Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings)

by Michele Summers

  For Maddie, he’d made the right decision. Absolutely. One hundred percent. He had moved to Mayberry, USA, to give her a better life. Sure, he’d always miss hot Miami with its loud, colorful cultures and wild nightlife. Living in Miami had been like living inside a nightclub 24/7—an expensive nightclub with warm sand, cool water, majestic palm trees, and nights as hot and steamy as the women who trolled Ocean Drive. Not an environment conducive to molding an impressionable young girl.

  And yet, all that partying until the wee hours of the morning had taken its toll on Keith. One morning, he’d woken up in more ways than one. After he’d ushered the nameless woman he’d spent the night with into a waiting cab, he had stared at his hollow eyes in the bathroom mirror and hated what he saw. He couldn’t remember the day of the week or even the month. The inside of his mouth had felt as dry as packed sawdust. Keith had studied the broken image of himself for what felt like hours until he’d decided that he’d had enough. He wouldn’t fight Aunt Francesca any longer. If he continued down this road of self-destruction, his daughter would lose her only surviving parent to another stupid, avoidable accident.

  Aunt Francesca had laid down the law. If he didn’t clean up his act, she would file for custody of Maddie. She had the money, and he had stupidly supplied her with plenty of ammunition, with his playboy image plastered all over the tabloids. She had a rock-solid case and could win over the courts. As much as his aunt’s ultimatum had pissed him off, she had a point. His reckless partying had become as legendary as his tennis career, maybe more—not something he was proud of.

  Whenever tennis entered his mind, which happened to be almost every minute of every day, his stomach would clench and tighten into a cramped ball. He’d given up the game he’d played since he was five. The game he had turned into a career. The game where he’d inspired tons of young kids. He had walked away from millions of dollars and his ranking within the top ten players worldwide to be a better parent to Maddie, because he loved her even more than the game. It had been so fucking noble of him. Until he’d fucked up his one unselfish act by drowning in his depression, along with a shitload of Mount Gay and a bevy of nameless women. What a complete waste. What an asshole.

  So, for the past four months, Keith had been celibate. He hadn’t even looked at a woman, much less slept with one. Nor had he been even remotely interested. Keith had sworn off the siren of the sultry, sexy women of his past. That ship had sailed over the horizon never to be seen again. He had zero interest in that form of temptation. He’d married it once. He wasn’t about to repeat the same mistake and fall for the wrong woman again.

  Until he clapped eyes on Bertie Anderson.

  ***

  Bertie pulled the packing tape dispenser across the top of the box of books she had closed up. Gary had his back to her as he rifled through the basket of fabric samples on her office floor. Her hands shook a little, still reeling from the kiss with Keith Morgan that had rocked her world. She couldn’t decide what upset her more: the outstanding kiss with the wrong guy or the fact that she blew her chance at getting her hands on her dream house.

  After Bertie had sped away from Keith’s house and his dangerous lips, she’d found herself sitting in her own driveway, trying to calm her racing heart. She’d stared through the windshield at the house where she’d lived all her life. She and Cal had put new shingles on the old gabled roof and painted the wood siding celadon green with an apple-red front door. Over the years, Bertie had given her childhood home new life inside and out with refinished wood floors, fresh coats of paint, and updated lighting. She’d intended to do more, but time had run out. In three weeks, she’d be in Atlanta and her house, her hometown, and Keith Morgan would be in her rearview mirror.

  Bertie nudged the sealed box with her knee and squeezed her eyes shut. First, she’d called him a gay electrician and then she’d hid in his closet like a common thief, only to land in his arms and kiss him like there was no tomorrow. This had to go down as one of her more embarrassing days for the year.

  “Do you think he’ll still hire us?” Gary asked as he pulled more design magazines out from under Bertie’s cluttered desk and shoved them in another cardboard box.

  “Not even if a gun was pointed at his head,” Bertie said as she reached inside the closet that held all her samples and furniture catalogs.

