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

by Beth Andrews

“Bugs, down! You know better than that. I apologize. His manners are a work in progress.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Wait till you meet my two. Bugs is a perfect gentleman in comparison.”

  “Bugs, sit.” The dog obeyed, and looked up at her, the picture of canine comportment.

  “Wow. I’m impressed,” she told him.

  “Do you think there’s any hope?”

  “No, lessons would be a waste of money. He’d flunk out.”

  “I meant the house.” Bina shaded her eyes and looked up at Sam with a smile. “We moved in eight months ago, and have spent all our time and effort to make the interior habitable. Come in, I’ll show you.” She led the way up the steep stairs to the porch. “Watch yourself. Some of these steps aren’t even.”

  The interior was in sharp contrast to the outside. Glowing plank wood floors led from the vestibule to the characteristic long hall. Creamy doorframes and cornices stood out against dark walls. Muted Turkish carpets showcased the antique furniture in each room.

  The tour was interrupted by the sound of toenails scrabbling for purchase. Two small figures hurtled into the room. The dogs made a beeline for Bugs, frantically circling him in full cry.

  “See what I mean?” Bina yelled over the barking. “You have little to fear of Bugs’s behavior in this house. He could probably teach these ruffians a thing or two about manners. Hey, leave off, you monsters!” She grabbed the passing collar of the pug, and swung the Pomeranian into her arms. “This dust mop is Tassel, and the puggy one is Yoda.”

  Bugs strained at his leash, wriggling and whining to be free.

  “Let’s let them get acquainted out back where they can’t tear up the place.” Bina led the way to the kitchen and out the back door.

  A waist-high picket fence enclosed the yard. Sam unsnapped Bugs’s leash. The three dogs tore around the grass, chasing and sniffing each other, tails waving.

  “I think they’ll be okay out here.” Bina dusted her hands. “Now, on to that coffee I promised.” She led the way back to the warm, modern kitchen.

  “I think I have kitchen envy.” Sam admired the warm wood cabinets and new appliances.

  “They completed the work last month. They repaired the roof, and the interior, but I’ve left the exterior cosmetics for last, because I’m just not sure what to do.”

  “Your house poses some interesting challenges. I’ve got to devote most of my time to my project, but I think I can come up with some ideas that should enhance the Victorian facade, and make it more livable at the same time.”

  Bina’s soft brown eyes lit up. “That’s just what I want to do. Nick was right, you’re very perceptive.” She poured the coffee and brought the cups to the table.

  Perceptive? “Don’t get too excited until you see what I come up with. One woman’s prize is another’s nightmare.”

  They sat. At Bina’s question, Sam explained how she’d come to settle in Widow’s Grove.

  Sam sipped her coffee. “How did you and your husband end up here? This is somewhat off the beaten track for a psychologist, I would think.”

  “We immigrated five years ago. In India, the population is very dense—there is not enough opportunity for young people. My husband, Shiv, being the second son, would not be taking over his family’s import business.” She crossed the room to refill their cups at the trendy coffeemaker.

  “Luckily, his family is well-off, so when he completed university, they offered to send him to the United States to finish his medical degree. Shiv took a position at the hospital in Santa Maria, and I set up a private practice here in Widow’s Grove.”

  “I thought I was brave moving across the United States. I can’t imagine taking on a new country. It must have been hard for you, trying to adapt to a new culture. How do you like it here?”

  “Well, it has not been without its challenges. This is a small town and we are foreigners. We love the area, but have found making friends is more difficult than we expected.” She stirred cream into her coffee. “I’ve also had challenges in building my practice. I suspect that people are more comfortable with someone of similar culture to talk to about their problems. I’m developing relationships at the hospital, though, and I’m getting busier.”

  “What type of counseling do you do?”

  “Oh, I especially enjoy treating children, but my practice is not large enough to specialize yet.” Bina hesitated, but then seemed to come to a decision.

  “Sam, I do not know you well, but I hope you don’t mind if I ask you something. If it makes you uncomfortable, please tell me. Is that all right?”

  She straightened, on alert. “Okay.”

  “When I met you at the nursery, you were obviously upset. I could tell you thought that Nick had betrayed a confidence.”

  “A confidence. How did you know that?” Why had she relaxed around a psychologist, for cripes’s sake?

  “Well, it really wasn’t much of a stretch.” She leaned in. “Am I making you uncomfortable? I tend to be direct—too much so, according to my husband. I don’t want to offend you.”

  “Being direct is something I’ve been accused of a time or two in my life.” Sam managed a weak smile. “I don’t want to offend you, either, but I have to be honest. I don’t think much of psychology in general.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you have a bad experience with a therapist?”

  “I’ve never been to one.”

  “Did you know someone who had problems with one? There can be personality differences, just like you find with any person you meet.”

  Sam spied the dead-end alley this conversation was leading to. But no way out. “Um, no. I’ve never known anyone who went to one. I mean, I might know them, but never knew they went...you know what I mean.”

  “Then where did you get that opinion? That’s not a judgment. I’m just curious.”

