Born in a Small Town

by Debbie Macomber

  Of course not. But suffering through a few parties where she was sure to be bored silly certainly didn’t guarantee that she would not. Hannah was happy to leave love to chance. After all, their mother had been nearly thirty-five before she’d met and married their father. Hannah wasn’t worried. Things happened—good things—when you weren’t looking for them.

  And of course it would never occur to Emily that she might prefer her quiet weekends, Hannah reflected, carefully locking her apartment door behind her and nodding to Mrs. Putty, who lived two doors down and across the hall. “Good morning, Mrs. Putty!”

  “Lovely day, isn’t it, dear? I’ve just been to the Shop-Easy. Got a cake mix for a treat and a dozen eggs. Ooh, what a nice pumpkin you have there! I suppose you’re getting all ready to go out to some fancy party tomorrow,” Mrs. Putty wheezed, her eyes twinkling. “With some handsome young man. Oh, my. You youngsters have all the fun—”

  “I don’t know about that, Mrs. Putty,” Hannah said with a smile that quickly faded as she headed down the stairs that Mrs. Putty had just lumbered up. We youngsters have all the fun? Still, the poor woman probably did wish she was thirty again.

  Hannah delivered her cookies and put the red flag up. She set the pumpkin on top of the mailbox. Then she decided to continue walking on into town. It was her regular day off from the library—Friday—and she had three weeks’ holidays starting next week. Other years she’d gone somewhere, for at least a week of that time. Mexico once. San Francisco another time. This year she’d decided to stay home.

  No reason. She just couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be. And it was always a nuisance finding someone to take Joan and Mr. Spitz for a week or two.

  She waved at several people she passed on Main Street—knowing everyone was part of what she loved about living in Glory—and popped into Foster’s Drugs to pick up some dental floss. She paused at the long shelf of hair products, inspecting the pictures on the packages. Beautiful women, gorgeous hair. Her own was a plain serviceable brown, although Emily tried to convince her it was a glorious chestnut. Chestnut! Once in a while she’d flirted with the idea of trying a rinse. Even trying to straighten out its jumble of curls. She usually kept it tucked up in a neat twist. Maybe now that she had three weeks off…

  Or maybe not. Hannah put the box back on the shelf and left the store.

  She stopped at the delicatessen to pick up half a pound of fresh-ground coffee. Kenyan, her usual. On her way past Maude’s Unique Boutique, she paused to study the window. Maude Bexley had outdone herself with bats and spiders and daring black-and-orange merry widows cinching up sexy lace stockings on the headless, armless mannequins. One had on a very short leather skirt, a nearly see-through tank top and a black boa. Grinning, winking, lighted pumpkins were positioned along the bottom of the window.

  Emily had said you didn’t have to dress up for this party at the Howlin’ Tiger. The idea was to meet other people and have fun. Supposedly you could come in whatever you were wearing.

  Hmm.

  Suppose, just suppose, Hannah Parrish was the type to wear a short leather skirt and a boa?

  CHAPTER THREE

  JACK LISTENED to his buddy’s phone ring for the tenth time and hung up. So much for that. He leaned on the small wooden shelf in front of the telephone in the hotel lobby, drumming his keys and considering who else he could call for companionship this evening when he suddenly realized he was eavesdropping on the conversation next to him.

  “Sick? What do you mean—sick? You can’t be sick. You were fine this afternoon when I talked to you, and now I’ve decided to come in for this…this stupid party and my car’s in the garage, I can’t even drive home and…and now you’re telling me I’m the only one here. The what?”

  Jack held his breath. The woman’s voice was deliberately low, but he could hear the passion in it. The fury. The energy. He smiled, wondering idly what she looked like.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she began again irritably, “something to do with the starter or something, Em. Forget the car. Listen, I want to know if you’re coming down here or not. You’re not? And what about that guy you were meeting here? All the…the friends you said were coming?”

  This was getting interesting.

