Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings)

by Michele Summers

  The very next day, Bertie had rushed home from theater practice and found Liza in the kitchen, glued to the front of Cal, kissing him. Devastated and hurt, Bertie’d been used by a master manipulator who’d stop at nothing to get her way—even befriending a lonely, heartsick classmate. From that day forward, she had never trusted Liza.

  “You think she’s still after Cal?” Lucy drank her Mountain Dew, tracking Liza behind the bar.

  “If it breathes and can get it up, then yep.” Bertie pushed her half-eaten plate of fruit away. “She’s up to something. I haven’t figured out what yet.”

  Lucy’s quiet chuckle could hardly be heard over the increasingly noisy breakfast crowd. “Bertie, sometimes you tend to blow things out of proportion. Maybe she’s only visiting and reconnecting with old friends.”

  Or new friends. Liza had been by Keith’s several times, according to Gary. Not that she gave a fat Fig Newton. She did not concern herself with the comings and goings of Mr. Hard Body. No, sir. She had a house to finish. A job to complete. She would treat Keith like any other client and be as professional as possible. No more lip-locking or molding herself to him like Play-Doh. Bertie didn’t know what had gotten into her lately. Well, she did know. Keith’s tongue had gotten into her, but she didn’t know why she allowed it. Okay, well, maybe she did. The last time her tonsils had tangoed was six months ago. No, that couldn’t be right. Hot glue guns. Her womanly parts started to shrivel inside her body. It hadn’t been six months—it was much worse. She hadn’t swapped spit or any other bodily fluids in over a year.

  Her latest horizontal contact with a male had been her short and lackluster fling with Dave the architect from Raleigh. They’d met one day at a licensing workshop. The affair had lasted a good three months before Dave had a moral hiccup and decided he needed to stop cheating on his wife. Furious didn’t begin to describe how Bertie felt with herself and Dave the slimeball. Humiliated, Bertie buried herself in work and hadn’t come up for air in over a year—her punishment for falling before getting all the facts. Bertie had many faults, but being a home-wrecker was not one of them.

  Lucy nibbled on a buttered muffin. “So, tell me how you’re going to help Dwelling Place?”

  Bertie dragged her mind out of the slums of extramarital affairs and back to the present. She pulled a folder from her bag and slid it across the table to Lucy. She needed to talk fast before Liza returned. “I’ve pledged one hundred thousand dollars to Dwelling Place.”

  “What?” Lucy opened the folder and there sat Bertie’s pledge card to Dwelling Place and a check for her first installment for ten thousand dollars. “How? You gambling? Turning tricks?”

  Bertie laughed at Lucy’s scandalized face. “Nope. It’s all been legally obtained. I’m getting a huge bonus if I finish Keith Morgan’s house in less than three months, and I’m giving the bulk of it to DP.” Bertie tapped the top of the check with her finger. “That’s my first installment. I’ll give more in another month.”

  “So you’re guaranteed this bonus?”

  The skepticism in Lucy’s voice miffed Bertie. “Okay, here’s the thing…it’s not guaranteed, but I know I’m going to finish the job, and therefore, I’ll get the money.”

  “You can’t pledge this much right now. What if you don’t finish? DP is likely to start two houses with this pledge, and then what will you do if your bonus doesn’t come through?” Lucy’s growing alarm started to send a slight chill up Bertie’s spine.

  Bertie fluttered her hand, waving off Lucy’s objections and her own unease. “Stop worrying. I may have to work with the devil, and no one said it was going to be easy.” A scowl marred Lucy’s serious face. “Besides Lulu, I can’t let those kids down. I’ve met little Jessica Alvarez and her family. She’s only four years old—”

  “Bertie, your dedication is admirable. But don’t you think you’re putting the cart before the horse? Don’t you want to keep some of this money for yourself? You do so much for everyone else and never think of yourself. You should set the money aside for your retirement or whatever.”

  “No worries. I’m giving a hundred to DP and splitting the remaining fifty with Gary. I’ll still have an extra twenty-five thousand to save or put to good use.”

