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

by Beth Andrews

  “I didn’t know Jazz was coming. I swear, I didn’t.” He threw his hands in the air. “She just showed up at my door with a bottle of wine, crying. What was I supposed to do, slam the door in her face? Just because that old man lives in the nineteenth century...” His voice trailed off to an indistinct mumbling.

  “Damn, Beau, can you slow down a minute?” Sam huffed out. “You’re killing me, here.”

  He slowed his pace a bit. “We’re just friends. That’s all. She’s going with a friend of mine, for Christ’s sake.” He raked a hand through his hair.

  She looked up into eyes as wild as his hair. “Hang on, you’re losing me. Jazz is your friend, right?” He nodded. “And she’s going with a friend of yours.” He nodded again. “And you slept with her?”

  Beau rolled his eyes and blew out an exasperated breath. “She’s a lesbian, okay?”

  Sam stopped, putting an arm out to stop him from walking on. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” She was starting to feel like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. When had she gotten so old that the lives of teenagers had become an alien landscape?

  “I told you it wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t mean anything. We were talking, and she was upset.”

  “And you were drinking.” She hoped it had sounded like fact, not judgment.

  “Yeah, and somehow we just ended up in bed. It wasn’t like I planned it.” He pointed back at Tim’s place, now just a dot on the horizon. “Then the old man barges in, screaming. Shit, I thought the place was on fire. Scared the crap out of me.”

  “Look, Beau, I can see where something like this can happen. But you’ve got to understand Tim’s reaction. You knew the rules.”

  “I’m done with everybody’s rules. That’s why I left my parents’ to begin with.”

  “Oh, bull. That isn’t why you left home. Forget who you’re talking to? You left because of your mother.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I’ve got news, Beau.” She tempered her voice. Another screaming match would gain nothing. “You have less rules in your life now than you’ll ever have.” She ignored his snort of derision. “Don’t believe me? What happens if I don’t pay the electric bill? Or I don’t have another job lined up after we finish the house?”

  “You’ll get on the motorcycle and ride. I could live with those rules.”

  She almost winced. “This isn’t about me. Look at Tim. He lives under more rules than I do.”

  “I could live with those rules, too. He’s all alone. He can do whatever he wants.” Beau stopped and planted his feet, arms crossed.

  “Yeah, he’s alone. He’s also old, and fragile. And he’s trying to take care of those run-down cabins all by himself. If he had an accident, he could lie there a day or more before someone found him.” Beau looked away. “He has almost no income. He’s worked for himself all his life, so he gets almost no Social Security. Did you know that? I’m glad he comes out to the house, because at least I know he’s getting a little extra income and one decent meal a day.”

  Ana’s face appeared in her mind. “You think you have rules? How about living in fear? Of being old and not having anyone to take care of you? Of being proud and worrying about having to ask for handouts to eat? Those are the kinds of rules Tim lives under.”

  She waved a hand in front of his face to force him to look at her. “Who cares though, right? Just one more dinosaur, getting in the way. But that dinosaur took you in. He has almost nothing, but he shared what he has with you, because you needed a place to stay.”

  She turned on her heel to walk back to check on Tim, leaving Beau standing at the side of the road, alone.

  * * *

  TWO WEEKS LATER, Sam sat once more in Bina’s home office, spilling her guts.

  “Then suddenly, I’m staring up at the ceiling, feeling nothing.” Sam sat perched on the dainty French provincial chair, her foot bouncing to give it something to do besides walking her out the door. “It’s not a choice I make. It just happens.” She picked at a hangnail and it tore off in a stinging strip. “No man ever noticed before Nick, and I’m not even sure if I’m happy about that.”

  Problems bubbled from the cauldron of her stomach. She stood and paced the length of blue-gray carpet before the window seat where Bina sat watching her, Zen-like. Inscrutable.

  “But that’s only part of it. It’s this town. I’ve got to get out of here. It’s changing me.” She picked up a glass paperweight from the desk and tossed it from hand to hand.

