Carolina Girl

by Patricia Rice

  “Shouldn’t we lock it up somewhere safe?”

  “I called. The bank’s safety-deposit boxes are full. I have an appointment with the attorney on Monday. He can put it in his vault until we check it out. It’s going to be fine this time, Ciss. I know it is.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see a cherry-red extended cab sitting in that driveway,” Cissy said in decisive tones.

  “I can trade in the Beamer for that,” Rory said with a magnanimous gesture of her hand. “I’m not sure I’ll believe it until I see Mandy wearing graduation robes from Duke.”

  “That’s going to happen if I have to sell a kidney to do it. I think just seeing the bill basket empty would be enough.”

  “Make a list and attach all the bills to it. Maybe the lawyer can figure how to deduct medical bills against the taxes.”

  “This is just a little bit scary, isn’t it?” Cissy whispered.

  “A whole lot scary, but happy scary. Start imagining your new future, Ciss. I say we go to Charleston and celebrate with new shoes.”

  “Dancing shoes,” Cissy agreed with glee. “I want to dance around the fire while we burn those bills.”

  “You got it.”

  Rory thought she’d spend her share on running shoes so she could run as fast and hard as she could from this narrow world where happiness meant having no bills to pay.

  And faster still from a man who could break her heart and dash her dreams with one careless wave of farewell.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’m not going anywhere near the courthouse,” Cissy protested the evening of the zoning meeting. “I’ll stay here with Mandy and Dad, or you can drop me off at Iris’s. She has basket weaving classes tonight. You can tell me all about it when you come home.”

  Rory knew her sister was nervous. Even a million dollars couldn’t save the swamp and their neighbors if the commission decided in favor of development. But she’d hoped Cissy would act as a barrier between her and Clay.

  The messages from “Purple Knight” nagged at the back of her mind as Clay ambled about the living room, picking things up and putting them down. Remembering Clay’s love of classic rock, she’d responded to the starry, starry night e-mail with I can’t get no satisfaction in hopes of uncovering his identity. Purple Knight promptly replied with Only the good die young.

  She knew enough about golden oldies to identify Billy Joel. Clay was the only man she knew who could quote rock songs for the purpose of seduction and get away with it. That he used computers for communication didn’t bother her. That his idiosyncratic messages woke all her feminine instincts scared her to death. She didn’t know enough about him to get involved. She had a family to take care of. A career to return to. She didn’t have time for love. Or the courage to risk it.

  Watching Clay study the brass clock from the knickknack shelf as if it might reveal the secrets of time, she tried to believe this enigmatic man couldn’t be the one talking about starry nights and planets, but she knew better. Aside from the distinctive rock theme, who else had the opportunity to filch her screen name? The man was just plain dangerous, in more ways than one.

  He’d verified that Iris’s brother had signed a sales agreement on his share of the swamp. Everything rode on tonight’s zoning meeting.

  “There’s room for both of you in the truck,” Clay offered, returning the clock to the shelf after resetting it. Although he’d behaved as if he hadn’t heard a word of the family argument, he solved it in one fell swoop. “Jared and Cleo took the kids in the Jeep.”

  “I can take Cissy to Iris’s and meet you in town,” Rory said, hoping to wriggle out of spending time with Clay in the intimacy of the truck. Just standing in the same room with him had her nerve ends tingling, anticipating his touch or his kiss. After his promise of celebration a couple of days ago, her imagination kept veering down paths best left untaken.

  It had been years since she’d necked with a guy in a pickup cab, but contrary to popular belief, she wasn’t dead from the neck down.

  She’d never necked with a guy who looked like Clay did tonight. He’d actually had his hair barbered so he came across as more respectable—and striking—than Jeff Spencer in his banker suit. Instead of a T-shirt and sandals, Clay had dug out a suspiciously Hollywood-looking collarless shirt and sport coat to wear with a pair of tailored khakis. “Funky business” might describe the style.

