Charade

by Barri Bryan

  Lynn had the audacity to laugh. “That's ridiculous.” She sobered before adding, “My mother would see right through that little charade. She knows me too well to believe I'd fall for some muscle bound hunk."

  That remark had all the trappings of an insult but Trace let it pass. “Would you have believed before today that your mother would ‘fall for’ my dad?"

  Lynn admitted, somewhat reluctantly, “No, I wouldn't. Mother is a very practical and pragmatic person.” She tagged her statement with a qualifying, “Well, usually."

  Trace lifted the straight back chair and placed it in front of Lynn before sitting in it. Leaning forward, he put his hands on his knees. “It's all in the presentation. If we take our time and lay a foundation of believability, we can make this work."

  Lynn's disdain converted to uncertainty. “I don't know. It seems like an underhanded thing to do."

  Trace knew he was taking a big chance when he said, “If you're not interested, I'll take my self and my contract and go."

  His words had the desired effect. Lynn shook her head quickly from side to side. “No, don't do that."

  Trace leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. His chest expanded and his biceps flexed. “Then can we talk business?"

  Lynn swallowed and looked away. “After we sign the contract and set up a schedule for you to work on my building.” She glanced again in his direction. “Then we can discuss how to make our parents think we're an item."

  This woman drove a hard bargain. That realization both pleased and angered Trace. He took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “I have a better idea.” He handed Lynn the folded sheet. “Here's the contract. Read it carefully. I'll be back tomorrow morning. If the terms are agreeable to you, we can both sign on the dotted line and I'll go to work immediately on your building."

  He got up and sidled toward the front door. “Then we can discuss our plans to break up this little affair between your mother and my dad. See you tomorrow.” Before she had time to protest or argue, he slipped out the entranceway and hastened down the rickety stairs.

  Once inside his pickup, Trace breathed a sigh of relief before starting the motor and heading in the direction of the rented bungalow he shared with his dad.

  Ralph had prepared a meal of sorts. An opened can of pork and beans and a pan of well-browned cornbread sat on the kitchen table. “Grab a paper plate Son,” he invited, “And help yourself. I'll get you something to drink. What will it be, beer or water?"

  "Water.” Trace washed his hands at the kitchen sink and dried them on a paper towel before grabbing a paper plate from the cabinet and sitting at the table.

  Ralph filled a glass with water and put it beside Trace's plate. “You're a little late.” He sat across from his son. “How did it go today?"

  Trace crumbled cornbread in his plate and covered it with half the contents of the can. “I got a repair job. I'll be doing some work on an old building over on Commercial Street. The owner of the building is one hot little number.” He wasn't lying, exactly. He was just playing fast and loose with the truth. He decided that in this case, the ends justified the means. “Yes, sir, one really hot little number."

  Ralph smiled, “So your boss is a woman? I suppose you already have her wrapped around your little finger."

  Trace thought of Lynn Evans with her red curls and fiery temper and chuckled. “Not exactly."

  "You will before it's over,” Ralph replied, and then urged, “Take all the beans. I'm not hungry tonight."

  Trace's concern was immediate. “Are you sick?"

  "Nope, I just had a big lunch."

  Trance wanted to ask the old man what else he'd had. Instead he said, “I hope you aren't overdoing it."

  Ralph bristled, “Will you stop treating me like an invalid? I'm fit as a fiddle,” He stared across the table at his son, obviously waiting for Trace's terse reply.

  Trace kept his mouth shut. If his plan to break up his dad's little affair was to succeed, he'd have to learn to bridle his tongue.

  Ralph raised one shaggy eyebrow. “What? No lecture?"

  "Maybe I've been a little rough on you.” Trace pushed his half-filled plate aside. “What's for dessert?"

  "You've been damn rough on me, and we don't have any dessert.” Ralph picked up his newspaper. “I'm hitting the sack. I've had a hard day."

  Trace could believe that.

  At the door Ralph paused. “Are you sure you're all right?"

  "Right as rain,” Trace answered.

