Take My Hand
Artist Clay Cahill retreats to her hometown of Pine Cone, Georgia, when she’s betrayed by a woman she thought cared and the pressure of the New York City art world becomes too much. Setting paints aside, she takes a job at her grandfather’s garage seeking the restorative comfort of small town life where women are sweet and life flows as slow as molasses.
Manhattan art gallery owner River Hemsworth is preparing for a show when she’s informed her aunt has bequeathed her a local gallery in Pine Cone, a place where the idea of fashion is anything with a Carhartt label. En route to review inventory and unload the property quickly, River wrecks her car and Clay comes to her rescue.
If River can convince Clay to start painting again, she may be able to pull off the show that will make her career and quench the desires she never expected to feel again.
What Reviewers Say About Missouri Vaun’s Work
Crossing the Wide Forever
“Crossing the Wide Forever is a near-heroic love story set in an epic time, told with almost lyrical prose. Words on the page will carry the reader, along with the main characters, back into history and into adventure. It’s a tale that’s easy to read, with enchanting main characters, despicable villains, and supportive friendships, producing a fascinating account of passion and adventure.”—Lambda Literary Review
The Time Before Now
“It is just so good. Vaun’s character work in this novel is flawless. She told a compelling story about a person so real you could just about reach out and touch her.”—The Lesbian Review
Birthright
“Birthright by Missouri Vaun is one of the smoothest reads I’ve had my hands on in a long time. It is a romance but its subgenre is action/adventure which is perfect for me since romance tends not to hold my interest. …This story was so pure.”—The Lesbian Review
Jane’s World: The Case of the Mail Order Bride
“This is such a quirky, sweet novel with a cast of memorable characters. It has laugh out loud moments and will leave you feeling charmed.”—The Lesbian Review
Take My Hand
Brought to you by
eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.
Take My Hand
© 2018 By Missourt Vaun. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13:978-1-63555-105-1
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: June 2018
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Paige Braddock
Cover Photo By Evelyn Braddock
By the Author
All Things Rise
The Time Before Now
The Ground Beneath
Whiskey Sunrise
Valley of Fire
Death By Cocktail Straw
One More Reason To Leave Orlando
Smothered and Covered
Privacy Glass
Birthright
Crossing The Wide Forever
Love At Cooper’s Creek
Take My Hand
Writing as Paige Braddock:
Jane’s World The Case of the Mail Order Bride
Acknowledgments
This is the first installment of a trilogy set in Pine Cone, Georgia. I want to say a special thank you to my comrades in this three-part effort, D. Jackson Leigh and VK Powell. It was so much fun to work on this series with Deb and VK. It all started with a weekend in California and a suggestion from Sandy Lowe, followed by lots of brainstorming and laughter. There’s heartfelt humor and genuine love in these stories, each of which focuses on one of three best friends and their search for love in a small town. Deb, VK, I loved this journey. Let’s do it again sometime.
It was important to us that all three covers have a theme. My wife, Evelyn, let us use some of her photographs for each cover. Thank you!
For anyone who’s curious, pineapple casserole is a real thing, and it’s delicious. My friend Vanessa from Alabama has the recipe. Oh, and that skunk story is true. My grandma used to trap rabbits to keep them out of her garden. One time she was unlucky enough to catch a skunk by mistake, but that didn’t stop her from insisting that my mom take her shopping.
Thanks to Susan for the assist on the segments about the motorcycle. Someday maybe I’ll have a Moto Guzzi of my own.
Every published novel is a team effort. I’d like to thank Rad, Cindy, Stacia, and Ruth for all the support throughout the process of getting this story from rough concept to finished novel.
Welcome to Pine Cone, Georgia.
Dedication
For Evelyn
Chapter One
The blacktop amplified the summer heat exponentially as River Hemsworth crossed the parking lot, close to the temperature of the surface of Venus she imagined. River had just left the attorney’s air-conditioned office a moment earlier, and already a light sheen of sweat glistened on her exposed arms. The humidity was probably great for her skin, but her hair was suffering.
As she headed to her car, River searched in her gigantic purse for a hair tie. Her long hair was blocking any possibility of airflow to her neck. Of course, she never had a hair tie when she needed one. She opened the car door and paused, allowing some of the heat to escape. She tossed her bag on the passenger seat, climbed in, slipped out of her heels, and plunked them on the passenger side floorboard. The blazing sunbaked leather seat plastered her dress to her back. God, it’s hot. A solar flare was probably cooler than the interior of her aunt’s 1980s era Mercedes.
Her bag had fallen open and the keys to the property, along with an unopened letter, were visible in the cave-like opening of her dark oversized purse. The key chain looked like some brass holdover from a vintage roadside motel, something from a Hitchcock movie perhaps.
