by Lisa Hendrix
The Redmond farmers’ market wasn’t much compared to the Sunday market in Fremont, but the bustle of vendors setting up their stalls still made for a traffic jam in the parking lot. Raine steered slowly through the mess until she found her path blocked by a truck loaded with cantaloupes and sweet corn which had stalled in an unfortunate spot.
“You picked a bad day to volunteer. We’re going to have to haul,” she said, but Mason was already climbing out of the truck.
She met him by the back bumper, and he handed her one of the small boxes and grabbed the crate with the birdbath. His muscles bulged as he hoisted it off the tailgate. “Lead on.”
The stall was unmanned, but Brynn had already set up her block-and-board shelving and arranged her flowers in their tall, galvanized, French flower buckets. With the white canopy overhead, it always reminded Raine of a rainbow trapped between a cloud and a lake.
Raine and Mason had just deposited their second load when Brynn appeared with an armload of cellophane, bouquet paper, and ribbon. “God, what a mess. Somebody should call a mechanic for that guy. He broke down last week, too. Hi.” She stopped and grinned at Mason. “Who’s the hunky muscle?”
“Mason Alexander,” he said. “And thank you. No one’s called me hunky in years.”
“He volunteered to help out today,” added Raine.
“Sucker,” said Brynn.
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Raine. “Mason, this amazingly forward woman is Brynn Williams.” The two shook hands, then Raine and Mason made several more trips. After they teamed up to haul the trellis, they got their personal gear and piled it under one of the makeshift benches that held Brynn’s flowers.
Raine went to move the truck. When she got back, she found that Mason had broken open the boxes and was busy sticking dragonflies and ladybugs and frogs in amongst the flowers while Brynn carefully wove a strand of sweet peas into the trellis. The first cars were already pulling into the parking lot.
“Hey, Brynn, I didn’t make it to the bank last night. Do you have some extra ones and fives to hold me until I take in some cash?”
“Sure, I think so.” Brynn dug into the money apron she wore and came out with a wad of bills. They sorted out the money, and within minutes the early rush hit.
Mason kicked back in a corner, chatting with her and Brynn and customers, people watching, and making Raine’s heart skip the occasional beat just by being himself.
This could be a long day.
*
Tish knocked on Mason’s door at about ten that morning. She’d long since taken her swim and had breakfast, and had seen no sign of Mason. It wasn’t unheard-of for him to sleep in so late, but it was certainly unusual, and if she hadn’t watched him come in last night, she might believe he’d spent the night at Miss Hobart’s, a thought that made her cringe.
There was no answer. She knocked again, waited, then pushed the heavy door open. His bed lay unmade, the ivory linen sheets rumpled and the pillows wadded up at the foot of the bed. She smiled. His pillows had always ended up at the wrong end of the bed when he was a boy, and the mother in her was glad that at least one thing hadn’t changed, when so many others had. She pulled the door shut and went looking for her younger child, instead.
She found Miranda in the alcove adjoining their sanctuary room, unloading herbs from a flat, split-ash basket. Tish gave her a kiss on the cheek, then fingered the herbs, releasing their mingled scents. “Angelica. Lemon balm. Lovage. Comfrey. Verbena. You’ve been busy this morning.”
“I cut a new willow wand, too. I think I’ll use that piece of camelian you gave me for the tip.”
Tish nodded her approval. “Have you seen your brother this morning?”
“No. He must be sleeping in. He looked wrung out last night when he got home. That Zimmerman is such a bastard.”
Tish shushed her. “Don Zimmerman kept us profitable for years when your father wasn’t paying very careful attention to the business.”
“I know. But he sure takes advantage of it now. Every time there’s a little bump in production, he puts the screws on for a better deal.”
“It’s business, dear, not personal.” Tish picked up a length of blue yarn and tied a bundle of sage together. “At any rate, Mason’s not sleeping in. I checked his room.”
