Treasure Me

by Christine Nolfi

  “I’ll tell Finney.” Delia jerked her chin toward the swinging door, and the kitchen beyond. “She’s the cook—a real nice woman as long as you don’t piss her off. She’ll ask for references.”

  “What kind?”

  “The usual. Your last three places of employment, and the names of everyone you know in town.” The waitress misread the horror on Birdie’s face and quickly added, “It’s not a big deal. Use me as a reference. We’ll tell Finney you’re a friend of the family.”

  The offer would’ve been suspect if it weren’t for Delia’s wide-eyed cheer. Stuck in this desolate town, surrounded by snow-covered cornfields, the waitress had probably lost half of her girlfriends to marriage and the rest to civilization. Yet the offer wasn’t enough to put Birdie in the clear. She didn’t have anything resembling an employment history. Stumped, she bit into her toast to stall for time.

  When the silence grew daunting, she said, “My job history is a little sketchy.” Delia puffed out her lower lip in what appeared to be a show of empathy. Emboldened, Birdie corralled her scattered thoughts and devised a plausible story. “I’ve been traveling. In Europe. I worked in a shoe store in London and a travel agency in Rome. Short gigs, but they paid for my Eurail pass.”

  Delia fiddled around inside her blouse and withdrew a stick of gum from her bra. “Sweet. I’d love to see Europe.”

  “I’ll tell you everything once I’m settled in.” She sensed triumph as the young woman’s expression lit up. “I mean, Finney won’t mind calling overseas to check my references, will she?”

  “She’d make me walk to London to check you out before she’d pay for an overseas call.”

  “Then I guess I’m screwed.”

  “No, no—we’ll think of something!” Delia raked her fingers through her hair. “There must be a way to get around the references.”

  Birdie was about to wholeheartedly agree.

  Her optimism died when, from behind, a man said, “Delia, don’t bother. You can’t lease the apartment to her. I’m taking it.”

  Chapter 3

  The angel in the army jacket swung around on her barstool and gave Hugh a look that needed no interpretation. Pure unadulterated loathing. He was out to steal her new digs in town. Evidently, she wasn’t pleased.

  Which was her tough luck. He needed a base of operations. It might take weeks to write an exposé about Anthony Perini’s misuse of the money pouring into the websites for his daughter’s medical bills. Those bills no longer existed. The dirt Hugh planned to dig up would make for journalistic greatness. Best of all, he’d get reinstated at the Akron Register.

  He shrugged off her ire when Finney Smith, who’d presumably heard his voice, barreled from the kitchen and hurried around the counter.

  “Hugh! What are you doing here?” The cook caught him in a bear hug, greasy apron and all. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? Are you writing another article about Blossom? Oh, wait until Mary and Anthony find out you’re back!”

  Her excitement barely registered. The angel, with her white-blonde hair and eyes he’d swear were violet, hadn’t stopped glaring at him. Then she spoke.

  “Wait a second. You’re that Hugh? The journalist from the Akron newspaper?”

  Of course she knew who he was. The article he’d written about Blossom had been circulated far and wide. But the angel wasn’t a local. He’d met nearly everyone in town last summer when he wrote the article. Not this woman. She was stunning, if bizarrely dressed in a combat coat that must have pulled duty in WWII. She was the kind of long-legged beauty whose thighs could put a man in a hip-hugging lock sure to send him into bliss.

  You need to give your gonads a rest, remember?

  “Hugh Shaeffer.” He stuck out his hand, which she ignored. “I’m sorry about taking the apartment.”

  “You’re not sorry. You look pleased, asshole.”

  “Nice mouth.” Nice lips, actually—her language he could do without.

  “Glad you like it.” She turned back to Delia, who was snapping her gum and watching their verbal tussle. “He can’t have the apartment. It’s mine.”

  He turned to Finney and launched into a smooth series of lies. “Listen, I promised my editor I’d stay in Liberty until the feature’s written. I’m doing a nice follow-up on Blossom.”

  Finney planted her hands on her hips. “Whatever you need, Hugh. Mary has no use for the apartment. She moved in with Anthony right before they left for their honeymoon.”

