Kiss Me, Tate (Love in Rustic Woods)

by Karen Cantwell

“Woman named Robin here was told she could just show up for an interview. What do I do?”

  “She’s not on the list?”

  “Nope.”

  Afraid her chances at the job were slipping away, Bunny waved her hand in front of the girl’s face. “Bunny Bergen. She might know that name. My friend Lois told me to come.”

  The girl emitted a sigh with so much force that papers on the desk fluttered. “Now she says her name is Bunny Bergen.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, have her fill out an application. We’ll see her at the end if we have time.”

  Bunny thanked the ill-mannered receptionist, plucked the offered application from her hand before it could be rescinded, and took the only space left on the bench. She tightened her grip on the pen and focused on making herself look good on paper.

  The briefcase-clutching lady in the salmon suit was called in after a keenly dressed, well-manicured man exited from a door labeled Conference Room. The man had a wide smile on his face. Must have gone well. Darn. Bunny’s nerves were beginning to affect her stomach. It twisted and turned and gurgled. Quite audibly.

  Time seemed to creep by at a horrifically slow pace. Bunny looked at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time. It was dangerously close to noon. Would they have time for her? Finally, the grimy-looking man came through the door and motioned to her with one hand. “They said you can go in.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Bunny rose, gathered her things, made sure the sweater wrapped nicely over her bosom, and teetered forward.

  She had to pass through two sets of heavy wooden doors before entering the space that seemed to be less room and more conference table. And who were all of these people? Bunny had envisioned a one-on-one interview, much like the easy going time with Dr. Page, who had kindly put her at ease almost instantly. Here, at the horribly long table, sat five people. Five. They stared at her. Three men, two women. None of them smiled.

  “I’m, um...sorry,” Bunny stumbled. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

  One of the women, one with scary hair and a scowl, spoke up. “Are you applying for the receptionist position or aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Bunny held up the completed application. Her nerves were so frazzled, she feared she might faint. I should have skipped this and gone straight to Barb’s for that wine.

  The frizzy-haired woman raised a hand, indicating that Bunny should bring the application to her. While Bunny made the long walk to the back of the table, the woman made introductions. She pointed to the woman on her right—a short, round woman with glasses. “This is Olga, the Nature Center’s Publicity and Outreach Coordinator. I’m Abigail, the Activities Coordinator.” She pointed to a man next to her with a brown bushy mustache and even bushier eyebrows who looked like he belonged in a barbershop quartet. “This is Rupert Long, whom you may recognize—he’s a member of the board of the Rustic Woods Association.” Next in the lineup was a thin, pasty-faced man with a pointy nose. “That’s George.”

  Bunny wondered why poor George didn’t rate a designation. “And, finally,” said Abigail, pointing to the man at the end of the line of interrogators. Bunny’s eyes landed on the dark-haired, bearded man with the sleepy onyx eyes, a man who looked very familiar. Her heart fluttered when she realized why. No introduction was necessary. She knew the man. Not well, but she definitely knew him. He was back in town and, holy guacamole, he was more gorgeous than ever.

  Elation quickly turned to agitation. Crap, she thought. Why here? Why now? Now I’ll really screw things up.

  Abigail’s introduction continued, “This is—”

  Bunny didn’t mean to interrupt the woman. It just sort of happened. “I know Tate already,” she said looking at the man. Her voice trembled slightly. “Nice to see you again.”

  Really, really nice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TATE KILBOURN WAS IRRITATED.

  Why had George demanded that he sit in on the receptionist interviews? The position fell under Abigail’s authority, not Tate’s. As the Nature Center’s lead naturalist, he was chin-high in work orders. Early winter storms had wreaked havoc throughout Rustic Woods, creating extra clean-up for his work crew. As if that wasn’t enough, his father’s health weighed on his mind.

  One day, George would pay for wasting his time this way, but for now, Tate rebelled by refusing to engage in the process. While the other interviewers acted regal by asking ridiculously irrelevant questions, Tate reclined in his chair, occasionally rolling his eyes at the more inane utterances from the motley crew. The prospects were obviously all over-qualified. It was a receptionist position, for crying out loud. Yes, it was work—sometimes stressful when the phones started ringing off the hook in the spring—but nearly anyone could be trained for the job. Why were they talking to people with Masters Degrees in botany?

