“As a gentleman, I can only say her memory is not all that it should be in this particular instance.”
Drew pressed for details, but Clarence could not be budged. They ordered dessert, Marge’s famous apple pie for Drew and coconut cream for Clarence. Halfway through the pie, Drew decided on a different tack.
“But what about the business partnerships, Grandpa?”
Clarence savored a bite of coconut cream, then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the paper napkin he had complained about when they had sat down at the table. Drew recognized the pause for dramatic effect and waited patiently.
“Everyone tried to carry on as usual, of course,” Clarence said at last. “Much was at stake. But there was too much bitterness. The Stirlings blamed the Halstons and the Halstons blamed the Stirlings. It was a fine mess.”
The upshot was that, with the families bickering so much, one by one the businesses began to fail. Finally, all that was left was the hardware store. The Halstons, according to Clarence, stole it away from the Stirlings and gave it to their daughter when she married Harry Murphy.
“Another returning war hero, I might add,” Clarence said. “Of course, I don’t recall much of the feuding. I left town myself.”
“And never came back?”
“Only for funerals, son. Only for funerals.”
“So there are no Stirlings left in Tyler?”
Clarence frowned. “Not until recently. I warn you, that family deals under the table. I would not do business with a Halston.”
“They’re Murphys now, Grandpa.”
“Blood will tell. That’s all you need to know.”
Drew pushed aside his half-eaten pie and tried to absorb this chunk of family history he’d never been told. It was a classic tale of love and betrayal, complete with fortunes lost. The problem was he had only his grandfather’s word about who were the villains and who the victims. Drew knew his grandfather well enough to be sure that there wasn’t a dishonest bone in his body. But he’d also heard the old man tell enough battle stories over the years to realize that some embellishments grew with each telling.
The truth about the ill-fated wedding and all that came after might never be known.
But there was one truth Drew needed to know.
“Grandpa, just one more thing. Is it possible...” This was delicate. Not the usual grandfather-grandson topic of conversation. “You don’t suppose that... Is there any chance at all that I’m related to Sandy Murphy?”
Clarence finished his coffee, folded his napkin neatly beside his dessert plate and stared at his grandson. “Young man, there are certain questions a gentleman does not entertain.”
“But—”
“Unless you have a pressing need to know. Is there some romantic intrigue between you and that young woman?”
“No, sir. That is—”
“My advice is simple. Extricate yourself, son.”
Drew felt his uneasiness turn to queasiness. “Then it is possible? That Sandy and I—”
But another elderly man was looming over their table—Phil Wocheck, a former groundskeeper at Timberlake and father of the present owner of the lodge. “Excuse me if I intrude,” Phil said in his faintly accented voice, “but if I am not mistaken, you are the Stirling boy.”
He spoke, of course, to Clarence. Drew smiled. The Stirling boy, now well over seventy, white-haired and not exactly smooth of skin, did not appear delighted at the reunion.
“That’s right.”
Phil put out his weathered hand and introduced himself. A brief conversation followed, but Drew barely listened. He was too consumed with his own anxiety about his possible blood relationship to Sandy Murphy. But how to get the information he needed out of a stubborn old man?
“Imagine this,” Phil said as he waved and headed back to the table he shared with one of his old cronies. “We never thought to see you back home again. Won’t people be surprised?”
When he was out of earshot, Clarence said, “You know what that means, don’t you? It means won’t people be talking about this, once word gets out. It means the whole town is going to rehash the story all over again.”
“It was fifty years ago, Grandpa.” Drew stood and began maneuvering his grandfather’s wheelchair through the crowded diner. “Nobody’s going to care anymore.”
“They’ll care! Even you care. Even you want to know what happened.”
“I have reasons.”
They left the bright warmth of the diner for the biting cold of a January evening.
Clarence said, “You have reasons. This woman has you under her spell, that’s your reason. Because you’re not related to her to my knowledge. You can’t deny you’re under her spell, can you?”
Drew wished he had another answer for his grandfather, but he didn’t.
* * *
THE ELEMENTARY AND high schools were among Sandy’s first targets. If the children of Tyler learned to love the healthy treats Yes! Yogurt produced, how could parents turn their backs on them?
Standing in the lunchroom handing out free samples, she was grateful for the distraction a hundred noisy youngsters provided. Her cool demeanor might fool Drew Stirling, although she wouldn’t have bet good money on that. But what she managed to project bore no relation whatsoever to what whirled beneath the surface.
What had she been thinking yesterday morning, even bringing up to Drew what had happened, what hadn’t happened, what might have been only in her very vivid imagination that night at her apartment? They had worked together—really worked together—for the first time since her arrival. And for the second time she had managed to convince herself that he wanted to kiss her.
But he had kissed her, hadn’t he? Hadn’t his lips brushed hers? Could she possibly have conjured up those feelings, those sensations, if it hadn’t happened?
By the following morning Sandy had felt so confused and agitated that anything seemed better than remaining in turmoil over something she couldn’t explain. So she had blurted out her question, hoping he would explain to her why one moment he had seemed intent on seducing her and the next had vanished without a backward glance.
