by Patti Larsen
If anything, the red faced man who might have been a football linebacker in a former decade but had gone too far to beer and burgers for his own good had that kind of expression on his thick lipped face that made me want to back up a step and reassess the situation. His beady blue eyes, so pale they were almost transparent, squinted out of folds, his faintly reddish hair, what was left of it, combed over the shining top of his head. And he had that bully stance, the kind that big men with little care for women seemed to think would make me back down if they just waited long enough.
I lived in New York for five years. We’d just see who backed down first.
“Oh, Fee,” Daisy gushed, grasping my upper arm with both hands as if she had no idea she was transferring unmentionable fluids from myself to her. Her pale gray eyes gleamed with charm and not a whole lot else while she grinned first at me then up at the large man in the jeans and shining silver belt buckle, whose plaid shirt stretched over the round of his protruding belly. Cowboy boots crushed the deep blue carpet beneath him, pointed toes decorated with chrome. “You’re here, at last.” Daisy rolled her eyes and giggled. “I told you she’d be right here, silly.” She released me long enough to playfully slap the man’s forearm, coyness not an act.
“Fiona Fleming?” He smiled, too, but my stomach turned when he did, an oily tone to his deep voice.
I nodded. “Can I help you? Mr…?”
Instead of gracing me with his own name, he extended one big hand toward me. How had I missed the large envelope he held pressed to one leg? I took it out of reflex, confused as I looked down at my name printed on an official looking label in the center. I glanced up to find him turning to leave without even so much as a hint of explanation.
“Excuse me,” I said, the envelope outstretched toward him as if doing so would grant me some kind of insight. “What is this?”
“Deed papers,” he said, grinning now. “Thanks to your grandmother’s dying signature, Petunia’s belongs to me.”
I gaped at him, frozen in place, and watched in growing horror while the big, white door slammed shut behind him.
***
Chapter Three
My astonished and paralyzed state didn’t last long and before I knew I was in motion I found myself jerking open the entry and hurtling down the front steps to the flagstone walk. Even so, the man’s long stride had carried him a great distance and I only caught up as he was climbing into a giant monstrosity of a black SUV. I nabbed his arm, pulling him toward me, though honestly he was twice my size at least and had he wanted to just leave, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him. But he did pause, still grinning, handing me a business card.
“When you’re ready to hand over the keys,” he said, “next day or two would be good for me, I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“There’s obviously some mistake.” My brain fired, spun, wobbled on its axis. This was nuts. My grandmother left Petunia’s to me. Why would she sign it over to some stranger? I glanced down at the card in my hand. Pete Wilkins, Wilkins Construction, Inc. Did I even know him from growing up here? “You’ve obviously got the wrong place.”
“If you’re any longer than forty-eight hours,” he said as if I hadn’t even spoken, “I’ll make sure the sheriff comes along when I take possession.” He snickered at that. Like this was funny. “To give you encouragement to move out.”
Move… “I’m not going anywhere.” Heat washed over me that had nothing to do with the growing temperature of the day, the sun overhead, the July humidity. Now, I’m not saying I have a bad temper, but, well. I am a redhead. Scare me or push me or corner me? Ka-boom. I waved the envelope at him as he climbed into his truck with a grunt, slamming the door. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” Because I had a lawyer. Yikes.
Pete Wilkins leaned out the open window, saluting me with two fingers. “Have a nice day, Miss Fleming,” he said before laughing and keying a button, the whir of rising tinted glass cutting me off.
“Get back here right now!” Oh my god, did I really just stomp my foot on the sidewalk like a little kid having a tantrum? He backed into the street as if he owned it, squealing his tires when he drove off while I shook and shouted at his retreating license plate. “I want an explanation for this!”
“Fee?” Daisy’s soft and worried tone didn’t help at all. If anything, her timidity made things worse. I spun on her, spotted a pair of guests staring, Peggy Munroe observing from her front door. Confrontation was a spectator sport in Reading, was that it? “Is everything okay?”
