Return to Heartland: A Heartland Cove County Romance

by Jacquie Gee

  The guest blows out some steam.

  “I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” The clerk answers, blandly. “We get tour buses from all over the country, here.”

  “Yes, but—”

  She types something into her keypad.

  “Please,” I say, sticking my hand over the marble barrier, interrupting what she’s doing. “This is very important.”

  The guest and the clerk both glare down at my hand.

  The clerk finally looks up.

  “There was a bus, from Ginran Lin Tours, in Heartland Cove yesterday morning,” I explain slowly. “It would have arrived here around sometime yesterday morning. Would that bus still be here?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, the early morning buses have already left.”

  “But all these people—” I glance back.

  “Are they checking in.” She finishes my sentence, rather snottily.

  “Okay. Then, do you happen to know where they might be stopping next?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s three,” the guest says. He shoots me a disgusted glare.

  “Every tour bus has its own agenda,” the clerk answers.

  “Yes, I know, but Ginran Lin Tours, do you happen to know their agenda?”

  The guest huffs.

  “You’ll have to check with the concierge.” The clerk death-glares at me.

  I look back at the line extending from that kiosk. It’s about a month long.

  “Thanks,” I say…for nothing, and fly across the room, pushing my way up to the front of that line the same way I did the last one. “Excuse me, Derek.” I read the concierge’s badge. “I’m sorry,” I say to the pissed-off-looking visitor I’ve just stepped ahead of. “Are you familiar with Ginran Lin Tours? It’s an emergency,” I tell the wet-behind-the-ears university-summer-student manning the concierge desk,

  Uni-boy sighs. “Yes, ma’am. I’m familiar with all the tours, ma’am.” His eyes roll near to the top of his head.

  “Great. Then maybe you can help me,” I dive into the conversation. “There was a bus arrived here from Heartland Cove sometime early yesterday morning. A Ginran Lin Tours—goes without saying, I understand it’s already left. I’m trying to track it down.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to.”

  “Why?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Because if someone forgot something, we have a lost and found.”

  “No. It’s not that. Now, do you know where they’re going next?”

  He gives me a wild look like I need a code or something to crack it out of him.

  “I’m from the Cove. I need to speak with someone on that bus. It’s very urgent.”

  “Well, then.” He waggles his brows and drawls his voice. Sarcastic little sucker, isn’t he? “St. John’s,” he says. “All the buses go to St. John’s next.” He looks down, mumbles, “It’s not exactly rocket science.”

  “Right. I know that, but, do you happen to know exactly where in St. John’s? What attraction? And what time, maybe?”

  “It’s St. John’s ma’am. It’s an hour away. And there’s not that much to see.”

  “I know that yes, but…” Helpful, isn’t he? “Do they stop anywhere specifically?” Uni-boy flashes me a look that says, Seriously, you’re from around these parts, and you can’t guess? There is only so much to see in St. John’s, New Brunswick, he’s got a point. He reaches back, grabs a tourist pamphlet on the area and slams it down on the counter in front of me. “First to the Warf and then to the Market, then through Loyalist House.” He stabs a finger at each attraction on the pamphlet. “Then it’s on to the magnetic hill in Moncton—”

  “Moncton?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But that’s another hour away in the opposite direction.”

  “Yep. And then from there to the Island.”

  Great. They get that far I’ll never catch them.

  “How much time to they spend at each place, do you know?”

  “Varies.”

  “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “All depends on the driver.”

  I groan.

  “But each stop is usually only twenty minutes long.”

  “Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes to shop the market at St. John?” My voice lilts awkwardly up.

  Uni-boy lifts a pierced brow. “I don’t make the rules ma’am.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I check my watch. “Do you know what time the buses left this morning?”

  “Round eight-thirty, give or take a half hour.”

  That’s accurate.

  “That includes Ginran Lin Tours?”

  “Yeah. They’re the biggest tour bus outfit in the whole area,” he adds.

