Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings)

by Michele Summers

  “I’m sorry for insulting your…uh…creative talents,” he said, trying not to grin. Her frown deepened. He cocked his head, thinking how that expression looked all wrong on her animated face. Her plump pink lips were made for hot, wet kisses, not frowning. Keith recalled the exact texture and succulent feel of her perfect mouth pressed against his…

  “Oh, forget it,” she said, snapping him out of his kissing fantasy. “These loud colors and funky interiors draw a lot of people here. Cal and I wanted to do something different when we decided to renovate.”

  “Looks like you’ve cornered the market on different,” Keith added, noting the crown molding painted in a black and white geometric pattern. “How long have you owned the place?”

  Sara Jean appeared with their fresh drinks and took Keith’s order for the house special: marinated grilled chicken breast over spicy black beans and yellow rice. Bertie ordered a salad with grilled mahimahi on top.

  “We inherited it from our parents.” She licked the rim of her fresh martini glass, and Keith all but guzzled his beer, trying to forget how her tongue felt tangled with his.

  “Are your parents retired?” he asked.

  “No. Dead.” She lowered her gaze and fiddled with the drink coaster.

  Fuck. He couldn’t catch a break. First he insulted her design talent, and then he mentioned her dead parents. What next? “Sorry. Listen, I didn’t mean—”

  “We need to discuss Aunt Franny’s proposal,” she interrupted.

  There she went again…Aunt Franny? He leaned forward, trying to repress the anger surging forth over Francesca’s calculated blackmailing.

  “How did she become your Aunt Franny? Her only sibling is my mother, and I’m an only child. Her late husband, my uncle, didn’t have any siblings either.” Keith couldn’t hold his testiness in check. Bertie shifted in her seat, glancing up when Sara Jean reappeared with their dinners.

  “Here you go,” Sara Jean said in a cheery voice as she placed the red and green Fiestaware plates piled high with food in front of them. “Uh, Mr. Morgan, would you mind signing this picture for my little brother? I didn’t realize who you were until Cal told me. My brother, Danny, is a big tennis fan. He plays over at the Jaycee Park, but their courts are in really bad condition and the nets are always torn—”

  “Yeah, sure.” Keith reached for the computer printed picture of himself, serving at some tournament a few years ago. He scribbled his signature with Sara Jean’s purple Sharpie. He tried not to think about the pinnacle of his career, when he trained eight hours a day to prepare for a tournament. He shoved the autograph back to Sara Jean as he went for his beer.

  “Gosh, are you going to be training here in Harmony? Imagine having the Prince right in our backyard playing tennis. Maybe you could do something about those awful courts and—”

  “Thanks, Sara Jean. I think Cal needs you at the bar,” Bertie said, surprising him as he gripped the Mason jar until he thought the glass would shatter in his hand. Bertie waited until Sara Jean crossed the crowded bar before continuing.

  “Francesca has been like a mother to me and Cal. She was a godsend when my mother got sick and died. We’ve always called her Aunt Franny, but I’ll stop if it makes you uncomfortable. I certainly don’t mean to take your place,” she said, sounding defensive as she drizzled a little dressing over her salad, moving her food around with her fork.

  “Hell, I don’t care if you call her Queen Elizabeth. I only wanted to know what your relationship is with her.” Keith forked a bite of chicken with the black beans and rice in his mouth. The flavors surprised him as his taste buds jumped to life. The food had a definite Cuban kick that he loved.

  “Look, we both know this has the makings of a huge disaster where neither one of us will be getting what we want. I don’t know what Aunt…uh, Francesca was thinking, but all I have to do is say—”

  “Bertie! I love those pillows with the extra row of ruffles. I want you to make a matching one for Sweet Tea’s dog bed.” A terrifying lady dressed in a jean skirt with red and white ruffles on the bottom clipped across the terrazzo floor to their booth wearing red, white, and blue cowboy boots. A closer inspection revealed tiny rows of ruffles outlining her denim vest. Bertie’s pretty, creamy complexion turned as red as the lady’s T-shirt with Git-R-Done written across her monstrous chest.

