“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Emmie asks.
“Beyond words. I have to send these pictures to Bertie. He’ll go nuts over the amount of lighting and wall space.” I snap several pictures of the view as well. My dad is a sucker for a great view.
Emmie laughs, “Can you imagine your dad down here? My word, he wouldn’t know how to act around a bunch of small-town folks.”
“Bertie would actually do a lot better than my mom. All he’d need is enough decent take-out food to keep him alive. Regina would want to refight the Civil War. Which side was Creek Water on, anyway?” I’m surprised my mom didn’t ask me that before I left.
“The southern part of the state sided with the Confederacy, but I’ll have you know that we have two houses right here in town that were part of the Underground Railroad. One of them is even for sale. I bet I could get Beau to take us through if you wanted to see it.”
“I do!” I declare. “I went to camp one summer at a farm in Pennsylvania Dutch country that was part of the Underground Railroad. It was super cool with the secret room dug out in the stable floor and the false walls in the basement.”
Before we walk up the floating staircase to the sleeping loft, the front door opens and Emmie declares, “Speak of the devil, it’s Beau.”
I turn to give Emmie’s cousin a wave of greeting. We haven’t met yet, but I’ve heard so many Beau stories over the years that I feel like I already know him. I’m not at all prepared for the sight that greets me. I imagined Beau would look a lot like Emmie: tall, blond, medium build. What I see instead is a masculine tower of solid, dark, brooding, hunka-hunka burning love. I mean seriously, WOW. My mouth hangs open in a most awkward fashion, and I force it shut before I drool on my shoes or something.
Beau glides by in his perfectly faded jeans that fit like they were made for him—every contour deliciously showcased, like the mice from Cinderella sewed them especially for him. He’s wearing a blue dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, highlighting forearms that are no stranger to physical work. He must not have seen me—maybe because I’ve already climbed two steps to the second floor—because he says to Emmie, “That woman is going to be the death of me.”
“Shelby?” Emmie asks.
“Who else? I swear to God when Cootie was pregnant with her she must have drunk a gallon of vinegar a day. That gal is as ornery as the day is long.”
“Before you tell me what she did, I’d like you to meet my friend Lexi from New York.” Emmie gestures in such a way as to let Beau know that I’m standing behind him.
He turns to say hello, and my jaw drops open at the sheer impact of looking straight into his piercing eyes. I snap my lips shut, realizing my open-mouthed sea bass look might have him wondering if I’m mentally challenged.
Beau’s stare is so intense that I hurry to say, “I’ll go on upstairs so you two can talk.” God knows what personal things he might have said had Emmie not alerted him of my presence. I don’t wait for either of them to reply before dashing up to the sleeping loft. Of course, it’s an open loft, so I can still hear every word they say, but at least the privacy is implied.
“You know the dance the club has right after Thanksgiving?” I hear Beau ask.
Emmie replies, “The Cornucopia Ball? What of it?”
“Cootie has proposed that this year the club members elect a king and queen of the ball and she wants me and Shelby to campaign for it.”
Emmie starts laughing. “No! You know they’ll make you wear a cornucopia on your head if you win.” She’s giggling so hard she can barely catch her breath.
“Can you imagine?” Beau asks. “I’d feel like Henry the Eighth or something. No, sir, I’m not doin’ it.” A moment later he adds, “Shelby thinks it’s because I hate her mother.”
“Well you sort of do,” Emmie tells him. “We all do.”
“I told her, ‘Shelby, it’s not just ’cause I hate your mama, it’s because it’s the darned stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of and I won’t be a party to it.’ I may have also mentioned that I don’t even want to go.”
“Beauregard Frothingham, you cannot skip the ball! My god, Cootie would never let you live it down.”
“Those demented club ladies are not the boss of me, Emmie. I have never danced to their tune, and I’m not gonna start now.”
“I’m guessing you mentioned that to Shelby?”
“I did,” he says. “It did not go well.”
“Ya think? Beau, that dance is the second biggest event the club throws next to the New Years’ Eve gala. They nominate the committee who organizes the following year’s ball the day after the current event. For a whole year, they’re girdle-deep in the trenches, planning it.” Then she calls up the stairs, “Come on down, Lex, I want to show you the rest of the first floor.”
I quickly descend as I was sitting at the top of the staircase blatantly eavesdropping—while trying to catch the breath that was stolen from me when I saw Beau.
When I appear, Emmie’s cousin looks at me and his gorgeous green eyes squint together before he blatantly frowns at me. I come to a quick stop. I’m not sure if it’s because I look deranged from traveling or what, but I get the sense he’s taken an immediate dislike to me.
I step forward to shake his hand, having forgotten I’m still on the second stair and I wind up falling down like a drunken circus clown. Emmie rushes to my side, “Lexi, are you okay?” She reaches to give me a hand up while her cousin does nothing more than stand there and stare at me.
“I’m fine,” I say, hurrying to my feet. “I thought I’d shake Beau’s hand and didn’t realize I was still on the second stair. I must be tired from my flight.” Or, you know, an idiot.
Way to go, Lexi.
