Fletcher shifted on his chair. “Times were very different when you and Grandpa were dating. There was a lot of pressure for girls to marry, but nowadays women have options.”
“I know I’m jumping the gun, but has Nicole told you she doesn’t want to marry or have children?”
Fletcher was becoming annoyed with his mother’s line of questioning. He had seen Nicole twice and it wasn’t as if they’d pledged their undying love for each other. It wasn’t until after their dinner that he’d felt as if she had truly forgiven him for the acerbic words he’d used to offset her rejection.
“Do you mind if we change the topic? Nothing is going to come of it.”
“Is that what you want?” Carla asked.
“It’s what I’d like at this time,” Fletcher said, softening his tone. He didn’t like verbally sparring with his mother, but there were occasions when she was like a dog with a bone and refused to stop questioning him until he was forced to excuse himself and leave.
Fletcher knew his mother had always been overly concerned about her firstborn. She’d been visibly upset when he’d announced he was going to reject several athletic scholarships to enlist in the army. She’d been inconsolable when he’d told her he was to be deployed. After his first placement, she’d seemed to accept that he was going to be a career officer; his subsequent deployments were less and less emotional.
Pushing to his feet, he leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Thanks for dinner. I promise to come more often.”
Carla rested a hand on his stubble. “I know you’re busy at the garage and working on your cars, so don’t feel obligated to come and see me.”
Fletcher kissed her again. “Stop with the guilt trip, Mom. I used to come by so often that you got tired of seeing me.”
“I never get tired of seeing my children. And now that Sean and Charlene live in other states, I’ve become somewhat clingy when it comes to you.”
Cupping her elbow, Fletcher helped Carla to stand. He held her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I love you, Mom, and I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“As a mother I have a right to worry about my children. You’ll realize this once you have children of your own.”
Fletcher wanted to tell his mother that if or when he did become a father, he planned to raise his children to become independent adults able to make rational decisions for themselves. Carla was affectionate and nurturing, but she was also overly protective of her children and grandchildren. When he revealed to his parents that he’d negotiated purchasing the Hutchinson property, Carla had happily announced that now that he was going to permanently live in The Falls, she could look forward to him marrying and giving her more grandchildren.
“It’s late. Pop’s in bed and so should you be. Come walk me to the door and lock it after me.” They left the porch and walked to the front of the house.
“Are you going to any cookouts over the holiday weekend?” Clara asked.
“Nah. Do you and Pop plan to cook out?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “I’m trying to convince him to cut back his hours this week so we can drive down to Texas to see Sean and the kids.”
“Do you want me to help you out and suggest Pop take at least a couple of weeks off and take you away?”
“Would you please, Fletcher?”
“Of course, Mom. He knows by now that the place will not fall apart if he’s not there.” It wouldn’t be the first time he would advocate on his mother’s behalf to convince his father to take time off and spend time with her.
Going on tiptoe, Carla kissed his chin. “Thank you.”
He waited until he heard the distinctive click of the lock to the front door slide into place before he walked to his car. Tapping the start-engine button, Fletcher shifted into Reverse and backed out of the driveway. He lived less than half a mile from his parents’ house. There were times when he’d walked the distance, but not tonight. He had put in a full day at the garage because one of their part-time mechanics had had a family emergency.
Fletcher knew he would eventually assume full responsibility for operating the business, and had taken steps to ensure its viability. Newer cars had electronic components and he had recommended his father purchase a computer to diagnose mechanical problems. Initially, Jesse had balked at the cost of the computer, so rather than get into an argument with his father, Fletcher had purchased it, using his own money. The transaction had caused a temporary rift between father and son. Jesse had claimed he did not need his son using his personal funds for the business. The hostility finally deescalated when Fletcher agreed to let his father pay him back in twelve monthly increments.
Not only had he taken advantage of GI benefits when it came to purchasing a house, he’d also used his educational allowance to enroll in an online college, earning an undergraduate degree in business.
Fiscally conservative, Fletcher had invested his deployment bonuses in a retirement account along with the proceeds he earned from selling restored cars to various collectors. His go-between had contacts with owners of junkyards as far away as Kentucky and Tennessee looking for shells of old cars, many of which had rusted away in driveways or backyards for decades. The man arranged for the owners to receive a nominal fee to remove the cars from their property and paid the junkyard owner a fee based on the condition of the abandoned vehicles.
Fletcher maneuvered into the driveway to his house, pressed the remote attached to the visor and watched the garage door smoothly slide up. He pulled into the empty space next to the GMC Acadia, shut off the engine and got out of the low-slung sports car.
Minutes later, he climbed the staircase to his second-story bedroom. Fletcher looked forward to having weekends to himself—this weekend in particular because it was a long one and he would get to see Nicole again at the Wolf Den for Military Mondays.
