Women of all sizes and shapes moved in and out of the spa carrying boxes and stacks of fabric that he could only assume were drapes, towels, pillows, and the like.
About the time he took a step backward in retreat, Tara emerged from the spa and paced onto the deck. She spotted Elliot and waved, motioning for him to come over.
Moving across the lawn, amazement still written across his face, he nearly collided with a pretty redhead wearing a tight, low-cut T-shirt with the word HOT printed across the front.
“Oh, sorry hon,” she said with a sexy smile, her lashes batting and her chewing gum popping.
Mumbling an incoherent apology as he steadied his coffee mug, Elliot regrouped and continued.
Tara stepped off the deck and put her arm through his. “Good morning, curious to see your spa?” She smiled, waiting for him to respond.
“Who—who are all these people?” he stuttered.
Seemingly shocked by his reaction to the throng of moving bodies, Tara glanced to the left and right. “Oh, these are our friends. They came to help set up.”
Elliot nodded weakly. In his experience, set-up days for a new spa consisted of moody and emotional designers fluttering their hands and issuing orders to a uniformed group of workers who moved quietly through the space murmuring amongst themselves as they rolled out rugs or shifted furniture to the left or right. The scene spread before him resembled a county fair more than a spa being readied for business.
Tara directed him toward the old woman at the station wagon. “Elliot, I’d like you to meet Winnie,” she said with love in her eyes as she hugged the woman with her other arm. “She is the one responsible for how I turned out, and she runs my remodel and real estate business now.” She motioned toward the seated woman. “And this is Mrs. Middlewood.”
The large woman bobbed her head in greeting.
The old lady, Winnie, wiped her hands on her frilled apron, then smiled broadly, her wrinkled face crinkling, her eyes shining. “So this is Elliot,” she beamed. “I’m so pleased to meet you, and I’m glad you finally made it out to see your handiwork.”
Elliot nodded, sidestepping to dodge a woman who hurried past carrying a stack of wooden crates. She was wearing a colorful caftan and far too much jewelry, and her huge bun bobbed as she walked.
“Oh, Becky,” Tara said, grabbing the woman’s arm. “This is Elliot.”
Adjusting the crates on her hip, Becky grinned. Her chest was heaving from exertion, her cheeks were red and flushed, and her heavily made-up eyes flashed. “Well,” she huffed, “of course he is! Who but Justin’s friend would be so handsome?”
Unable to shake Becky’s hand due to the crates she held, Elliot nodded and stammered, “Nice to meet you.”
The woman grinned wickedly and stepped around him. “Watch out, ladies,” she called out as she stepped onto the deck. “We have a real catch out here!” Her voice faded as she passed through the door of the spa.
Four feminine heads popped around the doorjamb, their eyes round. Just as quickly they disappeared, followed by a cackle of voices––discussing him, Elliot could only assume.
His gaze dropped to Tara at his side and she shrugged. “You’ll get used to it,” she assured him, patting his arm. “Come on in and see what’s going on.”
He followed Tara, steadying his coffee cup with the other hand, carefully stepping around a short, thin man who was shoveling the flowerbed as if the devil himself were prodding him. The man’s eyes bulged and his glasses hung on the tip of his nose.
“That’s Bobby,” Tara said as they stepped into what would become the spa lobby, “and over there are Gloria and Marge.”
Unsure which of the gaggle of women she was referring to, he gripped his coffee cup tighter. The women all bobbed a nod as he passed. The room was just as cluttered as it had been the night before, but now, instead of boxes, the room was filled with piles of items pulled from the boxes, as well as women of all sizes, ages, and types. Flattening against the wall so the redhead could pass, he scanned the room. “Who is in charge here?” he croaked, afraid to ask.
Tara scanned the noisy room. “There she is, come on,” she said, dragging Elliot forward by the elbow.
