Harlequin Superromance August 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: What Happens Between FriendsStaying at Joe'sHer Road Home

by Beth Andrews

  She opened the gate of the thigh-high white picket fence and stepped into a riot of color. Small delicate blooms hid under splashy, flower-covered bushes, in stark contrast to the golden desert outside the fence. That this much fragile beauty could exist in such a harsh landscape was a testament to hard work and a huge water bill.

  Sam walked up the steps and across the porch to knock on the wooden screen door. The sound echoed from the shadowy interior. After a moment, she retraced her steps, following a terra-cotta stepping-stone path at the side of the house. An old woman knelt, using a trowel to loosen the dirt around a plant. She wore a flowered housedress that must be an old favorite; the flowers on it were blurred, the cotton worn to soft shapelessness. Green gardening gloves covered her hands and a broad-brimmed floppy straw hat obscured her face.

  “Excuse me,” Sam said.

  The woman started, clutching her chest. Steel-gray laced through the black hair peeking from under the hat. Her wrinkled cheeks flushed pink.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Before Sam could reach to help, the woman scrambled to her feet.

  “What do you want?” She glared, gripping the trowel as a weapon.

  “I’m Samantha Crozier. Your new neighbor?” She pointed up the hill to her house. “I thought I’d stop to introduce myself.”

  The woman stood mute, staring.

  Sam inspected her faded denim overalls, a T-shirt that ended at her midriff, and her scarred tennis shoes. Nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m sorry to have frightened you. I thought you heard me walk up. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence.

  This is going well. “And your name is...?”

  “I am Anajuschka Strauss,” the woman said in a slight Germanic accent.

  “My friends call me Sam.” Flashing a peace-offering smile, she reached out a hand. The woman recoiled as if it were a snake. She reminded Sam of an animal in a trap, baring its teeth at someone trying to help. “I’d love to learn more about your beautiful flowers. I could use some advice.”

  “I am busy.” She barely moved the grim line of her lips.

  The woman appeared angry, but the naked fear that Sam glimpsed underneath felt familiar. It felt like her own. Sam spoke in a calming voice. “Some other time, then. I’ll stop by and we can get to know each other a bit.”

  “There is no need. There is nothing for you here.” She turned back to her plants.

  “Okay, but if you ever need anything please let me know. We’re two women, all alone out here.” Sam let herself out of the gate and turned toward home. Cresting the hill, her heart stuttered at the sight of a sleek new BMW sedan parked in the drive.

  Brad. Her stomach did a loop, then plunged, like an amusement park ride. Not the Mercedes. She forced her feet to keep moving. No law against owning two cars. Without taking her eyes off the car, she slapped her pockets for her screwdriver. They were empty. Well, she’d have to improvise. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the house.

  She walked to the backyard, only to see Bugs, drooling in the lap of a teenager. When he looked up, Sam recognized the woodcarver from the high school.

  “Cool dog. What’s his name?”

  “His name is Bugs. What’s yours?” The fear made the words come out hard.

  The kid must have realized he was being rude, because he pushed to his feet, tucked in his shirt, brushed off his drool-damp black jeans. “I’m Beau. I met you at school. Mr. Porter’s shop class? He told us you might have a job....” He trailed off, seeming to have expended his meager supply of words.

  This was a really bad idea. I can get by without help. She rolled her shoulders. Her collarbone disagreed.

  She sighed. “Mr. Porter said he’d talk to his class. He didn’t say when. Have a seat.” She walked to the tree and sat with her back against the trunk, out of Bugs’s drooling range. “So, why do you want to work for me?”

  The boy gave her a flat stare, as if this were the last question he expected.

  She glanced at the expensive car, then back at him. “Look, this isn’t the local grocery store, or an office environment. This job is dirty and physical. It can be dangerous. I need to know your attitude and motivation. I’ll probably ask some questions that may seem weird to you, even personal.”

  She took his silence as assent. I sure hope this kid isn’t the cream of the applicant pool. “Why do you want a job?”

  His shoulders slumped. Strands of hair fell in his eyes when he looked down. “My parents are pushing me to get a job.” He pulled at the grass with nervous fingers.

  “Why?”

  “They think if I stay busy, I’ll stay out of trouble.” He blew out a breath. “I wouldn’t make it two days working in a grocery store or an office, so when Mr. Porter told us about this job, I thought...”

  This was going nowhere. “How about looking at me?”

  His head whipped up, eyes narrowed.

  “I am trying to help you. Your James Dean attitude won’t get you a job.”

  “Who’s James Dean?” The anger in his voice shifted to confusion.

  “Don’t you ever watch classic movies? He was Hollywood’s original bad boy.”

  Why am I wasting my time? “Look, I’m willing to talk to you without judging. Think you can do the same?”

  He brushed the hair back, and his eyes met hers. “I guess that’s fair.”

  She relaxed against the tree. “Okay, let’s start over. Tell me about yourself.”

  “I’m not sure what you want to know. I live in Widow’s Grove, and you know I go to the high school.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “School?” He snorted. “Hate it. Not shop class, but every other subject is a waste of time. I can’t see how math and history are going to help me once I get out of school.”

