by Gaelen Foley
“Mother.”
“He started giving the neighborhood kids rides on the back of his bicycle when he was twelve. He called himself Riley’s Bike Taxi Service. Even made up little business cards and fliers with construction paper and markers.”
“Awww!” Bea said, turning to him with her hand on her heart.
Harry buried his face in his hands and considered sliding under the table.
“He posted them all over the school to get business. Earned a buck a ride. How ’bout that?” Noreen continued, beaming.
“That is too cute.”
“Gee, thanks,” Harry said, blushing. “Is that coffee ready yet?”
The two women laughed heartily. Harry gave them both a rueful smile, but he loved seeing Bea so relaxed and cheerful after all she’d been through.
“You want this as iced coffee, you two? It’s hot as Hades today.”
“That sounds great,” Bea said, and Harry nodded.
“Now, I wanna hear more about this tornado,” his mom ordered as she filled up three tall glasses with ice, then put a butter knife in each. An old trick from her waitressing days, as he well knew. As a kid, he’d been fascinated at how the knife’s metal prevented the glass from cracking during the swift temperature drop when boiling coffee met ice.
As Noreen brought their iced coffees over to them, leaving them to add milk and sugar as they pleased, Bea thanked her, then began regaling her with the blow-by-blow of their encounter with the twister.
“Oh my God,” she said as Bea shared all the scary details he would’ve kept to a minimum to avoid worrying his mother.
Thankfully, though, Bea told their survival tale with enough humor that his mom clearly relished hearing it. As for Bea, Harry gathered that enough hours must’ve passed since their ordeal that talking it out, as women loved to do, was somehow helping her, too.
“You think that’s something,” Bea continued, apparently pleased with her captive audience, “wait till I tell you about how your son saved my life on our whitewater rafting trip.”
“What?”
Farmer girl then launched into describing their brush with death on the Onatah River. When his mother heard that, she gave Harry a shocked look of dawning understanding, apparently deducing how much this pretty brunette had quickly come to mean to him, despite his casual demeanor.
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?” Noreen said in amazement. “You got my son to go whitewater rafting?”
“Yep. You should’ve seen him. He was incredible out there.” Bea nodded, wide-eyed. “He only told me afterward about his water phobia.”
“Yeah, I think I’m over that,” Harry mumbled, leaning back self-consciously in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Between Bea’s admiration and his mother’s pointed stare, this conversation had become decidedly embarrassing.
Next, Mom would be bringing out his baby pictures.
“You know what, we really should get going,” he interjected when he could finally get a word in edgewise.
“You’ve got to come out to the farm sometime, Noreen.”
“Oh, I’d love that! I’m more a city gal, myself, but that sounds like a real fun daytrip, if I can get this guy to drive me out there.”
“Anytime, Mom.”
Getting out the door was never easy, but at last, Harry gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek, and they eventually managed to leave.
On their way down the concrete path to his SUV, Bea turned to him, smiling. “Your mom’s a cool lady. She’s got a lot of sass. I like that.”
Harry chuckled. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” She shrugged her big brown purse higher onto her shoulder.
“Sure. What?” he asked, putting on his sunglasses and frowning at the afternoon’s dripping humidity.
Baking heat shimmered up off the blacktop of the tidy parking lot.
“If you’ve got this big inborn entrepreneurial streak, how come you don’t own your own business now?” she asked as he unlocked the Range Rover with a click of his fob.
“Are you kidding me? I see what you people go through,” he said, being a little flip. “I don’t need the headache.” He got the passenger door for her, well aware his mom was spying on them out her second-story window.
Bea paused to give him a searching look before getting in.
He gave way a little under her probing stare. “All right, I’ve thought about it,” he admitted with a shrug. “I like the job security of working for somebody else.”
“Huh,” was all she said, then climbed in. He shut the door for her, and Bea put on her seatbelt.
He strode around the vehicle, waved goodbye to his watching mom, and got in on the driver’s side. Bea studied him while he backed out of the parking spot.
