Sweet Home Carolina

by Rice, Patricia

  While Jo chitchatted and applied her charm to the mayor, Amy removed the rolls and began buttering their tops. She glanced at the clock. She never wore watches. She was tired of replacing them. But the clock wasn’t working either, so she checked the mullioned windows to see if the sunlight had faded. After the first of September, the sun dipped behind the mountain around five. It should be almost time for the early dinner arrivals.

  As she watched, a sexy, dark maroon sports car rolled to a stop, parking half on and half off the sidewalk in front of the café. The low-slung front end halted inches from the snout of the concrete purple pig adorning the café’s corner. The narrow mountain highway had no shoulder room for parking. The shiny car would end up as a hood ornament on the next semi coming around the curve too fast.

  No one in town owned a car like that. Had ever seen a car like that. Which meant it was European. After the mayor’s call, Amy had a very, very bad feeling about that car.

  She turned from the window and tossed back the cup of spiked lemonade, superstitiously deciding if she didn’t look, the car might disappear.

  Jo hung up and turned to see what had Amy tossing back alcohol. “Oh, my. That’s one of the new Porsches,” she said with reverence.

  “That will soon be a flattened Porsche,” Amy replied.

  The low rumble of another powerful vehicle forced her to glance out the window again. A shiny black Hummer sporting satellite antennas drew up behind the sports car. Amy mused, how far would a Porsche travel after being slammed into by a Hummer propelled by a semi?

  Deciding bad news could wait, she checked the various pots on the stove and missed seeing how the Porsche owner squeezed out of the low front seat into traffic. Jo’s chuckles as she exchanged observations with the locals sipping coffee at the counter were sufficient commentary for amusement.

  The café’s red door swung open. Amy unconsciously waited for a biting What a dump! from the owner of a car that cost more than her house.

  “Catarina, look!” a smoky baritone with a sexy accent Amy couldn’t quite place called to someone outside. “Did you see the brilliant pig on the corner?”

  She couldn’t resist. Just like everyone else, she checked out the new arrivals.

  The speaker was a lean, elegantly dressed gentleman propping open the door to let in an entourage of characters as out of place as their vehicles. Given the amount of animal-skin fabrics, feathered collars, and leather worn by the gentleman’s exotic entourage, they looked like escapees from a zoo in this land of denim and polyester. But the gentleman holding the door looked as if he’d been born to wear a top hat and tux.

  “Do you think he’s the ringmaster?” Jo murmured in amusement, echoing Amy’s thought.

  At that instant, the object of their fascination whipped off his designer shades and winked in their direction. Amy almost dropped the mushrooms. The stranger’s scorching gaze paused on her and triggered her hormones like neglected hand grenades. She could have sworn he actually saw her, except no man who looked like that ever noticed her when she stood next to Jo.

  He could have just walked off the pages of a fashion ad, one of those where the male models had six-pack abs and deliberately mussed hairstyles that cost a fortune to achieve. Straight-cut brown hair brushed his nape and fell Hugh Grant-style across his wide brow. A black ribbed polo shirt pulled taut over his admirable chest, and the camel sports jacket topping it was probably Armani and tailored to emphasize his square shoulders.

  The likes of Hugh Grant didn’t appear around here without reason, and after the mayor’s call, she had a sinking feeling that she knew the reason.

  The visitors milled about the nearly empty café, gazing at the unconventional décor as if hoping a real restaurant would pop out from under the eccentric tablecloths.

  “Are we too early for dinner, my fair lady?” the stranger asked playfully.

  It took Jo’s elbow in her ribs before Amy realized he was talking to her and not to her beautiful, blond baby sister. Jo was already peeling off her apron in preparation for acting as hostess. The foreign gentleman watched Amy expectantly, making her nervous.

  “Dinner’s on,” she agreed with assumed nonchalance. “Take seats anywhere.”

  “You are a lifesaver,” he purred in a wickedly sexy voice that had every woman in the café panting. “We’ve just driven up from the airport in Charlotte, and there wasn’t a decent eatery in sight.”

