by Mae Nunn
“I’m so sorry, Mr. O’Malley.”
“It’s Art.” He waved away her formal address. “I’m on my way to Sunday brunch. Join me? We can take separate cars and even go Dutch treat if you’d prefer.” He poked fun at her suspicious nature.
She’d skipped the past two meals and her stomach had mumbled its discontent throughout the sermon.
“I guess I can spare an hour.” She accepted his invitation.
Minutes later, with Art’s rented sedan visible in her rearview mirror, she pulled onto the access road and headed toward the restaurant they’d agreed upon. As she rolled to a stop at the intersection a familiar black rig turned in her direction. The driver’s face was shielded by dark glasses and a baseball cap that was pulled low. But there was no mistaking Luke Dawson.
As the noisy diesel pickup passed, he glanced her way and seemed to dismiss her. She lifted her hand to wave but the moment was gone. Hunger forgotten, she regretted the lunch date and considered returning to the church.
A horn blared several cars back. Claire jumped, her attention snapping forward as the traffic light blinked from yellow to red. She twisted and mouthed an apology to Art.
Luke spotted the dazzling blonde in the pink Mustang.
How could anybody miss her in a car like that?
He shifted into second and pulled farther from the intersection. In the boxy rental directly behind her, a man smiled and waved. Though the gesture was obviously meant for Claire, Luke felt the motion like a punch to his belly.
After all these years, he was close enough to throw a rock at the gossip rag reporter who’d tracked Striker Dark like a bounty hunter on the trail of an escaped convict. The guy who was currently a hotshot with Today’s Times would never be anything but a smarmy hack as far as Luke was concerned.
He snapped off the radio so he could concentrate. This day was bound to come. As carefully as he’d guarded his privacy, the world really was a small place. Sooner or later he’d be forced to cross paths with his past, but not today.
According to the digital clock on the dashboard the time was just after eleven. He could be packed and loaded in a couple of hours and make Austin or Dallas before supper. He reached for the travel-scarred canvas backpack on the seat beside him and fished inside for the Abundant Harvest contract. At the next convenience store he’d stop and use the payphone. Pastor Ken would have to deliver the news that Praise Productions regretfully was no longer free to work with the Harvest Sons.
The hopeful faces of Eric, Bryan, Zach and Chad invaded Luke’s thoughts. He blinked twice to clear away the image of the four youths who’d been so eager to please. He batted away the heavy sense of responsibility he felt for Eric, the kid who needed a mentor, a protector and a father-figure as desperately as Luke himself once had.
Just twelve hours earlier they’d made a deal, and the boys had agreed to keep their end of the bargain. Luke had agreed a man’s reputation was all he really had. He’d given them his word, said he never made a promise he couldn’t keep. He’d prayed for discernment where Eric was concerned, asked God to guide his determination to make a difference in the boy’s life.
Now Luke’s shoulders slumped with the weight of how little his word would mean to the boys, to God.
In a week they’d remember the man who’d offered them the hope of a future as a fast talker who couldn’t be trusted. He ground his teeth at the thought and stuffed the pages into the backpack.
“Lord, I don’t know how all this figures into Your plan, but I can’t run away this time.” Luke accelerated as he passed the phone booth at the corner grocery. “I sure hope I don’t regret this,” he grumbled, and then headed for Abundant Harvest Church.
At 7:00 p.m. Claire leaned against the door with her shoulder and pushed her way into the church’s narthex. The cardboard box in her hands was heavy with carry-out from her favorite Italian chain. Six to-go dinners would be her excuse for showing up again, and an assortment of jars from her mother’s pantry would be an apology to Luke for her prank the night before.
After her brief lunch with O’Malley she’d spent the afternoon at the dealership pouring over the fine print of the Praise Production contact. Actually that wasn’t true, because there was no fine print to speak of. The details of the agreement were short and specific, with no confusing clauses designed to hook the church into a bad deal. If Pastor Ken and his board voted to sign the document, she’d have no objections.
In fact, she was beginning to feel a bit guilty for her suspicions. Maybe her worry over the successful release of the Southern Savage was coloring other areas of her life.
The ad campaign that chewed up her entire marketing budget had begun that morning. In three weeks, the one-of-a-kind chopper would be loaded along with a dozen other bikes to begin the long journey to Sturgis, South Dakota. She was a woman invading a man’s business. The future of Savage Cycles as a custom design shop would be riding along with the cargo.
There was no margin for error and no time to fix any. As usual, everything had to be perfect.
She sat the box on a table and pushed the sanctuary door open to peek inside. As he’d done the night before, Luke was quietly sharing some key points of music theory with the boys. Claire shook her head, amazed by the rapt attention on the faces of guys who would find this same lecture from their high school band director to be boring and pointless. When Luke paused to take a sip of his soft drink, she seized the opportunity to make her entrance.
“Anybody hungry?” she called.
“As long as it’s not tacos I could sure use some supper,” Luke responded, and turned with a ready smile so unexpected it rattled her self-control.
