But her GPS didn’t seem to recognize the street name on the directions given to her by the courier, and no matter which way she turned the paper, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out the map and instructions she’d been given. She was supposed to turn right off Main Street just after some business named Jenny’s Barn, but she couldn’t find the store. She’d driven the length of Main Street twice and had found two grocery stores—Dillards and Camden’s—an old-fashioned stage theater, a bakery, and a pub, but nothing named Jenny’s Barn. Would it be a clothing store?
She glanced at the clock on her dashboard. Gah. Fifteen minutes until she was supposed to meet the artist. She needed to stop and ask directions.
The wooden sidewalks lining Main Street were bare—too early in the morning for tourists, she figured. Sighing, she turned the car around and drove back to the first stop-sign in town. A few seconds ago she’d passed a diner at the corner that seemed to be bustling. Surely someone there would know how to find the famous sculptor’s place, right?
A bell over the door tinkled when she entered, but the sound was superfluous—as soon as she stepped into Delilah’s Diner, heads swiveled and warm gazes stared at her. She glanced around the room and took in the eclectic group of patrons. A beautiful young woman in a tie-dyed maxi dress sat at one table, holding hands with a handsome man in a Armani suit, and a middle-aged woman with blond dreadlocks and a 1950s red and white polka-dotted apron stood behind the counter, talking to a thin but busty redheaded woman in a T-shirt with English Major—You Do the Math emblazoned across the back and a man in firefighter pants. The rest of the people scattered around wore a mix of Levis, Wrangler jeans, and plaid shirts. Even the two kids in the corner were in plaid—the little girl wore a dress entirely out of red and black hunter (or was that lumberjack?) check.
Wow. Plaid must be the “new black” in this town.
With the exception of the guy in Armani, this was quite different attire from what she was used to in New York, or even Sacramento. When the patrons kept looking at her, she glanced down at her outfit, which consisted of a pale green silk button-down blouse, cream worsted wool slacks and a matching jacket, and Louboutin shoes—maybe she should have worn plaid. Certainly would have blended in a bit better if she had.
“Hey, hon,” the woman behind the booth that stretched nearly the length of the diner called out. “Welcome to Delilah’s. Table for one today?”
Embarrassed, Trudy made her way past a few tables to lean against the booth. “Um, I actually just stopped for directions.”
The woman laughed. “You must not be traveling with a man. No worries. We’ll get you straightened out. Here, have a cup of coffee. On the house.” She reached for a coffee pot and a to-go cup, then called out to a man seated at the end of the booth. “Hey, help this young woman figure out where she’s headed, will you?”
The man’s back was to Trudy, and all she could see was that he was wearing a law enforcement uniform of some kind. But when the officer turned around, heat suddenly crawled up Trudy’s neck. Oh, god, she’d met him before. The night she’d hooked up with Mac. Her mind went blank and she stared, open-mouthed, until she realized she looked like a brainless twit.
“I’m so sorry,” she finally managed to get out. “I didn’t mean to barge in and interrupt your breakfast.”
The sheriff (um…Remy, right?) stood and came over to her, a relaxed smile on his face. Please, please, please don’t bring up Mac, she mentally whispered. She was nervous enough to start her new job with Gregor Johansson—she didn’t need additional nerves brought about by memories of her sucky time with Mac.
“We met the other night, right?” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Remy.”
“Uh, yeah,” she mumbled, then mentally cringed. Foster Mom Number Five had taught her and Milla better than that. She cleared her throat and took his hand in hers, forcing herself to grip tight and give him a solid handshake. She added, “I mean, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I’m Trudy. Gertrude T. Prendergast, actually. But I go by Trudy.” Better, right?
His smile widened. Cute, she thought. The man was definitely attractive, although he didn’t inspire her stomach to do the butterfly thing. He reminded her of her brother-in-law, Jarrod. More Milla’s type than hers.
“Where are you headed, Trudy?” Remy asked, sincerity in his tone.