  “Oprah, Doctor Phil, The View, stuff like that.” Sam ducked her head, sure her face must be tomato-red. But she refused to lie, even if it made her look like ignorant trailer-trash. “It’s not like I watch much, but seems like they have more of the type of people on those shows that need that kind of professional...” She focused on the empty coffee cup in her hands. “Let’s just say I’m an idiot, and let it go at that, okay?”

  Bina threw her head back and laughed, a bellowing belly laugh. Sam blinked in surprise. She would have expected a lilting tinkling from a woman like this. Bina laughed loud, like a barfly cutting loose on a Friday night. For some twisted reason, that made Sam feel better.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I promise, I’m not. It’s just that getting your opinion of psychologists from Oprah is like getting your building experience from a magazine you picked up on a newsstand.” She wiped her eyes. “Oh, God. Oprah. You really slay me.” She got up and walked to the counter.

  Sam stared after her. I could like this woman.

  Bina reached into a jar on the counter and put a handful of cookies on a plate, then brought them to the table. “I’m not going to try to change your mind, either about psychologists, or the people who visit them. Just let me say that there’s no big mystery in what goes on behind a therapist’s door. Really, it’s just like having a friend to talk to only better, because with a friend you have to watch what you say and consider their feelings. With a therapist, you don’t have to worry about that.

  “Now, on to important subjects, like my house!” She laughed again, and Sam relaxed.

  But she couldn’t quite dismiss the promise in Bina’s words—the lure of having a nonjudgmental expert to talk to. Maybe she’d even know something about dreams.

  Yes, but. This would be telling another person about her past—and she hadn’t even meant to tell the first. She already felt like she was walking around with her guts hanging out, for any passerby to see. Was she rea
dy for this?

  No. But a tornado doesn’t care what you’re ready for—it just catches up to you and rolls you along.

  Sam tucked the option away, to consider later.

  * * *

  FIVE DAYS AND seven AA meetings after his almost slip, Nick felt more himself—his sober self. He turned off the kitchen lights and padded in stocking feet to the bathroom, to brush his teeth before bed.

  In the grip of his past, that day, walking into the bar had seemed so natural. It wasn’t until he got home that the fear hit him. He reeled back, like an agoraphobe on the crumbling lip of a high place. The days following were worse. If he’d almost slipped without even realizing it, how solid was his sobriety? How could he relax, knowing he was that close to falling into his old life?

  “Conscious living. That’s how.” Finished, he put up his toothbrush, clicked off the light and stepped into the bedroom.

  He dropped onto the bed, pulled off his shoes and checked the alarm clock. The light of an almost-full moon shone in, turning his bedroom into a foreign landscape: flat, colorless, solitary. Lying back on the pillow, he speed-dialed Sam’s number.

  He’d debated with himself the past week, but hadn’t called since the night he’d cooked for her. He wanted to give her space, to ease into the fact that someone else knew her secret. But he also needed to know she was all right.

  She picked up on the first ring, almost as if she’d been waiting.

  “Buona sera, signora giovane.”

  “How do I know you’re not talking dirty to me in Italian?”

  If she were covering awkwardness, she was doing a good job. “Hmm. That hadn’t occurred to me, but it can certainly be arranged. Just give me a few days to brush up on the terminology—”

  “No, really, I’m good.”

  Her husky chuckle did something good to his insides. “So? How’ve you been?”

  “Busy. Crazy busy. The students are really working well together. I hired them only to help with the grunt work, but I have to tell you, I’m enjoying them. It’s so satisfying to see them learn, and grow, in their skills and maturity.”

  His spine relaxed into the mattress. He hadn’t realized how these phone calls had changed his nights. Until they’d stopped. Who was he kidding? They’d changed his days, too, giving him something to look forward to—something to hope for.

  “I’m glad you’re getting help. And that you’re helping the kids. A win-win.” Well, if she was ignoring her elephant, he could ignore his, too.

  He knew he owed her the story of his past, especially since he now knew hers. But it felt so damn good, having someone know him for who he was now—not who he was then, or from gossip about his infamous family. It made him feel—clean, somehow. As if he really was Sober Nick. He put an arm under his head and crossed his ankles.

  “Oh, and I meant to thank you. I met Bina Rani at the nursery the other day. What a sweet woman. And her house! She accepted my bid, and I’m working up the plans now. The money from that is going in my business account to help fund my next project, wherever that may be.”

  Oh, great. He’d just made it even easier for her to leave. Disappointment bit, like the taste of vinegar. But why should it? She’d never hidden the fact that she was a come-and-go biker chick.

  Yes, he’d known from the beginning that she was leaving. The weeks were flying toward December, when the renovations would be complete. But he also thought that the house, the town and the people were starting to anchor her to the dark earth of central California. And he could only hope there was enough time left to forge a relationship that would add weight to that anchor.

  He imagined her throwing a leg over the Vulcan and riding away. He ignored the pinch in his chest. She is worth taking a chance.

  “No, seriously Nick, thank you.”

  “Non è niente. It’s nothing.”

  * * *

  AFTER AN EARLY-MORNING run on Independence Day Saturday, Sam straightened the kitchen, cleaned the old leftovers out of the refrigerator and wiped down the counters. She stood in the middle of the worn but clean room, looking for something else to do.

