by Mae Nunn
Lacey gulped the last of her latte, crunching ice from the bottom of the cup as she considered her response. “If you’d spent any time reconnecting with the few high-school friends you had, you’d have noticed that none of us look like we did when we were teenagers. And most folks don’t care. Appearances may be everything on Madison Avenue, but down on Beardsly Square we like to think it’s what’s inside that counts.”
“You sound like my grandmother,” Tara conceded.
“That’s because most of our grandmothers tried to teach us the same thing. I know Miss Miriam didn’t bring you back here to hurt you. She had to believe you’d figure out how to fit in or she’d have made it easy for you to stay away.”
“You think?”
Lacey rounded the bar. “I’m positive.” She draped her arm around Tara’s shoulders. “So stop worrying about what’s wrong with you and let’s focus instead on the stuff that’s a perfect fit for Beardsly. I’m going to get a pad and pencil from the office and we’re going to make a list of things to get you into circulation before the grand opening.”
At nine o’clock, Tara flopped faceup across the bed. The motion of the ceiling fan caused the Battenburg lace canopy to billow overhead. Long past being tired, she huffed out a deep sigh of exhaustion. Throbbing quads and biceps cried out from the physical work of hanging wallpaper and installing hardware.
But nothing ached more than her head from the afternoon of brainstorming. Two weeks would be enough if she kept a tight schedule. Watching her time judiciously, she should be able to make all the upcoming events and still wrap up a thousand details at Bridges.
During the years Tara had lived in New York, Lacey Rogers had become an expert listener, the virtual spout of the town’s communication funnel. Any information of note passed through Lacey’s Closet. As a result, the details of every baby shower, birthday party and Sunday school social were tucked away in her planner.
A few strategic phone calls produced a gaggle of friendly invitations. Tara’s life was already a whirlwind of activity, but she was about to be thrust for the first time into the storm surge of Hurricane Beardsly. She prayed her nerves could handle it.
After a cool shower, her damp hair hanging past her shoulders, she slipped one of her grandmother’s old patchwork gardening smocks over a pair of baggy shorts and padded down the stairs.
The side-by-side refrigerator yielded bottled water and leftover pizza. The silence of the kitchen was broken by the whir of the huge appliance and her thirsty gulps. Errant drops of the soothing water dribbled down her chin. She wiped them away with the hem of the smock, then lifted her hair to press the chilled bottle to her neck.
The three-tone door chime echoed inside the quiet house. Rolling her eyes at her friend’s persistence, Tara plunked the bottle on the countertop, and crossed into the dark foyer.
“Please don’t tell me you thought of something else,” she called out as she pulled open the massive walnut door.
“As a matter of fact,” Sam said, “I was thinking of something else. But with you standing there looking like a crazy quilt, I can’t remember what it was now.”
Chapter Seven
“How did you get here?” Tara demanded, as she ducked behind the door.
“I took College Avenue through the center of town.” He pointed toward the business district. “Then I went south on Maple, east on Sycamore and here I am.”
“Very funny. I’d love to stay for your whole act but I’m afraid I’m not dressed for company.”
“Why, yes, I noticed. But it is nice to see you in something colorful even if the look is a bit mature for you.” He angled toward the open doorway to get a better look.
She ignored his criticism.
“How did you get here without me hearing you? That infernal machine is loud enough to wake the dead.”
“Oh, it’s ‘that infernal machine’ now, is it? The last time you were on it you said it was ‘incredible.’”
She dropped her chin, mouthing a three count, then glanced up. “Do you remember everything I say?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Rusty. It’s the curse of a good memory. And to answer your question, it appears I pulled up while you were upstairs. I know it’s late, but would you mind if I come in?” he asked. “We need to talk about the building.”
“I’m ready to collapse. Can’t we put this off until tomorrow?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m tied up for the next few days and this can’t wait.”
Resignation crossed her freshly scrubbed face. Without makeup she was even more lovely. He looked away.
“Count to ten and let yourself inside. I need to change.” She ducked out of sight, her light footsteps beating a rhythm on the wooden floor.
The screen door thwacked closed behind him. One step across Miriam Elliott’s threshold was a step backward in time.
Dorothy Kennesaw had lost her husband in Vietnam. The monthly Social Security check wasn’t much so she made ends meet for herself and Sam by cleaning for the well-to-do. The big house on Sycamore was Thursday’s employer. Each week Sam stepped off the school bus and into a fantasy world.
The little apartment behind the grocery was homey, but Sycamore House was the stuff of his daydreams. Long after he was old enough to be a latchkey kid, he still met his mother on Thursdays at Miss Miriam’s. Part of the attraction was the incredible beauty of the home and its contents. He’d studied the rich woods and breathed in the history of the pieces.
But another part, the most important part, was the redheaded girl who waited for him on the steps. At five years old she’d been a giggling shadow. He’d dubbed her Rusty. At eight she’d become a persistent pest. At eleven she was an endearing mass of skinny arms and legs and he was a high school junior with big dreams, a pile of homework and a broken dirt bike.