  “There’s a Cracker Barrel on the interstate,” Jo said with amusement, gathering napkins and silverware.

  “What’s a Cracker Barrel? It sounds appalling.” The gentleman sauntered — Amy swore that was the only word that could describe the way he caught his hand in his pants pocket and gracefully dodged tables and chairs without looking at them — to the counter.

  He smelled even better than he looked. The subtle scents of musk and pine woods intertwined with the aroma of her cooking, and her mouth nearly watered as he took one of the seats at the counter, putting his boyishly tousled hair within reach. Dark eyes watched her with impish laughter. She poured another swallow of Jo’s lemonade.

  Not wishing to see shiny cars smashed into grease slicks, Amy nodded toward the door. “There’s no parking allowed on the street. The police don’t tow cars because they’re usually scrap metal before tow trucks can reach them. There are parking lots coming into and on the way out of town.”

  Before the European hunk could respond, a lithe, towering beauty swayed up to brush her breasts against his shoulder, drape her tousled mane of tawny-streaked hair down his front, and whisper in his ear.

  Amy recognized the Italian accent. Although she couldn’t translate the words, she maliciously translated body language to What are we doing in this hole, sweetikins, let’s go somewhere fabulously expensive and sip champagne and make beautiful love.

  James Bond turned on his stool to wrap an understanding arm around the lioness. He patted her hip and responded reassuringly in Italian; then to Amy’s amazement, he gently nudged Blondie away and turned the intensity of his focus back to her.

  Amy’s wariness shield shot into full alert.

  “You will pardon my friends? I was so eager to arrive I did not think of their needs. They deserve a lovely resort, do they not? Can you recommend such a thing?”

  “An hour back down the road in Asheville. Would you like coffee, tea?” Amy lifted the coffee carafe in an age-old gesture of hospitality that she couldn’t neglect despite all suspicion.

  “Tea, if you would be so kind.” He smiled in delight, and his eyes crinkled in the corners. He turned and spoke more unfamiliar words to his audience.

  The blonde in the slinky leopard-print skirt sulked, and a tall man with an Asian cast to his eyes replied in a bored French drawl.

  Not knowing whether to provide sweet or unsweetened iced tea, Amy poured unsweetened and pushed the sugar packets in the gentleman’s direction, then took another sip of her spiked lemonade.

  She began filling cups and glasses to Jo’s hand signals and sighed in relief when Janey, their teenage waitress, shoved open the door, followed by the first of the local curiosity seekers. The Porsche was better than a neon sign. Word spread fast in a town like this, and the visitors were better than any entertainment they’d had since the last country music show at the Barn. Well-heeled foreigners didn’t often find the less-traveled paths through these mountains.

  At least the café would have one last profitable evening.

  After a brief exchange, the tall Asian-looking man and a lanky, pony-tailed twenty-something went outside to move the cars.

  With his lackeys doing their jobs, the gentleman turned back to Amy and stared at the sweating glass of ice and tea with raised eyebrows. “What is this?”

  “Tea. I have sweet tea if you prefer.” She slid him a small plate of the mushroom appetizers thinking it wouldn’t hurt to butter up the man paying the bill.

  “Tea.” He studied the glass with curiosity. “My mother warned me about this count
ry, but I didn’t listen.” He lifted the glass and sipped cautiously. “Strong. Not bad.”

  He looked up at Amy with a thousand-watt smile and extended his hand. “Hello, I am Jacques Saint-Etienne…and I have come to look at your antique mill.”

  Two

  “No, no, it is not like that,” Jacques Saint-Etienne protested into the phone his assistant handed him. He scraped the last of the scalloped oysters from his plate.

  Amy wiped a spill on the stove and blatantly eavesdropped.

  “Sahn Eshan?” Jo attempted to repeat his name as she refilled tea glasses.

  “Saint Stephen,’” Amy translated, warily following the conversation. His accent became more clipped when he argued, almost British despite the fancy French he spewed to his entourage.

