by Judith Yates
“How do you know that?”
“Maura mentioned it. She said you’ve only been back here for three or four years.”
“Four.” He wasn’t surprised Maura had talked about him. He just wished she hadn’t.
“Because you got divorced?”
Paul turned to Amy. “She told you that, too?”
“Is it supposed to be a secret?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, I prefer the country. And after the divorce, there was no reason to stay in San Francisco, especially since I was fed up with my job as well. So I came home.”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Paul hated talking about this, or even thinking about it for that matter. He hated being reminded of what he’d had to give up and how impossible it had been to remain in the same state with his ex and her new family. Besides, this outing wasn’t supposed to be about him.
“Now you know why I’m here. Why are you?”
Amy cast him a wary glance. “You know why.”
“Yes, yes, to settle your father’s will. And I accept that,” he said quickly, not wanting to irritate her again.
“And to learn something about him,” she added.
“So why did you wait until now?”
“I would have come to his funeral—if there had been one. But I was told his body was cremated, and there was no service, no memorial, no burial.”
“That’s how Greg wanted it, Amy. He didn’t believe in ceremony of any kind.”
“I didn’t know.”
Although her response was barely a whisper, Paul caught the sadness in it. She even looked a little lost. He felt for her then. He really felt for her. “Greg was unconventional for a man his age,” he offered gently.
“My grandparents thought him odd, she said with a rueful sniff. “My mother called him a nonconformist, and she didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
For pity’s sake, no wonder the poor guy took off, Paul thought as he steered the pickup carefully through a winding patch of mountain road. What kind of picture had those people painted of Greg over the years? “Look, Amy, Greg Riordan was no saint—few men are. But he was a good man at heart. Bernadette wouldn’t have stayed with him all those years if he hadn’t been,” he assured her. “And he was a heck of a lot of fun.”
“Was he?”
Amy’s voice cracked, and then he heard her deep sharp breath.
Turning to her window, she stared out into the dark. “You’re wondering why I waited until after his death to come to the Blue Sky—aren’t you?”
“Frankly, yes,” he admitted. “I’d heard you’d been asked several times.”
“Back when my father first bought the inn,” she said, still gazing out the side window. “I hadn’t heard from him for years before that.”
“Why didn’t you come, Amy?”
“Because it was too damn hard. Because I was nineteen years old and I couldn’t cope with the situation.” She turned to him her jaw clamped tight as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. “I had grown up feeling like my father had abandoned me, and then he suddenly reappears not only with an inn, but with Bernadette and the girls, too. He had a new family. And I was an outsider. Even now that’s hard to deal with.”
New family resounded through his head, and Paul felt he had to pull his truck over. He wasn’t sure why. Was it the silent tears streaming down Amy’s face or the echo of his own disturbing memories? But when he stopped and Amy turned to him with glistening eyes, be reached for her because he understood. He understood better than she would ever know.
Murmuring her name, he held her trembling shoulders between his hands. Pressing his forehead against hers, he tried to soothe her with words.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she gasped, her voice quivering. He felt her body fight back the sobs. “I never cry, Paul. Never.”
“’I know,” he whispered against her cheek, his arms sliding around her back. She was still trembling slightly, but she felt warm and soft and good in his embrace.
Paul could no longer resist the temptation of her hair. He’d been wondering about it from the moment he first saw her approaching the Pratts’ disabled car. The glossy, dark strands were now within reach. He had to touch.
Gently he combed his fingers through the length of her hair. He closed his eyes and relished the feel of it, smooth, luxurious and softer than fine, fine silk.
A breathless sigh seemed to shiver through her, yet she did not move away. “Crying is pointless,” Amy insisted, as though she were arguing with herself. “It never changes anything.”
“It might help you feel better.” He stroked her hair again. “All this has to have been rough on you.”
Finally, Amy lifted her head to look at him. “I haven’t had it as rough as you. You lost both your parents and then your Aunt Milly.”
