by Bird, Peggy
“He’s not so bad,” Jordan said.
“Give me one good reason not to throw you out of here right now,” she said, hanging on to her temper by the merest thread.
“I love you, Sadie-belle,” he said simply. “I love you and want to be with you.”
She stilled. She looked up into his face.
“Okay,” she said cautiously. “That’s a fairly good reason — ”
“You were coming to me,” he said, tapping the suitcase. “Weren’t you? And that’s because you know as well as I do that despite our differences, we’re right for each other. We’re just … right. And there’s no point in settling for less than that, Sadie-belle.”
“I could be convinced.”
He chuckled and reached behind him and locked the door, then swung her up into his arms and brought her upstairs for further proof.
About the Author
Jenny Jacobs, a writer living in the Midwest, is still kissing frogs, but likes to write about people finding their happily ever after — even if they have to go through some difficulties to get there. Find out more about her at www.jennyjacobsbooks.com.
A Late-Blooming Rose
Jennifer DeCuir
Avon, Massachusetts
Beauty and the Beast has been around since the 1700s. Without the original author, Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont, and a later, possibly more recognizable, version by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve, my own story would not be possible. My thanks to those women for creating a beautiful masterpiece. Thanks as well to Walt Disney Studios for introducing this classic fairy tale to a whole new generation of children and children at heart.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
Chapter One
“Anything else I can get you today, Mr. Phillips?” Beau slipped the pricey first edition in a bag and set it before the older gentleman.
“Not unless your father has been able to obtain anything from the Mitchum collection.” A salt-and-pepper brow arched in challenge.
“I’ve been cataloguing everything as it comes in, and I haven’t seen anything from a … Mitchum.”
“Pity.” The man turned to leave.
Now Beau was intrigued. Was this Mitchum guy sitting on a gold mine of valuable books? This could be just the thing Beau needed to convince his father that he could handle the buying aspect of the bookstore. He’d been running the day-to-day for long enough. It was time to branch out. Besides, his father wasn’t getting any younger, and the constant traveling was wearing on him, even if he refused to admit it.
“Wait. Please. We always do our best to get our customers exactly what they want. Where does this Mitchum live? Maybe I’ll just surprise my father and do a bit of the legwork myself, for once.” Beau glanced toward the back room, hoping his father was still sound asleep in his leather desk chair, where he’d left him not too long ago.
“It’s the granddaughter, actually. She lives by herself in the family estate in Rochester.”
That was only a little over an hour from where they were in Syracuse. Beau nodded, picturing a lonely old woman being doted on by dozens of servants. Did she know the value of the collection that lay behind her walls? Would a bit of charm and polite manners be enough to coax her into selling to him? Or was she a shrewd businesswoman who could bargain with the best of them? This could be fun.
“Rumor has it she’s a bit of a tyrant,” Mr. Phillips added.
Beau greeted this last piece of information with a wide smile. He was up for the challenge.
“Thank you, Mr. Phillips. I will give you a call when I have finished doing business with Ms. Mitchum. Is there any particular piece in her collection that interests you?”
“I’ve word that her grandfather acquired a first-edition set of Edgar Rice Burroughs. I would pay top dollar to own that set, Mr. Landry.”
Then Beau would see it done. He waved goodbye to his best customer and watched the gentleman until he disappeared down the busy street. Turning his attention back to the business at hand, he found it hard to concentrate as an excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time began to thrum through him.
He’d known for a while now that he wanted more. He loved the bookstore, and he loved that his father trusted him with this much responsibility. But to be the one to discover priceless first editions hiding in plain sight at estate sales, or to convince a reluctant owner to part with a treasure they neither want nor need. That would be incredible.
His father currently did all the buying for Landry’s Rare Books. He’d been all over the world, and his store reflected that. It was a snapshot of his life’s work, his passion. And Beau couldn’t have been prouder to follow in his father’s footsteps.
Slipping silently into the back office, Beau shook his head as he spied his father tipped back in his old chair, an occasional snore ruffling his bushy mustache. The narcoleptic spurts were coming more often lately. Catnaps, his father assured him. A sign he was overdoing it, was always Beau’s reply. He tugged a homemade afghan from the back of the couch that the old man was too stubborn to stretch out on and draped it over his father’s sleeping form. Judging by the angle of his head, he was going to have a hell of a crick in the neck when he woke up.
“You’re mollycoddling me again,” Alistair Landry harrumphed as Beau tried to sneak out the door. “I don’t like it.”
“I’m taking care of you, like you’ve done for me. It’s what children do for their parents, Pop.” Beau turned back to face his father, frowning as he tried to decide whether to mention his plan to pursue the Mitchum collection on his own.
He loved his father, and he wanted to keep the man around as long as possible. If that meant taking the reins by force, then he was ready to do whatever was necessary. If his father loved him in return, he would understand that what Beau did, he was doing for his own good.
“I’m not ready to be put out to pasture yet. Christ.” The older man wadded up the faded blanket and tossed it aside.