Elliot shuffled through the piles of supplies as Tara called out to friends. Being a good-sized man, he had to twist and turn to fit through the narrow spaces Tara easily passed. Forced to hold his half-full coffee cup over his head, he muttered apologies for stepping on feet and bumping into women. Finally, they reached the other side of the large room.
Gaping behind him at the sea of supplies and bodies he’d traversed, Elliot was caught off guard when he turned to see the gypsy woman he’d met the day before standing in front of him with a clipboard.
Her eyes were bright, and her riot of black curls were held back from her face with a sparkling headband. She wore a cream-colored frock unlike anything Elliot had ever seen. It was rumpled, loose, and long to her hips, and the top of the bodice was comprised of multiple layers of lace. Over the frock she wore a loose-weave grey jacket that hung open, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Soft netting hung out the bottom of the frock at her hips, and around her neck she wore what he could only categorize as a necklace but was actually a long chain with charms and feathers and scraps of lace shimmering all around it.
He stared at her in shock, not only because of her clothing, but because it was her. In his quiet room the night before, missing the sounds of traffic and sirens, this strange bohemian woman had danced in and out of his scattered dreams. His eyes roamed over her all the way to the floor, taking in her grey leggings and laced boots, unable to miss her very shapely legs, before traveling back up to her face. This gypsy woman was going to run his spa?
Her perturbed expression clearly asked if he was finished gaping.
Feeling quite the clod, he hurried to extend his hand, forgetting momentarily that he held a coffee cup.
Lizzie jumped back, raising the clipboard in order to miss the torrent of black liquid as coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup.
Elliot jerked the cup back and staggered sideways into a pile of boxes, splashing coffee across his slacks and shoes.
“Let me help you,” Lizzie said, tossing her clipboard on a stack of boxes and grabbing a towel from a nearby pile of linens. Bending, she brushed at the coffee on his shins and shoes.
Embarrassed and numb with what he could only describe as uncharacteristically cloddish behavior, Elliot stood like a statue, his coffee cup held at arm’s length, still dripping onto the hardwood floor.
“I don’t think it ruined your shoes.” Lizzie muttered, stepping back to take a look at the damage. Women buzzed around them like frenzied bees, chattering and giggling and wiping up the floor.
Elliot’s gaze caught on the silver formfitting bracelet wrapping up the length of Lizzie’s wrist. The jewelry resembled vines filled with leaves and butterflies, the silver strikingly white against her olive skin.
Tara reached for the dripping coffee mug, but he held it in a death grip. “Elliot?” she said, tugging gently on the cup.
“Oh!” He gasped, jolted back into the moment. “I’m so sorry—I—don’t know what happened.”
“I think I do,” Tara giggled as she turned away with the coffee mug and the dirty towel Lizzie handed her.
Lizzie retrieved her clipboard.
The back of Elliot’s neck burned and he rubbed it furiously. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.
“Don’t worry about it.” Lizzie waved him off. “I was hoping you’d give us a few hours to get things cleaned up before you saw the place.” Her eyes roamed over his shoulder toward the disorganization surrounding them.
Two women carrying a massage table crowded against Elliot, pushing him forward to press into Lizzie, shoving her back against the wall. His eyes large as saucers, Elliot watched the ladies maneuver the bed down the hall. Then his head swiveled back down to meet Lizzie’s gaze. She was much shorter than him, he realized; as a matter of fac
t, she fit under his chin. The faint scent of lilacs radiated from her. “Don’t—don’t you have—people to do this?” he asked.
She squirmed. “These are people.”
Embarrassed once again, he moved back and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “That’s not what I meant, I mean—where is the designer?”
“I’m the designer,” Tara reminded him, having returned unnoticed with his clean coffee mug in her hand.
“I didn’t mean—I—” Elliot stuttered. “I’m sorry, Tara, this is not how I’m used to things being done.”
Tara’s expression softened, and she flashed him a forgiving smile. “I’m sure it’s not, but this is how we do things.”
“Right, right…” he muttered, his eyes darting across the crowded room, one hand still on the back of his neck.
