by Nancy Warren
Staring at herself—one of a group of other happy athletic women—doing what she loved, she thought she’d never been happier. She scanned the first few paragraphs of Steve’s story. It mentioned her dream, the tryouts and her triumph. There were quotes from the cheerleader director, some of the other cheerleaders, even, she noted with a grin, Rock Richards. “Great gal. Terrific athlete,” he was quoted as saying.
She scanned the rest of the article and found not a word about high school.
“He changed it,” she said to Elspeth, her voice choking on her emotion. “He rewrote it!”
“That’s nice, dear,” answered her aunt, who was elbow-deep in Crown Derby china and not really listening.
With a lightened heart Harriet helped Elspeth with the tea trolley. She couldn’t believe how snarky she’d been to Steve. He must have wondered why.
Well, she’d make it up to him just as soon as she could.
Of course he drank his tea hot, and, from his demeanor, one would think he drank out of dainty Crown Derby cups every day instead of slurping coffee from a huge mug that advertised baseball bats.
He managed the scones—including the clotted cream and strawberry preserves—like a pro, and complimented Elspeth on her shortbread, which was the only thing in the world that she was vain about.
And to Aunt Lavinia he spoke intelligently and with insight.
Harriet’s toe started to tap with impatience. She and Steve needed to go somewhere private and have a serious talk.
Now.
STEVE COULDN’T KEEP the grin off his face when Harriet practically hauled him out of the house the second he’d finished his tea. Of course, he had accepted the second cup knowing perfectly well she was dying to smack him in the face with his summa cum laude.
He’d barely said his thank-yous before she was dragging him by the hand out the door.
“I need to walk off all that rich food and I know Steve will want to join me,” she said in a voice that brooked no refusal. Not that he wanted to refuse her anything, least of all time alone together.
“Thanks again, Miss MacPherson,” he said, feeling his arm almost pull out of its socket with Harriet’s impatience.
“I think it’s time you called me Lavinia. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing quite a lot of you,” she said, and then she winked at him.
He damn near fell down the neatly painted steps at the front of the house. Miss MacPherson had just winked at him. Still, she was right. If he had his way they’d be seeing an awful lot of each other.
“You bet, Lavinia,” he said, and winked back.
“Well, well, then you must call me Elspeth,” said the younger sister.
“It would be my pleasure,” he assured her.
“Would you come on!” Harriet exclaimed with a tug.
He sprinted down the steps and, taking a firm grip on her hand, started walking down the street. “You know,” he said, “one day, I really want to see you back flip this yard.”
“Well, it will be a cold day in Hades before that happens,” she informed him in a snit.
He glanced at Harriet and his heart squeezed. Her hair was picking up sparks of light, glowing fire, reminding him of her redhead’s temper. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled.
Her outfit couldn’t have been more demure and that suited him just fine. He loved knowing that she packed a serious centerfold’s body beneath those girlish clothes.
“I can’t believe you lied to me,” she sputtered as soon as she’d walked off some of her anger—at least he hoped she had.
“What are you talking about? I never lied to you.”
“You let me believe you were a dimwit.”
“I let anyone believe that, but only because they make assumptions. I kind of thought you were onto me anyway.”
“I guess I was,” she said, and he loved her incurable honesty. “But you didn’t go out of your way to let anyone know you were smart.”
He sighed and figured if anyone had a right to the whole truth, Harriet did. He turned her toward a convenient elm tree at the end of the street. Its leafy canopy offered a nice sheltered spot where they couldn’t be seen unless a car passed, which wasn’t all that frequent an occurrence in this quiet older neighborhood.
“Harriet,” he said, “I’ve learned so much from you.”
Her beautiful sea-green eyes widened with suspicion, but also eagerness. “You did? What did you learn?”
“This is going to sound so corny, but you taught me how important it is to be true to yourself.”
She smiled up at him and her off-kilter tooth called to him to shut up already and start kissing her. “Really?”
He picked up a fiery curl and twirled it around one finger. “In high school when you were a nerd, and I admit you were, I should have been a nerd, too. I had bad eyes and a gigantic IQ. But I didn’t want to be some smart geeky guy in the library.”
He sighed heavily. “I wanted to be out on the field playing football—well, anything really. There wasn’t a thing I could do about my eyesight, but I was smart enough to work the academic system so I always did okay, but never so well that I called attention to myself. You know?”
Harriet shook her head, puzzled, and he realized it had never occurred to her to hide her gifts.
“Anyhow, it wasn’t until I got to college that I realized my mistake. So I let the monster out of the closet, aced college and then came back here. I guess I never thought that everyone would still think I was a dumb jock. But they did, and I suppose I was busy enjoying my own private joke.”
She sighed softly.
“Are you disappointed?”
“No. I’m so happy. I want to have intelligent conversations with the man I love, not just—”
She gasped as though the words had slipped out without her knowledge or consent.
He touched a hand to the smooth, warm skin of her cheek, thinking he’d never heard words that sounded so good. “I love you, too.”
