by Meera Lester
* * *
Twenty minutes later, at Twice Around Markdowns, Abby pulled the angora sweater tighter around her bosom against the chill at the back of the store, where the bric-a-brac was kept. Kat loved stuff from bygone eras, especially Victorian collectibles, so Abby had decided to look through the castoffs in the display cases and on the tables. Her gaze swept over three well-worn trading cards and a book on how to crochet tea cozies, jam pot covers, and doilies. She passed on picking up a sepia-toned daguerreotype image that looked like one of those postmortem portraits that the Victorians loved, and instead, she reached for a vintage ivory or bone British Raj panel bracelet. Forming the bracelet were individual links depicting elephants, peacocks, and other images associated with the vast Indian subcontinent. The bracelet latched like a miniature belt buckle.
“May I help you find something?” the male salesclerk called out in a booming voice.
Startled, Abby dropped the bracelet and spun around.
“Sorry. Did I scare you?” the man asked as he tottered toward her. His voice sounded too loud for normal conversation.
“Well,” Abby replied, “I nearly jumped out of my skin.”
The man laughed and pointed to his hearing aids. “I’ve got two of them, and neither works very well. Wife tells me I talk too loud, but I hear too soft.”
Abby flashed an understanding smile. She picked up the bracelet and positioned it back on its display tree. Taking a few steps toward an old clock, she told the man, “I’m just looking.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said and wandered away.
The round shape of a candy box caught Abby’s attention. She picked up the blue cardboard box covered in a gilt Arabesque pattern and held it to the light to examine it for damage. Fading seemed to be the only issue, especially on its top surface, which read LILLIPUTIAN CONFECTIONS. The image was of a teenage girl standing beneath a banner. Judging by her blond curls fashioned into ringlets and the period dress she wore, the depiction of the young female had been inspired by the Victorian era, even if the box wasn’t actually from that period.
The candy box sparked for Abby a new idea for Kat’s birthday. She would clean the box and fill it with the foil-covered chocolate truffles that Paola had given her the day before the shooting. Paola had explained that properly stored in a cool, dark place—not the fridge—the truffles would keep for two weeks. Abby also remembered that she had antique silver candy tongs she’d found at an estate sale and never used. She’d give Kat that item, too.
“Sir,” Abby called out. “How much for this box?”
The man didn’t respond. Surmising that he hadn’t heard her, Abby picked up the box and carried it to the cash register at the front of the store.
“You want that old thing?” he asked, holding it aloft and blowing off a layer of dust.
“Depends. How much?”
“No more than a dollar, though I’ll wager my missus would put a higher value on it. Between us, I think my wife should have trashed it long ago.”
Abby winked at him. “No need to bag it,” she said, pulling a dollar from her purse and pushing it across the counter. The man opened the register and put the single bill inside, then nodded to her as she left.
Delighting in her find, Abby carried the box back to her Jeep. Kat, she was sure, would love it. The item needed cleaning, of course. But after that, Abby would line it with paper and fill it with truffles. A ribbon that anchored the tongs on the knotted bow would give the present a festive finish. With Kat’s present crossed off her to-do list, Abby set the Jeep on a course for Maisey’s pie shop.
CRAWFORD FEED AND FARM SUPPLIES, emblazoned on the side of Lucas Crawford’s 1958 restored truck, grabbed Abby’s attention. The vehicle was parked directly in front of the pie shop. Wheeling her Jeep in behind it, Abby felt her pulse skitter. After parking, she stared at the front door of the shop. The thought of seeing Las Flores’s most eligible bachelor strolling out triggered a flood of emotions, like that of a teenage girl awaiting the moment when Boy Wonder would do a slo-mo walk toward her. Already, she felt hot.
Her thoughts tripped back to that late spring day many moons ago when he’d come calling with a box of empty jars in his red pickup. She had been working with the bees and had become trapped inside her beekeeper’s suit. The day had been sweltering. When the zipper caught on fabric at the back of her veiled bonnet, Abby couldn’t escape. She had asked him to help her free the slide from the fabric so she could unzip the hat and take off the blazing hot suit. Now the memory of smelling his aftershave and sensing his eyes on her as his fingers fiddled with that zipper triggered a quiver of excitement. Her secret admiration of Lucas had taken hold that day. It had never left her.