  There was a pause, broken by an exasperated sigh. “Oh, that’s just great. He’s over at your place, holding your hand and feeding you chicken soup. Wonderful. Just make sure he’s gone before I get there, because I have to sleep on the couch.” Pause. “He’ll be…with you. Oh.”

  Then, in a painfully serious voice, she said, “What if he gets sick, Em? Whatever you’ve got? That wouldn’t be fair. You’d better be careful. Okay, take care, Em.” You could tell the woman was fond of this “Em.” Her initial anger had melted away. Jack heard a thump as she hung up the phone.

  “Damn! Blimey! Fiddlesticks!” Blimey? A few more unladylike sounds followed from the other phone carrel and then Jack realized that all kinds of small shiny things were rolling around his feet. She’d dropped her purse. He spotted coins, two lipsticks, a small bottle of aspirin, some keys, a half roll of Rum ’n’ Butter Life Savers, a film canister, a package of tissues…. He backed out and bent to collect them.

  “Ma’am?” He rose and held them out to her, hoping to mask the surprise that must be all over his face. She was gorgeous. About five and a half feet—or she would be without those incredible three-inch platform boots. She was wearing a minuscule black leather skirt, some kind of brief glittery top, weird earrings with feathers and gold hoops, and her hair—her hair was out of this world. Red, slinky, down past her shoulders. Bare shoulders.

  Man, this was his lucky day.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. Jack noticed that she was blushing. He didn’t think women who looked like this ever blushed. She seemed totally thrown by the loss of half the contents of her bag. And, no doubt, by the conversation he’d overheard.

  She’d picked up the spillage on her side and now held out her hand to take the things he’d collected. He gave them to her, wishing their fingers had touched. “Not at all. Glad to be of help.” He glanced at her left hand—no ring. Not that it was of any consequence.

  “Yes, well,” she muttered, tossing the assortment of items back into her bag and zipping it shut with a ferocious yank. She flipped back her hair with her free hand. Her eyes were stormy, tawny, flecked with green. She was a knockout. “Well…” She hesitated and bit her lip, an anxious childish gesture that, like the blush, didn’t go with the rest of her. She looked scared. “I’d better get moving. Thanks!”

  Then she turned and stalked off toward the door leading to the new club, the Howlin’ Tiger, that had just opened beside the hotel. She disappeared behind the glass-and-brass doors that led, twenty feet farther on, to the club. Jack knew, because he’d checked the place out earlier, just after he’d had his dinner. The setup on the bandstand and the general appearance wasn’t what he’d expected. It was clearly aimed at a young crowd, and he wasn’t in the mood for a lot of loud techno-rock.

  He took the elevator back to his room and switched on the television. News, the World Series, a game show featuring couples who’d met in a supermarket, an English sitcom, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a Disney movie… He settled down to watch something on ancient Egypt and realized twenty minutes later that his attention kept wandering away from the pharoahs.

  To a certain green-eyed redhead. What was she doing in that club? Did “Em” ever show up? Was she with someone? No, she’d said she was alone. Her car was out of commission.

  Jack made up his mind. He flicked off the television and took a quick shower. He found that he was actually humming as he pulled on a clean turtleneck sweater and refastened his old Rolex. He’d bought it at an auction. How many farmers wore a Rolex? A memento of one of his flusher periods. Easy come, easy go. But it was a damn fine timepiece, all the same.

  He slipped on one of the new jackets he’d bought that day and slid his wallet into the inside pocket. Then he
left the room. He pulled the door nearly shut, changed his mind and went back in to switch on a lamp beside the bed.

  That was better—soft glow, nice and romantic. A king-size bed was a lot of room for one person. You never could tell. He might get lucky tonight.

  HANNAH MADE HER WAY to a table and sat down. She was promptly joined by a young man in leathers and dreadlocks and covered with piercings. He had to be all of twenty. “Mind if I join you?” She hesitated, then shook her head.

  “I’m waiting for some friends,” she lied. Darn her sister, anyway! How sick could she be?

  “Me, too,” he said, setting down his pint of beer. Some of the foam sloshed over the side and onto the fake marble tabletop. “You want a drink? I could get you one.”