  “How is it changing you?”

  “Bugs is a perfect example. I tried to take him back to the pound. That was the deal. When he healed, off he’d go. He knew it, I knew it.” She bobbled the paperweight, almost dropping it.

  Bina stood, took it and set it gently on the edge of the desk. “Antique crystal, sorry.” She handed Sam a fuzzy dog toy to toss, instead. “Go on.” She sat back on the cushion, one foot tucked under her.

  “I got there and couldn’t do it. The place was just so sad, I couldn’t do it. That’s what I’m talking about. The damn dog crawled under my skin. What am I going to do with a dog, on the road?” Her head felt as though ants were crawling on the inside of her scalp. She ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m going to have to get rid of him by December when I leave. But if I can’t leave him now, how will I ever leave him after three months more of living with the smelly, drooling thing?”

  Bina smiled like a Cheshire cat who just finished a bowl of cream.

  “This is not funny, Bina. It’s not just the damn dog, either. I don’t let people close. I can’t let people close. It doesn’t work. It just causes more pain. More wanting.” She paced faster. “But I can’t seem to stop it now. Don’t you see?”

  Sam threw up her hands. “Everything is out of control. My life has turned into this crazy runaway train. I’m pulling levers and brakes, but nothing’s happening. Everything that worked before, doesn’t now. I need to hit the road. Just ride, as far and as fast as I can. Any direction, it doesn’t matter. Just. Away.”

  “Why do you work on houses?” Bina sipped from her delicate bone china cup.

  “Because I’m a building contractor? Hello, Bina. My life is exploding here, and you want to talk about my career?”

  “No.” She set her cup in the saucer. “I want to know why you chose this to do. You don’t just build houses. You take run-down wrecks and turn them into warm, cozy, beautiful homes. Why do you do that?”

  “I told you the story. After Dad died, I looked around—”

  “Why the wrecks? Why not just start from scratch, or build tract homes?”

  “I don’t know, I just started with our house—”

  “You create a one-of-a-kind home. Something special. You said you could picture a mother in the kitchen—”

  “So, what?” She stopped pacing. The damned woman just sat there, looking at her like a skinny female Buddha. “What the hell does this have to do with my life? Jesus, Bina, I thought you could help, here.”

  “Then you sell it. Dump it and move on, to the next state. To the next house.”

  Sam sighed. Fine, she’d handle her problems herself, same as she always did. You know better than to rely on anyone else. She was almost to the door when Bina’s voice stopped her.

  “Has it never occurred to you that in those homes, you create exactly what you long to have for yourself, only to walk away from it?”

  Sam stopped.

  “Over and over and over.”

  The words went off in her brain like flashes of lightning, illuminating what had been in shadows. As soon as Sam heard the words, perspective shifted. Six years of memories streamed through her mind; houses, before and after. The families she’d sold them to. Bina was right. Dead-on right.

  Holy shit. She’d thought the storm would le
ssen when she started talking about her past. But apparently what happened so far was only a thunderstorm, and now she was watching Katrina bear down on her. Did she want to find out what would be next?

  Did she have a choice?

  “I’ll let you go now, Sam. But you should know. You may experience a bit of...turmoil in the next few weeks, emotionally. Call me if you need me. Anytime.”

  Sam hesitated, hand on the doorframe. Silence. Buddha had spoken.

  * * *

  NICK TIGHTENED THE last screw and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his T-shirt. Damn, this fall was a hot one. He walked down the steps of Sam’s porch to survey his surprise. The cedar swing hung by a heavy chain from the porch roof, its splashy floral cushions cheerful against the backdrop of stark white.

  Nice. He smiled. From this view, the house looked complete, pristine and perfect. Dressed in white with black accents, the stately Victorian could grace the cover of Architectural Digest.

  Wiping his hands on a rag, he tucked it into his back pocket and climbed the steps to test the swing. He eased into it. The chains creaked, held. He relaxed, resting his arms across the back, setting it rocking with a push of his foot.

