by Anita Higman
BY ANITA HIGMAN
SummeRSIde
PRESS
Love Finds You in Humble, Texas
© 2008 by Anita Higman
ISBN 978-1-934770-61-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.
Cover and Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group www.mullerhaus.net
Published by Summerside Press, Inc., 11024 Quebec Circle, Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 | www.summersidepress.com
Fall in love with Summerside.
Printed in the USA.
Dedication
To my agent,
Chip MacGregor.
Thank you for your expertise, your encouragement,
your prayers, and your friendship.
It has made all the difference.
Acknowledgements
Much gratitude goes to Pat Durham
for her help in understanding the life of an image coach.
Great appreciation is extended to Lilibeth Andre, who answered a
myriad of questions about the world of art.
And many thanks go to Carolyn McCarty for her hospitality in escorting
me around the fine city of Humble.
Any errors in the text are solely the fault of the author.
“Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot.”
Thomas More
HUMBLE, TEXAS, WAS NAMED FOR ONE OF ITS FOUNDERS, Pleasant Smith Humble (pronounced “umble”), who settled in the area with his family sometime before 1889. Pleasant was a prosperous wildcatter as well as a storekeeper and fisherman. He also became justice of the peace and started the first post office out of his own home. In the early 1900s Humble became an oil boomtown, and even though the yield has decreased since then, its oil fields are still producing. Today Humble has more than 14,000 residents and is a vibrant and growing city with friendly people, great restaurants, quaint antique stores, a downtown historic district, and the beautiful Mercer Arboretum and Botanic Gardens. Humble, Texas, reflects the qualities of its namesake, being not only a pleasant place to visit, but also a great place to call home.
Anita Higman
Chapter One
Trudie Abernathy always wondered about two things. First, how was it that some people could live charmed lives while others accumulated troubles like those beetles that spent their time rolling up balls of dung? And secondly, how could one person fall in love as effortlessly as a sneeze, while another hobbled along on love as if it were a twisted ankle?
I am the dung beetle. Trudie smiled over at her sister, who sat across from her in the limo. Lane Abernathy was the one who lived the breezy life. Lane was an image coach and always had a string of rich and handsome boyfriends while Trudie had never known the joys of having a steady anything—she was single, not-so-sexy, and somewhat sweaty.
Lane looked out the tinted window as she chatted about some new dress shop in town. Even though Trudie felt close to her sister, they invariably looked at life through different ends of the kaleidoscope. Lane always saw the pretty rainbow designs—the ever-changing wonder of being alive—while Trudie was busy turning the little contraption around to prove the whole thing was just an illusion created out of broken glass. Yeah, that’s so me.
Lane fidgeted with her bridal pink suit—a color so fragile it looked breakable—while Trudie concerned herself with the impracticality of renting a limo. “I know it’s my birthday, but you really didn’t have to go to all this trouble. And you picked the priciest restaurant in town.” Trudie ran her fingers along the butter-cream leather on the seat, thinking it looked good enough to melt over a bacon burger.
“But it’s your favorite, and I can afford it.” Lane got up and sat next to her sister. “Come on now. It’s not just any birthday. It’s your thirtieth. And this year I’ve decided your gift will be a total makeover. All my sessions for free.”
“Lane, that’s way too much.”
“No arguments. The works.”
Trudie crossed her arms over her poly-blend maroon checkered jacket—a real find she’d managed to snatch up at a garage sale for fifty cents. Trudie rubbed elbows with her sister like she’d done in school. “Remember what our English teacher said about us? There’s a certain beauty in being ugly.”
“I remember well.” Lane raised a shoulder. “We showed Mr. Belvedere, didn’t we?”
“You showed Mr. Belvedere. If he could just see you now…all slender and blonde and graceful.”
“Come on now, don’t be so hard on yourself.” Lane puckered her brow. “You just need a little polish.”
“A little polish? I’d need a whole spa crew working around the clock.”
“You can be so negative.” Lane handed Trudie a mirror out of her Prada bag. “Just look at yourself and witness all the possibilities.”
Trudie groaned. “Mirrors.” What was it she hated about mirrors? Let me count the ways. Reluctantly, she looked into the glass at her somewhat straggly blonde hair, thinnish face, and pale skin. She was no longer sure what potential should look like. Hmm. Mirrors. They were like clocks—a reminder of time. Trudie didn’t mind about the fine lines gathering around her blue eyes or her ivory plainness, but she did mind very much about the time. Each person would only be allotted so much of it. And now at thirty, the burning question was—had she fallen into the rhythm of her life yet? Was she using up the minutes and the decades wisely? “I don’t think so.”
“What did you say?” Lane shook her head. “You’re always murmuring things.”
Trudie handed the mirror back to her sister. Shame on Lane. She was going to force Trudie to be dissatisfied with her appearance and make her want to improve. “But you enjoy preening. For me, it’s a waste of time.”
Lane tugged on Trudie’s sleeve while donning her puppy dog eyes. “You’ll never guess what I did. I brought the tiara. It’s in my purse. Why don’t you take it home and wear it?”