  “So there’s more than one? But I need to catch this specific bus.”

  “Good luck.” Uni-boy waves me off.

  I push off the desk and start away.

  “The tour bus company has a website if you wanna check there.”

  I smirk-thank him, and glance down at my watch, as I walk away from the counter, figuring out the tour in my head. Nine-thirty arrival in St. John. Eleven thirty-three now. Even if their bus driver were generous, they'd still be on their way to Moncton by now. Maybe if I went straight there, but that’s another hour in the opposite direction.

  I turn, distraught and run smack into someone. “Becca?” a familiar voice says.

  “Jebson.” I look up. A cold shudder jerks through my bones.

  Jebson smiles at down me. “Well, fancy meeting you here.”

  I step away from him, abruptly.

  “You have business in the Plaza?” he continues talking. He glances over my head at something official going on behind us. Curiosity causes me to turn. “No,” I say, spying a handful of official-looking people milling around a fancy looking coffee urn. Behind them the doors to the hotel’s most expensive-to-rent boardroom are open. Men in ghastly expensive suites balance iPads in their hands. They grab cups of complimentary coffee and small talk with one another. Each one looks as fake and shellacked as Jebson. “Looks pretty important,” I say, turning back to him.

  “Always is.” He grins, eyes focused on the crowd. He raises a hand, waves to one of the men, who waves back. “Charlie.” The guy salutes, fake-smiles back. I want to throw up right there and then. “What brings you all the way up the road to Fredericton, this fine morning?” Jebson finally averts his attention back to me.

  "Nothing,” I lie.

  “You drove all this way for nothing.” He pressures me, just like he used to when we were dating, always demanding to know where I was, and why. I’d forgotten how controlling this little jerk can be. I don’t miss that a bit.

  “Sightseeing,” I say.

  “In Fredericton.” His voice bumps.

  “Um hum.” I smile, which irks him even more, I can tell. “I miss the place. Haven’t been here in a while.” I swing my arms out at my sides. “Thought I might take in a little shopping.” I pat my purse.

  “So, you pushed your way to the front of the concierge’s line, to find out the best shops in town. Is that it?” He screws up his face.

  My heartbeat roars in my ears.

  How long has he been standing here? How much did he hear? What does he know? Did he follow me?

  The strange hollow feeling that happens when something eerily shows up on the sidebar of your Facebook page, pertaining to the very thing you were just texting your friend about, creeps up my spine. “Do you always make a habit of spying on your constituents?” I ask him.

  “Only one who draws attention to themselves, making a fuss in a public place.”

  “I’d hardly call asking questions, making a fuss.”

  He gets distracted again, and I plan my escape. “I gotta go.” I sidestep him and start away, but I don’t get very far. Jebson’s hand clamps down hard my arm.

  “You’re not gonna win this one, Becca,” he leans in, whispering in my ear. “See those people over there.” He points with his he
ad to the businessmen, now flooding in an orderly fashion into the boardroom. “They’re here to seal your fate.”

  I jerk back from him.

  “You and your mama’s” His hold me in his gaze. “Just the stroke of a pen and that old bridge of yours’ll be comin’ down.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?”

  I yank loose.

  “Oh, come on, you never wanted to inherit that old eyesore anyway. I remember what you said. What was that?” He scratches his chin and looks dreamily toward the ceiling. “I’d sooner die than carry on that lame legacy, wasn’t that it?”

  “I was young.”

  “So, now things have changed?” He pulls his lips into a knowing smirk. “Last I checked, you ran all the way to New York City to get away from your history. Planning on giving that all up?”

  “That was you I was getting away from not the bridge.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Becca.” He smiles. “Truth is, you’ve got a lot more than me to be running from.”

  My heart trips in my chest. I turn and race away.