  “I’m back. What’d I miss?” Liza slid into the booth next to Lucy.

  Bertie bit down on her bottom lip, trying to rein in her anger at Liza’s annoying presence.

  “Not much. Bertie was telling me”—Bertie kicked Lucy under the table—“Ow! Uh, about her new job with Keith Morgan.”

  “Mmm, mmm, he is sooo fine. I’ve got plans for that lean, mean tennis machine…and they don’t include tennis lessons.” Liza licked her lips in a seductive way. She jabbed Lucy with her elbow. “He’s got the dreamiest dark eyes, and I’m sure he knows what to do in the bedroom.” Liza waggled her eyebrows in Lucy’s direction, ignoring Bertie altogether.

  Bertie squelched the urge to grab the maple syrup pitcher and pour it over Liza’s head. She had no claim on Keith, but that didn’t mean she wanted Liza playing hide-the-salami with the stud so she could brag about it all over town.

  “Keith Morgan? Isn’t he the famous tennis player?” Lucy asked to defuse the situation, recognizing the murderous gleam in Bertie’s eye.

  “The one and only. Didn’t Bertie tell you?”

  “She knows I’m working for him. What are you getting at, Liza?” Bertie said with undisguised irritation.

  “He’s wife hunting. And Bertie here is apparently off the list because she’s been banned from his house and—”

  “That’s a lie. I have not been banned.” Bertie fingered the maple syrup pitcher.

  Liza chuckled. “I think it has something to do with her not being able to keep her lips to herself.”

  “Oh, boy. You are working for the devil.” Worry crept into Lucy’s voice as she pushed the folder back to Bertie. “You need to rethink this, for sure.”

  Bertie snatched the folder and shoved it back in her bag. “I know what I’m doing, and I’m still on the job. Don’t believe Ms. Buttinsky here. She’s full of crap.”

  “Whoa. I can name three witnesses who saw you latched on to Keith Morgan’s lips in Francesca’s driveway just the other week,” Liza said.

  “First of all, I did not latch on to him; he latched on to me.” Sort of. Bertie jabbed her index finger at Liza. “Secondly, I don’t have to sit in my restaurant and listen to you spread useless gossip. As a matter of fact, I don’t have to listen to you at all. You’re fired!”

  Liza drew back. “Cal hired me—”

  “And I’m firing you.” Bertie crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “Fine. Then you’re up for Roller Derby tomorrow night. I can’t skate anyhow.”

  Fudge. Bertie hated waitressing at roller derby night because she couldn’t skate worth a damn either. But she’d fall flat on her ass ten times before she’d ask Liza, the town bitch, back to the Dog.

  Liza had stood to leave when Bertie blurted, “And don’t forget to turn in your T-shirt,” making sure she had the last word.

  Liza pivoted slowly. “You want my shirt?” Alarm bells should’ve gone off in Bertie’s head as Liza’s lips curled into a reptilian smile. “You can have it.” Before anyone could blink, Liza whipped her T-shirt over her head, tossed it at Bertie’s face, and then sauntered toward the back of the restaurant with her head held high.

  Holy goose feathers. What had Bertie done? Heads swiveled to watch Liza modeling a lacy blue push-up bra, and then everyone turned to watch Bertie with opened mouths and alarmed expressions.

  Lucy, who sat frozen like a block of ice through the entire ugly exchange, started to giggle. “Oh, Bertie.” She gave in to a hoot of laughter. “Liza looked pretty good, but if that had been you…it would’ve caused a riot. You definitely have her beat in the boob department.”

  Yeah, she was
one big boob. Bertie slunk lower into the booth, hoping everyone would go back to eating and coffee drinking and not google-eyeing her. “Show’s over, folks. You can finish your breakfasts now,” Bertie called out with a dismissive wave.

  Dread settled in her stomach, curdling her breakfast. Now she needed to break the news to Cal.

  “Bertie!” Cal bellowed from across the bar in an I’m-gonna-kill-you way.

  Uh-oh. For the first time, Bertie wished she drank before noon.

