Small Town Girl

by Linda Cunningham

  title page

  Small Town Girl

  Linda Cunningham

  …

  Omnific Publishing

  Dallas

  Copyright Information

  Small Town Girl, Copyright © 2011 by Linda Cunningham

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  …

  Omnific Publishing

  P.O. Box 793871, Dallas, TX 75379

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  …

  First Omnific eBook edition, November 2011

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, November 2011

  …

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  …

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  …

  Cunningham, Linda

  Small Town Girl / Cunningham, Linda – 1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-936305-93-3

  1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Small Town—Fiction. 3. New England—Fiction. 4. Firefighter—Fiction. I. Title

  …

  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the most fantastic group of Small Town Girls on the planet, The Ladies of ’69! They are Martha, Kathy, Jane, Joanne, Nancy, Elaine, Pat, Sharon, Marie, and Joni, each of them a romance in progress and a true inspiration.

  Chapter One

  LAUREN SMITH LOOKED UP from her desk when she heard the knock on her office door. “Come in,” she said absentmindedly.

  The door opened. It was Kelly, Lauren’s colleague at the museum. Lauren, as curator of the distinguished Thompson Museum for the Arts in the heart of Manhattan, was technically Kelly’s boss. However, as they had been best friends since they met in college ten years ago, this ranking was a formality generally ignored.

  Kelly entered Lauren’s large and rather posh Curator’s Office, holding out a business-sized envelope to her across the desk. “The doyenne just handed this to me,” she explained. “It’s a registered letter. To you. It has the dreaded ‘Personal and Confidential’ stamp on it. They signed for it on your behalf.”

  Lauren wrinkled her brow quizzically. “Hmm,” she said, accepting the envelope and turning it over in her hand, “I’m not expecting anything.” Smiling, she looked up at Kelly. “Maybe The New York Times Magazine wants to do a piece on the Thompson!”

  Kelly made a sarcastic sound. “Bah! I looked at the sender. It’s some law firm from Vermont.” She paused, furrowing her brow in thought. “Vermont. We’re not affiliated with anyone in Vermont, are we?”

  Suddenly, Lauren was not listening. At the word “Vermont,” her stomach gave a little nervous jump. She stared at the envelope. The law firm’s name was not familiar to her, but the name of the town was. Clarks Corner. Founded in 1790 by the Clark brothers, who emigrated from Scotland and became wealthy stonemasons in the New World. Lauren’s mother had grown up there. Her grandmother had lived there, too, but she had been dead for three years now. Lauren’s mother had inherited the house, but she and Lauren’s father had long since moved away. She couldn’t remember whether her parents had ended up selling the house, whether they had rented it, or whether it was just sitting there empty.

  “What are you staring at it for?” urged Kelly. “Just open it!”

  Lauren looked at her friend, twisting her mouth into a skeptical line. She picked up her silver letter opener, slipped the gleaming blade under the flap, and made one smooth motion. She reached in and gingerly withdrew the folded letter inside.

  “Why are you acting so weird?” persisted her friend. “What does it say?”

  Lauren swallowed and unfolded the letter.

  “Well?” prompted Kelly.

  Lauren scanned the document, took a deep breath, and began to read it aloud.

  Dear Ms. Smith,

  Upon probating your grandmother’s estate, we discovered a last will and testament in her name, stating her wishes regarding the distribution of the estate held by her at the time of her death. All assets, real and liquid, were forwarded to her next of kin, your mother, Mary Hamilton Smith, as per her wishes. However, we recently received a request from Mrs. Smith to transfer ownership of the real estate (parcel 4326–Town Tax Map 2008) to you. Enclosed is a copy of the transferred deed. Please feel free to call with any questions or comments you have on this matter. A key to the front door is enclosed for your convenience.

  Sincerely,

  Christopher Page, Esquire

  Sweeney, Dillard, and Page

  Attorneys-At-Law

  “Well!” repeated Kelly, although this time as an exclamation. “They sent a key through the mail. Imagine that!”