“Come this way,” Tara offered, taking his arm. “I’ll show you the massage room.” As they worked their way around piles of boxes, Tara tossed an amused grin over her shoulder at Lizzie.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Elliot circled the pedicure chair, examining the upholstery.
Lizzie leaned toward Tara with her hand up to hide her words. “Do you think he’ll survive this?”
Tara snorted and shrugged. “Time will tell.”
Lizzie cocked her head to one side, regarding the man. His clothing was impeccable, his hair wavy, styled, and perfect, his looks top notch. No doubt he had an Ivy League college education. Multiple socialite mommas must want to snag the handsome thing for a son-in-law. She bit at one side of her bottom lip. Through the last few years, she’d come to detest his type. They were polished and sexy and smelled amazing, but underneath, the majority of them were conceited jerks. The fact that he was a successful architect turned her off even more. She was glad to be away from these judgmental men, not to mention the continual pressure from her mother to find herself one. Her life was her own now. Finally. The man was damn beautiful though…
Elliot turned, his eyes scanning the crowded room.
Becky sashayed past Tara and Lizzie and up to Elliot’s side. “I’ve always wanted to meet a real live architect,” she flirted, her hand grasping his and lifting it for a long, slow-motion handshake.
Elliot grinned politely, struggling to put a name with the face, then trying in vain to retrieve his hand.
Tara sighed and stepped between them, shouldering Becky out of the way, to speak about her plans for the placement of the furniture.
Lizzie sniffed and lifted her chin in dismissal.
Becky sidled up to Lizzie, nudging her shoulder. “Handsome devil, isn’t he?” the older woman sighed, her fingers twisting in the necklaces heaped on her ample bosom.
Lizzie didn’t comment. She planned to keep her distance. His draw was palpable and her mother would adore him. Once the spa was set up, he’d leave and she would get on with the life she’d planned.
* * *
Thirty minutes later Elliot trudged back toward the house, the empty coffee cup dangling from his fingers. Behind him, flowers and shrubs were springing up all around the spa and the noise level had risen, if that were possible. With a sigh he plodded across the deck by the pool and met Justin at the French doors leading into the kitchen.
“There you are,” Justin greeted him. Then his smile faded. “What’s wrong?”
Elliot pushed past his friend and plunked his coffee cup in the kitchen sink, then turned to lean one hip against the counter. “I am the proverbial duck out of water here, my friend, that is what’s wrong.”
Remembering his own first day in town, Justin grimaced. “Yeah, I’m sure you are.”
With his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, Elliot paced over to gaze out the French doors. “How do you feel about the spa?” he asked, staring blankly across the pool.
“I think it will be just what this place needs.”
“Really?” Elliot turned, his eyes full of doubt. “Because it looks like a madhouse to me.”
Justin smiled. “Oh, no doubt in my mind.”
Elliot rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes roaming the floor, lost in thought. “I guess I should just wait and see—” His gaze rose to Justin. “I’ve always done things a specific way, and I didn’t realize that a whole town would participate.”
“Those ladies have been chomping at the bit for this spa,” Justin assured him. “They’ve been hounding me for months, asking when it will be done. I think they consider it theirs, to be honest.”
“I guess I was picturing a corporate retreat more than a small-town bed and breakfast,” Elliot sighed, shoving his hands back into his pockets.
“I wanted it to be a corporate retreat, if you recall,” Justin replied. “But Tara had other ideas, and I have to admit that it’s been a big success. We love living here, our wedding was here, we fill up every weekend and have some time for ourselves during the week.”
Elliot frowned. “What do you do with all this time and space?”
“I was building a spa.” Justin laughed. “No, seriously though, I do need to get moving on another project. I was going to ask you—”
The doorbell rang. Justin frowned at the disruption, and raised his finger to indicate he’d need a moment to get the door. Elliot trailed curiously after him into the living room.
