Casey took the pile. “You play the piano?”
“Not as well as him. I’ve taken lessons, but never had much time to play until now. Actually, I think I’d have gone crazy with boredom if it hadn’t been for the piano. I’m used to working, but we figured we wanted a baby more than the income. I’ve had two miscarriages in three years, so we’re being extra cautious with this one.”
Casey stood back. “Will you come in and sit?”
“Oh no,” Emily said and grinned. “I’m loving standing.” Again, the grin faded. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll miss your father. He didn’t mix much with people on the Court. I was one of the few who ever knocked on his door. I heard him playing one day and couldn’t resist.”
“I didn’t know he played until I saw the baby grand. And you say he was good?”
Emily’s smile was thoughtful now. “He was… precise. He didn’t have a natural ear, couldn’t pick up a sheet of music and just play. He had to work at everything, had to study and practice and practice and practice, but he got good results.”
“Did he take lessons?”
“Not that I knew of.”
“Never?”
“That’s what he said, which makes it all the more remarkable. I mean, he was accomplished. He could have easily played in a chamber group, but I don’t think anyone other than Meg and me ever heard him play. It was like, for him, this was something totally personal.”
“He was shy,” Casey said. For the first time, it wasn’t a criticism but an observation, and an empathetic one at that.
“Very. We never talked much, just played.”
“You said that you and he exchanged. Does he have anything of yours?”
“A few books”— she gestured in dismissal—“but I can get them another time.”
Casey waved Emily in with greater determination this time. “Where would they be?”
“In the piano bench. He kept all of it there.”
“Well then, that’s easy enough,” Casey said as she led Emily through the foyer and into the living room. At its far end, in the shadow of the piano, sat the bench. It was of the same rich wood as the piano, and had a tapestry seat. It hadn’t even occurred to Casey that it opened.
Actually, the greater surprise, she decided, was that it closed, given the three piles of music stacked in it side by side. Making the fit even more snug was the large manila envelope that was taped to the underside of the lid.
Chapter Nine
Little Falls
With one booted foot on the road and his helmet held against his thigh, the motorcyclist called across the clearing, “It’s kinda late to be walking alone.” His voice was low, rough.
Jenny didn’t move.
“Cold, too,” he added. “Where’s your ride?”
“I, uh, he left.”
He gave the fog a squint. “Any chance of someone else coming by?”
She shook her head.
“Then you’d better climb on.” He hitched his bottom forward a notch.
Jenny couldn’t do much more than stare. She recognized the jacket and boots. And the helmet. She saw now that he wore jeans, and had a jaw full of stubble. His hair was as black as the jacket, boots, and bike. And up close, he looked bigger, even dangerous.
Darden would hate him for being larger and younger than he was. He would feel threatened.
Jenny pinched herself inside her elbow. This was no dream; the hurt was real; the sexy man on the motorcycle remained. She flew across the clearing before he could take back his offer of a ride.
The question was how best to mount the motorcycle. She had never done it before, and the way she was dressed didn’t help. After weighing the options, she tucked up a knee and slid it over the saddle and down. A tug and a push on her dress, and she was settled.
“Not bad,” he remarked. She imagined he sounded amused.
“Thank you.”
“Put this on.” He took her shoes in trade for his helmet.
“What’ll you wear?”
“Nothing.”
“But—”
“If we crash and you die, I’ll have to live with the guilt. Better we should crash and I die.”
Jenny could identify with that thought, all right. She knew about guilt— did she ever. But she wasn’t dwelling on it now, what with the helmet settling over her face, all warm and male-scented, and then his hands— large, able hands— catching her behind the knees and pulling her tight against him. She was trying to recover from that, when his foot left the ground and they shot forward, headed into the fog.
Her heart flew to her throat. She clutched fistfuls of his jacket at his sides, her fists scrabbling for more to hold on to with each tilt of the bike, moving forward little by little until the only thing that made sense was to wrap her arms around him and hold on for dear life. She was terrified, but had he stopped and offered to let her off, she would have refused. This was too good to let go.
Then the bike slowed. He touched his boot down when it stopped. She was preparing to resist, thinking that she wasn’t getting off no matter what, when she felt the shift of his body, heard the rasp of a zipper and the slither of leather. He handed his jacket back. “Better put this on. You’re shaking from the cold.”
So she was, though it could as easily have been from the dampness, or from fear, or from relief or even exhilaration. Maybe especially exhilaration. Only after she slipped into the jacket, which was way too big but, oh, so warm, did she notice his plain cotton shirt.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I have heat to spare.” He revved the engine. The motorcycle took off with a spray of gravel and a rising growl.
Jenny held him more easily now. He had no beer belly at all, but a stomach that was washboard hard and golden warm where her palms touched.
She wondered where he was from. She wondered where he was headed and if he could stay, and if he could stay, then for how long.
They reached a fork in the road. She pointed the way, then pointed again when another turn came. By this time, fear was no longer a factor. She felt his control of the bike, and she relaxed. The night rushing by blurred the ugly details of her life. The only things in focus were the man, his bike, and a sense of something unbelievably good about to happen. They sailed down the last stretch to her house with such ease that Jenny just knew that all this was fated to be.