* * *
Nicole’s head popped up when she heard someone knock on the closed door to her office. “Come in. What is it?” she asked Marlena Pratt, the firm’s receptionist as she stuck her head through the slight opening.
“I didn’t want to call you because I didn’t want the walk-in to overhear our conversation.”
Suddenly her curiosity was piqued. The firm’s practice was to announce the client’s arrival before escorting them to the respective office. “Who is it, Miss Pratt?”
“Sasha Manning-Richards.”
Nicole went completely still. “Are you talking about Sasha Manning from The Falls?” A wide smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
The middle-aged receptionist with a ’60s beehive hairstyle nodded. Marlena was a permanent fixture at the firm, her tenure spanning nearly fifty years. Preston claimed she was the eyes, ears and heartbeat of the office. Although she occasionally forgot to enter an appointment in the computer’s calendar, he refused to let her go.
“Please send her in. No, forget it, Miss Pratt. I’ll come out to see her,” Nicole said quickly. She was anxious to meet the local young woman who’d become a celebrity chef after winning third place in a televised cupcake competition. Sasha had made headlines again when she’d married an up-and-coming country singer.
Nicole left her office and walked down the carpeted hallway to the reception area. The woman standing before her looked nothing like the photographs she had seen of a laughing or smiling Sasha, or how she remembered Sasha before Nicole left The Falls to attend college. The chef was above average height and rail thin. Her hair was a lot darker than the flaming red from her childhood and Nicole wondered if she had taken to dying it.
Smiling, she extended both hands. “How are you, Sasha?”
The startled look in the dark green eyes indicated she hadn’t been prepared to see her. Sasha grasped her hands and Nicole was shocked by their iciness. Sasha affected what passed for a smile when her lips barely parted. “I’m better now that I’m b
ack home. When I called to talk to a lawyer, I never would’ve expected you to be working here.”
“Come. We’ll talk in my office. Would you like something to drink?”
Sasha shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m good.”
Normally, Nicole would have taken a client into the conference room, but judging from Sasha’s uneasiness, she felt the chef would feel more comfortable in a less formal space. Nicole pointed to a chair at a small round table in the corner. “Please sit down.” Waiting until Sasha was seated, Nicole took a chair opposite her. “When did you get back to The Falls?”
“Last night. I should be asking you the same thing. When did you come back to work for Preston McAvoy?”
Nicole laced her fingers on the table. “I’m here on a temporary basis.”
“The last I heard you were an officer in the Marines.”
“I was an officer. I gave the corps fifteen years, and I’m now a civilian lawyer.” She leaned forward. “Now, tell me why you’re here.” Within seconds Nicole had shifted into professional mode.
She listened intently, purposefully not showing any emotion when Sasha gave her an overview of her life since she’d enrolled in culinary school to become a pastry chef. Sasha had been totally unprepared to become a celebrity, and even more so to marry a man with superstar status. She had even put her career on hold to tour with him.
“To the public we were the redhead and the cowboy, but no one had any idea that Wes set out to control my career once it eclipsed his. After a while I’d had enough and decided to file for divorce. I dropped my married name, so I’m now legally Sasha Manning, and I want to open a bakeshop here in The Falls. What I want is for you to help me set up a corporation for the business.”
“Do you have a location for your business?”
“Yes. When I told my mother what I wanted to do, she told me that the trophy shop had closed a few months back and that it’s still vacant. I had her call the Realtor and give her a check for at least three months to hold the space for me.”
“You’ll also have to contact the building department to get the necessary permits to install whatever equipment you need to become operational,” Nicole reminded her.
“I know,” Sasha confirmed. “I figured it shouldn’t take more than three months to get approval for the corporation and a determination from the town to operate the bakeshop.”
Nicole leaned back in her chair. “Setting up the corporation shouldn’t take that long, but what I need from you is at least three or four names to submit to the state so they can run a search.”
Reaching into her handbag, Sasha unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to Nicole. “I’ve written down five in the order of preference. What I’m certain of is what I plan to call the business. Sasha’s Sweet Shoppe. That’s shop with two p’s and an e.”
“I like it.”
Sasha flashed a warm, open smile for the first time. “I never thought when I left The Falls that I would come back to start over. The only thing I’d thought about when growing up was leaving because I felt as if I was being smothered.” She took out her checkbook. “Please tell me what I owe you.”
Nicole stood. “Miss Pratt will go over the fees with you after I tell her what we discussed. You can also leave your contact information with her, and as soon as I get the final word on your corporation, I’ll call you.”
Sasha also rose to her feet. “Thanks so much, Nicole.”
She smiled. “Welcome home.”
The chef returned her smile. “It’s good to be home.”
Nicole waited for Sasha to leave the office before she returned to the files on her desk. She had put an appreciable dent in the number of client files covering the surface of the credenza in her office.
She spied the sticky note on her planner: Military Para for Monday. It had been nearly two weeks since she’d last seen Fletcher and she was looking forward to seeing him again and connecting with former and active military at the Wolf Den.
