Bertie designed the blinding T-shirts as well.

  “Table for one? Or would you like to sit at the bar?” she asked, smiling, her lips covered with matching hot-pink lipstick. A silly pink bow flopped around her blond ponytail.

  “Uh, I’m with Bertie Anderson.” Keith motioned in Bertie’s direction. “We’ll need a table for two.”

  The waitress’s smile grew even wider. “Certainly. Bertie always sits at the owner’s table toward the back. Follow me.” The waitress grabbed a menu from a lime-green painted basket tacked to the wall. Keith followed her around the noisy diners to a booth tucked into an alcove that was not completely hidden but hidden enough for a little privacy.

  “Why does Bertie always eat at the owner’s table?” he asked as he slid across the booth and took the menu.

  The waitress placed two cardboard beer coasters on the sparkly, silver laminate tabletop.

  “Because she’s the owner,” she giggled. “With Cal. You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?” Bertie appeared at the waitress’s side with half a martini in her hand. She still looked pissed. “Thanks, Sara Jean. I’ll have my usual and get Mr. Morgan whatever he’d like.” She scooted into the booth on the opposite side.

  She owned a bar and she decorated? What else did she do? Give manicures at Floyd’s barbershop?

  Keith ordered a beer, figuring he’d need the extra fortification to deal with the crazier-than-bat-shit situation he currently found himself in. He glanced out over the busy bar at people eating, drinking, and singing along with the band. The bar had a comfortable atmosphere, in a psychedelic, morning-after, hangover kind of way. Fresh bread smells and the sizzling sound of grilling meat seeped from the kitchen, making his stomach growl. He turned back to Bertie and met her gaze. From the way her lips formed a definite frown, Keith knew he had some sucking up to do.