“You poor thing,” Emmie says. “Why don’t you come on over here to the couch and sit down. I’ll get you a nice glass of water.”
I do as she suggests, wondering how a glass of cold water is going recoup my dignity after making a fool of myself in front of the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. Beau has not moved an inch, either to aid me or greet me. Emmie passes by him as she walks toward the open-concept kitchen. She punches him in the stomach and says, “Don’t be such a dolt. Be sociable.”
Beau’s feet eventually start to move in my direction. Once he reaches the couch, he stops right in front of me, nearly boring holes through me with the intensity of his gaze. He demands, “Who are you again?”
Chapter 7
“I’m Lexi Blake, Emmie’s friend from New York.” I’m not sure how I manage a full sentence in the presence of the intense Adonis that is my friend’s cousin. Beau has nearly rendered me speechless. But the alternative of not saying anything would be the most uncomfortable silence I’d ever be a party to. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but he’s clearly feeling something strong regarding my existence.
“Emmie’s mentioned you,” he says.
“She’s mentioned you, too,” I reply. He keeps staring at me like I’m a Petri dish and he’s a microscope. I wish Emmie would hurry up and get back in here.
“I expected you to be different,” he offers.
Different, how, I wonder. Like maybe someone who could descend the stairs without falling on her face. Instead of saying that though, I smile like a simpleton and remain mute.
Beau finally moves with panther-like grace and takes a seat in the leather chair across from the couch I’m sitting on. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. After approximately seven hours, or so it seems, he finally asks, “How long are you visitin’ for?”
“Five weeks,” I reply.
“Five weeks? Why so long?” he asks.
I can’t imagine why he cares how long I stay. “I’m between positions at my company, and I need to take my vacation time now, or I’ll lose it.” I don’t go into any of the details of my situation, like homeless or potential joblessness. No sense making myself look worse than I’m apparently already doing.
Silence from the dark, sexy statue in front of me
. Seriously, someone might have chiseled this guy out of granite. I begin to get all fidgety and am on the verge of babbling utter nonsense to fill the air and make less space for tension.
Emmie finally comes to my rescue, saving me from humiliation. She hands me a glass of water and asks, “So, what do you think? Isn’t this the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen?”
I dare to let my gaze flicker to Beau as I answer, “It sure is. I can’t wait to show Bertie the pictures.”
“Who’s Bertie?” Beau demands like my dad is toxic waste or something.
Before I can answer, Emmie says, “Lexi’s boyfriend. He’s an amazing artist.”
My boyfriend? What’s she playing at? This is the same kind of nonsense her family played on her when they told Zach that she had been engaged before her fiancé was killed in friendly fire. To say it complicated things between them would be a huge understatement.
I open my mouth to set the record straight, but Beau scowls at me like I boiled his pet bunny. I remain mute.
“Is this Bertie looking to move to Creek Water, Missouri?” Beau asks.
I shake my head at the same time Emmie says, “You never know. Artists can live anywhere if they’re inspired.”
When I was a kid, Dad would take me to Grand Central Station to sit and become one with the space. He’d say things like, “Isn’t it magnificent?” and “I could live here.” He’d jump up excitedly and show me where he’d put his canvases, then he’d fill in the space around us with assorted imaginary furniture. He even designed a circular bathroom right in the center of the huge waiting room, where the information booth stands. I’d kick back and read my book or people watch in between begging him for money to buy snacks.
Beau reaches into his pocket and pulls something out before gliding over to me like he’s floating on air. He extends his hand in my direction. “Give this to Bertie if he’s interested in seeing the place in person.” I take his offering at the same time he thrusts it forward even farther. For a split second it’s almost like we’re holding hands. The cells in my body respond by doing a jump for joy, like bread popping out of a toaster. I probably look like I’m having a seizure or something.
I quickly take his business card and say, “I will.”
Beau leisurely puts his hand back in his pocket and turns to Emmie. “You going to be up here for long?”
“Only long enough to give Lexi a tour. Zach and I are going to meet with the newspaper in a bit to go over the details of our open house later in the month.”
He nods his head. “Are you coming to dinner tonight at the club with the rest of the family?”
“You betcha. Mama’s been going on about Chef Jarvis’ Beef Wellington; tonight is the first night of the season that he serves it. You and Shelby coming?” she asks.
“Yeah, we’ll be there,” he answers none too enthusiastically. Then he glances at me so quickly I feel like I imagined it. “See you later.” He turns and walks out of the condo.
As soon as he’s gone, Emmie squeals like a seventh grader who’s just bought her first glitter eye shadow. “What was that all about?” she demands.
“What was what all about?” I reply. She clearly picked up on the tension between us, but I don’t want to put any ideas into her head.
“Beau likes you,” she declares.
“I don’t think so, Emmie. He seemed mad that I was here. He was kind of rude, too.”
My friend performs a little dance of joy. “That’s how I know. He’s trying so hard to work things out with Shelby that the last thing he’d want is to be interested in someone else. That would really tick him off.”