She will never know how much inner strength and fortitude it took not to smack her with the damned envelope I clutched so tightly in my hand my fingers were tingling. She did have the good sense to back up a pace, though, and my guests, suitcases in hand, hurried inside as if I might blow at any moment. As for Peggy, she didn’t comment, she and Cookie going inside as if disappointed there wouldn’t be fireworks.
As for me, I inhaled. Exhaled. And dropped Pete Wilkins’s card on the sidewalk before carefully and precisely shredding it under my sneaker.
“We have guests,” I said abruptly to Daisy and stomped back inside.
Thursday was turnover heavy, one of my busiest days, and instead of being able to take my time and peruse the clearly mistaken document that remained hidden inside the large envelope, I instead shoved it into a drawer at the sideboard that housed the computer in the foyer and got back to work.
Cleaning and check-ins and a long, weary day later and I realized I hadn’t had a chance to even change out of the stinky clothes I’d worn to clean the toilet in the Blue Suite. With a last sigh of disgust at myself, stomach growling from lack of dinner, I finally paused in the front hall near the desk and removed the envelope. Looked up around the beautifully decorated front entry with its delightful crystal light fixtures and vaulted ceiling, the bright, white wooden slats and soft blue walls. My grandmother’s taste had been impeccable, to say the least. There was nothing old fashioned or creepy about Petunia’s. In fact, I loved it, more than I’d care to admit, even after this short time as the mistress of this place.
If these papers were legit, how was I going to bear giving up this life I thought would rescue me from myself?
“It’s going to be okay, Fee,” Daisy said, coming to my side, voice still soft and apologetic. “Won’t it?”
I had a very, very bad feeling it wasn’t. But the initial burn of fury was gone, leaving behind the kind of sick knotting that usually led to me making terrible life choices. “Sure it will,” I said. “Can you handle things here for a bit?”
Bless her, she didn’t do a whole lot, really not suited to working for me on the physical, manual labor side. But I didn’t have the heart to fire her—considering I hadn’t officially hired her in the first place—when she’d bustled back into my life like an excited kid whose favorite toy had been found after long absence. And she really was good with the guests. Like Petunia, they treated her as if her adorableness was endearing so I shrugged off her lack of focus and ability in the bed making and bathroom cleaning department and let her handle the desk.
“Of course,” she gushed. “You can count on me.” She saluted, cute little flowered sundress as flawless as when she’d arrived this morning, perfectly polished nails unchipped. And while leaving her in charge likely meant a disaster waiting to happen, I had to face this ridiculous prospect I might not really own Petunia’s after all.
With the envelope clutched in my hand and the waddling pug on a leash at my side, I strode out of the front door and down the street at a smart clip. My temper pushed me faster and faster, only to hear the chuffing puffs of protest that spun me around. Petunia now strolled behind me—way behind me—her short legs plodding under her round body, tongue hanging at a comical angle, corkscrew tail wagging its jolly best as she tried to keep up. The harness around her chest sat askew, retractable leash at its maximum reach.
“You could have stayed home.” Annoyance at her helped cut the edge of my worry as
Petunia finally joined me and sat on her haunches, back legs tucked sideways under her as if she planned to stay a while. She grumbled a few pug things at me, ending in a soft growling bark that told me exactly what she thought of me leaving her behind.
“Fine,” I said, spinning and marching on, though at a pace more suited to Petunia this time. “But don’t you dare tell Mom you missed dinner. I know Betty gave you seconds.”
The pug burped softly before farting with great enthusiasm.
Almost enough to make me smile.
I rounded the end of the block and past a short, white picket fence, the familiar sight of my father’s pickup truck and Mom’s cute little custom pink Volkswagen Beetle crowding their narrow driveway. At least they were both home. I was going to need the two of them on this, I had a feeling, even if just to commiserate on my loss if it came to that.
