Evidently, he liked it here, at Kim and Davis’s ranch house.
“The auction doesn’t end until tomorrow,” Carolyn mused aloud, looking at the skirt now. Even bedraggled and in need of mending and some serious sprucing up, it was still breathtakingly beautiful. “Maybe someone has outbid you by now.”
“Nope,” Tricia replied, with a smug little smile. “Ain’t gonna happen. Our ceiling bid is so high, nobody will match it.”
With a tentative hand, Carolyn reached out and touched the garment almost as gently as if it were a living thing, and suffering from various painful injuries. “None of it matters, now,” she said. “The skirt needs too much fixing to sell to anyone, and I couldn’t have let you and Kim go through with your crazy, wonderful and unbelievably generous plan anyway. Not once I found out what you were up to.”
Carolyn’s natural practicality reasserted itself. She’d call off the auction as soon as she got the chance, she decided, and keep the skirt for herself. Not that she had any more reason to wear it than before, because she didn’t, but they shared something now, she and that onceglorious mass of beads and ribbon and fine cloth. They were both veterans of the Cinderella wars.
And they’d both been on the losing side.
A peaceful silence fell.
Tricia broke it with a soft “Come to our place for supper tonight, Carolyn?”
Carolyn grinned wanly, thinking how lucky she was to have friends like Tricia and Conner and Kim and Davis, among others. Not that she could trust either of those women any farther than she could have thrown them, when it came to their matchmaking schemes.
“So you can corral Brody and me in the same room and hope we’ll kiss and make up?” she countered, though not unkindly. “No way, girlfriend. I’m not ready to deal with Brody face-to-face quite yet, and I’ll wager the reverse is true, as well.”
Tricia looked sad, but she clearly understood Carolyn’s position, too. “I just wish you weren’t all alone, that’s all,” she lamented. “You’ll call Conner and me if you need anything, won’t you?”
“You can bet on it,” Carolyn promised. “And it’s not as if I’ve become a hermit, hiding out at some robber’s roost tucked away in the distant hills, after all. I promised Kim I’d spend the nights here, and basically hold down the fort, but I’ll still be going to the shop in the morning, like I do every Monday.”
Tricia brightened. “Speaking of the shop—what have you decided? Are you taking me up on my offer or not?”
Carolyn smiled. “I’d be crazy if I didn’t,” she said. “No matter what happens, Tricia, I’m staying right here in Lonesome Bend. I’ve had enough of the gypsy life, and I’m through trying to escape my problems. I’m digging in for the duration.”
“That’s great!” Tricia cried, delighted.
“I thought I’d start by hiring Primrose to work for us part-time,” Carolyn said, profoundly grateful for the change of subject. “If it’s all right with you, of course. She has some very interesting ideas and, besides, she’s a natural saleswoman.”
Tricia laughed, getting slowly to her feet. “That she is,” she agreed. “Go ahead and offer her a job whenever you’re ready. In the meantime, I’ll make a preliminary deposit to the business account, just to get things rolling.”
Carolyn was teary again. “You’re sure you want to do this, Tricia? Really, really sure? Because I’d understand if you didn’t, and I’d be fine without the shop—”
Well, maybe not fine, exactly—she loved the shop— but she’d survive, like always, and eventually thrive.
Tricia gave her one of those impulsive, Tricia-hugs, quick and awkward and wholly sincere. “Well, the shop wouldn’t be fine without you, and neither would I. I’m having a baby, Carolyn, not a lobotomy. Before I came to Lonesome Bend to settle Dad’s estate, I ran a gallery, remember? I love Conner more than I ever knew it was possible to love a man, and we’ll both be crazy about this baby and all his brothers and sisters, but I need to be around art on a regular basis—I need color and texture and all the rest.”