“Gregor Johansson’s place.” She held the map and instructions she’d been given out to the sheriff. “Supposedly it’s located past a business called Jenny’s Barn, but I couldn’t see a store with that name.”
The woman behind the counter laughed, the sound warm and throaty, but still. Trudy stiffened. God, she hated being laughed at. “Did I misunderstand the directions somehow?” she asked, a little too abruptly. “It says very clearly here”—she pointed to the paper with scribbled instructions—“that I’m to turn right past Jenny’s Barn, off Main Street. Maybe there’s a mistake with how the instructions are written.”
“No mistake,” Remy said gently, giving the dreadlocked woman a quick glance, which sobered her up. “It’s just that you were looking for the wrong thing. You needed to keep going on Main Street for about two miles out of town, then turn right past Jenny Quigley’s big red barn.”
Oh for god’s sake. “An actual barn,” she stated baldly.
“Yup,” Remy said.
Where the heck was she? This was rather rural, even for northern California.
“You planning to introduce us, Remy?” the dreadlocked woman asked as she pulled a tray of muffins out of a nearby oven.
A warm, luscious scent filled the air, and Trudy’s mouth watered. Oh, god, the scent alone had to be at least five hundred calories. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d avoided breakfast yet again. Sure, she’d told Milla she didn’t restrict what she ate, but that was more to make Milla feel better about the baby weight she’d gained.
“Trudy, I’d like you to meet Delilah, owner of this diner and queen of anything to do with bacon,” Remy said warmly.
The woman—Delilah—set the tray of muffins aside and called out over her shoulder, “Remy Toussaint, you know what I mean. Introduce the girl properly.”
Puzzled, Trudy hugged her arms in tight to her side. Wasn’t that what the sheriff had just done? Introduced her properly? Was this woman his mom or something? No, she figured, that wasn’t it—the woman was too young to be the sheriff’s mother.
Remy cleared his throat, then held out his arm and gestured to the rest of the patrons in the diner, pointing first to the woman in tie-dye. “In addition, we have Chessie Gibson, owner of Sierra Meadow Scents, and her fiancé Theo Courant, CEO of the Courant Foundation and richest dude in town.”
Trudy felt a blush creep up her neck.
Oh, god, he wasn’t going to introduce her to everyone in the diner, was he? And add context to all the people?
He next pointed to the redheaded woman and her companion, who gave Trudy a knowing smile. “Liz and Hunter Thorne. High school sweethearts, then enemies, now sweethearts once again, and as it should be.”
Yep, apparently he was sticking with the context thing. Did she really need to know this much detail about a roomful of strangers? This could not be normal, right?
One by one he introduced each person in the diner—including the busboy who was apparently the sheriff’s third cousin once removed—and gave her a brief summary of their history, job, and sometimes even political affiliation. Ned and Jim in the corner belonged to the Elks Club. Miss Clara and Miss Ethel at the table near the window led a synchronized swimming class at the local pool. The little girl in the lumberjack plaid dress was Fifi, but as the girl emphatically stated, she was not named after a poodle.
Each person greeted her with a smile and a warm welcome. Trudy’s throat went bone-dry. All she’d wanted were directions.
The redheaded woman, Liz, stared intently at Trudy, scanning her up and down. “Now why do you seem so familiar? Have we met before?”
A
surge of tension twisted Trudy’s spine. If the woman recognized her, it was probably from the Tubster Trudy internet meme. Even in her high fashion modeling days she’d rarely been in catalogues and had stuck mainly to the catwalks. She hoped to high heaven Liz didn’t make the connection.
“No, I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, working to keep her tone calm. And to keep Foster Mom Number Five’s etiquette lessons front and center. “This is my first time in Meadowview.”
“And you’re looking for Gregor Johansson’s place?” Delilah asked.
Thank god, Trudy thought, relieved the attention was off her name and onto her destination. She swiveled and focused on the diner owner. “I have a meeting with him this morning, and I’m a bit lost. Now that I know to turn past an actual barn, I’ll be on my way—”
“You’re meeting with Gregor? Are you sure?” Delilah’s brow had furrowed as she frowned at Trudy.