  “Leave it to my mother to do something like this and not even tell me about it,” muttered Lauren, staring down at the letter in her hands.

  Kelly, always practical, said, “What does that mean? Why didn’t your mother tell you? Do your parents still live in San Francisco? Didn’t your mother ever say anything to you about changing the deed?”

  Lauren stayed quiet for a moment, trying to ignore Kelly’s rapid fire questions and get her mind around this unexpected news. “My mother never said anything to me about it.”

  “So exactly what did your grandmother have for real estate?”

  “Just the house, I think. She died in the same house she’d always lived in. I spent a lot of my summers there with my grandmother when I was a child. I just took it for granted that my mother and father inherited everything.” Suddenly Lauren became agitated. “What do I want a house in Vermont for, anyway? That’s why I didn’t pay any attention to what became of my grandmother’s estate. I don’t care. I have everything I want here. This is where my life is. Not in Vermont.”

  Kelly shrugged. “Well, it’s bound to be worth something. You can sell it. What kind of house is it? I never went there with you.”

  Lauren suddenly felt somewhat guilty. Since she had gone away to college, her visits to her grandmother had become fewer and farther between. Lauren had been to Kelly’s family’s country house in Connecticut many times. It was a gracious brick Georgian home in Greenwich, close to New York. Kelly’s family was just what Lauren would have liked her family to be. Kelly’s father was a doctor, her mother a decorous homemaker with a perfect pageboy. Lauren couldn’t imagine what Kelly’s family might think of her own mother and father. They were hippies. They had spent their youth protesting for the cause du jour, leaving their only daughter with the gentle grandmother in Vermont. Now that they were older, they had moved to California where Lauren’s mother had become a potter. She wore her gray hair long, and her fingernails were often caked with clay. Lauren’s father was a musician — a fiddler, to be exact. He traveled around the country to different music festivals and gigs, and he gave lessons on the side. Whenever asked, Lauren would say that her mother was an artist or sculptor and her father was a teacher. She sighed. Thank goodness they lived on the West Coast!

  “Hey!” said Kelly, breaking her colleague’s reverie. “Is the house worth anything?”

  “Well, I assume so,” Lauren replied. “I better call these lawyers and find out what to do about it.” She stared at the letter and sighed. “I guess I’ll just have them put it on the market and sell it.”

  “Don’t go turning over something like this to total strangers,” admonished her friend wisely. “You’ve
got to go up there, Lauren. You’ve got to go there yourself and see to this personally. When was the last time you were there?”

  Lauren thought, pausing before she spoke. “I went up for the day for my grandmother’s memorial service. So, I guess a little over three years ago.”

  “And the house has been empty ever since?”

  “Well, I guess so. I don’t know.”

  “You’ll have to call your mother and find out what’s going on. I mean, property is property. You’ll have to see to it. Lauren, why are you so odd about your family?”

  “How am I going to get away?” Lauren said absently, completely ignoring Kelly’s question. “What about Charles?”

  Kelly’s voice became instantly cynical. “You can take a couple of days. I’m perfectly capable of seeing to things here at the museum. As for Charles, you could take a week’s vacation in Hawaii, come back, and he probably wouldn’t know you’d been gone! He leaves you all the time to do business all over the world — London, Singapore, Tokyo. You can certainly take a couple of days to go to Vermont. An engaged couple shouldn’t have that kind of double standard.”

  “Kelly!” Lauren exclaimed angrily. “Don’t start on Charles!” Lauren’s choice of fiancé was the one bone of contention between the friends.

  Kelly blew through her nose in exasperation but let the subject drop. “It’s only noon. Why don’t you run home, pack some stuff for a couple of days, and drive up to Vermont. I’ll keep an eye on things. Call Charles and let him know what’s going on. Is he even in the city?”