Carolyn certainly understood; art fed her soul, it was a form of prayer for her, of praise and thanksgiving
She recalled Tricia’s arrival in town, a couple of years ago. Naturally, there had been a lot of talk about her when she moved in with her great-grandmother and put the River’s Bend Campground and RV park up for sale, along with the ramshackle Bluebird Drive-in. People had claimed Tricia was too citified for a town like Lonesome Bend, even though she’d spent summers there since childhood, and they were sure she’d be on her way back to Seattle and her old life before the ink was dry on the sales agreements for her father’s properties.
Instead, Tricia had fallen in love with Conner Creed, married him and fit into the community like the proverbial hand in glove.
After walking Tricia to the garage and watching her drive away in Kim’s car, Carolyn went back inside, feeling somewhat at loose ends.
She supposed that house should have felt lonely, as big as it was, with just her and Winston rattling around in it like a pair of pebbles in the bottom of a barrel, but it didn’t feel that way at all.
It was a real home, a sanctuary where a man and a woman loved each other, day to day, through thick and thin, working separately and side by side to keep a ranch and an extended family going. There were memories here, practically tangible, and pictures on the walls and mantelpieces full of smiling faces and birthday cakes and Christmas trees and first cars.
In the hallway between the living room and the guest room where she’d be sleeping, Carolyn paused to look more closely at some of those photographs. One showed Brody and Conner and Steven on what was probably a fishing trip, a blond, sun-burned trio, none of them in their teens yet, beaming and holding up the day’s catch.
Next to it was a shot taken on a long-ago Christmas morning—Brody and Conner posing in front of an enormous tree decorated with a hodgepodge of ornaments, each of them gripping the shiny handlebars of a brand-new bicycle. Steven, who had lived in Boston with his mother most of the year, wasn’t in the picture, but there was a bulging stocking hanging from the mantel with his name stitched across the top, so he must have been expected to arrive for a visit soon.
Carolyn smiled, touched their faces with a fingertip, lingering a little longer on Brody’s image. To look at them, a person would have thought they’d always had it easy, but of course that wasn’t true.
Everybody, no matter how fortunate some aspects of their lives might be, had things to overcome. Dragons to face, and rivers to cross.
In Brody and Conner’s case, it was a double loss: their parents had both died, in separate accidents, when the twins were just babies. And as much love as Kim and Davis had given these boys over the years, as much guidance and security, they’d still had their battles to fight, not only in the outside world, but also with each other.
Conner and Brody had been on the outs for years and, of course, Brody’s wife and child had been taken from him, in a very cruel way.
Carolyn sighed and went on to the guest room, Winston romping at her heels like a kitten, to unpack the few things she’d brought from the apartment in town. Since she’d be going to the shop every day, she didn’t need more than fresh underwear, a nightshirt, the usual toiletries and something to wear to work in the morning.
She put things away, closely supervised by Winston, and then decided to take two aspirin and grab a nap, hoping to shake off the last lingering effects of last night’s apocalyptic events.
A little over an hour later, she woke up, her headache and the few remaining tatters of nausea gone at last. Feeling quite like her old, best self again, Carolyn smoothed her hair and headed for the kitchen, planning to have a late lunch—something light, like chicken noodle soup—and settle down to work on the gypsy skirt.
And there was Brody, big as life, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.
Carolyn stopped short, just inside the doorway from the dini
ng room.
“I knocked,” he said nonchalantly, without looking up from the paper, “but nobody answered.”
“So you just walked in?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Well, I’ll just leave you to your coffee and your newspaper,” Carolyn told him hurriedly, turning to march right back out again.
He stopped her with a single word—her name.
She stiffened, but didn’t look back at him. “What could you possibly have to say to me, after last night?” she asked, her tone even, revealing nothing of what she was feeling. Not that she exactly knew what she was feeling, because she didn’t.
She was all a-jumble inside—happy and sad, scared and excited, angry that Brody was there and, at the same time, deeply, deeply relieved.
“How about ‘I’m sorry’?” he suggested, from directly behind her.
How did he do that? How did the man cross rooms in the space of a heartbeat, without making a sound? It was uncanny. It was spooky.
