On Lavender Lane

by JoAnn Ross

  “If I don’t kill you first,” she muttered. Then swallowed the unsavory sludge and felt her stomach rebel. “I really think I’m going to die.” Was that a whimper she heard coming out of her Sahara-dry mouth? She never whimpered. Of course, she’d never suffered a morning-after hangover, either.

  After handing him the glass, she flopped back against the pillow and flung a hand over her eyes. “Then again, I’m even more afraid that I won’t.”

  “Poor baby.” She felt the mattress sag as he sat down on the bed beside her. “He wasn’t worth it.”

  “I know.” His fingers had begun massaging her temples, where maniacs were pounding away with jackhammers. “But I was just so mad.”

  “But you won.” He pressed his lips to her hair. “You beat the bastard. At his own game.”

  She’d thought, at first in shock, and later, on the plane flying back to New York from Nebraska, that she’d never feel whole again. That she’d never be happy again. But now, although she still felt as if she hadn’t managed to put all the pieces back together, she realized that when Lucas was right, he was really, really right.

  “I really did,” she agreed. “I took the bastard down.”

  “And his beer baroness, too.”

  “Her, too,” Madeline agreed. Then, despite the pain, she smiled.

  35

  Phoebe was in the kitchen of Harbor House, whisking eggs for omelets, when there was a knock at the kitchen door. Her nerves immediately tangled; then she reminded herself that Zelda had warned her that Ethan Concannon would be coming by this morning with a load of fresh vegetables and more eggs.

  Which wasn’t why she’d put on a bit of blush and mascara, then spritzed on scent from the display of sample bottles she’d found on a little tray on the top the dresser of her room.

  Liar. The cologne in the small bottle with the daisies on top had smelled light and happy.

  She brushed the flour from her apron and opened the door, then drew in a sharp breath as she viewed him taking up nearly the entire doorway, a crate of vegetables in his hands and a smile in his eyes.

  “Good morning.” His voice was as dark and warm as hot chocolate.

  “Hi.” She sounded breathless. Which she was. She dropped her gaze to the crate of colorful vegetables he held in his arms.

  “Oh, those are beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” He glanced past her. “Mind if I come in and put them down?”

  Color flooded into her cheeks. “Of course not.” She moved aside and began making room on the counter next to the vegetable sink. “They really are fabulous!” She dove into them, pulling out a box of white button mushrooms. “They look like photographs in a cookbook. Or from a painting.”

  “We aim to please.”

  She’d just taken out a bunch of leafy green spinach when she froze at what she feared might be a sexual innuendo. Goose bumps rose on her arms.

  “I was talking about the vegetables, Phoebe,” he said gently.

  “I know.” Her laugh, meant to toss her fears off, revealed her nerves.

  “So.” He stuck his hands into the pocket of his jeans, rocked back on the heels of his work boots, and glanced over at the Pyrex bowl next to the stove. “What are you making?”

  “Scones and spinach omelets. With fresh fruit.”

  “Sounds great. You looked happy.”

  “Happy?”

  “I saw you through the window,” he revealed. “I was just passing by,” he tacked on quickly.

  “I know.”

  She’d reacted instinctively, and now she realized that he was the one afraid. Afraid of frightening her. She didn’t want to be treated like some nervous-Nellie victim. What she wanted, she’d realized as she’d brushed on that color in her too-thin cheeks this morning, was for him to look at her like a woman.

  “I made this uncomfortable,” she said as she began to whisk the brown-shelled eggs. “I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t looking up at him, but heard the sigh.

  Then she heard him approach slowly before she felt a soft hand on her arm. “Don’t,” he said gently.

  “Don’t what?” It was little more than a whisper. Not from fear. But because, heaven help her, his touch felt so good.

  “You didn’t do anything you have to apologize for. If anything, I’m the one who’s making it uncomfortable. I like you, Phoebe.”

  “You don’t know me.” And hadn’t she been in this situation before? With disastrous results.