  “Yes, he’s home,” answered Lauren. It was one of the reasons she didn’t particularly want to leave New York. Charles wasn’t home very often, and their time together was important to her. She glanced down at the large diamond on her left hand. After all, they had a wedding to plan.

  “Really, Lauren, it’s the responsible thing to do.”

  Lauren gave a resigned sigh. “I suppose you’re right. I guess it won’t take long. I’ll just list it with a Realtor and let them handle it. I don’t really care.”

  “You should get going. Go home. Stuff some things in an overnight bag. Don’t forget your toothbrush. You should get out of the city before the commuter traffic starts. It should only take you four hours or so to get there. You can get there before dark.”

  Lauren hugged her bright-eyed friend. “You always look after me!”

  An hour and a half later, with her friend’s assurances and encouragement, Lauren found herself crossing the New York-Connecticut border, traveling north on Interstate 95 in the smart little Mercedes Charles had bought her last Christmas. Once on the interstate, Lauren reluctantly activated her Bluetooth and called her parents in California. Her mother answered.

  “Mom?”

  “Lauren! What a nice surprise!”

  “Mom, why didn’t you tell me you deeded Gramma’s house to me?”

  Her mother’s hearty laugh nearly split Lauren’s eardrum. “Surprise! Your father and I had no idea what to give you for a wedding present. You seem to have everything imaginable. So we gave you Gramma’s house. Perhaps you and Charles would like it as a summer place. Either that or you can do whatever you like with it.”

  “Oh, Mom,” said Lauren, chagrined. “You didn’t have to do that. Can’t you and Dad use the money? You could sell it.”

  “Oh, we don’t need anything, honey,” said her mother. “And Gramma loved you so much. She would want you to have it.”

  “Well, ah, thank you so much, Mom. Actually, I’m on my way up there now to look the place over. Thanks, Mom, and thank Dad for me, too.”

  “I will, honey, I will. You drive carefully now. I love you. See you soon.”

  “I love you, too, Mom,” Lauren replied. “See you soon.”

  The wide highway stretched before her. The early summer day was warm and clear, and the traffic was relatively light. Lauren had always enjoyed driving. It gave her a chance to be alone with her thoughts. She steered the car easily into the middle lane, accelerated to seventy-five miles an hour, and adjusted herself for the long trip.

  Just outside New Haven, Lauren saw the large green sign. White lettering proclaimed: SPRINGFIELD MA, I-91, LEFT LANE. Lauren switched to the exit lane. Once on Interstate 91, the traffic subsided to almost nothing. She knew she could stay on this road all the way to Vermont, following the Connecticut River north. As she settled in for the drive, Lauren remembered that her grandmother had called it “the road that led people home.” An odd little flutter rose up, unbidden, inside her. To dispel this sudden onslaught of feeling, Lauren consciously began to think of her wedding, meticulously going over the details in her head.

  It was to be one of the most amazing weddings New York society had seen in a very long time. Celebrities would be attending. Business people from all over the world would be there. Vera Wang was designing the dress already!

  Lauren smiled happily to herself as she gave her mind free rein. I’ve done all right, she thought, mentally patting herself on the back. I broke out of the hippy mode. I got myself a terrific job, and I worked my way up the social and economic ladder. And now I’m marrying Charles Hobart.

  Lauren thought back to the first time she and Charles had met. It had been at a fundraiser for the museum. Charles was contributing a great deal of money, and he was the guest of honor. His donation would put the museum’s endowment well in excess of the Board of Trustees’ goal. The board members had been delirious with the fact that they had scored such a coup! A huge donation from Charles Hobart. Lauren had had to suffer through two weeks of lugubrious meetings while the Board had decided everything from the menu to the speakers to which works of art should be showcased in the function room on that night.