I wasn’t expecting the sight of the big, white sheriff’s truck parked across the street, nor of the tall, broad shouldered and white hatted uniform who strode out the front door of my parent’s rancher with a tip of his brim, boots thudding on the patio stones as he sauntered down the walk as if he knew just how freaking delicious he looked 24/7.
Sheriff Crew Turner paused at the gate, grinning at Petunia who he bent to give a good scratch behind one ear before he squinted up at me, blue eyes narrowed against the sun setting behind the mountains. It gave him a rugged appearance, like he’d strode out of a cowboy movie though I knew for a fact he was from southern California and not somewhere as cliché as Wyoming or Texas.
“Miss Fleming.” He’d yet to call me Fee, and while we’d only met once, in passing, a week ago when he took over as county sheriff from my dad, I figured first name basis was a good place to start.
“Just Fee,” I said. “Sheriff.”
He stood, frowning slightly, eyes catching the envelope, my obvious upset. Because I’d never been able to hide it when I was ready to lose my mind, uh-huh. The whole world knew when Fiona Fleming was pissed. “Problem?”
“Personal.” I really should have tried harder with him, considering there weren’t many manly options around here, but it had been a hell of a day. As much as I would have loved to flirt and maybe do something about that handsomeness that involved wine and dinner, not only was I in a terrible mood, surely I still stank, even after all the hours I’d put between me and the carriage house toilet incident.
Crew glanced back over his shoulder and I followed his gaze, to find my father, just as tall and wide through the shoulders, really a carbon copy of the new sheriff if three decades older, glaring at the two of us like having a conversation was against the law. Dad chose to retire, so it wasn’t like he resented Crew for taking his job. Or maybe he did?
“Nice to see you again, Miss… Fee.” Crew tipped his hat, black hair falling over his eyes before smiling down at the panting pug. “Madam Petunia.” And then he walked away and I wished I didn’t have this crap to deal with so I could find out if it was just the cut of his jeans that made his butt look so damned fine.
What? I was due some distraction, thank you.
With a heavy heart and a terrible feeling, I plodded to the door and looked up at my dad.
“I think I’m in trouble,” I said. And handed him the unopened envelope.
***
Chapter Four
Mom was at the kitchen sink when Dad led the way through the front door and to the back of the house. I loved their open concept with the vaulted ceilings and newly renovated clean lines. Dad had always seemed content with the seventies-esque feel of the place, but it was nice to see my mother finally got her way when Dad decided it might be time to think about retirement.
“I honestly believe he didn’t want to spend every day home hearing me complain about the cabinets and carpeting,” she admitted in a girly giggle that made me smile just a week ago over coffee.
My socks skidded on the newly polished hardwood floors as I scuffed my feet on my way through to the marble tiles that glowed in the sunlight, the slab of granite Mom chose a hulking monstrosity on the surface of the large island she decided on for the centerpiece of the new kitchen. The last of the sunbeams poured in the sliding glass doors, lighting the room in a heavenly glow that instantly made me feel better. I sighed as I hugged Mom, her cheek against mine, matching auburn hair without a hint of gray, though I knew she had a box to thank for that. Still, her lack of wrinkles and constant cheery expression gave me hope I’d age gracefully.
Either that or I’d end up like my mountain of a Dad with a permanently grouchy look on my face. I’d pick Mom’s sunny optimism any day. Too bad it didn’t pick me back.
“Sweetie!” Mom spun toward the counter and the glass enclosed sculpture of chocolate standing on a charming pedestal. She swept the cover free, gesturing to the untouched cake that lured me like the call of a distant siren. “I just finished frosting it. Want a slice?” She didn’t wait for an affirmation, carving out a gigantic piece from the three tiered deliciousness while the scent of cocoa and way too much sugar wafted toward me thanks to the slowly revolving white fan blades turning in lazy relief of the heat over my head. Great reminder I hadn’t eaten and probably not the best choice on an empty stomach. But eggs, flour, milk—food groups, right? And worth the sore tummy and the inevitable sugar crash.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “I could use a little TLC after the day I’ve had.”