  She’d changed into a pair of low-rise jeans and stood barefoot on top of an antique oriental rug in the middle of her office. The room used to be her mother’s old sewing room off the back of the house. Bertie remembered watching her mom as she bent over her old Singer, sewing black stripes on bright orange fabric for matching Halloween outfits. Cal had wanted to be a tiger that year, and Bertie had to be one too.

  “I’m leaving all these samples and catalogs in this closet for you to use. Finish packing my books and magazines and the rest is yours.”

  Gary looked up from the box he’d been stuffing and nodded. “Uh, you wanna explain why you were hiding in his closet one more time? Because you’ve done some really crazy things in the past, but I think this one might top them all. Much worse than the time you fell in Mrs. Sanchez’s pool at her Cinco de Mayo party and ruined her floating light show.”

  “That’s because her lecherous husband wouldn’t stop chasing me. I was wearing my hot-pink patent leather Kate Spades. I ruined those great shoes all because that dirtbag couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

  The Sanchezes had thrown an over-the-top party in Raleigh and had invited at least a dozen designers in hopes of selecting someone to help decorate their overly ornate, eight-thousand-square-foot home. Bertie’s design business, House Dressing, had been included on the list of prospects, and she and Gary seemed to have caught the owners’ attention. All had gone swimmingly until it became clear that she’d caught the owner’s attention for all the wrong reasons.

  Gary tried not to laugh as he rubbed his trim belly. “You ruined Mrs. Sanchez’s evening, along with your Diane von Fürstenberg dress. After I pulled you from the pool, your darling dress had become transparent and I thought Mr. Sanchez was going to lunge for you right in front of his wife.”

  “Geez. What a nightmare. Although the gossip is that the Sanchezes are on their fourth designer now. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one Mr. Sanchez chased.”

  “Okay, we’ve digressed. Back to the closet escapade with Mr. Hot Bootay,” Gary said, pinning Bertie with his intense blue eyes.

  Bertie buried her face in her hands. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice muffled as she shook her head. “Keith hates me, and he hates Harmony. I need to finish up the Milners’ house and get the heck out of here. And I hope I never see Mr. Perfect again for as long as I live.” Bertie pulled her desk drawer out and dumped its entire contents of pencils, pens, and markers into another cardboard box.

  “I’d like to see him again.” Gary ran the tape dispenser across the box of magazines. “I know he pitches for the other team, but he sure is easy on the eyes. You think he’ll hire me after you’re gone?”

  “Doubt it. Anything associated with me, he’ll consider toxic. Sorry.” Bertie gave Gary a sad smile. “But, hey, give it a shot. Just wait until I’m two states over before you approach him,” she added.

  Gary stood and placed the box on a stack of packed containers in the corner of the office. “Why this sudden urge to pack? You’ve been acting weird ever since you left Morgan’s house. You’re hiding something…you might as well spill it.” Gary leaned against the stacked boxes, looking like a clothing model with his crisp linen shirt under his baby-blue cashmere sweater and perfectly creased khaki pants. He’d been working all day and he still appeared flawless.

  Bertie averted her gaze from Gary’s all-knowing self and started pulling folders from her file cabinet. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gary sank into the funky orange, leopard-spotted armchair that sat in the corner of the office
. “I’m not packing another box until you come clean,” he said, crossing his arms.

  Glaring at him she said, “Are you forgetting who signs your paychecks?”

  “That threat doesn’t work anymore, girlfriend. Never did. Half the time I sign my own paychecks because you forget. Come on, I’m the one who acted like your jealous lover so that carpet rep in the green leisure suit would stop dropping by. And I covered for you when the Tangeloes found you sleeping on their guest bed after you pulled an all-nighter trying to finish their installation. Need I go on?” Gary sounded reasonable while appearing smug at the same time.

  Bertie sighed as she fiddled with the pink stapler on top of her desk. “Okay. He found me hiding in his closet…which I know was a dumb thing to do, but then somehow I ended up smashed against him and we…sorta…uh…kissed,” she said in a faint voice. There was a long pause.