  Later as Trace prepared for bed he congratulated himself. It wasn't often that he could outfox his old man. As he drifted into a dreamless sleep a nagging possibility surfaced. What if his plan didn't work? His dad was all he had left in this world. Everyone else he had ever loved had been taken from him: his wife, his mother, his baby girl. Whatever the cost, whatever the consequences, he had to save his dad. Trace's last waking thought was, it will work—it has to.

  * * * *

  The next morning Trace arrived at The Upper Crust as Lynn was unlocking the front door. He pushed around her and came inside. “I'm ready to go to work. I'll do the outside repairs first. Nothing I have to do out there will disturb your customers. The inside work is a different story. It will have to be done after store hours. We can talk about that later."

  Lynn flipped the sign on her door so that it read Open instead of Closed. Anxiety sounded in her voice. “We haven't signed the contract yet. You can't start work until we do.” She pointed to a small table in one corner of the room. “Sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee and a donut?"

  Trace's breakfast had consisted of a bowl of dry cereal and a burned piece of toast. “That sounds good to me.” He sat and discovered that his long legs wouldn't fit under the table.

  Turning to one side, he studied the room. It was clean and inviting. Posters and advertisements decorated the walls, and a showcase counter ran across one end of the room. A long table holding a huge coffee urn, Styrofoam cups, cream and sugar occupied a space near the entrance. Tables and chairs were scattered intermittently around the remaining space.

  It occurred to him quite suddenly that running an establishment of this size and sort was quite an undertaking. He was so lost in thought that Lynn called his name twice before he barked, “Yeah, what?"

  She asked, “How many donuts and what kind?"

  Trace answered, “Three coconut crèmes.” He leaned back in his chair as Lynn bustled about the room putting donuts and coffee on a tray. As he watched her move gracefully about, he noticed she had substituted her baker's coat for a dress with short sleeves and a vee neck. In it she looked much younger and slimmer. How, he wondered, had she had come to be the owner of this place?

  Lynn came across the floor carrying the tray and smiling. Not until she said, “It's a long story,” did he realize he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. She put the tray on the table and sat across from him. “It's also incredibly boring.” Nodding toward the food, she instructed, “Help yourself."

  Trace dunked his donut in his coffee. “I'd like to hear it all the same."

  Lynn sipped her coffee and smiled. “I worked here part time all through high school. It was owned then by an older couple named McClure. Joel and I married the summer we graduated high school. After that, I went to work here full time.

  Then Mr. McClure died very suddenly and Mrs. McClure decided to go to Michigan to live with her daughter. She offered to sell us the bakery and we bought it even though it meant hocking everything we owned and going deeply into debt. Five years later Joel dumped me, the business, and the big debt, and left town.” She dusted crumbs from the table. “End of story."

  Trace licked his fingers before wiping them on a paper napkin. “Except now Joel is coming back again."

  "But not to me,” Lynn answered as she took a paper from her apron pocket and slid it around the tray and in his direction. “Are you ready to sign this contract?"

  Trace took a pen from his shirt pocket and s
igned on the dotted line with a flourish. “Now you sign, and our deal is sealed."

  Lynn reached for the contract. “Let me have your pen.” As she signed it she said, “Now I can tell Walter Winters to go to hell.” She slid the pen back across the table.

  Trace put his pen back in his pocket. “You don't like Walter very well do you?"

  Lynn put the contract back into her apron pocket. “I despise Walter Winters, and not without reason."

  Trace wondered what that reason was, but he didn't ask. He had other, more pressing questions that needed answers. “How do you plan to go about telling your mother that you and I are interested in each other?"

  Lynn quickly corrected him. “We're not interested in each other."

  Trace had a problem of major importance on his hands and this aggravating woman wanted to nitpick. “I agree, but the aim is to make our parents think we are.” He frowned in her direction. “We need to get our stories straight before you talk to your mother and I talk to my dad."

  Lynn chewed her lip. “I don't like lying to Mother."

  Trace didn't like lying to his dad either. “We aren't going to lie, exactly."

  Lynn's chin lifted belligerently. “What are we going to do, exactly?"