  “Honeymoon… Mary and Anthony?” If Anthony was AWOL, Hugh couldn’t grill him about the websites until he returned. “When did they get married?”

  “Last Sunday. Damn if we all weren’t surprised.”

  “Where’s Blossom?”

  “Meade is staying with her at the house. I don’t think you’ve met Meade.” Finney grunted. “She’s a real piece of work, all pomp and circumstance. The queen of cosmetics—she owns a company in Beachwood. I’m hoping Blossom will torture her and hide the evidence. I love that child.”

  Hugh barely heard the comment. The commando angel was digging bills out of her pocket in an attractive and growing state of agitation. “I’m taking the apartment,” she announced, sorting the cash. “Delia, let me give you the rent.”

  Which was when Hugh realized she wasn’t carrying a purse. He’d never before seen a woman without her everyday gear—a purse slung over her shoulder or a bag so large it could hold his golf clubs. And there was something else, something about her that put his inner antenna on alert. He got the sudden premonition, the one that always started his thoughts whirling. There’s a story here.

  While he tried to get a handle on what had sent up his antennae, Delia approached the cook. “Finney, she was here first. This isn’t right.”

  The angel hopped off her barstool. “Not right at all!” She softened her tone as she cornered Finney. “Here’s my rent—and an extra fifty dollars. No. Make it a hundred.” She thrust the wad of bills into the cook’s eager fist.

  Hugh began perspiring when Finney stared at the money in a sort of rapture. Hell, if they got into a bidding war, he’d be broke when he did move in upstairs.

  “I’ll pay two hundred over the asking price,” he said.

  “Then I’ll pay three hundred.”

  Finney whistled. “Oh, my. Now I’m in a real quandary.”

  Delia tugged on her sleeve. “Uh, Finney… ”

  “Not now! I’m working through my quandary.”

  The waitress tugged harder. “We’ve been running the ‘Help Wanted’ ad for three weeks now, haven’t we? The only applicants have been teenagers. You’ve turned them all away.” She winked at the flustered commando. “Her references are good as gold. She’s an old friend of the family. I’ve known her forever.”

  The cook ran her fingers through her brassy blonde hair. “It’s true I can’t afford another hormonal teenager. All they do is break dishes and flirt with the customers.” Finney sized up the angel. “I suppose you’re old enough to be responsible, miss. I’ll let you share the apartment with Hugh if you promise there’ll be no misbehaving… and if you’ll wait tables.”

  Hugh shouldered his way between the cook and Delia. “Hold on. I didn’t agree to share the apartment.” Until he was reinstated at the Akron Register, he was done with women. The commando angel was beautiful and hostile, a perverse combination sure to test his self control. “You can’t do this. I need the apartment.”

  “And I have a business to run. I need a waitress to help Delia and that fool Ethel Lynn.” Finney planted her hands on her hips and regarded the woman. “Well, miss? Do we have a deal?”

  The angel shrank back as if she’d seen a rat scuttle past. “You mean I’d be waiting on people. Taking orders and stuff?”

  Delia nodded eagerly. “We could sure use the help.”

  Hugh almost pitied her when she opened her mouth then closed it again. Finney, who also seemed to sense her distress, said, “We’ve been shorthanded for months. And
Hugh’s a big reporter so he gets first dibs on the apartment. He made our town famous, didn’t he? Now, I can make him share the place with you. It’s unorthodox, but seeing the two of you don’t particularly get along I’m sure there won’t be any shenanigans. Even so, if you can’t wait tables you’ll have to find somewhere else to stay.”

  The woman chewed on her lower lip. “I guess I can help you out,” she finally said.

  “How many hours a week do you want?”

  “How many do I have to take? I don’t have to work full-time, do I?”

  Delia plunked her elbows on the counter. “Not if you don’t want to! Part-time is great.”

  After they discussed hours, Finney returned to the kitchen with a load of cash—inspired by her negotiating skills, she’d hit up Hugh too. She was whistling off-key as the door swung shut behind her, leaving an uneasy silence in her wake.

  Delia poured coffee and Hugh murmured his thanks. The angel glared at him with enough ire to melt sand into glass. Her fury was amusing—and damn enjoyable. Worming your way into a woman’s good graces was an interesting challenge when she wanted you dead. Maybe he’d luck out and get some angry sex before she unpacked the kitchen knives.

