Engaged to be married?
Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut, wishing, hoping, praying to disappear. Somebody was going to look very foolish in the next minute or two. Most likely, that somebody would be her.
“Phoebe,” Tommy said, “why don’t you come on up and let us introduce you to the good people of New Skye?”
She opened her eyes and looked for Adam, who had left the speaker’s stand and moved nearer to where she stood. Holding out his hand, he waited for her to join him. He had decided to go along with Tommy’s lie.
If she protested, denied the engagement, Adam’s campaign would end today, this minute, his credibility with the voters destroyed.
“Phoebe?” Adam’s voice came to her…a question, a plea.
She couldn’t resist.
Turning to the crowd, he held her close to him with one arm and waved with the other, grinning wildly.
Tommy announced, “The future Mrs. Adam DeVries.”
To Phoebe, the words sounded like the clang of a heavy iron door…the door to her new prison cell.
Dear Reader,
Often, writers will say that their characters “talk” to them. I’ve been known to sit my characters in a comfortable (if imaginary) chair and treat them as a psychotherapist might, asking leading questions and saying, over and over again, “How did you feel about that?”
With this particular book, I had more trouble than usual interviewing the hero. Adam DeVries doesn’t talk much. When he does, he says as little as possible…because Adam stutters. No amount of coaxing can get him to ramble on about his childhood, his background, his family. He doesn’t want to discuss his failures or his successes—he simply wants to get things done. Adam is a decent, honorable man who puts himself on the line for his beliefs. Though he’s the last person you would expect to enter politics, with its endless campaigning and public speaking, that’s what his ideals lead him to do. Sometimes the only way to conquer your weakness is to face it head-on.
And sometimes you need a little help with that task. Phoebe Moss loves to help, which is why she became a speech therapist in the first place. Adam’s goal, and his gallantry, involve her deeply in his campaign, in his life. These two ride into battle very much like knights-errant in the old, old days, only to discover that the fight ahead may require more sacrifice than either of them can bear.
The Last Honest Man is the third book in my AT THE CAROLINA DINER series for Harlequin Superromance. I hope you enjoy Adam and Phoebe’s story, and that you’ll let me know what you think.
Happy reading!
Lynnette Kent
PMB 304
Westwood Shopping Center
Fayetteville, NC 28314
or lynnettekent.com
The Last Honest Man
Lynnette Kent
To Laura,
with admiration
and gratitude
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Adam DeVries: Mayoral candidate and owner of DeVries Construction
Phoebe Moss: A speech therapist
Cynthia DeVries: Adam’s mother
Preston DeVries: Adam’s father
L. T. LaRue: A corrupt businessman
Curtis Tate: The mayor of New Skye
Kellie Tate: The mayor’s wife
Tommy Crawford: Adam’s campaign manager
Samantha Pettit: Reporter for the New Skye News
Dixon Bell: A songwriter and friend of Adam’s
Kate Bowdrey: Dixon’s fiancée
Charlie Brannon: Owner of Charlie’s Carolina Diner
Abby Brannon: Charlie’s daughter, who keeps the diner running
Jacquie Archer: A farrier, Phoebe’s neighbor
Erin Archer: Jacquie’s daughter
Teresa DeVries: Adam’s sister
Tim DeVries: Adam’s brother
Jenna Franklin: Phoebe’s business partner
Pete Mitchell: A state trooper and Adam’s friend
Mary Rose Mitchell: Pete Mitchell’s wife
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PROLOGUE
HEADED DOWNTOWN ON A SWEET May morning, Adam DeVries whistled as he waited through the stoplight at the top of the hill, enjoying the warm breeze that reached inside the open window to ruffle his hair.
One second—one classic double take—later, his world started spinning in the opposite direction.
He let his jaw drop as he stared at the ravaged parcel of land to his left across the street. All the newly leafed trees he expected to see there had vanished, not to mention every last blade of spring-green grass. And the old stone chimney, a landmark of sorts, was gone.
The traffic signal above his truck turned green, red again, then green, and a honk from behind prompted him to get out of the way. Adam swung left at the next corner, wheeled into the first driveway he came to and backed out just as fast. He paid lip service to a stop sign, pulled out onto Main Street and headed up the hill. Approaching the traffic light from the other direction, he turned right on red and screeched to a stop beside the razed lot. Once out of his truck, he strode around the front end but then pulled up short, his stomach constricting and his knees suddenly weak. The sight before him was even worse than he’d imagined.
One of the most beautiful pieces of land in all of New Skye, North Carolina, had been reduced to an ugly square of brown dirt, pitted and peaked by truck tires and bull-dozer treads. A two-legged wooden sign lay flat on the ground, informing those who stood over it that this site had been rezoned for commercial use. Coming soon was a Speedy Spot convenience store and gas station, built by LaRue Construction.
Adam swore loud and long. Then he mourned.