When Justin opened the front door, a tall, thin, Ichabod Crane of a man stood wringing his hands on the porch. Jutting out a spindly hand, the man attempted a smile, more of a grimace really, and cleared his throat. “Hello, I’m Mr. Chatterton, you must be Mr. Taylor.”
Justin shook the man’s hand and waited for him to continue.
Silence hung awkwardly between them, each waiting for the other to respond.
Mr. Chatterton cleared his throat, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbing, and glanced over his shoulder toward the yard. “I’m—we’ve arrived…” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the “we” to which he’d referred.
For the first time, Justin noticed a school bus pulled up next to the barn, the windows filled with the faces of teenagers.
Justin grappled for something to say. Finally, he tore his shocked gaze from the bus, back to Mr. Chatterton. “I take it I should know why you’re here with a busload of kids?”
The thin man’s countenance fell. “Oh dear, I guess your wife didn’t tell you?”
With the picture becoming clear to Justin, he rocked back on his heels, swallowing a sigh. “Noooo, she didn’t say a word. Would you mind filling me in?”
Elliot leaned his hip on the back of the sofa and watched the exchange, his eyes bright with amusement.
“The high school stage production…?” Mr. Chatterton offered, in hopes that Tara might have told Justin and it had slipped his mind.
Justin shook his head.
Mr. Chatterton looked as if he might explode, his face flushing bright red and his eyes bugging. “I—she—your wife suggested—offered, that is—” his voice cracked “—your barn—that my drama—” The man’s hands rose to flutter nervously as he continued under Justin’s intense gaze. Finally he spit it out. “My class could use your barn for our production of Annie.”
Elliot, who up to this point had been watching with mild interest, jerked a bit in shock, his gaze flying to Justin’s face, which appeared to be frozen. Enthralled with the development, Elliot waited for his friend to respond.
The clock on the mantle ticked four, then five times, as Elliot’s gaze darted between Justin and Mr. Chatterton. The nervous drama teacher glanced over his shoulder toward the school bus, which rocked slightly with kids laughing and shouting and blaring music.
Finally, the slow hissing noise of Justin’s sigh slipped out and his expression lightened. “So let me get this straight,” he said calmly. “Tara said you could use our barn theater for the high school drama production?”
The teacher nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork on a storm-tossed sea.
“Then I suppose that’s the plan,” Justin acknowle
dged solemnly.
Elliot glanced from the teacher to his friend, waiting to see what would happen next.
A look of relief crossed the teacher’s face, and he seemed to pull himself up by the bootstraps. “Okay then, would you mind showing me around?” he asked, his hands waving toward the barn.
“It would be a pleasure,” Justin purred. “Just let me grab the keys, and I’ll meet you down there.”
Elliot watched in amazement as Justin calmly closed the front door and turned back toward him. As Justin passed, Elliot followed on his heels. Never having seen this side of his friend, he was intrigued. “Does this sort of shenanigan happen often?” he asked at the door of the den, one eyebrow raised in question.
Offering no response, Justin opened his desk drawer, withdrew a ring of keys, and shouldered past Elliot on his way out of the room.
Certain that his friend wasn’t as calm as he appeared, Elliot strode across the yard beside Justin, tossing glances in his direction. Kids were piling from the school bus, their laughter and chatter mingling with the cacophony coming from the spa. A horde of teenagers was descending on the property, and a gypsy was running his newest project. How on earth did Justin handle this crazy town, he wondered.
Chapter Four
Lizzie stretched her arm further under the desk to reach the outlet. When the plug was secured, she grunted and crawled backward from under the desk. Rubbing her lower back, she propped a hip against the desk and analyzed the lamp. Her phone dinged on the desk, and she reached down to pick it up. The screen displayed seven missed calls from her mother and now a new text. A frustrated breath puffed from between her pursed lips, and she tossed the phone back onto her desk.
Determined not to get off track, she turned toward the lobby of the spa. The room wasn’t overly large, but the size of the space gave the spa the intimacy she had hoped for.
Hometown Series Box Set Page 59
