She was free as of one o’clock, she’d told him. It was ten minutes after one right now, yet when he hiked inside, he could see right off that the café was blasting busy…when no place was blasting busy in White Hills in the middle of a snow-crusty winter. Over heads and sounds and smells, he spotted her instantly…talking to some regulars at the bar stools up front, right at the bakery counter. Three guys had her attention corralled.
Her hair was wooshed up today. Clipped somehow. Strands had escaped their prison and were cavorting in wild wisps around her neck. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d just pulled dishes from the oven. She didn’t look to have an ounce of makeup on, yet her ears were showing off a jewel that matched the same blue-hued stone around her neck. She had some kind of blouse that wrapped around her instead of buttoned, leaving a deep vee for the stone to lie, almost to her cleavage, almost showing her cleavage-only not quite. Even when she was leaning over and the guys were trying their damnedest to get a peek.
“Yeah, you’ve got that right,” she was saying to her trio of drooling fans. “Jean-Luc made it big. He should. He’s a really special, talented artist.”
“I thought you had to die to make money if you was an artist,” one of the guys said.
“Well, he was hauling it in for the last few years. And I can swear on a Bible, he was definitely alive.”
The three men laughed. “So why’d you get divorced, then, Daisy? We all thought you had the perfect life. Traveling around the world. Living high and nice and all. Your guy making lots of money. Able to do all the things you dreamed of.”
Good question, Teague thought, as he shifted out of his jacket and sidled forward-slowly-because she hadn’t spotted him yet. He wanted to hear the answer to that question in the worst way.
It just didn’t make sense. If her Jean-Luc was so wealthy, how come Daisy couldn’t afford even a used set of wheels? She’d told him a lot the other night…but not a clue what her divorce had been about. He needed to understand how she could have all this expensive stuff, and yet still be the worst kind of broke. Bad broke. No health-insurance broke. Seriously broke.
Smells wafted toward him. The bakery counter had little formal signs now. Lavender Cookies. Brownies with Lavender Whipped Cream. Lemon Loaf Lavandula.
Roast pork with rosemary and lavender had been added to the chalkboard up front-where Harry’s lunch specials were usually limited to brats and hot dogs.
And the café had started to look completely different. The grease smell seemed to have disappeared. The cash register shone so hard it looked new. The old red-and-white-checked curtains had been pulled back with ties and the windows washed.
If Harry hadn’t been shamed into doing those things in the past thirty years, it was a cinch he wasn’t responsible for the improvements-and neither were the two part-time waitresses who’d worked there forever. So Daisy was transforming the place. The mystery was how a woman who presented herself as willful and spoiled and used to the good life could be such a worker.
Too many customers talking for him to hear everything Daisy said, but as he walked a few feet closer, he picked up some of her comments.
“You’re so right, Ted. I do love money, and Jean-Luc had a ton of it. But it’s like the whole town said when I was a kid, you know? I guess I just wasn’t meant to settle down.”
“I’ll bet you lived in some really fancy places.”
“Oh, yes. Aix-en-Provence was one of my favorites. It’s a town for artists, with cobblestone streets and fountains all over the place and enchanting little squares. And then there was Bonnieux. There’s a hotel there that has the best food I’ve ever eaten, not just gourmet or gourmand but beyond anything you could dream of…gâteau au chocolat fondant…meals served in the garden, with pale-pink tablecloths and flowers. And then of course there was Vence, a mountain town…”
She spotted him, took in a breath and then lifted five fingers in the air. Five minutes? He nodded a no-sweat. He could see that, as lazy as she was talking, she was dishing out confections and swooping away empty plates.
“And then there’s the fabulous area around Fragonard and Molinard-that’s flower country, and in the spring and summer, they grow lavender, roses, carnations, violets, jasmine… You wanted another slice of cheesecake, didn’t you, Moore?”
A foolish question, Teague thought. Moore wanted anything she dished out in any form.
“Boats, too?”
