The old, white, wooden roller coaster.
Becky caught his eye, but John pulled his gaze away and tried to distract Lori. “How about the parachute ride instead? It’s just over there. Or the Hammer. Or the Tilt-a-Whirl. They’re more fun than this rickety old thing. Hey, let’s ride Wicked again.”
Lori laughed. “I’ve never been on a wooden coaster and I’d re-ally like to go.”
John wasn’t a coward, not by any means. He could do dangerous things, with or without Travis, but in this moment when he was going to have to admit to the woman he wanted to impress that he didn’t dare go on this ride, those moments flashed through his brain in mere seconds. It was like seeing his life flashing before his eyes, but only the most adventurous moments: hang gliding on the breeze; skydiving, free falling until finally pulling the parachute’s ripcord; swimming with dolphins in the Caribbean; diving in a shark cage off the tip of South Africa.
He could run into a burning building—over and over, if need be—to save the people inside. He could, and had, spent harrowing hours on countless rescue teams. He’d even helped his Aunt Violet clean out her garage—once.
Lori raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth edged up as she waited for his answer, clearly amused by his hesitation.
With effort, John drew his gaze away from Lori to stare at the rickety old ride. It loomed like something from one of his nightmares. He didn’t know what it was about that thing, but he’d always been afraid of Lagoon’s white roller coaster. The fear was irrational. He couldn’t explain it, and he didn’t want to try. He’d ridden it once as a young boy and been terrified out of his mind. He didn’t want to ride it again—ever. He didn’t dare attempt this coaster, not even to impress Lori, in case he freaked out and unimpressed her even more.
John forced a smile and prepared to tell Lori the humiliating news that he was indeed too chicken to ride.
Before he could, Becky placed a hand on Lori’s arm. “Lori, would you mind terribly if John sits this one out with me while Roy goes on the coaster with you? This is Roy’s favorite ride and I don’t want him to miss it. Plus I’d like to talk to John . . . about the couples shower he doesn’t want to attend.” She grinned.
Lori glanced at John, who nodded in a way he hoped looked encouraging, as if he was indeed just being nice to Becky and not as if he was incredibly relieved to be let off the hook. He didn’t care if Becky wanted to talk about a couples shower, something he normally would have run from in a second; he’d even be willing to attend this one, just in gratitude.
Lori smiled. “Sure.”
John grinned. “Okay. See you in a few minutes.”
Roy punched his arm in passing, took Lori’s arm companionably, and they walked casually to the end of the long line, him in his clodhopper sneakers and her in her sexy black high-heel sandals.
Incredibly relieved and grateful, John found a shady bench for his pregnant and very sweet sister-in-law. They sat quietly for a moment. Without looking at her, he said, “Okay, talk me into coming to your stupid couples shower.”
She laughed. “I’m thinking thanks are in order first.”
“You’re right.” He patted her arm. “Thanks.”
“You owe me big time, you big scaredy-cat.”
So his rat fink brother had spilled his guts. Thank goodness. “Thanks for saving me from total humiliation. I’ll pay whatever price you ask. I’ll even go to the shower.”
“Good answer.”
Becky brought what was left of her snow cone up to her mouth and ate while John watched the line snake up and around slowly. Roy and Lori wove through the barricades. As they reached the first turn, a familiar figure cut through the crowd and hopped over the chain to join them.
Travis.
His buddy was wasting no time moving in on Lori.
“Wow,” Becky said in mock awe, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clench your jaw so tightly before.”
He gestured toward the line and opened his very tense jaw to mutter, “Do you see them?”
“I see my husband, your girl, and your buddy.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Am I missing something here?”
“I don’t want Lori to get caught up with Travis. Did you know he calls each of his many women ‘honey’ so he won’t mix up their names?”
“Really? I’ve heard of guys who do that but I didn’t think I’d ever meet one.”
“I mean, Travis is a great guy and all. He’ll risk his life to save yours, but I didn’t think he was the type to go behind your back and steal your girl.”
“Your girl, huh?” Becky put her hand on John’s arm and he turned to look at her. “I think you and Lori make a great couple. You look like you belong together.”
John hadn’t planned on admitting his feelings to any family members yet, but found it easy to confide in his favorite sister-in-law. “I like her a lot.”
“The family has noticed how different you act when you’re with her,” Becky said. “You actually talk to her. A lot.”
He glanced back at Lori in time to see Travis lean close and say something that made her laugh.
Pausing for a moment, Becky asked softly, “What about Dawn?”
John didn’t want to remember the haunting look of hurt in Dawn’s eyes. “After I met Lori, I realized I wasn’t ready to settle down with Dawn. To settle for. I told her we needed to date other people. I told her I had met someone else.”
She nodded.
“It’s far too early to tell, but . . .” He looked into Becky’s eyes again and said the words he had wondered if he’d ever be able to say. “I want to see if Lori might be the one. The one I could settle down with, commit to, create a family with.” He leaned back and tasted the foreign words on his tongue. Delicious.