  Finally, thought Tate, only one more hopeful candidate to snore through, and he was free. He was scrolling through emails on his cell phone, oblivious, when he realized Abigail was about to introduce him. He shifted his gaze up and locked eyes with the final interviewee. While she was pleasing to look at, no one was more surprised than he was when the woman claimed to know him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Bunny.” The woman brushed some hair behind one ear. “Bunny Bergen.”

  The name was familiar. He’d grown up in Rustic Woods, so it was possible that he did know her. He’d left when college called and hadn’t returned until last year, so his memory for people and places was a little fuzzy. There had been a lot about the small Virginia suburb that he’d tried to forget.

  “It says here,” interrupted Abigail, “that your name is Robin.”

  “That’s right.” Bunny nodded vigorously. She pointed to a chair. “Can I sit? I’m a little...I mean, my feet...”

  “Sit,” Olga ordered abruptly in her thick Russian accent.

  Tate suppressed a grin. Olga, bless her, came across very KGB.

  The woman named Robin—who called herself Bunny—sat, and Tate leaned forward, more captivated than he’d been all day. She had a bit of a Marilyn Monroe-esque quality, which really didn’t fit the Nature Center theme, but maybe that was a good thing. She might bring some fresh air to the stuffy seriousness that prevailed far too often around here. He motioned toward Abigail. “Can I see her application?” And while he waited for it to cross hands his way, he asked, “Bunny, do you have a resume?”

  “Yeah. About that. I kind of rushed here because...um...” Bunny shook her head and pulled her unattractive wool sweater tighter around her as if she was trying to hide something. “No,” she said. “Not with me. But I wrote everything down there. What you’re looking at.” Then her insides growled and moaned loudly enough for the whole room to hear. “Oh, my gosh,” she said, tapping her middle. “Sorry about that. Hungry I guess. And nerves. I should really be honest—I’m a very honest and reliable person—this whole interviewing thing makes me very nervous.”

  Tate could tell Abigail wasn’t impressed. Although, quite frankly, Abigail rarely looked impressed. The woman, who would be boss to the receptionist hired, started in. Her lips were pressed thin. “Let’s just get down to the—”

  “Can you answer phones, Bunny?” Tate interrupted.

  Bunny looked from Abigail to Tate. The hope that shone on her face felt familiar. “Yes. Yes. I did that at Dr. Page’s office.” She offered a wide smile that Tate decided would be a nice change at the reception desk. Then it hit him. The smile. Suddenly he knew who she was.

  “You had brown hair, right?”

  She nodded. “You caught me. I bleach.”

  “You went to Rustic Woods High?”

  She nodded again.

  “This little reunion is very touching,” said Abigail, “but I’d like to finish—”

  “There’s filing involved, right Ab?” Tate asked.

  Flustered, Abigail answered. “Yes...”

  “Can you file?” Tate asked Bunny.


  “I’m very organized. Very. You’ll see there on the application—I helped out for years in the front office of Tulip Tree Elementary when my kids were there. You can call Mrs. Sanchez. She’ll vouch for me.”

  Tate caught Olga and Rupert exchanging glances, displeased that he’d decided to take over. They’d both opened their mouths several times, but never managed to get a word out. They were practically popping at the seams hoping to get their two cents in somewhere.

  “Organized,” Tate repeated. “Great. We need organized. And friendly, too? You can greet walk-ins and guests with a warm smile?”

  “That’s what I do best.” Tate could see Bunny relaxing even though her stomach was still singing a chorus of its own.

  Tate looked at his watch. “Twelve thirty. I’ve got a meeting with town planners at one, and I haven’t eaten yet. Rupert, I know you’re part of that meeting. Pretty sure Abigail and Olga have to be there too, right?”

  They all nodded agreement. Rupert grumbled under his massive mustache. George mumbled something inaudible and surely unimportant.

