Something about his voice sounded familiar, but, “I’m sorry, no.”
“See if this rings a bell.” Holding a fork, he raised his hand. “Present!”
I studied his face like a map. He was about my age, tanned, and had brown eyes with gold flecks. His jawline was strong and he had dark, wavy hair. And muscles. Not the bulky wrestler kind, more like the “I could carry you off to the bedroom” kind. I shook my head, now both flustered and frustrated.
“I’m Jake Faro. I used to sit behind you in homeroom. Actually, in every class where the teacher made us sit in alphabetical order.”
“Jake! Of course. It’s just that you look...different.”
“That’s what braces, contacts, and working out will do for you. Of course, you wouldn’t know that. You were the most beautiful girl in school.” He lowered his eyes. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“You’re so sweet.” I had forgotten all about the Cadillac and the movers and the time. All I could think about was what a good-looking guy Jake Faro had become. If he’d have looked like this in high school, I could have avoided bad relationships with Mitch and Paul and what’s-his-name.
He casually twirled the spaghetti on his plate. “I heard you were moving back. So what are you doing here? You obviously aren’t dressed for a funeral reception.”
I pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, embarrassed by my tacky garb. Not only was it inappropriate for a public gathering, it was inappropriate for the gym. I’d at least be wearing my cute Lululemons and Nikes. What must he think of me? “Actually, I’m just moving in today. There’s a Cadillac blocking my driveway and the movers are charging me a fortune and—”
As though I had made the world’s most hilarious joke, Jake burst into laughter, causing me to reel back, afraid I’d end up with pasta in my face. Had he been a lunatic all that time in school and I’d just never known?
“So it was you!”
Me? What was he laughing at? I gave him my best stink-eye.
“I heard someone say there was a crazy woman loose in the house, panhandling and asking people to buy her a Cadillac.”
Even I could see the humor in that and had to laugh. “Actually, the movers will be here any minute, if they aren’t here already.”
“No worries. I have an idea.” He took my hand and pulled me through the gauntlet to the front door. Handing his plate to Dale, he said, “Tell Beverly I’ll check on her tomorrow.”
“Don’t tell me it’s your Caddy?” I asked when we had made it to the front steps.
“No, of course not. Although I do like vintage cars.”
An old pickup truck came chugging up the street and stopped behind the trailer. Two guys wearing stained overalls and backward ball caps got out. “What’s up?” one of them asked.
“There’s a car blocking my drive. My...friend is going to move it.” I looked back over my shoulder. The door of the Caddy was open, but I didn’t see Jake. Then he popped up in the front seat, and I heard the deep roar of the engine. The sound of the old V-8 brought back memories of helping my father out in the garage. Jake drove the car down the street, pulling into a driveway a few houses down from Mrs. Attwood.
I met him on his way back toward my house. “Thanks, I owe you one.”
“Do you need my help moving your stuff?” He held up his arm and made a muscle. I could see it bulge even through his sports coat.
“No, you’ve done plenty.” The last thing I wanted was for him to get a look at all my junk. He’d already seen me at my worst; I didn’t need him to see my dirty laundry—literally.
He pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “How about I take you to dinner one day this week and we can catch up.”
I was caught off guard by his sweet smile and boyish good looks. “Sure, but first, you have to tell me how you learned to hotwire a car.”
He smiled. “Secret agent spy school. I’ll stop by tomorrow to make a plan. My house is just down the road where I parked the car. I guess that means we’re neighbors now.”
“Looks that way.” I turned back and headed to move my Jeep.
Too soon, I thought. I’m not ready to meet a cute, nice guy who would go to such lengths to help me. I’d have to figure out a way to call off dinner without hurting his feelings. It would have to be over the phone, of course, instead of in person. That smile was just too irresistible.
Chapter 2
It was a classic case of the chicken or the egg. I wasn’t sure which had awoken me first: the pain in my shoulder from unpacking boxes or the clanging coming from outside the house. Regardless, I had no choice but to get out of bed and take some painkillers before going out to put whoever was making that racket in a choke hold and demand restitution.