She cocked her head, a worry line appearing between her brows. “Are you sure it’s not Harriet the cheerleader you love?”
“Well, of course I love Harriet the cheerleader,” he almost yelled. “She’s terrific, who wouldn’t love her? But I also love Harriet the serious writer. Harriet the woman who seems to belong to every clan and wears all their plaids with pride. Harriet the woman who stays with her aunts because she loves them. You’re a whole and individual woman and I love everything about you.”
The way her smile widened and her eyes misted he had to think she believed him. “Even my temper?”
He swallowed. “Even that. In moderation.”
She giggled happily. “The spread in the paper was great, by the way. I never saw it until Aunt Lavinia mentioned the headline and I knew it wasn’t the same as the proof I saw.”
“So that’s why you were looking so mad at me. I thought it was because I showed up with presents for your aunts but nothing for you.”
She blushed adorably. “No. Of course not.”
When she tilted her chin up just so and her eyes dazzled him with their brilliance, and her scent lured him, he could think of only one thing.
“I do have something for you,” he said, dropping his voice and leaning closer.
She must have got some hint of his intention from the way his arms trapped her against the tree trunk.
“You do?” she asked softly, her pink tongue sliding along her bottom lip in a nervous gesture that was about the sexiest thing Steve had ever seen.
“Harriet,” he said, realizing he even loved her name, “I have a hickey with your name on it.”
If he’d gone down on bended knee with a four-carat engagement ring, he didn’t think she’d have reacted so blissfully.
“I’ve been hoping you’d do that again,” she said, lifting her chin higher to give him access.
“I’ve been thinking about doing it again ever since that first time. Oh, there are a lot of things I’ve been thinking about doing with you.�
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“Well,” she said breathlessly, “quit dawdling and let’s get started.”
He traced his index finger down the length of her creamy throat, watching smugly as a shiver of excitement rippled across her silky skin. He thought he had control of the situation, but the minute he touched his lips to her throat he was lost….
Nancy Warren
A Cradle for Caroline
“I miss you.”
Caroline glanced down and fiddled with the edge of her manicured nails. “I don’t know, Jon. I think some time apart is good for us.”
“Well, I hate it. Come home with me.”
“I can’t.” She shook her head. “Our troubles won’t go away that easily. I don’t even know if I want…I have to go.”
“What about your article?” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
“I’ll make it up.”
“Make it up?” Jon’s jaw dropped, he was so stunned. “But you’re a journalist.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He snorted. “Quote this.”
Before Caroline could protest or run away, which she did best of all, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Dear Reader,
A Cradle for Caroline was conceived when I was visiting my in-laws, Roy and Lois Reynolds, and they told me about their friend Fanny, an eighty-year-old bartender. I knew at that moment I had to put Fanny in a book, and what better part for her to play than the much-loved mother-in-law of my heroine?
I have never met the real Fanny, but I thank her anyway and hope she likes my fictional Fanny, who was a treat to write. A Cradle for Caroline is about family and friends and the importance of both in our lives.
Writing this book reminded me that I couldn’t do what I do without the support and cheerleading I get from all my family. You guys are the best!
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing about the fictional people of Pasqualie, Washington. Thanks for coming along.
Happy reading,
Nancy
Books by Nancy Warren
HARLEQUIN DUETS
78—SHOTGUN NANNY
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
838—FLASHBACK
915—HOT OFF THE PRESS
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
19—LIVE A LITTLE!
47—WHISPER
57—BREATHLESS
For James, who first made me a mother. I’ve loved every minute of our time together.
1
“AND WHAT IS THE SECRET to being chosen Miss Pasqualie Motors two years in a row?” Caroline Kushner asked in her professional interviewer’s voice, keeping to herself the suspicion that being the daughter of the sponsor might have something to do with the great honor being bestowed on Brooke Billingston.
But, as her editor had explained to Caro, Billingston Motors was a big advertiser with the Pasqualie Star, so they turned a blind eye to nepotism.
Take that, Jonathon, she thought gleefully as she imagined the publisher of the rival Pasqualie Standard and stickler for journalistic integrity, reading his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s byline in the paper he called “a muckraking tabloid.”
She could now add muckraker to her résumé, along with former high-fashion model and former wife. Well, not quite former, she didn’t have the divorce organized yet, but it wouldn’t be long. She forced down the nausea that rose every time she thought of Jon and the mess he’d made of their marriage—and since she couldn’t stop thinking about it, she felt as if she had a permanent case of the flu.
If it were mere pettiness that had her working for Jonathon’s despised rivals, she’d consider being ashamed of herself. But the truth was, she needed the distraction.
Not that she was getting much distraction from Brooke Billingston. The high school senior gushed in incomplete sentences where the ums, likes and ya knows vastly exceeded any sense. Caro took a few notes for form’s sake, but she’d end up fudging the girl’s quotes, reminding herself again of ad revenues at the Star.
Leaving the Billingston home in the affluent west side suburbs of Pasqualie, Washington, she headed downtown for her next interview. She’d scheduled her day this way to give herself a treat after the Billingston puff piece.