  “Thees meeting, it is mandatory!” huffed Olga, snapping her notebook shut.

  Abigail shot Tate an evil eye, but did what he’d hoped she would. “Yes, well,” said Crabby Abby. “I suppose we do need to end this interview then, Ms...Brogan?”

  “Bergen,” corrected Bunny.

  “Right. Well, if we select you, we’ll call and follow-up with an email. If not, well, I never enjoy being the bearer of bad news...”

  Huh. She revels in bearing bad news, thought Tate.

  “So if you don’t hear from us,” Abigail finished, “it means we hired someone more suited for the position. Thank you for coming.”

  Tate was the first to stand. He approached Bunny and offered his hand. “So you’ve stayed in Rustic Woods all these years?”

  Bunny accepted his handshake. Her hands were very wet. “Sort of,” she said as he noticed her green eyes and vaguely recalled another time he’d looked into them. He shook off the memory. Bleached blondes—not his type. Not that any woman had been “his type” for a while.

  “Well, glad to see you again. Good luck with the job hunt.” He waited until he’d left the conference room to wipe her sweat from his palms onto his jeans. He did hope she got the job though, and later, when he had a few minutes, he’d sweet talk Abigail, even though he knew she had no intention of hiring someone with hardly any work experience. Or anyone who looked like Bunny. Or who had the name, Bunny.

  But for now, he needed to grab something to eat while tending to one of those emails he’d opened just before the interview started.

  Three blocks from the Nature Center, in a small shopping plaza, was Garcia’s Deli. Lonzo Garcia served an array of ethic foods that included pizza, burritos, nachos, sandwiches, bagels, salads, hamburgers, and gyros. And just because the food was delivered in record time didn’t mean it lacked quality. Today, Tate was craving Mexican.

  “Hey, Lonzo,” he tipped his chin to the aproned man behind the counter. “Can I get a burrito today? Chicken and black beans.”

  “Sure, man. Salsa?”

  “Make it mild.”

  “Mild?” Lonzo made a face as he spooned black beans onto the chicken covered tortilla. “You’re wimping out today. Gettin’ too old for the macho blend, eh?”

  Tate raised an eyebrow while pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “Think so, my friend. Think so. And I’ll take a bottle of water too, please.”

  Lonzo wrapped the burrito while a young woman rang up Tate’s order. Tate scrolled through the contacts list on his phone, stopping to throw a ten dollar bill on the counter and grab his lunch. “Put the change in the tip jar,” he said. Tate knew the woman, Inez, worked at Lonzo’s six days a week, often more than eight hours a day, all for minimum wage. She had three kids at home—one who attended high school with his daughter, Willow. Lonzo had once confided that Inez saved every penny so she could put her son through college. Sometimes, when she wasn’t looking, Tate would throw a twenty dollar bill into the tip jar.

  Burrito and water in one hand, Tate pressed dial with his other, and walked to a bench at the end of the plaza. He waited for Colt Baron to pick up at the other end.

  “Baron and Marr, Investigations.”

  “Colt?”

  “Uh, no. Hang on a minute.”

  Tate heard the voice fade into the background. A moment later, his buddy was talking. “Yeah. This is Colt.”

  “Hey, it’s Tate. You said to call. That your new partner?”

  “Kilbourn! Dude. Good to hear from you. It’s been a while. Yeah, that’s Howard Marr. Howie for short. Howdie Doody when I want to crawl under his skin.” There was some muffled talk and Colt laughed. “He’s cool. So, about your brother.”

  “Right. So you do this kind of work?” Tate unwrapped the burrito with one hand and took a bite.

  “Sure. No problemo. We need as much information as you can give us. Where he attended school, last known address, social security number, legal name as shown on his birth certificate. Quite honestly, not that hard.”

  “I was hoping a simple Google search would do the trick.” Tate tried to talk around the burrito in his mouth. He swallowed. “Sorry, man. Eating on the run. Got a meeting in a few minutes.”

  “That’s okay. Understand. If he’s trying not to be found, internet searches won’t help. You said he took off how long ago?”