“I just have one more question for you.” Becky shook her head, amazed. “Who are you and what have you done with my bachelor brother-in-law?”
~
In a quiet corner of Lagoon stood Pioneer Village, which offered a taste of pioneer life through a walking tour of historic buildings and museums as well as quaint shops and a bakery filled with delicious treats. Lori loved the place and felt like she’d been transported back to the wild days of the Old West.
Leaving the pioneer cabins behind, Lori and John crossed the street toward Pioneer Village’s business district. John placed his hand briefly at the small of her back and the spot sizzled. Well. She was certainly physically attracted to the man, which just made her more determined to keep her distance, and she took a step away.
“So,” he said, “what are your dreams?”
“Oh, no, you don’t. You tell me yours first.”
“My dream? That’s easy. I always wanted to be an astronaut. Or a cowboy.” He grinned. “Or a fireman.”
“Are you telling me you’re already living your dream life?”
“Pretty much.” John shrugged. “Okay, your turn.”
Why not? After today, she’d never see this handsome guy again. She’d tell him her old dream, the one she’d given up on. “I always wanted to write. But big things—plays, screenplays, bestselling novels.” She glanced at him. This was the point where most people’s eyes usually started to glaze over.
His remained bright and interested. “Those are great goals.”
“This place would make a great place for a writing field trip.”
“Really? What kinds of places do you go for those?”
“Depends on the characters. A racetrack for a NASCAR driver hero, a bed-and-breakfast for the floor plan for a cozy murder mystery—”
He grinned. “The fire department for a fireman hero?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled and teased, “Do heroes hang out in places like that?”
“Who els
e you gonna call? Not Ghostbusters.” He grew serious. “So tell me more about your writing dreams.”
“I wanted to get the Oscar for best screenplay. I wanted to produce movies.” Here’s where most people thought she was, as Grandma Scott used to say, “too big for her britches.”
He tilted his head. “That’s awesome.”
More relieved than she should have been at his positive response, she shrugged. “Yeah, well, it would be if my first play hadn’t flopped after one week.”
“One week? Ah, man.” His voice was full of sympathy.
“Yeah. My name was up in lights on Broadway for seven full days. Pretty pathetic, right?”
He stopped and put his hands on her shoulders. “Are you kidding? That’s fantastic! And your next one will be there longer until you have a play that everyone in the country is talking about. Your name will be in lights in huge letters.” He released her to motion broadly with one hand. “A Lori Scott play.”
She liked the image he’d created, but then she sighed. “I don’t know if I could go through that disappointment again.”
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I betcha another snow cone you could.”
She laughed. “You’ll have to do much better than that.”
“How about dinner at the nicest restaurant in town?”
He was saying all the right things, that was for sure, and she was warming to him, but she was determined to resist that feeling. That feeling could only get a woman into trouble. And she’d had enough of man trouble.
She’d learned the hard way that men couldn’t be trusted. She just needed to remind herself of that whenever her pulse started racing at this fireman’s touch.
“So how about it? Dinner?”
She looked up at him and paused. She should tell him no. She should just get on with what she came here to do, but she found herself saying, “If you still want to ask me next week, I’ll consider it.”
He grinned. “Count on a call next week.”
As they strolled along the crowded, rustic wooden sidewalk, a gunfight broke out. A staged one, but the explosion still made her jump. They stopped to enjoy the show and after the shooting and shouting died down, they moseyed on down the boardwalk.
“Hey, look,” said John. “Let’s get our picture taken.”
The window of the old-fashioned store showed a poster with photos of people in Old West apparel. She smiled at the thought. “Why not?”
They stepped inside and into another era. Not much larger than the miniscule cabins, the room was crammed with Old West artifacts: fake guns, polished sheriff badges, elaborate hats with feathers, and vintage clothing.
A man dressed for the time period, complete with watch and chain draped across his vest and sporting a handlebar moustache—was that a job requirement?—welcomed them and introduced himself as Mr. Bailey.
They waited behind another couple, who took forever to decide which costume to wear.
Somewhat surprised she’d allowed herself to be talked into this, Lori picked out a saloon girl’s purple dress. John chose a sheriff’s vest with badge. Of course.
Finally, with the other couple done and gone, the photographer positioned John and Lori in front of a rich maroon brocaded material draped and tied with a heavy golden tassel. John sat on a wooden stool, and Lori stood behind him, her hand demurely on his shoulder, acutely aware of the contact.
John turned his head toward her and his face was very close to hers. Too close. He smiled and . . . was he leaning toward her? Again? He was. Was he really going to try to kiss her, right here in public? Was she going to let herself be kissed?
No. She couldn’t. She placed her finger on his chin to stop him.
He cocked an eyebrow.
She teased, with a slightly shaky voice, “I never knew John Wayne was quite so quick with the ladies.”
Quite seriously, he said, “John Wayne always won the woman.”
The photographer said in a raspy voice, “Amen to that.”
Lori laughed. “In the movies, maybe.”
