by Gina Wilkins
Combined with the lack of publicity about him being in the vicinity, he hoped his pseudo-disguise would prevent him from attracting attention from the locals. It was possible that he could get through the day in total anonymity. Which didn’t give him an excuse to lie to Stacy, even through omission. And yet it was such a novel experience to spend a day with someone who didn’t know him as a notable NASCAR driver that he found himself wanting to delay the revelation for just a little longer.
“I think I’d like to walk around Mountain View, if that’s okay with you,” he said. “Just to get a feel for the area and the people here.”
She nodded in approval of his choice. “I think you’ll find it interesting. Turn right at the next intersection.”
Still feeling vaguely guilty that he’d let a perfect opportunity for confession slip by, he followed her instructions.
ALREADY A FEW CLUSTERS of musicians had gathered around the courthouse and in front of some of the shops in the square, though there would be quite a few more later that day, after working hours. In groups of three or four, they sat in chairs they’d brought themselves, jamming with guitars, banjos, fiddles, dulcimers, mandolins, autoharps, bass fiddles—pretty much anything portable and playable.
Some sang along with the old songs and hymns, but mostly they just played, no sheet music in sight, no one asking for money or expecting applause. They were there simply for the joy of making music together.
Though business wasn’t as brisk as it was on weekends or during summer-vacation times, there were a few tourists in town on this beautiful fall afternoon. Most were older couples without children, since it was a school day. They were already gathering in their own chairs to listen to the music, moving from one spot to another to better sample the range of free entertainment. Several enjoyed ice cream cones or lemonades purchased from a stand tucked into an easily accessible corner of the square.
“It’s like stepping back in time,” Jake murmured, looking around in appreciation.
“Well, almost,” Stacy responded wryly as an enormous SUV with intrusively modern music booming through the windows cruised through the square. The musicians ignored the distraction, though some of the tourists frowned and muttered disapproval of the discourtesy.
Jake paused in front of a large store specializing in hand-forged ironworks. His attention focused on an intricately designed bench, he said, “This place looks interesting.”
“I love this shop,” she confessed. “There’s an amazing wrought-iron sleigh bed here that I would buy in a minute, if I could afford it. And if my apartment was big enough to hold it. My brother has some of their tables in his cabin. I’ve bought a few candleholders and other decorative items.”
“Mind if we go in?”
“No, of course not.”
She was intrigued to see that Jake seemed genuinely interested in the iron furniture. Bypassing the knickknacks and candleholders, he went straight to the big things—glass-topped tables, an iron-and-glass wet bar. A display of cushioned iron benches similar to the one he had seen outside held his interest for a while, until he was drawn to a tall baker’s rack with an intricate pattern of leaves and acorns worked into the back.
Apparently realizing that his interest in the merchandise amused her, he gave her a lopsided grin. “I’m slowly furnishing my house back in North Carolina,” he said. “I get easily distracted by furniture and stuff these days.”
“Did you just buy your house?”
“I had it built, starting two years ago. Finished it last winter. Most of the rooms are still empty, because I haven’t had time to concentrate on it lately. My friends tell me I should hire someone to take care of that stuff, and I may, eventually, but I sort of like being involved in choosing things.”
Several points in that explanation left her even more confused by Jake than she had been before. She assumed he was close to her own age of twenty-eight—around thirty, give or take a couple of years. Most of the single guys she knew of that age in Little Rock lived in apartments.
One of her friends had bought a modest home for the investment value, and had then let his mother and girlfriend decorate it. His only contribution to the decor had been a large-screen TV, a massaging recliner with built-in speakers and cup holders, and a state-of-the-art gaming system. She couldn’t imagine him showing any interest in wrought-iron baker’s racks.
Something else that had caught her attention about Jake’s comments was his casual mention of “most of the rooms.” Just how big was his new home? Either he had come into a tidy inheritance, or he made a darned good salary as a truck driver. He hadn’t blinked an eye at the rather steep prices marked on the items he’d seemed to like most.
Reminding herself that his finances were absolutely none of her business, she asked instead, “Do these wrought-iron pieces fit in with your decorating plan?”
He laughed at that. “You make it sound as if I have a decorating plan. I don’t know one style from another. Have no idea what the current trends are. I just know what I like. And I really like these benches,” he added, nodding toward the display that kept drawing him back. “I can see one of those at the foot of my bed, where I could sit to put on my shoes.”
“I’m sure they’ll ship one of the benches to North Carolina.”
He nodded. “I’ll consider that while I’m in the area.”
“How long are you planning to stay?” she asked, moving into the next display area.
Following, he shrugged. “A week. Maybe two. Depends on when I’m ready to get back to work. How about you?”
“Nick—my brother—said I could stay as long as I want. And since I can work anywhere, I thought I’d stay until I get bored. Maybe another week.” She hoped that would be enough time for the unwelcome attention to die down, letting her return home in relative anonymity.
He paused. “This is the one, isn’t it? The bed you’ve been admiring.”
