“I merely got … hurried on my way,” he said. “I was leaving anyway, having accomplished my mission.”
Her eyes widened. “Which was?”
“A real good look at Caroline’s legs,” George supplied, swiping at the tray of cinnamon rolls, missing, then staggering back for another, more successful try. “Jase was the one who hurried him on his way,” he explained to Lissa before taking a huge bite. “What a sight! You shoulda been there. One minute Caroline was dancing on a table and Steve here was holding her hand, the next he was running out the door with Jase holding him on tiptoe.”
He gulped down a bite of his roll, turned to Steve and added, “That Jase. He’s one big bruiser, ain’t he? Took guts, asking Caroline to dance, let alone putting her up on a table.” He hiccupped.
“Thanks, George,” Steve said dryly, making a mental note to talk loudly at breakfast and clatter cutlery against china because George was sure to have a very sore head. He owed George for this. Lissa hadn’t needed any more excuses to laugh at him.
“I didn’t put Caroline on the table,” he said, but Lissa merely looked at him pityingly, as if wondering why he’d bothered offering a denial. He wondered, too, and turned to watch the younger men tote their staggering father away. After they’d disappeared at the first landing, he turned back to Lissa, who was studying a series of sketches spread out on the desk and was making notes on one of them. Each page depicted a medieval looking scene, complete with characters in costume.
“What’s this?”
She glanced up. “The plan for this year’s festival.”
“Madrona Madness? Everyone’s talking about it. The woman in the hardware store said it’s your baby.”
“Hardly,” she said. “Lots of people work on it, Debbie included.” At his questioning look, she added, “Deb’s the woman in the hardware store.”
Steve wondered what it would be like to live in a town where everyone knew everyone else and where there was only a hardware store which was also the sporting goods store, the liquor store, the post office and the video rental place.
“I’m just the coordinator,” Lissa said with a shrug. “I take other people’s ideas and put them together.”
He didn’t think for a minute that was all. Besides, he wanted to keep her talking. He liked watching her animated face. “And?” he prompted. “What else?”
Again, she shrugged. “Well, I organize the different booths, assigning spaces, making sure all our exhibitors and vendors have what they need to make the weekend a success. The theme this year is Fairy Tales and Legends.”
He joined her behind the front desk, leaned forward and read some of the titles written in the sketches. “Sherwood Forest?”
“It’s where the archery contest will be run. My dad’s in charge of that, which is great, because it’s the first time in a long while he’s taken an interest in the festival.”
Steve heard happiness bubbling just under the surface of her tone, saw it shining in her eyes. She was close to her father, he surmised, with an unexpected surge of envy. “Why’s that?”
“He had a stroke a couple of years ago and for a long time didn’t take much of an interest in anything. His enthusiasm this year tells me he’s pretty much recovered, which is good because—” She broke off so suddenly he was surprised she didn’t bite her tongue.
“Because?”
She shrugged and looked away. “Because who wants their father to be ill?”
He had to admit she had a point, but something told him there was more to it than what she was willing to divulge. But what the hell. It wasn’t really his business, was it?
“I see this is labeled ‘Jousting Field’,” he said. “But it looks to me like it’s in the water.”
“It is.” She looked up at him, smiling. “We hold it at high tide.”
“How do the horses feel about that?”
Her laughter filled the air. “No horses, just logs and pike-poles. We’re simply calling our usual log rolling contest a jousting tournament in keeping with the theme.”
“Log rolling! Great. I haven’t seen one in ages. Not since I was about so high,” he said, leveling off his hand at waist-height. “I used to think I’d like to try it.”
“We have some pretty good contestants.”
He figured she was warning him off. “And this?” he said, pointing to a semi-circle of rectangles that took up a good portion of the upland area.
“The exhibitors’ booths.” She picked up a sketch that depicted a small, open-fronted building with what looked like a thatched roof. “We won’t use real thatch, of course, just a front with straw showing to give that impression. We want it to look as if we’ve created a marketplace in a castle courtyard.”
“My first impression of Madrona Cove was that it was like stepping into a time-warp.”
She grinned. “A wet one. It rained a lot the first few days you were here, didn’t it?”
He smiled back at her. “Rain doesn’t bother me. I explored. It’s a quaint town, with those little houses perched on crooked little ledges at the water’s edge, connected by all those stairs and boardwalks.”
“I know,” she said. “I love Madrona Cove mostly because it’s changed so little since I was a child—since my great-grandparents first came here, really.”
“It must be nice, having that kind of stability in your life, nothing much changing from your infancy to adulthood. Do you think your great-grandparents would see many differences, if they could come back?”
Her laughter was soft, almost teasing, and left him feeling as if a warm wind had just blown over him. “I hope so,” she said, “or all the Madrona Madness celebrations we’ve had over the years would have been for nothing. During my dad’s childhood, the community earned the money to buy the land where the park is. Since then, we’ve built a new library, a swimming pool and rec center, and now this year—”
She broke off, dropped her gaze to the floor as one of her sketches fluttered down.
He picked it up but didn’t return it. “Now?” he asked, knowing she hadn’t forgotten the subject, but was, for some reason, evading it.
