Resolutely, she focused on the trumpet vines, taking deep breaths, watching her fingers move as if they were detached from her body, and every time the image of Pierce’s face popped into her head, she blinked it away.
Lace was doing a lot of blinking.
The door opened and Shasta came rushing in, the weekly greensheet that printed the letters from Cupid clutched in her hand. Tears misted her eyes.
“Shasta?” Lace dropped the tendril she was twining. “What’s wrong?”
“You promised!” Her lips quivered and she looked utterly betrayed.
Lace frowned. What was the girl talking about?
Shasta shook the paper underneath Lace’s nose. “You promised you’d give her hope.”
“You’re talking about my reply to Hero Worshipper?”
“Listen, just listen to what you wrote.” Shasta unfolded the paper, cleared her throat, and started to read. “Dear Hero Worshipper, take heart. Many have been in your shoes and it’s a miserable place to be, sure enough. Longing for someone who doesn’t love you back.” She raised her head to meet Lace’s eyes. “You don’t know that. He might love her back. Who are you to say he doesn’t love her?”
“You can’t make someone love you. In order to heal, Hero Worshipper needs to move on.”
“But you crushed all her hopes.”
“Keep reading, I told her she would find someone who will love her for who she is.”
“Did you find someone else?” Shasta asked. “After you got your heart broken?”
“No,” Lace admitted. “Not yet.”
“What if you never do? What if he was your one great love?”
“He’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“It was just a foolish schoolgirl crush, just like the one this girl”—Lace waved at the greensheet—“has concocted in her head. Her love for him is just a fantasy. He doesn’t love her and it would be unkind to advise her to hold out hope for something that can never be. False hope is worse than no hope at all.”
“She doesn’t want someone else. She wants him.”
“Not to sound like a Rolling Stones song or anything, but you can’t always get what you want.”
“Just because you gave up, doesn’t mean she can’t keep hoping.”
Had she given up? It was a startling thought. “Why do you care so much?”
Instead of answering, Shasta turned the table on her. “How can you be so cold when the same thing happened to you?”
“You have a crush on someone too,” Lace guessed. “Someone who doesn’t love you back?”
Anger flared in Shasta’s eyes and her fingers fisted tight around the paper. She opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment, a man appeared in the doorway.
With the morning sun at his back, Lace couldn’t see his face clearly and for one long second, her heart skipped a beat. Pierce?
He stepped over the threshold and she saw it was Pierce’s brother, Malcolm. In the three months she’d been back home, she had said nothing more to him than a quick “Hello” if they passed each other on the street. Things had been awkward between them ever since “the incident” and they’d avoided each other as much as possible after that. Silly really. They were grown-ups.
“Good morning,” she greeted him.
He took off his cowboy hat, nodded at her. “Lace.”
What was he doing here? Did this have anything to do with the joke he’d pulled on his brother? “How can I help you?”
“I was wondering …” He paused, twirled his cowboy hat in his hand, but did not meet her gaze.
“Yes?”
He shuffled the tip of his boot against the ground. “Uh …”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no.”
“Is this about Pierce?”
Malcolm frowned. “Everything in the world isn’t about Pierce. It’s got nothing to do with my brother. He’s in Dallas hoping to get the all-clear from his doctor so he can get back to playing football.”
“Oh. Okay.” She waited. What did he want?
“Listen, there’s a symposium in El Paso this weekend on desert cultivation and—”
“Are you asking me out?”
He looked appalled, plunked his hat back down on his head. “Oh no, no. Not asking you out, just wondering if you’re going in case you’d like to carpool.”
Great. Now she felt like a gigantic idiot for jumping to conclusions. Her cheeks heated and she knew they were strawberry pink. Damn her pale skin.
“Not that I wouldn’t love to ask you out,” he rushed to smooth things over. “In fact, I often thought about asking you out when we were in high school, but that thing with Pierce—”
“Good grief, Malcolm. That was a hundred years ago. I was a kid. I’m so over it. The only reason it’s even a thing is because this town is the size of a mustard seed and people don’t have anything better to do than gossip about ancient history and stir the pot in search of some kind of drama.”
“You mean you would have gone out with me if I had asked?” Malcolm’s eyes met hers.
Oh gosh. This was awkward. Was Malcolm interested in her? She couldn’t imagine going out with him. Not because he wasn’t good-looking, because he was, but because she’d once been so crazy about his older brother that history crushed any chance she might have had with Malcolm if she’d wanted it. Hell, it didn’t matter that she was over Pierce. Her stupid high school infatuation still mucked things up for her, at least here in Cupid. Why hadn’t she just taken that job at the Smithsonian?
Malcolm raised a hand. “Don’t answer that question. I don’t want to know.”
Lace inclined her head in the direction of Shasta, who was standing in the corner, her arms crossed over her chest, shifting her gaze from Malcolm to Lace and back again along with the conversation, like she was watching a tennis match. “Why don’t you take Shasta to the symposium?”
“Me?” Shasta perked up.
“I’ve been meaning to send you to some courses, this would be a great opportunity for you to learn more about plants of the Trans-Pecos,” Lace said, eager to get out of this conversation and get back to work.
