by Jodi Thomas
He parked the car in front of the place and they climbed out. A windmill behind the house clanked a steady beat as the last bit of sun flickered off the blades.
“My great-grandmother planted those roses in 1904 and they still climb the east side of the house to the roof every year.”
Jillian moved close. “What are you trying to tell me, Connor?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing he was taking as big a gamble as his great-grandfather ever had. “I know you’re a drifter, Jillian James. I know you travel light and have all your life. But I’ve got roots. Deep roots. I have to stay were my family has been planted.”
He looked into her stormy-day eyes and knew the answer before he could even get out the question he’d come here to ask. She didn’t need to say anything. He didn’t need to ask her to stay. He knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t.
“I understand,” she finally said.
Then she came to him as she had so many times before, easily into his arms as if she belonged there, even though they both knew she never would.
Neither said much as they watched the last light of day melt into the earth. The land, the air, even the sky was silent tonight. The whole world was waiting, holding its breath, waiting for an answer that would never come.
He drove her back to the bed-and-breakfast.
She didn’t mention dinner and he didn’t think about it until he’d already parked at the side door where his car was camouflaged by honeysuckle bushes that were now showing bits of green while still prickly with winter.
He told himself he’d kiss her one more time, and then somehow, he’d find the strength to walk away. Tomorrow they’d go back to being friends.
It was good plan, the only logical answer, until she whispered, “Come up with me.”
Without a word, he took her hand and led her upstairs to her tiny third-floor room in a big empty house.
In the silence, he made love to her. For the first time. For the last time. Forever.
29
As the night aged, Jillian didn’t move or fall asleep. She was wrapped in Connor’s arms. She was safe and warm. For the first time in her life, she felt loved. But she couldn’t stop the tears from silently falling onto her pillow.
All the times she’d been with a man drifted through her thoughts. Her senior year of high school, an awkward encounter in a car. Her freshman year in college when she’d had too much to drink. Then, she’d been twenty-five and didn’t want to spend the Christmas holidays alone. A year later, when she’d thought she might be falling in love, only to find out he loved his wife more. One hurried affair in the office. One night when she went home with a total stranger and he passed out before he even tried to remove her clothes.
Not much of a love life, she thought.
Until tonight. For once someone had truly made love to her. So much more than sex. So much more frightening. She wouldn’t walk away this time without leaving her heart behind. He’d made love with a passion that surprised her, but it was the way he held her after passion stilled that made Connor perfect.
He moved in his sleep, instinctively brushing her arm as if making sure she was still close.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
He rubbed his scratchy chin against her shoulder. “I should go. If Mrs. Kelly finds me here she’ll charge me for the night.”
Jillian giggled. “Yeah, but she’ll cook you breakfast while she speed-dials all her friends.”
“I couldn’t care less. I’m guessing half the town already knows how much you mean to me. I’ve never been any good at hiding anything from anyone. No sense in starting now.”
Somewhere below, in the silent house, a door opened and closed. Connor sat up. “I thought Mrs. K was out of town again.”
“She was.”
Footsteps started up the stairs.
“Did you lock your door?” Connor asked, leaning low against her ear.
“I think so. I had other things on my mind.” She laughed softly. “And your hands on my body, if I remember right.”
His fingers slid over her hip. “I remember that.”
They waited silently for another sound.
The steps stopped on the second-floor landing. Laughter rumbled through the stairwell, then one of the second-floor bedroom doors opened. One man’s laughter, and one woman’s, sounding very much like the short, chubby Mrs. Kelly.
“We’re not alone.” Connor leaned over her, suddenly more interested in tasting her throat than the fact intruders were one floor below. “It appears Mrs. K has a guest,” he murmured, as his mouth moved down her throat. “Maybe we should be very quiet and try to do something to take our minds off the intruders.”
“But that’s not her room.” Jillian understood he’d pressed close so they could talk, but she quickly became fully aware neither of them had any clothes on.
That unmistakable full laugh of Mrs. Kelly’s came again, finally pulling Connor away from his exploring mission.
His low voice brushed Jillian’s ear. “Maybe they’re just trying out the room.”
Jillian nodded and listened. It sounded like someone jumping on the bed below her room. She couldn’t make out any words, but two people were talking or moaning, definitely laughing.
Connor kissed her lightly, distracted once more from what was going on twelve feet below. His hand slowly moved along her back from neck to hip as if learning every curve.
She sighed. “There is something to be said for a man with a slow hand,” she whispered, then cried out with joy as he began kissing his way down the same path.
They settled back into the nearness of each other, both forgetting anything happening outside her tiny room.
Finally, Jillian heard the door below open and two sets of footsteps hushed down the stairs.
One word was loud enough to understand. “Pancakes.”
Connor pulled away with a groan and stood. He began putting on his clothes.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“If Mrs. Kelly is making pancakes, I’m joining them.”
Jillian grabbed the sheet when she realized she’d stood without thinking about where her clothes were. “You’re kidding.”