“I don’t see how anger and attraction are the same thing. Also, I’m not looking to get involved with anyone at the moment, especially as I don’t know if I’m going to be staying in New York City or moving to Atlanta. Either way, I’m not interested in a long-distance relationship.” That’s what I tell myself anyway. But there’s something about Beau that draws me, almost like recognition of someone I used to know or someone I’m meant to know.
My friend interrupts my thoughts, “You never know what’s waiting right around the corner. Your job is in serious flux, you’ve moved out of the apartment you thought you’d live in forever, and you’re standing here in Creek Water, Missouri. If I’d asked you four months ago if any of those things were in your near future, you would have laughed at me. Right?”
I think of the fortune-teller’s words, your life is going to change in the most unexpected ways as I answer, “You’re right. But at the very minimum, I’m not looking to get involved with a man who’s already taken. I don’t operate that way.”
“Trust me, Beau’s not taken. He and Shelby are mourning the loss of their baby. There’s no handbook on how to do that.”
Yet he still impregnated her, so in my eyes that takes him directly off the market. “Emmie, I’m not going after a man who’s sleeping with another woman, regardless of the fact they haven’t made a declaration.”
Emmie laughs out loud. “Honey, they only slept together once and you can be darn tootin’ they’re not doing that again until they have some kind of understanding. Beau’s not interested in becoming a daddy outside of marriage. In fact, I’d put money on him being a born-again virgin.”
“Was he mad when he found out about Shelby’s pregnancy?” I ask.
Emmie shakes her head. “He didn’t find out about it until right before she miscarried, though. He was shocked for sure, but he wasn’t mad. He told me he made all kinds of deals with God to let the baby live. When it didn’t, I’m pretty sure he felt responsible.”
“Why in the world would he have felt responsible?” I ask.
“I think he figured that if he and Shelby had still been together, he would have known sooner, and could have taken a more active role in making sure she took good care of herself. It’s all nonsense, but they both seem to feel guilty that the baby died. I think they’re sticking together out of some false sense of loyalty.”
“It’s sad they miscarried,” I comment, at a loss for anything else to say.
“It is, but God works in mysterious ways. If that pregnancy had stuck, Beau would have felt obligated to ask Shelby to marry him. I used to think they might be destined for each other, but after seeing them together these last couple of months, I no longer believe that’s the case.”
“Why is that?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound hopeful.
“They snatch and snipe at each other like a couple of bratty second-graders. Beau will ask Shelby if she’s cold and would she like him to fetch her sweater and she snaps back, ‘If I was cold, I’d get my own sweater, Beauregard.’”
Before I can stop myself, I muse that I’d let Beau do all sorts of things for me, the least of which would be something as mundane as bringing me a sweater. Heat rushes to my face as some pretty racy thoughts pop into my head. I say, “Regardless, I’m not looking to get involved romantically right now, and certainly not with someone who is otherwise engaged.”
Emmie gives me a knowing smile and says, “You tell yourself whatever you need to. But I’m telling you, sometimes you don’t get a say.”
Yeah, right. I do get a say and no matter how intoxicatingly attractive I find Beau Frothingham, I am not going to let myself stroll through that mine field. You can put money on it.
Chapter 8
Emmie drops me off at her house before she goes back into town to meet with the newspaper. Her mom, Gracie, fusses over me like I’m another daughter. She leads the way into one of the bedrooms and declares, “This is your room for as long as you like. I mean it. You could move right in here with us forever if you want.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Frothingham,” I say. “That’s very nice of you.”
“Mrs. Frothingham? Honey, I’ve told you a million times to call me Gracie. All my friends do.” Perhaps not a million times, but every time she visited Emmie in New York she did.
“Thank you, Gracie,” I say. My mother never let my frien
ds call her Mrs. Anything, and not just because she wasn’t married. She felt the use of marriage-related titles supported the idea of legalized slavery. As a result, she told me I should call all adults by their first names.
Even with my limited knowledge of the world, I was smart enough to realize that most people enjoy a modicum of respect from a younger generation. They don’t stop to think where the titles originated, to them they represent good manners.
Instead of Mom and Dad, she wanted me to call them Regina and Bertie. She was beyond annoyed when I refused. Needless to say, this is another area where we eventually agreed to disagree.
Gracie opens the closet and says, “If you need any more hangers, let me know. I’m pretty sure they started breedin’ in there, so I put all the extras in the basement.” Then she adds, “Come on out when you get settled. I made us some cookies.”
I take my time putting away my clothes and unpacking my toiletries, enjoying the feeling of settling into the house, before heading to the living room. I’ve been in precious few houses in my lifetime as most people I’ve ever known live in apartments. It doesn’t matter if they own those apartments or not, the bottom line is that they’re generally one of many units in a large building. Houses with lawns are so far outside my wheelhouse I feel like I’m on Mars.
When I join her, I see that Gracie has laid out the promised plate of cookies. Seeing me, she says, “I made coffee. I figure you being from New York and all, you probably drink a lot of coffee.”
I smile at her thoughtfulness, uncertain of her reasoning. “Thank you.”
The Move (The Creek Water Series Book 2) Page 4