  “Hey, Dottie. What brings you to the Dog tonight?” Bertie asked in a faint voice.

  Dottie hoisted herself up into the booth forcing Bertie to move over. “I came for the music and the four-dollar pitchers of beer, but I’m staying to meet the Prince here,” she said as she stuck out her right hand featuring long, fire-engine red nails and diamond and gold rings on every finger. Keith almost burst out laughing at her platinum-blond Mae West hairdo and the thick mask of makeup she wore, which probably required a jackhammer to remove every night. He guessed her age to be anywhere from fifty…to death.

  He shook her bejeweled hand. “Keith Morgan. It’s a pleasure to meet…”

  “Dottie Duncan. She owns the Toot-N-Tell. It’s a chain of drive-through convenience stores,” Bertie said, pushing her plate away. She hadn’t taken more than three bites of her dinner, seeming to have lost her appetite.

  “That’s right. I sell everything from milk to cartons of cigarettes. All you gotta do is pull up and toot your horn. Got sixteen stores throughout the state. I understand you’re settin’ down roots right here in Harmony. How come? Not that I’m complaining. You’re mighty fine to look at and you’re gonna give that rascal Cal some competition with the ladies.”

  Keith cut a glance at Bertie as a small smile played across his lips.

  “Unless you’re already spoken for,” Dottie added as she looked from him to Bertie and back.

  “Keith’s Francesca’s nephew,” Bertie said with a little too much enthusiasm.

  Dottie leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, causing her breasts to look as if they might spill from the top of her shirt. It had been so long for Keith, he didn’t even consider the sick implications of actually wanting to see it happen.

  “So you’re Franny’s nephew? I’d forgotten you belong to her. She used to talk about you all the time. When are we gonna see you play some tennis, hotshot?”

  Keith cocked a brow. “I’m retired. I don’t play anymore.”

  “That mean you forgot how?” Dottie pressed. “I’ve got two grandkids living in Raleigh and they love to play. Sure would like to impress them by telling them they can see you in action.”

  “I’m going to be real busy fixing up my house, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I decide to participate in an exhibition match,” he said, not caring if Dottie Duncan detected the sarcasm in his tone. Bertie started to squirm in her seat, causing Dottie to narrow her gaze at both of them again.

  “Umph. I think you two are going to work out fine. Bertie here is a whiz with interiors, among other things. You’re lucky to have her. Don’t you forget it.” She pointed her scary nail at him. “And I’ll talk to you more about that exhibition match. I think that’s just what Harmony needs.” Dottie smiled the smile of someone who knew a great secret. And Keith had a sinking feeling he was the star attraction in that secret.

  “Bertie, before I forget…can you take care of Sweet Tea for the next two days? I’ve got to run to Charlotte to check on a couple locations,” Dottie asked as she slid from the booth.

  So now Bertie could add dog walker to her list of many talents? No wonder she stunk as a decorator. She over-committed herself and didn’t pay enough attention to her decorating career. Forget dog walking. She needed to take Basic Colors 101.

  “Sure. No problem.” Bertie’s smile appeared pained.

  Dottie shook her head, but her lacquered blond curls never moved. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do when you move to Atlanta in three weeks. It won’t be the same around here. That design firm
doesn’t know what a prize they’re getting.” She patted Bertie’s hand, nodded in Keith’s direction, and sashayed toward the bar.

  Atlanta? Great! She’d be moving in three weeks and he wouldn’t have to worry about grabbing her and shoving her down on the nearest surface so he could push himself inside her. Surely he could hold himself in check for three more weeks.

  Bertie’s bottom lip appeared swollen where she’d been gnawing on it. Worry lines marred her smooth features. Then it hit him like an ace down the T: she wasn’t going anywhere as long as one hundred and fifty thousand dollars sat on the table. Damn Francesca.

  “I’ll give you three hundred thousand dollars to leave town.”

  Chapter 5

  “Of all the…the very idea…I’m so mad I could spit!” Bertie ranted behind the bar as she shoved soapy glassware under the running water.