“The doctor said he wanted you to slow down. You’re doing too much.”
“I’ll slow down when I’m dead.” Alistair Landry crossed his arms over his puffed out chest and glared defiantly at his son.
“That’s exactly what we’re afraid of, Pop.” Beau matched him glare for glare. “Look, I need you to watch the store today.”
“Where are you off to? You never go anywhere.”
And that was really kind of the point, wasn’t it? He always stayed behind while his father did the fun work. Pinching the skin between his brows, he decided to just spill it.
“I got a lead on a collection in Rochester.”
“Not the Mitchum estate? I’ve been meaning to get my hands on that one. I suppose we could close up shop for the day, grab a quick lunch on the way.”
“I’m doing this on my own, Pop. You’ve had your fun, now it’s my turn.”
“But you’ve never acquired a collection before. It’s a tricky business. You only get one shot at this.” His father had scrambled from the chair to pace the short length of the room.
“Then I guess you’ll have to trust that you’ve taught me all I need to know.” Beau clapped his father on the back before he headed for the door.
“Have it your way. You bring me back that collection and I’ll think about retiring. But you mess this up and you and the doc are going to have to get used to seeing this old man getting his passport stamped well into his eighties.”
“Fine.”
Beau swept out of the back office before he said something he’d regret. Stuffing his cell phone in his pocket, he snagged his keys and headed for the parking lot at the back of the store. He was only thirty years old, for crying out loud! He was too young to b
e dealing with parent issues such as this.
His father may be seventy, but in his mind he was still in his forties.
• • •
“No, of course you can’t leave early! You haven’t finished the laundry. There are smudges on the living-room windows that I’ve been waiting for you to remove since last week. And you promised to move my desk under the window in my office.”
Eva bit out a sharp cry as the knuckles on her left hand scraped against the doorframe of what used to be her father’s den and was now her office. She’d misjudged the distance and hadn’t given herself enough room to maneuver her wheelchair back out as she’d chased after Louise, the caregiver provided to her by the state. The throbbing in her hand only made her angrier.
“But it’s my mother’s birthday. We’re taking her out to her favorite restaurant.” Louise stopped and turned around so quickly that Eva nearly pitched out of her chair in her haste not to mow the girl down.
“I’m assuming your mother’s birthday falls on the same day every year, does it not?
The girl nodded, her head bowed.
“So despite knowing that it was coming up, you waited until now, mere minutes before, to ask me if you may leave your duties unfulfilled to go cavorting around town. Am I understanding this correctly?”
Louise sputtered, clearly unsure what answer might assuage her employer and what might further exacerbate the situation. She couldn’t have been much younger than Eva’s own twenty-six years, but with her hunched shoulders and timid demeanor, she could easily have passed for a teenager. Eva stared her down.
“I could come early tomorrow. And stay late. It’s no trouble, really.”
“Except that I am a light sleeper and if you come in and start clanging things around at the crack of dawn, then I’ll be forced to get up early. And I detest getting up early.”
“Miss Eva, I’d be happy to make it up to you any way you’d like. Please, if I leave now, I’ll have just enough time to go home and change before our six o’clock reservation.” The young woman lifted her head, her eyes just the slightest bit moist.
Eva had to give her credit. Louise had been here a whole month, and she’d yet to see her cry. The one before that? A week? An hour? Oh, it was impossible to keep track. Eventually they all left.
Her mouth hardened as she held her head higher. “Fine. Go. Enjoy your mother’s birthday. Have a slice of cake for me.” She continued to stare at the girl, her expression bland.
“Really? Oh, thank you, Miss Eva. I promise not to show up so early as to wake you in the morning. Thank you so much.”
“You misunderstand. You are free to leave early, but you will not be coming back. Your services are no longer required.”
“But—”
“Did I stutter? Get out! I don’t need you here.” Eva steered her wheelchair around her former employee and down the hall to yank open the front door.
That seemed to do the trick. Louise let loose with the waterworks, running past Eva with her head bowed, little hiccupping gasps pulled from her lungs like she couldn’t quite get enough air to wail properly. Eva watched the young woman struggle to pull her car keys from her pocket with shaking fingers. She watched until the taillights of the old Honda Civic disappeared beyond the tall iron gates and were gone. Then she was alone again.
The door shook in its frame, the resounding bang echoing throughout the cavernous house as Eva slammed it behind her. Slowly, she wheeled herself back down the long hallway. The silence weighed heavily, making it harder to turn the wheels of her chair. Her office was the last door at the end of the hall, yet the closer she got, the further away it seemed. Like a cruel optical illusion.
Eva swung her wheelchair into the living room, her eyes drawn back to the fingerprints on the windows. She’d left them there just yesterday. So Louise would have a reason to stay longer today. But the woman had had better things to do with her time than clean Eva’s windows. They always had better things to do. And they always left.
