by Mae Nunn
“No, sir, that’s not what I meant. Amelia and I won’t be making an announcement at all. We won’t even be seeing each other again.” As he spoke, Drew fiddled with a pen between his fingers—anything to occupy his nervous hands.
Marcus’s voice moved to the same soft, censuring tone that had effectively unnerved several speakers during the now-infamous impeachment hearings.
“Son, if Amelia’s got cold feet, that’s no surprise. You’ve only been in Atlanta a short while. She might need a little more time to get used to this whole arrangement.”
“Sir, I’m the one who ended it.” Drew waited a moment, knowing the reason was expected to follow immediately. “I’m interested in another woman.”
The senator was so quiet that Drew wondered if the connection had been broken.
“Sir, did you hear me?”
“Yes, I believe I did. How did this happen?”
“It was completely unexpected. Jessica’s my neighbor.”
“Excuse me, is this the woman ‘with the stick’ that Faith has talked about so much?”
Drew smiled sadly at his sister’s description. Remembering the right word to describe an object was one of Faith’s ongoing challenges.
“Jessica injured her knee in an accident last winter. She’s still using a cane as she recovers.”
“How does she figure into our plans, Andrew?”
Our plans.
For the first time in his life, Drew had a plan not developed by committee.
“She’s changed everything for me, sir.”
“And what happens when you don’t stick to a plan, son?”
Drew knew where this was headed. “You stray off target.”
“Exactly. Now we need to discuss options to get back on track. Get back with the plan. A lot is riding on your alliance with the Crockett family. How much damage control will we need to do while you put this right with Amelia?”
“Father, there can never be anything between Amelia and me. We’re just too different.”
“Your mother and I were different, too, but we made things work.”
Drew had known this wouldn’t be easy.
“You don’t realize it, but you insult Mom by comparing your wonderful marriage with the farce of a relationship I’d have with Amelia.”
“I guess I’m not completely surprised,” Marcus said with a sigh of resignation. “You know, Faith did return from her visit pronouncing Amelia to be rather unpleasant.”
Drew patiently waited through a long pause.
“Tell me about Jessica,” his father asked. “Who are her people?”
“Her mother’s a seamstress. She lives in east Texas. Jessica’s parents are divorced and she lost contact with her father years ago.”
“What’s her line of work?”
“Until last December, she was with the Atlanta Dance Theater. That’s when she had the accident that left her slightly disabled.”
“And now? She’s looking to latch on to some nice, available guy who might support her?”
Drew’s patience was being tested.
“Please don’t be crude, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew. But this is an unexpected pill you’re asking me to swallow. You have the opportunity for entry into state politics through one of the most connected families in the South and you’re throwing it away for an out-of-work dancer. That doesn’t sound like Captain Andrew Keegan to me.”
Drew wanted to disagree, but he hardly recognized himself these days.
“Jessica is not out of work. She recently started her own landscape design business.”
“Andrew, is there no chance you can reconcile with Amelia?”
“None at all, sir.”
His father’s deep sigh punctuated the statement. Drew knew the next step would be to brainstorm a backup plan.
“What we need, son, is a backup plan. I’ll talk to Nate Gadston tomorrow and arrange a meeting for you. As long you’re not ending things on a sour note with Miss Crockett, I believe I can still persuade Raymond to throw his support your way.”
Drew sank into his office chair and stared at the ceiling tiles as he searched for the words that had to come next.
“Father, Amelia and Jessica are acquainted, and unfortunately there is some very bad blood between them.”
“Oh, I can’t imagine Raymond Crockett allowing his daughter’s petty jealousy to overrule sound political decisions.”
Drew swallowed and prepared to twist the knife.
“It’s much more complicated than that, sir. You recall that Adam Crockett was killed in an automobile crash last year. Well, Jessica was the woman driving Adam’s car the night of the accident.”
Drew heard the chair knocked back as Marcus Keegan came to his feet at the news.
“What? You’ve become involved with the woman who killed Raymond Crockett’s son?”
Drew stood as well, gripping the phone with his left hand, making a tight fist with his right.
“Jessica did not kill anybody. She took the wheel because the guy was too drunk to drive his own vehicle and she lost control of the car when he jumped her.”
“That’s quite a story.”
“It’s the truth.”
“The truth can set you free or it can ruin your life. Andrew, I strongly advise you to reconsider this involvement before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late, sir.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think I’m falling in love with her.”
