by Jo McNally
Golden eyes and mahogany hair spun through his mind. Yeah, he needed the help, but what help could Whitney possibly be when she didn’t know anything about the business? He sure as hell didn’t have time to teach her.
The bar was filling up. Todd was checking IDs at the door the best he could, but Luke started doing his own checking when orders were placed. The last thing they needed was to get slapped for serving to minors. He checked the driver’s license of a young blond before handing over a flight of party shots, then headed down to the far end of the bar to take orders.
He came to an abrupt halt halfway there. Whitney Foster was sitting at the bar, head bobbing to the band’s halfway decent cover of a Bruno Mars song. Evie Rosario turned, her glass held high.
“Can I get a refill? Oh, hey, Luke! How are you?”
Ignoring the crazy train of emotions going across Whitney’s face, he nodded at yet another of his sister Jessie’s high school classmates. He should get her home for a reunion.
“Hey, Evie. Whatcha drinkin’?”
“Corona Light. And my friend here wants a...a gin and tonic, right, Whitney? Luke, this is Whit—oh, wait.” Evie’s eyes went wide. “I don’t need to introduce you two—you’re working together at Helen’s place, right?”
Luke’s “Not exactly” was said simultaneously with Whitney’s “Yes.”
Evie laughed. “O-kay. I’m gonna leave that one alone. Luke, you be a good boy and fetch us our drinks. And a plate of curly fries to munch on, too. I’m starving. Whitney wanted to know how to have a good time in Rendezvous Falls.”
As she said it, the band ripped into a shaky cover of a Linkin Park hit. The driving drum beat and the chops on the lead guitarist were the only thing keeping the youthful crowd hooked. The dance floor filled with girls in crop tops and short skirts, hands high in the air, while the country boys stood along the far wall and watched, too cool to admit they had no clue how to dance to this stuff.
Whitney wanted to know how to have a good time...
None of his business. But the words rattled around in his head until Evie slapped the bar with her hand.
“Yo! Luke! Hungry, thirsty women here!”
“Yeah, okay. Be right back.”
The two women talked nonstop while they drank. Evie was way ahead of Whitney, who was pacing herself. Smart girl. He headed back to the kitchen, dodging Bridget’s outrage—and the spatula she threw—when he grabbed a plate piled high with curly fries intended for someone else.
Evie looked up in surprise when he set it in front of Whitney. “That was fast.”
He met Whitney’s gaze. “I didn’t want you drinking on an empty stomach.”
Her cheeks flushed deep red, and her jaw had a dangerous set to it.
“How considerate, Luke. Thank you.”
The fire in her eyes made it clear she was mentally putting a very different word in front of “you.”
He chuckled. “You’re welcome, Miss Foster. Are you planning on helping yourself... I mean, helping out in the tasting room again this weekend?”
Evie let out a dramatic groan, missing the look of death Whitney was giving him. “I am so jealous! I get leftover donuts and french fries at the end of my shift at the diner, which is the last thing I need.” She patted her hips. “But you guys? You get leftover wine at the end of the day!”
Whitney rushed to speak before he did, probably anticipating where he was going. She came in hot, clearly a scorched-earth kind of fighter. He smiled to himself. He didn’t expect anything less.
“If I were going to do any ‘helping out’ tomorrow, it would be in the parking lot, where a mountain of stone was delivered days ago.”
He hoped to get the siding repaired on the carriage house next week so he could paint. After he finished Lena’s patio. “I can’t spread stone when there are customers there.”
“We don’t have customers on weekdays. As if the place doesn’t look ragged enough—”
“Ragged?” She’d pushed the wrong damn button. He leaned across the bar, but she didn’t flinch. “What about that so-called garden that’s overgrown up at the house? Or the dead hanging baskets on the porch? You’ve been here for weeks and haven’t lifted a finger to do anything about that, have you?”
Her eyes went wide. “I don’t know anything about gardening!”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t know anything about parking lots, either, but it doesn’t stop you from having opinions, does it?”
She started to point a finger at him when a new voice, gentle but firm, broke into the conversation.