  Basking in her growing hatred, he slid onto the barstool next to hers. “Since we’re stuck together, what’s your name?” he said, thrilled when her gorgeous eyes flashed a deepening violet. If he brought her to full rage she’d probably resemble Helen of Troy. “We don’t have to split the rent fifty-fifty. I’ll talk Finney into giving some of your money back. I’ll pay sixty percent, you’ll pay forty.”

  She gave him a look that implied she was thinking about knocking him off his barstool. Then she surprised him by saying, “Let’s try this—seventy-thirty. You’re a hotshot reporter. You probably earn six figures. I’m a part-time waitress who only makes—” Digging into her breakfast, she looked at Delia. “What’s my hourly wage?”

  The waitress told her in a quick, grateful voice. Nodding with satisfaction, she threw her attention back on Hugh.

  There was a whole forest fire in those violet eyes, the sort of feminine hostility a man could wrap around himself like a warm blanket of succor. Hello, Helen.

  He dragged his attention back to his coffee. You’ve sworn off women, remember?

  Then his trusty antenna went back on alert. He immediately understood why. The angel, still nameless, couldn’t keep her eyes from straying to the walls of the restaurant. A reporter’s inbred curiosity shivered through his veins.

  She was searching for something.

  * * *

  “Blossom! What did you do to my dog?”

  Flinging off the blankets, Meade Williams stormed to the door and yanked it open in the hopes of finding her quarry on the other side. In the corner of the guest bedroom her miniature poodle, Melbourne, yipped wildly.

  The red plaid bows behind his ears were gone, no doubt snatched by the devilish thirteen-year-old she’d agreed to patrol for several days. Worse still, a gooey substance dripped from his toothpick-sized legs. Beneath the goo, his white fur was covered in an art fiend’s metallic… sparkles. And Blossom Perini was nowhere to be seen.

  Mad with rage, Meade scooped up Melbourne and stalked down the second floor hallway of the Perini house. Why, why, why had she agreed to watch Blossom while the kid’s father and new stepmother were on their honeymoon?

  Not long ago she’d wanted Blossom’s father, Anthony, for herself. She’d foolishly underestimated what it would be like to raise his daughter in the bargain, especially after the media coverage launched Blossom’s story onto the national news. The teen’s successful battle against cancer was heartwarming, to be sure, but no one who knew her personally would describe her as a saint. Of course, folks across America thought Blossom deserved a halo—as did Dr. Mary Chance, Liberty’s only town doctor and the unlikely owner of The Second Chance Grill. Mary connected with the girl in a way no one else did. Perhaps she even enjoyed the more devilish aspects of Blossom’s personality.

  Meade flew down the stairwell with Melbourne bouncing beneath her arm and yipping all the way. It was truly unbelievable how she and Mary had gone from being rivals for Anthony to the best of friends. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t surprising. They were two professional women who had discovered a mutual love of tennis and a nearly frenzied devotion to Royal Doulton china. They’d been on a shopping expedition in search of porcelain figurines to add to their respective collections when Mary made the request: watch Blossom during the honeymoon.

  Meade stormed into the kitchen. She should have said no.

  At the stove, Blossom serenely flipped pancakes. By the back door her golden retriever, Sweetcakes, sat at attention. The rotten dog sized up Melbourne then ran her tongue across her snout.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Sweetcakes.” Meade opened the door to shoo the dog out. “If you frighten my baby he’ll piddle all over the floor.”

  Blossom gave an elaborate sigh. “Your dog doesn’t piddle—he’s marking his territory. Only this isn’t his territory. You should have his thingies removed.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort.” Meade spun around to face the teen. “You’re in hot water, young lady. Why do you keep terrorizing me? And what did you put on Melbourne?”

  Shrugging, the girl flipped another pancake. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve had it—”

  “Seriously, Meade. Chill. Want some coffee?”

  The aroma wafting from the sweetly percolating pot was enticing. “Did you lace it with arsenic?”

  Blossom slid a stack of pancakes onto a plate. “What’s arsenic?”