I needed coffee. Lots of coffee.
Waking up in a new place was a bit disorienting. I thought of the old cliché: This was the first day of the rest of my life. Gag. But it was true. I was writing a new chapter in my life. So far, my book read like this: Chapter One – Grow up popular and pretty in Cascada, New Mexico. Chapter Two – Go away to college in Texas and meet Mr. Right. Mr. Right dies. Chapter Three – Bury myself in an event planning business. Chapter Four – Meet Mr. Good Enough. Break up with Mr. Good Enough. Chapter Five – Move back to Cascada and start over at friggin’ square one.
Maybe I should just stay in bed.
The rapping noise grew louder and more annoying. Either I had the world’s biggest woodpecker outside my bedroom window or a blacksmith had set up shop in my front yard. Either way, someone was going to pay.
Cascada hadn’t changed much in the seventeen years I’d been away. The population was up a little, the high school had won a state championship in baseball, and the bowling alley had put in electronic scorekeeping equipment. But tourists still wintered here for the skiing, summered here for the golfing, and the casinos and racetrack brought in plenty of business in the off-seasons. For the locals, tourists were a necessary evil. Sometimes, they even bought property and stayed.
Since I was up anyway, I would pay a visit to Beverly Attwood so I could properly offer my condolences. After the catastrophe from the day before, I had learned not to leave the house dressed like a vagrant. I dabbed on some lip gloss and pulled my hair up into a bun. I opted for jeans and a sweater with a thick scarf, hoping the sun and a mug of French vanilla coffee would keep me warm on my short stride next door. Sure enough, my neighbor to the left was balancing on a ladder and wielding a hammer at his roofline. He caught sight of me and came down from his perch.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said. “The wife’s been after me to get these Christmas lights up, and I thought now was as good a time as any.”
Thanksgiving was just last week. Most people were still bloated from turkey and pumpkin pie. What’s the rush? I smiled and looked at the other houses around us. The only people with lights up were those who were probably too lazy to take them down from last year.
“I’m Curtis Meeks, by the way. You must be Mrs. Fairmont’s granddaughter.” He pulled off a green work glove to shake my hand.
Curtis Meeks had the smoothest hand I’d ever felt on a man. He was about my age, maybe a few years older. With his perfectly coiffed hair and designer casual wear, he looked more suited to a yacht than the mountains of New Mexico. It was obvious he was out of his element up on that ladder.
“Wendy Fairmont,” I said, biting my tongue not to ask what moisturizer he used.
“Sorry about your grandmother. She was a fine lady and a good neighbor. We miss her.”
“Thanks. So do I.”
“It is nice to see some more people our age moving into the neighborhood. I didn’t see your husband yesterday. Is he joining you later?”
Why did people always assume if you were in your mid-thirties you must be married? An assortment of snotty comebacks raced through my head. Sometimes it physically pained me to hold back my sarcastic comments. But I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the new
neighbors.
“I’m not married,” I said, opting for the basic, matter-of-fact response.
“Oh, I see.” He said it sympathetically, as though I should feel sorry for myself.
Okay, in a way, I did. Taking a sip of coffee, I thought about how much fun it had been to show off my engagement ring and use the word “fiancé.” My ring had been like a badge of honor, a stamp of approval. Somebody loved me, loved me enough to spend the rest of his life with me. That’s right, hoes. He put a ring on it. I shoved my hand in my pocket and started to walk away.
From out of nowhere, a gray cat popped out of the bushes and rubbed against my legs. “Who’s this?” I asked, assuming it belonged to Curtis.
“That old cat is a stray. It showed up a couple of months ago. I guess it’s become the neighborhood cat. We all feed her, but no one owns her as far as I know.”