Like the contents of a cistern suddenly being stirred, unnamed things deep inside Trudie rose to the surface. “I’m too old to wear that thing. Thanks, though.” Mist stung Trudie’s eyes, but she shook off the emotion. “Listen, I don’t mean to downplay what you do as an image coach. You’ve helped a lot of people succeed in what they do. But wouldn’t it be better for me to find a man who loves me this way than to remake myself into something I’m not? I mean, he might wake up the day after our honeymoon and ask for a refund.”
“But you won’t be somebody different. You’ll be Trudie à la mode.”
Trudie grinned, shaking her head at her sister. Then she leaned back, determined to enjoy the ride—something she had trouble doing in a limo and in life. The jazzy velvet luxury of their cocoon felt nice compared to her backfiring jalopy that had so many odd parts it could no longer claim a brand name. “Sometimes I think I was born on the wrong planet.”
“That’s what you always say when you’re wrong and I’m right. Or when you want to change the subject. Come on now, give me a chance to help you. Pleeease.”
It was always hard to say no to Lane. “Let me think about it.”
Even though her logic was sometimes defective, there was something irresistible about it too.
“Well, here’s my first tip. A little peachy lip gloss will light up the face instantly.” Lane handed her a pink wand. “Try it. I bought it just for you.”
Trudie swiped some of the slippery goop on her lips. She knew it wa
s supposed to be silky and exotic, but why did it smell like dirty house shoes? “Thanks.”
“By the way, I hope it’s okay, but my financial advisor is meeting us for lunch. You remember me mentioning Mason Wimberley. I went out with him some months ago. He’s a fine Christian man, and I think—”
“Yes, I remember you talking about him.” Trudie lifted her hand. “But please tell me this isn’t a blind date.”
Lane pinked darker than her pumps.
“Oy. A blind date.” Trudie rolled her eyes. Lane never could hide a secret from her.
“It was Mason’s idea. You know, after I told him all about you.”
“You either lied your head off about me, or he has issues you never told me about…like he uses one of those plastic toothpicks out of an army knife, or his hair has all migrated from his head to his ears.” Trudie raised a big sister eyebrow.
Lane gave her a gentle slug on the arm. “None of the above.”
“Then why did you stop dating him?”
“Oh, I just thought it seemed like a conflict to date my financial advisor.” Her sister shrugged. “Kind of like dating your gynecologist.”
Trudie laughed. “Well, not quite like that.”
Lane chuckled and then stared at her sister long enough to catch her gaze. “I think it’s time for your dreams to come true, Trudie.”
See what I mean? As smart as Lane was, she was living proof that women who wore too much pink lost 20 percent of their reasoning abilities. That was how the male sex always got the edge in business. They don’t wear pink! “Life’s not a fairy tale, Lane. It’s really just a cruel allegory with demented little gnomes who want to turn our happy coaches of merriment into pumpkin puree.”
Lane pulled back, gaping at Trudie. “Where did you come up with that?”
Trudie blinked. “I have no idea.”
“You used to say stuff like that all the time when we were kids.” Lane chuckled.
“I guess I did.” Trudie dug her fingernail into the dimple on her chin. “But you know, life really isn’t a bedtime story or a fun comic book. Those dreams you were talking about…they’re gone.”
Lane smoothed her already wrinkle-free skirt. “Remember on the farm when we’d climb up on the barn roof at night? We’d stare up at the stars as we talked about what we were going to do with our lives?”
Trudie looked at her sister. “Yeah, I do. I remember.” Perhaps she could remember too well. She suddenly felt itchy and hot in her maroon jacket. “Why don’t we talk about something else.”
“I followed my dream, and I never gave up. I think that last part is the key.”
She guessed that Lane wasn’t going to give up easily. Trudie looked out the window at the pregnant blush of summer—like spring, it was another season for optimists. They were the two seasons she could never seem to catch up with. “Yes, you did make it, but God has been smiling down on you since the first day you showed your face.”
“He’s smiling on you, too.”
Trudie patted her sister’s hand. Perhaps He had once.
“You know, over the years you’ve done a lot of good at the children’s hospital. Don’t you think those kids would want you to do something for Trudie?”
Lane must feel desperate since she was playing the emotional card. “Okay. We’ll see.” Trudie cleared her throat. “So, is this Mason guy even a little bit handsome?”
Lane cocked her head as a smidgen of smugness lit her smile. “He dresses well, and he looks like Superman.”
“Oh, really?” She couldn’t imagine why her sister would give up Superman. Nobody would. Unless, of course, you were Lex Luthor’s girlfriend. Trudie chuckled to herself. Then she lifted her foot and noticed a wad of green gum stuck to her shoe. She tried wiping it off without making a scene, but it persisted in becoming one with her sole. Oh, well. What could she say? Life was sticky.
The limo finished winding its way through the tree-lined streets and came to an elegant stop in front of Gaston’s Bistro on Staitti Street.
Lane ran her tongue over her teeth and fluffed her hair. “Well, it’s show time.”
“Who’s that man coming towards us?” Trudie ignored the chewing gum and instead scrubbed the perspiration off her hands.
