Love in a Small Town Box Set 1

by Tawdra Kandle

  “You okay?” There was a hint of sympathy in Laura’s voice.

  “Yeah.” I set the paint tray and brushes on a nearby table. “He’s just ...” I shook my head. “You know. Preston. He’s harmless.”

  “Just another of your conquests.” This time there wasn’t as much sympathy as there was resignation.

  I glared at her over my shoulder. “That’s not it. I went out with him a few times, and it was fun, but he wanted more than I did. Same old, same old.” I picked up a glass tumbler. “I’m going to get some water and start working. Just let me know when you’re finished.”

  Once I was set up with brushes, palette and water, I put on my ear buds and plugged them into my phone. A few seconds later, Bastille flooded through my head, and for the next three hours, nothing existed except music and paint.

  LAURA LEFT THE STUDIO before I did, and by the time I got outside, it was dark. Tourists and residents were still wandering the streets of Savannah, and as always, I felt safe as I made my way back to our apartment. I stopped on a corner to give a couple of older ladies directions to The Pirates House restaurant, and I smiled at a group of teenage girls sitting at a sidewalk table.

  We ordered in salads from the deli around the corner for dinner and watched our favorite black and white movies, this time making our theme for the evening Claudette Colbert. I went to bed early, slept hard and woke up in time for my eight-thirty Narrative Painting course.

  All of my morning classes were within walking distance, but in the afternoon, I had to drive to the other side of town for Conceptual Art Practices. I made a face at the ugly Chevette as I opened it and slid in, but I had to admit that it got me where I needed to go. I just hoped no one saw me behind the wheel.

  My phone buzzed after class as I walked toward the parking lot. It was a text message from Laura.

  Your car is ready. Sending you address to go get it.

  I sighed. I wanted my Honda back, but the idea of driving all the way to that backwater town was not appealing.

  Want to ride out with me? I can pick you up.

  I opened up the Chevette and climbed into the driver’s seat, waiting for Laura’s reply.

  Nice try, Megs. You’re on your own.

  I typed in one last message before I started up the car.

  Can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ll call on my way back. If I don’t get kidnapped by the rednecks.

  I plugged the address Laura had texted into my phone’s map program and aimed the car out of town. It was a pretty afternoon; only a hint of intense heat that would hit in a month or so floated on the breeze. The old Chevy didn’t have air conditioning, so I rolled down all four windows, blasted the rock station and made the most of the ride.

  The majority of the landscape on the way to Burton consisted of grassy swampland, dotted by small copses of trees now and then. It looked a little different in the daylight than it had on Saturday when Laura and I had driven to the bar, which I passed a few miles before I turned onto the main street of the town. In the late afternoon sunshine, empty, it looked less exciting than it had under neon and moonlight with a parking lot full of cowboys.

  I found Boomer’s without any trouble, even though the sign that hung near the curb was faded and rusting. An old tow truck sat in front of the garage, and a rag-tag assortment of vehicles surrounded the building. I pulled in and found an empty spot to leave the Chevette. I didn’t see the Honda anywhere, but surely there could only be one Boomer’s in a town this small.

  Slamming the car door, I walked toward the building. There was an entrance with the word OFFICE stenciled on the window. I didn’t see anyone inside, but I could hear music and the sound of machines coming from the garage. I gave the door an experimental push, and it opened with a loud squeak and a ringing bell.

  A chest-high counter took up most of the room. There were a few worn paper signs advertising products and services that were foreign to me. I stepped closer and saw a desk below the counter, covered with piles of papers, some of them edged with grease stains. An old rotary telephone was parked off to the side next to an equally ancient adding machine. Pushed under the desk was a rolling office chair that had been patched in spots with duct tape.

  Another door led into the garage itself, and I spied a few men in coveralls bent over an open hood. A piece of notebook paper had been torn out and taped up on the window. It read, Employees Only. No Admittance.