Mourned for the childhood hours he’d spent here under the magnolias and poplars and oaks, some of them more than a hundred years old. When the 1880s house on the site burned down in the 1950s, the Brewer family had moved to a newer, safer home, but they’d cleaned up the lot, leaving the sturdy chimney standing among the trees. All the years since, they’d kept the weeds and grass mown for kids—like Adam and his brother and sister and his best friend Tommy—who’d brought balls and bats, books and games of make-believe to play in their special place. Teenagers sometimes hid under the trees in the dark to make out, though the police tended to keep a close eye on this unofficial “park” at night. Sunday afternoons, a family might wander down with their dog and their baby in a stroller, just to take in the fine weather and the view of downtown New Skye.
Adam could enjoy that view from where he stood now—not at the edge of the slope on the back of the lot, but on the street side—because the trees were gone. To his right, Main Street descended the Hill, as they called it, to the green circle of lawn that separated the grand old Victorian courthouse from traffic. Beyond the courthouse, the street with its new brick pavers stretched between tall crepe myrtle trees and giant planters filled with colorful flowers, which stood in front of renovated shops and offices. Anchoring downtown at the far end of Main were the new town hall and police department buildings.
There the trouble lay. Being in the construction business himself, Adam closely followed the rezoning notices for New Skye and the county. This case, though, had flown in under his radar. He’d missed the motion, the discussion and the
vote that changed the use of the Brewer land from residential to commercial, forcing the owners to sell. Had he been sloppy? Or had the whole transaction been camouflaged to avoid public notice? A number of powerful people in town would have protested the conversion of this property…if they’d been informed.
“I s-spent an hour in the r-records office yesterday afternoon,” Adam told his best friends during breakfast the next morning. After a couple of hard and fast hours of basketball, they were settling in for a decent meal at Charlie’s Carolina Diner, where they’d been coming for more Saturdays than they wanted to remember. “M-Mayor T-Tate slipped the m-motion into a city c-c-council m-meeting with no prior notification to the p-public.”
“The council went along without a whimper, no doubt, ’cause they’re his buddies.” Tommy Crawford shook his head. “I bet L. T. LaRue sat there the whole time, just grinning. He got what he wanted out of the deal—another building site.”
“Kachink, kachink,” Dixon Bell added. “All that scumbag ever thinks about is money.”
They all stared glumly at their plates. “It’d be nice if they mayor and the city council gave some thought to the ordinary people in this town,” Pete Mitchell said after a minute, “especially when there are real problems to be addressed.” As a highway patrolman, Pete ran an after school program for juvenile offenders; he knew the hardships imposed by funding cuts. “I suppose that gas station will increase the tax base, but if it makes the town a less desirable place to live, then people won’t move here and the tax base’ll go down…” He shook his head. “I’m not sure there’s a solution.”
“We could murder the incumbents,” Dixon suggested, with a wicked lift of his eyebrow.
Pete shook his head. “I don’t want to go to prison on account of Curtis Tate and L. T. LaRue.”
“The solution,” Tommy said, pointing with his knife, “is to get some honorable people in the government, men and women who’ll care about what’s right, not what’ll make them rich.”
This was the very conclusion Adam had drawn late last night, when he made his big decision.
Tommy glanced around the table. “This is an election year, gentlemen. We’ve got the chance to make a change. So which of us is gonna run for mayor?”
Amidst the muttering of the other guys, Adam took his stand. “I w-w-will. I’ll r-run f-for m-mayor.”
Tommy looked at him with raised eyebrows. “DeVries?”
In the silence, Adam looked at each man in turn—the boys he’d gone to school with, the friends he counted on when he needed help. “Wh-what d-do you th-think?”
Their hesitation lasted for a blink of an eye. Then they were all over the plan, giving advice, predicting success. Mounting a campaign would require money—they’d be sure he had enough—and time, which they offered freely. To hear them talk, the votes had already been tallied, the outcome secured.
Only when the others had left the diner and Adam sat alone with Tommy did the real impediment to their plan come up.
“So…” Tommy rolled his iced tea glass between his palms. “You’re gonna run for mayor. You don’t have a wife or kids to worry about. That’s convenient. And you’re the perfect candidate—good looks, good reputation, good family, everything we could want.”
“B-but…” Adam didn’t have to ask what Tommy was thinking. He had no problem putting every aspect of his life on the line in order to be the mayor of New Skye.
Every aspect but one.
Before he could eject Tate from the mayor’s chair, Adam would have to abandon his closest companion of more than two decades.
He would have to learn to speak without the stutter.
CHAPTER ONE
“MR. DEVRIES?”
At the sound of his name, Adam looked up from the news magazine he’d been pretending to read.
Across the waiting room, a woman whose long hair was the color of natural ash wood smiled at him. “Good morning. I’m Phoebe Moss.”
His heart began to pound against his ribs. He put the journal aside and got to his feet, pretending his palms weren’t sweaty, his throat hadn’t closed down completely. The receptionist, a grandmotherly woman with unlikely red hair, smiled at him as he passed by. Though he tried to return the favor, he doubted he’d been successful.