Weary from a sleepless night and exhausted after a fourteen-hour day, Jessica tossed back the quilt and slid between the cool sheets. The phone jangled on the nightstand. Too tired to answer, she let it ring.
“Are you gonna get that?” Becky Jo called from the guest room. Jessica glanced at the bedside clock. Ten-fifteen. It could be important.
“Hello?”
“Jessica?”
“Faith?” Jessica smiled at the familiar voice.
Burrowed beneath the covers in search of his sock monkey, Frasier looked like a lump roaming under patchwork covering.
“Hi! Father said it wasn’t too late to call you.”
“Of course not. You can phone me any time. How are you, Faith? Did your dad like the pot you made?” Jessica recalled Faith’s face, scrunched in concentration as she worked.
“Yes, we planted mint in it.”
“That’s perfect. You can set your pot in the kitchen window and cook with the mint for months.”
“That’s what Father said.”
Jessica flipped the covers up at the end of the bed and scooted Frasier out with her foot. He dragged his monkey to her side and snuggled down for the night.
“And,” Faith continued, “he said he needs to talk to you.”
Jessica sat up in the bed, pulling the covers tight over her pajamas. “Now?”
“Yes. Just a minute, I’ll get him.”
The thought of Marcus Keegan about to pick up on the extension at his home in Virginia sent her pulse racing. Like millions of other Americans, she’d watched the hearings and marveled at the effect his quiet words had had on the president of the United States.
“Miss Holliday?” His voice resonated with authority.
“Yes, sir. Please call me Jessica.”
“Thank you for taking our call, Jessica. It’s late so I won’t keep you long.”
“Not at all, Senator. Is there something I can do for you or Faith?
“Since you asked, there is, actually. I’m not a man who minces words, so I’ll come right to the point. I’m grateful that you’ve befriended my daughter. She’s a wonderful girl and she can’t stop talking about you and your dog.”
Jessica relaxed, releasing a pent-up breath and allowing her shoulders to slump.
“The problem is that I understand you’re involved with my son.”
Once again she sat ramrod straight. “Well, we’re neighbors but nothing more than that, sir. Faith may have exaggerated
our friendship.”
“I must confess, Miss Holliday, I’m glad to hear that. You see, Andrew has some very important goals to accomplish over the coming year. Unwanted distractions could prevent him from staying the course. Do you follow me?”
“I think so, yes.” She glanced toward the cheval mirror, squinting at the mess she presented with hair bedraggled and cheeks sunburned from the day’s work.
“I would consider it a personal favor if you would bear that in mind.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. I can’t catch a break with You, can I? She dipped her forehead and massaged the bridge of her nose. “I’m certain I won’t have any problem remembering that, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll tell Faith you said good night. Thank you for your time, Miss Holliday.”
“It was my pleasure,” she said to the buzzing dial tone.
Chapter Ten
“Jess, wake up! You’ve gotta see this.” Becky Jo’s excited voice carried up the stairs.
Jessica rolled slowly off the bed and glanced at the clock. She staggered into the bathroom to brush her teeth and stepped back into the shorts she’d taken off only five hours earlier.
“Jessica!”
“I heard you!” she shouted, taking her time.
Frasier welcomed her with his endearing doggie grin.
“Good morning, buddy. What’s new?” She stooped to push the soft white hair out of his eyes.
“I’ll show you what’s new. Look at this!” Becky Jo shook the newspaper triumphantly in her friend’s direction.
Jessica reached past the extended paper into the cabinet for her favorite cobalt-blue mug.
“Read it to me. My eyes refuse to focus at this hour.”
Becky Jo made a production out of holding the page at arm’s length and cleared her throat as if preparing to present a prestigious award.
“‘Luck is changing for the former darling of the Atlanta Dance Theater. Once down, but certainly not out, Jessica Holliday is fighting her way back into the spotlight with her new custom gardening venture, Living Colors. If you see her red wagon racing through Buckhead, kindly get out of her way. There are thirteen days and counting till my daughter’s wedding!’”
Coffee sloshed as Jessica set her cup down hard and grabbed the page. With sudden twenty-twenty vision she scanned the article, repeating the words aloud, unable to believe her luck.
“Wow! I could never afford to buy publicity like this! Bless you, Madeline!” She kissed the page and hugged it to her chest. Still smiling broadly, she read the article another time, continuing down the column in case she’d missed some further mention of Living Colors.
Two paragraphs down, another familiar name caught her eye.