River’s plan was to drive over, take a quick walk-through of the gallery and the house, then meet with the Realtor. She didn’t want to spend one more day in this humid, oven-baked small town than she had to. How did people live in a place like this? What had her aunt seen in Pine Cone? What had drawn her aunt to settle in here? River didn’t have a clue since she didn’t really know her aunt, except distantly from rare encounters at family gatherings when she was very young. There’d been some conflict between her father and her aunt that she’d never fully understood. And as a teen she’d been too self-involved to care. River had been shocked when she’d gotten the call from the attorney informing her that her aunt had left her not only her classic Mercedes sedan, but also a house with an adjoining art gallery.
The AC thankfully worked well, despite the car’s age. She switched the fan to high and reached for her phone. River began to scroll through messages as she tried to heed the twenty-five-mile an hour speed limit through town. She glanced around scoping out the quaint main street, lined on both sides by brick buildings from a bygone era.
She had to admit Pine Cone, Georgia, was not without charms. Granted, Main Street was only a few blocks long, but seemed to have a thriving retail environment. She spotted a cute café and bakery on the right and made
a mental note to try it for breakfast. She slowed to weave around a tow truck double-parked in front. Just past the bakery was an antique store. River would definitely take a stroll through there. She had a serious soft spot for depression era dishware. She also noted a dress shop, a toy store, a diner, and at the end of Main, a classic hardware store.
No more than a block past the hardware store, the street transitioned to residential, stately Southern homes with ancient oaks and wide porches set back off the roadway. River leaned over for a better view when a plump squirrel darted into her path. She slammed on the breaks, dropping her phone. She waited for the animal to reach the curb, then accelerated as the squirrel scampered off. She reached down and felt around on the floorboard for her phone. She teased the phone closer with her fingertips so she could pick it up. But her line of sight dropped below the dash for an instant, and her foot pushed against the gas pedal as she stretched for it. When she righted herself, the back of a horse trailer and two sleek rumps filled her vision.
Adrenaline surged through her system, her heart pounded in her ears, her chest tightened. River white-knuckled the steering wheel and yanked a hard right at the last possible second to miss the trailer. The car lurched over the curb, jarring her insides. She managed to dodge a huge pine but took out several blooming azalea bushes as the car zoomed across the lush lawn of the small white-framed structure.
River’s brain processed the hand-painted sign identifying the little house as Connie’s Clip ’n Curl at the same moment a darling family of sun-faded fake plastic deer bounced across the hood. The antler of the papa deer was captured by the windshield wiper and temporarily blocked her vision. Momentum and the bouncy rough ride snapped the trapped antler and the deer slid away to reveal a second obstacle—the Clip ’n Curl itself—too close to swerve and miss.
The old Mercedes must have predated air bags because the only thing that deployed upon impact was River’s head against the steering wheel. The seat belt caught midway through her body’s forward motion so her forehead barely made contact with the steering wheel before the force of restraint from the belt caused her body to flail back against the seat. Her hair swirled about her face like a feathery wave, mimicking the recoil motion of her upper body.
“Fuck!” She held her palm against her throbbing forehead. She could feel a lump almost immediately along her right brow.
Excited female voices cut through the pain in River’s head. Women in various stages of beautification spilled out of the Clip ’n Curl. One woman was wearing something that looked like a shower cap, attached to a dangling hose. Another had some brilliant green paste smeared across her face, and two more had their hair up in giant curlers.
“Good Lord Almighty! I thought we was havin’ an earthquake!” A plump full-figured woman trotted down the front steps past a sisterhood of Clip ’n Curl clients beginning to gather on the porch and rushed to the car.
Chapter Two
River shoved the door open but didn’t get out. “I’m so sorry, I…I couldn’t stop in time.” River kept one hand over her aching eyebrow and pointed a shaky finger in the direction of the truck and trailer.
“Connie, is she hurt?” The driver of the truck strode toward them.
River squinted up at the tall, handsome woman. “I just hit my head on the steering wheel. No airbags.” River fumbled with the seat belt and twisted to get out of the car.
“Here, easy there. Are you all right?” The woman knelt next to the open door, blocking her exit from the vehicle.
River accepted the assistance in extricating herself, then leaned against the side of the car. “I dropped my phone and looked down for just a second to get it. When I looked up, all I saw were horses’…um…butts.”
“Well, there are a few of those around here.” She extended her hand again, this time as introduction. “I’m Dr. Trip Beaumont, owner of those particular horse butts. Let’s get you out of the sun.” Trip led River under a nearby leafy maple tree. “Connie, did you call Grace?”
The woman who’d been the first to approach the car was obviously the Connie portion of Connie’s Clip ’n Curl. She was a beautiful, full-figured woman, with cascading waves of blond hair and perfect makeup.