When he pulled into the drive and stopped at the side door she always used, she took off the helmet and shook out her hair. But she made no move to dismount.
“This it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He twisted his upper body and peered at her, straining to make out her features in the thin porch light. “Is anyone home?”
She shifted her gaze. It fell on the foggy outline of the garage that housed Darden’s old Buick. “Uh, yes.”
“I won’t hurt you,” he said more gently. “I was just wondering why you aren’t getting off. If the house is empty and that makes you nervous, I’ll walk you in.”
“No.” She felt silly. “No need.” But she liked wearing his jacket. She liked the feel of his thighs pressed inside hers. She didn’t want him to leave.
Slipping off the bike, she said quickly, “Want to come in?”
He stared at her for a minute, then shook his head. “I’m not the kind of guy you want in your house for long.”
She looked away. It was a gentle rejection. But gentle was new for her, so she looked back. “Why not?”
“I’m just not.”
“Why not?”
He sighed. “Because I’m just passing through. Guys just passing through act without thinking. They get lonely. And when they’re lonely, they get selfish. Me, I’m selfish, lonely or not.” Another headshake. “I wouldn’t risk it if I were you.”
But Jenny had no choice. No choice at all.
“Where are you from?” she asked, trying her best to sound casual, like she was just making conversation, like she did this kind of thing all the time. Sh
e didn’t want him to know she was desperate. That would scare him off.
Besides, she wanted to know the answer. He wasn’t from these parts— she could tell that by the way he talked. And the way he looked— all that dark mystery. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
“Born?” he asked. “Out west.”
“Oh? Where?”
“Wyoming. Just south of Montana.”
She couldn’t believe it! She had dreamed of going to Wyoming just south of Montana. Horses, cattle, buffalo. Wide open spaces. Friendly people willing to live and let live.
“I haven’t been there in a while,” he said.
“Do you have family there?”
“Do I ever.”
She couldn’t believe it. Her dream. “Lots of family?”
“I’ll say.” He gazed off into the dark. “Lots of family, lots of responsibility, lots of guilt. Like I say. I haven’t been there in a while.”
“So where’ve you been?”
“Here and there.”
“Those places aren’t on my map.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh had he opened his mouth.
“So, where?” she prodded. She had already said more to him than to probably any other one person in a whole month, and he wasn’t walking away, wasn’t looking at her like she was dirt.
“Atlanta, Washington, New York, Toronto.”
“What were you doing in those places?”
“Proving I was as smart as the next guy.”
“Are you?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So what are you doing here?”
He looked straight at her. “Tryin’ to figure out why bein’ so smart isn’t makin’ me happy.”
“Have you got the answer yet?”
“Nope. I’m still lookin’.”
She watched his eyes, saw something welcoming in them. “Are you hungry?”
“Tired, too. I’ve been riding since dawn.”
“I can fix you food.”
“That’d mean my going inside. I already told you. It isn’t a good idea.”
“Lonely and selfish.”
“Yup.”
“What does that mean?”
“Guess.”
“I don’t know.”
It was a minute before he said, “You don’t, do you?”
She shook her head.
“I saw you at the dance tonight. Did you know that?”
She nodded.
“Well, I didn’t see anyone else. I couldn’t. Not once I saw you.”
Jenny didn’t believe him. “You must’ve seen Melanie Harper. She was out on the steps. You know, blond hair—” She gestured big breasts.
“Blond isn’t as exciting as red.”
Jenny touched her hair, ready to argue, but the look on his face told her not to. So she smiled, then laughed. Then she covered her face with a hand.
He took the hand down. “You’re very striking.”
Again she would have argued, had he not been looking at her like he meant every word, and then he looked at her breasts— just for a moment, but the look was deliberate.
“It’s the dress,” she said.
He shook his head. “So I’d better not come inside. It’s been too long since I’ve had home cookin’.” His voice was rough again, a drawl to match her image of Wyoming just south of Montana.
She forgot all about hair and breasts. “Home cooking is my specialty. I have a catering service.” It was a small lie, just one word wrong. “I’m doing a luncheon tomorrow and just happen to have homemade meatballs in the fridge. I could cook them right up.”
“Homemade meatballs?”
“Skewered with pepper, onion, and eggplant.”
He made a small moaning sound. “If I eat ‘em, what’ll you serve tomorrow?”
“I have so many I could give you dozens and they wouldn’t be missed.”
He looked to be seriously considering her offer.
“Please,” she said, trying her best not to sound desperate, but he was so good-looking, just the man she’d been hoping to meet tonight, and he seemed to like her.
She pinched her inner elbow again and felt the pain. Still not dreaming. And yes, he did like her. She could tell by the way he looked at her. He made it easy to return the look for a change. He had to stay. If he left now, she would die.
“Okay,” he said. “Just to eat. If it’s not too much trouble.”