“What?” he asked, glancing at her as he straightened out the wheel and then drove forward.
“I’m wondering something else. But it’s kinda personal.”
He arched a brow at her in half-teasing suspicion. “Yes?”
“Those little moneymaking schemes when you were a kid. Was that something you undertook because of your dad?”
A scoff immediately escaped him. “Well, he definitely inspired it.” Harry studied the bendy, park-like road ahead, musing as he drove. “Of course, I wanted to help my mom out with the bills, after his exit from our lives left us high and dry. But there was this one night shortly before he left for good that he sat me down and said something, gave me a life lesson, that I guess…made a lasting impact.”
“Yeah? What was that?”
Harry stared ahead as the advice of that embittered, down-on-his-luck gambler echoed through his mind. Meanwhile, his whole body had tensed; he did not like discussing this. But, since Bea had asked, he passed his father’s words on to her just the way he’d heard them—and taken them completely to heart.
“‘Everyone loves a winner, kid, especially girls. Remember that. Losers end up alone. If you want anyone to give a damn about you in this world, respect you, you better bring the cold, hard cash.’” Harry shrugged. “Lesson learned.”
“Ouch,” Bea murmured, wincing at him as they rolled up to a stop sign.
Harry was silent, listening to the quiet clicking of the turn signal. He couldn’t deny that his father’s drunken advice still hurt with a deep-down ache that he thought he’d outgrown by now. The worst part was the elder Riley’s grim philosophy of life had proved true more often than not.
Even back then, he saw for himself that the other kids treated him differently once he started working—delivering newspapers, running errands, or doing odd jobs for neighbors—because now he always had pocket money. His earnings, little as they were, could even make his mom stop crying.
That was power. That was when he’d learned that money more or less equaled happiness. Money equaled love.
The lesson had intensified once he got to high school and started dating. He knew it wasn’t his personality or even his slot on the baseball team that drew the prettiest girls in school to him. It was his ability to spend money on them. That was all they really cared about. He’d learned quickly not to care, himself.
The lesson had been driven in deeper when the rich girls at the golf club where he caddied weren’t allowed to go out with him.
He’d learned his place, all right. And vowed to rise above it.
Of course, he had realized in recent years this was probably why his adult relationships with women never grew very deep. With his by now well-ingrained set of assumptions about their motives, how could he ever trust them with his heart? It was easier simply to pick the type of women that he knew from the start didn’t require much emotional engagement. Narcissists. Plastic surgery goddesses with their fake boobs, dyed hair, nose jobs, and collagen-plumped lips. Status-symbol women to match his status-symbol car.
Bitchy as they were, at least he always knew where he stood with them. There was no risk of getting really hurt. It was a
ll a surface-level transactional affair, and he was fine with that. He knew full well that such women came with a certain level of demands in the gifts and offerings department. Cost of doing business.
Harry took it as a point of pride to spoil his girl of the moment. After all, his cynical philosophy had become “you get what you pay for.”
Then along came feisty Bea. Digging in the soil, sweating in the sun, real down to the dirt beneath her fingernails. Refusing handouts from her wealthy dad—Pap’s orders. Turning down Diamond Enterprises’ offer of a million bucks.
One by one, she’d overturned all his expectations.
And slowly it hit him that he had been a goner from that first moment at her farm stand.
As they drifted to a halt at the entrance to the community, she reached over and curled one now impressively clean hand atop his shoulder. “That’s a pretty harsh thing for a grown man to say to a kid, Harry. But hey, Father doesn’t always know best. Not everybody’s like that, you know. Personally, I’d still dig ya even if you were broke,” she teased softly, her topaz eyes glowing with gentle intimacy.
Filled with warmth at her touch and her mesmerizing gaze, he captured her hand. “Would ya?”
“Yeah.”
He pulled her hand briefly to his lips and dusted her knuckles with a kiss, then smiled at her with unfamiliar tenderness welling up inside. “Good to know.”