“Oh, that’s Mason. I guess he decided to come meet us out here. That’s very sweet.” Lane waved even though no one could see them through the tinted glass.
Before the chauffeur could get to their side, the well-dressed man called Mason opened the limo door for them. He held out his hand to Trudie, and she followed his arm all the way up to his face. Nice. She was so moved by his asymmetrical but compelling smile that her feet seemed to forget how to hold up her body. She bumbled outward as her mouth released a yelp that sounded remarkably like a newborn coyote. But the highlight of Trudie’s descent into mortification was her hulking fall into the waiting arms of the man who really did look just like Superman.
Chapter Two
Mason latched onto Trudie with a firm grip and then lifted her upright. “Steady now.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to have my feet back.” Trudie took in a deep breath. Several people on the sidewalk stopped for a quick look. Embarrassment seemed too mild a word for the way she felt. She had become the color vermilion.
“Are you okay?” Mason still held her.
Being several inches taller, he looked down at her, but purely in a literal way, since there was no mockery in his eyes. “I just got discombobulated.” Why had she said such a peculiar word? Maybe it was her brain that had become discombobulated. “I try to fall once a month. It keeps me humble.”
Mason chuckled. “Well, let me know when you intend to fall again, and I’ll make sure I’m there to catch you.”
Mason hadn’t quite let go of her, and for an instant, she felt a warm and dizzying surge of emotion. Attraction. It was a pleasant sensation— an unexpected delight—like a rainbow on a stormy day.
The chauffeur and Lane came around from the other side of the car, rushing toward them. “Trudie, are you all right?” Her sister reached out to her.
Trudie waved them off, since she’d never been prone to clumsiness in her life. “I’m fine. Really.” Mason released her, and the warm rush faded. But since she’d also felt as graceful as a rodeo clown in a barrel, Trudie was glad for the moment to be over. She wiped her damp hands on her tan skirt and then noticed a tear in her pantyhose. Great.
Lane paid the driver and then turned back to Trudie. “Well, if you’ve recovered, are we ready for a birthday lunch?”
Mason offered himself as an escort, and Lane and Trudie each circled one of his arms. They ambled up the sidewalk, out of the searing Texas heat, and into the old-world atmosphere of Gaston’s Bistro. The scents of fresh herbs and baked bread greeted them as well as the sounds of Josh Groban singing in French. Nice.
After they were seated, a waiter bustled over with his bonjour, his menus, and his enthusiasm. “I hear that today is your birthday, Ms. Abernathy.”
Trudie nodded but hoped an oompah band wasn’t going to appear out of the kitchen to help them celebrate. Or was that only in Germany? Who knew? Sometimes she felt as provincial as a jersey cow.
“Well, your birthday, July 14, has fallen on France’s National Holiday.” The waiter made a flourish with his hands. “Bastille Day. And that means complimentary desserts for your whole table.”
“That’s very kind.” Trudie got a sudden urge for chocolate mousse and wondered if they’d have it.
“Thank you so much, Seymour.” Lane smiled up at him, and he kissed her hand as if they were old friends.
Mason smiled and then busied himself with his menu.
Seymour draped the cloth napkins over their laps, and then another waiter scurried over with a basket of hot bread and butter.
When the menu had been perused and the queries answered, they all ordered Poulet aux Morilles. It was chicken, but Trudie thought the French made it sound so much more exotic.
Mason
turned to Trudie. “Lane tells me you’re an assistant manager in retail.” He buttered a slice of bread.
Trudie ran her hand along the starched tablecloth. “Well, I suppose that’s the elegant version. I just work in a lingerie shop over on Atascocita. You know, nightgowns, bras, and panties and…well, you get the picture.” Trudie’s face suddenly felt like an oven—warm enough to heat up a whole basket of baguettes. Then she felt silly for blushing, since she rarely felt self-conscious about the merchandise she sold.
Mason smiled. “It’s a gracious calling.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of Mason’s comment, but his sincere expression told her he wasn’t making fun. And yet the remark seemed over-the-top to describe a salesclerk job. Trudie cleared her throat. “Well, people who’re trained professionals have a calling. People like me are the servants to those professionals.” Oww. That sounded pathetic. Her banter was beginning to flop around like a flat tire.
Lane flinched.
Yeah. Guess that wasn’t the best way to respond to Mason’s genteel compliment. And probably why she never had any dates. Way too honest. Or rustic sounding. Or Jane Eyre-ish. Trudie dabbed the napkin on her lips, even though she hadn’t even eaten anything, and then realized she’d wiped off the last of her magic lip gloss. Her face was now on its own. She set the napkin back down on her lap and wondered if the thing would have benefited her more if she had simply stuffed it in her mouth.
“I admire your candor, but I disagree.” Mason tugged on the cuff of his crisp white shirt. “All honest work is honorable.”
Trudie studied him. She wanted to say, “Humph, how honorable is selling panty girdles to women who really need a diet?” But for once, she kept her thought to herself and took a piece of bread from the basket instead.
“And as far as servanthood,” Mason went on to say, “Jesus had a servant’s heart. So if what you’ve said about your job were true, I’d say you were in very good company.”