  Lauren remembered the night in minute detail. As curator, she’d had to sit at the head table next to Charles Hobart, introduce him, and stroke his ego with scintillating conversation. She was to be professional and friendly without being obsequious. She had dressed carefully in a white knit dress with a high neck. It had flattered her trim figure, hugging her bust, nipping in her neat waist with a black leather belt, and outlining her athletic hips while still appearing modest. The only jewelry she had worn was a pair of drop diamond earrings, a present she had given herself upon her appointment as head curator. She had pulled her thick, golden blond hair back into a soft classic French twist, more sophisticated than the slightly haphazard up-do or ponytail she wore daily.

  Lauren had sat beside Charles Hobart and had chatted politely and intelligently all through the speeches, the dinner, and finally, the award to Charles himself. She had found him cosmopolitan and urbane, with a wry sense of humor. He was a mature man, perhaps twenty to twenty-five years older than Lauren, with smooth gray, almost white, hair and steel blue eyes. He was tall and physically fit, and his expensive suit fit him to perfection. His even features and deep chuckle made him attractive, although Lauren had the feeling he held himself in check, held something back, that his laughter never boomed forth in hearty peels. He was a man who was adept at controlling and manipulating whatever situation developed around him.

  She had been utterly unprepared when he’d called her at her office the following Friday evening.

  “This is Charles Hobart,” he had said in his deep, smooth voice. “I was wondering if you might come with me to the theater and dinner afterward at Nobu?”

  Lauren was so taken off guard, she’d stuttered, “T-T-Tonight?”

  Charles had chuckled softly. “Yes. I know it’s short notice, but I took the liberty of asking Debbie Johnston if you were in a relationship. She said no, so I took my chances. Yes, tonight.”

  Debbie Johnston was chair of the Board of Trustees. Lauren’s initial indignation at the unpermitted sharing of her personal information had been almost immediately overcome by her capitulation to flattery. “Well, I — ” she’d stammered. “Yes, I’ll go.”

  “Wonderful!” said Charles Hobart, as a man to whom the possibility of rejection had never oc
curred. “I’ll pick you up at the museum in an hour.”

  They’d had a lovely evening. They had seen Jersey Boys at the August Wilson Theater on West 52nd Street, not far from her little apartment in Murray Hill. Afterward, the dinner at Nobu had been beyond delicious. Then they had taken a romantic trip around the city, winding slowly through Central Park in Charles’s chauffeur-driven Bentley, talking about incidentals, getting to know one another. It had been the wee hours of the morning when he’d dropped her at the door of the modest, post-war building common to the neighborhood. He’d given her a chaste kiss on the cheek as she turned to go inside, but he hadn’t left without securing a date for the following weekend — in Paris…

  Adjusting her position in the driver’s seat, Lauren lifted her left hand to the top of the steering wheel. The large gem caught the late afternoon sun and split the light into a million sparkles, dazzling Lauren’s eyes. Yes, she thought, she’d done well for herself, managing to hold the interest of one of the most powerful businessmen in the country until he had proposed marriage. A simple signing of a prenup later, and they were planning the wedding.

  Lauren’s thoughts darkened a little at the thought of the prenuptial agreement. It was rather a sordid detail to what should be a mutually happy occasion. However, she sighed to herself, that’s how things are done now. It was only prudent. It was only professional. It was for everyone’s protection.

  Lauren was beginning to get tired. She shifted her legs and glanced at her watch. Not too bad, she thought, looking up to find the nearest highway sign. There it was, ahead of her. Exit 6, one mile. Finally! She would be glad to get there. No more than half an hour left to her drive. She slowed the car and took the exit off Interstate 91 to Route 103 North. It was amazing how she remembered the way, as though she had traveled it yesterday and not three years ago. She drove the ten miles to town at the posted fifty mile an hour speed limit, looking around at the fields and trees. She turned off the air conditioning in the car and opened the window. The breeze swirled in, rustling her hair almost affectionately and bringing with it the scents of fresh-turned earth, green leaves, and the first flowers of summer.