Phoebe Moss looked up at him when he got close—she was almost a foot shorter than he—and tilted her head toward the hallway behind her. “This way, please.”
With every step, Adam’s resistance mounted. He didn’t want to be here, would rather have been just about anywhere else on the planet besides this place, this morning. Walking down the hall felt like pushing against an incoming tide. In the middle of a hurricane.
“Come in and have a seat.” She ushered him into a north-facing office with a couch and an armchair, a desk positioned in the corner between two windows, and an assortment of assessment machines with which Adam was all too familiar, thanks to past experience. His strongest impulse was to run…as far and as fast as he possibly could.
But when Phoebe Moss sat in the chair in front of her desk and turned to face him with a clipboard in her lap, Adam lowered himself into the armchair.
She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up on her nose and settled down to business. “What can I do for you, Mr. DeVries?”
“Y-you’re a s-s-speech th-therapist.” He clenched his fist, hitting it against his leg. Bad enough to be here, without having to explain why.
“Yes.” The word definitely held a question. Waiting for his answer, she wrote briefly on the paper held by the clipboard.
“A-as y-you c-c-can hear, I s-s-stutter.”
Nodding, Phoebe Moss scribbled something else. “Fairly badly.”
“I w-w-want to s-stop.”
Her gaze lifted to his face. “Why?”
This was even worse than he’d expected. “W-why do you think? Talking this w-w-w-way s-s-sucks.”
Another notation. “I understand. Have you tried therapy before?”
He nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Did it work?”
“Obv-v-viously n-n-not.”
“Not even for a brief time?”
Adam shrugged. “If I c-concentrate,” he said, very slowly, “I can g-get th-through short s-sentences. But that’s n-not e-enough.”
“Has something changed in your life to prompt this new attempt?”
He gripped his hands together, studying his thumbs. The answer to her question was straightforward enough. Yet he dreaded her reaction.
When he didn’t answer, she cleared her throat. “What’s changed?”
After staring a little longer at his linked fingers, Adam lifted his gaze to her face again. Her eyes, he saw in that instant, were the dark gray of a stormy ocean.
“I’m going into politics,” he said, using the exaggerated drawl he’d been taught. “I have to be able to talk without stuttering.” He finished the sentence and winced. God, he hated the sound of his voice.
His worry over her response had been justified. Phoebe Moss stared at him, her mouth open in astonishment. “Politics? You’re going to run for office?”
He nodded. “M-m-mayor of N-New Sk-Skye.”
“That’s an ambitious goal for anyone.” Looking down at the paper in her lap, she tapped her pen on the edge of the clipboard for a moment. “When were you thinking about running for office?”
“Th-this y-y-year. I-I’ve al-already f-filed.”
Her startled eyes met his. “Aren’t elections in November?”
“Y-yes. B-but the c-campaign w-w-will s-s-start by L-Labor D-Day.”
“You expect to stop stuttering in less than three months?”
“Y-yes.”
“Mr. DeVries—”
“C-call me Adam.”
“Adam, do you realize how much you’re asking of yourself? Curing a stutter can take many months—years—of practice.”
He shrugged. “I’ll j-just h-have to work hard.”
She leaned forward
, bracing her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands together, maintaining eye contact. “I can’t make any kind of guarantee on your progress. Not in three months, or six or twelve.”
“I c-can d-do it.”
“Why are you so sure, when the past hasn’t shown success?”
“Th-that w-w-was for…for o-other p-p-people.” Adam took a deep breath. “This time is for m-me.”
“I…SEE.” STUNNED, impressed—and, to be honest, a little scared—by Adam DeVries’s resolve, Phoebe sat back in her desk chair. A glance out the window to her right showed a white pickup truck, with the red-and-blue DeVries Construction logo on the door, parked next to her lime-green Beetle. Now that she thought about it, his company’s signs were posted on building projects all over town.
“You’re obviously a successful businessman.” She gestured toward the truck. “Why worry about the stutter? Let the voters accept you as you are.”
“G-good p-p-point,” he said, without the rancor she’d expected. “B-but I have to be able to make my ideas plain.” For the first time, he smiled. “At a speed g-greater than the average snail’s p-p-pace.” His words were clear—though very, very slow—and his tone was distorted, due to his prolonged speech pattern.
But that smile… Seeing it, Phoebe couldn’t get her breath. The aristocratic planes of his cheeks softened, and his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners as his firm lips stretched wide—Adam DeVries’s smile was like the return of the sun after an eclipse, all the more valuable for being rare.
After a shocked moment, she gathered her wits to speak. “As I said, I can’t make any guarantees.”
“I-I und-derstand.”
“We’ll need several sessions every week.”
“N-no p-problem. C-c-can w-we sc-schedule at n-n-night? I-I can’t s-s-spend so m-many m-mornings away f-from w-w-work.”
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