And she had about two hours to convince herself of that.
SATURDAY WAS THE BIG DAY—THE REOPENING OF Hiram’s Feed Store—and Nolie was forced to admit Thursday afternoon that there was nothing more for her to do until then. All the little details on her to-do list were checked off. The painting was finished, the shelves arranged and filled with inventory. She’d opened a commercial checking account, stenciled the hours on the door, and bought a comfortable desk chair to use behind the counter. She’d even taken out an ad in the Friday edition of the Bethlehem newspaper. Now all she could do was pray that Hiram’s old customers were out there waiting for the chance to be customers again.
She was sitting in that antique wood chair, rocking back and forth with drawn-out, haunted-house creaks, when a car pulled into the parking lot and a young man got out. As he pushed open the door, then approached the desk, she realized he was just a boy, sixteen, no more than seventeen years old. He was good-looking, too, with hair more blond than brown, a finely shaped jaw, and the sort of long, lean look teenage boys managed so well.
“Mrs. Harper? I’m Trey Grayson. I’d like to apply for a job.”
Nolie was bemused. Chase had pointed out that she needed at least one employee, but she hadn’t given it much thought. She’d obeyed other people for so long—all her life, really—that it was difficult to imagine being the boss for once. Giving orders, telling other people what to do, being the authority figure . . . a woman could get giddy just thinking about it.
“How old are you, Trey?”
“Sixteen, ma’am.”
Too old to be calling her ma’am. Not even ten years younger than she. “Still in school?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d be able to work afternoons and Saturdays until summer, then whenever you wanted.”
She’d told Chase she intended to hire someone eventually, so she could have a day off now and then, but a sixteen-year-old boy wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind. He was very polite, and he seemed sincere about wanting the job, but he was still a kid. Could she in good conscience leave her livelihood entirely in his hands even just one day a week?
“Have you discussed this with your parents?”
“Yes, ma’am. They think it’s a good idea, as long as it doesn’t affect my school work. I’m on the honor roll, and they want me to stay there. College is coming up soon, and there are six of us kids, so . . .” He shrugged, then swiped back the strand of hair that fell across his forehead.
“Grayson . . . I believe my daughter was a guest at your house last weekend.”
He nodded. “Micahlyn. Red hair and glasses.”
The curse of being a redhead. Everyone always found it easier to identify you by your hair. Nolie let the chair give one last, great creak before she stood up. “I’ve never hired an employee before. I don’t even know what to ask you. I never ran a business, either. But . . . we can learn together, right?”
A moment passed before his eyes widened. “I got the job?”
“On one condition. Call me Nolie. Not Mrs. Harper, not ma’am.”
“Yes, m—Nolie. When do you want me to start?”
“We open Saturday morning at eight. Can you make it that early?”
“Sure. I’m always up early. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Harper. You won’t be sorry. See you Saturday.”
Nolie watched him leave, smiling at his energy. Then reality set in. She had an employee. That made it official. She was no longer just a mother. Now she was a businessperson, with all the responsibilities that entailed.
She really had to make a go of this place.
For a moment, as she stood there, she considered hyper-ventilating, then forced herself to take a few deep breaths. She could do this. For Micahlyn’s sake, for her own, she could handle this.
Dragging in one last breath, she got her purse from under the counter and headed for the door. She wasn’t due to pick up Micahlyn until 6:15, and even if there was nothing left to do at the store, she had plenty of work at home.
It was a short drive up the mountain to the dirt road that led to the cabin. She pulled in, then got out to check the faded yellow mailbox. There was a letter from Marlene and Obie addressed to Micahlyn, and an envelope addressed Occupant for Nolie. She slit it open and pulled out a single sheet of elegant white stationery. It was a letter announcing the arrival of Jackson Investments in Bethlehem.
She fingered the heavy linen paper before tossing it aside and heading up the hill. Cole Jackson must be quite successful at what he did, to use such high-quality paper on a mass mailing. But then, she could have guessed that from his beautiful old house, or the expensive new car parked beside it, or even just the way he carried himself.
Funny that they’d come to town about the same time and were opening their businesses at the same time. But the similarities definitely stopped there. There was no comparison between their houses, their cars, the cost of their wardrobes, their businesses, or the potential thereof.
Not that she cared. She loved her cabin for being hers, and once it was painted and some of the shabby furniture replaced, she would love it for itself. And she’d much rather sell feed and supplements to people so their livestock would grow than take on the responsibility of making their life savings grow.
When she reached the cabin, she wrestled open all the downstairs windows, left the front and back doors open, and started dinner. While the roast beef cooked on top of the stove and brownies baked in the oven, she straightened the living room and started a load of laundry. She was about to start another sewing project—quilt blocks to turn into pillows to brighten the overwhelming brown of the living room—when the phone rang.
She answered absently, her mind still on cutting and piecing the blocks. When she heard her mother-in-law’s voice at the other end, though, she snapped to attention. “Hello, Marlene. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Could I speak to my granddaughter?”
I’m fine, too, thanks for asking, Nolie mouthed before answering for real. “She’s not here right now.”
Marlene’s icy disapproval transmitted itself over the phone lines. “Where is she?”