“So what’s next?” she asked.
He released her hand and, as he drove on, taking pleasure in the Rover’s growl of acceleration, Bea rested her elbow on his shoulder and began stroking the back of his neck with her fingertips, playing with his hair.
The light touch racked his body with hungry shivers. He strove to focus on answering the question and glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s nearly two. We should probably head back to my place and get prepared for our meeting with Curt.”
“Gulp,” said Bea.
He laughed, weaving through the traffic on McKnight Road. “Don’t worry, Honey-Bea. You got this.”
CHAPTER 14
Bea had expected to be miserable on this visit to the city. After all, the only reason she was here was to surrender over eighty percent of the Palmer Family Farm, and seriously downsize her dream. So far, though, she was finding the whole excursion surprisingly pleasant. Harry was a joy to be around, gentlemanly and considerate, always looking out for her, calming her down, making her laugh—and his mother was a trip.
Bea studied him as he swung her garment bag out of the back of the sleek Range Rover and insisted on carrying it for her, shooing her off when she tried to take it herself. That Noreen raised him right, she thought with a small sigh.
Maybe the lesson from all this was that other dreams were out there that could satisfy her as much as her passion for her work…
“You coming?” he asked when she lagged behind, lost in her thoughts.
She grinned and caught up, hurrying in her wedge sandals.
They left the parking garage and walked through his apartment building’s courtyard, where sun-drenched lounge chairs surrounded a glorious kidney-shaped swimming pool.
Pulling the brass-handled door to the lobby open, he guided Bea into a brick-walled, industrial-chic space with high-ceilings and gaping windows. Bea tried to hide her awe at the place.
On one side of the concierge’s desk stood several ornate pool tables, bulky high-top pub tables, a TV showing a baseball game, and a few taps for draft beers, turning the lobby into an elite club suitable for millionaires only.
The opposite side of the lobby offered a quiet coffee bar dotted with business types pecking on tablet computers as they sat on puffy couches under low-lit lamps. Bea spotted a young man outside wearing a black uniform, carrying a stack of fluffy white towels, swiftly walking around the far end of the pool.
Harry hooked his thumb in the direction the man was headed. “That’s the spa over there. Help yourself to any of this while you’re here. Mi casa es su casa,” he added with a smile.
Bea couldn’t imagine making herself at home in a place like this, but appreciated his offer. “Pretty fancy, Riley.”
“Not mentioning any names, but quite a few pro ballers have moved into the building. They’re my neighbors. We’ve got a few rookie Steelers, one Pirate, and a couple of Penguins,” he bragged discreetly, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Get out.”
“It’s true. They’re just normal dudes. Well—other than being abnormally large.”
She laughed quietly as the elevator dinged. They stepped in.
“So, I guess we still have a few hours until go time, huh?” she asked, checking her watch as they rode the elevator up to the seventh floor.
“Yeah. That’ll leave us time to practice, if you want. You sure you’re comfortable with everything we talked about?” he asked.
“We’ve been over it a dozen times,” she answered, straightening her back. To prove that she had things completely under control, she parroted the plan back to him once again. “One, I’m supposed to compliment Mr. Culpeper on his golfing trophies. Two, heartily accept a glass of bourbon, if and when he offers. Three, without laughing, manage to sound authentically impressed when I ask who painted his life-sized portrait that’ll be hanging on the wall across from his desk.”
Harry chuckled and nodded as they stepped out of the elevator and strode down a long corridor. “You’re doing great so far.”
Arriving at his apartment, Harry unlocked the door and swung it open. He guided Bea into a sun-filled, open-floor-plan loft. Redbrick, giant windows, wood beams, exposed ductwork, and a steel spiral staircase, all softened by colorful tapestries that hung from the walls, and vibrant embroidered pillows tossed onto Harry’s brown leather couch.
“Home sweet home,” he murmured as he entered behind her, throwing his keys into a cool glass bowl on a sturdy wood entry table.