  “Leave Cissy your car keys,” he answered, rattling his own impatiently.

  When Cissy’s eyes lit with disbelief, Rory felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. It had never once occurred to her that her sister might like the freedom of her own wheels. How selfish could she get?

  She’d been away from home too long, and controlling things had become a way of life she didn’t like to recognize in herself. Digging the keys out of her purse, she offered them to her sister. “Keep ’em away from Pops,” she said, grinning at Cissy’s astonishment.

  “Me? You want me to drive that expensive machine? Down Iris’s dirt road?”

  “Might as well get a little fun out of it before we sell it.” Dropping the keys in Cissy’s hand and ignoring Clay’s invitation to take his, Rory stalked past him to open the front door.

  Clay turned and offered his arm to Cissy instead, who accepted it without question. “At least one sister has a little sense,” he commented.

  “Rory doesn’t trust men,” Cissy confided as they stepped outside. “Back in high school she and Jeff Spencer used to date, until she decided to run for student council, and he ran against her. He won, of course. He could afford posters and beach parties. It’s been downhill ever since.”

  “Thanks for sharing that, Ciss,” Rory grumbled.

  “Spencer?” Clay asked. “The suit you were arguing with in town?”

  “We were both on the debate team. Maybe I should just take the Beamer in and leave the two of you to catch up on a lot of fun stories.”

  “No way, José,” Cissy said, rattling the Beamer keys. “I’m not letting go of these babies. Besides, it’s probably safer if you don’t go into town alone if you’re planning on upsetting whoever’s surveying out here.”

  The last thing Rory was afraid of was physical violence, but Clay’s accompaniment would make it look as if she weren’t fighting this battle alone. Nervously she watched as Clay helped Cissy into the convertible’s front seat.

  “How much do you want to bet old Jeff has a stake in developing the Bingham property?” Clay asked as Cissy looked over the car’s gauges.

  “That’s not even worth gambling on,” Rory scoffed. “It’s his bank that owns Commercial Realty. It’s the biggest bank in town. They’d score huge in mortgages alone. And he’s really not wrong. We need business out here. Farming isn’t profitable on acreages this small.”

  “Argue this after I’m outta here,” Cissy protested. “Debate isn’t my gig. I just want everyone to get along.”

  “I’ll find a catalog of happy dust just for you.” Watching Cissy check the dials and the equipment, Rory lingered beside her convertible.

  “I think happy dust is illegal in most states,” Clay declared, catching her elbow and dragging her away. “Although I’m inclined to think that if we liquefied pot and poured it into a few corporate water coolers, the world would be a safer place.”

  “California dreaming,” Rory muttered, but the image of bankers and CEOs skipping down the street arm in arm tickled her funny bone. She bit her lip to hide it.

  “I’m supposed to be the cynic here,” Clay protested. “You’re supposed to say that’s a jolly good idea and go looking for an organization to promote it.”

  Starting the car engine, Cissy chuckled. “He’s got you nailed, Rora. Admit it. You’re standing there wondering if pot would solve world peace.”

  Rory hated being judged and categorized and hated it worse when they were right. “I may be a dreamer, but you two are certifiable.”

  “Yeah, but we’re cute,” Clay insisted. “Never unde
restimate the power of cute.”

  Rory swallowed a laugh. He was impossible enough without encouraging him. “I can’t do cute, so I’ll stick with smart, thank you.”

  He stared at her in incredulity. “You’re well above cute already. Let your hair down and wear something sexy, and you can do glamorous.” Without giving her time for a reply, Clay opened the pickup door and all but shoved her inside.

  As Cissy took off down the sandy drive, Aurora hid her flush in the growing dusk of the cab. Beyond cute? Glamorous! Was that how he saw her? She might be sturdy and practical and not half-bad to look at, but sexy or glamorous wasn’t within the realm of possibility. The man lied through his teeth. He must be desperate for sex.