“You want to go?” Malcolm asked Shasta.
Shasta nodded brightly.
“It’s this coming weekend. You can still register online.” Malcolm paused at the door to cast an appraising glance over Shasta.
“I’ll take care of getting her registered,” Lace said.
“Will your brother be going?” Shasta asked Malcolm.
That earned a glower from Malcolm. “Doubtful. He’ll be headed back to Dallas before long.”
Shasta looked momentarily crestfallen. “Could you get me his autograph?”
Malcolm’s jaw clenched. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Poor guy. It had to be tough living in Pierce’s shadow.
Malcolm left and Shasta seemed to have forgotten her pique at Lace over her response to Hero Worshipper. She mumbled something about opening the botanical gardens gift shop for the visitors and took off just as Carol Ann came to the back door of the greenhouse.
“Grand Central Station,” Lace greeted her.
“I come bearing gifts,” Carol Ann said, holding out three envelopes—one for Lace, one for Manuel, and one for Shasta.
The botanical gardens were on the city payroll and they normally got paid every Friday, but this week the checks had been delayed.
“What was the holdup?” Lace asked, accepting the checks.
“Small banking error,” Carol Ann said, but her face was pinched and her eyes faraway.
An uneasy feeling settled over Lace. “Is there something I should be worried about?”
“No, no.” Carol Ann waved a hand. “These things happen. Now that I’ve taken over the books, hopefully they won’t happen again.”
“Is Cupid in financial straits?”
“With the economy the way it is”—Carol Ann shrugged—“I’d say we’re doing better than mos
t.”
“ ’Cause I know when budgets need cutting, beautification programs are the first to go.”
Carol Ann rested a hand on her shoulder. “Honey, you have nothing to worry about. The Cupid legend brings in tourists. The gardens are the heart and soul of the legend.”
“I thought the Cupid Caverns were.”
“Those too.”
Lace couldn’t shake the feeling Carol Ann was keeping something from her. “When is Melody coming to visit?”
Her aunt’s face brightened. “Next Sunday. I’m going to throw her a welcome home barbecue, so clear your calendar.”
“Will do.”
Her aunt waved at her over her shoulder, and the door had no more than closed behind her than Lace’s cell phone rang. Normally life in Cupid moved at a sloth’s pace, but for some reason today was different.
She didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Lace?”
“Yes?”
“This is Maurie Landers.” Maurie was the extension agent for Jeff Davis County.
“Hey Maurie, how are you?”
“Not good.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. What’s wrong?”
“Listen, Lace, I’ve just come from my obstetrician and he says I have to go on immediate bed rest or risk losing the baby.”
“Oh no!”
“I’m trying my best not to freak out,” Maurie said.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Well, actually, there is. Could you take over my Tuesday night class for community education? It’s starting this week.”
Lace took a deep breath. While she loved plants and sharing her knowledge about them, she’d always had trouble getting up and speaking in front of groups.
“The pay is pretty good and I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Can’t they just cancel the class?”
“I hate to disappoint the students. We’ve had a lot of new people moving into the county who are woefully uneducated about what it takes to farm and ranch the Trans-Pecos.”
That was true enough.
“I’ll owe you big time,” Maurie begged.
She wanted to say no, but how could she refuse when Maurie was so desperate? “Sure, yes. I’ll do it.”
“You are such a lifesaver! I could kiss you.” Then Maurie went on to give her a rundown on the course details.
Lace hung up a few minutes later. What a weird morning. From Shasta getting bent out of shape about her answer to Hero Worshipper, to Malcolm kinda, sorta asking her out, to her suspicions that Carol Ann was hiding something about the town coffers, to Maurie’s health issues.
Damn if it didn’t feel like abscission, when the growing season of a plant was ending and color changes were taking place. Abscission was the first step in a complex process of renewal involving proteins, enzymes, and hormones. And while the creation of the abscission layer resulted in a high concentration of sugar that caused the leaves to change brilliant colors, it was also a time of great upheaval as the short, sweet splashes of vivid reds, oranges, and yellows flared brightly, only to ultimately give way to death of the old so that rebirth could occur.
In spite of the heat, Lace shivered.
Chapter 7
Taproot: a plant’s primary root, often descending quite deeply into the ground.
ON Tuesday evening at ten minutes to seven, Lace walked into the adult education class, sponsored by the Cupid ISD and held at the high school. The only thing that could have made it worse was if they held the course in her old homeroom. Stomach jittery, palms soaked in dread, she forced herself inside. Four students were already there.
Just get through the class. It was only two hours. Once she made it through the first class, she’d be okay. She thought about the beta blockers a doctor had prescribed for her when she’d first gone to college so she could handle getting up in front of the class. She wished she had some now. You don’t need medication. You’ve gotten past that. You’re not going to stutter. You’re going to be fine. You’re not that shy teenager anymore.
Still, she couldn’t help reaching for her ubiquitous comfort, mentally reciting botany terms—ovate, lanceolate, cordate, oblanceolate.