  “That’s true enough.” He dropped his hand. Stepped back to put some space between them. “But it’s something I’d like to remedy.” He glanced down at the bowl. “After you’re done taking out your anger on those poor eggs.”

  Despite her words and his acknowledgment, he’d nailed that. She had been taking out her repressed fury toward Peter on the eggs she’d begun whisking too hard. And too fast.

  “I’m sor—”

  She stopped in midapology when he touched his fingers to his own mouth, suggesting she not finish that apology.

  “It’s complicated,” she said instead.

  “Life often is.” He squared broad shoulders that strained at the seams of his denim shirt, as if declaring that topic closed. “So, how would you like to come out to the farm after you’re finished making breakfast?”

  “To your farm?” Alone? With him?

  “Well, I could take you around to some of my competitors. Not that I’m blowing my own horn, but none of them have as good produce or stock as Blue Heron does.”

  “He said modestly.” As the words came out of her mouth, Phoebe inwardly flinched.

  Instead of being annoyed at her teasing, he laughed. “It’s not bragging if it’s true. Lily used to come visit from time to time. She liked choosing her own produce. And getting out in the fresh air.”

  And had he looked at her predecessor the way he’d looked, just momentarily, at her? Had they had an affair? Was this merely a fresh market where he could pick up women desperate for a kind word? A gentle touch?

  “Phoebe.” Her name, spoken in that low, solemn tone, drew her mind away from an image of the sexy farmer entwined on some quilt with a willing, faceless woman who’d worked in this kitchen before her.

  “What?”

  “I’m not him.”

  “Who?” Ice froze in her veins. Surely he couldn’t know.

  “Whoever it was who hurt you. Who put that bruise on your face. And if I’m proving damn clumsy at knowing how to talk to a woman I’m attracted to, it’s because I’m out of practice.”

  “Well.” She put down the whisk. Folded her arms and looked at him. “That’s something I’ll need to think about, Mr. Concannon.”

  “Ethan.”

  “Ethan.” She tilted her head and studied him. His rugged cheeks were dark, revealing that the words had not come easily for him. Which is why, although her entire life was a lie, she decided to find out a bit more truth about him.

  “You said you’re out of practice.”

  “I haven’t even thought about how to ask a girl out since I was fifteen.” This time his smile was filled with rue.

  Well, that was telling. Either he was gay, which, from the vibes she’d picked up, he most definitely wasn’t, or he’d married his high school sweetheart.

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “But you were?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?” Had Mrs. Concannon gotten tired of the hard work and lack of the excitement rural living required?

  The light left his blue eyes, like a candle snuffed out by a stiff sea breeze. “She died.”

  36

  After three Motrin tablets, which Lucas referred to as vitamin M, the glass of toxic gunk he’d forced her to drink, and two mugs of coffee, Madeline was beginning to feel like a new woman. Enough that she thought, just maybe, she might be able to keep some food down.

  “Pop-Tarts?” she repeated back to Lucas when he suggested putting two in the toaster for her
. “That’s what you eat for breakfast?”

  “You already turned down the Cocoa Puffs. And if I were here by myself, I’d eat the crab étouffée that’s in the refrigerator. But you’re probably not ready for that yet.”

  “Crab étouffée isn’t usually a breakfast food.”

  “Perhaps not for you. Though I’ll bet you wouldn’t blink an eye at a crab omelet.”

  “True. But you’d need eggs to make an omelet.” The entire contents of his refrigerator had turned out to be a half quart of milk, a six-pack of beer with one bottle missing, and various foam and plastic take-out cartons from Bon Temps and the Crab Shack.

  “I like étouffée. Especially since Sax uses his grandmother Adèle’s recipe, which beats anything you’d get in New Orleans. Besides, I’ve kind of gotten out of the routine of eating proper meals at designated times.”

  That declaration brought her mind back to what Kara had told her over that sinfully rich, chocolate-coated cheesecake. Madeline couldn’t remember everything she and Lucas had talked about last night, but she recalled that lunch discussion in stark detail.