  “Whoa there, Trigger.” Cal grabbed a glass from her slippery hands before she added it to the already broken collection on the floor as her temper reached the boiling point.

  “Why don’t you head on home before you start smashing plates? I’ll finish cleaning up.” Cal thrust a dry dish towel at her and turned her toward the door. The bar had closed an hour ago, but she stayed behind to help clean. She often did to distract herself from worry—if breaking glassware constituted cleaning.

  “Take my car.” Cal unlocked the front door and handed Bertie his keys along with her handbag.

  “How will you get home?” she asked, palming the keys. Cal lived farther outside the city limits.

  “Don’t worry ab—”

  “Cal, you almost done?”

  Bertie glanced across the bar to the office door where Angie, one of the gals who worked downtown, leaned against the doorframe with a sulky look on her face. Apparently, she’d been kept waiting by Cal the Casanova.

  “Geez, Cal,” Bertie muttered under her breath. “Are you actually dating her?” Cal pulled the front door open. “She isn’t going to go quietly when you dump her, you know.”

  Cal gave her an extra shove. “You’re the one with the problem. Now get moving. You have a lot of ranting, raving, and hair pulling to do.” He shut the door in her face and turned the deadbolt. Bertie trudged over to Cal’s SUV parked in the side lot. She drove the three miles to her home on the near empty streets of Harmony, wondering what the heck she was going to do. Not that she was even considering taking Mr. Perfectly Rude’s offer to leave town for three hundred thousand dollars. The nerve. As if she could be bought like that. Okay, maybe she could, but not from him and not like that. After Keith had insulted her with his outrageous offer, he apologized, glimpsing her horrified expression. Once the outrage over what he suggested had dissipated, Bertie had told him in a calm voice to enjoy the rest of his meal and then stormed away from the booth.

  To stay in Harmony would be professional suicide, but to go would be suicide on a whole other personal level. She could do a lot with the money she’d make on Keith’s job, like finishing renovations on her home and helping with some of the maintenance at the Dog, and that didn’t include the outrageous bonus of one hundred and fifty smackers from Aunt Franny. Bertie unlocked her kitchen door, tossing her handbag on the antique bench by the back door, and retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator. As she pressed the refrigerator door closed, her eye caught the two pictures stuck under sparkly shoe and handbag magnets. Bertie slipped the picture down of four-year-old Jorge Bianco, smiling and clutching a rusted John Deere toy tractor to his small chest in front of a small, brand-new yellow-painted house—a home she and Gary had helped to build through the charity organization Dwelling Place. Bertie had spent endless days and nights raising money through pancake breakfasts, school carnivals, karaoke contests at the Dog, and countless other fund-raisers. They had managed to help complete two houses for the charity and give homes to families like Jorge’s who couldn’t afford decent housing on migrant workers’ pay. Bertie enjoyed working on those two homes with their low budgets and tight spaces almost as much as the elaborate designs of her prominent clients. Dwelling Place could always use funds, especially now, when there were so many migrant families in need outside of Harmony. Bertie slid the snapshot back under the magnet and pulled out her cell phone, pressing a name under favorites.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” a sleepy voice answered.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Bertie said, tapping her fingernails against her countertop.

  “Not again,” Gary moaned.

  ***

  The pounding inside Keith’s head caused his groggy eyes to open. As he lay on his rumpled mattress, blinking at the lazy, lopsided circles of the white ceiling fan, he realized it wasn’t his head pounding. The sound was coming from outside. More specifically, the side of his house. Keith bolted out of bed and stomped to the back door in his bare feet. He flung the door open and stepped out on the porch, unmindful that he wore only pajama bottoms and a good case of bedhead.