  I rapped on the glass, hoping to catch the attention of one of the men. But they were running some kind of loud drill, and neither of them even glanced my way. I looked over the counter, in case I’d missed a hidden bell or button. Nothing. I glanced around the room, at a loss. It looked like I was going to have to wait for Boomer to find me.

  Tucked back in a corner on the far side of a counter was a cracked brown leather couch. A wooden coffee table showcased a number of what I was sure were the finest in automobile magazines. I maneuvered my way between the two and perched on the edge of the sofa. Taking out my phone, I was about to blast Laura with a text about leaving my car in the middle of nowhere when I heard the squeak and bell of the door again.

  I stood up fast, smiling in expectation. When I saw the man in the threshold, my heart thudded against my ribs.

  I remembered those brown eyes, though in my memory, they were softer and full of warmth. Now they were wide in surprise.

  “You—” I cleared my throat. “Are you—Boomer?”

  “No.” His voice was deep and sounded vaguely insulted. “Where is he?”

  I shrugged, pulling my jacket tighter around me. “How would I know? I thought you were him, so clearly I have no idea.”

  The man shoved a hand through his hair, his lips pressing together into a thin line. “If he’s not in the garage, he’ll probably be here in a minute.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured. I was just ...” I pointed at the couch. “Waiting.”

  He nodded, and those gorgeous eyes darted around the room, as though he was anxious to look anywhere but at me. “Here to get your car?”

  “Yes. They called earlier.” I toyed with the silver ring on my right hand. “So, um, you’re the guy who helped us out the other night, aren’t you?”

  His eyebrows rose once again. “Yeah, I am. I’m surprised you’d remember.”

  I smiled, this time for real. “I must have woken up just enough to see you. Your eyes—I remember them.” I stuck out my hand, though it seemed ludicrous when this man had carried me in his arms only a few nights before. “I’m Meghan Hawthorne. You’re Sam, right?”

  He stared at my hand before taking his own out of his jeans pocket and putting it in mine, just long enough to grip and then pull back. It was as though he were afraid to touch me. “Yep. Sam Reynolds.”

  I frowned, looking down at my hand, wondering why he’d seemed reluctant to shake it. “Well, thanks. For saving us, I mean. Laura said she didn’t know what she would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

  “I hope you’ll think about that before you go out and get wasted again. Do you know how irresponsible that was?”

  My mouth dropped open. “What are you talking about?”

  Sam pointed at me. “You. Getting so drunk that your friend had to drag you out of a bar and then when your car broke down—your car, that she was driving—you were passed out in the front seat and couldn’t do a damn thing to help her. Yeah, I call that irresponsible. And being a bad friend, too.”

  Anger began to kindle down in my stomach. “First of all, you know nothing about me. Or Laura. You met us at a very low point for me on one night out of our lives. You have no idea how many times I’ve dragged her drunken ass out of bars or parties, driven her home and put her to bed. Because she’s my friend. And regardless of what you might think, I’m actually a very good friend.”

  He held up his hands like he was pushing me back, though he wasn’t standing anywhere near me. “Whoa. I’m just saying what I saw, and that was a girl who was desperate to figure out how sh
e was going to get home or take care of the car, when her best friend was too drunk to even help her figure it out. We had to carry you into the loaner because we couldn’t wake you up.”

  “She was the designated driver. That’s how it works.” I threw up my hands. “Why am I even arguing with you about this? It’s none of your damn business.”

  “When I’m the one who has to stop and rescue your ass, yeah, damn right it’s my business. You—”

  “Hey, now. What’s goin’ on?”

  I jumped, my hand flying to my heart in an admirable impression of my own mother’s favorite gesture. The voice came from just behind me. Apparently the door to the garage had neither squeak nor bell.

  Sam’s face was red as his jaw worked. “Hey, Boomer. I just came down to check on those spark plugs you ordered for me.”

  I tore my eyes from his face and turned toward the man standing at my shoulder. He was about my own height, rotund and balding. I figured him at about fifty years old. His gaze flickered between Sam and me without surprise or judgment, just interest.