They tied a few more bundles of herbs and hung them on the wooden pegs that lined the sides of the alcove, each hesitating to say what they both knew to be true.
“Maybe he just decided to go for a run,” said Tish.
“Well, there’s one way to find out.” Miranda picked up the phone and punched two numbers. “Paul, did my brother go out early this morning?” Her face fell. “Oh. Thank you.” She hung up.
“Great. Paul says he left just after dawn, which probably means he’s with her and that leaves them agitating each other all day and then spending the evening alone. I should have ignored you and bought that saltpeter.”
“Miranda…”
“Well, it would have worked.”
Tish frowned, but understood her daughter was joking. “Perhaps it’s not so critical today, at least. Didn’t Miss Hobart say she sold her artwork at some sort of market on Saturdays?”
“The Redmond farmers’ market,” said Miranda, cheering a bit. “And I said I wanted to look at her work, too. I can pop out there and kill two birds with one stone.”
Tish rearranged a bunch of lemon balm on its peg so it would dry more evenly. “I don’t approve of your spying, but I really don’t see any other way of keeping those two under supervision. Go with my blessing, but please, dear, no more rocks.”
Miranda kissed her on the cheek and headed for the door. A quick stop by her room for a purse and a straw hat, and she was on her way.
When she left the house by the side door, she saw that all six garage doors were up, and four out of five cars sat in their bays, with a gap one from the left where Mason’s Jaguar should be. There was no sign of Paul, which was probably just as well considering the way things had been left the last time she’d seen him. No use asking for trouble.
Moving as quietly as possible, Miranda slipped into the garage and opened the door to the Explorer. She tossed her purse onto the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel, pushed the key into the ignition, and turned it over.
Nothing. Barely a click. She moved the transmission into neutral and tried again. Nothing. Her first instinct was to call for Paul, but she bit her tongue. No point risking unpleasant questions over a stupid car. She’d just take her mother’s old Lincoln. She crawled back out and went to the lock box on the wall where the extra keys were kept and punched in the code. The box popped open to reveal a bank of empty hooks.
Muttering, she went back to her car, popped the latch on the hood, and stood staring into the engine compartment, hoping some obviously disconnected wire or hose might catch her eye.
“Looking for this?”
She spun around to find Paul holding up an octopuslike collection of wires in black and red.
Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, she forced a smile. “I didn’t know my car was out of commission.”
“It isn’t. At least, it wasn’t until I disconnected your ignition system.” He tossed the wires onto the workbench. “I’ve also got all the spare keys.” He reached into his left-hand pocket and fished out a couple of key rings, which he dangled from one fingertip momentarily before sticking them back in his pocket. “We’re going to talk.”
“Very amusing, Paul. Now put my car back together.”
“So you can chase down your brother again?”
She glared at him. “I have a hair appointment.”
“Then I would guess you’ll be late.”
“Are you trying to get yourself fired?”
“I probably already have, thanks to you. I just want to know why before I have to start packing.”
She waved off his fears. “Mason hasn’t even brought it up. You must have been quite convincing. I’d have been out here to say thank you, b
ut you’ve been gone so much, up in Everett and all.”
“And you were sneaking out now because…?”
“I wasn’t sneaking,” said Miranda.
“Yes, you were. I’ve been here six years and, to my knowledge, this is the first time you’ve ever opened the hood of your own car. You don’t even gas the thing up.”
“I’m trying to become more independent.”
“You’re trying to yank my chain, is what you’re trying, but it’s not working. I want to know why you’re so knotted up about your brother’s new girlfriend that you’re willing to drag the help into it.”
“Not the help. Just you,” she said. “You know more about Mason than almost anybody. And you certainly know more about how he acts with Raine in private.”
“I can hardly claim the same level of expertise that you can; I haven’t spent any time in the alley.”
Avoiding his eyes, she swept an invisible arc on the floor with the toe of her shoe.