  “How about this?” he suggested. “We’ll go into town to the Grateful Bread. Then we can discuss the plans I came up with over a proper breakfast.”

  She glanced down at the rumpled dress she’d had no choice but to put on after her shower. “I look a mess.”

  “You never look anything but gorgeous.” He leaned down to refill her coffee mug. “But we can stop by the house for you to change.”

  Something suddenly occurred to her. “I need to pick up my car.”

  “That’s already taken care of.”

  “Oh?”

  He either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the sudden chill in her voice. Madeline decided the latter. “Kara sent a deputy to drive it back to the farm this morning. You did, by the way, conveniently leave the key in the ignition. She told me to tell you that while Shelter Bay might not have big-city crime, she wouldn’t advise doing that on a regular basis.”

  Leaving the keys in the ignition—something she’d never do—was, admittedly, yet more proof of how upset she’d been after her conversation with Maxime. But she still wasn’t happy about Lucas once again leaping in to take charge.

  “And you thought calling the sheriff to have my car driven home was your business why?”

  “Because I figured you’d probably wake up with the mother of all headaches, and driving back on that curving coast road might not be the best thing for your stomach.”

  “You don’t get carsick if you’re the one driving,” she muttered.

  She took a drink of the coffee, which was rich and strong and actually very good for a guy who said opening an MRE was the height of his culinary talents. Which the Pop-Tarts and Cocoa Puffs seemed to confirm.

  “Since we have to go back to the house, I might as well have breakfast there.” Okay, maybe she wasn’t feeling quite up to whipping up a gourmet brunch, but she could scramble an egg. Not that she’d have to. There were very few things her grandmother enjoyed more than feeding people.

  “We could. But we’re going to be spending a lot of time at the farm. Besides, I like the idea of taking you out.”

  “It wouldn’t be a date,” she warned.

  He shrugged, reached into the box of cereal on the counter, grabbed a handful, and popped the chocolate cereal bits, which had to taste like brown Styrofoam, into his mouth. Which made her shudder. “You can call it whatever you like,” he said agreeably after he’d crunched the cereal pieces down. “But I’m going to think of it as our first date.”

  “Our first date was the Fourth of July Crabfest.” And she’d never forgotten it.

  “On the beach. I’d already kissed you at the seawall the day we were eating taffy. But that night at Crabfest was the first time I really put everything into it.”

  While the rockets went off and the sky lit up with red, white, and blue fireworks. And when the crush she’d had on Lucas since that first summer, when she’d been a lonely, chubby, thirteen-year-old girl, had exploded into knee-weakening, heart-swelling love.

  “And I put everything I had right back into it.” Every atom in her body had come alive, and if he’d taken her there, on that quilt Sofia had sent along, right in front of the entire town, she wasn’t sure she would’ve had the presence of mind to stop him.

  He grinned at the memory. “You did indeed.” Then sobered. “There were times when the RPGs were flying and the planes were bombing targets in the mountains, that the blasts, which looked kind of like fireworks, reminded me of that night. And, although I know it’s going to sound like a cheesy line, I’d remember kissing you, and know that if I died at that moment, at least I’d have understood what fighter pilots experience when they do Gs in a dive. If that kiss had lasted another few seconds, I probably would’ve embarrassed myself from passing out.”

  It was an exaggeration. And, yes, maybe a little cheesy. But it worked.

  “I felt the same way,” she admitted. “Like I was on a roller coaster.”

  His grin widened, making her think that it was unfair that any man should have teeth that straight and that white. “Exactly. And since you’ve already told me you’re an excellent negotiator—”

  “When did I say that?”

  “Last night. When you told me about getting all those bucks for Sofia from the Frenchman and the beer baroness.”

  “That was a great feeling.” She remembered it now.

  “And well it should be. So, how about we negotiate ourselves a compromise?”

  “And your initial offer would be?”

  “I take you to breakfast at the Grateful Bread. And promise not to kiss you silly in front of everyone there.”