At least she had satisfied herself that he, too, had felt the disturbing power of what had happened—or not happened—between them. With his expressive face, he hadn’t fooled her for a second.
But she was still no closer to understanding what was going on between them. And maybe it was just as well. All she needed to remember was that her professional standing was at stake. Besides, there was too much history. Murphy women and Stirling men needed to steer clear of one another. Maybe it was that simple.
So Sandy concentrated on the task at hand, marketing. Attracting young consumers with free samples of a wholesome, nutritious snack. The product tasted so good, they would never know it was also healthy. And if the samples were well received, which Sandy never doubted for a moment, Yes! Yogurt would make a substantial product donation to the Tyler public schools. That tax-deductible donation would create an immediate need to pump up production, which would create an immediate need for additional workers. Increased product recognition would also contribute to sales at the brand-new outlet store, leading to even more production. Clearly, it was a win-win situation. Even Drew agreed, at last.
Sandy scooped yogurt into small cups, topped it with crunchy granola and smiled at the youngsters who trooped by her tiny stand. They were variously excited, intrigued, skeptical and downright resistant. But the yogurt went fast. Plenty of students came back for seconds. Sandy’s dipping arm grew weary, but the children’s response kept her smile enthusiastic.
Especially one particular child. Renee Hansen, Britt’s ten-year-old, made sure that all her schoolmates sampled the yogurt. And to each she announced, “This is my best friend, Sandy. She helps my mom make yogurt.”
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br /> “From goats?” asked one little girl, making a disgusted face and pointing to the picture on the sign.
Renee gave her young friend a withering look. “Well, what did you think, it came out of a rock?”
As the lunch hour drew to a close, Renee came back to the cart, where Sandy was getting ready herself for the next group. “They all liked it.”
“Good.” She gave Renee a quick hug.
The bell rang to signal the end of lunch break, but Renee continued to dawdle, straightening cups and wiping up spills on the surface of the cart.
“You’d better run,” Sandy said. “You don’t want to be late for class.”
Renee shrugged. “It’s only geography. I don’t like geography, because Mrs. Malpern says we have to spell every country and every city perfectly or it counts off.”
“Gee, that is tough. But I’ll bet you can do it.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll help you practice this weekend, if you like.”
“Yeah? Cool. Um, Sandy? Can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you going to get married soon and have babies?”
The query startled Sandy. She had always taken it for granted that sometime, in some far distant moment in time—way past the age of thirty, for example—she might marry, become a mother. But that all seemed so far away. Her first instinct was to brush off Renee’s curiosity. But the full impact of the question began to settle on her like a weight. Married? As in sharing a bathroom and looking at each other over the morning paper every single day? Babies? As in diapers and mashed bananas? Strange reactions swamped her. “Well, gee. I don’t know. Why?”
“‘Cause when you do, I want to be the baby-sitter for you.”
Sandy laughed, but she was aware of the nervous flutter in her middle. Why was it that all of a sudden, the very idea of marriage and babies sounded so completely plausible? Desirable, even? “I see. Well, I promise if I need a baby-sitter, you’re it. How’s that?”
Renee didn’t look satisfied. “Then you’ll have to hurry. Because I’ll have to go away to college in eight years. See what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. But I’d have to be in love first.” Now why had she said that? Why did she even think that?
“Like Mom and Jake?”
“Like your mom and Jake.” And no matter how valiantly she tried to keep the thought from entering her mind, she couldn’t; he was there. His smile. The hot brush of his lips over hers. Drew. Damn him!
“I could help.”
Sandy shook off the sensations. “Help what?”
“Help you find somebody.”
Recalling her young friend’s expressed interest in her uncle Drew’s marital status the day she’d given Renee a ride home, Sandy grew agitated. “Oh. Well, I appreciate that, but...but I think you’d better get going to class, don’t you?”
Reluctantly, Renee nodded. “Okay.”
The little girl dashed across the cafeteria, grabbed her backpack and darted to the door. From there, she paused and called out, “I’ll think of somebody. You can count on me.”
Sandy gave her a thumbs-up and realized her hand was trembling.
In the hollow silence of the momentarily empty cafeteria, she gave herself a mental pep talk. She was not in the market for settling down, for becoming a parent, for having a man in her life. Especially not for a certain man.
But the images wouldn’t leave her the rest of the day. Images of two cups of coffee and the morning paper.
CHAPTER TEN
SANDY HEARD HER first version of the Wedding That Never Was from Annabelle Scanlon, Tyler’s postmistress and gossip extraordinaire.
Sandy had gone to the post office to get the most recent information on bulk-mail regulations, which she needed in order to prepare a proposal for a promotional mailing. First she had to listen to the latest on Raine Peterson, an old high-school acquaintance whose Broadway play had opened—and closed—the previous week.
“I heard she was devastated,” Annabelle said. “The reviews were extremely harsh.”