She turned from the cycle and went up the back steps and into the kitchen without a backward glance. Since she still had his jacket and helmet, she knew he would follow. She set the helmet on the counter and went to the refrigerator. Four trays of skewered meatballs were inside. She took two out and lit the broiler.
The back door closed. Her breath caught when she turned. It had been years since a man had been in her kitchen, and this one was even taller than she’d thought. He had to be six four. And rock solid. He was also gorgeous— maybe not movie-star perfect like Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt, but better than anything she had ever seen around Little Falls. Plus, he had been all over the country, and in her eyes, that made him seem even larger.
She swallowed and tried to think of something to say. She dashed a look around the kitchen, but nothing inspired her.
He helped her out. “Your kitchen’s very clean.”
She cleared her throat. “I always clean after I cook. I did the meatballs this afternoon. And lemon crescents, for the dance.” She wished she had some of those to give him, but they had vanished suspiciously soon after she had put them on the refreshment table. So maybe those old biddies had tossed them out. That was their loss. This man would have eaten every last crumb.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Pete.”
Pete. She liked it. It sounded real. “Mine’s Jenny.”
“That wasn’t what the guy on the porch called you.”
She took a short breath. “You heard that?” And how much else?
“Only the end. He was being a pest. Another minute of his yammering, and I’d have been over to shut his mouth for him.”
Jenny blushed. No one had ever defended her before. He was so perfect she couldn’t stand it, so tall and handsome that her eyes didn’t know what to do. They tried to skitter off, but lingered on his chest. “Oh my. Your shirt is wet. Want a dry one? My father has a whole closetful.” Dry, and pressed so nicely. But, crazy Jenny, Pete wouldn’t want a pressed shirt. Maybe in the city. But not in Wyoming just south of Montana. And not here. The one he was wearing was chambray, she saw that now. It was butter soft, not pressed at all.
She wanted to touch it again, as she had while they were riding, but feared he would think her too forward. Instead, she pointed toward the hall. “The bathroom’s out there. On your right. Want a beer?”
“Sure.” He disappeared into the hall.
Jenny slipped the pans into the oven and left the door ajar. Heat rose. She stepped away and put her palms to her cheeks. They were hot on their own, beet red, she figured. Not that she cared, not tonight.
I didn’t see anyone else. I couldn’t. Not once I saw you.
She tried to keep calm, but she felt all bubbly inside, bubbly and brimming and so near to exploding with excitement that she was practically dancing as she opened the fridge. Four six-packs of Sam Adams stood there, bought at Darden’s order in anticipation of his return. She didn’t figure he would miss one bottle. If he did, she would tell him where it had gone, and if he had a problem with that, he could take it up with Pete.
Pete wouldn’t put up with his crap— not Pete, whose return came at that very moment, announced by confident bootsteps and a smoky baritone. “I’m impressed. From the looks of that mirror, you’re a popular lady.”
His appearance startled her all over again. Now it was the fresh-washed look around his eyes and the finger-comb marks in that thick, dark hair. He kept getting better and better.
“Lots of parties,” he said. “You must have a pack of friends.�
�
She gave him Miriam’s stock line. “Friends come from nowhere when you’re the one making the food.” She handed him the bottle of Sam Adams.
He took it by the neck, but didn’t rush to take a drink, just held it and looked at her. “A catering business, huh?”
Tell him the truth. “Neat Eats.”
“Cute name. How long have you had it?”
The truth, Jenny. “I’ve been working”— she searched the ceiling—“ohhh, five years.” No lie there. She had been a year late graduating high school on account of her mother dying and all. Dan had set her up with Miriam right after that. “We started with local things. Then people from outside started calling. Now we sometimes drive two or three hours. We did a party in Salem. That’s down by Boston.”
He skimmed her kitchen. “You don’t do all that cooking here, do you?”
“Oh, no. We have a big place in town. And cars and a van,” she tacked on, because he had to be wondering. “I keep this kitchen old-fashioned on purpose. It’s a reminder of my roots. I learned to cook here.” She didn’t know why she’d said that. Okay, it was the truth. But it wasn’t something she liked remembering.
He looked pleased. “It’s a refreshing woman who admits to cooking these days. You’re one of the few I’ve met who’ll do it, besides my sisters. You’d like them.”
Jenny would; of course she would. She had always wanted a sister and would have been happy with just one. Pete had even more.
“I’ll bet you have a book of old family recipes,” he said.
“No. Most everything was passed word of mouth.” She heard the yelling clearly, like her mother was standing right there, not gone for years. For God’s sake, MaryBeth, it doesn’t take brains. Just cut up whatever we have, throw it in the fry pan with eggs and butter, and you got a meal.
Jenny fought a choking sensation. “What’s Wyoming like?”
“Big and open.”
She took an easier breath. “How many in your family?”
“At last count? Three grandparents, two parents, five siblings, four siblings-in-law, and eleven nieces and nephews. How about you?”
“None.”
“None?”
“My parents are dead.” Shame on you, Jenny! “No. That’s not true.” She studied her hands. “My father’s alive. But he’s been gone a while.”
Flirting With Pete: A Novel Page 15