His thumb smoothed away the last tear from her cheek. Although Paul appreciated her compassion, he had come to terms with his childhood losses long ago. He wished he could say the same for the more recent past.
Amy managed to compose herself, and Paul released her. He shifted back behind the steering wheel and switched on the ignition. She smiled at him from across the seat, and his heart revved up faster than the truck’s engine. For a second, he thought about taking her to a place with more ambience than Fred’s Bar-B-Que Bash. But he had promised the woman ribs and beer, not candlelight and wine. Besides, considering her frame of mind, she probably wasn’t in the mood for such nonsense.
Which was probably for the best&h; he guessed.
They both said little during the rest of the ride to Fred’s, but their silence was relaxed and companionable. The marked tension between them had dissolved with Amy’s tears. When they pulled into Fred’s parking lot, Paul wasn’t surprised to see it less than half full. Mondays tended to be slow even at this popular restaurant. That meant less chance of running into anyone he knew from Tremont, less chance of fueling the already rampant gossip about Amy Riordan.
Pine-paneled walls, laminate-topped tables, nonstop country music and the smoky aroma of the barbecue pit were the perfect accoutrements for enjoying the best ribs for miles around. And any reserve left between him and Amy was long gone by the time they had finished their meal. Eating sticky, wet beef ribs with their hands freed them from polite formalities and created a lighthearted mood throughout the meal. In fact, it tickled him to see socialite Amy Riordan of Washington, D.C., chow down on a side of ribs with uninhibited relish.
“So you really were a TV news anchor in San Francisco?” Amy said as she pushed her plate away. “I can’t believe it.”
Paul watched her lick the last bit of tangy sauce from her delicate fingers. Somehow she managed to have it look dainty and sexy at the same time.
“I wouldn’t make up something like that,” he said, although his gaze was still fixed on her luscious mouth. “Besides, what’s so hard to believe about it?”
“It’s just that anchormen usually have perfect, slickedback hair and smooth, booming voices.”
“I supposed I’ve gotten a bit shaggy the past few years.” He brushed a hand through his hair. “But I can still boom with the best of them.”
“Oh, yeah?” She leaned back in her chair, provocative glints of challenge in her blue eyes. “Show me.”
Without hesitation, he summoned up the tone and inflections that, in their heyday, could out-Cronkite Walter. “And so, Miss Riordan,” he continued after describing the scene at Fred’s Bar-B-que Bash, “that’s the way it is on this Monday, November 30.”
Amy applauded and laughed. Paul was just surprised that he’d done it. He rarely talked about his past profession, never mind conjuring up a display of skills. Yet with Amy he had opened up. The same thing had happened when explaining how he’d come to live with Bernadette as a boy. He had told her much more than he’d intended.
“Why did you give up the news, Paul?” Amy tore open one of the moistened towelette packets the waitress had left at the t
able. “San Francisco is a major market. You must have been a darned good newsman to be working there.”
“Reading the news every night instead of finding it or writing about it felt hollow to me. But after five years at the anchor desk with great ratings, the station considered me too valuable for general reporting—other than the occasional high-profile puff piece.” He took a sip from the thick-glass beer mug. “I came to hate it.”
“So you went into business for yourself.” Amy wiped her hands with the towelette.
“Maura told you that, too?”
Before Amy could reply, an older, heavyset man came barreling up to their table. “Why, Paul Hanley, I thought that was you I saw comin’ in,” the man declared loud enough for the entire place to hear. “But Edna told me to stay put. Since she went ahead to pay, I told myself I’d sneak a look just to see.”
Effusive as the man was, his speech was somewhat slurred. Amy figured he must have taken advantage of the restaurant’s Monday-night free refill offer. She glanced over at Paul. Although he was being polite to the man, he seemed perturbed by the intrusion.
“Amy, this is Harry Bradford,” Paul said without smiling. “He runs the gas station in Tremont.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bradford.”