She shrugged. “Whatever this year’s fundraising is used for.”
“Which will be?”
If she’d looked wary a moment ago, now she looked downright trapped. Then, as if making some kind of mental transition, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and met his gaze head-on. “The purpose varies from year to year, but it always benefits the whole community.”
He frowned. What was so difficult about telling me that? Instead of asking, he said, “How are those funds raised?”
“People rent booths to sell things. Visitors come from all over to attend the festival,” she said. “They camp, stay aboard their boats, some even fly in and book hotel or bed-and-breakfast rooms for miles around. The population of Madrona Cove quadruples for that weekend. We really need a bigger park to hold them all. Of course, the more visitors we get, the better we like it since we get a percentage of sales for the community fund, in addition to booth rental.
“Then, we have the community sponsored events. They don’t rent booths, but all their earnings go into the fund. Like the dunk tank, er, I mean the witch dunking stool, and—”
He laughed, interrupting her. “Witch dunking stool?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He liked the sparkle in her eyes. A second later he didn’t like the way she was eyeing him, though, as if sizing him up to see what kind of splash he’d make. “It’s what we’re calling it this year, in keeping with the Medieval theme.”
“Who gets dunked?”
“Anyone who volunteers to get soaked fully clothed.”
“You have people selling things, you have contests, you have games. I’ve got a great idea. Will you rent me a booth?”
A frown creased her brows. “What for?”
He dropped to one knee before her. “I’m thinking of running a Cinderella search.”
She stared down
at him and clutched the edge of the desk as he took her warm bare foot in both hands. Her eyes widened. “Really? And what would that entail?”
He stroked his finger from her heel to her toes. It was a very appealing foot. Funny, he’d never taken much notice of feet before. But then, he was a leg-man, and while feet belonged on legs, until this week, he hadn’t spent much time thinking about them. Or looking at them. Or touching them. But he wanted, quite badly, to stroke Lissa’s foot, cuddle it on his lap, play with her pink toes, kiss the arch and—
He stopped himself, knowing what painful and unrelieved physical response he was going to suffer if he didn’t. “Discovering my secret princess,” he said
“Seems to me,” she retorted, “we’ve had this conversation before. So I suggest you get up off your knees before you do something really dumb, like proposing. That’s what happened the last time a man got on his knees in front of me.”
“And did you accept?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly.
“What do you think?” she said. “I was twenty years old. The man was on his knees, for heaven’s sake. He had a diamond ring in a little blue box. Of course I accepted.”
He had to laugh, and suddenly a tension he hadn’t been fully aware of, snapped. She seemed to have a knack for doing that to him. Feeling stupid, he hauled himself back to his feet. “Oh, well, yes, I can see how that would force an acceptance out of you.”
He ran a thumb over her ringless fingers. Touching Lissa Wilkins was like walking on hot coals. Because he didn’t believe for one second he could do it without getting burned, he likely would.
“What happened to him?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said, slipping her hand free. “We were engaged for something like three months. He liked the chase and the proposal so much he did it three or four times a year with three or four different women. He finally got all tangled up with too many fiancées and ended up with none.”
“You don’t seem terribly heartbroken.”
She flicked him with a teasing glance. “At the time, I was devastated—or thought I was. But proposals and engagements and breakups just seemed to keep happening to me over and over again until I got used to it. I got myself engaged a total of six times between the ages of twenty and thirty. Now, I know better.”
So that meant she wasn’t engaged to the man whose lap she’d sat on.
“What?” he said. “You mean if a guy ever proposes again, he gets an automatic No? Is that what you’d say if I proposed?”
Her laughter, warm and musical, seemed to wash over him like the touch of soft, stroking fingers. “I’d probably ask you if another trunk had fallen on your head.”
“No trunk ever fell on my head,” he reminded her, unable to resist stroking her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “But I seem to be going a little bit crazy anyway. At least where you’re concerned. I have a feeling that if I hang around here too long I just might find myself doing exactly that.”
Her eyes widened. “Exactly what?”
“Proposing to you.”
He couldn’t tell who his statement surprised more, her … or himself.
“Then I suggest you don’t hang around too long.” Giving him the cold shoulder, Lissa exited into the back office. He shrugged, wondering what had gotten into him.
When he got back to his room, all his clothes were back neatly on the right of the closet and every one of his dresser drawers was open. As he watched, they closed silently, one by one. She’s searching for that earring … A chill swept over his body.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” he said, but the words echoed hollowly in the room. Did he, or did he not, hear a hint of faint, faraway laughter? Or maybe heartbroken sobs?
Not. Absolutely, positively not.
Chapter Four
“No way. Forget it!” Lissa stood with her hands on her hips surveying the gathering of committee members in her father’s small trailer. “That’s Ginny’s job!”
“But he doesn’t even like me,” Ginny said.
“That’s crazy, Men always like you!”
“Phil didn’t.”
“I thought you divorced him, not he you.”
“Sure. But I divorced him because he didn’t like me. He wanted me to be something I wasn’t cut out to be—a corporate wife. Never marry a lawyer, Lissa.”
“Don’t worry. I have no intention of marrying anyone.”