“At day care.”
“Day care. Well, you certainly wasted no time getting her out of your way, did you? And you put her in day care so you could . . . what? Watch soap operas all day? Shop? Run around with your new friends?”
Not even a full minute into the conversation, and already Nolie’s jaw ached from clenching it. She forced it to relax enough so she could get an answer out, but there was nothing relaxed about her voice. “So I could work. You know—at a job? Get up, go to work in the morning, come home in the evening? Oh, wait. You’ve never done that. I forgot.”
“You never had to do it, either,” Marlene coldly reminded her. “Thanks to Jeff and Obie and me.”
“It’s not a question of having to do it. I want to. I’ve always wanted to . . . but you wouldn’t let me.”
“Wouldn’t let— Oh, so now we’re in Nolie’s world, where her version of events is the only one that counts . . . no matter how inaccurate it is.”
She was wrong. In Nolie’s world, who did what didn’t matter, as long as she was independent and capable and treated that way. It was in Marlene’s world that things got skewed for her purposes. Insisting that Nolie and Micahlyn move in with her and Obie after Jeff’s death hadn’t been bossy; it had been concern. Refusing to accept Nolie’s help hadn’t been controlling; it had been giving her a chance to recover. Laying on the guilt every time she mentioned getting a full-time job, looking for a place of their own, or taking responsibility for herself and her daughter hadn’t been manipulative; it had been love. And trying to sell off her inheritance behind her back . . . that had merely been looking out for her the best they knew how.
Of course, she was partly to blame for that. She had given Obie the authority to handle things for her when they’d first gotten the news of Hiram’s death. Small things, like directing Alex Thomas to have the store cleaned out and shut d
own, or authorizing the lawyer to close out Hiram’s accounts and settle his debts. Although renting the second cabin to Chase hadn’t fallen under her idea of “small things,” it had been okay. Selling off everything without even discussing it with her, hadn’t.
“Listen, Marlene, Micahlyn will be—” A creak outside the front door drew her attention that way. Chase stood on the porch, a box in hand. “It’s open. Come on in,” she called before continuing. “She’ll be home—”
“Who were you speaking to?”
“Our neighbor.”
“That—that man? The one Micahlyn’s so terrified of?” Dismay made Marlene’s voice sharper than usual. “You let him come into your house, where my granddaughter lives? What’s wrong with you, Nolie? Don’t you ever think?”
There was no way Nolie was going to defend either Chase or herself, especially when he was standing just inside the door—and no way she would defend herself even if he wasn’t there. There was no reason. She controlled her life now, not her in-laws. “As I was saying, Micahlyn will be home in a few hours. If you’d like to call back around seven-thirty our time, you can talk to her then. Good-bye.”
She missed the cradle when she tried to hang up, and the receiver fell to the floor with a crash. Fishing it back up by its cord, she successfully hung it up on the second try, then pressed her fingertips to the ache between her eyes.
“Let me guess. Your mother-in-law?”
She nodded.
“You could always change your number and not tell her.”
“No, I can’t,” she said wryly, because the idea held a certain appeal. “They’re Micahlyn’s grandparents.” A fact which meant more to her than it did to him, as previous discussions had shown, as his dismissive shrug now indicated. Gesturing toward the box he held, she asked, “What’s that?”
“Maybe more trouble. A delivery guy left it over at the cabin.”
She met him halfway, took the box, and scowled. It was for Micahlyn. From Marlene. She would really love to hide it and not mention it to her daughter yet, but instead she set it on the coffee table. It would be the first thing Micahlyn saw when she got home . . . and the first thing Marlene would ask about when she called back.
“You ever read Dear Abby and Ann Landers?” Chase asked.
“Sure. But I can’t imagine you reading either one.”
“I don’t, but my secretary used to. One of them always used to say that no one can take advantage of you without your permission.”
She sat down on the sofa, then turned her glare from the package to him as he dropped into the armchair. She couldn’t argue the point with him, though. She had given her in-laws permission to run her life—oh, not expressly, of course, but never arguing, disagreeing, or standing up to them amounted to the same thing. Rather than admit it, she changed the focus of the conversation.
“So . . . you used to have a secretary.”
Annoyance flashed across his expression as he realized what he’d let slip. “No. Not me.”
“You just said—”
“No, I didn’t.”
On a good day, she would be up to an argument with him, particularly if it meant finding out something new about his background. The tidbits of his life in Boston were slowly building. They didn’t yet amount to much, but hopefully he would continue adding little pieces here and there until she could put them all together.
For right now, though, she let it slide. “The store opens Saturday. I hired someone today.”
“A man?” he asked, as if she didn’t have the good sense to hire someone competent.
“He’s sixteen.”
“So he’s in school. What are you going to do during the day when you need help?”
She laid on a thick Southern accent. “I’ll just flutter my lashes and act like the mindless female you apparently think I am.”
His mouth quirked at one corner. “You aren’t the lashfluttering type.”
Great. He thought she was mindless—just not particularly feminine. Well, she was feminine. Okay, so she’d rather wear jeans and a T-shirt over frilly dresses anytime, and she didn’t bother most of the time with makeup, and she was far too strong—and proud—to even think about pretending to be a fragile flower. But she was still feminine. More or less.