  “You must be here for the Honda.” Boomer ignored Sam, which won him instant points with me.

  “Yes, I am. But please ...” I coated my voice with honey. “Please go ahead and take care of Mr. Reynolds here first. I’d hate to hold him up.”

  One side of Boomer’s mouth tipped up. “Plugs are in, Sam. Give me a minute here and I’ll get ‘em for you.” He stepped around me to get behind the counter, where he flipped a few papers and then slid one across to me. “Replaced the serpentine belt, took her for a test drive. Looks good.” He picked up the invoice and squinted at it. “Comes to $131.48.”

  “Fine. Thanks.” I dug into my handbag. “You take credit cards, right?”

  “Yup.” He nodded and took my Visa from me when I presented it. “Gotta go in the back to run it. I’ll have Vic bring the car around the front. Sam, be right with you.” He came back around the counter, and I sidestepped out of his way, trying to keep as far away from Sam as I could at the same time.

  Boomer paused with one hand on the door to the garage. “Y’all can keep from yelling again while I’m gone, right?” His eyes cut to Sam again, and then he grinned at me and winked before the door shut behind him.

  Sam wheeled around and braced his hand against the frame of the main entrance. I took advantage of the opportunity to study his back, the way the thin cotton of his dark blue T-shirt clung to the tensed muscles. Following the line of his shoulder, I eyed his arms, strong beneath the tanned skin, and tried not to remember the feeling of being held against his firm chest. Even as annoyed as I was with him and his idiotic assumptions about me, being in the same room made my mouth go dry and my heart beat just a little faster. I wanted nothing more than to duck under his arm and run my fingers over the ridges I was certain I’d find on his abs.

  I shook my head to clear it. The guy might make me hot and bothered, but it was clear that the feeling wasn’t mutual. His expression of distaste was something I couldn’t ignore, and the fact that he’d judged me based on one night pissed me off.

  “Look, maybe I’m out of line—” he began.

  I snorted. “You think?”

  He ignored me and continued. “But your friend seems like a nice girl, and I hate to see her get taken advantage of. And getting wasted when you’re in a strange place, an hour from home, is a really bad idea. That’s the kind of stuff you pull in high school, not when you’re an adult.”

  My eyes narrowed, and a feeling of disappointment along with something akin to jealousy filled my chest. “First of all, you’re not my father. You’re not even my friend. So I couldn’t care less what you think about me or your opinion on what’s a bad idea and what isn’t. Second, Laura’s practically engaged, you know. In case you were thinking you’re making points or whatever with her by yelling at me.”

  Sam jerked his head around to look at me, his forehead wrinkled. “What the hell are you talking about? I know about her boyfriend. She told me about him the other night. This has nothing to do with her, other than she must be a saint to put up with someone like you.”

  My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. “Fuck you.”

  His face went dark again. “You know what? Right back at you. I don’t know why I should care. Not like I’m ever going to see you again.”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  The door behind me opened again, and I turned back to the counter, resting my elbows on the edge and bringing my fingertips to my temples so that my hands blocked any view of the jerk on the other side of the room. Boomer slapped my credit card and receipt on the Formica and hunted up a pen.

  “Here you go. Vic’s got her around front, and she’s ready to go. Nice little car there. Looks like you’ve taken good care of her.”

  “Thank you.” I signed the receipt and pushed it across to Boomer. Keeping my gaze firmly on him, I added, “Taking care of your car is the responsible thing to do. I keep up with maintenance and I don’t drive like a maniac.”

  Boomer nodded, though the edges of his eyes crinkled in confusion. “Uhh ... yeah. Well, the keys are in it. If you have any more problems with her, y’all give me a call.” He stuck one grease-tinged hand into the front pocket of his navy blue coveralls and came out with a creased white business card. “Numbers on here, and all our work is guaranteed.”

  “Thanks.” I forced a wide smile. “I appreciate it, and you’ve been great, but I’m not planning on being back here again. Ever.”