  She remembered feeling exactly that, in high school. “You might be surprised how much of that comes in handy. You can’t build anything without math—surely you know that by now. I’ve been traveling the past couple of years, and what I knew about the civil war helped me in the South. History isn’t so bad when you see where stuff happened, and how it shaped people. Anyway, if school isn’t it for you, what do you like to do?”

  He looked as if no one had ever asked him that question. He thought a moment. “I don’t know. Mess around with friends, play video games, watch TV—the usual stuff.”

  “What kind of trouble have you been in?”

  His hand jerked, pulling up a fistful of grass. His eyes cut away.

  “I need to know.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing bad. Mostly skipping school, or hanging out too late with friends.” Straightening his shoulders, he looked at her. This time, his eyes didn’t waver. “You wouldn’t be sorry, hiring me. When I like something, I’m dependable. Even my mother says that.”

  “Now that,” she said pointing at him, “is the kind of attitude an employer wants to see.” She pushed to her feet. “I’ll tell you about the job. By the time I get done you may not be interested.”

  Did she really want to take on a potential train wreck? Hell, no. She didn’t want any help. But she needed it. She looked him over, piercings, tattoos and all.

  If she’d had the normal life of a teenager, would she have ended up like this kid? Maybe. In a way, she’d been lucky to have her dad to care for. When you had to ride your bike to a bar at thirteen to drive your drunk dad home after dark, you grew up fast.

  He stood, watched her and waited.

  “Come with me.” She led him inside and upstairs. She opened the door to the ruined bedroom. “This would be way too expensive to repair. So I’m going to demolish the rooms on this side of the second story, shore up the remaining floor with posts below and create a loft that looks down into the great room I’m g
oing to create down there.”

  “Oh, wow.” The indifference was gone, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown of concentration, and a ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. “That would look awesome.”

  She led the way downstairs. “I’m leaving the parlor, but demolishing all the rooms down here, back to the kitchen.” She walked the few steps to the closet under the stairs and pulled the door open. “This will become a powder room. A true ‘water closet.’”

  The kid stood in the doorway, stroking the curved wood molding of the doorframe.

  She led the way to the kitchen.

  “Oh, man, this is fugly.”

  Sam smiled. “Won’t be when I’m done with it.”

  By the time they returned to the front yard, his stoic facade had slipped, revealing the excited kid beneath.

  “I never thought much about houses.” He waved his hands to illustrate. “You know, how they’re put together. It can end up looking however you want, not just the way some architect thought it should.” He winced. “Our house is stupid looking. Like somebody took a Southern plantation house, slapped a bunch of wedding cake frosting on it and plopped it in Widow’s Grove.”

  She chuckled. “The creativity is one of the best things about this career. I’m given the basics, but I can create anything I want from there.” She couldn’t help but react to the look of wonder on the kid’s face. That, more than anything, sold her. “So are you interested?”

  “If you’ll hire me.” The wariness was back in his narrowed eyes and tight muscle of his jaw, as if he were waiting for rejection. Steeling himself for it.

  He may be petulant and immature, but she couldn’t resist anyone who got excited about building. “I need a copy of the waiver your parents signed for the school.” She tried to focus on the business instead of the kid’s big, goofy grin. “You’ll also need written proof from Mr. Porter that you’re covered by insurance. You bring these to me, and you can start.”

  “Wow.” He looked up at the house as if she had just given it to him as a gift.

  “I need you right after school until full dark. Since I’m kind of out in the boonies here, I’ll feed you dinner as a part of your wages. If you work out, when school’s out for the summer, we can renegotiate your work schedule.” She led him down the weed-encroached sidewalk to his daddy’s car, then turned.

  “One more thing.” She paused until sure she had his full attention. “If I ever see you screwing around, not following my instructions, being unsafe in any way, you’ll be fired. Immediately. Understood?”

  “Sure.” He smiled at her and tucked his hair behind his ear. “This working gig may not be so bad.”

  “Wait until you try to get out of bed after the first day to tell me that.”

  As she watched him drive away, it occurred to her that she was starting to collect people. And animals. She’d been carefully separate from the outside world since Dad died, preferring to remain an anonymous shadow in the towns she’d waylaid in. What had changed?

  Well, the dog was suffering. She hadn’t had much choice there. She glanced down the hill to the cottage. So was that old woman. And Tim Raven had no one in the world. Stopping and talking to him, being sure he was okay was no big deal. There was Jesse, but she was different—you couldn’t very well chase off a force of nature.

  But that’s it. No more strays for me. She didn’t need strings that would break when she roared out of town on the Vulcan. Strings could be painful, and she’d had enough of pain.

  * * *

  OVER THE NEXT few days, several students showed up looking for work, and she selected two from the group. Pete Carter, a bulky starting lineman on the JV football team, wanted a physical job to help him stay in shape over the summer. She chose him for the heavy work. Her last hire was a lanky girl with an unlikely name, Sunny Skyes.

  “My parents are the last of the hippies,” the girl explained with a grimace.