“No. We slip out the side door, come in through the front and act like we’ve just stumbled upon them.”
Jillian giggled. “It won’t work.”
“Bet you dinner it will.” He buttoned his shirt.
“Wait a minute. You already owe me dinner. We had a date tonight, remember? Just me and you alone. Dinner.” She grabbed a sweatshirt from her desk chair. “We forgot dinner.”
“That’s probably why I’m willing to risk it all for pancakes.” He pulled on his boots without bothering with the socks. In the milky glow from the streetlight, she saw him smile. “At least I got the just me and you alone right for a while.”
She slipped into her jeans and tennis shoes.
“Ready, Sundance?” He took a step toward the door.
“Ready, Butch.”
Connor took her hand in his, pausing just a moment to smile at her, before he pulled her out the unlocked door. In that one glance she saw how young he was. Not the mayor, the head of the family, the father, the one everyone turned to, but just Connor, the dreamer, the adventurer, the lover.
Two minutes later, the two outlaws looked quite proper as they walked through the foyer, crossed the parlor and stepped into the kitchen.
Mrs. Kelly’s cheeks turned apple red, but the ghost sitting comfortably at the counter, who must have been haunting her house for years, just smiled. She introduced Mr. Murry as a fellow bed-and-breakfast owner from Dallas and said they were checking out each other’s establishments for ideas.
Jillian noticed they were both dressed, except for shoes, but Mrs. Kelly’s apron read I break for wine, ice cream, and green-eyed
men.
The man in her kitchen had green eyes that seemed to twinkle with laughter.
When the two men shook hands, Jillian caught Mr. Murry winking at Connor and to her shock, Connor winked back. They didn’t say a word but she swore she could read their minds. Both were thinking, let the women play their roles, but we both know what’s going on here.
So Jillian acted out her part, asking Mr. Murry all about his B an B and Mrs. Kelly invited them to join Mr. Murry in a taste test of her famous pancakes. No one seemed to notice that the tasting could have waited until morning. No one asked why the mayor was there so late, or why Mr. Murry was visiting so early.
An hour later, when Jillian and Connor walked out on the porch, they hugged as they fought down laughter.
“You know what’s going on between those two?” She giggled. “They’re having a wild time and the affair comes with pancakes. From the sounds coming from below my room, they must have been trying out the beds.”
“I know, but I don’t care what they do.” He kissed her lightly. “I had a wonderful night with you. Best of my life.”
“Me, too,” she added, and kissed him again. “We’d better get some sleep. I’m guessing you’ll have a full day tomorrow.”
“I will. I’m thinking of hiring someone just to take calls in my office.” He didn’t let her go. “But I’d give up sleep forever for more time with you.”
She felt the same. What they’d shared wasn’t some fairy tale from a movie. It was real. Something they could build on if she’d stay. A perfect night they’d both remember the rest of their lives if she left.
“I’ll see you soon. We’re due at the museum at nine. By the time I get ready, it will be almost time.” The kiss she gave him was gentle, a promise of others to come.
Finally, he straightened, his arms still refusing to let her go. He looked down at her and she saw sorrow cross his face for a moment before he hid his feelings. “Stay, Jillian. Stay forever.” He’d said his thoughts aloud.
She gulped for air as though she’d been slammed too quickly into reality. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me again. It will only make it harder when the time comes to leave.”
He kissed her forehead and stepped away. She knew his heart was breaking, but he was fighting so hard to make it easier for her. What kind of man does that?
Deep down she knew the answer.
The kind of man who loves without boundaries.
30
Jillian worked the next week finishing up the photos and facts about two more quilts. Only a few remained before her job would be finished. She hadn’t seen Connor or Gram except at hurried dinners with usually half a dozen guests.
The town was changing, growing and everyone wanted just an hour or two of Connor’s time.
The store had been busy, too. Half the new supplies had already flown off the shelves. She wasn’t sure if there was a renewed interest in quilting, or people just wanted to stop by to talk.
Sunnie popped in and out every afternoon to see if she needed help, disappearing as soon as Jillian said no.
Once, she’d told Jillian that lights were going up all over the district. Apparently, everyone in town had driven to the other side. “They got a traffic jam over there.” Sunnie laughed. “Our first ever.”
As the weekend neared, Jillian turned down Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch at the Laradys’ home. If weekends lasted twice as long, she still knew she’d barely finish with the quilts. She had to hurry. It was time to move on.
Connor called every morning and said that he didn’t have time to walk over for coffee. He said Gram was having a hard time remembering where she’d put things, but her leg was healing. He realized she wanted to go back to where all her things surrounded her. She also needed to come back to the shop before all the quilts were moved to the museum.
Jillian asked for a few days to get everything organized and turned down his offer for dinner. She feared that if she joined the little family, it would only be one more distraction for Gram, and if Connor left his gram, the dear lady might be upset. Plus Jillian needed time and distance from Connor. She had to get ready to leave; only this time, like it or not, memories would be packed with her.