  Chapter 9

  Keith drove the tennis ball down the line with a hard forehand and moved toward the net. With a split step, he angled off a backhand volley, putting the ball away. He’d been playing since ten that morning at the Raleigh Tennis Club, and it felt good to hit the ball. A crowd began to fill the stands since word spread that he was on center court, but he’d been oblivious—exorcising his demons took all his concentration.

  At the changeover, he looked up over his water bottle and gave a nod to Nick Frasier, the NFL coach of the Carolina Cherokees, standing on the veranda outside the club house. Keith had known Nick when he played quarterback for the NFL and trained in Miami before he retired from the game. He’d been invited to Nick’s wedding a year ago in Raleigh, but hadn’t made it because he’d had a prior engagement…with self-pity and the bottom of a bottle of Mount Gay.

  Keith finished the match, winning 6–3, 6–2. Not bad for a top ten, ex-tennis pro. Fuck. This used to be his life, and somehow he needed to find his way back. Tennis needed to be part of him again, even if he didn’t compete on a professional level. There had to be another way.

  Keith shoved his rackets in his black-and-yellow Babolat bag and scheduled several more matches with the club pro for the following weeks. He slung the tennis bag over his shoulder and headed for the veranda. He stopped to sign autographs and have his picture taken and noted Nick engaged in the same activity. When the excitement died down and the fans started to disperse, he and Nick shook hands.

  “It’s good to see you hitting the ball,” Nick said. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

  Keith grunted. “Tell that to my aching legs and burning lungs.”

  “I know the feeling.” Nick chuckled and then glanced to his side at someone who caught his attention. “Marabelle, stop hiding and come over here.” He motioned with his hand to someone peering behind one of the columns.

  A petite, curly headed gal scowled at Nick and then stomped toward them. “You don’t have to embarrass me in front of him,” she said, poking Nick in the chest with her finger.

  “Tinker Bell, you embarrass yourself enough for the both of us. You don’t need any help from me.” Nick pulled Marabelle into his side and dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Keith, this is my wife, Marabelle, your biggest and most adoring fan.” Marabelle dug her elbow into Nick’s gut, but he didn’t even flinch. Keith observed the couple’s exchange. Even though they were jabbing at each other, it was clear as glass that they loved each other.

  Keith flashed his famous Morgan smile. “Nice to meet you, Marabelle. Or is it Tinker Bell? I’m confused.” He held her tiny hand in his.

  “I don’t care if you call me Jezebel. It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Morgan. I have followed your career since the very beginning, and I mourned the day you retired,” Marabelle gushed as she pumped his hand.

  “Thank you,” Keith smiled down into her eager face. Marabelle’s big, brown eyes shone with pure admiration.

  “Marabelle, honey, why don’t you give Keith his hand back and let him hit the showers and then we’ll grab some lunch. How does that sound, Morgan?” Nick asked.

  Keith squeezed Marabelle’s hand and gave her a wink. “That sounds great.” Marabelle appeared almost forlorn as she released his palm. “Give me about fif—”

  “Hold it,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. She twisted her hands as her gaze darted from Nick to Keith. “Mr. Morgan, would you mind having another picture taken with me? While you’re still wearing tennis clothes? I know it’s silly, but…”

  “No problem. And please, call me Keith.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, gathering her close.

  “Nick, take one with my phone and your phone. Take two. Make sure I have two pictures on my phone.”

  “Be still, honey, and smile,” Nick said. “How’s that?” He handed Marabelle’s phone to her.

  Keith peered over her shoulder. Marabelle looked like a doll standing under his arm, reminding Keith of Bertie and how perfectly she felt tucked into him.

  “Great.” She beamed up at Keith. “Thank you so much, Mr.…uh, Keith.”

  ***

  The sun’s fractured rays shone through the green oak leaves, giving off enough warmth that Keith and the Frasiers decided to dine outside at a small Italian restaurant in a trendy shopping area in Raleigh. Keith couldn’t keep from smiling as he enjoyed the banter between the couple. It appeared as if Nick had his hands full with his pint-sized wife. Marabelle had a quick wit and relished giving her famous husband a hard time. But Keith had no doubt they loved each other. He recognized the signs—the Frasiers had trouble keeping their hands to themselves.