Because there were several sleigh beds in the large showroom, in addition to four-poster, canopy-style and other types of frames and headboards, it surprised her that he had chosen exactly the one she had lusted after. “Yes, that’s it. How did you know?”
“It just looks like you, I guess.”
She wouldn’t have thought he’d gotten a strong enough impression of her yet to make that kind of connection.
“It’s a great bed. I can see why you like it so much.”
It occurred to her suddenly that they were both standing there picturing her in that bed. Clearing her throat, she turned away. “Yes, well, it’s about the size of the entire bedroom in my apartment, so I guess I’ll have to pass for a while longer. Did you see these fireplace tools? They’re great, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. Great.” But he looked over his shoulder again at the bed as they moved away.
IT WAS a charming little town, full of intriguing shops, friendly people and music. Music on every corner. Jake could almost feel the tension easing from his shoulders as he and Stacy made their way slowly around the square.
They went into every shop, and while some of the merchandise was too hokey-touristy for his taste, he spotted several more upscale items that would look right at home in his spacious, but ultimately comfortable house on Lake Norman. The iron bench. A set of iron fireplace tools and a matching screen. A walnut sideboard and an old trunk he found in an antique store. Hand-turned cherry salad bowls in a crafts guild shop.
Deciding he would come back to town another time to purchase and arrange shipping, he made a mental note of the items he wanted. He didn’t want to buy then for several reasons. He wasn’t really an impulse shopper, so waiting a couple of days would give him a chance to decide if he really wanted those things.
Making shipping arrangements would involve giving his name and address to the salesclerks, who might realize who he was. And he didn’t want to risk looking as if he were flaunting his wealth in front of Stacy, who had candidly admitted that she couldn’t afford the bed she coveted.
&nb
sp; And speaking of Stacy…
He smiled as he studied her rapt attention to a display of fragrant soy candles in pretty glass jars. The town was working its magic on her, too. She had relaxed considerably during the past couple of hours, smiling more often, talking more easily, even laughing a couple of times at his lame attempts at jokes. As he had predicted, her laughter was musical. Infectious. Very appealing.
On a whimsical impulse, he stopped at a row of machines that dispensed bubble gum and cheap toys for quarters. Plugging two quarters into one of the machines, he grinned in surprise when his “prize” turned out to be a plastic race car. A purple plastic race car, to be precise.
Had to be fate, he figured, turning to offer the car to Stacy. “For you,” he said. “A souvenir.”
Smiling a bit quizzically, she took the car and slipped it in her pocket. “Thank you. I’ll remember you every time I look at it.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I figure you will.”
He changed the subject before she could ask what he meant by that.
They found a restored 1900-era soda fountain tucked into a pharmacy a block west of the square, and of course Jake couldn’t let that opportunity slip by. He and Stacy found two stools side by side at the polished marble counter. They faced a bevel-edged mirror with leaded-glass cabinets on either side and three stained-glass pendant lights in front. He studied a menu that advertised “milk shakes, malts, ice cream sodas, banana splits, sundaes and phosphates.”
“What sounds good to you?” he asked Stacy.
She wrinkled her nose in a wry expression. “Are you kidding? It’s ice cream. It all sounds good.”
It took him a moment to remember what they’d been talking about. Dragging his gaze away from her smile, he forced his attention back to the menu. “I’m thinking about trying that banana split.”
“I’ll have a milk shake,” she murmured. “Now I just have to choose a flavor. Chocolate? Strawberry? Or pineapple?”
By the time the green-aproned teenager behind the counter approached them for their orders, Stacy had made up her mind. She requested a strawberry shake. Jake ordered a banana split and a fountain cola. He would work off the calories later, he figured. This was the first afternoon of indulgence he had enjoyed since his accident. He was going to make the most of it.
“Here y’all go,” the perky young woman chirped as she set their treats in front of them. She was, perhaps, eighteen or nineteen, barely out of high school, Stacy judged. “You need anything else?”
“No, we’re fine, thanks,” Jake assured her.
The girl looked at him for a moment, and he felt the muscles in the back of his neck go tense. “You look kind of familiar,” she said. “Have you been in here before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
Still frowning a little, she looked at Stacy. “Actually, you look familiar, too.”
“I’ve been here several times before,” Stacy replied easily. “This is a favorite vacation area for my family.”
“I guess that’s it,” the girl murmured. And then, to Jake’s relief, she was summoned by another customer, becoming too busy with work to dwell on why Jake’s appearance rang a mental bell for her.
He looked down at his generously sized banana split—three large scoops of ice cream flanked by slices of banana, covered with chocolate, strawberries and pineapple and topped with whipped cream, nuts and three maraschino cherries. “I think she’s given me enough for two people here.”
Stacy studied her own supersized milk shake with whipped cream and a cherry towering precariously above the soda-fountain glass. “Tell me about it.”
He picked up his spoon. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us. Dive in.”
Chuckling, she took a first sip of her shake, murmuring her appreciation of the taste. Something about that little purr made him gulp his first bite of banana split, almost choking on a chunk of strawberry. He reached quickly for his cola, telling himself to pay attention to his dessert and try not to focus so much on his attractive companion.