  “Yes, yes.” He barked irritably into the phone. “A suite, yes. Coffee in every room. And tea. Hot tea,” he amended. “Reserve the Jacuzzi room, if you will.”

  “Uh-oh, I better go stand by my man.” Carrying a tray of espresso for the newcomers and peach cobbler for one of the locals, Jo aimed for the back booth where the sultry blonde had cornered Flint, who had emerged from his office to help with the unusual rush of customers.

  Riding high on spiked lemonade and oddly revived by the exotic company, Amy hummed under her breath and poured boiling water over the leaves of her favorite Keemun in her special china teapot. She’d heard that comment about hot tea. And she was feeling just spiteful enough to get even for this invasion of demanding, temperamental customers — ones she suspected would steal her livelihood from under her nose if they could.

  She helped Janey load the dishwasher while the tea steeped. Only one of their new guests had eaten her delicious roast chicken. None of them had touched the whipped potatoes or creamed peas. She’d had to send Flint down to the grocery for arugula, spinach, and fresh mushrooms, or whatever facsimile he could find, plus oysters. The local store seldom carried more than iceberg and canned mushrooms. Seafood of any sort in the mountains was suspect.

  She had created an entire new menu of salads and appetizers to suit their vegetarian, no-carbohydrate diets out of the barest scraps at last minute notice, and not one of them had expressed appreciation. Not even Saint Stephen, who’d adroitly switched between flirting with every woman in the room, barking at his cell phone, and ordering his lackeys about, all at a dizzying pace. Amy wasn’t certain how he managed to eat a bite.

  A little too aware of her own padded figure in comparison to all these anorexic creatures, Amy poured her perfectly steeped Keemun into a china cup with malice aforethought.

  She sliced a fresh lemon and added just a touch of sugar. The fragrance of Chinese tea leaves wafted upward from her delicate teacup as she leaned back against the stove and took a restorative sip.

  Saint Stephen snapped his cell phone shut and dropped it into his jacket pocket. He eyed Jo’s flask with interest.

  “The oysters and vegetable couscous were admirable,” he murmured. “But I do not share my friends’ affinity for espresso. I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you for a martini?”

  Amy would have smiled at the compliment, except if he really was the infamous idiot who meant to take the mill away from the town, she wanted him nailed to the floor with sharp steel, not good liquor.

  “This is a dry town, no alcohol,” she replied. Dry towns tended to discourage most business types interested in the area. She could hope.

  His aristocratically thin nose twitched as his formidable gaze settled on Amy’s cup. “Perhaps you have something that would appeal to my more British tastes, then?” he suggested.

  “British?” Amy raised her eyebrows and sipped her tea with the bravado of half a flask of whiskey. “I may not be a world traveler, but I recognize French and Italian when I hear it.” Still, British would explain the posher edge to his English.

  He flashed a wide smile. “My mother is from West Virginia, my father is from Paris. I have a villa in Italy, but I was raised in London. I eat British.”

  “You ate oysters instead of the steak I offered,” Amy argued. “Even I know Brits like their beef.”

  Saint Stevie was probably in charge of tips. She should be waiting on him hand and foot. But she’d done that all evening, and he hadn’t bothered to express his appreciation — until she’d deliberately taunted him. Now she had his attention. Men, European or not, were all alike. She was learning to play this game.

  “I like oysters. That does not change my nationality. Is that hot tea I detect?”

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “Keemun. Would you like to know the province?”

  “I would like the tea, please,” he said decisively, shoving the icy glass away. “Hot.”

  Hmmm, Mr. Pretty Boy wasn’t averse to giving orders instead of flattery. Orders, she hadn’t learned to ignore, especially when they involved food and hospitality.

  Now that she had his attention, she counted this round won, and reverted to her true nature, sort of. She shuffled through the café’s cluttered cabinet until she located Jo’s prized Fiestaware cups, in orange, and poured tea from her delicate, hand-painted Staffordshire pot into one. Let the rich man see how the other half lived.