  She felt rattled. The call to Emily and then dumping her purse like that. What a klutz. And in front of that man! Had he overheard her? A stockbroker or something. A lawyer, maybe. He looked very trim, very city, very…handsome.

  “Oh, no thanks. I’m waiting until my friends come,” she said. She didn’t want a drink. She needed to figure out what she was going to do next—she needed to get out of here. She’d stay a little while, just to let Emily think she might’ve had a good time, then she’d take a cab to Emily’s house. She didn’t want to show up too soon, not when Steve or Nigel or whoever was there. Sick! Hannah didn’t believe it for a moment. In fact, she wouldn’t put it past Em to have planned the whole thing.

  “I’m Phil. What’s your name, babe?” The man in leathers asked. He seemed friendly enough, although definitely not her type. Usually men didn’t waltz up and talk to her. They sure didn’t call her babe. Was it the crazy outfit she’d worn? The hair? It had come out a lot redder than it had looked on the package. Oh well, it was supposed to wash out in eight shampoos. She’d be back to her usual brown by the time she had to return to work.

  “Name? Er, Annabel,” she said; she had no idea why, except that she didn’t want him to know her name. Besides, Hannah was kind of…old-fashioned. Annabel was so old it was new—chic, modern, trendy.

  “Hey, Annabel!” he said, thankfully not extending his hand. “Cool club, eh?” He glanced around and so did Hannah. She’d like nothing better than to leave right now and drive back to Glory. This had been one of her really stupid ideas. She should have followed her instincts and turned Emily down flat and stayed home tonight for the trick-or-treaters.

  Some trick she’d pulled on her sister! And Emily wasn’t even here to find out that Hannah could dress up and have fun just like everyone else if she wanted to. It was just that she didn’t really want to—she’d rather be home with Joan and Mr. Spitz.

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. She was positive she’d spotted the man she’d seen in the hotel lobby, but when she stared toward the club entrance again, he wasn’t there. Wishful thinking, Hannah Parrish. Besides, no man like that would ever be interested in you.

  Just then a crowd of men in dreadlocks and leathers, and girls with various metal bits thrust through their lips, cheeks, eyebrows, ears, you-name-it, one wearing a lime-green fright wig, came up to the table. Hannah leaped to her feet.

  “Here, you take my place,” she offered, grabbing her purse, which she’d thrown over the back of the chair.

  Phil protested.

  “No, really! I’ll find somewhere else to sit.”

  As she stumbled through clumps of people toward the door, the band started to play. Some horrifically loud crashing and screaming by the singers, and lights flashing everywhere. This was not her kind of place. If only she could get through the crowd that had materialized in the past fifteen minutes. The club’s opening party was obviously a success.

  “Looking for someone?” The voice was very close to her left ear. She raised her head. That man!

  “Oh!” She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t imagined him this time, he was here. “No, no—I’m just trying to get out so I can leave.”

  “Already?”

  “I…um,” Hannah paused and looked around again. People seemed to be enjoying themselves. Some were dancing. She saw the young man who’d been at her table moving toward her, yelling.

  “Hey, Annabel! You left this—” He handed her the jacket she’d draped over her chair. “Whew! I see you found Annabel!” he shouted, addressing the man from the lobby. “Lucky thing, in this crowd.” Then he turned and made his way back.

  “Nice fellow. Friend of yours?”

  “Not really. He was at my table.”

  “You alone?”

  “Yes.” It had just slipped out. She hadn’t told the young man with dreadlocks that she was by herself. Why had she told this man?

  “Here, let me take that.” He slung her jacket over his shoulder and reached for her hand. Then he shouldered his way through the crowd, with her in his wake.

  At the side of the club, near the mirrored wall, he smiled at her. “Well, you’re not alone now, Annabel. I’m Jack.” He held out his hand. “Jack Gamble.” He had a wonderful smile. Even white teeth. Dark eyes. A healthy tan.