“Call me ‘Harry.” And I’ve already heard all about you, Miss Riordan.” Harry pumped her hand in his thick grip. “Janie Lee told me about how you helped with Jake’s flat.”
“I only stopped,” she said, trying to disengage her hand from his. “Paul’s the one who did all the work.”
“And ain’t that just like him?” Harry continued without missing a beat. “I’ve known this boy since he began deliverin’ newspapers for the Tullys. He was quite a hellion back then.”
Amy grinned. “Was he?”
Paul rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
“Sure was. But now don’t you go believin’ everythin’ you hear about him. He turned out all right, I guess.
Even ended up buy in’ out the Tullys’ business.” He slapped Paul on the back.
“Harry. Get on over here,” snapped a tall, skinny woman at the cashier’s counter.
“Right away, honey bunch,” Harry called before turning back to Amy. “You come by the station to say hello sometime. Okay?”
Amy promised at least to stop by for a fill-up.
“Old fool’s had one beer too many,” Paul muttered as Harry shuffled away. “Don’t pay any attention to his rambling.”
Harry seemed harmless enough to her; still, she could see Paul was annoyed. “What part should I ignore?” she asked lightly, hoping to get a smile out of him. “The part about you being a hellion? Or the part about you having turned out all right?”
She got her smile, the warmest one she’d seen from him yet.
“What’s bothering you about Harry?” she prodded.
He shrugged. “It’s not Harry per se. It’s like I told you—people around here like to talk. The whole town will know about our having dinner together.”
“So? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“Hardly.” The look he gave her almost stopped her heart. Amy still considered Paul immensely attractive. After spending a few hours with him, however, she realized she was drawn to more than just his looks.
Paul drank the last of his beer before continuing. “I just wish people would leave well enough alone. Most gossip is innocent enough. But when the line gets crossed, it can be hurtful and, sometimes, downright destructive.”
She sensed he was speaking from experience. Had he been the victim of small-town gossipmongers as a child?
Because Bernadette had taken him in? Because he had been a hellion? Or was there something else? And if Paul actually was the private sort Maura had spoken of, why had he revealed the painful details about his youth to Amy? Paul Hanley was a confusing and complex man, to be sure.
After the waitress served them coffee, Paul reminded her they hadn’t come here to talk about him. “Would you still like to hear about your father?”
“Very much.”
She listened intently as Paul told her what he knew about her father—facts, anecdotes, speculations. He even repeated a few of the jokes Greg had told him over the years. Paul was more than generous, digging back into his memory for every detail he could recall about Greg Riordan as a friend, townsperson and innkeeper. Still, Paul could reveal only the more obvious facts about Greg’s relationship with Bernadette and the girls. He certainly couldn’t tell Amy what her father had thought or felt about her.
Amy was grateful, though, and glad that she and Paul were no longer circling around each other with suspicion. Although he’d remain Bernadette’s arch defender to the end, he had listened to her and understood. Irony of ironies, she had found an ally in Paul Hanley. Returning to the Blue Sky and the Ryans didn’t feel like such a lonely prospect now.
Paul glanced at the dashboard clock when he pulled up to the inn. It was only a little past nine. Inside, the dining room was still busy with the second sitting, and outside, the evening was quiet, the temperature brisk. The earlier masking clouds had lifted. Now he could see the glow of a few low stars through the old willow oaks’ leafless branches.
He realized he didn’t want to go home. Not yet.
Amy was looking across the seat at him, her hand resting on the door handle. He supposed he could go inside with her, suggest a nightcap and then chat and mingle with other Pub Room patrons. But that would, effectively, end this time together.
“It’s gotten kind of nice out tonight,” he began, unsure what he intended to propose. Peering through the windshield, he searched around the low-lit grounds until he spotted the gazebo. “Would you like to sit outside for a while?” he asked. “It’s not that cold.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “I don’t know. It’s kind of late, isn’t it?”