  Keith had no recollection of sharing laughs and silly stories with Adriana. His stormy marriage seemed so long ago. Six years had passed since Adriana died a useless death, alone in her car, after a long night of partying. The official cause of her fiery car accident was too much alcohol coupled with passing out behind the wheel. They’d been married three years and never managed to create lasting, pleasant memories…and yet it had felt like an eternity in hell.

  Keith reached for his water, tamping down the twisted knot that swelled his stomach. Marabelle scowled over a comment Nick made about her not having enough time to cook for him as he pulled on one of her curls. And then she laughed, giving him a quick kiss and promising to cook for him tonight. Keith pictured vanilla-looking Gail acting the same way toward him, but it didn’t quite gel. She was too sweet. Not sassy enough to talk back or tease.

  “Marabelle has been so busy with her tennis that she barely finds time to cook anymore. Unless it’s for Beau Quinton, then she rivals the Barefoot Contessa in the kitchen,” Nick said.

  “Well, Beau does inspire me like no one else,” Marabelle responded in a thick Southern drawl, batting her eyelashes with dramatic flair.

  Bertie’s big, green eyes and mulish tilt to her chin popped into Keith’s head. He could definitely picture her making the same comment. Don’t go there. Back to Gail and her sensible Keds and durable khaki pants.

  Nick laughed, clearly enjoying Marabelle’s teasing. “Besides all her obligations to tennis, Marabelle is a personal chef. Several players are paying customers, including Beau Quinton. But Beau’s a smart quarterback. He has no desire to warm the bench. He only has an interest in Marabelle’s food,” Nick explained to Keith.

  “Tell me about your tennis,” Keith said to Marabelle.

  Marabelle dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “First of all, let me clarify. Beau begs me on a regular basis to run away with him, but I don’t have the time or the energy,” she said with a straight face. Nick hooked his arm around Marabelle’s neck, pulling her under his chin.

  “That’s because I make sure you don’t have the time or the energy,” he growled into her hair.

  Marabelle laughed. “That’s true.”

  “Now, stop being a smart aleck and tell Keith about your tennis.” Nick planted a loving kiss on her temple.

  “I help with the clinics at the tennis club and give some private lessons.” Marabelle shrugged as she reached for her chicken salad sandwich.

  “Tell him about the after-school program you started,” Nick urged, allowing his pride to show.

  Keith finished chewing a bite of his spicy grilled tuna. “Yeah, I’m interested in how you went about it. I’m toying with an idea of my own.”

  Surpri
se followed by hope skittered across Marabelle’s face. “If you were to start something, it would really make a difference. With your name, you could draw all kinds of kids to the game.”

  “Watch out. Before you know it, Marabelle will have you selling yourself off to the highest bidder in some sort of bachelor auction like she did to me,” Nick said with a chuckle.

  Keith’s eyebrows rose as Marabelle grinned, nodding her head. “He’s right. And we made tons of money. You should consider having an auct—”

  “Marabelle, don’t even think about it.” Nick’s warning rang loud and clear.

  Keith pulled the pamphlet on rejuvenating the Jaycee that Dottie Duncan had shoved at him earlier out of his back pocket and handed it to Marabelle. “I was thinking about working on this facility right outside of Harmony. It’s really run-down, but I think it can be fixed up and even expanded and—”

  “And you could start an academy. The Keith Morgan Tennis Academy. That would be so awesome.” Marabelle examined the pamphlet while Nick read over her shoulder.

  “She’s right. This area could use a great professional tennis facility. And with your name, it could really take off,” Nick added.

  Keith squirmed in his seat as he fiddled with his glass of iced tea. He didn’t picture himself as head of any academy. He knew how to play tennis. He didn’t know if he had the ability to teach it or even to be an administrator. “I was thinking more along the lines of having a facility for underprivileged kids or even kids that have the desire to play but whose parents can’t afford a country club.” Keith tugged on the collar of his blue Nike pullover. “An academy would costs kids thousands of dollars to attend.”