  Grasshoppers buzzed in the yard and the sound of a tractor growling across an unseen field floated on the breeze. He breathed it in, relishing the smell of hot sage and the scent of freshly cut cedar.

  He’d taken Jesse’s advice, to make it harder for Sam to leave. He knew arguments wouldn’t work. Sam had too many walls, too many excuses and way too much stubborn. Instead, he’d opted for the subliminal route. The swing made the house look like a home. An inviting place to snuggle and watch the sun go down. At least that’s how he saw it. Hopefully Sam would see it the same.

  But there was nothing covert about his plan for tonight; if she wanted to dump him, she’d have to tell him to his face.

  He sat back to wait.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE JEEP’S RADIO blared Springsteen’s “Tunnel of Love” as Sam navigated the sweeps in the road that led home.

  Home, ha. This place wasn’t home. It was purgatory—the resting spot between heaven and hell. She’d left hell behind, back in Ohio. Heaven? Well, it would be whatever showed up in the windshield of her Vulcan. She sang out loud, trying to drown her own thoughts. Coming out of the trees, into another bend, the craving to feel her Vulcan vibrating against her thighs was almost a physical pain. Instinctively, she leaned into the curves.

  Unsettled and antsy, she gave up and snapped off the radio. Her fears queued up, vying for first spot. But always, the largest loomed over all, its shadow eclipsing even the warmth of the sun on her shoulders.

  What if? She was afraid to even think it. As if the simple consideration could unleash the actual possibility of it happening.

  The road had been her solace. Her comfort. Her religion. The one constant in her life since her dad died. What if in December, when she was done here, she threw her leg over the bike and hit the road, only to find the road was no longer there for her?

  A crisis of faith. That’s all this was.

  But what if? The little girl’s voice wailed.

  What if this purgatory was permanent, with nothing that she could crawl back to? Nothing ahead to look forward to. The rest of her life, hung between two nothings. Surely there was more?

  A few miles farther, she emerged from the trees and saw it. Her house. The haughty old lady, frivolous gingerbread trim showing like lace on her bloomers. The facade looked as she’d imagined it: the shaded portico, flowery cushions on a porch swing...

  Porch swing? She did a double take. Apparently this new addition came with an accessory: a hunky man in jeans and a denim mechanic’s shirt lounging on it, rocking.

  Her heart literally fluttered in her chest. He bought me a porch swing! Her face stretched to accommodate her goofy grin.

  Then she remembered. Being naked with this man. Her failure exposed. Only her pride kept her from pulling a U-turn. She breathed bravery into her lungs and prepared to behave as if.

  As if that damn house didn’t look like home. As if Nick didn’t look like he belonged on that porch. As if wanting a future like that didn’t tear her apart.

  Pulling in alongside the Love Machine, she shut down the engine. She took a deep breath and then another, until her butt cheeks loosened their death grip on the seat. Oh, God. I’m so not ready for this.

  But at the same time, joy shimmered over her skin. He didn’t let me chase him away.

  She climbed the porch steps, aware that he watched her. She let a grin slip out. “How did you know? This is exactly as I pictured it, right down to the cushions.”

  “Because I know you.” He patted the cushion beside him. “Come try it out.”

  Hearing snuffling behind the front door, she said, “Hang on just a second.” She fumbled with her keys, unlocked the door and stepped back as Bugs barreled through. He circled her legs at a gallop, sniffing, then beelined for Nick. He slid into Nick’s feet like he was home plate, belly in the air, panting a smile.

  She shook her head. “The animal has no pride.”

  Nick chuckled, and bent to scratch him. “Glad to see you, too, Bugs.”

  She crossed the porch to sit beside Nick.

  He leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the swing. As if his body were a magnet, she nestled in the crook of his arm, head on his shoulder, feet bare and tucked under her.

  Apparently, she had no more pride than her dog.

  Nick set the swing rocking with his foot.