“Ah, yes. We spent months on different yachts around the Riviera. Jean-Luc was always getting an invitation from…” She sashayed over to him and whispered, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to be late. But Harry had to pick up something, said he’d be back five minutes ago. I can leave the instant he returns, okay?”
“Totally okay.”
He never asked, but she brought him a cookie and mug of fresh almond coffee without ever breaking stride, still keeping up with the guys and their questions and orders at the same time. Teague wondered if any of them remotely realized that she was working. Her slow, lazy voice created pictures of nude beaches and the Riviera and women decked-out in jewels, long yachts and buttery mornings and sun-soaked skin and nothing to do but be rich and indulge oneself.
Ten minutes later she’d hooked a jacket and they escaped. “That was a terrific cookie,” he said.
“Nah. Not terrific, but a pretty good recipe. It was the lavender idea that Harry bought into. He was suspicious, but he said he’d try anything to see if he could bring in some customers this time of year. And my sister ran the herb haven for years, so I had an inside to the best lavender source anywhere on the planet.”
He stopped her mid street, pulled on her sleeve. Immediately she turned her face up to him-her normal face, her normal voice. Fresh skin, honest eyes, the soft, soft mouth. Striking, yes, even disconcertingly beautiful, but that whole exotic spoiled-woman look had completely disappeared.
He kissed her, just to get a taste. To make sure he was with Daisy and not that confusing woman who’d been weaving those stories in the café.
“Hey,” she murmured, when he lifted his head and frowned at her. “What was that about?”
“I didn’t want to kiss you,” he assured her. “I was just trying to practice being a pickpocket.”
“Huh?” She plunged her hands into her jacket pockets. Her right one emerged with a small square box. Inside was a perfect four-leaf clover immersed in clear resin. Her lips parted and then she looked up at him again, this time with more vulnerability in her eyes than he’d seen even when they’d been naked.
“This is for me? You bought this for me?”
“Nope. I didn’t buy it.” The look on her face was damn near close to his downfall. He knew-from all the evidence-that she was used to all kinds of expensive stuff, so there’d been no point in trying to outbuy what she already had or was used to. In fact, it’d been damn scary trying to think up something to give her at all…but he’d wanted to.
“But then how-hey, you’re rushing me along!”
“I know, but we’re really getting late now, because first we have to go to my house. Get you familiar with the car. Then you can drive to the Shillings’ behind me-”
“Teague. It’s beautiful. More than beautiful. It’s fresh and different and personal and…perfect.”
“Yeah, I liked it, too.” He tried to keep up a galloping pace, so she had a hard time keeping up with him, but somehow she still managed to cavort ahead for a second to get a good look at his face.
“You really didn’t buy it?”
“Nope.”
“Then you made it?”
“Are you kidding? No one can make four-leaf clovers.”
“I meant the resin. You sealed it in the perfect resin.”
“I might have.” That was the most he was willing to admit to-at least until he saw how she drove.
The Shillings were expecting him around two, and their house was only a hop-skip from his. But as his white pickup took the curves, she held the four-leaf clover,
kept looking at it. And then at him. And then at the road. Hell, had no one ever given her anything that didn’t have a price tag attached to it?
“I haven’t been on these roads in years,” she said quietly. Down Cooper Street, across the creek, came a section everyone called Firefly Hollow. “Does every teenager in the country make out here in the summer like they used to?”
“That was the in spot for kids, huh?”
Obviously, there were no fireflies now, but in the summer the leaves formed a cool, fragrant canopy overhead. In fall the colors were brilliant; in summer fireflies danced in the shady arch. Now it was just a dip in shade and memories. Past the hollow, his white pickup climbed the hill and curved around Swisher’s land-Old Man Swisher had a pond.
“Most of the farmers around here have ponds, but his was our swimming spot, because there’s a big old cottonwood tree with a limb that was just perfect for swinging into the water.”
“So…every single one of your memories of White Hills was bad?”