“That’s rough,” Sandy replied, feeling a pang of sympathy for her classmate. All through high school, Raine had talked of little else but dancing. While Sandy had thrown herself into the pep squad and Future Business Leaders of America, Raine had lived and breathed dance, which was one reason Sandy hadn’t known her very well, even in their small class. How must she feel if she thought that dream might now be dying? “But if I know Raine, she’ll come through it,” she declared.
Annabelle shook her head. “I’m not so sure. The darn thing closed after the first night. I don’t know what Raine’ll do now. And Marge, her mom, isn’t talking.”
It occurred to Sandy that anyone with good sense wouldn’t talk to Annabelle Scanlon about personal problems. The woman meant no harm, but she certainly managed to keep the rumor mills in Tyler well supplied.
“Did you have a chance to pull out the bulk-mail regulations so I could get a copy?” Sandy asked, trying to get the conversation back on track without wasting any more time on chitchat. She had a million things to do this week, including finding a designer to work on the logo update and working up another survey to continue the market research Yes! Yogurt so desperately needed.
“Oh, yeah. It’s right—” Annabelle shuffled through the piles of paper on her jumbled desk “—here.”
Sandy had begun to scan the regulations when Annabelle said, “I’ll bet nobody was more surprised than your grandmother when Clarence Stirling showed up over at Worthington House.”
“Um, yes.” Sandy frowned at the document in her hands, refusing to look up. “Can you give me some idea what size mailing would fit these weight requirements?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve got some samples here somewhere.”
Annabelle began to rummage around the back room, stopping once to help a customer who dropped in with a package to mail. Sandy half listened, amused, as the postmistress managed to coax plenty of details about the package out of her unsuspecting customer. The next person through the post office door would probably hear all about the birthday present Renata Youngthunder had just sent to a friend in Lubbock, Texas.
When Annabelle returned with the samples Sandy had asked to see, it was as if there had been no interruption in her conversation about Mag and Clarence. “You know, I was just a child at the time—twelve or thirteen, I think—but I never will forget what a ruckus that wedding stirred up.”
Sandy didn’t reply, although she had to admit a part of her was beginning to wonder what Annabelle might remember about the incident that had launched this fifty-year-old feud.
“My mother was a seamstress, you know,” Annabelle continued, clearly needed no prompting. “She probably made half the wedding dresses in Tyler from 1935 until she retired in 1963. I remember when Mag and her mother came in for the fitting. Already something was wrong. You could see it in Mag’s face.”
Sandy couldn’t help herself. “Oh?”
Annabelle nodded. “She’d been crying. I felt so sorry for her, she was such a sweet, pretty young thing. I stood there holding the box of pins for my mother, the way I always did, and I heard Mag’s mother say, ‘Young lady, now is not the time for tantrums. There is more than a wedding at stake here and I’ll thank you to remember it. We’ll all thank you to remember it.’ Those were her exact words.”
Stunned, Sandy let the postal-service documents fall into her lap. “What in the world would she have meant by that?”
A satisfied smile settled onto the postmistress’s face. “Of course, I didn’t understand it at the time myself. But I heard Mother and Daddy talking later. The Halstons and the Stirlings were founding a dynasty, you see. And they didn’t care one little bit about sacrificing their children.”
“A dynasty?” This was n
ews to Sandy. Astonishing news.
“Why, sure. Those two families owned everything in this town that the Ingallses and the Barons didn’t. Shoot, the whole thing was nothing but a business arrangement. Mag was smart to get herself out of it, if you ask me.”
“Get herself out of it? You mean she called it off?”
Annabelle’s laughter echoed off the post office’s high ceiling. “Well, it might have been better if she had. Honey, that child simply didn’t show up. She locked herself in her bedroom and didn’t come out for three days. Oh, it was delicious, that’s for sure. Today the only thing scandals have is sex. Back in the old days, scandals had mystery.”
* * *
UPSET AT THE IDEA that she was going to have to apologize to Drew Stirling for the things she’d said about his grandfather, Sandy marched straight from the post office to Worthington House. A glance at her watch told her it was time for the twice-weekly meeting of the Tyler Quilting Circle. But she had a few things to discuss with her grandmother before she threw herself on Drew Stirling’s mercy.
The quilting circle was holding court in the activity room—Martha Bauer, Emma Finklebaum, wheel chair-bound Bea Ferguson, plus Mag and a few others Sandy didn’t know very well. Once again Sandy was struck by how much younger and more energetic her grandmother looked than most of the other women present. Mag Murphy sparkled, from her bright blond hair and her ivory complexion to the glitzy jewelry and clothes she wore.
This morning she had on a fuchsia satin caftan, plus a teal-and-fuchsia turban dotted with rhinestones.
Sandy slipped into a seat behind her grandmother. “Gran, we need to talk.”
“Fine. Talk.”
“Privately.”
The murmur of voices grew distinctly softer. Mag held her needle up to the light and squinted as she attempted to rethread it. “I have no secrets.”
Sandy lowered her voice. “It’s about Mr. Stirling.”
Emma Finklebaum leaned across the expanse of quilt and said, “We didn’t catch that.”
Emma had written the social column for the local paper for as long as Sandy could remember. The woman still thought the public had the right to know anything and everything.
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