by Debbie Mason
“I know that,” he said as civilly as he could manage, considering his current state of mind. Why the hell was Melissa avoiding him? Yesterday had been amazing. Had he screwed up somehow? Damn.
“Good. I’m glad you can read,” the woman said with a nod. “And since the store is closed, it doesn’t make any sense to be pounding on the door. You’re disturbing my beginning knitters class.” She waved in the direction of the adjacent storefront with the sign over the door that said EWE AND ME FINE YARNS AND KNITTING SUPPLIES. The women of the aforementioned knitting class were gathered around the yarn shop’s window, trying to watch their instructor do battle with him.
“Do you know where I can find Melissa Portman?” he asked.
“I know who you are,” the woman said. “And so does Melissa.”
It was like the woman had just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. “What?”
“You’re Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon. And I heard at the Merchants Association meeting this morning that you lied to Melissa about your name and background. And everyone wants to know why.”
The woman shook her finger in his direction as she continued. “Shame on you, lying to a nice girl like Melissa. What were you up to? Softening her up so that Pam Lyndon could buy her out on the cheap?”
The scorn in the woman’s voice shamed him. “No. You have it all wrong.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The knitting instructor gave him a cold stare that he was all too familiar with. He’d seen that look in his editor’s eyes at the moment when George had lost faith in him, when the tide of public opinion had turned against him.
If the merchants were gossiping like this, then it wouldn’t be long before his father’s family heard all about it. And then things would get much, much worse.
He needed to do something fast if he ever wanted to regain Melissa’s trust.
And not just talk. Talk was cheap, and apologies at this point would fall flat.
And not just writing a check. He’d already done that, and Melissa would be finding out about it soon. But paying her taxes had been easy, too. All it took was money—and not even a lot of it. For him, money might as well grow on trees. He had more than he’d ever be able to spend in several lifetimes. Money could buy a lot, but it couldn’t buy trust and it couldn’t buy love.
If he wanted Melissa in his life—and he did—he would have to earn back her trust. And then he might be lucky enough to earn her love, too.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later a maid ushered Jeff into Charlotte’s Grove and left him waiting in a sitting room right off the main foyer. He’d visited Charlotte’s Grove only once in his life, and his memories of the place were vague—just a sense of formality that left him cold. He’d expected the historic house to be filled with museum-quality Georgian furniture, but the room he was led to seemed surprisingly contemporary, with a couch and two well-used wing chairs.
“Oh my God, Jeff, I’m so glad you turned up.” Aunt Pam entered the room from the hallway dressed for a day in the garden, in a pair of slacks and a long-sleeve cotton T-shirt that was slightly dirty. Her hair was pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, and she wasn’t wearing makeup.
She hurried across the wide-plank wood floor and gave Jeff a fierce, motherly hug. She smelled of the garden. Like roses or lavender or something.
“I’ve called your mother,” she said as she let him go. “She’s so relieved. Honestly, Jeff, you should have called her. Where on earth have you been? And when did you grow a beard?”
Jeff steeled his resolve. He’d seen Aunt Pam in action; she certainly hadn’t been this sweet to Melissa on Saturday. He took a step back. “I’ve been staying at Dad’s fishing cabin, and I grew a beard so you wouldn’t recognize me.”
“But—”
“Look, Aunt Pam, I’m not here to reconnect with the family. I’m here to issue an ultimatum.”
“What on earth…? About what?” A little V of puzzlement formed on her forehead.
“About Melissa Portman and Secondhand Prose.”
The frown morphed into an expression of utter astonishment. “What in the…? Oh my goodness, you’re the man who fell off the ladder.” She chuckled. “I’m afraid I wasn’t looking at your face that day.”
His humiliation was utterly complete. But he wasn’t going to let it get the best of him. It was well past time to go on the offensive.