She lifted her brows. “Good grief, no. It was a great place to grow up. It’s just…”
She never got around to finishing that thought. They passed red barns and white fences, hillsides that would be taken over by clover and buttercups in the summer. Patches of elms and big old sugar maples dotted the landscape, but they were naked now, revealing the underside of their character. Past the red covered bridge, he turned in the first drive.
“Car’s in the garage. I’ve already got the key.”
She balked. “What? You mean we’re not going to go in?”
“In? Now? We have to be at the Shillings’ in a few minutes.”
“But you haven’t shown me your house.” She looked with interest at the white-shuttered stone bungalow.
“We can do that another time.” If he didn’t get this car thing over with soon, he was too likely to have a heart attack. “You know how to drive a stick shift, don’t you?”
“Teague, I grew up on a farm. Of course I can drive a stick. Oooh.” When he popped the button on the garage door, she saw his baby. Actually, he figured all she saw was an old car. Someone who didn’t know about old Volkswagen Golf GTi’s was hardly going to be impressed. But she was a nice shiny black. Waxed to within an inch of her life.
“Isn’t she pretty,” Daisy raved. “No wonder you’re in love with her. What a darling.”
He relaxed. A little. “You like her.”
“What’s not to love. And not a scratch on her.”
“Not one,” he agreed. Carefully. “You do have an active driver’s license, right?”
Daisy laughed-right in his face, even if it was a kindly kind of chuckle. And then she motioned to the keys by waggling her fingers in the universal gimme gesture. “We’d better get a test drive over with, Larson, before you have a stroke. Try and stop worrying, okay? If you can’t handle it, you can take back the offer to use your car, no problem.”
“I want you to use the car. There are just a couple things you need to know before you take her out.” He mentioned a couple of them. Maybe he mentioned a few more than a couple. Hell, who knew how many he brought up? At some point, he realized she was biting her lip, obviously trying to keep from laughing.
“It’s not funny,” he said testily. “She’s got a silky smooth engine, but the Golfs, the original ones, they put the standard drum brakes in the rear. Which means she loves to go, but she’s not so excited about stopping. And then her carburetor is a little on the sensitive side-”
“I believe you mentioned that. Twice now. And I’m beginning to get a sneaky feeling how important this car thing really is. If we can survive this-or should I say, if I can survive this driving test-we just might make love again, right? Or else it’s all over? Have I got the stakes about right?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far…”
But he was thinking about it. Maybe she’d avoided him, but spending time with her was proving even more tantalizing than before, so now it was impossible not to think about sleeping with her. Making love with her. How much he wanted to, in any form and way she was willing. But before he built any more risky fantasies that they had a shot together, he had to know that she could swallow some of his rough edges.
Teague knew he was good to people-but not necessarily good with people. He never planned on being a loner. By this time in his life, he’d always thought he’d be married, have a kid or three. Instead he’d lost more than one woman-and screwed up a great business partnership-because he had the slight tendency to like things his own way.
He’d told Daisy about some of that. But she hadn’t really seen it until the car question came up. The car wasn’t the issue. It was just a symbol. And, man, she just didn’t know what he had to overcome to let her climb in the driver’s seat of his most loyal lover, turn the key, make the engine vroom-vroom way, way, way differently than he did.
“Put your seat belt on, tiger,” she said gently.
He clipped his. She clipped hers. Then faster than lightning, she shifted into reverse and they rocketed backward out of the driveway.
Sweat broke out on his forehead.
She took the first curve on all four wheels, but it was close. Then, just past the next curve, he spotted a snowplow, doddering along around twenty miles an hour. Vermont drivers-it was an unspoken rule in the state-didn’t bother using their rearview mirror because they were going to do what they wanted to anyway. Daisy passed the snowplow. On the curve. On the curve with the double-yellow line. Somewhere around fifty.
More jewels of sweat laced the back of his neck. There seemed to be a shortage of oxygen in the car. He couldn’t talk. His right foot was mashed on the brake. Except that there wasn’t a brake on his side of the car.