Despite the pitter-patter of her heart, Abby took a deep breath, hoisted the box of honey-filled jars and invoice into her arms, grabbed her purse, and climbed out of the Jeep. The bell on the door jingled, announcing her arrival. An apron-clad Maisey looked up from refilling a patron’s cup with coffee. Flashing a warm smile that lit up her face, Maisey waved to Abby.
“You must have been reading my thoughts,” Maisey said when Abby got to the counter.
“Yeah? What were you thinking?” Abby asked, setting down the box of honey.
Maisey lowered her voice to a conspiratorial softness. “I made those pies you were so crazy about last Thanksgiving. You know, the ones with whiskey . . . well, technically, bourbon. You know, bourbon is whiskey, but not all types of whiskey are bourbon.”
Abby nodded, half listening, as her gaze swept across the room to the table by the window where Lucas had sprawled his muscular frame into a booth. The afternoon sunlight danced through the trees outside the window. The brilliant light splayed across his curly brown hair, highlighting its silver threads. Dressed casually in jeans and a woolen shirt that matched his eyes, the color of sunlit creek water, Lucas seemed captivated by his companion in conversation. Her long hair was the color of amber honey, with lighter tresses around her youthful face. Beyond her obvious attractiveness, she radiated a quiet vitality. Around the shoulders of her baby blue pantsuit, she’d wrapped a pretty paisley shawl. She hadn’t touched her pie but held a mug of steaming coffee cupped between her hands.
“I’ve got two bourbon pumpkins left, and one has your name on it. So what do you say, Abby?”
“Huh? Okay.”
“Did you hear even a word I said?” Maisey asked. She chuckled. “Or were your thoughts occupied elsewhere, perhaps with the folks in the booth by the window?”
Abby’s cheeks grew warm. “Not at all. I was just thinking how much I love your custard pies, and especially the ones with rum, bourbon, or Kahlúa in them.” She turned her full attention on Maisey and the business at hand. “Here are the extra jars of honey you wanted and the invoice. But maybe we should call it even if you’re gifting me a pie.”
“Now, who said I was gifting it? I said it had your name on it,” Maisey teased. She let go a hearty laugh. “Of course it’s a gift, sweet girl. And my giving it to you isn’t motivated by the thought of getting free honey in return. You know I don’t work like that. So just give me a minute to box up your pie, and we’ll settle up on the honey. Coffee? It’s on the house.”
Abby nodded and eased onto a stool. She shot a furtive glance at the angled mirror above the counter, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lucas. Who was that stunning woman in blue he was with? Unfortunately, he and his companion sat out of reach of the mirror’s reflection. So Abby sipped the coffee that Maisey had poured and bided her time, listening to Willard grouse on his cell phone about his suppliers’ late shipments to his hardware store. “All,” he said, “thanks to a truckers’ strike back east.”
Abby listened with disinterest. She longed to check out Lucas and the woman who shared his booth, but imposed an iron will of self-restraint. Had the best-looking guy in the county, who ministered to all the animal owners through his feed store, found someone to minister to him? Acutely aware that her heart pac
ed at a breakneck speed, Abby realized that either she would have to let the man make a move toward her and respond in kind or she’d have to shut down her feelings for Lucas. For the latter, it might already be too late.
Maisey tied the pie box in a flourish of red string. Handing it to Abby, she said, “I’ll write you a check and be right back.” Abby contented herself with sipping her coffee and trying without success to turn a deaf ear on Willard’s contentious conversation.
“You wouldn’t leave without saying hello to a neighbor, now would you, Abby?”
The voice behind her sounded male, husky, and sexy. Abby knew who it was. She looked up into the mirror at Lucas. He stood an arm’s length behind her. She was determined not to let him see any sign of the havoc she was holding inside.