She swiveled, squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin. He was close enough to kiss her—but he didn’t.
“It’s my turn to apologize,” Carolyn said, drawing on all her bravery, and on her new determination to live in the real world like a rational human being with a right to be there, damn it—but not quite meeting his eyes. “You went to a lot of trouble to make last night…special. I should have known it didn’t mean anything that Gifford Welsh was starring in the movie, but…well…I didn’t, not at first, anyway. I’m not very proud of how I acted, and I am definitely sorry.”
“Carolyn,” Brody said again, this time with a smile in his voice.
“What?”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
Because looking at you makes my clothes fall off, Brody Creed.
Like she’d ever say that out loud.
Brody laughed. “Looking at me makes your clothes fall off? Hot damn, that’s the best news I’ve had all day.”
Carolyn blinked. Put a hand over her mouth, horrified. Murmured, “Did I actually say…?”
Brody’s grin was a mite on the cocky side, and totally hot. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
“Oh, my God,” she said.
“That was my reaction, too,” Brody said, his eyes dancing as his gaze tripped down the front of her T-shirt. He pretended to frown. “Doesn’t look like it’s happening, though. Your clothes falling off, I mean.”
She felt a surge of heat in her face, knew she was blushing—again—and wished she could vanish into thin air, like a wisp of smoke.
She couldn’t, of course.
That was one thing about being real. No disappearing allowed.
“My clothes are staying right where they are,” she said, with a notable lack of conviction.
“That’s probably a good idea,” Brody agreed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, where a golden stubble was already showing. “For the time being, anyhow.”
Carolyn tugged hard at the hem of her T-shirt and marched past him, headed for the cupboard. She needed a good, stiff shot of herbal tea, and she needed it now.
Brody watched with amusement as she gathered the necessary stuff.
“It’s a damn shame, though,” he observed, stroking his chin again.
“What?” Carolyn asked briskly, filling a cup with hot water from a special dispenser affixed to the sink.
“That your clothes didn’t fall off,” Brody said. “It would have been something to see.”
“Would you like some tea?” Carolyn inquired, as though nobody had said anything about anybody’s clothes falling off.
Least of all, hers.
“Uh—tea? Thanks, but no. I’m not a big tea drinker.”
Carolyn made a face at him.
“Would tequila do it?” he mused, as though talking to himself. “Like in the song?”
“Brody,” Carolyn said. “Stop teasing me, will you please? It was a slip of the tongue, that’s all.”
“Very Freudian,” Brody agreed, with mock solemnity. “Especially the tongue reference.”
“I did not make a ‘tongue reference,’ as you so crudely put it,” Carolyn said loftily, but she was struggling not to laugh.
“There,” Brody said, pointing. “You said it again. Tongue. You keep bringing it up—definitely Freud ian.”
“Stop it,” she said, choking back a giggle.
Brody’s grin broadened and went from sizzle to stun. “Fine,” he said. “Build your tea, sit down and talk to me.”
Talk to me. Yikes.
“About what?” she asked.
“Yourself,” he said. “I told you about Lisa and Justin. Now I want to know what makes you Carolyn, so to speak.” She was silent, preparing her tea. Pensive. But she approached the table and sat down, and when she had, Brody sat, too.
Folded his hands loosely and rested them on top of the open newspaper.
“Where should I start?” she asked, thinking aloud.
“Tricia told me you grew up in foster homes,” Brody said quietly. “I’m sure that was rough, at least at times, but right now, I’m more interested in knowing why a Gifford Welsh movie would send you over the edge.”
Carolyn sighed, took a slow sip of her tea and savored it. Or pretended to, that is. The stuff didn’t seem to have any taste at all.
“It was partly the wine,” she said.
Brody nodded. “I figured that out later,” he said. “Another reason to apologize, Carolyn. I should have remembered that you can’t hold your hooch.”
She laughed softly, relaxed a little—but not for long. Whenever she thought of Gifford Welsh, she thought of Storm, running behind her car, screaming for her to come back, and the pain was still enough to double her over.
