by Mae Nunn
Buoyed by that thought, she kept her smile firmly in place as she turned. “Hi. Welcome to Mae B’s. Table for one?”
“I’m supposed to meet someone here, but it looks like I’m early.”
Oh, great. How could she pretend to be professional when his voice was the same as she remembered, deep and rich and unhurried, as if there was nothing he would rather be doing than talking to her. She kept her gaze on his chest, which was easy to do since the top of her head scarcely reached his shoulders. If she thought that would minimize his effect on her, she was wrong. His battered leather motorcycle jacket hung open over a white T-shirt that clung to every muscular contour. She caught a whiff of fresh air, sunshine and designer cologne.
Designer cologne? On a trouble-making bad-boy like Jesse?
But people could change. Heaven knows she had. She lifted her gaze.
It should have been impossible for him to get better-looking, but he had. His jaw was squarer, his cheeks leaner. The dimples beside his mouth had elongated and deepened. His distinctive, ice-blue eyes were more enthralling than ever. And his hair, oh, that lovely, fine blond hair that he used to keep tied back in a dashingly romantic ponytail a decade ago was cut short, the perfect length to run her fingers through. Her hands tingled with the urge....
“Okay if I sit at the booth in the back?”
She caught herself before she could dry her palms again. “Sure. Go ahead and sit anywhere. Would you like something cool to drink while you’re waiting?”
“Thanks. Iced tea would be great.”
Iced tea? Jesse? “Uh, coming right up.”
Rather than moving away, he tilted his head to study her. “Don’t I know you?”
Chapter Three
DON'T I KNOW YOU ?
At least a dozen responses sprang to Brittany’s mind. No, Jesse had never really known her. To him she would have been the chubby kid next door, his quiet and clumsy friend. At least, she hoped it was friendship he felt, though it could have been pity. He wouldn’t have a clue how fervently she had adored him, or how many lovesick glances she’d hidden behind the curtain of her hair.
She remembered well the day she’d cut her hair short. She’d been sixteen, and it had hung almost to her waist. She dared to think it was pretty, until one of the kids on the school bus called her Cousin Itt, the short, hairy creature from The Addams Family. The other names they called her, like stumpy or porko, didn’t hurt as much as being ridiculed for her beautiful hair. She’d lopped it off with her sewing shears that night.
Jesse had already disappeared by then. She hadn’t realized it would be for good. She assumed he would come back once the publicity stirred up by the trial ran its course, and the sightseers and treasure hunters stopped traipsing around the Koostra place. Jesse wasn’t shy or ugly or awkward like her. He was strong and fearless. He wouldn’t care what people said or thought. Besides, it was his father who had been convicted, not him.
But the family never returned. Sometimes at night, Brittany glimpsed a light at the house or moving around the yard or flickering through the trees, and her pulse would do the little dance it always did at the thought of seeing Jesse. Yet the property remained vacant, even during the years she’d been on the road herself.
Then how could he recognize her now? Her hair was short and streaked with purple. It couldn’t hide anything, including the metal studs on the rims of her ears. And her waist was so small, she had to make a double bow with the strings from Aunt Mae’s frilly apron so the ends wouldn’t hang past her knees. On the outside, she wasn’t the same person. She believed she’d changed on the inside, too.
Jesse smiled. “You’re Brittany Barton, aren’t you?”
Oh, great. Whatever progress she might have made just evaporated. His smile had the same effect it always did. It made her feel special, warm, cherished....
And idiotic. She dipped her chin once in what she hoped was a casual nod. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Jesse.” He thrust out his right hand. “Jesse Koostra. My family used to live down the road from yours. Don’t you remember me?”
The question was so absurd, it brought out an answering smile. She took his hand without thinking.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE HAND THAT enclosed Brittany’s was warm and gentle. She thrilled at the contact. For an instant, the restaurant smells and sounds disappeared and she was once more an eight-year-old girl with skinned elbows and knees, sitting on the side of the road, staring through her tears at the mangled bicycle in the ditch.
Her parents had repeatedly cautioned her not to ride her bike on the hill to the north of the farm, because the road curved sharply, the gravel was loose and they worried she might fall. But they cautioned her about everything, so she did it anyway. With the sun warm on her face and the breeze ripe with the smell of freshly cut hay, she pedaled faster and faster, leaning low over the handlebars as the world blurred around her. The sensation of speed was intoxicating, her recklessness empowering.
Naturally, she crashed. The new bicycle she’d begged her parents to buy her was ruined. Her sweater was torn. Her scrapes stung like crazy. She had never felt more miserable, because she knew she would get in trouble, and that simply wasn’t like her. When she heard the rumble in the distance, she thought it was thunder, but it turned out to be Jesse’s Harley.
That was how they met. He was only fourteen, far too young to have a driver’s license, yet he was big for his age and capable of handling the large machine. It was an old, rebuilt bike of questionable ownership that he cruised around the back roads where the cops seldom patrolled.
Brittany didn’t care how many laws he was breaking. In her mind, he was the proverbial knight in shining armor, arriving on his flashy steed to rescue her.