“Yeah, I admit I managed to get disrobed by a coat hook. But that’s beside the point. I’m here to let you know that I’ve paid Melissa’s taxes. So you won’t be getting your hands on that building.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful news, Jeff. I’m so pleased. I’ve been worried about Melissa. I know it’s hard to let go of that bookstore, but once she realizes she can make money leasing out the space, I know she’ll come around.”
Wait a sec. What the hell was Pam saying? That she didn’t want the building? That she cared about Melissa’s future? “Wait. I’m confused. You don’t want her building?”
“Well, if she wants to sell it, I’m ready to buy it. But I’d rather see her join the rest of the property owners and participate in our downtown restoration project.”
He stood there for a moment trying to figure out which Pam Lyndon was the real one, the woman who had threatened Melissa on Saturday or this sweet Southern lady.
“Sit down, Jeff. Lidia will bring us some tea, and we’ll talk. I can see you’re upset. But, truly, if you’ve paid her taxes, then that’s good news.” Her drawl was suddenly thick as a brick.
“I don’t want any tea or talk, Aunt Pam. What I want is for you to call Melissa Portman and tell her you’re sorry for the way you threatened her. I want you to make it clear that there is no truth to the rumors flying around town that you used me to soften her up so she’d sell out.”
“What? Why are people saying that?”
“I don’t really understand, except that when I introduced myself to her, I dropped the Lyndon from my last name. But now everyone in town thinks I lied because of some nefarious plan you set in motion. Honestly, you need to do some fence mending with some of the Liberty Avenue merchants.”
Pam continued to look at him as if he’d blown in from Mars. “Why on earth did you drop the Lyndon from your last name?”
“Because I don’t want anything to do with any of you, my father most of all. And just so we’re clear, I’ve asked my attorney to begin the process of legally changing my name to Jefferson Talbert.”
“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” she said. “Even if you change your name, you’ll still be family. Don’t let Tom manipulate you, darlin’. We all know your father is a dick.”
“What?” Her words left him breathless.
“You heard me. He’s an idiot and a…Well, I’ve already used language I shouldn’t have used, but in Thomas’s case, it fits the bill. Thomas obviously hasn’t said it recently, or maybe ever, but, Jeff, we’re all so very proud of you.”
Before he could collect himself, Pam stood up. “Wait right there, darlin’. Don’t run away again, please. There’s something you need to hear.”
She left the room, and he started pacing. Had she even heard what he had to say? He didn’t think so. Damn. He came to rest in front of a big window with old glass that gave a slightly wobbly view of the outside.
“Jeff?” an oddly familiar masculine voice said from behind him. Was his father here?
He turned. No. Not Dad. Uncle Mark.
The senator stood beside one of the comfortable easy chairs, wearing a pair of jeans and a golf shirt. The Senate was obviously not in session today.
“I’m so glad you came to find us,” he said, resting his hand on the chair back. “Pam says you’ve been staying up at the fishing cabin. That’s probably the last place any of us would have looked for you.” He chuckled, his brown eyes dancing with some kind of merriment that eluded Jeff.
“What is it you want, Uncle Mark? I’ve already told Aunt—”
“I wan
t to talk to you. First of all, I want you to know that the entire family was shocked by Tom’s public statements about your story.”
Jeff said nothing. His life had suddenly become theater of the absurd.
“I see I’ve surprised you,” Uncle Mark said.
Jeff shrugged. “I don’t give a flying fart what the family thinks about anything, really. I’m only here because Aunt Pam has gotten the Liberty Avenue merchants in an uproar. And they all think I’m part of some weird plan that she has to take over the real estate downtown. And, really, the only problem here is that I decided to drop the Lyndon from my name. And, you know, I’m not ever going to use that name again.”
The senator’s shoulders sagged a little. “I understand. And as for your aunt, she can sometimes be like a steamroller. I’ll see what I can do to smooth things over with the merchants. It won’t be the first time.”
“Thanks. That’s all I want. I’ll be going now.” Jeff turned and headed toward the door, but the senator blocked his way.