“If you’ll settle for chicken parmesan I’ve got you covered.” She propped the door wide, motioned for them to follow and then lifted the carton. Luke sprinted to catch up to her, taking the heavy box without discussion.
Claire nodded her thanks and dropped back to let him take the lead. She admired the solid shoulders beneath the black Praise Productions T-shirt and the trim waist where the shirt tucked loosely into his jeans. She straightened the floral scarf knotted at the neck of her pale yellow summer-weight sweater, and checked the length of her creased white Capri pants.
Glancing up, she locked eyes with Chad, who gave her a conspiratorial thumbs-up. She allowed the smallest smirk but narrowed her eyes in a “Don’t go there” message.
Zach was the first to plop down at a table in the fellowship hall and help himself to a white carry-out container. He popped open the top and the aroma of marinara sauce floated above his meal.
He closed his eyes and sighed with obvious pleasure.
“Miss Claire, will you marry me?” he asked.
The boys snorted with agreeable laughter as they gathered around.
Claire looked at Brian, who was seated across the table from her, his head down over his meal.
“Will you bless the food for us, Brian?”
His eyes flew wide, and he shook his head.
“Mom’s the only one who prays at our house.” Eric explained his brother’s reluctance.
“It’s easy for men once we get some practice.” Luke let the teen off the hook by offering sincere thanks for the meal. As they dug into their Italian carry-out, all conversation ceased. The teenage boys wolfed their food in record time and Luke excused them for the only cell phone check of the night, reminding them to call home. The two adults were left alone in the fellowship hall that felt huge and silent.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” Luke caught her by surprise with the question. Did he somehow know she’d spent the previous night surfing the Net, searching for something that would prove his integrity? Or disprove it.
She paused, the plastic fork loaded with chicken and cheese halfway between the plate and her open mouth. The guy had great timing.
“Could you be more specific?” She stalled.
“Ken told me you’d be one of the folks checking the contract.” He waited.
&
nbsp; “I’m the head of the finance committee. It’s my job to preview all monetary commitments to protect the church.”
He spoke slowly, giving weight to each word as if addressing someone with trouble comprehending English.
“I repeat, what’s the verdict? Did you find the ‘gotcha’ you were lookin’ for?” He leveled her with his narrow gaze and casually bit into a garlic breadstick.
“No, I didn’t find a single ‘gotcha.’” The lightweight sweater was suddenly too warm. “I have no objections to the contract. It seems straightforward, exactly as you discussed it with Pastor Ken, so I gave the council my approval.”
“Gee, thanks,” he muttered. He looked down at his meal and resumed eating. It was perfectly reasonable for a church to have his contract reviewed before signing it, just as he should have done himself years ago. But for some reason it galled him that this woman acted like it was her personal mission to keep an eye on him.
“These are for you.” She’d reached into the carry-out carton and retrieved a brown paper sack. With a clunk, she deposited the bag on the table in front of him. He looked from the sack to her and back again.
“Go ahead,” she insisted, waving her manicured hand toward the offering.
The opened sack revealed the tops of two pint-sized mason jars. He lifted one and then the other and felt a smile stretch across his face.
Jalapeños!
Chapter Five
“They’re the painless kind. My mother grows them herself. She claims over-watering the plants and only using the smoothest peppers keeps them mild.” Claire seemed to watch his face for approval.
“Go ahead, try one,” she encouraged.
Enjoying the worry in her eyes over his acceptance of this peace offering, he thumped the edge of the lid on the table and twisted the cap. The seal broke with a light pop releasing the spicy scent. He tilted the open container her way.
“Ladies first.”
As she might pick a delicate flower, she daintily plucked a stem between her thumb and forefinger. She tapped the dripping vinegar on the edge of the jar, raised the fiery fruit to her mouth and nibbled the edge. Eyes closed, she chewed and seemed to savor her mother’s home-grown delicacy.
“Mmm, Mary Savage isn’t the canning queen of Harris County for nothing.” Claire dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin and grinned.
“Okay, I believe you.” Luke nodded. “Mind if I save these for another occasion?” He replaced the lid with a secure twist.
“As long as you don’t mind if I bring dinner every night and hang around to watch rehearsal.”
“Don’t you really mean hang around to watch me?”
“I beg your pardon.” She squirmed a bit.
“You’re determined to keep an eye on me, aren’t you?” He couldn’t seem to help himself. His professional motives were above reproach. But this lady still wasn’t convinced.
“I admit there’s some truth to that, but not entirely for the reason you think.” She looked away and reached to gather the remnants of their meal. “The fact is you’ll only be here a couple of weeks. These kids are like my family and I already see the hero worship on their faces when they look at you. They’ll need someone to fill the void in their lives when you’re gone. Especially Eric and Brian. Things are rough at that house. I may not be anybody’s first choice but I could be all they have until somebody else steps up.”
She stopped her busy work of wiping down the table and looked him in the eye. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to learn everything I can while you’re here.”
His chest tightened at the brutal honesty of her statement. How many times had he driven away from youngsters who’d begged him to stay longer? Determined to be in control of his own destiny, he’d packed up and moved on. And he’d almost walked away again just a few hours earlier.