“My, she does like speed, doesn’t she?”
He spotted a little blue Buick ahead, an older model, the driver in it short with fuzzy white hair, and ahead of her was a Honda Civic. Daisy passed both of them on the next straightaway. The speedometer hit eighty-seven. Not for long. Not even for minutes. But it definitely hit it.
On the next good curvy hill, she practiced downshifting.
Eventually-long enough that he’d gotten three ulcers-she pulled back in his driveway and gave the brake a good test. “Okay now, tiger,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s see if we can peel your knuckles off the armrest.”
“I’m okay,” he said.
“I know you are.” She unclipped her seat belt and handed him the key. “Well?”
“Well what?” His lungs were so grateful to be safe that they wanted to do nothing but suck in oxygen.
“Well, did I pass? I know. You undoubtedly thought I’d drive like a prisoner on parole, but I figured I’d better be honest with you. If the car was a test, then it’d better be a true test. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Only what’s the verdict? Did I destroy any attraction you ever felt for me? Did you decide there’s no chance we’ll ever sleep together again, much less that we have any prayer of lasting another day as friends?”
That woke him up. He looked at her. “If you were trying to scare me off wanting to sleep with you, babe, you failed big-time.”
“You’re okay with my driving?” She lifted her brows.
He was okay with her driving. Just not in his car. Ever again. Yet he heard himself saying, “Sure.” As if he were cool. As if the favorite car of his life hadn’t just suffered a nerve-shattering risk. As if he wasn’t a Type A personality who had to control the important things around him full-time.
“Onto the Shillings’,” he said, not wanting to talk anymore. There just seemed no point. Temporarily he was incapable of communicating anything that made sense. His head, and heart, needed time to calm down and cool down. Some good, solid work always did that.
Or it usually did.
They both drove in his truck to the Shillings’, because there was no point in using two vehicles to go such a short distance. The plan was for Daisy to pick up the car after seeing
the Shillings job. The couple lived on the outskirts of White Hills, in a charming two-story brick house that dated back a good hundred years. Mrs. Shilling, Susan, loved history and tradition, and had loved every minute of fixing the place, until she’d been in a car accident. She’d lost part of one leg. Insurance had enabled them to install an elevator chair so she could get up to the second floor, and for the most part she was functioning, doing the things she loved to do before.
But her kitchen just wasn’t working. “The rehab people came over and gave me some suggestions. Also they have a model kitchen at the hospital for people like me, but…”
“But they were generic concepts. Not individual to you,” Teague guessed.
“You said it. I want to do the things I want to do in a kitchen. For one thing, it’s easier for me to work a wheelchair in here than to hop around, so everything’s too high. And their ideas were on relocating supplies, like cans-but I don’t use that many cans. I like fresh food. And I like to bake, but I can’t get any of my baking supplies from this chair. I can’t…sift. Or knead. I can reach the bowls, but then I can’t get them at an angle where I can actually work.”
“Cleanup’s a problem, too?” Daisy asked. Who was wandering around the kitchen, frowning, analyzing, touching.
“Very much so. I can get to the trash. But I need a workspace where flour doesn’t get all over counters and the floor where I have no way to clean it up myself.” Susan turned her soft eyes to Teague. “I don’t know if there’s anything you can do-”
“Oh, he can fix you up perfectly,” Daisy assured her.
Teague blinked.
That was the last chance he got a word in. The two women went into a frenzy of “all the things he could do.” Pull-out shelves. A pull-out pantry door. Moving the oven down a foot. Create a lower-level, long narrow workspace with rims so nothing could spill from the back and set it on wheels. In fact, Daisy wanted about everything set on wheels.
“Hold your horses, ladies,” he interrupted the first chance he could steal a word in. “Susan, we need to talk about what kind of budget you’re willing to spend for these changes.”
Wild in the Moment Page 9