  He blinked at the sight of construction workers crawling all over his lawn. Carpenters were ripping off old, rotten shutters, and painters were sanding and stripping paint. But the biggest shocker had to be Bertie, standing in the middle of his backyard, gesturing with one hand, while the other hand held the leash to what looked to be a brown, shaggy mongrel with a floppy purple bow tied around its neck. Keith gave his head a violent shake, wondering if this was another bad dream disturbing his sleep since moving to Pleasantville. He hadn’t seen Bertie in two days, since she had left him in a huff at the bar. He’d secretly hoped maybe, if he laid low for a couple days, this whole debacle would disappear…like Bertie would leave town as planned and his aunt would come to her senses and call off this ridiculous bride-in-a-bag search.

  “Hey,” he croaked. No one heard him over the commotion. Keith cleared his throat. “Hey!” Still, no one paid him any mind. Shoving his thumb and forefinger in his mouth, he let out a shrill whistle. Bertie’s head jerked in his direction at the same time the mongrel beast tore across the yard at full speed, pulling Bertie behind him.

  “Sweeet Teeea!” Bertie yelled, still holding the leash. Hair flying, short skirt lifted, Bertie squealed as she fell out of her colorful clogs and landed headfirst into a pile of mulch Keith had delivered the other day for ground cover. The dropped leash trailed across the grass as the barking mongrel bolted around the corner of the house.

  “Dios mio!” One of the painters charged over to Bertie. “Ms. Bertie, are you okay?” he asked in a heavy accent, bending down to help her up.

  Bertie scrambled to straighten her short, flared skirt and extended her hand to the painter to help her up. Keith ambled over to assist…hoping to get a look at the goods underneath. Even better, Bertie brushed mulch from the long sleeves of her tie-dyed lace tunic, unaware that the string closure at the top had come undone, showcasing the tops of her creamy breasts. Keith gave a sigh of pure appreciation. Bertie looked up and locked gazes with him. His lips twitched, trying to hide his smile.

  “Well, isn’t this a beautiful morning?” he said as he reached and picked a piece of mulch from her tangled hair.

  Bertie stumbled back, and her brow furrowed, as if she couldn’t understand why he’d be standing in his own backyard. She almost lost her balance again between the pile of mulch and the foolish bushy mongrel who decided to return to the scene of the crime and bump the side of her leg. Keith grabbed her elbow to keep her upright. When he was certain she was steady, he pulled her with him toward the house, scooping up her clogs along the way.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” Bertie said as she skipped to keep up. “Julio, please grab Sweet Tea’s leash and put him back in my car. Windows are cracked,” she called to one of the workers.

  Keith couldn’t believe that shaggy beast of a dog wearing a stupid purple bow was Sweet Tea. Poor dog. Man, Dottie Duncan of the Toot-N-Tell won serious points for small-town weirdness. Keith opened the scr
een door to the porch, keeping a firm grip on Bertie’s elbow. Dropping her clogs on the wood floor, he led her to the kitchen. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing to one of the two ladder-back chairs next to an old farm table.

  “Let me explain—”

  “Sit.” He pushed her into a chair and headed for the coffeemaker next to the old farm sink. He made quick work of measuring out scoops of coffee and setting the carafe on the burner. He couldn’t deal with any more drama without his caffeine fix. The rich aroma permeated the not-so-still morning air. Keith pulled down two mismatched mugs from the upper cabinet and set them next to the coffeemaker. He leaned against the cabinets and crossed his arms, fixing Bertie with his famous Morgan glare, the one he used to stare down an opponent on the other side of the net. But watching Bertie squirm as she curled her pink-painted toes around the rung of the chair made him feel like laughing, not fighting.

  “Explain,” he said, struggling to keep the edge in his voice as he stared at her tangled hair with bits of mulch peeking through.

  Bertie released a huge breath. “I’ve got three months to get this place looking beautiful, and there’s not a minute to waste.”

  Keith pushed his fingers through his own unkempt hair. “Christ. So, you’re taking the money.” Like he didn’t know. A yard full of construction workers was a pretty good sign.

  The color pink infused her cheeks. “It’s a lot of money,” she mumbled, fiddling with the ties to her top.

  The coffeemaker spit and sputtered as it finished brewing. Keith poured the steaming morning elixir in the mugs, wishing for an extra strong cafecito from his favorite Cuban coffee stand instead. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Cream, please.”