  Watching Clay saunter around to the driver’s seat, sun-bleached hair now impeccably styled, bronzed features studying her warily through the windshield, she knew darned well a man that good-looking wasn’t desperate.

  “I don’t want to do glamorous,” she informed him the instant he took his seat. “My career is in banking, not Hollywood. I want men to admire my mind, not my body.”

  He set his mouth as he turned on the ignition. “Look, let’s not argue over this. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth.”

  “Right.” She crossed her arms over her chest before it sank in that he’d actually backed off. Sort of. Now his words nettled, and she wanted to pursue them further.

  “Men don’t take me seriously if I wear frilly clothes,” she offered in the growing silence as the truck followed Cissy’s dust to the main road.

  “Then they’re fools, and you may as well play them for such, but it’s your choice, not mine. I like you fine in frills or suits. You don’t have to be glamorous for my sake.”

  “Right, because you’re a genius, not a fool.” She was nervous and making an idiot of herself, but she thought he really meant what he said. He looked at her with admiration no matter what she wore. She just had a hard time seeing herself as he did.

  He snorted. “I’m no genius when it comes to women. I can take a computer or a motorcycle apart and put them back together better than ever, but women I’ll never figure out. I think they morph from one creature to another in between one sentence and the next.”

  Both Cissy and Clay turned right on the highway toward town, but half a mile down the road Cissy turned the BMW down the dirt lane leading back to the swamp and quickly disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Rory tried not to worry about the BMW or Cissy or the man sitting beside her. She had a million-dollar bottle cap in her underwear drawer, and her life seemed to be spinning out of control. She needed to get a grip on the reins again.

  “Women think in terms of survival,” she answered. “We may each have a different idea of what it takes to survive, but the instinct to protect ourselves and our families is basic. Grasp that, and you’re halfway there.”

  In the shadow of the cab, Clay nodded his newly barbered head. “Excellent justification for theft, murder, and downright orneriness. Got it.”

  “Nah, we only need men to justify that. Survival is much more complicated.” Relaxing at the foolishness—or because he wasn’t staring at her as if she were the last piece of cake on earth—Rory leaned back and began to plot the evening’s course.

  o0o

  Rory gulped when they entered city hall and instantly had an audience of well-wishers clapping them on the back. Others stood crowded in corners, pointing at her and Clay and whispering. These were her neighbors, people she hadn’t seen in years and barely knew. But they all knew her and were counting on her to save their little pieces of heaven from the vast corporate world that had eaten most of the islands up and down the coast.

  Like Don Quixote, she’d battled a lot of windmills without much success. She’d done it safely from within her secure corporate world without risking anything but her time. And her job, but she hadn’t realized it then.

  If she lost now, the realty company would rescind the offer for Cissy’s share of the land, and their little acreage would be surrounded by condos within a few years. If she lost, most of these people would lose their livelihoods and their homes. What good would a million dollars do her then?

  Her mouth tasted sour as Clay steered a path through the crowd to a seat up front. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Terry Talbert signal her. He didn’t look happy, but no one in here did. Skirting around the grim-faced officials in suits gathering at the front of the room, she let Clay claim their seats while she spoke with Terry.

  “Rora, you can’t fight zoning on the island,” he whispered as soon as she came close.

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with the park,” she explained. “We just want some planning before we turn into another Hilton Head.”

  “Golf courses make money!” he protested. “We want the park to draw in tourists and developers. That’s the whole point. I can’t believe you’re fighting against everything the tourist commission stands for.”

  “I asked to be placed on the agenda as a property owner, not as a representative of the tourist commission,” she said patiently. “I want tourists as much as you do. I’m not the evil force against development. I just want some planning first.”

  “We don’t have time for planning. The state will acquire the property and auction off what they don’t want to cover costs. Who will buy the land if they can’t get zoning?”

  Feeling vaguely sick to hear her fears laid out so plainly, Rory shook her head. “The state has a budget to buy the beach. They don’t need more.”