Rusty became a casualty in the battle for his time.
He hesitated at the carved pocket doors leading to the parlor. From habit, he eased his feet from well-worn boots and set them aside. After several reverent steps on the Persian carpet, he knelt to brush his fingertips across the handwoven silk.
It had taken months of work for an international locator, and twenty thousand dollars, but the same tree-of-life pattern Sam had memorized as a boy now lay before the leather sofa in his private office in Houston.
“Isn’t it spectacular?” Tara stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a Yankees T-shirt, her damp hair deepened to a thousand autumn colors.
“I researched it for an art-history project and found it’s one of a kind.”
“Is that so?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” She moved to his side, leaning in for a closer inspection. “It’s called a tree of life.”
“Interesting.” He nodded. “But I think there’s a possibility you may be wrong about it being one of a kind.”
She shook her head, the wet tips of her dark locks whipping across her shoulders. “No, I’m certain of it. I considered specializing in Persians when I went to work at The Heritage.”
With an affirming glance at the carpet, he pushed to his feet. “It may take a while, but I’m pretty sure I’ll eventually prove you wrong.” He offered his hand to shake on the deal.
With a small smile, she clasped his palm with hers. “Fire your best shot.”
“Oh, my guns are loaded, Rusty, and I think it’s time I had the last laugh.” He noted a slight shadow of pain cross her face at the sting of his words and for the first time wished he could take them back.
Stepping away, she dropped his hand. His gaze locked on the fingers she passed through her damp curls. “I’m exhausted. What’s the reason for your visit?”
“In a minute.” He wouldn’t be rushed. He turned, admiring the rich appeal of the furnishings against the backdrop of hand-stamped, sapphire-and-emerald wall coverings and intricate woodwork.
“Would you mind showing me around the place?”
“You’ve been here a hundred times.”
&nbs
p; “But not for years. Please?”
She nodded and led the way.
The tour of the main floor ended on the back veranda. He squatted to study the partially restored desk.
She clicked on the porch light and the overhead fan creaked into action. “This is the desk I bought from the Carltons.”
He slid a hand from the sturdy foot up the length of one leg, and across the edge of the desktop to rest on the tragically spray-painted surface.
“Do you think you’ll be able to get the paint off the leather?” he asked, and glanced up to see her chewing her full lower lip, a familiar and endearing sign of worry.
“The hardware store ordered a special stripper for me by express delivery, so I should know this time tomorrow whether or not the leather will have to be replaced.”
“You’ve done such a fine job with the rest of the piece. It would be a shame to have to use new leather to finish it.” He stood and ran his hands across the padded surface. “Worst-case scenario, you could find an old piece of distressed leather for the upholstery.”
He backed away to study it again. “I can’t wait to see it finished. I bet it’ll bring three grand. I’d love to have it myself.”
When she didn’t respond, he turned to find her leaning against the porch rail, arms folded across her chest, studying him.
“What?” he asked, afraid he’d shown too much interest in the piece.
“You’re a conundrum, Sam.”
“Excuse me?”
“Everybody believes you’re so uncomplicated, back to the basics and all that, but I’m on to you.”
“You reckon so?” he challenged.
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do. One minute you’re the carefree biker, the next you’re the local expert on economic indicators. By day you’re a secretive entrepreneur, deliberately hiding behind closed doors, and by night you’re a parking-lot philosopher, espousing the simple life.”
“And you don’t think it’s possible to be all those things?”
Tara pushed away from the banister and took several steps closer.
“It’s not only possible, in this case I’d say it’s probable. And I don’t have a problem with it, but a lot of people in this town will when they figure out you’ve deceived them.”
He squirmed beneath the weight of her words. His crouched position became figuratively as well as literally uncomfortable. Rising to his feet relieved the pressure on his knees but did little to reduce the worry building inside. He stared at the plank floor.
She was right.
He was beginning to enjoy his image as the needy beneficiary who seemed to eschew personal possessions in favor of teaching others his altruistic values. When the day came to claim his pound of flesh, would he find the price had become more than even he could afford to pay?
If Tara was already on to him, maybe it was time to cash in before the stakes were too high. Maybe it was time to end the charade.
As he drew a breath to speak, he felt the warm touch of her hand against his bare forearm and shifted his attention from the floor to her fathomless blue eyes.
“Sam, it’s okay to admit you haven’t made much of yourself since you left Beardsly. People here are happy you’ve got this second chance to do something with your life. You don’t have to keep pretending that you have so little by design. One day you may be able to afford all the things you try to deny you desire.”
Sam placed his hand over her soft fingers, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb across her knuckles. He exhaled, grateful he’d held his breath and his confession.
“It’s that obvious, huh?”
She nodded. “I’m afraid so, Sam.”
“I have to admit, Rusty, some of the things you said are right on target. And you’ve given the philosopher in me plenty to consider. Now, let me give you something to think about.”
He rested his palms atop her shoulders and slid both hands down to her elbows. Gently pulling her to his chest, he wrapped her in a loose embrace and dipped his head to kiss her. His nostrils filled with the essence of the cinnamon scent she wore.