As the weekend ended Sunday night in the quiet shop, she almost wished she’d said yes to at least one of Connor’s invitations. She wanted to see Gram and Sunnie and Reese. She ached to be near Connor. Just a few more times.
The work, Gram’s illness, and the excitement in the town all seemed to be smothering the little time she had left to be with him. But maybe love doesn’t always come as a whole cake—sometimes it only comes as a bite.
Her grade school picture floated through her thoughts. When her father had taken the picture from its hiding place in the library, maybe all he wanted as a taste of the memories of her. He was a man who settled for thin slices of life. If she continued to travel, would she whither until she’d be just like him?
It occurred to her that Connor might need a little space away from her to prepare for what would come. All day Saturday, every time she’d seen him out the window on Main, he was walking with a group and seemed deep in discussion. Now it was Sunday, and the lights were up in the district. Maybe he was resting.
Jillian remembered she’d seen Reese right beside Connor several times, carrying tubes of what might be blueprints. The kid couldn’t have looked happier if he’d been waiting for a ride at Disneyland.
Only today, there was no movement across the street. No movement anywhere. As dark clouds rolled in, Jillian felt like she was totally alone in the world. Strange how a town could be so alive one day and so dead the next.
Mrs. Kelly called midafternoon to tell Jillian she’d put on a stew. “Be sure and get back here before the rain moves in.”
“I will,” Jillian promised as she hung up and started photographing her last project: Gram’s beautiful, crazy, busy quilt.
She spread it out carefully, as if she were handling a great treasure. The colors were rich and twirled in designs that made no sense when she studied each section, but when she stood on the ladder to get the shot, she saw the beauty of patterns on patterns swirling. Names, dates, and events seemed sewn into the stitches between the pieces. The earliest date was 1934, Gram’s birthday, stitched in pink on sky blue cotton. The fabric intersected another date the same year, and another color ribboned the first. Benjamin’s birthday in a darker blue, Jillian guessed. Then came the wedding date, layered in lavenders and pearl grays. Like a vine, the dates of Gram’s life wove across the quilt.
Other colors, more names crossed the vine. Some births, some deaths.
Jillian couldn’t stop studying the history of the town written in stitches. Embroidered in flower bouquets and black shadows draped over headstones. Pink roses of births, black ivy for deaths. Fourth of July fireworks and Christmas trees. The stitching was so fine no one would notice all the details if they only glanced at the quilt.
Two lines shot off of the main vine. Gram’s two sons, maybe. One line was short and ended in black ivy. The other, longer line intercepted a second line with roses. One gray line drifted near Gram’s at times, never touching, but traveling the same path. There was no ivy at the end of either line, which told Jillian that Gram and whoever shadowed her were still alive.
Jillian had a feeling she’d never see another quilt like this one. It must have taken hundreds of hours to construct.
Jillian jumped when she heard a tapping on the glass door. She’d been so absorbed in the quilt, she hadn’t noticed the time.
When she unlocked the shop, she was surprised to see Connor. He looked even taller than usual in his Stetson and boots. A man comfortable in his clothes, she thought, whether it be cowboy or businessman.
He only stepped over the threshold and stopped, hat in his hand. “I thought I’d give you a ride home. Storm is coming in. I had to drive pas
t here to check that everything was locked down across the creek.”
“Thanks,” was all she could manage to say.
While she went to get her things, he moved to the cutting table where the quilt was spread out. “I’ve seen this quilt from time to time. Never realized how beautiful it was. Gram never put it on display.”
“It’s not finished,” Jillian said as she pulled on her jacket.
As he always did, Connor opened her door, but he didn’t put his arm around her in that easy, light way she’d become used to.
They’d be alone for only a few blocks. Maybe he didn’t want to start something he couldn’t finish.
He did drive slowly. For once, neither seemed to know how to start talking.
“How is Gram?” She finally broke the silence.
“She’s moody. Restless. That’s not like her. She couldn’t remember if she’d eaten breakfast this morning. Swore she hadn’t. So the nurse made her a bowl of oatmeal and after two bites Gram swore she was too full to eat another bite.”
His voice was so low it blended with the wind’s low howl. “She’s slipping, Jillian. A little more each day. She wants her things around her and they are all at the Acres.”
Silence fell again as they neared the bed-and-breakfast.
His tone became more conversational, like he needed to talk about something, anything else. “This little house, down from Mrs. Kelly’s place, looks better somehow.”
She turned to the cottage with the colorful pots on the porch. The one with the lady in a wheelchair who waved at her now and then. “I pick up one bag of trash on the way into work every morning. It only takes me a few minutes, but it’s starting to make a difference.”
“Why? Do you know the old lady who lives there? I’ve heard she turns away anyone who tries to be friendly.”
“I didn’t talk to her. I didn’t ask. I just did it because it needed to be done.”
He pulled in front of the B and B and looked at her then, really looked at her.
“You want to come in? Mrs. Kelly made a stew tonight. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you joining us.”