“Son,” Uncle Mark said, “you have every right to be furious with your father. We’re all furious with him. Family comes before politics, and Tom forgot that. So I just want you to think this through. If you want to strike back at your father, then you need to help me kill this nomination.”
It took a moment for Uncle Mark’s words to make it past Jeff’s anger. “Wait a sec. Are you saying you believe the story I wrote about Joanna Durand?”
“Of course I do. Durand’s family has a reputation for bending the rules when it comes to oil and gas. And her husband has more lobbying clients than a dog has fleas. I’m sure her husband and brother have been up to no good, and I could use your help in putting the kibosh on this nomination.
“By the way, I’m saying this, not as your uncle but as a member of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Her confirmation hearing is set for this coming Thursday, and I have every intention of giving her a hard time.”
“Oh.” The adrenaline in Jeff’s body began to dissipate.
Mark Lyndon continued. “I’m not letting Joanna Durand’s nomination get out of committee. So, I’d like you to give my chief of staff a call and help him hunt down the smoking gun that will simultaneously clear your name and sink this nomination for good and all.”
Jeff stood there frozen. He hadn’t expected this. Not in a million years. “Okay, I’ll help, of course, but—”
“Son, if you want to change your last name, go right ahead and do it. No one could blame you. But it won’t change anything as far as I’m concerned, and I suspect you’ll discover that resigning from the Lyndon family is a whole lot harder than you might expect.”
Chapter Nine
Hugo jumped on Melissa’s bed and settled on her pillow, purring like a finely tuned engine. That was unusual, since the cat hadn’t been upstairs since Grammy died. And never, in all the cat’s twelve years on the planet, had he ever jumped up on Melissa’s bed. So why had he chosen this morning, when her head was pounding like nobody’s business?
She batted the cat away and pulled the pillow over her head, hoping that would quiet the pounding. But the cat meowed loudly and then opened his claws on her shoulder.
She sat up. Her stomach lurched as she groped for her glasses. She should never have had the third margarita. The world came into focus as she settled her glasses on her nose. She picked up her cell phone and checked the time. It was well past noon.
So much for getting an early start on the rest of her life. She had barely enough time to take a shower before her one o’clock meeting with Walter Braden. She was about to put the phone down when she noticed that she had new voice mail messages—twelve, in fact—all from Jeff. She’d missed his calls last night because she’d inadvertently left her cell phone at home.
Damn.
She listened to his voice mail. He’d actually called last night to invite her up to his cabin. And then he’d called again in the morning to invite her to breakfast.
Double damn.
Maybe she should return his calls.
No. He needed to come to her. Most definitely. And in the meantime, she needed to take a shower and move on with her life.
She got up, fed the cats, made some coffee, but instead of taking a shower, she called Walter and rescheduled her appointment for the next day. Then she set up her laptop on the kitchen table and started searching Jeff’s name. Wow. He had lied about a lot of things, starting with the fact that he was, really and truly, a published writer.
An hour later she was still sitting there reading Jeff’s articles—not just the one on Joanna Durand, but a dozen others. The man was a talented writer with a knack for writing profiles of the rich and famous. She was totally engrossed when someone tapped on her back door. Her heart took flight. Maybe Jeff had come to explain himself.
But it wasn’t Jeff.
Gracie Teague stood on her landing wearing her waitress uniform and a determined expression. She didn’t wait to be invited in. She just took the territory like General Patton rolling over France.
“I brought you a bacon and egg sandwich and some serious advice.” She plunked a sandwich wrapped in wax paper onto the kitchen table and eyed the computer, the empty bag of M&M’s, and the wastebasket filled with used tissues. “I should have come sooner.”
“I’m all right. Really. I didn’t make my appointment with Walter Braden, but I did reschedule for tomorrow. I’ve decided to take your advice and sell out, take the proceeds after taxes and find a beach somewhere with hot, gorgeous, rich men.”
She’d expected Gracie to be overjoyed with this news, but instead her mother’s BFF frowned. “You will do no such thing,” she said. “Sit down. I have something you need to hear.”