  “How do you do?” she murmured, taken aback. She shook his hand quickly. “I’m, er, not Annabel.” She didn’t think he’d heard her. Oh, well. What did it matter? It was Halloween; she could be whoever she wanted.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked, raising a hand to catch the attention of the waiter.

  “No.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you, anyway. I’m not going to stay.”

  “Why not?” He looked concerned. “You could keep me company. I’m here alone, too.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be just fine,” she returned dryly. She couldn’t help smiling at him. What a line!

  “I…I’ve got to get back to my sister’s place. She’s sick.”

  “Is she the one who’s, er, being fed chicken soup by a gentleman friend?” he asked, still smiling. “She sounds fairly well taken care of.”

  He’d heard! She felt her face go a furious red. “You heard me talking to her!”

  He nodded, not abashed in the slightest.

  “She was supposed to meet me here. She talked me into coming. I, uh…well, I’m sure you’re not interested in the whole stupid story.”

  “I am, actually.” He held up her jacket. “I’ll check this at the lobby desk for you. Just take a sec. Then let’s dance.”

  “S-sure,” Hannah agreed, slipping her purse strap over her shoulder. The music didn’t seem too bad anymore. Besides, wasn’t that why she was here— to have fun? To meet people? The best-looking guy in the place had just asked her to dance. Could you believe the luck? And no Emily to witness it!

  NOW WHY HADN’T HE suggested they share a bottle of wine up in his room? Or at least invited her to accompany him to the piano bar on the tenth floor? It would be a lot quieter there. They could talk. Then, if it looked promising, they could go to his room….

  But something didn’t seem right to Jack. This woman wasn’t as smooth or sophisticated as she appeared. Maybe she didn’t get out much. She was ready to leave the club less than an hour after she’d arrived. She was alone. If he hadn’t come across her, she’d probably be on the bus already, heading for her sister’s place. In long leather boots and a tank top.

  “Ready?” He reached for her hand again. She had a gorgeous smile. She’d actually looked relieved to see him when he’d met her in the club a few minutes ago, and that didn’t feel too bad, either.

  They danced all evening. They ducked out to the hotel bar for a quick glass of wine and a breather. That was when he found out her name was Hannah, not Annabel. She didn’t explain the mix-up, nor did she seem inclined to talk much about herself. Then, instead of ending up in his room, as he’d hoped, they went back to the club and danced some more.

  Just after eleven-thirty, Jack saw her checking her watch. “Turning into a pumpkin?”

  She laughed, the delightful laugh that made bubbles fizz in his bloodstream. Like fireworks. Or good champagne. “It was the carriage that turned into a pumpkin, remember?
Cinderella’s supposed to lose her pretty ball gown and end up back in rags.” She glanced down at her skimpy skirt, the slinky tank top that just brushed the swell of her breasts—Jack knew; he’d already taken a quick peek—and the long sexy boots. “This is hardly a ball gown.”

  “Nice substitute,” he murmured, bending to brush her knuckles with his lips. “I prefer it, frankly.”

  They’d been like this all evening. Back and forth. Lighthearted. Having a good time. She seemed comfortable with him, as though she truly had no idea what he’d originally had in store for her. For her and him both, he decided firmly. Mutual pleasure. He was no predator. He was only willing if the lady was willing.

  They’d danced a few close dances, and he liked the feel of her in his arms. Perfect. He’d been tempted to kiss her. Wanted to, badly. Something held him back. Honor? He must be getting foolish in his old age.

  No, it had to do with intentions. He had no honorable intentions with regard to her—she was just a lucky pickup, or so he’d thought at the beginning of the evening. A good-time girl.

  But it hadn’t turned out like that, either. Beneath all that sexiness and sass and apparent sophistication was a sensitive vulnerable woman. Jack sensed that, and he realized, too, that he didn’t want to be the one to hurt her. He got the feeling she could definitely be hurt.

  But not by him. He no longer had time for these kinds of games. Life had become serious for him the moment he’d heard his uncle was so sick. “Ready to go? I can drive you.”

  She blushed again. She did that delightfully. “I can get a cab.”

  “No way. I’ll drive you. Where does your sister live?”