What did she mean? The instructions had clearly stated Trudy was to be at his estate this morning to start the modeling job. But she didn’t share that—since the redheaded woman seemed to recognize her, the less information she gave, the better. No need to remind anyone of the Tubster Trudy event. Ever.
Delilah and Remy exchanged an odd look—one Trudy couldn’t quite figure out—as if they shared a secret. What was it with this small town?
“Isn’t Gregor in Europe?” Delilah asked Remy, who shrugged.
“That doesn’t seem possible,” Trudy said, “because I’m due to meet him in about ten minutes. I hope I’m not being rude, but I really do need to get going.” She smiled, showing she didn’t mean to be rude. Foster Mom Number Two used to tell her and Milla that a smile—fake or real—could fix any problem.
“No worries, hon,” Delilah said. “But don’t forget your coffee and muffin. It’s bacon and maple.” She picked up the muffin, and before Trudy could protest, had slid it into a small paper bag and placed it on the countertop next to the to-go cup.
“I’m afraid I’m not carrying any cash,” Trudy said, staring at the bag containing the source of deliciousness, then mentally counted calories. The muffin had looked like it contained enough fat grams to add an additional inch to her tushie. But god, it smelled soooo good.
Delilah laughed. “This is Meadowview, sweetheart. If you’re working for one of the Johanssons, you’re a guest in this town. It’s on the house.”
Trudy frowned, but Remy stepped closer and whispered in her ear, “You should take it—Delilah will be offended if you don’t. Besides, it’s the best damned muffin you’ll ever eat.”
The heck with it. Muffins like this didn’t come along every day. Plus, she might need fortification if she was to trek about the wilderness, looking for some big red barn in order to locate her new boss.
She mentally berated herself for being a little bit pissy. She should get to know the locals—after all, she had a three-year job waiting for her.
And apparently all the muffins she could eat. How nice.
Nice, that is, until as she exited the building and the entirety of Delilah’s Diner waved goodbye and wished her well. Loudly. So loudly that she could hear a little kid (was that Fifi?) call out, “Bye-bye, Miss Trudy!” as she stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk. She’d heard small towns were friendly, but this one had to be taking it to a new level. So overwhelming.
Starting the car (and hoping no one was back in Delilah’s Diner with their smartphone out, Googling her), she checked the rear view mirror for traffic (absolutely none, unless one counted the golden retriever trotting down the street, happily headed who knew where), and wondered what Delilah had meant when she said “one of the Johanssons.” There were obviously more than just the artist. Did that mean Gregor was married? Would she meet his wife today? That would be nice, although she was a bit on social overload, having met what she figured had to be half of Meadowview—and all before eight in the morning.
Ten minutes later, muffin completely gone (except for where it would become a permanent part of her hips), she parked her car on the circular driveway of Gregor’s estate, already entranced with the beautiful setting. Perched on the top of a round hill, surrounded by a wide field and dotted oak trees, the Victorian home exuded warmth and comfort. A long covered porch ran the length of the house, and lavender and petunias lined the garden walkway.
She downed the rest of her coffee, then opened the car door and stepped out onto the graveled drive. Nerves fluttered in her stomach. Not an unusual occurrence the first time she met with an artist, but today her nerves were heightened because this contract meant so much for her future. Artists could be a temperamental bunch, even more so than the photographers, directors, and stylists she’d worked with when she was in high fashion. But what she’d seen of Gregor the other night when he gave his speech, he seemed nice. Surely he’d like her work and would grant her the full three-year extension to the contract.
A white picket fence surrounded the house, covered in parts by what appeared to be grape vines. Trudy located the front gate and swung it open.
And then immediately stopped and gaped.
A goat stood on the pathway, chewing God knows what and looking at her with a baleful eye. What the heck? When it wouldn’t budge from its spot, Trudy faced a more pressing question: how on earth was she supposed to get around the hairy thing?
The goat bleated and stepped forward.