“Luke, can I trouble you for a spot o’ Guinness, lad?”
“Father Joe...” Luke closed his eyes in self-censure, remembering the priest didn’t like being “outed” in public if he wasn’t wearing his collar. Tonight he was wearing a rugby shirt and jeans. “Of course, Joe. Gimme a minute—”
“Ah, Luke, I’ve worked up a powerful thirst.” Joe’s brogue made the word sound like “turst.” The father gave a pointed look at the way Luke was still leaning toward Whitney. “You wouldn’t want me going wid’out, would you?”
Luke straightened. Message received. “Of course not, Joe. Let me get that draft right now.” He turned to the two women. “Excuse me, ladies. Duty calls.”
Joe’s arrival had effectively ended the conversation. Catholic or not, the man didn’t abide strife in his parish. But Whitney didn’t know that. Still raring to go, she folded her arms on her chest.
“Funny how you pay attention to your duties at this job, but not—”
“Evening, ladies,” Father Joe interrupted, his voice smooth and his accent heavier than ever. “Evie, love, it’s good t’see you. Tell your mum we missed her at Mass last week. And I don’t t’ink I’ve had the pleasure.” He turned to Whitney. “I’m Father Joseph Brennan, but please call me Joe tonight.” He leaned in and spoke in a stage whisper. “People act funny if they know they’re hanging out with a priest.”
Whitney’s eyes went soft. Father Joe’s Irish charm had won again. She took his hand. “I’m Whitney Foster, Fath... I mean, Joe. I’m—”
“Ah, yes,” Joe said. “You’re Helen’s niece from Chicago, the accountant here to help her out this summer. It’s grand t’meet you.”
Luke shook his head as he waited for the dark stout to settle in the glass before he finished the pour. He was no longer surprised by how much information Joe knew. It wasn’t just the confessional that fed him news—the man had a knack for getting people to talk to him. Or the Good Man Upstairs was sharing it with him in dreams. Whitney, of course, assumed Luke had talked. He could see it in the way her eyes sliced his direction before she nodded at Joe.
“Yes, that’s right, Joe. Things are a bit of a mess there and I plan on finding out why.”
Luke grunted, then slid a perfect pint of Guinness to Joe. He had a dozen good comebacks for her, but he wasn’t going there with the good priest in earshot. He didn’t need the lecture the next time he went to mow the lawn at the rectory.
Whitney studied him with a frown, as if waiting for the response she’d poked him for. Evie finally distracted her, pointing at a some twenty-year-olds grinding together on the dance floor. Everyone’s phones were up, recording the pub porn to gather internet clicks. Joe didn’t even look. Whatever everyone else felt they had to capture on video would hold no interest for him. He watched Luke pouring drinks for a few minutes before speaking up.
“Helen came to Mass on Sunday. Did you have anything to do with that?”
Luke shook his head. “I was as surprised as you were. But she’s been doing better lately, so maybe she figured it’s time. Maybe she forgave you for—”
Joe chuckled. “For not being Father Lorenzo?”
Luke poured another flight of shots. They were a hot seller tonight. After he made change, he turned back to Joe. The man was in his
fifties, but looked ten years younger. Short and lean, he was often spotted on his high-tech racing bike, peddling up and down the hills around town. Sandy hair fell across Joe’s forehead, and his blue eyes were always bright with laughter and wisdom. He was basically impossible not to like.
“I never understood why Helen blamed you for that.”
Joe shrugged. “I was the new young buck who showed up after her husband died. The priest they knew and loved for years was retired and gone. She resented me for being one more change in her life. I told you she’d come around.” The priest winked. “I think I won that bet, boy-o.”
When Helen was at her lowest, Luke told Joe he didn’t think she’d ever go back to church. Hell, she told him she wouldn’t. But Joe had been unconcerned when they’d made their friendly wager. Luke didn’t need another task on his to-do list, but a bet was a bet. And you didn’t renege on a priest. As usual, Joe read his mind.