“No, Lord no, I just ran out here without thinkin’.” Connie turned to go make the call.
“Cops are on the way!” a woman wearing oversized purple curlers called out to them from the top step of the beauty salon before Connie even got to the door.
“Thank you, Lula May.” Connie turned back to River. “What’s your name, honey? Can I get you anything? Maybe some sweet tea?”
“I’m River…River Hemsworth, and I’m so sorry about crashing into your cute salon.”
“Now don’t you worry about that, sweetie, as long as no one got hurt, that’s all that matters.” Connie took River’s hand between hers and patted it.
A woman wearing a smock covered with dancing pink piglets descended the porch steps and ran her manicured lavender nails down Trip’s arm and then touched her face. “Trip, sugah, are you hurt?” River was a bit surprised by the woman’s openly flirtatious physical display.
“No, Shayla, I’m fine. My horse trailer didn’t actually get hit.”
River’s head was beginning to pound, and the blast of a siren seemed to pierce right into her brain as a black and white squad car barreled down the street and pulled into the driveway. A female officer climbed out, adjusting her utility belt and holster. She had a large clipboard under one arm. The officer was closer to River’s height, maybe five foot five or six. She was shapely, not slender, with shoulder-length, wavy auburn hair. River’s first thought was that she didn’t look like a cop. At least not the sort of beat cop she frequently saw in her New York City neighborhood.
“Is anyone hurt?” The officer looked around the crowd and then introduced herself to River. “I’m Sergeant Grace Booker. You okay, ma’am?”
River nodded.
“Had a bit of an accident I see.”
That was stating the obvious. “Yes, I’m afraid it was my fault.”
“Well, I assumed the salon didn’t pull out in front of you.” The corner of Grace’s mouth hinted at a smile.
Before River could think of a sarcastic retort, Connie jumped in. It was just as well. She probably shouldn’t make sarcastic comments to cops, even one as seemingly playful as Grace.
“Shayla, run fetch Miss River a glass of something cold to drink. There’s a pitcher of sweet tea in the icebox.” Connie shooed Shayla in the direction of the front door of her shop.
The shock of the crash was wearing off, and River felt a little sick. She propped against the sturdy maple. The temperature in the shade was only imperceptivity cooler than it had been in the sun, so maybe a cool drink would help.
“I’ll call one of my officers over to fill out an accident report while we wait for Clay.” Grace stepped away from the crowd and spoke into her walkie-talkie.
“Who’s Clay?” asked River.
There were already enough random concerned citizens on the scene, not including the slow-moving traffic along the road as locals rubbernecked to see what had happened. River felt on utter display, and not at her best.
“Clay Cahill drives the tow truck.” Trip regarded her with an expression that either said I’d like to take you to dinner or have you for dinner. River wasn’t completely sure which. She also made a mental note that Dr. Trip Beaumont had used the word the, as in singular. A one-tow-truck town. Great.
“Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance, Ms. Hemsworth? That goose egg on your forehead could lead to complications.” Trip regarded her with an expression of concern.
“I’m fine. Really.”
Grace asked River general questions, probably to distract her from the incident, as they waited. She seemed more attentive and concerned than any police officer River had ever encountered. River tried to remain focused and answer in a neutral tone, but became utterly distracted when a large truck eased onto the grass,
pulled up behind her car, and the person she assumed was Clay stepped out. As Clay approached, River realized the androgynously attractive driver was a woman. She wasn’t sure who she’d expected to be behind the wheel of Pine Cone’s solitary tow truck, but it certainly wasn’t someone who looked like this.
Clay Cahill was tall, probably close to six feet. She was wearing faded classic Levi’s that hung low on her hips, with scuffed work boots and a white T-shirt that fit snug across her broad shoulders and leanly muscled well-tanned arms, but draped more loosely over her torso. Clay had short, unkempt dark hair, and when she stood next to River, she added dreamy brown eyes to Clay’s list of visual charms.
River was beginning to believe the bump to her head might have transported her to some twilight zone lesbian version of Steel Magnolias. Dr. Beaumont definitely gave off a gay vibe, and so did Grace, although that could just be the utility belt and sidearm tipping the scale. And now this incredibly hot tow truck driver with a brooding James Dean vibe was giving River a smoldering gaze.
Shayla returned with the tea, breaking the spell for a moment. River took a swig from the glass, wet from condensation as the cool beverage met the roasted summer air. As soon as she swallowed the sugary liquid, her throat began to close. She coughed.
There was the sort of sweet tea she’d had at the trendy southern cuisine café in Chelsea called the Whistle Stop. And then there was eating a bowl of refined white sugar with a spoon. This glass of tea was somewhere in the middle. It was so sweet she expected to pass out at any moment from diabetic shock.
Take My Hand Page 1