“Okay, counting down from five to the perfect Old West photo: five, four—”
“Wait. This isn’t quite right,” murmured John.
“What isn’t?” the photographer asked.
“Keep counting, Mr. Bailey,” said John and he grinned up at Lori. “Come here, saloon girl.”
“Three—”
Reaching up and around, he pulled Lori onto his lap and leaned in for a kiss.
“Two—”
Startled, Lori’s eyes opened wide. Surely he wouldn’t kiss her. He wouldn’t dare. But she was too surprised to move or make a sound other than a sputter.
“One.”
When John kissed her, she didn’t pull away, not even when the flash went off.
And that was how Lori Scott was caught enjoying a kiss with a Mormon guy—on film.
Chapter Nine
“I’ll have to call you back, Mom,” Lori spoke softly into her cell phone. “I’m about to have a meeting with my new boss.”
“All right. Good luck, honey. I want to tell you all about your brother’s new girlfriend.”
Alone in the small waiting room except for the secretary at the desk, Lori couldn’t resist asking, “Are you sure you mean my brother? Because Greg doesn’t date.”
“He happens to be dating a very nice girl. Her name is Kelly.”
“Are you kidding? I’m having trouble taking this in.”
A beep sounded from the desk and the secretary motioned. “Mr. Neal can see you now, Ms. Scott.”
“Gotta go, Mom.” Lori put her cell phone on silent and nodded to the secretary. Brushing a piece of lint off her black business suit, she straightened her maroon silk blouse and grabbed her portfolio. She’d read enough of Charles’s previous articles to fake her way through this appointment without getting fired outright, which was good, because she couldn’t take losing a job faster than she’d lost her play.
She’d also read enough columns to sound quasi knowledgeable on the subjects of growing, harvesting, and even cooking
vegetables, as long as Mr. Neal didn’t ask her too many in-depth questions.
“Thank you,” she said to the secretary as she walked past the desk and through the indicated door into a surprisingly small office. She’d expected more lavish accommodations, something more
. . . well, more Manhattanish, she supposed. This office was done in oak; in New York, it would have been black, glass, and chrome.
And the man behind the desk was not what she’d expected, either. In New York, he would have been dressed to impress and intimidate. Instead, the tall, beefy guy who stood and came around the desk when she entered was dressed in boots, jeans, and a green golf shirt. He looked like he might have played football twenty years before. His brown hair was buzzed short on top, military style. Slightly freckled, his face had a look of permanent mild sunburn.
Placed prominently on his desk so all visitors could see it was a photo of him with his wife and five children, sitting in front of trees with vivid orange, red, and rust-colored leaves.
He smiled and put out his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you, Ms. Scott.”
His hand dwarfed hers. “Likewise.”
He motioned to one of two chairs in front of the desk. When she sat, he settled into the other one.
“Please, show me what you’ve got.”
She raised an eyebrow. Oh, no. Not this. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—work for another Nicholas.
His sunburn turned the darker red of embarrassment. “My wife is right. The only time I open my mouth is to change feet.” He chuckled at himself and shook his head. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s try this again. Please show me what you’ve got in your portfolio.”
It didn’t take long to go over her background: degree in literature from New York State, jobs in theater, magazine credits, play written and produced. She’d debated leaving off the flop, but finally decided it still looked good on a resumé.
Throughout the review, he was attentive, making sounds of encouragement and appreciation of her accomplishments. He was, it seemed, a nice guy, warm, open, and personable. And his attention was focused on her work and not on her. How refreshing. She decided in those few minutes that she liked him.
“Very nice credentials.” He leaned back and nodded, putting one foot across his other knee. “I won’t take up your time with a lot of other questions, Ms. Scott. If Charles thought you’d do a good job, I’m sure you will.”
She remembered the few questions—hadn’t there been just two?—Charles had asked in his desperate haste to leave the country. She almost felt guilty, like she should confess her ignorance. But she kept quiet.
“Let me give you some basic info about the column.”
Lori pulled out a pad and pen to take notes.
“We’ve got you set up as a guest columnist until Charles returns in three months. I’ll have my secretary give you our standard employment forms; just fill them out and fax them back to us. Once that’s done, e-mail me your articles each week by Wednesday noon. The e-mail address is on my business card. Your paychecks will arrive twice a month, mailed to Charles’s address. I hope that’s correct. He said you’d be staying there.”
“Yes. It was very generous of him.”
“Not if you have to take care of his cat, it wasn’t.” Mr. Neal chuckled. “Or his garden.”
“They are quite intimidating,” Lori confided.
“And I hope you don’t have to drive his El Camino.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Yes, I do.”
“My condolences. Just don’t dent it.”
She smiled ruefully. “I already set his barbeque grill on fire.”
“His brand-new grill?” He laughed deeply at that. “Probably best we don’t mention that to Charles.” He dropped his foot back to the ground and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Good luck with your plays. I see you had one produced on Broadway. I’m impressed. That must feel great.”
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