“Those hedges have been overgrown for years, Luke. Another few months won’t hurt.”
“Thanks, Joe, but pruning in the fall is a bad idea. I’ll get it done. No problem.” Yeah, sure. No problem. Maybe he could use floodlights and trim hedges at night.
A burst of female laughter brought his eyes back to Evie and Whitney. They were watching the dance floor antics, and Evie was pointing to someone and shaking her head. Luke followed her finger. Doug Canfield. Yeah, he was definitely a no-go. Doug had two DUIs and a misdemeanor assault conviction for punching a bouncer at a bar in Watkins Glen. The guy was a hot mess on a downward spiral.
Todd was already heading toward Doug. Luke would join in if needed, but there was bad blood between the Canfields and the Rutledges. He didn’t want to stir that up if he could avoid it. After a brief, angry exchange, Doug and his buddies headed out the front door. Evie was directing Whitney’s attention elsewhere—in the direction of Owen Isaacs. Damn it. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with Owen. He was a good, hardworking dairy farmer. Luke started to smile. Owen was boring as hell. Whitney would eat him alive.
His smile faded. She could do the same to him if he wasn’t careful. Instead of feeling concerned about it, he felt oddly...energized. He was more than ready for whatever Whitney Foster was going to throw at him. At least he hoped he was.
CHAPTER NINE
HELEN HAD NO idea how she was going to tell Whitney about these extra boxes of bank statements and other mail. She’d forgotten all about stuffing them in her bedroom closet months ago. She lifted the lid on one, then quickly closed it again. Confronting the mistakes she’d made was so damn painful.
After watching Whitney sort and resort papers in the dining room for days on end, Helen was overwhelmed with guilt. If her niece could work that hard every day, it was time for Helen to do the same. She’d started this week by sorting through the magazines and catalogs that lined the walls of the dining room. After an afternoon spent trying to determine what was so important in each one that she’d saved it, she realized there was no acceptable answer to the question. They all had to go.
Luke hadn’t said a word when she asked him to remove everything from the chairs and floors downstairs. He’d boxed it all in the back of his truck and hauled it to the county recycling center. Then she’d cleaned and reorganized the living room. She’d flipped the cushions on the sofa—one was pancaked from where she’d spent months after Tony’s death sitting and staring at the television with no idea what she was watching. At one point during her darkest days, there’d been a pile of crumpled tissues and empty tissue boxes as high as the arm of the sofa.
“Aunt Helen? Are you in here?” Whitney appeared in the doorway to the bedroom.
Helen scooted back out of the closet and closed the door. There was no need to tell Whitney about the additional paperwork in those boxes right this very minute. It could wait. And besides, she hadn’t finished cleaning the rest of the bedroom. She should do that first, in case there were any more surprises in here. Made perfect sense, right? She turned to smile at Whitney.
“Yes. I’m here!”
“Don’t you have your friends coming over tonight? It’s almost six o’clock.”
“Oh, shitcakes, I didn’t realize it was that late!” She was still in her dusty shorts and T-shirt. The event room was set up for the book club, but she needed to get the food out there and open the wine. “Whitney, can you preheat the oven for me? Those little quiches just need to be warmed up. I’m going to shower and change real quick.” She wiped her brow. “This cleaning business is exhausting!”
Whitney gave her a surprise hug. “Aunt Helen, you don’t have to do it all at once. Pace yourself.”
Helen laughed. “I guess you’re right. After all, it took me months to create this mess.” Her laughter faded, and she took both of Whitney’s hands in hers. “I don’t know what I would have done without you coming home this summer. There’s no way I could have tackled that paperwork...”
“I haven’t exactly tackled it yet,” Whitney sighed. “It feels like I’m just shuffling things from place to place without accomplishing anything. There’s something missing, but I can’t figure out where the gap is.”
Helen cringed, glancing at the closet door, but Whitney was already walking away, still talking. “I won’t give up, though. And Helen...” She turned at the doorway. “One day we need to talk about what happened after Tony died. I need to know you can handle the books after I go.”