  “If you go up there and delay the zoning, you’re off the tourist commission, Rora. You’re working against us and not with us.”

  Fired again for opening her big mouth. The sour taste turned bitter, but this time she figured all it cost her was a friend, and he couldn’t be much of a friend if he wouldn’t listen.

  “Sorry, Terry, no can do. I’ll send you my files in the morning.” Turning her back on him, Rory walked toward Clay, who stood waiting for her to join him. Clay might not fully grasp her need to make things right, but he supported her desire to do so. He was the first damn man outside of her father to ever support her, even if all he wanted was to be in her bed. She’d give him half a brownie point for that.

  o0o

  Clay watched in admiration as Rory flipped open the last colorful chart succinctly conveying the impact of development without planning on the island. She summarized her report in a few powerful sentences, then returned to her seat to a round of applause. She should have been a lawyer. Her cautious, controlling nature concealed the power of her passion.

  The commissioners looked more stunned than prepared to argue. Aurora had steamrollered them into their own swamp.

  She took the seat beside him and Clay clasped her hand, feeling the acceleration of her pulse. “You spun their heads so forcefully, you didn’t leave them any grounds to disagree on,” he whispered.

  She nodded but focused on Jeff Spencer, who stood to espouse the dry cause of tax bases and increased business. She didn’t withdraw her hand but squeezed harder when Jeff finished up with a politician’s smooth promise of a chicken in every pot, or the contemporary equivalent.

  Clay had the urge to rearrange the banker’s smug expression. People who thought that what they wanted was best for everyone had solidified his cynicism at an early age.

  Aurora wasn’t like that. She would give up her hopes of hot-dog stands if convinced they weren’t good for everyone.

  Shaken by that insight, Clay examined it while half listening to the commissioners argue among themselves. Aurora was here to espouse her cause, just like Jeff. She had a bee in her bonnet about condos, but she still wanted gas stations or peach stands on natural wetlands. So where the hell did he think she was different?

  Because she wasn’t thinking of herself so much as her neighbors and family.

  She and Cissy could have taken the developer’s money and run. Or they could hold out for a higher price. Or she could have gone his route, demanded
total preservation of the wetlands, and had people kicked out of their homes and livelihoods.

  Instead she was defending the property of people who didn’t have the education or money to fight city hall.

  Maybe—just maybe—he ought to start considering her side of things a little more seriously.

  What would that entail? It wasn’t as if he had much ready cash to help her fight. All he had was his software, and he wasn’t letting any of his programs out of his control for love or money this time around. He wasn’t fool enough to be burned a third time.

  “All in favor of withholding a zoning change until after a planning study can be made, say aye.”

  Clay felt Rory hold her breath as each “aye” was recorded. Seven out of twelve. Did the majority win? Or did they need two-thirds? He watched Rory close her eyes and sit back with a smile of relief.

  They’d won.

  He liked winning, but this wasn’t his home, and his triumph had far more to do with the woman beside him blazing with exultation than in anything he had accomplished. Her joy shot through him like an aphrodisiac—as if he needed any excuse to be turned on in her company.

  “Celebration time,” he whispered in her ear. “Champagne?”

  “Chocolate malt,” she whispered back.

  “They still serve that stuff here?” With the meeting adjourned, he caught her arm and all but hauled her out of the room before she could get into another public argument with the red-faced, furious banker, or the sulking tourist commissioner. “Wasn’t it declared a national health hazard and banned along with soda fountains?”

  He saw Cleo and Jared heading their way through the crowd. With dexterity, he steered her out a side entrance of city hall. He had romantic fireworks on the agenda this evening, not the hotheaded kind that Cleo and Aurora could ignite in a room full of people. Although he wasn’t entirely certain Aurora recognized her power to incite riots.

  She laughed and sailed down the steps ahead of him, obviously knowing her territory and where she was headed. “Malt is banned only in California,” she asserted, “where they eat snails and call it protein. Here, we know what’s good for you.”