Growing up, we had always had dogs. We had a hunting dog, a guard dog, a tracking dog, and even a lapdog. Cats were never pets around our house. They were more like squirrels. They seemed to be everywhere. They were around, but they weren’t yours. Consequently, I had always wanted a cat. But honestly, cats scared me just a bit. They may look all apathetic and Namaste on the outside, but I suspected on the inside they were actually plotting various ways to kill you.
I reached down and scratched her soft ears. The grateful feline purred loudly. When I stopped, she continued circling.
“Stop that, Cricket,” Curtis said.
“Cricket?”
“Yeah, I call her that. She likes to sit under the lamppost over there at night and swat at the crickets. I guess the name just stuck.”
The cat jumped up onto the porch and sat down, curling herself into a comfortable ball.
“Looks like she’s taken to you,” Curtis said. “Consider her the welcome wagon.”
A voice startled me. “Speaking of the welcome wagon, I brought you a little something.”
Thinking the words had come from the cat, I spun around. Beverly Attwood stood on the lawn holding a plate filled with all kinds of sugary goodies. “These were left over from yesterday’s party. Thought you might like them. In a few days, I’ll make you some of my world-famous brownies. They’ll put all this other stuff to shame.”
I set my cup on the porch next to Cricket and took the plate from Beverly, wondering how she could possibly use the word “party” to refer to her husband’s memorial service. “I’m sorry about Harold,” I said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thanks, dear child. Your moving in here is the best gift you could give me. I was so happy when I heard you weren’t selling the place after all.”
“I think Gran and Grandpa would be happy to know I’m here.”
The cat meowed her approval.
“I see you’ve met Cricket,” Beverly said. Then she looked disapprovingly at Curtis. “And why aren’t you in church, young man?”
“Um, the baby was up a lot last night. Thought I’d let Lana sleep in.”
Beverly crossed her arms. “How could anybody sleep in with all that racket you’ve been making? I’m surprised Harold hasn’t raised up out of his grave and come over here to smack you.”
Curtis hit his palm with the hammer. “What about you?” he asked Beverly. “Why aren’t you at church?” He raised an eyebrow as though he’d gotten one up on her.
“Because, Mr. Smarty Pants, I was at church yesterday for my husband’s funeral. And don’t think I didn’t notice you skipped the service and only came to the party.”
The air was thick with tension. I glanced at Cricket, wishing I could slip away to the porch with her.
“I better get back home now,” Beverly said. “It’s getting frosty cold out here.”
That was an understatement.
Curtis started to follow her. “By the way, have you thought about my offer to buy Harold’s golf clubs?”
“Yes, and my answer is still no.” She stormed away at an impressive pace for a seventy-year-old widow.
Curtis didn’t seem to get the message. “Why not? It’s not like you need them.”
Beverly stopped in her tracks and turned around slowly. “Listen to me, young man. You’ll not be getting those clubs if it’s the last thing I do. You know what they meant to Harold. If he could have been buried with them, he would have. Now leave me alone.” And with that, she was off again.
Curtis shook his head and looked at me for support. “Can you believe that old crank?”
The last thing I wanted was to get in the middle of the Hatfields and McCoys, especially since one of them was waving a hammer. I held out the plate as a peace offering. “Here, take something.” It seemed like a weak gesture, but it was all I could come up with.
He rolled his eyes, still waiting for a response.
“It’s probably just the grief talking. Either that, or a bad case of gas.” I grinned. Nothing. “I’m sure she’s just upset about her husband.”
He twisted the hammer and started back toward his house, grumbling, “I doubt it. Everyone knew she couldn’t wait for him to die.”
Chapter 3
Every time I moved into a new place, I spent the first few days cleaning like a mad woman. Every bit of dirt and grime made me feel as though I was living on the floor of a taxicab. You might think that made me a compulsive housekeeper. Not so. Once I got everything spic and span, I could relax and let my inner slob out. After the initial clean, if I saw dust, it was my dust. If there was a stain on the carpet, it was my stain. If there was a long brown hair in the bathtub, yikes! It definitely wasn’t mine.