Tara surrendered to the kiss. Her arms slipped around his waist. Surprised by his unplanned action and her unexpected reaction, he loosened his grip. Refusing to accommodate his shift away from her, Tara pulled him once again into the embrace, evidently intent on continuing the kiss.
His mind strained against the jumble of spicy smells. And he realized with a jolt that there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be at that moment.
Heart pounding a fearful cadence, he raised his head and set her an arm’s length away.
“So, everybody thinks I’m a failure?” he asked, denying the appealing warmth of the moment.
She gave a negative shake of her head. The drying curls glowed beneath the light above the veranda.
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant.” His self-control and matter-of-fact attitude slipped back into place. “Now that I have this chance to ‘do something with my life’ as you so carefully put it, I don’t intend to blow it.”
“I know you well enough to believe that’s true, Sam.”
He stepped away from the glare of the light, into the shadow of the doorway. “Actually, Rusty, you never knew me well at all. But you will.”
He opened the door and she preceded him into the kitchen, a room he once knew like the back of his hand. His gaze scanned the glass-fronted cabinets, falling on familiar pottery mugs and earthenware bowls. Little had changed, least of all the know-it-all opinions of some people.
“The insurance on the building needs to be increased to cover the contents.”
“I know,” she agreed. “I have the forms from the underwriter in my to-do stack.” She angled her head toward the oak pedestal table, heavy with file folders and unopened envelopes.
“I don’t know about Bridges, but Sam’s Cycles needs a half-million in coverage for loss or damage.”
She whistled at the amount.
He held out his hand. “Why don’t you give me the paperwork so I can handle it?”
“Because it’s all still in Grandmother’s name. I’ll fill everything out and Davis will be happy to notarize the changes for me.”
“Davis?” He jumped on her mention of Davis Fairweather, the recently elected county clerk. “Gettin’ cozy with a local, huh?” Sam prodded. He had spotted the social-climbing Fairweather on his numerous trips up the stairs of the Elliott Building in recent days.
She shook her head no but the stain in her cheeks said otherwise. Battling the mental image of the up-and-coming politician and Tara Elliott, Sam stalked through the dining room into the foyer.
Feeling like a jealous fool, he flung the front door wide and stomped across the front porch. “See that you take care of that right away. I wouldn’t want to be you if the river rises and my bikes aren’t insured!” He shouted over his shoulder without a backward glance.
“See you soon, Sam,” Tara called, a note of amusement in her voice.
The front door closed with a whoosh, and the dead bolt snapped. Sam lengthened his stride to the end of the walk, muttering as he went.
“So Sam Kennesaw’s a failure, huh? They all think they know so much. Well, we’ll just see who has the last laugh.”
At the edge of the pavement, he stepped down six inches to the gravel drive, all hundred and eighty pounds on his support leg. Pinpoints of pain shot into his foot from the loose gravel walkway. He sat backward onto the step, his eyes squeezed shut in disbelief, as he remembered something important.
His boots.
Chapter Eight
“Welcome back, Sam.” Claire Savage placed a toasted bagel on the granite coaster Sam used to protect his walnut Edwardian partner’s desk.
“You’re my business manager, Claire, not my mother. You don’t have to feed me breakfast.” He didn’t need to glance up from the spreadsheets he studied to know she’d be impeccably dressed, despite the casual workplace. The Harvard Busin
ess School graduate was a curious mixture of beauty queen and savvy shark.
“Can I help it if I enjoy a domestic task now and again?” She stepped behind his leather chair and placed her hands atop his shoulders, her strong fingers kneading competently. “You’re tense. What secret mission has your muscles in knots?”
“Okay, Claire,” Sam tossed his reading glasses on the stack of documents. He swiveled the chair to face her, folded his arms and assessed the former Miss Texas.
“You don’t have a domestic bone in your body. What’s up?”
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her silk suit and perched on the edge of his credenza.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Like a windshield. So, tell me, what is it?”
“Well, I’m not sure how to put this.”
He watched her with a close eye knowing something serious was percolating in her brilliant mind. In the four years he’d known the articulate blonde, he’d never seen her at a loss for words.
“Just shoot straight, like always.”
Her straight-shooting had ensured their relationship was strictly professional. Soon after they’d met, she’d told him she limited her dating to Christian men. Since he wasn’t sure where he stood with God, Sam was out of the running. She’d become his business manager and shown no interest beyond his financial holdings.
“First, how about telling me where you’ve been the past month?” she asked.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so secretive.” He paused, letting Claire think he was giving in to her usual probing for information. “But I’ve been taking care of some legal matters in east Texas.”
“Are you being sued, Sam?” She pressed to her feet, brown eyes wide with concern.
“No, it’s nothing like that.” He motioned for her to sit. “I’m helping out with the estate settlement of a woman my mother worked for when I was a kid.”
Her eyes narrowed, piercing him with the stare she reserved for bankers and customers behind in their payments.