“Hello, Lucas,” she stammered. The pitter-patter of her heart quickened to a dizzying speed. His beautiful friend might have held his interest before, but now Abby caught him boldly assessing her. She held his attention now. Next to her, Willard eased off his stool, with his cell phone still plastered against his ear. He hurried away. Abby slowly twirled around on her seat, catching a glimpse of Willard pulling open the pie shop door to traffic. As she rose to greet Lucas, a car engine backfired. The loud explosion reverberated through Abby like a gunshot. Her heart scudded against her chest. Legs wobbled. Knees went weak. She reached out instinctively to steady herself on something. . . anything. Lucas caught her arms and held her firmly.
Eyes wide, Abby leaned back, sat down again on the stool. Lucas, not breaking contact with her body, sank down onto Willard’s vacated seat. Abby forced a smile, more aware of her jangled nerves and the fight-or-flight battle raging inside her than of Lucas’s hands still holding on to her. “What a klutz I can be, losing my balance like that. Thanks for the catch.”
“Sheesh, that was loud,” said Maisey, who turned and retreated to the kitchen through double swinging doors.
Lucas’s companion spoke to him softly. “Be a dear, and get your friend here a glass of water.”
Lucas released his grip on Abby, pushed off from the stool, and headed to the far end of the counter and the water station.
“It’s okay,” the woman told Abby. “A loud noise can’t hurt you.” She placed a tender hand on Abby’s arm. “Breathe slowly. It will calm your thoughts and racing heart.”
If Abby felt flustered by her intense reaction to the car’s backfiring, she was caught off guard even more by the unexpected attention from the lovely stranger with Lucas. She tried to stand.
“No, just sit,” said the woman. Her tone was reassuring, even nurturing. “Focus on the breath. Slow. And even.”
Abby hazarded a glance at her. The woman’s light brown eyes met Abby’s without judgment. “I feel rather foolish. It’s nothing,” said Abby.
“Well, you might want to believe that, but it isn’t true. I’m a doctor. It’s just a guess, but I think you’ve suffered some recent trauma. What’s your name?”
“Abby. Abigail Mackenzie.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Lucas’s sister, Olivia Crawford.” She sank onto the stool next to Abby. “Right now your heart is pounding like a racehorse’s and your anxiety level has just shot through the roof. You don’t know whether to hurry out the door or do battle with something you can’t see, hear, touch, or taste. But your body reacts to it all the same. Am I right?”
Had it been that obvious? While Abby appreciated Olivia’s calm manner, she worried that Lucas would return at any second. Not the time and place to discuss this. Particularly with a stranger, and even more so when the stranger is Lucas Crawford’s sister. Abby decided to excuse herself and leave. But her legs felt wobbly. The last thing she wanted to do was to create more of a spectacle.
Olivia fished in her handbag and produced a business card. Leaning in, she handed it to Abby and whispered, “Lucas told me that you had been attacked on your farmette after your town’s celebrity pastry chef was murdered. And recently, when the winery heir and his wife were shot, you found them. Given your exposure to such traumatic events, it’s not surprising you reacted the way you did, Abby. May I call you Abby?”
“Yes.” Abby wasn’t sure of what to make of this woman, who knew way too much about her already.
“Your symptoms are not unique. Bottom line, you don’t have to deal with this alone. There are some excellent treatments.”
Abby straightened. So maybe Edna Mae had been right about PTSD. Edna was a retired nurse. She’d probably seen this kind of thing before. Abby’s thoughts raced on. She took no comfort in having Olivia—a total stranger—diagnose her on the spot, even if she was a doctor. Abby was not her patient, so there could be no expectation of confidentiality. She didn’t much like the idea of Lucas and his sister discussing her mental health, not that they would. But then again, why wouldn’t they? And there was no stopping gossip once it started spreading in a small town. The truth quickly became distorted and spread faster than foul brood in an infected hive.
Lucas came back and handed Abby a glass of water. She took a sip and wondered what he must have thought about her over-the-top reaction. Feeling a blush warming her cheeks, Abby glanced at Olivia’s card.
“So your degree . . . is it in psychiatry or psychology?” asked Abby, trying to sound normal, like nothing had happened.