His touch was gentle then, too. He didn’t make fun of her for falling off her bicycle or for crying like a baby. He didn’t comment on how she was too fat to ride it in the first place. Instead, he helped her onto the seat behind him and took her home on his Harley.
How could she help falling in love with him? He was the epitome of cool. Gorgeous, too. The six-year gap in their ages only made him more fascinating. Each time she saw him, she found more to love about him. He was kind. Funny. Smart. Sensitive. He wasn’t bad, like everyone in town said.
Or so she’d fantasized.
She’d been a fool. Her naive longing for an imaginary love was the reason she’d nearly ruined her life.
Cutlery clinked against a stoneware plate, snapping Brittany out of her trance. She dropped her hand to her side, finally breaking the contact with Jesse. “Yes, of course I remember you,” she said. “What brings you back to Port Hope?”
His smile faded. His features firmed into an expression every bit as tough as his reputation. “I’m looking for something.”
CHAPTER FIVE
BEFORE BRITTANY COULD ask Jesse to explain what he was seeking, the bell over the restaurant door signalled the arrival of another customer. It was Ian Taylor, a local real estate agent, who turned out to be the man Jesse was waiting for. She ushered them to the booth against the back wall next to a plastic philodendron. By the time she returned with their glasses of iced tea, they were deep in discussion. It wasn’t hard to deduce the topic. One not-very-subtle glance at the documents that were spread on the table between them confirmed her guess.
Jesse was selling his family home.
Well, it was bound to happen. She was surprised he had hung on to the property as long as he had. The land was poor, and the house had been badly neglected even before the family had abandoned it. This was no concern of hers, anyway. Her relationship with Jesse had been mostly in her mind. She should be pleased th
at she and her parents would be getting some new neighbors. She had absolutely no reason to feel sad. Maybe now she could close that disastrous chapter of her life for good.
Yet her crush on Jesse hadn’t been all bad. Sure, it had led her into making some serious mistakes, but she’d learned from them, hadn’t she? She wasn’t waiting for anyone to rescue her. She began taking control of her life the day she forced herself to stop hiding behind her hair. She had changed.
Apparently, so had Jesse. The distinctive Harley and the leather jacket had thrown her at first. Now that she could observe him more thoroughly, she saw other differences in addition to the ones she’d noticed earlier. He used to work at a garage in town, and he regularly tinkered with his father’s cars, but there was no trace of grease or motor oil on his hands now, not even along the cuticles. The expensive-looking gold watch that circled his wrist was at odds with the plain white T-shirt he wore. His demeanor as he spoke to Ian was businesslike, as if he was no stranger to dealing with legal contracts. The tough-guy image was further eroded when he put on a pair of reading glasses to scrutinize the fine print.
Whatever he’d been doing in the years since he left town, he hadn’t followed the same criminal career path as his father.
Or else he was much better at it.
No, she still couldn’t believe Jesse was guilty. The police had arrested him primarily because of his reputation, which was totally unfair. He had a solid alibi. The garage records proved he had been fixing the brakes on the mayor’s Monte Carlo during the time his father had been hijacking an armored car in Toronto. There was no evidence to connect Jesse with the crime.
But that didn’t stop the whispers. The loot from the robbery was never found. Rumor had it, there was more than three million in cash hidden somewhere on the Koostra property.
I’m looking for something....
No. That couldn’t be what he’d meant.
Or could it?
CHAPTER SIX
JESSE SHUT OFF the engine at the top of the driveway and let the bike coast the rest of the distance into the Bartons’ yard. A few of the chickens that had been wandering around the grass flapped toward the lilac hedge in a panic. He remained motionless until they calmed, then set the kickstand. The day promised to be another hot one, yet the air was still cool in the shadow of the house. Pale curtains fluttered at windows that were wide open to catch the morning breeze. The lilting song of a robin drifted from the big maple at the edge of the lawn. Dew glistened on the flowers beside the steps. Soft tinkling came from the wind chimes that dangled beneath the veranda roof.
This was how Jesse remembered it. Clean. Neat. Peaceful. This house was more than a house, it was a home.
He used to wish he lived here. Every winter the Bartons decorated the veranda eaves with strings of Christmas lights. He could see them from his bedroom. The colors twinkled across the snowy fields as invitingly as traces of distant laughter. In the summer, the family planted marigolds around their mailbox. The flowers were whimsical, an unexpected patch of blooms amid the roadside weeds, and they made him smile whenever he went past.
The first time he came as far as the house was the day Brittany fell off her bicycle. He was naive enough to think the Bartons would thank him for helping their kid and maybe even ask him inside. Yeah, right. Emma Barton took one look at him and his Harley and snatched her daughter away as if he had caused her tears and skinned knees. Then to make sure he got the message, John Barton drove to the Koostra farm that night and had a talk with Jesse’s father. Teenage boys had no business messing around with innocent, eight-year-old girls.
The old man went ballistic. Not because he cared whether or not Jesse might have done something wrong. No, Emile Koostra didn’t like the implication that the neighbor’s goody-two-shoes kid was too good for his son. He threw the man out, speeding him on his way by hurling a beer bottle after his car. Then he yelled at Jesse for getting involved in the first place. His exact words were, “I didn’t raise no bleeding-heart pansy!”