AFTER VISITING the old grist mill and a music shop filled with handcrafted and vintage instruments—none of which either of them played—they returned to the car. Stacy noticed that Jake’s limp had become more pronounced after so much walking, but she didn’t comment. She figured he was ready to go back to the cabin and rest.
Climbing behind the steering wheel, he set down the box of pecan fudge he’d been unable to resist buying at a candy store. “You’re sure you don’t want a piece of this fudge?”
She groaned and rested a hand on her tummy. “After that enormous milk shake, I don’t think I’ll be hungry again for the rest of the day.”
“Can’t say I’m hungry right now, either. But that fudge just smelled too good to resist. I’ll enjoy it for a snack tomorrow.”
She snapped her seat belt and settled comfortably into her seat. “I’ve had a very nice time this afternoon.”
“It’s not quite over yet,” he reminded her. “We’re still going to visit that dulcimer shop and the old general store you told me about, aren’t we? Unless you’re getting tired?”
“No, I’m not tired.” She had thought he’d forgotten about those two places. Was he really so reluctant to go back to his cabin? He must have badly needed a diversion from his unhappy memories. “Turn left at the next intersection.”
Jake seemed as intrigued by the dulcimer store as he had been by the other places they had visited. He examined every item in the place—mostly handcrafted dulcimers, of course, but also some other craft items—and then he watched a skilled craftsman actually making a dulcimer. He asked questions, complimented the workmanship, even played a few notes himself with friendly assistance from the store owner.
How was an obviously straight man like Jake still single? She smiled to herself as she watched him chatting with the older man. Good-looking, charming, personable—and he even liked shopping. For furniture, no less.
“Stacy, try this,” he encouraged her, turning to her with a smile. “It’s called a kalimba. It’s really easy to play.”
She looked obligingly at the instrument he was holding. Mounted on an oval cedar board about six-and-a-half inches long, eight thin strips of metal, one for each note in the octave, resonated when plucked with the thumbs. Much like the mechanism of a music box, she realized, listening as he followed a numbered music sheet to pluck out a slow version of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
She clapped politely when he finished. “Bravo.”
His grin was just a little sheepish, but he turned toward the cash register. “I think I’ll buy it. It’s the only instrument I’ve seen this afternoon that I might have a chance of learning how to play.”
She had to laugh. She didn’t bother to tell him that she’d been tempted on several occasions to buy an instrument—any instrument—after a trip to this area. There was just something so appealing about watching the musicians gather in the square, old friends and newcomers alike welcomed into the impromptu sessions.
She knew the local music traditions dated back to a much simpler time when people had gathered for music and dancing as their primary form of socializing. Lacking television and computers and video games, they had entertained themselves with the old tunes, passing the skills down to their children.
So many things in the area evoked those old days, including the two-story, white-framed general store to which she directed Jake next. Antique wagons and vehicles sat outside, along with an old gas pump and several vintage tin signs. Benches, rockers and pickle barrels lined the full-length, gingerbread-trimmed wooden porch.
Walking into the store was like stepping into the early part of the previous century. Bottled colas arranged in hinged-top chests, brightly colored candy sticks presented in big glass jars. Moon pies and country-cured hams were displayed for sale along with a dizzying selection of merchandise. Reproductions of antique toys were popular items, along with tins, cookbooks, candles, jellies and honey, gifts and�
�true to the surroundings—vintage instruments.
Antiques and flea market items were for sale in the back of the store, and logo-bearing collectibles were displayed everywhere. The green-and-yellow trademark of a famous tractor maker and distinctive red-and-white designs advertising a brand of cola appeared on plaques, plates, aprons, clocks, tea towels, tote bags and too many other items for her to identify at a quick glance.
His face alight with a grin, Jake looked up from a barrel filled with colorful marbles for sale by the scoopful. “You were right,” he told her. “This is a cool store. Takes me back to when I was a kid in rural North Carolina. There were still a couple of places like this back in the hills then, though I’m sure most of them are long gone.”
Rural North Carolina. It was the first mention he had made of his childhood. “I thought you would like this place. Everyone does.”
“If I weren’t still full from that banana split, I’d be into the candy display,” he admitted. “I haven’t seen some of those flavors in years.”
He certainly had a sweet tooth, she thought, glancing at his slim waist. It was a wonder he stayed in such good shape. “Is there any food you don’t like?”
He had a jar of blackberry jam in his hand and had that look in his eyes that told her it would probably be going back to the cabin with him, along with his fudge and his kalimba. “Actually, I hate curry,” he said absentmindedly. “And English peas. And I have to be careful with onions, because eating too many triggers headaches.”
“You suffer from migraines?”
He shrugged, set the blackberry jam back on the shelf and picked up a jar of peach preserves. “Yeah, sometimes. I’ve got a few allergies that cause them, though not very often.”
She watched as he exchanged the preserves for the jam again, apparently making a decision. “I have migraines sometimes myself. Mine seem to be more weather and stress related.”