Fanny Kushner was turning eighty. The birthday itself wasn’t that big a deal, but Fanny’s occupation made her birthday news, for she was about to become Pasqualie’s first octogenarian bartender.
Fanny’d been tending bar since World War II. She’d buried two husbands, raised four children, and probably listened to more problems than the local priest, minister and rabbi combined.
Fanny could make everything from a pink lady to a black Russian with her eyes closed and her martinis had been known to make grown men weep.
Everybody loved her, including Caro. Even though Fanny was soon going to be her ex-mother-in-law.
Fanny had conceived Jonathon when she’d thought she was too old to get pregnant. Her first three children were almost grown, she’d been a widow for ten years, and along came Hector Kushner, who always said he fell in love with her martinis, then the woman who created them.
Jonathon was born less than a year after the wedding.
Caro figured that was part of his problem. He was almost an only child of older parents, and he’d ended up an odd combination of his earthy, unpretentious mother and a wealthy, elegant father who’d died happy knowing his only son was settled at his old alma mater, Harvard, in his old faculty, law.
Would Hector be as happy had he known Jonathon would dump law for journalism and move back to Pasqualie to buy the Standard? As she drove east toward Fanny’s Roadhouse, Caro wondered what Mr. Kushner would make of his family now.
Would he have approved of Jon’s marrying her? Or would he be delighted they were splitting up?
Why was she thinking about Jon? It was making her sick to her stomach again. Must be the weather. Damp weather always depressed her.
She walked into Fanny’s and the depression lifted immediately. The jukebox belted out K. D. Lang and she smelled the cedar paneling, fresh beer and a hint of pine from the cleaner Fanny used. Fanny had higher standards of hygiene than a hospital; Caro didn’t think she’d ever been in a tavern that was as spotless. Or as much fun.
They’d agreed on a two o’clock meeting, since that was Fanny’s slow time in the bar. The busy lunch crowd would be back at work and it was too early for the after-office cocktail hour. Still, a few shift workers and the shiftless hung out nursing beers. She heard some good-natured ribbing then the clap of pool balls from the back room.
Fanny stood behind the bar polishing glasses. She glanced up the minute the door opened, and a big smile lit her face. “Well knock me down and steal my teeth if you don’t get prettier every day.”
Caro laughed. She couldn’t help it. Fanny could cheer a corpse. Jon’s mother had been a beauty once, and you could see the remains of her looks still in the eyes, faded to baby blue now, but which Caro suspected had once been the same deep azure as Jonathon’s.
Nobody had ever seen a gray hair on Fanny’s head in all her eighty years. That was just about the only color they hadn’t seen, though. Today her permed hair was red.
Not auburn, or titian or strawberry-blond—it was crayon red.
The old woman’s matching crimson lips grinned wide, pinching the wrinkles in her cheeks together like twin accordions. Her earrings, shaped like chunky artist’s palettes, took up the crayon theme.
“I like the new do,” Caro said.
They exchanged a loud smacker across the bar. “It’s the only way I can ever get anybody to look at me. Especially if something young and pretty like you comes along.”
Caro smiled at her, feeling older and more used up at thirty than Fanny did at eighty. She pulled out her notebook. “Ready for your interview?”
“Why don’t you go back to modeling?”
“Because I’m thirty. My glory days were ten years ago.”
The old woman snorted. “Thirty. Older than dirt
.” She addressed her comments to the glass she was polishing. “She’s a baby, and still a skinny little thing.”
“So.” Caro plunged into her first riveting interview question. “How does it feel to be eighty?”
“I lied.” Concern lit the older woman’s eyes and she put down the gleaming glass to peer into Caro’s face. “You don’t look gorgeous. You look like somebody shot your puppy.”
A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed it down like a stuck pill. “Fanny, I—”
“Not as miserable as my Johnny, though. When are you two going to patch things up?”
“Fanny,” she said as gently as she could, reminding herself this woman was eighty years old and needed to be treated carefully, “we’re getting a divorce.”
It was as if one day had been shuffled into the middle of her life like a nasty joker in a deck of playing cards. On that day, she and Jon had visited the fertility specialist in the morning who’d given them the bad news that Caroline’s chances of conceiving naturally were slim to none. That evening she’d come home after work, already miserable, to find one of the Standard’s sales managers, Lori Gerhardt, all but naked in Caro’s own bed and Jonathon looking ready to join her. She’d capped off that memorable day by packing a bag and moving to her friend Melanie’s.
The bartender’s colorful expletive didn’t sound as if it came from a frail old lady. “That boy’s wheel is still turning, but the hamster’s dead. Hasn’t he crawled across glass yet to beg your forgiveness?”
“How does it feel to be eighty, Fanny?”
“Like I should call God ‘Sonny.’”
This wasn’t quite the angle Caro was going for. Maybe she’d make up an answer for question number one. Still, Fanny’s expressions were as colorful as her hair. She’d have to remember to include a few. She doggedly went on to her second question in her best interviewer’s voice. “I bet you’ve got some funny stories from your years behind this bar. Care to share a few?”