  I picked up my copy of the paperwork and pivoted toward the door. Sam took an exaggerated step back, hands behind his back. I opened the door and then let it slam behind me as I stomped to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat and went to jam the key into the ignition before I realized they were already in there ... and what I had in my hand were the keys to the crappy little Chevette.

  “Damn, damn and double damn.” I blew out a breath and wished I could pound my forehead into the steering wheel without drawing too much attention. Instead I climbed out, and gritting my teeth, went back inside. Sam was leaning over the counter, talking to Boomer, and both men turned in surprise at the sound of the bell over the door.

  I marched over and dropped the keys onto the counter. “Sorry. I forgot to return the keys to the loaner. It’s parked outside. Thanks again for that.”

  I felt Sam’s eyes drilling into my back as I flung open the door again. I didn’t bother to acknowledge Boomer’s call of thanks behind me. I got into my car, locked the doors and pointed it toward Savannah.

  I BANGED OPEN THE kitchen door and stamped through it, dropping the paper bag with my spark plugs onto the table. The sack tipped over and hit the salt shaker, spilling small white crystals all over the checked tablecloth.

  “Sam! What the hell?” Ali turned around from the stove and glared at me. “Don’t put your crap all over the table. Can’t you see it’s already set for dinner?”

  I bit back the smartass reply I wanted to make and instead picked up the bag. “Where am I supposed to put it, then? So much shit all over every surface here. I don’t have any place to put anything down before you’re griping at me to move it.”

  She stepped toward me and tugged open a large drawer at the bottom of the built-in roll top desk that flanked the long kitchen table. “Here. Put it in the drawer, and feel free to leave any of your precious junk in there. I promise I won’t touch it.”

  I grunted and tossed the bag inside, feeling just a touch of guilt for taking my lousy mood out on Ali. It wasn’t her fault I’d had a run-in with the party girl from Savannah when I’d stopped in town, but she made a handy target. Not that I was going to bother to explain it to her; she wouldn’t understand why the pretty redhead with the huge green eyes stepped on my every last nerve. Hell, I wasn’t sure I even understood it.

  “Go get washed up, okay? The chicken’s done, and I’m about to pull out the potatoes. Oh, and will you yell for Bridget, too? She’s upstairs doing homework.”


  Without answering her, I headed for the tiny washroom just off the kitchen. I stopped at the bottom of the staircase that sat to the left of the front door and called.

  “Hey, Bridge! Supper.”

  Before I turned all the way around, I heard the sound of footsteps running down the hallway. The wooden floors in this house were original, built and put down by my great-great-grandfather, and they were beautiful. But they sure didn’t do much to keep the noise level down.

  I washed my hands and dried them on the rag Ali kept on a hook at the back of the door. I hated her little frou-frou towels, the ones that hung on the side of the antique wooden wash stand, and she hated trying to get grease or dirt out of them after I used them. So by mutual consent, she made sure I had a rag and I made sure I used it.

  Bridget was sitting in her seat at the table when I came back into the kitchen. Her dark hair was tied back in one long braid, and her brown eyes, so much like mine, were sparkling. She held a large sheet of white paper in her hand.

  “Hey, Uncle Sam! Lookit what I drew.” She held it out to me, and I took the paper, studying it closely.

  I squinted at the figure. “Is that Poker?” It was definitely a horse, and by the way she’d drawn it, I could see that it was one that belonged to our neighbor, Fred. The proportions were close to being right, and the setting was definitely our own farm. I made out our barn in the background.

  “Wow, squirt, look at this. It’s da—dang good. Ali, did you see what your kid drew?”

  My sister set a bowl of steaming green beans on the table and leaned to glance over my shoulder. “Nice job, baby. Why’s that horse on our land, though? I think your picture puts him right in Uncle Sam’s melon patch. Probably not a good idea.”

  Bridget took the paper from her mother and trotted to the fridge, where she added it to her other masterpieces. “That’s what it would look like if Poker came to live at our house.” She flashed me a brilliant grin, showing off her missing front tooth.