He gave her a moment to respond, but when she didn’t, he prodded. “From the questions you were asking earlier, I take it you think Mr. Alexander is leading Miss Hobart on for some reason.”
She glanced up. “Not her. Mother and me.”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “You think Mr. Alexander is dating Miss Hobart because of you and your mother?”
Miranda started to nod, then turned it into a shake of the head. Paul might be professionally tolerant of excursions to witchcraft shops for supplies, but she didn’t know how he’d react to word that she’d been casting spells against his employer. It might not be pretty. She decided to skirt the truth. “It’s really about Caroline Wickersham. Mason is supposed to marry her—although that’s not official yet, so don’t tell anyone.”
Paul folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the workbench and waited.
“Anyway, he knows that Mother and I are, urn, highly vested in their marriage, and you know how he likes to jerk us around. Or me, at least.” She looked to Paul for confirmation, but he just stared, unblinking. Miranda licked her lips and flashed another smile, this one weaker. “Well, I think that maybe he’s trying to pull a fast one by dating Raine and pretending he’s in love with her. And, naturally, I’m worried he’s going to foul things up with Caroline over some dumb joke. Of course, if he’s really serious about Raine, that would be different, but—”
“Would it be different?”
“Of course.”
“Mmm,” he said, with a clear lack of commitment. “So, what do you think now, after what you saw at her house?”
“I’m not sure. They certainly have some physical thing going, but I’m still not certain he’s in love with her, and Tish and I just want to— What?” she asked as Paul’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head.
“Oh, I was just thinking you Alexanders have got to be one of the weirder families that has never appeared on a television talk show.” He reached for the bundle of wires and walked to the car. Leaning over the engine, he started plugging and arranging. “‘Today on “Jenny Jones”—Sisters Who Spy on Their Brothers, and the Mothers Who Encourage Them.’”
Miranda watched silently, conscious that she was lucky he’d bought her explanation, even if he didn’t think much of it—and even more conscious of the way his T-shirt rode up when he stretched over the engine, revealing a two-inch stripe of smooth brown back just above his jeans. She was sorely tempted to run her fingers along the gap, just to see how his skin felt.
Her palms were starting to itch when he straightened and his shirt dropped back into place. He pulled a rag out of his back pocket, wiped his hands, and pulled the hood down. “You’re set.”
Without realizing it, she’d moved closer, so that when he turned, he was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
They both froze, inches apart.
His gaze swept her face and locked with hers. “Don’t go.”
“Why?” she breathed, caught in the moment, and in the exotic sexiness of his dark, almond eyes and his nutmeg skin. His lips drew into a thin line. He took a deep breath, and the raggedness of it made Miranda’s own chest tighten.
“You can’t win,” he said. “If your brother really is pulling some sort of joke on you, you’ll just play into his hands, and if he’s not, you’re interfering where it isn’t your business. Either way, you’ll come out looking like a fool.”
She already felt like one. Paul had meant Don’t go after Mason, not Don’t leave me.
By the Goddess, if she’d taken to fantasizing about the family driver, then it had been way too long since she’d been with a man. She stepped back physically, but making the mental step was harder. “Thanks for the advice, but I have to get my hair done for tonight.”
He nodded, and Miranda got into her car, backed out, and roared up the drive and onto Olympic Drive, but by the time she stopped at the security gate, she’d seen the truth in what Paul had said. Besides, Mason and Raine couldn’t possibly get into any trouble at a farmers’ market. Instead of heading east toward the highways and Redmond, she turned toward downtown and her favorite stylist. Surely Natalia would be able to work her in.
She was doing fine pretending, until she saw a billboard for teriyaki sauce, and the model’s Oriental features reminded her of Paul and what an idiot she’d been. She felt like a prepubescent twit. Imagine thinking Paul and she had some sort of mutual attraction.
Imagine.
Oh, screw it. She’d just have to find someone to get her mind off of Paul. Tonight.