Moving into my grandparents’ house was different. The smudges on the appliances didn’t feel foreign. They reminded me of big family dinners and holiday gatherings where we would all shuffle around the kitchen like little ants, each doing our part. The thought made it easier to unpack my things and make myself at home.
Before I left Maycroft, I sold my event planning business to my assistant, including all the inventory, leads, and contacts. That left me with just the contents of my small one-bedroom apartment and a few special furniture pieces I had been storing. They would work perfectly in the split-level bungalow.
As I unpacked boxes and hung pictures, Gran’s presence seemed to be everywhere. I had never been very close to my mother. I was more of a daddy’s girl. My brother had been the mama’s boy. At Gran’s house, though, I always felt like a princess. She made time for me no matter how big or small the problem was.
Speaking of problems, I thought about my neighbors. Was that going to be a nightmare? I had learned a lot about being a peacemaker working as a wedding coordinator. In fact, weddings were probably the one occasion more stressful than a funeral. Whose idea was it to let a woman pick five to ten of her biggest rivals, dress them up in ugly costumes, and parade them in front of her friends and family? Not to mention the bride’s mother and mother-in-law.
My thoughts slipped to Beverly and the comment Curtis had made. Did Beverly really want her husband dead? Long years of marriage to a man who cared more about his golf clubs than his wife might do that to a woman. And the way Beverly kept referring to the gathering as a “party” was just weird. What would Gran have thought about this?
A loud shriek outside, like a baby on helium, drew my attention. I opened the door to find Cricket sitting on the porch as though she were inviting me out to play. There was something unusual about this cat. I almost felt like we were old friends. Maybe I was actually a cat person after all.
Gran used to say I was like a cat—too curious for my own good and she hoped I had nine lives because of all the sticky situations I got myself into. She was right. I was dying to know more about Harold’s death.
I looked down at Cricket. “What do you think, pretty girl? Should we go over and check on Beverly to make sure she’s okay?”
The cat nodded and purred.
I looked around to see if there were any witnesses to what had just occurred. Did that stray cat really jus
t answer my question? Probably my imagination.
Since I had pretty much murdered the plate of sweets, I put the sole surviving slice of lemon pie on a napkin and set it inside the near-empty refrigerator. Returning the dish to Beverly would be the perfect excuse for stopping by. Of course, in a small town like this, “stopping by” was more of the norm than the exception.
I peeked around the porch to see if Curtis was still outside. I didn’t want to have to make more small talk. The coast was clear, so I trekked over to Beverly’s. A path ran between our two houses, leading from the street to the golf course behind our properties. However, our backyards did not back up to beautiful, manicured greens. Behind us was what golfers referred to as OB—out of bounds. The area was wooded and overgrown. A ball hit that far out of the fairway would be nearly impossible to find. However, locals who owned their own golf carts would make their way down the path between our houses to the street as a shortcut home.
One such cart rambled my direction as I crossed the yard. The whining of the engine and clanging of the clubs brought back memories of good times with my grandfather. When I was big enough to reach the pedals, he would let me drive him around the course while he played a round.
The driver was wearing a hooded parka, not your typical golf attire. Golfers were as bad as hunters. As long as they could find their ball, even in the snow, they would head to the course and shoot a round. The man’s cheeks were red and his breath came out of his mouth in small clouds. He nodded and smiled as he stopped for me to cross in front.
“Did you have a good round?” I asked. I had heard my grandfather ask the same thing many times before.
“Just fair. This cold air ain’t good for my joints, but I managed.” Luckily, he drove on before giving me a full medical report about his prostate and spleen.
The cart must have scared Cricket because she had disappeared by the time I got to Beverly’s.
I rang the doorbell and waited, anxious to get a better look inside the house. Yesterday, it was hard to see due to the mass of people sitting and standing in every nook and cranny.
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