  Memories flood to the surface. My father’s death. The two of us, parked in his car, discussing our hopes and our dreams—our greatest fears. My father’s casket being laid in the group. I was young. Stupid. And in love with him, missing my father desperately. I told Jebson everything that night—everything. Things I never told anyone else, ever—not even my mother. He knows everything about me…things he shouldn’t. Dabbit!

  “The bridge is going down, Becca. Ain’t no stoppin’ it now!” he hollers after me. “Unless of course, you and your mama wanna reconsider that deal.

  “My mama’s right,” I whirl around. “You are a fink!”

  “A fink, am I?” He laughs, like I've just punched a very prepared-for-it Houdini in the gut, and the crowd around us is in awe. “Who knows,” he sings cheekily, “There could even be a little extra money in it for you!”

  I grit my teeth and stare at him like I want him dead.

  “You disgust me! You know that?”

  “Hmm. So what else is new?” He turns and strides away from me into the conference room.

  Chapter 29

  I flee the building, cheeks flushed, and collapse breathlessly into my car. So it is him. All him. After the bridge and the land, and he is trying to break Mom because she won’t hand it over to him. She won’t accept his dirty deal. I don’t blame her. My heart pounds to the beat of a hundred drums. Bernie Bates is right; there is more going on here than just a fight over a bridge. This is promotion opportunity for that rotten rat.

  I grab the steering wheel trying to steady myself from shaking, as I gasp for breath.

  What am I gonna do about this? What can I do?

  “Hey!”

  Someone raps at the window, and I jump a foot high. The person on the outside of the window laughs. It’s a warm, hearty laugh. I turn my head to see Trent’s insatiable smile beaming back at me. I have never been so glad to see a friendly face before in my life. Dimples etch deep into the sides of his cheeks.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  “What are you doing, here?” He leans closer, as I collect my breath and roll down the window.

  “Me? What are you doing here?”

  “Just dropping off a few more flyers about the restaurant at the hotel’s front desk. And…”—he holds up a package—“delivering leftover jambalaya to the homeless shelter.”

  “Went with the tofu, did you?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  He smirks, and I smirk.

  “So, what brings you to Fredericton?” he asks again.

  My gaze drifts back to the lobby of the hotel. “Trying to stop a conspiracy,” I say under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I rub my forehead. “If I’d known, we could have shared a ride,” I joke.

  “That would have been nice.” He takes me by surprise. “What are you doing now?”

  “Not, much, I suppose.” I drum my thumbs on the steering wheel, thoughts of untraceable buses running through my head.

  “You wanna get a coffee?” He leans on his arm on the window sill and sticks his head through. Serious eyes land on me. He bites his lip as if he’s afraid I’ll say no. “You look a little stressed.” He squints and bites it harder.

  That’s an understatement.

  I look up into his vibrant green eyes, a little etched in gold because of the sun’s reflection off the water, and my heartbeat instinctively slows. “I guess I could use a coffee, yes.” I pull my keys from the ignition. There’s no chance now. I’m gonna catch up to that tour bus anyway. “Why, not.” He draws back, and I roll up the window, and step to the curb on wobbly legs.

  No food and the tension of the moment has caught up to me, not to mention nerves. And just the general way I feel in Trent’s presence these days.

  “Whoa. You’re all right.” He scoops an arm underneath mine to steady me, and bends his head to look in my eyes. “Everything okay?” He scowls.

  “Peachy,” I say. “Now that you’re here, anyway.” Why did I add that?

  “Really, ’cause you look like someone’s just walked over your grave.”

  I link my arm through his and step forward, whispering. “In a way, I guess you could say someone just did.”

  Café Molly is dark and dated. Just how I remember it. I select the table in the very back corner, because I want to talk to Trent without every ear in Fredericton bent in our direction. Then realize, maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Trent seem to have interpreted my seat choice differently. I scoot in around the half-moon booth, and he scoots in beside me, stopping extremely close. “Nice place.” He perched on the ‘U-shaped’ bench seat, body butted up against mine. His arm rests against my arm, his thigh presses against my thigh. I think to scooch over but I don’t want to insult him, besides his skin is toasty warm.