  "We're going to embellish the truth."

  "Would you know the truth of it tapped you on the shoulder?” Lynn quizzed. She did have a nasty way of putting him in his place.

  "If you will stop insulting me, I'll tell you my plan, and it doesn't involve lying."

  Lynn straightened in her chair. “By all means I want to hear it. Tell me what you're going to tell Ralph and I will make sure that what I tell Mother matches it. But only if I don't have to tell her a whopper to do that."

  Trace's smile was nothing short of seductive. “I've already told him about this hot babe I'm doing a repair job for. I'm going to keep right on talking about her and I'm going to spread it on pretty thick."

  Lynn grinned. “Hot babe, huh?” Her grin vanished. “I have to tell Mother that I know you are Ralph's son. There's no way around that.” She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “I can say something like when you told me your name was Randolph and that you were new in town, I asked if you knew Ralph."

  Trace snapped his fingers. “Good idea. I can tell Dad the same story. I can say that I said, ‘yes, he's my dad.'” He took a swig of coffee. “We can do all that and still tell what approximates the truth."

  Lynn shook her head. “But it's not true that we're attracted to each other."

  Must she keep reminding him of the fact that she didn't find him attractive? Trace answered, “We don't have to say we're attracted to each other. We can just act the part and they will assume the rest.” Standing he pushed his chair under the table. “I need to go to work."

  Lynn held up one hand. “Not yet, there's something else."

  Chapter 5

  Trace sat again. “Okay, shoot."

  Lynn wanted all the details of her deal with Trace worked out and settled once and for all. “It's about my class reunion. It's two weeks from next Saturday. You should pick me up around six-thirty that evening."

  Trace nodded his agreement. “Okay.” Once more he stood.

  "There's one other thing."

  Trace stared down at her. “Yeah?"

  "It's formal. You should wear a tuxedo."

  Trace folded his big frame back into his chair. “Lady, I don't own a tuxedo."

  "Of course you don't.” Lynn agreed a little too sweetly. “Nobody owns a tuxedo. You will have to rent one and you'd better do it soon before they're all gone.” She surveyed him from head to toe. He must be at least six feet three inches tall. His shoulders were broad and his waist slim. “I hope José has a tux that will fit you."

  Trace's impatience was showing. “Who is José?” Before Lynn could reply, he added, “I suppose I'll have to rent shoes, too.” He stretched his long legs in front of him and stared at his worn cowboy boots. “Who's paying for this?"

  He had some nerve. “You are of course."

  Trace asked, “Why should I?"

  Lynn could think of no good answer to that question. “All right, I'll pick up the tab."

  Trace grinned. She could almost believe he was enjoying seeing her squirm. “Never mind, I'll pay for it myself. Where do I go to get outfitted?"

  Lynn pointed with her finger. “Down the street at José's Bridal and Tux Rental; you can go at noon."

  Quite unintentionally she'd struck a nerve. Trace wadded his napkin in a ball and tossed it on the table. “I will go when I damn please. You're not my boss."

  Technically she was his boss. Lynn decided it might not be to her advantage to point out that fact. Very calmly she reminded him, “I have a deadline to get these repairs done and you promised to meet it."

  Trace sighed as in a much calmer voice he asked, “Do you want me to go now to get a tux for your reunion or do you want me to start on the repairs?"

  Despite her effort not to, Lynn smiled. “If you wait until noon, I'll go with you."

  Trace stood once more, this time very slowly. “I'll wait."

  Lynn snapped her fingers. “Why didn't I think of it before?” She pointed to the chair Trace had been in and out of half a dozen times. “Sit down."

  He opened his mouth, obviously to protest, and then closed it again and eased his large frame into the small chair again.

  Lynn said, “I have an idea."

  Trace raised one dark eyebrow. “Does this happen often?"

  Lynn snapped, “Shut up and listen.” She leaned forward. “When we get to José's we will carry on like two love-sick idiots. José will see us and spread the word. Mother can sort of draw her own conclusions and I won't have to tell her anything!"

  Trace raised one dark eyebrow. “You have ‘sort of’ lost me."