She gave him a cross look that matched her cross ego. “You want a job?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then mind your own business. Trey and I will do just fine at the store without any input from you.”
“You didn’t mind my input last weekend.”
“I didn’t ask for your help. You volunteered.”
“Trey who?”
“Grayson. His father’s a doctor, and his mother’s a social worker. Do you know them?” When he shook his head, Nolie narrowed her gaze. “I find it amazing how you lived here all those years but don’t seem to know anyone besides Miss Corinna and Miss Agatha. Could it be you’re lying?”
Chase slumped lower in the chair, rested one ankle on the other knee, and fixed his gaze on her. It was no surprise that she thought he was a liar—after all, he had lied to her before, the last time mere minutes ago. Still, it was uncomfortable. Irritating.
“What reason could I have for lying?” he asked. “Other than the fact that I’ve made it clear I don’t want to discuss all the things you keep bringing up.”
“Talking about ourselves is as natural as breathing.”
“Not for everyone.” He’d met plenty of people in the years he’d practiced law—to say nothing of the time he’d spent in prison—who were even more closemouthed than he, people who didn’t let small details slip. For all his desire to keep his past in the past, sometimes she made him careless.
She made him. Blame didn’t really matter, but somehow it was her fault that he said things he shouldn’t. In the months between his arrest and conviction, he hadn’t confided a damned thing in anyone. He could say the same about his time as a guest of the Massachusetts penal system. He had come out of prison just as much a stranger to the men who shared his cellblock as he’d gone in.
But things were different with Nolie. Maybe he’d reached his limits on how much time he could endure totally alone. More likely, it was something about her.
He didn’t want to examine the question of what too closely, though. He might not like the answers.
“So you prefer to remain a mystery to the people— excuse me—the person in your life,” she said dryly.
He wanted to take exception to that description. She wasn’t in his life. That implied friendship. Involvement. A relationship. They were neighbors, nothing more . . . though he couldn’t recall the last time he’d gotten a hard-on for one of his neighbors, or gone out looking for a neighbor because she was late getting home, or been tempted to kiss one of them on a sunny Saturday afternoon. He was pretty damned sure that wanting a neighbor had never sent him running to the nearest bar to pick up the first available stranger . . . and that no neighbor had ever been responsible for his turning down the women who’d offered.
Much as he hated to admit it, this neighbor had done just that.
“I prefer to keep my business to myself,” he said at last.
“That’s hardly fair.” Judging by the faintly pouting expression she wore, Nolie was fortunately unaware of where his thoughts had drifted. “You know stuff about Micahlyn and me and Jeff and my in-laws, but you refuse to tell anything about yourself.”
“You’re in the group that likes to talk. I’m not.”
She studied him for a long time, not moving even when a timer started beeping in the kitchen. Finally she scooted to the edge of the couch, stood up, then smoothed her shirt over her hips. “I’m sociable. You’re not. Is that it?”
“Exactly.”
“Bull.”
He followed her into the kitchen, where she bent over to remove a pan of brownies from the oven. The faded denim of her jeans clung tightly to her hips and her bottom, then loosened as it stretched the length of her long l
egs to her bare feet. Something faint stirred deep in his belly, and he told himself it was nothing but hunger, stimulated by the rich aroma of the brownies and a long day without eating.
Hey, they’d already acknowledged he was a liar.
She set the pan on a rack to cool, then lifted the lid from a large pot, releasing more amazing smells into the air. He half-hoped she would invite him to dinner, even though the wise thing to do if she did was refuse. She was way too easy to spend time with, even with her shrill-voiced kid glaring at him the whole time.
“What do you mean, ‘bull’?” he asked once she’d finished fussing with the dinner.
“It’s a simple concept. If you can’t figure it out, maybe your secretary can explain it to you.”
“I don’t have a secretary.”
“Now.”
He didn’t respond to that.
“What I mean is that you’re perfectly sociable by nature. You’re just a coward.”
This time he was beyond annoyed and irritated, and verging on insulted. He circled the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen, and him from her, and slowly approached her. “A coward? If you knew what I’d been through . . .”
She eyed the distance closing between them and took a step back, then another. “But I don’t. I don’t know anything about you, and I bet no one else does, because you’ve chosen to hide away in the woods like some kind of hermit, unwilling to go anywhere or see anybody for fear—”
It was fitting that at the very moment she said the word, the emotion flickered through her eyes. It was the same moment she backed into the corner where two countertops met at a right angle, the same moment she realized he had her trapped. But it wasn’t fear exactly. More uneasiness. Uncertainty. Maybe even a little anticipation.
She swallowed hard, and braced her hands against the front edge of the counters. She would have been safer— hell, he would have been safer—if she’d folded her arms across her chest or, better yet, shoved him out of the way and moved into the open. But she hadn’t chosen either option, and the one she had chosen put her in a position that would make it so easy for him to slide his arms between her arms and her body. To move intimately close. To hold her captive. To kiss her.
Cabin Fever Page 12