*
Brynn made the bulk of the sales, of course, people being more likely to buy a five-dollar bunch of flowers on impulse than a thirty-dollar copper dragonfly or a three-hundred-dollar birdbath, but Raine had her share of business, too, especially once the looky-loos replaced the folks out for dew-fresh produce. Bless impulse buyers with too much money on their hands, and there were certainly a lot of those in Redmond.
At noon, Raine and Brynn took advantage of the extra body and sent Mason out foraging for food while they dealt with another small rush. He came back from the nearby Town Center laden with Styrofoam containers of falafel and cucumber-yogurt salad, and big paper cups of minty iced tea. The traffic never really slowed, however, and they had to snatch bites in between wrapping bouquets and making change.
After the umpteenth interruption, Mason stood up. “You two eat before your food spoils. I can handle this.” He stepped up to the front, nudging Raine aside as she finished wrapping a bouquet.
“Sounds good to me,” said Brynn. She made change for the customer, a woman in pink cotton leggings and a baggy T-shirt, then untied her money apron and handed it to Mason. “Just make sure that if somebody buys one of Raine’s pieces, you keep the money separate.”
Mason tied on the short apron and turned to a couple who were hanging back, mumbling to each other.
“Which ones are your favorite?” he asked.
“Sweat peas,” said the woman. She colored slightly when she met Mason’s gaze. “I absolutely love them. I was just telling my husband how my grandmother used to have a whole fence of them.”
Mason lured her into a discussion of which of Brynn’s sweet peas looked most like Grandma’s, and by the time he was done, she held two good-sized bunches of flowers and one of Raine’s copper hummingbirds and was smiling.
“Ooh, he’s good,” mumbled Brynn around a mouthful of falafel as Mason collected the husband’s hard-earned money. “I bet he could get a girl into all sorts of trouble if he wanted to.”
“No doubt,” said Raine, and her belly tightened at the thought of how sweet that trouble would be.
Enough. She stabbed a slice of tomato with her plastic fork.
Mason did fine until some clown decided he had to know Brynn’s growing techniques before he could possibly buy any flowers, but by then Brynn had finished and was ready to take over again. Raine finished, too, and excused herself for a few minutes, and when she came back Mason was on his cell phone.
“See who?” Raine asked.
He grinned. “You’ll find out. You have some yogurt on your lip.”
She swiped at her mouth, but Mason shook his head. “No. Hold still.” He stepped close and reached to smudge it off with his thumb.
Senses overtuned, Raine jumped back at the electric contact. She hit one of the poles that held up the sun shade covering the stall. The canopy wobbled and collapsed. Raine ducked.
Mason grabbed for the frame as it crashed down just inches from her head. A customer squealed.
“Geez.”
“Are you okay?” Brynn and Mason asked simultaneously.
“Fine. What the heck happened?”
Mason held the canopy high as he inspected the loose end of the pole. “It looks like the bolts weren’t tightened properly. There’s a nut missing.”
“I’m going to run my husband up by the thumbs,” said Brynn. “He was supposed to check that before he left.”
“Let’s fix it first, so you can devise your tortures without fear of bodily harm.” Mason glanced around the stall and pointed. “That looks like the nut over there. Do you have a wrench?”
“Sure do,” said Brynn. “Raine, check in my tool bucket while I get this woman her flowers.”
Raine pulled the white plastic bucket out from under the table and found the wrench. When she looked up, Mason was standing there, holding up one corner of the canopy, like Atlas supporting the world, and she had to push aside the image of bulging thighs and loincloth conjured up by her overactive imagination. He was too lean to be Atlas, anyway, she told herself.
She dragged one of the chairs over and climbed up to thread the bolt back into place. The folding chair was wobbly on the uneven ground, and when she wobbled, too, Mason put a hand to her waist to steady her. The contact startled Raine, and she glanced down at him.
“You’re certainly jumpy.” He smiled up at her, and their eyes met and held, and it suddenly dawned on her how much she liked this strong, responsible, serious, funny man. How much she loved him.