Trudy stepped back.
The goat lowered its head, horns at the ready. Not quite the greeting Trudy had anticipated. Her nerves revved up, clashing about in her stomach. Butterflies on crack.
The creak of the front door had Trudy sighing in relief. Her exhale of relief turned quickly into an inhale of tension as a figure wearing tight black jeans, a ripped Ramones T-shirt, knee-high black Doc Martens, and a broad grin came tripping out.
Doe, Gregor’s assistant—and Mac’s sister.
Trudy crossed her fingers that Doe wouldn’t bring up her brother.
“Oh good, the nudist.” Doe grabbed the goat’s leather collar with one hand and gripped a notebook and white waffle-weave robe with the other.
Trudy’s jaw clenched, sending a sharp shooting pain up along her hairline. Posing nude was part of her job—and part of the contract—but she hated it when the issue was made front and center. “Doe. I didn’t realize I’d be working directly with you.”
“Yeah, I’m the one who’ll show you around, get you into position. You know, nudie modeling stuff.”
The headache, which had been fading, flared back like a sunspot. Gregor’s assistant should learn more professional language. At least the girl hadn’t mentioned Mac.
“You have fun with my brother the other night?” Doe asked.
Aaaaaaand there it was. The very topic she’d hoped to avoid. “Where’s your baby?” she asked, purposefully deflecting Doe’s question.
“Aaron’s taking a nap. Be down for about an hour. Gives me a chance to do the dishes, put the laundry out on the line, and get on my hands and knees and scrub the floor. After that I’ll find some birds and a couple of rats to help me sew a dress for the ball.”
Trudy frowned. “Mice. Cinderella’s helpers were mice, not rats.”
Doe rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Rats, mice—they’re all vermin. Here, follow me. He’s got you posing on some Greek pedestal-thingy in the weeds out back.”
“Will he meet us out there? Will he talk to me before I pose?”
“Dunno… I need to read his instructions. I do know you’ll be changing in the former servant’s quarters out back. We have to slog through the grass—just don’t step on any nanny berries.”
“What are ‘nanny’ berries?”
“Nanny leaves little presents about.”
The goat bleated.
Trudy groaned. “That’s Nanny?”
“Yup.”
She’d been envisioning a professional art studio. She certainly hadn’t anticipated posing naked in a barnyard. Or tromping through rain-soaked, goat-berry-drop
ping-filled grass in high heels.
In her Louboutins, she hobbled to keep up with fast-paced Doe as the girl trotted down what had transitioned into a bucolic pathway. At the sight, Trudy caught her breath. Low-growing trees lined the pathway, light green leaves and tight buds on every branch, a promise of spring blossoms. She recognized lavender and sage intermingled with batches of low-growing vicuna and moss. Beautiful. Not what she’d call weeds, either.
Around a corner, positioned under a wide oak tree, sat a single-story house: the servant’s quarters, she assumed. Pretty. Inviting. Welcoming.
Doe handed Trudy the robe and motioned in the direction of the doorway. “That’s where you’ll get naked. I’ll get you settled, then I gotta check on Aaron. I’ll meet you back here in five minutes and figure out if I’m supposed to help get you in your first nudie position. Kinky stuff, that.”
It took everything Trudy had not to roll her eyes and respond Doe-style by saying, “Whatever.”
Outside Mac’s office, robins twittered as loudly as his client, who wouldn’t stop talking on the other end of the line. Mac figured if Bob Keenley of Keenley’s Automotive & Bicycle Repair didn’t stop yammering on and on about his pampered poodle—aka: Mac’s new client—he’d strangle himself with the telephone cord. This conversation had to end, and now: He’d heard a car come up the drive and park so Trudy must have arrived. Couldn’t be anyone else since not many people came out to the house—at seven miles outside Meadowview, the place was considered rather rustic.
He needed to get off the phone and meet with her before the photography session—make sure she really was okay with the contract. Not that he’d let his warrior woman go if she wanted to, but maybe he’d need to sweeten the pot.
Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) Page 7