“Clinical psychology . . . I’m a therapist in private practice, and I have a doctorate. Lucas suggested after my partners and I split that I move down the peninsula, closer to the heart of Silicon Valley. I’ve heard there are plenty of stressed-out folks working in high tech who could use my services.” Olivia chuckled.
“Makes perfect sense.”
Olivia smiled. “You’ve got a nice town here, Abby. And the locals know their way to the only pie shop in town, so finding my practice around the corner shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Absolutely,” said Abby. She grinned sheepishly. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Crawford.”
“Oh, please, call me Olivia.”
Abby’s heartbeat was slowing to normal, but she felt a bit too shaky to stand. She puzzled over what seemed like a strange synchronicity that she should run into Lucas in the first place. And then . . . to find out that his sister was a therapist. And that the woman was moving her practice to Las Flores. It was just too weird. For a millisecond, Abby wondered if Maisey had something to do with arranging this serendipitous encounter.
She glanced at Maisey, who laid a check on the pie box and then busied herself with picking up dirty counter dishes and placing them in a rubber dishpan. Nah. Maisey could not have spun this manifestation of the surreal into being. Not without knowledge of my plans for the day. And Maisey would never divulge someone’s emotional fragility. So how could the forces of nature have just lined up like this on the very day when she had decided to seek help?
Abby took another sip of water. She swallowed and set the glass on the counter.
“I hope you’ll call me sometime.” Olivia abandoned the stool and made a move for the door.
“Thank you for the card,” Abby said, rising. “I’m on my way to the hospital to see a friend. I’d be happy to let the staff know about you. When will your practice open for business?”
“Monday morning.” Olivia pulled her pashmina shawl tighter over her shoulders. “Some of my previous patients are following me here to my new location. But for new patients, I’m offering a free consult and reducing the cost of the first full visit to half price. I’ve got some slots open next week.” Her smile seemed genuine.
Abby absorbed the information. “I hope the location will work as well for you. We have a wonderful, tight-knit community here,” Abby said, trying to sound enthusiastic but noncommittal. She looked at Lucas. It was hard to fathom what he might be thinking. The intensity of his gaze sucked the breath right out of her. “Wouldn’t you say, Lucas?”
He took a lot of time to say, “Yep.”
Olivia turned back toward Abby and came to within an arm’s reach. “I ho
pe we’ll meet again, Abby. From what Lucas says, you’re quite an amazing woman.”
Feeling her cheeks flush warm, Abby turned her attention to Olivia. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Just that whole commitment thing you have about the backyard food movement,” said Olivia. “Keeping bees and chickens and a garden and orchard. It has to be a ton of work.”
Abby tilted her head to the side. “Well, it’s my passion, for sure. If you’d like to see the farmette sometime, perhaps Lucas could bring you by.”
“Once the dust settles from my move, I just might do that.”
“You still have my number, Lucas?” Abby figured he’d have kept it, even though he’d never used it. Texting and chitty-chatting on the phone weren’t his way. When he wanted to reach out to her, Lucas Crawford always found a way to do it in person. And Abby liked that about him.
He tapped the breast pocket of his wool shirt. “In my cell.”
Olivia started for the door. Lucas put on his cowboy hat and pushed it down over his curly locks. He leaned in close enough for Abby to smell the scent of lemon soap commingled with aftershave. “For two people who live so close to each other, Abby, we could be a lot more neighborly. Let’s do something about that . . . soon,” he said in his soft baritone.
Befuddled, Abby struggled to think of an appropriate quip, which didn’t come. To agree enthusiastically might seem too eager. But neither did she want to appear too cautious. In the end, it didn’t matter. Lucas touched two fingers to the brim of his hat, and before Abby could say anything flirty or otherwise, he followed Olivia out of the pie shop.
“I heard that.” Maisey grinned like the cat that had just discovered the canary’s hiding place. “You should take him up on that, because,” said Maisey, “that man has a thing for you.”
“Good Lord, if I didn’t know you, Maisey, I’d swear that you’ve been sipping from the bourbon you’re pouring into those pies.” Abby winked at her and then tucked Maisey’s check and Olivia’s card in her purse. Picking up the pie box by its tied strings, she said, “Thanks for this, Maisey. Gotta run.”