Bea felt a wave of calm settle over her. The place gave a sense of welcome, and she had so been looking forward to seeing how Harry really lived. After setting her purse down by the wall, she put her hands on her hips and slowly spun around, taking in his scent, his taste in décor, his view of the river. She wondered what he did when he wasn’t chasing down clients for his cowboy of a boss.
Suddenly, a large, colorful print on the wall caught her eye.
“Oh my God, it’s a Warhol!” she exclaimed, pointing at the large, colorful poster of Muhammad Ali.
“Sorry,” Harry teased.
Laughing, she lifted her hands to her flaming face. “I’m so embarrassed. Why didn’t you tell me you had a Warhol print hanging up in your home when I was ragging on him at the restaurant?”
“I didn’t have the heart,” Harry said with an affectionate grin. “Do you want me to cover it up while you’re here so you don’t have to look at it?”
“No,” she retorted. “Smartass.” Still chuckling, Bea looked up again at the print.
The late, great champ stared down fiercely from a space above a book shelf, his famous fists painted in contrasting blocks of color.
“That’s my man, Cassius Clay.”
“Sting like a butterfly, huh?”
Harry grinned. “Maybe you should keep that in mind when we see Curt later.”
She sent him a mirthful sideways glance. “You know what? Maybe I spoke in haste about old Andy. I actually like this portrait. A lot.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. It’s badass,” she said. “This one really works. And it looks great here. Good eye.” She smiled at him in chagrin. “I take it Muhammad Ali is one of your boxing heroes?”
“Oh, he was amazing in the ring, but I dig him because he always stood up for what he believed in. He’s kind of an icon for the underdog,” Harry said as he strolled over to admire the portrait with her. “I respect that.”
Bea nodded, gaining a deeper level of understanding about Harrison Riley, now that she’d met his mom and was seeing the man at home.
“Okay, so co
ntinue. Let me hear the rest of the plan. You left off on number four.” He pulled off his jacket.
“Let’s see.” Bea counted in her head, then continued. “Four, tell Curt how much I admire and appreciate his dear, sweet, beloved Tammy Reese for bringing my family’s unfortunate financial situation to his generous attention.”
Harry fake-stabbed himself in the heart. “I know that one’s gonna hurt,” he said with a wince.
She merely arched a brow, kicking off her sandals. “Five, let him know that my grandfather is willing to agree to a partial sale of two hundred and forty acres, rather than the whole thing.”
Bea was hoping Culpeper would agree to her keeping sixty acres rather than fifty. Fifty seemed too small for all of her future plans.
“Six, clearly outline the benefits of him having his own vineyard as part of the resort, stressing how useful it’d be to have someone who already knows that soil as well as I do grow the grapes for him.”
“Exactly. He’ll love it, especially when I remind him about Monty’s little vineyard acreage at Silver Oaks.”
Bea nodded. “And seven—”
“Wait.” Harry frowned. “There is no seven.”
“Tell Culpeper how brilliant you are and how lucky he is to have you in his corner. I know I sure am,” she said, gazing at him sincerely.
“Aw shucks,” he muttered with a bashful smile, then came over and hugged her. “You’re pretty amazing yourself, Ms. Palmer.” He bent his head and kissed her, then murmured to her to make herself at home.
While Harry checked his email and made a few phone calls, Bea poked around in his kitchen to find something to drink. “How do you survive?” she exclaimed, shocked at his empty fridge. “I know you’ve been gone for a few days, but you don’t even have, like, mustard in here.”
“I’m not home much,” he called back from his gallery bedroom up the spiral staircase. “I know, it’s pathetic. I eat out way too often. I’m pretty sure there’s a few cans of Diet Pepsi in the cabinet above the microwave. I’ll go grocery shopping…later.”
Bea snorted. “Want me to run to the market for you?” She’d seen a small Italian grocery store at the corner. It was probably overpriced, but she wouldn’t mind wandering around the hip, bustling Strip District while he got himself settled in after being away for a few days.