  The sun kissed the hills to the west, softening them in a wash of gold. A flock of swallows swooped past, their night calls high and lonely. The rhythmic squeak of the swing’s chains slowed the restless thrum at her core. Her mind quieted. She inhaled the rusty smell of autumn. And Nick. “Thank you.”

  She felt his chuckle on the sensitive skin of her cheek. “I’m not responsible for this part. God is.”

  It seemed so easy, sitting quiet with him. She was so weary of standing in the wind of the storm. All she wanted to do was put it all down, and for a little while, pretend that she could step into this alternative future—one she might have been living if her past had been different. For just a little while, believe the soap bubble dream. That this home was hers. That this man was hers.

  It felt so natural when she turned her head to taste the warm skin of his throat. He dipped his head and they were kissing. Long, lazy, all-the-time-in-the-world kisses, reminiscent of their late-night conversations. Kisses of greeting. Kisses that promised more. Peace eased over her, loosening her knots.

  She sighed. “I wish I could stay just like this. For about twenty years.”

  He twined his fingers in hers. “That would suit me.”

  They rocked until the sky went indigo, and all that remained of the sun was a lighter band of blue crowning the westernmost hill. When the crickets began the night’s overture, she straightened. “I think Romano’s will deliver. You want pizza?” She couldn’t see his expression; there were no streetlights this far out of town. But he held tight to her hand when she would have stood.

  “I hope I never find parts for that damned Vulcan.” He almost whispered the words as if he wasn’t sure he wanted her to hear.

  But she had heard. Her hand spasmed in his.

  “You gonna run again, Sam?” In spite of the hard words, they came out of his mouth soft. “Come a few months from now, when all the loose ends are tied up, are you going to hit the road?”

  She’d been relaxed. She wasn’t prepared. His words stung, down deep, where fear had rubbed her soul raw. Her anger flared, hot and fast. “You’re calling me a coward, Pinelli?” The words snapped out. She didn’t care to stop them, even if she could. “When were you planning to tell me about your parents?” She ripped her ha
nd from his and stood.

  She heard his soft exhalation, as if her accusation had hit his soft parts.

  “I mean, really. You know my past. I bared my secrets to you—quite literally—in that room right there.” She pointed to the windows at his back. “Yet you haven’t told me what any local walking down Hollister knows.”

  He stood. “You’re right.” He walked to the edge of the porch and down the steps.

  But she wasn’t done. He hadn’t paid near enough. “Who’s running now, Pinelli?” Sam used the singsong voice of the little girl who lived in her head.

  He turned. “You want the bloody details?” He strode back to the edge of the stairs and stared up at her, anger stark on his face. “My father always had a mean temper. He made me and my mother’s life hell, but it was worse after he lost his job.

  “I was fifteen when he walked down the road to the bar with a gun in his hand. My mother worked there to keep food in the house, and a leaky roof over our heads. She was going home, to him.” His voice escalated in volume and speed.

  “It was closing time and she was leaving with the last of the customers, laughing at something a man said, when my father walked up. She wasn’t flirting; she was going home to him. He never said a word. Just shot the man in the balls. When my mother screamed, he turned and shot her. In the heart.” He took panting breaths in between yelling. “Before he could put a bullet in his own head, the men wrestled the gun away.”

  She didn’t have to see his face. His voice dripped ice.

  “Now we’re even. Because that was just as willingly given as your secrets. Are you happy?”

  “No, I’m not,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Then why the hell did you bring it up?” He kicked the stair riser. The hollow thump echoed back from the hill across the street.

  “I wasn’t looking for the ‘bloody details.’” She shook her head to clear the grisly picture. “I only wanted to know why you didn’t care enough to tell me.”

  He let out a snort of derision. She wasn’t sure if it was aimed at him or her. “I wanted just one part of my life that was clean, untainted—someone who liked me for me. Not Poor Nick Pinelli, the town ‘project.’ But for the man I am now.