  “Lemon?” she asked sweetly.

  He studied the obnoxious color and design of the chunky Depression-era American cup that she pushed toward him. “Please.”

  Someone had taught him manners, too. Amy rewarded him with a saucer of lemon wedges. “Our mill isn’t an antique.” She saw no reason to delay the confrontation.

  “According to my research, the first mill was built here in 1855 by Ezekial Jekel, who married a local southern belle and applied his Yankee ingenuity to harnessing the river.” The facts reeled off his tongue without hesitation. He sipped the tea with a nod of approval. “Delicious, thank you.”

  She admired his research, but his knowledge made her stomach hurt. His interest wasn’t that of a tourist.

  At Jo’s signal for two espressos, Amy returned to work. Tourist revenue had paid for the espresso machine. Most of the locals preferred their caffeine fix with the cheap bottomless-cup special. Sliding the slender mugs onto a doily-decorated tray, she handed the order across the counter to her sister.

  Oddly, the gentleman didn’t turn to admire Jo’s generous assets encased in her best red hostess gown with the plunging neckline. His smoldering gaze remained fixed on Amy, and she hid a shiver of reaction. She definitely didn’t need bored, irresponsible playboys in her dysfunctional life, especially ones who wanted something she was much too wise to give.

  “Impressive research,” she acknowledged once Jo departed. “But the current buildings were designed in 1955 and the machinery updated in 1999. The plant was in operation until last year. The fabrics you see in here were all created on those looms by our local employees.”

  Sipping his tea, the newcomer half turned to study the rich purple-and-rust tapestried upholstery and wine-colored table damask. “Foolishly expansive for so small an operation, but well done. Your mill has a reputation for sound design and expensive products.”

  From this angle, Amy could see the beard stubble on his angular jaw and the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. If there hadn’t been some danger that he was her worst enemy, she would have urged him to go home and get some rest.

  “Foolishly expansive?” she asked, smothering her instinctive need to nurture.

  “Materials such as those are labor intensive and best left to third world countries.” He turned back and held out his cup for more tea. “It is a pity American labor is so high, but a world economy is necessary if we are to sell our products in sufficient quantity to make a profit.”

  She poured the tea very carefully. After all, passive aggression did not include scalding customers with boiling liquids. “I hope Chinese peasants are prepared to buy your products since our unemployed workers are barely able to put food on their tables.”

  “Do I detect a certain hostility to my venture?” He lifted dark eyebro
ws questioningly.

  Behind thick lashes, he had eyes so deep they almost looked black, but Amy caught a hint of blue when he tilted his head to study her. She didn’t know for certain what his venture was, but she had enough clues to worry.

  “No hostility at all,” she said smoothly, “if you intend to hire the employees the mill laid off when it closed.”

  “The mill went bankrupt because it couldn’t afford those employees,” he pointed out. “You cannot sell fabric higher than the market rate, and that doesn’t cover your labor cost.”

  In the same way his drawl became more clipped as he spoke, his carved features sharpened, his dark gaze smoldered, and Amy would have to quit calling him Saint Stevie if he got any hotter. She was starting to suspect a hungry wolf lurked beneath the designer sheep’s wool.

  “The rich will pay whatever it takes to get what they want,” she replied, then snapped her mouth shut. No sense in giving away her market plans.

  “Don’t be naïve. The wealthy like a good bargain as much as any, and they can find them in the Asian bazaars. Your only hope is computerized looms and designs, and that takes expensive technology you don’t possess.”

  “Computerization doesn’t put cash into the local economy,” she argued. “Any plant, anywhere in the world can produce computerized design.”

  “Exactly,” he said with satisfaction, setting down his empty cup and rising to offer his hand. “It’s been a pleasure speaking with someone who so thoroughly understands the business. I don’t believe I caught your name?”

  “Amaranth Jane Sanderson Warren,” she replied with every name she could legally claim, “textile designer and former wife of Northfork Mills’ CEO.” Not offering her hand in return, she smiled pleasantly over her teacup.