  That hadn't been her intention. Lynn explained carefully, “This is Thursday. José will see us together and tell every customer who comes into his store all about Lynn and her new man. Each one of them will, in turn, tell everyone he or she knows. I won't be going to Mother's until Sunday afternoon. By that time, gossip about us will be all over town. Mother will have heard about you and me, and she will be dying of curiosity. If I deny there's anything going on, that will really convince her that there is."

  Trace asked, “And you thought I was being devious?"

  Lynn sat back in her chair. “Do you like the idea?"

  "Yeah,” Trace grinned. “Can I get up now?"

  For no reason she could explain Lynn felt a warm surge of happiness. “Sure. I'll be ready to leave around twelve-thirty."

  * * * *

  It was almost one o'clock before Lynn completed her kitchen tasks and displayed freshly baked items in the front showcase. She was putting the finishing touches on a display of free cookie samples when Trace came through the front door. The sight of him made her heart beat a little faster. “Hi."

  Trace removed his straw hat. “Are you ready to go?"

  How many times had Lynn heard her mother say if a man removed his hat when he entered a room he was a gentleman? Maybe Trace was the exception that proved that rule. Gentleman didn't seem the proper word to describe this rough cut, virile male. As she came around the counter, she removed her apron. “I have to wait until Ruthie gets back from lunch.” She smiled before asking, “Would you like to sit down?"

  Before Trace could answer, Ruthie burst through the door huffing and puffing, and explaining, “I was talking to Birdie Harrell and time just got away. Do you know what Birdie told me? She said...” Her sentence stopped when she saw Trace leaning against the wall. She swallowed before saying oh so shyly, “Hello, Mr. Randolph."

  Trace's smile was sexy and intimate. “Since I'll be around here for a while, why don't you call me Trace?"

  Ruthie blushed a rosy pink. “Sure, Trace."

  He should be horse whipped for using his charm and good looks to bedazzle poor little Ruthie. Lynn hung her apron on a hoo
k. “It's okay, sweetie.” She spoke slowly and distinctly, “I'm going to José's with Trace. I'll be back in about an hour."

  Ruthie pointed to Trace. “Is he going to rent a tuxedo?"

  Trace took Lynn's arm. “Yes I am. This lovely lady has agreed to let me be her escort to her class reunion.” He looked directly into Lynn's startled face. “Didn't you, darling?"

  Lynn was too shocked to do anything but nod in agreement. As Trace led her toward the door, she told Ruthie. “Clean all the tables while I'm gone."

  Ruthie grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. “Yes ma'am."

  Once outside, Lynn pulled free of Trace's grasp. “What was that all about?"

  Trace shrugged. “You want to get the word out about us being an item. I'm helping your cause along."

  "You're a big success.” Lynn smiled as understanding dawned. “Ruthie is even now on her cell phone broadcasting abroad that you are my date to the class reunion."

  She stole a glance at the man who walked beside her. He was the perfect class reunion date—tall, dark and handsome, and sexy as sin. Let Joel show up with his ‘friend'. She didn't care. Joel had walked out on her. After all they'd shared and the way he left, how could he show up to the reunion with a date and hurt her all over again? Lynn quickened her pace. “Hurry, we don't have much time."

  * * * *

  The next few days passed in a flurry of work and worry. The nearer Sunday morning came the more Lynn fretted. Not only was she weaving a web of deception, she just might also be getting in over her head. Trace Randolph had a potent sexual magnetism that she found hard to resist. She reminded herself that he had no romantic interest in her. That should have brought some measure of assurance. Somehow, it didn't.

  Sunday morning arrived on the heels of a Saturday night thunderstorm. Lynn slept late, had coffee, skipped breakfast and ate an early lunch before reading the Sunday paper. She took her time getting dressed. Later she drove through the busy streets of Hatlesville rehearsing as she went what she would say to her mother once she arrived. She pulled into Lillie's driveway a few minutes after one o'clock.

  Lillie met her daughter at the door. “I expected you earlier.” She motioned for Lynn to come inside.