Melissa sat, and Gracie took the other chair. “There was an emergency meeting of the Liberty Avenue Merchants Association at oh dark thirty this morning. You know how everyone loved Harriet. And everyone remembers you as a little girl, and we’re all just a little overprotective of you, I guess. So this Jefferson Lyndon situation has gotten everyone into an uproar. Half the shop owners think Pam Lyndon sent that man to soften you up. To convince you to sell out.”
“But—”
Gracie held up a hand. “I know, hon. Why would a man help you fix up the store if he’d been sent to convince you that keeping it going was pointless?”
Melissa nodded. “Exactly.”
“Well, not everyone is as logical as you and I. Anyway,” Gracie said with a little gleam in her eye, “at the meeting this morning, some of the merchants took up a collection to help you with your taxes. It’s not much, but we figured it might be enough to buy you some time. I was nominated to go down to the county clerk’s office to make a payment on your behalf. But when I got there, I found out that someone had already paid your taxes in full.”
“What?”
“That’s right. Paid in full first thing this morning, just an hour before I got there. The clerk wouldn’t tell me who. She said it was a privacy matter or something. As if there’s any privacy in a town as small as Shenandoah Falls.”
“You think Jeff paid my taxes?” The weight in Melissa’s chest began to lift.
“That would be my guess. Now, why would a man do a thing like that?”
Melissa tried to think of a good business reason and drew a blank. “Because he believes in independent bookstores?” It was lame.
“Or maybe he believes in you?” Gracie said, covering one of Melissa’s hands with hers.
Melissa’s eyes filled up, but this time the tears weren’t angry. “And I believe in him, Gracie,” she whispered, her lips trembling. “I’ve been sitting here reading the things he’s written, and I can’t help myself. I think what he wrote in that story about the Durand nomination is true. I think he ran away from New York because even his father refused to stand by him.”
“You know,” Gracie said, “if my daddy had publicly disavowed me, I think I might return the favor. You know, by dropping the hyphenated part of my last na
me.”
“Really? Because now that I’m sober and I’ve read his story and the reaction to it, I’ve come to the same conclusion.”
Just then Dickens jumped up on the kitchen table, sat down facing Melissa, and proceeded to meow at her as if he were scolding her or something. Hugo followed suit, only he yowled in a way that was practically mournful.
“Mercy,” Gracie said. “I’ve never seen them do anything like that before.”
Melissa got up from the table. “It’s a sign, Gracie. They’ve been trying to tell me for days that Jeff belongs here. I just wasn’t listening.”
* * *
Melissa called Walter Braden back and canceled her meeting. Without a tax bill looming over her, maybe she could make a go of keeping Secondhand Prose alive, saving Hugo and Dickens’s home, and preserving a little piece of Grammy for a while.
And all because of Jeff, who had walked into her store and insisted on fixing it up. Not because he was paid to do it. Not because she’d asked him to do it. But because he had simply belonged there.
The cats knew it. And now Melissa did, too.
She needed to talk to him, so she decided the ball wasn’t in his court after all. The ball was in hers. She texted him.
Melissa: We need to talk. Where are you?
Jeff: I’m just leaving Charlotte’s Grove. Expect an apology call from Pam. I’ll be at the store in ten minutes.
Melissa: No, not here. Too many busybodies. Where’s your cabin?
Jeff: :)
His emoticon was followed by an address in the Blue Ridge off Scottish Heights Road. She told him she’d meet him there in twenty minutes.
The cabin turned out to be high up on the ridge off a dirt road. Jeff certainly hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that he’d been living back in the woods.
It was an old place, built years before people had started putting up luxury vacation homes in the area. Its weathered logs and rustic stone chimney looked as if they’d been there for a century. It sat in a clearing, nestled between two gigantic oaks, on a ledge that provided a commanding view westward toward the Shenandoah Valley and the Allegheny Mountains beyond.