Tightening her hands into fists, Eva winced. She’d forgotten about her recent run-in with the doorframe. Three knuckles were torn, blood smeared and already dry. She should wash it off. But she merely sat in the center of the living room, her eyes looking past the dirty windows to the overgrown tangle of rose bushes outside. Since Mr. Kirkpatrick left, they’d been left to grow wild and were now more thorns than blooms.
A knock at the door had Eva snapping her head up. Had Louise forgotten something? Was she back to beg for another chance? Before she realized it, Eva was zooming down the hallway toward the front door. No, mustn’t look desperate. If the woman wanted her job back, she’d have to plead for it.
Arranging her features into a mask of indifference, Eva lifted her chin, threw back her shoulders, and opened the door. And blinked. She’d been expecting a cowering Louise on her doorstep. Instead, she looked up to find a very tall man with the most arresting aquamarine eyes watching her with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
“I’m sorry, I was looking for the owner of this estate. Eva Mitchum?”
“And, what? I look like the hired help? What makes you even think you can just show up on the doorstep and expect to be let in? Did you not see the ‘no trespassing’ sign on the gate? I have half a mind to call the police!”
Of course there was no sign. The manor was too far off the beaten path to be a target for peddlers of religion, vacuum cleaners, or even Girl Scout cookies. But he didn’t need to know that. He just needed to leave. Now. She started to shut the door, her eyes widening as his large palm slapped against the wood, stopping the door before she could slam it in his face.
“Wait! Ms. Mitchum … ”
“Oh, so now I’m the lady of the house?” Her heart thudded in her chest as she tried to determine whether ol’ blue eyes was a threat or merely a nuisance.
“Just give me five minutes. Please.”
She looked him up and down. “I’ll give you one. Better talk fast.”
Chapter Two
Whoever he’d been picturing when listening to the gossip in town about Ms. Eva Mitchum, it certainly wasn’t the woman standing, well, sitting, in front of him. He’d imagined her older, much older. Mr. Phillips had mentioned her reputation and had gone on to explain that he’d known a few people who had tried to get their hands on the rare books she hung on to so tenaciously. She’d been cold and rude, shouting and angry. Beau figured it took a lifetime, and a miserable one at that, to develop the sort of personality Mr. Phillips had described.
The wheelchair made her slight figure seem even smaller. Had she the ability to stand, he was sure she’d only come up to his chest. Sure, her soft brown eyes were narrowed to flinty slits, and the chin of her heart-shaped face was lifted ridiculously high, perhaps to compensate for being so low to the ground. But she cradled her hand in her lap, and he could see she’d been hurt. It wasn’t the fact that she was in a wheelchair that made this woman, probably only in her early twenties, seem vulnerable. It was something else.
“Tick-tock. I am incredibly busy, so if you could just get to the point about what you’re selling so I can tell you I don’t need it, that would be wonderful.”
“Oh, I’m not selling anything, Ms. Mitchum.”
The look she gave him implied that she’d heard that line more than once. He hurried on.
“My name is Beau Landry. I’m here about your rare books.”
“My grandfather’s books, you mean.”
The flinty look changed to one of pure ice, frightening in its intensity. She took a deep breath, blowing it out through her nostrils, as her lips were currently pursed in a tight frown. He was handling this badly. There was no way she’d sell him her precious collection if he pissed her off before he even got a foot in the door.
“Ms. Mitchum, please allow me to start over. I understand that you have a collection of Edgar Rice Burroughs books that belonged to your grandfather. I’d be interested in buying them, if we could negotiate a good price.”
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Her hand remained on the door. But her icy expression had melted slightly, to one of calculated curiosity. She tilted her head just the slightest, her long, mahogany bangs falling into her eyes. Impatiently, she tucked the hair back behind her ear.
“How is it that everyone keeps bothering me about my grandfather’s collection? How did you find out about his books?” The fingers on the door had curled into talons.
“There is a national registry, easily accessed by anyone with a computer.” The sharp vee of her arched brow made him realize he may have implied her disability wasn’t just in her legs but in her brain as well. “I just mean, your grandfather listed the collection with this registry years ago, making it public knowledge. Usually that is what one does when they intend to sell it someday, to the right buyer at the right price.”
“He left those books to my father. Grandfather wouldn’t have sold his precious collection unless he was destitute.” The expression in her heated gaze dared him to call her a liar. “And so here you are, hoping you are the right buyer with the right price?” She looked him up and down slowly, her eyes lingering.
“If I show you my grandfather’s collection, you’ll be willing to pay the price I ask?” Her eyes raked over him again, pausing this time when she reached his biceps.
Though it was difficult, he kept himself from reacting. It was becoming uncomfortably clear that she was not interested in money. What the hell was she looking for? A sex slave? Beau figured the woman was likely sad and lonely, living out here by herself, but holy Christ!
Setting his jaw, he looked Eva in the eye, then slowly, deliberately lowered his gaze to her ample chest, her flat stomach, her slim legs, before meeting her gaze again. “Show me the collection, and we’ll see if it’s even worth anything.”