  “I like strong names. They give you something to live up to.”

  Sunny rolled her eyes. “You can’t imagine the crap I get about it.”

  “See, it did give you something to live up to.” Sunny laughed. Sam liked her immediately, not able to escape the comparison to herself at that age.

  Definitely not boring.

  * * *

  NICK TURNED THE KEY in the door of the shop, then looked to where his younger employee stood outlined by the streetlight. “Good night, Tom. Happy hunting.”

  “You should come with me, boss. The beach has some great nightlife.”

  Yeah, been there, done that. Got the orange, county issued T-shirt. “I’ve got somewhere to be, Tom.”

  “Yeah, so you’ve said. But you should see some of those coeds from UCSB.”

  His low whistle made Nick smile. “All the more for you, buddy. See you in the morning.”

  He walked to the stairs at the side of the shop, a wave of loneliness scouring his chest hollow. His past relationships mostly revolved around a bottle. Turns out, when you hang out in a bar, you meet women who drink. Not a recipe for a love match.

  These past years he’d been busy with the Big Three: building his business, building trust in himself and building back the damage done to his family name. He’d dated, but his love life fell way down on his list of priorities. Besides, imagining a gaggle of giggling coeds made his head pound. The drama factor of that age group held no appeal for him.

  He remembered the bar-night hopefulness on Tom’s face. He’d almost forgotten that. Maybe it was time to move his love life up a few notches on the priority list.

  Nick pulled his cell from his pocket, and touched the screen till her name came up. Climbing the stairs, he listened to her phone ring.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Samantha, of Crozier Contracting. I’m looking forward to helping you with your remodel needs, so please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  Beep.

  He’d been so busy listening to the husky alto voice with an undertone of sexy that he hadn’t thought what he’d say. “Sam! It’s Nick, and I was wondering if...”

  There was a click on the line. “Hey, Nick.” She sounded out of breath. “How’s the Vulcan coming?”

  She’s leaving. Don’t forget that.

  “The gas tank is the tough nut at the moment. I found a couple online, but they’re in worse shape than yours.”

  “Isn’t it possible to pop the dents out of mine?”

  “Yeah, but the bike is a classic, and everything else will be pristine. It would be a crime to slap Bondo on it. It’d be like...supergluing a crack in the Pieta.”

  She chuckled. “I love my bike more than anyone, but I’ve never compared it to a Michaelango masterpiece.”

  “Well, I just meant—”

  “You’re some mechanic, Nick.”

  Her praise warmed him like summer sunshine. “Hey, I’ve got lots of hidden talents. Wait ’til I show you my first-grade artwork.”

  “Are you inviting me up to see your etchings?”

  It was his turn to chuckle. “Maybe that’s a little forward. I was thinking along the lines of showing you around the area. What do you think? Are you busy on Sunday?”

  She hesitated so long he was beginning to think they’d been disconnected.

  Then he heard her sigh. “You found my soft spot, Pinelli. How could I turn down a guy who worships my motorcycle?”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up around two on Sunday. You choose what you’d like to see.”

  “Deal. Thanks, Nick.”

  He hung up, excited about the prospect of a date for the first time sober. He unlocked the windowed door at the top of the landing and stepped into his kitchen. Flipping on the light over the chef’s island, he opened the fridge and pulled out the calzone he’d made over the weeke
nd, set it in a baking pan and turned on the oven.

  After a quick shower, he padded barefoot to the kitchen and put his dinner in the oven. Canned spotlights created a warm circle, reflecting off the copper-bottomed pots on the hanging rack, to hit the gray Venatino marble countertop. His fingers itched to work some dough into capellini.

  Instead, he wiped the wet hair drips from his neck, poured a glass of iced tea and carried it to the living room. He paused, fingers on the lamp switch, glancing out the picture window that looked down onto the high-rent district of Hollister Street.

  When he returned from L.A., his luck changed. He couldn’t believe that a developer offered him an ungodly amount of money for his family’s dump of a house. Nick was more than happy to unload it—and all the secrets within its walls.

  The sale gave him seed money to buy his business, a busy garage right at the edge of downtown. But the rabbit-warren apartment above it was another story. He’d gutted it to the studs and started over, creating space as he’d need it—a huge kitchen, bedroom and living room. A small dining nook and bathroom. The result fit him like a custom pair of steel-toe work boots.

  When he switched on the light, the picture window became a mirror. He turned away. Plopping on the couch, he hit the remote for the sound system. The haunting strains of Verdi’s Rigoletto poured over him. He relaxed, his mother’s music melting the day’s tension.

  Sipping tea, he picked up the framed photo on the glass end table—an old studio portrait of his mother. She’d been a beauty, with the classic features of Sophia Loren; long black hair and high sculpted cheekbones. A seven-year-old version of himself stood close, hand on her shoulder. He remembered the sitting. He felt like a man. As if his hand had grown big enough to shelter her.

  Another wave of loneliness broke over him. He’d finally managed to build a life his mom would be proud of. God, she would have loved grandkids—and to see him settled. He could almost hear her lecture, echoing in the back of his mind.