  “Oh, just admit it, Samantha. You’re procrastinating.” She thought of herself as brave, but imagining being on display before a townful of people she didn’t know made her itch for the Vulcan and the open road.

  Bugs lay, head on paws, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

  “Oh, don’t you give me the hairy eyeball. You think this is going to be easy? Thanks to Jesse, I have a blouse that feels like a bikini, and I’m wearing heeled sandals on uneven ground, which means I’m a pratfall waiting to happen.”

  She ticked worries off on her fingers. “Nick will be there. I haven’t actually seen him since...” Her stomach did a lurch off a high dive. “He knows.” She stopped staring into space and got back to counting.

  “Jesse’s already told me that anyone who is anyone in town will be there. There’s going to be country-western music and dancing, which I know nothing about. Other than that, it should be a really kicked-back affair.”

  Bugs cocked his head. “Grrrrine?”

  “No, you can’t go. Sorry, bud. I could use the moral support, but I’m afraid your manners aren’t quite up to polite company.” She’d been working with Bugs, and in addition to sitting on command, he now lay down. When it suited him. She could just see him, drooling on people, tearing through the backyard scattering guests, plates and drinks.

  Gritting her teeth, she walked upstairs to her shower.

  Two hours later, Sam parked the Jeep in front of the Jurgens’ home outside of town. In spite of lingering over her dishabille, she was apparently still early; the street stood empty in front of the typical, brick-clad ranch from the ’70s. A covered porch graced the front, the strip of garden before it overflowing with colorful perennials. A broad swath of emerald lawn looked as if a weed wouldn’t have the audacity to put down roots anywhere near the place.

  She shut down the engine and sat a moment, her stomach awash in butterflies, brushing the sides, looking for a way out. She inhaled a few deep breaths. “It’s just a party, for God’s sake! I know several people that will be there. I am going to let go and have a good time. I deserve it.”

  And sitting in a car talking to yourself is just strange.

  She retrieved her bowl of potato salad from the back of the Jeep and tottered to the front door as purposefully as high-heeled sandals would allow. Why do women like these silly things? The screen door opened before she could knock.

  She was engulfed by Jesse and her perfume. Her friend pulled her in the door. “Oh, honey, you look like a million bucks. I love how you did your hair. Simple, but elegant.”

  Sam touched the back of the French twist. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me fighting it for forty-five minutes. I needed three hands to copy the picture in the magazine. I have this vision of the whole thing letting go in the middle of dinner.”

  Carl stopped in the hallway. And stared.

  “Well, what do you think, Carl?” Jesse waved her hand in front of her husband’s blank stare. “Hello, Carl?”

  Sam crossed her arms over the bare skin of her waist and wondered why she hadn’t thought to bring her motorcycle jacket.

  “I didn’t recognize you, Sam. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a skirt. You look great.”

  His quiet voice held a bit of...awe?

  “Thanks.” Sam forced the words around her locked jaw.

  “You are going to knock Nick’s eyes out of his head, sweetie. You just wait and see if you don’t.”

  The butterflies preened. Sam looked away.

  Jesse grabbed her arm. “Come on in and help me, will you? I’m behind, and there are still a million things to do.”

  Jesse led the way to a large kitchen. Painted a wa
rm yellow, it seemed to pull the sunshine in through the window over the sink. Vegetables in various stages of preparation littered the counter, and bags of groceries covered the butcher-block island in the center.

  Jesse put her to work, filling her arms with condiments, paper plates and plastic utensils to deliver to the backyard. She walked to the front hall and turned right, winding her way through the overstuffed living room furniture to a sliding door standing open to the backyard.

  She stepped onto the large redwood deck, dropped her armload onto a glass-topped table and looked around. Lawn chairs crowded the space, and a row of unmatched grills lined up in military precision along the left railing. Surrounding the patio, the green, rolling yard stretched behind the house, ending at the slope of a tawny hill. The deck formed a semicircle, its broad steps curving around the outside edge. Picnic tables dressed in gaily colored plastic tablecloths circled a hardwood dance floor in the center of the yard. Trees shaded the tables, and white cloth lanterns hung from the lowest branches.

  “Wow, Carl, you guys are serious about your parties. Where did you get the dance floor?” She addressed Carl’s broad back as he bent over one of the grills, firing the coals.

  He glanced out at the yard. “Some friends and I built it one summer after talking at one of these parties. A few of them play instruments and they started jamming. The women wanted to dance, so we built the floor in sections to haul it out here for parties.”

  Her butterflies began a polka. “Great idea.”

  She’d just returned to the kitchen when the doorbell buzzed. Sam shooed Jesse out to greet her guests and continued filling baskets with potato chips and spooning dip into brightly colored Mexican pottery. Jesse diverted everyone into the kitchen to meet her.

  They came bearing dishes. The women stayed to unwrap their offerings and complete last-minute preparations, tossing salads and warming dishes in the microwave. Sam gave up trying to remember names. The women asked questions when they heard she was the newcomer who’d bought the old Sutton house. They asked about her occupation, her motorcycle and where she’d gotten her outfit.