  “Way to go, girlfriend. Was it good?”

  Bertie’s head shot up. “I kissed a potential client and ruined our chances of working on that house. Do you not see how inappropriate that was?”

  “Let me get this straight.” Gary sat forward. “After being discovered in his closet, you jumped into his arms and started kissing him like a long-lost lover?”

  “No. I mean…I didn’t jump. I tripped and then fell into him, and then I tried not to look down, because he was only wearing a towel and then somehow his lips were smashed against mine and you know…we kissed.”

  Gary sat back, steepling his lean fingers under his chin. “Hmmm, interesting.”

  He gave the appearance of a college professor pondering the meaning of life, except for his beautiful, thick, blond hair which looked better than any professor’s she’d ever encountered. “I don’t like that superior look on your face. What’s so interesting?”

  “Interesting that you—”

  Bertie’s chirping cell interrupted Gary’s sage contemplation. She reached for it on her desk.

  “Aunt Franny? When did you get back in town?” She felt happy for the first time that afternoon since Keith unglued his lips from hers and ushered her out of his home and life.

  “A few days ago. I was visiting my adorable niece at boarding school in Virginia. But there’s something of an urgent matter that I need to discuss with you. Do you think you can come by the house around six thirty?”

  Bertie stopped shuffling papers on her desk. “Is everything okay? Are you sick?” she asked, trying to keep her alarm at bay.

  Panic constricted the muscles around her heart, causing a tightening in her chest that bordered on painful. Aunt Franny wasn’t really Bertie’s aunt, but she’d been like a mother to her for many years. She had stepped into Bertie’s family’s life right after Bertie’s mother died of pancreatic cancer, and she hadn’t left. She’d been Bertie’s rock. Even at twenty-eight, Bertie still sought her advice and looked for her approval.

  Aunt Franny gave a low chuckle. “I’m fit as a fiddle. No one is dying…yet. Can you make it?”

  Air escaped her lungs in a whoosh. “Sure. Can I bring dinner? I’ll pick something up at the Dog.”

  “Perfect.”

  Bertie sank into her desk chair and shrugged at Gary’s questioning gaze. “Can I bring anything else?” she asked.

  “Just yourself. Oh, and Bertie, bring enough food for three. Ciao.”

  Chapter 3

  Keith prowled Aunt Francesca’s living room like a restless tiger in a cage until she appeared in the doorway. “You said six o’clock.” He glanced at his stainless Bulgari watch. “It’s six twenty. What gives?”

  Aunt Francesca breezed into the room and sank into the English sofa covered in pale blue damask. She wore a classic, soft-gray Chanel suit, her signature South Sea pearls around her neck, and a slight smile on her matriarchal face.

  “It’s lovely to see you too, dear. Would you like to know how your daughter is faring in that school you stuck her in?”

  “Christ.” Keith rubbed his hand over the stubble on his jaw, since he hadn’t bothered to shave. “Please don’t put it in those terms. Of course I want to hear about Maddie. We’ve been texting back and forth, and I spoke to her yesterday. She said you took her to dinner and then to the American Girl store.”

  “Did you like the picture I emailed you?” Aunt Francesca asked.

  Keith couldn’t control the silly smile that played around his mouth. Aunt Francesca had captured Maddie hamming it up next to a large display of dolls in the store. “She looked real cute and way too sassy for her own good,” he chuckled. Keith stretched out opposite his aunt in a comfortable down-filled armchair. “She told me she thinks she’s getting too old for dolls. She wants some elaborate drawing kit where she can design clothes like they show on Project Runway and a new skateboard or rip stick…something like that. Where does she come up with this stuff?” Keith asked, always baffled by the things that came out of his sweet, ten-year-old daughter’s mouth.

  Aunt Francesca’s hazel eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. “Yes, I heard all about that, but I wanted to check with you first, before launching her latest fad.”