  “Thirty-four years.”

  “Holy crap. How old were you?”

  Tate swallowed more burrito. He was eating too fast. The burrito wasn’t going to sit well. “Six.”

  “Man. And he never got in touch again? With anyone in your family?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Okay. Too bad. Well, send that info along with anything else you can think of, including hobbies, local friends from the area—anything, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

  Tate sipped from the water bottle. “I hate to ask, but how much will this cost me?”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’re training Howard’s wife, Barb, on these sorts of searches. If it’s fairly easy, we won’t charge a thing. If it looks like it’s going to be more involved, we’ll check with you first. How’s that sound?”

  “Generous. Can’t thank you enough.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get that all the time. Usually from a gorgeous and naked woman.”

  Tate heard a guffaw in the background and joined in the laughter. Colt’s cocky jocularity was always good for a chuckle. He was the kind of guy who put on a good show to conceal a big heart. They’d met when Colt showed up one Saturday at the center as a volunteer for a stream clean-up. Generally the only people who showed up for those were the able elderly with a lot of time on their hands or kids needing to rack up volunteer requirements for school.

  He had some crazy stories, Colt did. Especially surrounding his friend Barb. Tate had never met her, but she sounded like a handful. She’d even made the news a couple of times. That Howard must be a patient guy. But lucky at the same time, he guessed. At least his wife was still around.

  Tate wolfed down the rest of the burrito, chased it with the water, threw the wrapper in the trash, bottle to recycling, and headed to the main offices of the Rustic Woods Association.

  Planning meetings. His eyes rolled at the thought. He’d rather be taking advantage of the warmer-than-usual February day; canoeing the lakes and monitoring their shores.

  Still, he didn’t dare skip the meeting altogether. Bi-weekly planning meetings by the board were an annoyance worth dealing with because, generally, his position as lead naturalist in Rustic Woods was a dream job. Decent pay, he ran the show, and wasn’t bothered much as long as he stayed out of other people’s way. And, thanks to the donation by a wealthy family with a love for nature, he had the privilege of living in The Rustic House—a three bedroom modern ranch-style home on one of Rustic Woods’ three lakes designed for environmental friendliness. As long as he main
tained the house and property, he lived there rent-free, and his daughter could attend Rustic Woods High School which had one of the best reputations in the Northern Virginia/Washington, D.C. area.

  So Tate fought the urge to snooze, made his opinion heard on two important topics regarding the paved nature trails, and, when the meeting was adjourned, waited at the door to talk to Abigail.

  “Ab,” he said, falling into step with her. “I wanted to—”

  She held up a flat hand, cutting him off. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope.” She shook her head vehemently.

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “You want me to hire that bimbo Brogan woman. You were drooling all over the table when she walked in.”

  “I was not drooling. And I think it was Bergen, not Brogan. She just—”

  “What, were you high school sweethearts? Or did you have a crush on her? And now you see a way into her heart again and all that crap.”

  Only one woman had ever held Tate’s heart, but he wasn’t going to stoop to Crabby Abby’s level and go there. She was a bitter woman who didn’t deserve to ever know what was in his heart or his mind or his soul. “You’re a fruitcake,” he said, wishing he could flip her off at the same time. “I think she’d be good at the desk. People would like her.”

  “Calling me a fruitcake will go miles toward winning me to your side.” She stopped abruptly and turned to give Tate a frigid glare. “The answer is no. I’ve made up my mind, and I’ll make my offer tomorrow morning.”

  “If you don’t intend to listen to my opinion, why was I there at all?”

  “That was George’s idea, not mine.”

  Yeah. George. Full of good ideas. Tate shrugged as Abigail stomped away. Well, he had tried his best.

  His phone vibrated in his hip holster. A text from his dad. Need hlp. When u come? Tate felt his shoulders tighten. He’d have to go. He’d arranged to meet Willow at the Center after school got out. She was going to help him clear leaves away from the turtle pond, but that would have to wait now. And she should come with him, anyway. He decided to meet her as planned, and then they would check on Morton together.