“Sure, sure. But you’ve been working too hard. You came here to relax and I ruined that for you.”
When Whitney announced she wanted to learn more about the wine business, she hadn’t been kidding. When she wasn’t pouring over wine magazines and websites, she was grilling Helen on everything from the types of grapes they were growing to the layout of the tasting room. Helen tried to steer her toward working with Luke, since he was the real expert. But the two of them were still like fire and gasoline.
“You didn’t ruin anything, Helen.” Whitney reached out and tamed a wayward lock of Helen’s hair. “I’m used to working sixty-hour weeks. Go get ready for your friends. I’m not much of a chef, but I think I can handle warming up appetizers.”
When the book club arrived forty-five minutes later, Helen had managed to scrape the burnt sections from the mini quiches, salvaging most of them, even if they didn’t look very pretty. Whitney saying she wasn’t much of a chef was a vast understatement. It was hardly a surprise with the upbringing she had—her mother was always on the road or singing in some bar at night, so Whitney had been left with babysitters and frozen meals. The girl could operate a microwave and a can opener, but that was about her limit in the kitchen. Helen was wondering how she could help her and almost missed what Rick was saying.
“So you and Vickie tried your hand at matchmaking, even after we agreed not to?”
Vickie rolled her eyes. “You agreed not to, but there wasn’t a vote or anything. And it was too perfect, with Mark coming back to town and being an accountant and all.”
“And how did that work out?”
Helen met Vickie’s look from across the table. When they’d tiptoed down to the carriage house that afternoon and heard the happy laughter inside, they’d congratulated themselves on a successful match. They’d had no idea the two knuckleheads had decided to raid the tasting counter. Somehow, Mark and Whitney figured out their scheme. She turned to Rick and smiled.
“They became friends, so that’s something. But there wasn’t any romantic spark there.”
Cecile sighed. “Ah, yes. You have to have that spark. That’s where the magic comes from. When Charlie and I met forty-two years ago, those sparks were like fireworks going off. We knew right away—”
“There’s no such thing as love-at-first-sight,” Rick scoffed. “And you can’t convince me otherwise, no matter how many romances you try to make us read.”
Cecile didn’t lose her dreamy smile. “I didn’t say anything ab
out love. That came later. But trust me, sparks can happen in the blink of an eye. Haven’t you ever looked at another guy and wished you could whisk him away to...do...whatever?”
Rick shifted in his chair, suddenly having a great deal of interest in the paperback in his hands. Jayla watched him with a sharply arched brow. She wasn’t about to let him ignore the question.
“Well, Rick? Have you ever seen a man and felt instant sparks?”
“Yeah, okay. Attraction can happen fast, but that doesn’t mean anything if it isn’t followed by an emotional connection. Without that, it’s just a fun backseat romp that leaves you feeling empty after.”
Lena burst out laughing. “A ‘backseat romp’? Where are you meeting people, Rick? The Shamrock?”
“The Purple Shamrock isn’t my kind of crowd.” Rick shook off whatever memory had made him melancholy. “But I will say Patrick’s daughter can really cook.”
Vickie shook her head, frowning at the crispy quiche in her hand. “We’re veering off course here. The idea is to find someone for Whitney. Mark wasn’t a disaster.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping for dramatic effect. “Besides, I hear Mark only has eyes for his high school flame, Evie Rosario. His grandmother is fit to be tied. How were we supposed to know?”
“I still say this is a bad idea,” Rick said, turning to Helen. “Do you honestly think your niece needs us meddling in her love life?”
Helen had been against it at first, but now... Whitney was working so hard, and she hardly ever got out of the house, except for the time she was spending with—interestingly enough—Evie Rosario.
“Whitney wasn’t happy about the Mark situation, but her main complaint was that it was what she called a ‘double blind’ blind date. Neither party knew what was happening beforehand and it was...a bit much.” Whitney had been furious, but Helen didn’t want to give Rick the satisfaction of hearing that. “I think I might be able to convince her to meet some nice young men as friends, as long as we don’t trick her into it. But how do people meet up these days?”