  The waitress arrives in a flash with menus and water, announces the special—fish and chips, of course—and is off to wait on someone else.

  “I’m starving. Aren’t you starving?” Trent flips open his menu. “I know I said coffee, but fish and chips sound good.”

  “Well, now that you mention it.” I feel a rumble in my stomach and remember that I left without breakfast. “I could eat?”

  Trent hears my stomach, laughs, and looks up. “Guess so,” he says. “No food yet, today?”

  “Not unless you call the bag of stale cheese doodles I found in the back seat of Mom’s car while driving up here food.”

  He laughs again. “Good job we’ve decided to eat, then.” He flaps his menu out in front of him. “Maybe the color will come back to your face, too.”

  Color? Do I look that bad? I touch my face. Maybe it’s the cheesy lighting. Or perhaps just the aftereffect of the conversation I just had with Jebson.

  “This’ll also give me the chance to scope out the competition.” Trent pulls up in his seat, looks around.

  “Competition? What competition?” I chuckle. “Molly’s is based in Fredericton. You’re in Heartland Cove. That’s over an hour’s driving distance; this is not your competition. Besides,” I look down at the sticky menu. “They’re comfort food. You’re fine organic dining.” I tease. “No comparison. Also, you clearly haven’t eaten here. I have. Many times. Trust me, no comp.” I study the menu with a smiling face. “You won’t be finding any spectacular tofu dishes on this menu.”

  “Ha. Ha.” Trent tosses me a snide look over his menu. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who was so outwardly tofu prejudiced in all my life.”

  “Prejudiced? I am not tofu prejudiced.” I flip my menu open in front of my face. “I just prefer my jambalaya without it.”

  “For your information,” Trent lowers his voice, “that jambalaya was killer.”

  “Oh, really. Is that why it’s in the bag on the seat next to you awaiting homeless shelter delivery?”

  “There just wasn’t a lot of foot t
raffic last night—”

  “And there never will be, if you keep calling the place Green Grub and serving tofu jambalaya," I smirk. “Your SEO sucks.”

  “SE what?”

  “Search Engine Optimization.” I roll my eyes. “Remind me to give you a marketing lesson later. In the meantime, you should just change the name. It sounds like somewhere to put your horse out to pasture, not a place where fine dining takes place.”

  “Yeah, well,” Trent’s lips part. “’Cause Fondant and Lace sounds so much more on target.”

  “It is. It mentions both cupcake and panties,” I defend.

  “In a misnomer of an old seventies hit kind of way.” He grins.

  “That’s the whole point,” I say, firmly.

  “The song was about two people’s desperate plea for love—”

  “What do you think edible panties are?”

  “So, how do the cupcakes fit in?”

  I purse my lips, unable to answer because it does sound stupid now that he’s dissected it. Tia’s right. The name is not only too long, we should rethink it altogether. “You really should try to lose that ball cap, too,” I add, changing the subject.

  “What’s wrong with the ball cap?”

  “Seriously? If you have to ask than you’re worse off than I thought.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Why?”

  “It looks like some hockey player’s lucky set of can’t-be-washed-till-the-end-of-hockey-season boxers.” He snorts, and I laugh. “There must have every cooking stain you’ve ever earned on that thing.”

  “Just about.” He adjusts it. “However, I’ll have you know, I just washed it last night.”

  “You wash that thing?”

  His cheeks flushing red. “Yeah,” he says.

  “Well, still,” I drag my eyes off it and back to the menu. “It doth not look like something worn by a fine chef. And since that’s the business demographic you’re after—”

  “Who, says that’s what I’m going for?”

  I toss him a smirky sideways glance. “The gingham tablecloths, the white linen, the organic flowers topping fancy tofu-dish plates.”