Paul tapped the illuminated digits on the dash’s clock. “We can sit up on the gazebo for a little while, anyway. I’ll even run inside for some coffee to keep us warm.”
“More coffee?” she said with a laugh. “I’ll be awake all night at this rate.”
“Bud always has a pot of regular and decaf going behind the bar.”
“Well, if there’s decaf. Why not?”
“Great.” He liked the way her eyes seemed to smile.
Paul parked the truck and walked Amy to the gazebo. Then he hurried into the inn, hoping to get in and out without attracting his relatives’ notice. He loved them dearly, but they would ask too many questions.
As expected, neither Bernadette nor his cousins were in the pub. He slipped behind the bar and asked Bud for a couple of paper cups with lids. Paul, anxious to get back to Amy, poured the coffee quickly. With a jaunty wave to Bud, he headed out, thinking he was home free.
As he marched through the Pub Room door, Bernadette came careening around the corner. They almost knocked each other over. He held on to the coffee for dear life. The bar tray she was carrying slipped from her hands, clanging when it fell on the wood floor.
“What are you doing here?” Bernadette stooped down for the tray. “I thought you went home hours ago.”
“I just brought Amy back from dinner.”
“You went out to eat with Amy?” His aunt’s eyes were about to pop.
Deciding against further explanation, he simply nodded.
“Hmphf. Guess I can stop worrying about her gettin’ home safe.” Her gaze narrowed in on the two white cups. “Where are you going with those?”
“Outside. Amy is waiting for me.”
“Waiting for you? You mean out on the veranda?”
The hopeful note in her voice did not escape him. “No, the gazebo.”
“The gazebo?” She tried to hold back a smile.
“Bernadette, I’d love to stay and play echo with you,” he said with a wink, “but this coffee is getting cold.”
“Don’t let me keep you then.”
Paul turned to leave. He didn’t have to be a mi
nd reader to tell what she was thinking. That sly twinkle of hers said it all. At least she wasn’t barraging him with questions.
“Oh, Paul, wait,” Bernadette called after him. “I forgot something.”
He noticed her smile had disappeared. Her sparkle had faded into concern. “Aunt Bernadette, what’s the matter?”
“I forgot Amy had a phone call.” Pulling a pink message slip from her apron pocket, she glanced at it before handing it to him. “A man named Jeff Martin from Washington. He wants her to call him as soon as she can.”
“I’ll see that she gets it.”
“That’s his home number, Paul.”
Her voice sounded pained. It was as if she were warning him to be careful. He understood why. Bernadette was one of the very few people he had confided in when his life had gone to hell. She was the only person in Tremont who knew what actually had happened in San Francisco.
Heading across the side yard toward the gazebo, Paul told himself that Bernadette needn’t worry. Whoever this Jeff Martin was, whatever this phone call meant, was of no concern to him. Sure, he enjoyed being with Amy tonight. But that was as far as it went. No way was he going to start wondering about her life in D.C. No way was he getting himself into a position where he had to worry about competition for her affections.
“Hi. I was afraid you’d forgotten about me.”
He glanced up. Amy was leaning against the gazebo’s latticework railing and smiling down at him. She looked lovely. “Bernadette nabbed me at the door. Sorry.”
But somehow the mood had shifted. He felt the evening had lost its promise.
“Nothing wrong, I hope,” she said, as if she’d picked up on the change right away.
“Not at all.” He climbed up the steps to join her. “She asked me to give you this.”
Her lips tightened as she scanned the message slip. Crumpling the paper in her palm, she shoved it into her coat pocket. “I could use that coffee now.”
They sat side by side on a platform bench, sipping their coffees. For Paul, the silence was deafening. In spite of himself, he was curious about that phone message. Clearly it had disturbed Amy. And, whether it should have or not, whether he liked it or not, that damn piece of pink paper really bothered him.