Brody took her hand. “Whatever it is, Carolyn,” he said, “it’s okay. But if we’re going to mend fences, you and I, we have to be straight with each other, starting now. No surprises down the road.”
Carolyn nodded, swallowed hard, even though she hadn’t taken another sip of tea. “I know a lot of people think I had an affair with Gifford,” she said, meeting Brody’s eyes. “It doesn’t happen to be true, but last night—last night, I thought you were…well…throwing him up to me. Letting me know that you knew. That’s what set me off.”
Brody waited calmly for her to go on, his eyes gentle and very, very blue.
Carolyn’s fingers trembled when she picked up her cup to drink from it, so she set it down again, without bringing it to her mouth.
Winston, that unpredictable feline, leaped up into Brody’s lap, purring and rubbing against his chest.
Brody chuckled and stroked the cat’s back, comfortable with the interaction, but made no comment on the animal’s apparent new opinion of his character.
The ball was still in Carolyn’s court, it would seem.
Slowly, she told Brody what had happened at the Gifford mansion that day, unreeling the memories in her mind’s eye as she spoke, reliving them.
She’d been attracted to Gifford Welsh—who wouldn’t have been?—but he was married, and that meant something to her, if not to him.
She’d fled in a panic—much as Brody had done the night Lisa called and told him she was carrying his child. She’d left Storm behind, unable to explain why she was leaving in such a hurry, and she’d regretted that ever since.
Carolyn had regretted abandoning a little girl, in almost the same way she’d been abandoned, and she’d blamed herself for other reasons, too. Had she unwittingly sent Gifford some kind of come-hither message, prompting him to make advances?
Was the whole thing her fault?
Looking back, it seemed strange that she’d ever believed such a thing. Carolyn had been his daughter’s nanny, his wife had been away and he’d made a move on her.
Gifford, like everyone else on the planet, was responsible for his own actions.
“I shouldn’t have left Storm behind like that,” she said numbly, when she reached the end of the account. “But I was young and I
was shaken up, and I didn’t know what else to do but get the heck out of there, fast.”
“You did what you thought was the right thing at the time,” Brody said. At some point, he’d taken her hand into his.
“So did you,” Carolyn said. “When Lisa called that night, I mean.”
He raised a shoulder, lowered it again. “I’ve decided to let myself off the hook for it,” he said. “I can’t bring Lisa and Justin back, or make things right for them, and it’s time I quit trying.” He paused, started again. “I came back to Lonesome Bend to settle down, start a family and build a legacy, and that’s what I mean to do.”
Carolyn looked at him, thinking how much she loved Brody Creed, how she’d loved him all along, though that love had evolved as she had, as Brody himself had.
He’d been a boy when they met, and she’d been a girl.
Now, he was a man, and she was a woman.
Whole other ball game.
They were at a crossroads, Carolyn realized. They could go their separate ways, sadder but wiser, or they could get to know each other all over again, from an adult perspective.
Carolyn knew what she wanted, but she wasn’t at all sure Brody was on the same page, so she kept the words she most needed to say to herself.
Gently, Brody lifted Winston off his lap and set him on the floor.
Carolyn took a big gulp of her tea, just for something to do, and nearly choked on the stuff.
Brody leaned toward her, brushed her hair back off her right shoulder.
“There’s one more thing I need to know,” he said. “Those foster homes you lived in. Were they good ones?”
Carolyn pondered the question. Finally she sighed. “There were different levels of commitment, but basically I think everybody did the best they knew how,” she said, coming to yet another deeply personal conclusion. “Including my parents, I guess.”
Brody drew her out of her chair and onto his lap.
It seemed natural to put her arms around his neck and rest her forehead against his.
“I never knew my dad,” she confided softly, and then waited for the strength to go on, to say the rest of it.
“Me, either,” Brody said. “But we had Davis, Conner and I, and he handled the job just fine.”
The Creed Legacy Page 29