She paused to share a sad face. “I wish you’d just let me help you at the house,” she said. “I’m happy to do it, Fee.”
“You have earned your retirement,” I shook my head as I leaned on the counter, body tired now that I’d stopped for a minute. “And I should be able to handle one bed and breakfast. Right?” My mouth watered while I accepted the plate from her, the idea of the chocolatey deliciousness almost more than I could stand.
“You know how much I love to cook,” she said. “I’m dying to try some new recipes. You could expand, offer lunch.”
I hesitated with a bite of cake near my lips. “Would you fire Betty for me?”
Mom flinched then laughed, blushing. “Listen to me, being so rude. Of course not. Betty and Mary have been with Iris and Petunia’s for simply ages.” She looked down at the hopeful pug sitting at her feet, the whites of her bulging eyes showing as if anticipating a treat. “Hasn’t she, good girl?”
Petunia whined softly and licked her lips.
“Don’t even think about it.” I waved my fork at Mom who seemed to be considering the unthinkable. “The pug doesn’t get sugar.” Or chocolate. All I needed was my grandmother to come back to haunt me because I poisoned her precious Petunia.
Dad grunted, opening the envelope as he raised one bushy gray eyebrow at her. “Sure, Fee gets offered,” he said, sounding much more grumpy than he really was. I knew from experience how much he loved teasing his beloved wife. “And the damned dog. But I want some? Forget it.”
“You,” she spun and tapped him on the back of one hand with the spatula, dotting frosting on his skin, “are on a diet.” She tossed her full head of hair and winked at me, even as she ladled a second piece onto a plate, just as big as the first, followed by a more modest one for herself.
Ah, the parent dance. It hadn’t changed one bit since I was a kid. So predictably sweet and endearing. And made me feel almost instantly like I was ten again. Not necessarily the best reaction when I had very grown up things to worry about. But it was nice to perch on the soft seat of the stool at the island and take a big, heavenly bite of Mom’s prized chocolate cake and let my father read over the paperwork that dread had kept me from opening myself.
Sure, I was a big girl now. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t find support and love from the two people who brought me into the world while cold milk and cake healed the hurt in my heart.
Dad didn’t touch his dessert, starting to swear softly under his breath, eyebrows meeting in the middle while his cheeks turned first pink then dark red. The tendons in his neck stood out in impressiv
e ropes and I only then wondered if I’d made a huge mistake not breaking this whole mess to him more gently. After all, it was his mother who supposedly signed away the B&B, right? While dying from the deterioration brought on by a debilitating stroke in a nursing home. I really was an idiot.
Mom leaned in, one hand on his wrist, concerned expression making me feel worse. I swallowed hastily and spoke up as Dad continued to read and mutter swearwords that made me wince.
“Supposedly,” I said, looking back and forth between them, “Grandmother Iris signed paperwork that deeded Petunia’s to some guy named Pete Wilkins.” Mom hissed a sharp intake of breath, green eyes flashing to Dad who crumpled the papers in one giant hand and tossed them to the marble countertop.
“We’ll just see about that.” And then he stormed out like a marching juggernaut on his way to do damage. I gaped after him and his sudden departure, cake forgotten.
“Oh, dear,” Mom sighed, staring down at her own slice. “This is terrible.”
“You’re not kidding,” I said. “Could it be real?” This was the first time I actually allowed myself to accept fully it might be, absolutely, and that my whole reason for coming home was about to fall out from under me. A gaping maw of panic rose up inside me, choking my breath. What would I do? Where would I go? I couldn’t, at almost twenty-nine, move back in with my parents. Wouldn’t. But returning to New York? That was impossible now. I’d burned that bridge. Dear God, what was I going to do?
Mom must have known my head was spinning because she scooted around the island and took the stool Dad vacated, leaning in to hug me before carefully smoothing out the wrinkles and then perusing the paper he’d discarded. Her years as an English teacher might not have made her a lawyer, but she taught Law, too, so she at least would know something, right?