At seven, she took roll from the attendance list she’d picked up in the administration office. They’d told her there might be a few more last-minute sign-ups, but everyone on the list was there. She introduced herself, wrote her contact information on the blackboard and had the students introduce themselves and tell the class why they were taking the basic gardening course. That killed ten minutes, only an hour and fifty minutes to go.
Lace turned to the board to start writing down a few basic terms when she heard the door open. Was it one of those last-minute stragglers?
An immediate ripple of murmured whispers went through the class.
Intrigued, Lace peered over her shoulder to see who or what had caused the stir, and there he was, bigger than Dallas. Pierce Hollister.
Her body—the traitorous thing—responded instantly. Her pulse sped up and her womb tightened.
Really? Seriously? One look and she was craving him like a chocolate connoisseur craved Debauve & Gallais truffles? How could that be?
“Sorry, I’m late, Teach,” he drawled, removed his Stetson, ran a hand through his hair, and took a seat in the front row.
Her stomach took the express elevator to her throat. Oh good God. What was he doing in her class?
“And you are?” she asked coolly. Okay, she was being ornery about it, but she was scrambling trying to find some equilibrium.
“He’s Pierce Hollister, miss,” said one of the younger men in the class. “Quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys.”
She locked eyes with Pierce, who was grinning at her like she was the most humorous thing he’d ever seen. Stay calm. Don’t panic. Never mind that the look on his face was melting her panties to her skin. “You don’t say.”
“I’m not playing this year,” Pierce said. “Maybe you heard that I injured my leg.”
The male students started asking him questions, while the female students batted their eyes at him, even the elderly lady who’d come into the class on a scooter.
Lace cleared her throat. “Class.”
No one paid her any attention.
She raised her voice. “Class.”
People were out of their seats crowding around Pierce, asking for autographs, pumping him for gridiron stories.
Lace clapped her hands. “Excuse me. I know it’s fun to have a celebrity in our midst, but could we get on topic?”
A couple of people glanced over their shoulders at her, but most everyone kept right on talking to Pierce. She pressed her lips together, knotted her hands into fists. Sepal, calyx, carpel, pistil.
“So what’s it like knowing you’ll probably never play ball again?” one of the men asked Pierce.
Pierce absorbed the question with his smile firmly fixed, but Lace spied a quick flicker of pain in his eyes. “Who told you that?” he asked the man.
She marched over and put a hand on Pierce’s shoulder. “May I see you out in the hallway please, Mr. Hollister?”
He looked relieved and grateful for the rescue. “Why, it would be my pleasure, Ms. Bettingfield.”
Once the door closed behind them and they were in the empty corridor, he leaned one shoulder against the wall, absentmindedly rubbed the outer thigh of his left leg as if the limp he was struggling not to show had caused his muscles to ache.
The high school corridor.
Scene of the crime. Nothing had changed in twelve years. Same big old industrial clock mounted in the hallway that loudly ticked off the seconds. Same dingy gray lockers. Same smell of book glue, rubber erasers, government-subsidized food, and teenage angst. Same trophy case in the hall. The biggest trophy was from the year Pierce quarterbacked Cupid to the state championship.
Before his recent return to Cupid, the last time Lace had seen Pierce—other than occasional brief g
limpses on the street—was that day when she’d run away from the taunts of her classmates. Remembering that wretched moment twisted her stomach in knots and she wished she hadn’t had that slice of pepperoni pizza before coming to teach the class. Oh, okay, no point stretching the truth. She’d had three slices and enjoyed every bite.
Until now.
“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for the rescue—”
“Why are you stalking me?” Lace sank her hands on her hips and glowered, determined to look stern so he couldn’t tell exactly how much he turned her on.
He pulled his head back, looked startled. “I’m not stalking you.”
She raised one finger. “You were at the hospital—”
“My dad was sick.”
She raised two fingers. “You were at the Feed and Grain.”
“Buying pumpkin seeds.”
Up went her third finger. “And now you show up in my basic gardening class. Are you saying that’s a coincidence?”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a paranoid streak a mile wide?”
“Everywhere I go you seem to turn up. That’s not paranoia. That’s fact. What are you after?”
He raked a hot gaze over her. “What do you think?”
“Aha! So it’s true. You are stalking me.”
“I didn’t know you were teaching the class,” he said reasonably. “On the schedule it lists the instructor as Maurie Landers.”
So it did. Now she was embarrassed for accusing him of stalking her. “Why are you taking a class in basic gardening?” she quickly changed the subject.
“Seriously? You need to ask? You were there when I was conned into buying tumbleweed seeds.”
“Extenuating circumstances. You were set up.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that I know precious little about agriculture. Shameful for a rancher’s son. I’m determined to change all that.”
“You don’t have to know anything about it. You’re a football player.”
“There’s more to life than football.”
That surprised her. Was he thinking about the future? Was he coming home to Cupid for good? Was he ready to settle down? Her pulse revved at the thought. Take it easy. No flights of fancy. “Since when? Last time I checked, jocks rule the world, as evidenced by your following.” She waved a hand at the classroom.
Lori Wilde - [Cupid, Texas 02] Page 9