* * *
Nicole skipped down the porch at the same time Fletcher drove up in a classic blue Chevrolet Corvette convertible. He came to a stop, leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. She slipped onto the leather seat, fastened the seat belt and then turned to stare at his long-sleeved black T-shirt stamped with US Army across the chest, black jeans and military-issue sand-colored boots.
“Hi.” Her eyes met Fletcher’s when he removed his sunglasses. He’d sent a text earlier that morning to indicate he planned to arrive at her house at three.
He pointed to the bars on the cap identifying her rank. “Hi, yourself. Should I salute you now or later, Captain Campos?”
“There will be no saluting tonight,” she said, smiling.
“You think not,” Fletcher said under his breath. “Once everyone gets a look at that cap, there will be a lot of saluting.”
“Should I take it off?”
“No way. You look very cute.”
Nicole had changed several times before selecting a pair of tan cropped pants and matching running shoes with a navy T-shirt with USMC over her heart. Her keys, driver’s license and cell phone were in the leather wristlet on her arm. She shyly lowered her eyes with his compliment.
“Thank you.”
Nicole wanted to believe that the two-week separation and her busy schedule had been enough for her not to dwell on the man sitting so close to her. Even with her nephews spending every other weekend with their grandparents, her days and nights had been filled with catching up on laundry, ironing, cleaning every room in the house and visiting the supermarket to replenish the pantry and restock the refrigerator.
During her downtime she’d attempted to catch up on one or two of her favorite television shows, but usually fell asleep before the episodes ended. After a while she wasn’t certain whether she was pushing herself too hard not to think about the man whose presence affected her more than she was willing to acknowledge.
She had been unable to keep her eyes off Fletcher when seated across the dining room table from him the night she’d introduced him to her nephews. Not only did he have impeccable table manners, she discovered he was a wonderful conversationalist. He’d kept both boys equally entertained with stories about hiking in the mountains with his father and younger brother. And whenever they went fishing, they would come home with a large enough catch for four Friday-night fish fries. Daniel and Luke had held on to every word and then said they couldn’t wait to go fishing with Uncle Fletcher. Nicole had been just as surprised when they called him Uncle as Fletcher was, and he’d held up his hand to indicate for her to let it go when she opened her mouth to correct them. She had introduced him as “Mr.” not “Uncle” Fletcher.
“How old is this beauty?” she asked as Fletcher executed a smooth turn and reversed direction.
“Older than both of us. It debuted in 1953 at the GM Motorama Show and production began later that year. All the cars were white, which led to flat sales. But the company refused to give up. The next year, more colors were made available and the car got a power boost. And what makes it even more unique is the world’s first production car to be made out of glass fiber. It was a daring move, but it worked.”
Nicole felt the power of the sports car as it accelerated. “Did you restore this car?”
“No. I got it in a barter. I’d restored a 1957 Ford Thunderbird for a collector and he gave me this Blue Flame Special because his preference is classic Fords. I did add seat belts as a safety precaution.”
“How fast have you pushed this beauty?”
“I got her up to a hundred and thirty before easing off.”
“Where were you that you could go that fast?”
Fletcher smiled. “The guy I got her from has a track on his property, where he races his cars.”
“He’s a collector with a racetrack.” Nicole’s query was a statement.
“Don’t forget women,” she interjected.
Throwing back his head, Fletcher laughed loudly. “Women. Can’t live with them and can’t live without them.”
“Is that why you’re not married, Fletcher? Because you can’t live with a woman?”
He sobered quickly. “The truth is they can’t live with me. I don’t know what it is, but I seem to attract needy women who demand too much of my time.”
“Perhaps it’s because they look at you as their rescuer and are afraid if you’re not around they won’t be protected.”
Fletcher slowed as he approached the railroad tracks running through the middle of town, looked both ways and then drove across. “Why would you say that?”
“Whether you realize it or not, you’re a modern-day superhero. Not only did you offer to drive me to the courthouse, you also volunteered to step in as a mentor for my nephews—although I had the law on my side because I’d filed the necessary documents with the court allowing me custodial protection for my brother’s children.”
* * *
Fletcher was silent for several minutes as he pondered Nicole’s assessment of his behavior. As the eldest of his parents’ three children, he’d been raised to always look out for his younger siblings—his sister in particular. He’d lost track of the number of times Charlene would threaten to get her big brother to take care of a situation she’d gotten herself into and, because he wasn’t unable to deal with her tears, he had. Fletcher had always been tall for his age, and his height was enough to intimidate those looking for a physical altercation. Once he’d joined the military, he’d dated women who’d wanted him to protect them from ex-boyfriends or to help them get out of a toxic relationship. By that time his body had filled out and he’d put on a lot of muscle from the rigorous training to become a Special Forces medical sergeant. He was able to stay in peak condition to parachute, swim and scuba dive.
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