“Girls, girls, knock it off.” Rosa thumped on the table with the bottom of her empty glass. “Nobody’s asking you to marry the man, Liss, just, well, like your dad said, sort of make up to him, be nice. Keep him busy, off balance, and out of his room so the guys can do things.”
“What things?” Lissa asked. “Aren’t mysteriously opening and closing drawers enough? And when Larry gets the CD player properly positioned in the attic—by the way, Larry, thank you for offering to do that. No way was I going up there again with the spiders. Anyway, when he gets them up and running again, Mr. Jackson will take one night of ghostly wails and be out of here.”
“I don’t think so.” Reggie shook his leonine head and folded his big, work-worn hands around his coffee mug. “I talked to him today and he doesn’t come across like a guy who scares easy. And he doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
“So what good is it going to do, doing stuff in his room?” Lissa asked in exasperation.
“One of these nights,” Reggie said, grinning, “his bed just might collapse. Once my ankle’s better, there’s all sorts of things I can do to earn my keep as handyman.”
“Not on your life!” Lissa’s father said vehemently. “You harm that bed, mister, and you’re in big trouble!” He really loved his grandparents’ old furniture and couldn’t understand why everyone else, Lissa included, didn’t see each piece as the valuable artifact he did.
“I was joking, Frank,” Reggie said patiently.
“Good thing, too,” Lissa said, “Or Steve Jackson would be calling downstairs for me to do something about it.”
“Which you wouldn’t be able to,” Reggie said. Reggie liked to think, and might have been right, that without his skills, the inn would have long since disintegrated.
“Hmm.” Lissa considered it. “Maybe we should collapse his bed, then. I’ve already wrecked his first room. The lack of a bed in his second one might force him to pack up and leave.”
“Maybe so,” her dad replied, “but our purpose will be better served by keeping him here and making his stay uncomfortable.”
How? Lissa was about to ask, when Rosa broke in, taking the idea one step further. “I could serve him the worst breakfasts I can come up with. Burned bacon, cold toast, watery eggs. And Jock,” she went on, grinning at the red-headed dinner cook, “if you’d make a point of ruining his dinners, that would help. Lunch, being buffet, we can’t do much about.”
“We have to look at the big picture here,” Frank interjected. “We have to accept the fact that we might fail. If we do, do we want Jackson Resorts Incorporated mad at the whole staff? Do we want Steve Jackson, in particular, mad at us? No,” he answered for himself. “Because if we don’t come up with the money this year, and our bid is lost, we might need him on our side. Who better to influence Jackson Senior than Jackson Junior?”
“I guess you have a point,” Reggie admitted, scratching his head. “If we do lose out, we don’t want to ruin our only chances of getting jobs in whatever kind of place Jackson Resorts puts in here.”
“Do you honestly believe for one minute that he’d hire locals if he puts in a big, splashy modern resort?” Lissa asked. “I think we can forget that. Historically, it hasn’t been done.”
“Which is why, since we’ve been forewarned, we have an advantage no one else had,” her father argued. “And getting Steve Jackson on our side can only add to that advantage. Lissa, you’re the one who has the most to gain in this. After all, it’s your heritage we’re talking about here. Inn keeping’s in your blood. If the town owns the inn, when I r
etire for good, you can become manager. Right, everyone?”
Everyone nodded.
Lissa bit back a groan. Her father knew perfectly well Madrona Inn wasn’t a heritage she wanted any more than she wanted her great-grandparents’ musty old junk. He knew, too, that she had other plans for her life.
“It’s your heritage, Dad, not mine;” she said firmly. “And that’s why we’re not going to fail. I know how much you want it, and I’m sure this summer’s festival will put us over the top. When the town owns the inn, and appoints you manager again, we’ll be home free.”
“Then you’ll do it?” he said, clearly seeing her words as capitulation. “I mean, keep Steve Jackson sweet and in a good mood? Make him like us as a community?”
“No,” she said, jumping to her feet. “Oh, I’ll be polite, I’ll be friendly, the same as I would with any other guest, but that’s as far as it goes. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m out of here.”
She was tired from the sleep she’d lost the night before, thanks to Steve Jackson. She had a million things to do with the festival only two weeks away, and she wouldn’t have time to keep him occupied.
Nor did she have the inclination. The sooner everyone believed that, the better off she’d be.
But, one of the hardest parts, she realized, might be convincing herself …
Hell and damnation! There they went again, his dresser drawers, opening and closing, one after the other. And just when they settled down, the clothes in his closet began their nightly migration. That, Steve knew, could go on for the better part of an hour. Over the past two nights, he’d discovered that even if he left his hangers where he thought they wanted to be, within minutes, they’d change their minds. Jeez! What was he thinking? Hangers don’t have minds. And if this kept up many more nights, he wouldn’t have one, either. He was even beginning to hope there was a ghost, after all. At least then he’d have an explanation for all this.
He sighed with frustration as the hangers started to shake, rattle and slide.
He needed some peace and quiet and rest. He certainly wasn’t going to get it here in his room listening to hangers slide back and forth on the closet rod. He got out of bed, dressed and headed downstairs.
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