  His aunt appeared cool as a cucumber, patting the back of her stylish bobbed haircut as if she hadn’t turned his world upside down with this sudden move to Harmony and her campaign to bring Maddie home. And for kicks, she wanted to stick him with Bertie, that bombshell disguised as a decorator.

  Keith had given in on the move from Miami because he had done a gut check and knew it was the right thing to do, and he’d probably cave and bring Maddie home from boarding school, because he missed her too much. But hiring Bertie, who hid in closets, called him gay, and kissed like a connoisseur? No way. Not in a million years. That was where he drew the line.

  He straightened in his chair and took another fortifying gulp of his drink. “Listen, Aunt Francesca, I understand your concern about Maddie. I get that. I agreed to move here to make a better life for her. I’ve done everything you’ve asked so far, but now I need you to ease up.”

  Aunt Francesca rose and moved toward the Victorian sideboard. “In what way?” She poured herself a scotch from the crystal decanter.

  “I can hire my own decorator. Your lead was a bust.”

  Her eyes narrowed over the rim of the amber liquid in her glass. “You didn’t like Bertie? Hmmm, I find that strange.”

  Keith jumped up from his seat and started to pace across the priceless Aubusson rug. “You know what I find strange? The fact that you didn’t tell me she was a woman. You led me to believe I was calling on a man named Bert.”

  Keith noted her lips twitching as she smothered her smile behind her drink. “That’s ridiculous. I—”

  “Don’t try and deny it. You knew damn well what you were doing.” Keith glared at his aunt as her elegant eyebrow rose in that haughty way designed to put him in his place.

  “You’re certainly mighty angry over an innocent mistake. I did not mislead you. Heavens, I even gave you her card. Why would you think Bertie was a man? And why do you care either way? I hope you didn’t insult her.”

  Keith knew his aunt…really well. She’d been better to him than his own mother, and he loved her all the more for it. But he also knew when she was up to something. He waited as she rearranged some white roses in a Steuben glass vase on top of the baby grand piano.

  “What didn’t you like about Bertie besides the fact that she’s a woman? Did she suggest painting the house purple with pink polka dots?”

  Keith shoved his fingers through his hair, thinking he needed a haircut, along with a few other things—like getting laid. Four months was a long time. Couldn’t a guy go blind or something from too much abstinence?

  “I don’t like her. She’s short and pushy and she smells like gardenias. I hate gardenias.” Jesus. Now he sounded like a town idiot, like this town didn’t have enough already. From the stern expression marring his aunt’s face, he
could tell she wasn’t buying it.

  “Keith Camden Morgan, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Aunt Francesca shook her head. “You love gardenias. You would always bring me some from my own garden when you were little.”

  “That’s not the point!” he roared. “I can’t work with her. She’s…she’s no good for me.” He started to pace again. “I need plain. Plain and mousey. Someone with no style and no curves. Doesn’t this town have some eighty-year-old blue hair that likes to decorate? Someone like Aunt Bee?”

  “Hey, Aunt Franny. The pasta primavera’s in the kitchen. What did you need—”

  Keith stopped pacing and stood with his mouth hanging open, staring at the one woman he couldn’t exorcise from his head. Bertie Anderson’s big, green eyes grew even bigger as she spied him in the room.

  “You!” they both exclaimed in unison.

  Bertie scurried away from him toward his no-good, conniving little aunt and threw Keith a nervous glance. “Aunt Franny? What’s going on here? How do you know him?”

  Aunt Franny? What the hell? Keith smelled a rat, and she smelled a lot like Chloe perfume and looked like a meddling, older woman in designer clothes. He hated being manipulated almost as much as he hated losing at tennis.

  Keith closed the paneled doors to the living room, and then leaned back with his arms crossed, barring anyone’s escape. “Yeah, Aunt Franny. What the hell is going on here?”

  ***

  Francesca Balogh secretly smiled to herself as her nephew snarled and gnashed his teeth. He resented her interference in his life, but since he hadn’t bothered to live his life these past few years, Francesca figured a well-planted kick in the butt wouldn’t hurt.