Jesse knew better than to tell his father that he went back and got Brittany’s bicycle out of the ditch, or that he repaired the frame, straightened the wheels and put on new tires. After he made sure it was safe to ride, he carried it to the Barton farm one night, when all the windows in the house were dark and the chickens were in their coop. He left it beside the veranda steps.
He wasn’t sure if she got the bike, because he never saw her ride it again. He suspected her parents spotted it first, guessed it was from him and threw it out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JESSE’S STOMACH CHURNED as he climbed the steps to the Bartons’ veranda. That bothered him. He shouldn’t need to remind himself he was no longer a kid. He was a thirty-year-old man who did business all over the world. The prejudices and petty gossip of his hometown could no longer hurt him. His childhood yearning for a home like this one shouldn’t sting anymore, either. He’d grown out of that years ago.
Brittany’s voice came through the screen door before he reached it. “Why would you want to come home, Mom? You and Dad haven’t taken a holiday in ages. I thought you were enjoying yourselves.”
Jesse raised his hand to knock.
“Yes, I know he’s back. I saw him at the restaurant yesterday. Why would you say that’s alarming?”
He hesitated. Was she talking about him?
“Mom, you’re being unfair. He came back because he’s selling the farm, that’s all. He’s a good person. He wouldn’t want anything to do with his father’s stolen money.”
Great. He should have known that Emma Barton’s attitude wouldn’t change, even after eight years. The story of the loot hadn’t died, either. At least Brittany sounded as if she still had faith in him.
“No, I’m not going to stay with Uncle Ronnie and Aunt Mae. Yes, I promise to call the police if I see anything suspicious, even though I think you’re being ridiculous.”
His lips twitched. It was good to hear Brittany stand up for herself. That was one thing that had changed. He rapped lightly on the door frame.
“I’ve got to go, Mom. Someone’s at the door. Yes, I love you, too. Enjoy the beach, and stop worrying!” Footsteps padded across hardwood. A second later, Brittany appeared on the other side of the screen. Her eyes widened when she saw him. “Uh, hi.”
He smiled as he returned her regard. The girl he remembered often avoided meeting his gaze. It was a shame, because her eyes were a striking shade of green. She’d been painfully shy, and probably self-conscious about her weight, but to him she’d seemed as adorable as a cherub. In spite of her parents’ concerns, his feelings for Brittany had been nothing but brotherly.
Man, he’d been pathetic. Not only had he wished he could live in a house like hers, he’d wished that she was his little sister. Someone to love without fear of being mocked and called soft would have made life with Emile more bearable. His own sister was two years older than him and as tough as their father. She left home at seventeen, shortly after their mother died, and she never came back. She lost herself so thoroughly that he’d had to hire a private detective to find her so she could sign off on the house sale.
But it was just as well that Jesse never got his wish, because the feelings the grown-up Brittany evoked were definitely not brotherly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“UM, THIS IS a surprise.”
Jesse smiled. Oh yeah, Brittany had grown up. Her once cherubic face now sported cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin, and the chestnut hair that used to flow way past her shoulders was cut short, yet her beautiful green eyes hadn’t changed. Neither had the way she looked at him as if she cared....
Get real. He held out a tractor company magazine. “I found this in my mailbox. It’s addressed to your father.”
“Thanks. I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” She pushed open the d
oor and took the magazine. “My parents are on vacation. So’s our regular mail lady. Someone else is doing her route and this is the second time something went astray. It was nice of you to bring it over.”
“No problem. I wanted to talk to you, anyway. We didn’t get a chance yesterday at the restaurant.”
“Uh...”
Easy there, he told himself. It had been eight years since they’d spoken. That was a long time for any friendship to endure. To her, he would be the guy who used to live in the junkyard next door. The jailbird’s son. She wouldn’t know how important she had been to him. “I sold the farm,” he said. “I thought you and your folks would want to know. Is this a bad time?”
“No, I’ve been up for hours. Come on in.”
He’d known she was up, because he had seen her bedroom light go on before dawn. She was an early riser when she was a kid, too. He used to imagine her mother calling her downstairs for breakfast. It wouldn’t consist of leftover pizza or a spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar. It would be something wholesome, maybe hot oatmeal or scrambled eggs.
The screen door squeaked behind him and sprang closed with a thunk. He followed Brittany the few steps into the kitchen. The room was large and homey, stretching from one side of the house to the other. The table in the center of the floor was big and wooden, but it didn’t hold any food. Instead it held a sewing machine and a pile of shiny, red fabric. Colorful drawings of dresses on stick figures were taped to the cupboards and a large sketchbook lay across the sink.
Brittany swept fabric scraps off one of the chairs and motioned for him to sit down. “Sorry about the mess. I work in here because this room has a good cross draft and stays cool the longest. Would you like some coffee? There’s another cup left in the pot. Or I could make up some iced tea.”
He shook his head as he moved closer to one of the drawings. “Did you do these?”