  The kid knows how to Google. Don’t give her any ideas. “Never mind.” She sat and lowered Melbourne to the ground. He trotted toward his food bowl shedding sparkles in a happy trail. “You’re giving my dog a bath after we finish breakfast. Are you listening? You need to be punished.”

  “I get to bathe the gerbil?” Grinning, Blossom set the pancakes before Meade. “No problem, muchacha. I’ll take care of your dog.”

  “Forget it. I’ll bathe him.”

  “No, really, I’d like to.”

  “Cut the crap. You’d like to feed him to Sweetcakes.”

  “Okay—you got me.” Blossom set a cup of coffee before her. “Drink. Grownups never make sense until they’ve been dosed with caffeine.”

  Meade grudgingly brought the cup to her lips. Heavenly. How did a thirteen year old make coffee so divine? But then, Blossom Perini was full of surprises. She’d managed to beat leukemia, hadn’t she? Looking at the girl’s corkscrew curls and rosy cheeks, it was hard to imagine she’d ever been ill. Yet she’d nearly died of leukemia before the bone marrow transplant saved her life. And that was the real miracle, wasn’t it? Blossom’s new stepmother, the valiant Dr. Mary Chance, had only been in town for a few months when she found out about the girl’s struggles. When it became clear there wasn’t money enough to pay for the bone marrow transplant, Mary placed all of the antiques in The Second Chance Grill on the auction block. The restaurant, which first opened in the mid-1800s, was the city’s oldest historical treasure and much of the furniture, artwork and other decorations were worth thousands. People arrived from all over Ohio to put in bids.

  Everything sold quickly, only to be returned once word got out as to why Mary was raising the money. Then the story exploded on the Internet. Websites sprang up, donations flowed in, and Blossom was soon on her way to recovery.

  The phone rang, pulling Meade from her musings. Blossom sprinted across the kitchen. She exchanged pleasantries with the caller then handed over the receiver. “For you.”

  Not a call from a client, surely. Business colleagues wishing to reach her cosmetics importing company knew to call the office in Beachwood. Worry clenched her stomach. She’d only given the Perinis’ number to one person.

  Rising, she moved from the table for privacy. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

  For several minutes, she listen
ed to his latest tale of woe. She’d hired a gardener to winterize the landscape surrounding her father’s estate, a move that had seemed sensible—until now. “Dad, the gardener isn’t peering in the windows. You’re being paranoid.” The anxiety in her voice brought Blossom near. “Yes, I’m sure the gardener isn’t spying on you…”

  Ten minutes and much cajoling later, she finally hung up. Unsettled, she set her plate in the sink. There wasn’t time this morning to drive out to the estate. She had to get Blossom off to school and leave for work.

  From behind, Blossom asked, “Is everything okay? You look sad all of a sudden.”

  Her voice held sudden compassion, and Meade managed a smile. “I’m fine,” she lied.

  “What’s wrong with your dad?”

  “Nothing.” Another lie, but there wasn’t an easy way to describe chronic depression to a child. “He likes to worry.”

  “Can’t your mom calm him down?”

  “My mother died a long time ago.”

  “It’s tough to be without a mom. Even for someone as old as you.”

  Meade crossed her arms. “I’m forty-one—not exactly ancient.”

  “Yeah, but it’s hard anyway.”

  The girl’s voice wavered, and guilt washed through Meade. It was common knowledge that Blossom’s mother had run off when she was a toddler. Which might explain why the kid got into so much trouble. Not that Meade wanted to find patches of Melbourne’s fur on Sweetcakes’s snout, but still.

  She flicked Blossom’s chin. When the girl brightened, she said, “Can we call a truce until your dad and Mary get back from their honeymoon? I’ll stop making comments about your table manners if you’ll take my dog off death row.”

  “Can I think about it? I’ve been working on the other tricks up my sleeve.” Then Blossom surprised her when she added, “But hey, if you need to talk, I’ll listen. I know what it’s like to worry about a parent. Before Mary snuck into my dad’s heart, I worried about him all the time.”

  Sorrow engulfed her. Mental illness wasn’t simple, and it encompassed more than worry. Guilt, for one. A feeling of helplessness. And loss—certainly loss, of the man who’d once fathered her with gentle grace and rapt attention.