  She had been craving one of their waffles since she got back to town. And they did need to talk about the kitchen. And the truth was, even though a headache was still lurking behind her eyes, she was having the most enjoyable time she’d had in a very long while.

  She got up, put her mug in the dishwasher, and said, “You’ve got yourself a deal, sailor.”

  37

  “Madeline spent the night at the cottage with Lucas,” Sofia divulged as she, Adèle Douchett, and Zelda sat in the sunroom at the farm and knitted colorful blankets for Project Linus, a charity that provided “comfort” blankets to needy children. Adèle had gotten the two women involved, and Sofia had found it an enjoyable hobby to fill those hours when she couldn’t work in the gardens.

  “Well, there goes any hope I had for her and J. T. getting together once he gets out of the Marines,” Adèle said with a slight sigh. “Though I’m happy for her. She and Lucas did seem so much in love that summer they were together, but”—she shrugged—“teenage romances don’t always end up in marriage.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she’s ready to be talking about marriage,” Sofia said. “Since she’s still legally married.”

  “I read on the front page of that tabloid at the market this morning that her husband is marrying that woman,” Zelda said, needles clicking rapidly.

  “The woman from the video?” Adèle asked with raised brows.

  “The very one. Mary Chapman had the tacky paper displayed front and center, in the rack next to the cash register, which I personally thought was in poor taste given that Sofia’s granddaughter just happens to be the injured party.”

  “Did you know about this?” Adèle asked her longtime friend.

  “No.” The very idea of Maddy being treated so poorly had Sofia dropping a stitch. She was also going to have a little chat with Mary. Although the owner of Harbor Market liked to consider herself the town crier, there were limits.

  “But he did call here yesterday wanting to talk to her. I told her about it when she called to tell me she was taking a drive along the coast after her lunch with Charity and Kara.”

  “Well, the coast road does conveniently lead to the Chaffee cottage,” Adèle said.

  “True enough.”

  Sofia didn’t share w
hat else Lucas had told her. That her granddaughter had indulged in a bit too much champagne and he hadn’t wanted to let her drive home. He’d assured her that everything was fine, but she’d been worried ever since that the horrid husband had done something to further upset Maddy.

  If he’d been calling to ask for a quickie divorce, surely that would have been good news. Because the idea of her granddaughter still harboring feelings for a man who obviously had none for her was disheartening.

  “So,” she said, belatedly wishing she hadn’t brought it up, “speaking of teenage love and marriages, are Sax and Kara doing any wedding planning?”

  “No.” Adèle sighed. “Not that the entire family, including Cole and Kelli, haven’t been nudging them toward marriage. They’ve come close a couple times, then Kara has called it off.”

  “Well,” Zelda said, “if the girl isn’t entirely sure, it’s probably for the best.”

  “Oh, she’s absolutely sure. It’s just that, apparently, she made this promise to her mother that they’d have a double ceremony. But with all the troubles in the world, Faith hasn’t been able to get away.”

  Kara’s mother, Dr. Faith Blanchard, was a neurosurgeon who had, for several years, worked at Shelter Bay’s hospital. Then she’d fallen in love with her late husband’s former deputy, who, it had turned out, had been secretly in love with her for some time, and together they’d joined the Worldwide Medical Relief and had been traveling the world. From what Adèle had reported back, the two seemed determined to work in every dangerous hot spot on the planet.

  Remembering the thrill of extreme travel, there were times Sofia envied Faith Blanchard and John O’Roarke. Though, if she were to be entirely honest, she’d have to admit that while the fantasy of adventure was appealing, these days she was much more content to be knitting and drinking tea from a pretty cup on a rainy day than slogging through some hostile Amazonian jungle.

  “I’m sure Faith wouldn’t hold her to such an agreement,” Sofia said.

  The two women had appeared to have had a rocky relationship during Kara’s teens and when Kara had first returned home with her young son after her father’s death, but by the time Faith and John had left Shelter Bay, it was obvious that mother and daughter had grown as close as Sofia had always felt with her own Gabriella. And with Madeline.