He shrugged off the internal nagging and turned the recrimination he deserved on her instead.
“I guess I don’t mind,” he groused. “As a matter of fact, I almost admire that streak of meddling do-gooder in you.”
Her hand brushed the cross around her neck as her brown eyes widened at the barely veiled insult. Would he never learn to control the mouth that had earned him countless backhands from his Naval officer father?
“That was unfair,” Luke muttered a near apology.
“It’s okay. I know I need to disguise it a little better.” She flushed slightly at the admission and he felt like even more of a jerk.
“Speaking of meddling, I can probably find a permanent home for Freeway when you leave. I already have three foster animals but I’ll make room for one more at my little place for a while.”
The woman he’d just offended was offering to help him out. Turning the other cheek, as the Bible taught. Something he’d never mastered. He mentally shrunk to the height of a rotted tree stump and felt about as useful.
The way his mouth pinched into a thin line told Claire she’d struck a nerve. Nice to see the guy cared about something besides music.
“Thanks, but no.” He gave an adamant shake of his head. “I promised Freeway he could stay with me.”
“And you never make a promise…” She paused.
He tilted his head in the same way Tripod and Buck did when they were trying to make sense of her babbling.
“You don’t intend to keep,” she quoted him. “I overheard you tell the boys that last night. I was eavesdropping as any meddling do-gooder worth her salt would.” She winked, a confirmation he was forgiven, then reached for the box of trash.
He waved her hand away, hefted the carton of trash himself, and turned toward the door that led outside to the Dumpster. When he returned she casually confirmed their agreement.
“So you don’t mind if I stick around?”
He deposited quarters in the soda machine and selected two drinks known for their high caffeine content. This would be another long night.
“On two conditions.”
She nodded, ready to go along with just about anything.
“One, don’t interfere. I may seem rough with them sometimes, but there’s always a method to my madness.”
“That’s fair enough. And two?”
He flashed a sheepish grin. “Give me a preview of that new bike of yours.”
“You ride?”
“Never had time to learn. Besides, I’m kinda partial to four wheels between me and the concrete. But you’re obviously a thrill-seeker, right?”
She only answered that question when she had no choice. Otherwise she avoided it like the chicken pox.
“Nope.” She made the admission, turned about-face and headed for the sanctuary.
Claire was impressed by the staff that accompanied Arthur O’Malley’s Monday visit to Savage Cycles. The freelance photographer that she’d envisioned would snap a few photos and be on his way, turned out to be a double camera crew capable of stills and video depending on the opportunity, not to mention a producer to direct the shots. It seemed Today’s Times left nothing to chance, even taping clips for their cable news show as the situation allowed.
A pro before an audience, Claire made easy work of waiting on customers, giving the shop tour and explaining the unique design behind the Southern Savage while O’Malley and two photographers followed her every move.
As she had a thousand times during her public life, she wondered if the man who had soiled her childhood would be among those who’d see her pictures. The thought made her flesh crawl, but at least she didn’t fear he’d do anything to reveal her shame. He’d been silent for well over a decade, and she knew the coward would remain that way for a lifetime.
“I have to ’fess up to something,” Claire confided once she and Art were settled alone in her office for the interview. “I haven’t read the ‘Out of the Spotlight’ feature in several years. When that Olympic triathlete who’d spent most of his life in and out of rehab hospitals was exposed, I decided those stories weren’t for me.”
Art accepted the soft dri
nk she offered him, settled it on the table beside his chair and uncapped a gold monogrammed pen.
“Then why did you agree to do this?”
She glanced down, politely cleared her throat behind her hand and finally met his eyes.
“Money.” She was blunt.
“Ahh, the great motivator.” He nodded.
“I investigated the cost of national advertising. There was no way I could afford the campaign I wanted to do. I’ve sunk most of my budget into newspaper marketing and the rest is earmarked for the Sturgis bike rally.”
“So my arrival two days ago was actually a good thing.” He held his soda aloft in a salute.
She raised her drink and prayed the sinking feeling in her stomach wasn’t an omen she’d live to regret.
The afternoon passed smoothly as Claire shared her journey from teen titles to graduate school to entrepreneurship. She lightly skimmed over her trip to the Miss America finals but took time to dispel the common myth that behind every beauty queen is a stage-struck mama. Mary Savage had been anything but a pushy woman living vicariously through her child. Together they’d strategically selected and prepared for each competition with Claire’s educational goals uppermost in mind. Yes, it had been a life of sacrifice and discipline, but the end justified the means.
The intercom on her desk beeped to signal Justin was transferring an important call. Art glanced down and discretely reviewed his notes as Claire took a moment to confirm her special-order parts would be shipped by overnight express.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” she apologized. “But I’ve been holding my breath for that information. We took a chance on an independent parts distributor. He’s had trouble delivering our order and I refuse to use a foreign vendor.”
“Tell me more about your American-only policy?”
Claire warmed to the subject of American-made products, something she’d focused on during her months in graduate school.
“I take it you won’t have any objection to Today’s Times using your position on this subject as a central theme in the article.”