“Has the persnickety Amelia Crockett finally found her man? The textile heiress was seen laughing it up and holding hands with a hot-rod-driving hunk this weekend. It’s about time she hung up her hoops and left the ball to the younger belles.”
The reference to Amelia’s propensity for competing with the debutantes would have been hilarious under other circumstances. Jessica found no humor in the social jab, only further confirmation that Drew was a man on a mission to reconnect with his past. Last night had been only a blip on his radar screen.
Pulling the scissors from the utility drawer, she carved out the blurb about Living Colors, which she taped to the refrigerator. Flinging the rest into the recycle box, she headed for the front door.
“Come on, Frasier. I think there’s a fancy tire in the parking lot that needs your attention.”
“You’ve got to work with me on this, Sam,” Jessica pleaded.
She’d been at the privately owned nursery for hours, gathering the necessary supplies, continually adding to an expensive purchase order. It was a favorite haunt where she could be sure of finding just the right plants for her projects, and Sam Harrelson was always willing to order them for her.
Until today.
“I can’t,” the owner of the nursery replied helplessly. “You know I’d like to, Miss Holliday, but my supplier makes me pay up front ’cause this is a family business. I have to protect my cash flow.”
“Can’t you just extend credit to me for a few weeks? I’ve always paid my bill on time.”
Sam scratched his gray head. “Yes, ma’am, I know. But this here’s the biggest order you’ve ever placed. I can’t just let you waltz away with thousands of dollars worth of my flowers. What guarantee do I have that you’ll be able to pay me in a few weeks?”
As desperate as she was for the supplies, Jessica understood Sam’s concern. In his place she’d be asking the same question.
Make a leap of faith. Invest in yourself and trust that God is in control.
Drew’s words echoed in her memory. A leap of faith. Invest in yourself. God is in control. Nice platitudes from a guy with no financial worries of his own.
“What does he know about dire straits? He owns a successful business. All I own is my home,” Jessica muttered under her breath.
“You say something, Miss Holliday?” The elderly man tapped his hearing aid.
“I said all I own is my home,” she repeated, a frightening idea starting to take shape.
Her home. Sacred Arms. She shivered in the hot sunshine at the thought of losing her connection to the incredible security of the place, not to mention the extraordinary beauty she’d created. Along with her seedlings, she’d sown a part of herself into the land.
Make a leap of faith. If she didn’t make Living Colors work she wouldn’t be able to afford the mortgage on her place anyway.
“Hey, Sam, what if I put up something of value as collateral for the supplies?”
He glanced past her toward the gravel parking lot. “I hope you’re not talking about that wagon of yours. I’ve already got an old pickup for hauling trash and such.”
Jessica winced at the insult to her precious Ruby.
“No, I know my car’s not worth much.” She drew a deep breath and hurried on before she lost her nerve. “But I do have some equity in my home at Sacred Arms. You’ve made deliveries there for me many times, Sam.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Beautiful place you’ve got there.”
“Would you be willing to accept my home as collateral?”
Sam spit a dark stream of tobacco juice into a paper cup while he considered the offer. He shook his head. “I don’t want to put you out of your place, Miss Holliday. I just want to get paid for my plants.”
“You will, Sam. You will. But this way you’ll have peace of mind knowing your family business is protected. It’s time I took a leap of faith.”
Sam squinted hard at his customer, finally extending his weathered right hand.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, ma’am. Take whatever you want, but don’t hurt your knee with any leaping. Not on my property, anyway.”
The old barn, cleverly converted to a studio and gallery, sat a few hundred yards off the road, back in the Georgia piney woods. Funded by the owner’s profits from her private sales, Helping Hands made free classes possible for physically and mentally challenged adults. Each mosaic pot they created was unique, wrapped in a colorful mixture of broken tiles and bits of china and stoneware.
“These are perfect, Gail. I can’t wait to see Madeline Shure’s reaction when I show her the samples.”
“Jessica, I don’t know how to thank you for taking a chance on us.” Gail Tinker’s eyes glowed from the proposal. “If you can get our pots in front of that crowd, we can find the funding we need to keep the classes going. Otherwise, I have to turn these special people away after this summer. With the downturn in the economy, I can eat or offer classes, but I can’t afford to do both.”
Jessica watched the concentration on the faces of the artists as they drew patterns on the terra-cotta planters, selected fragments of glass and glued them into place. Faith had loved the process. Gail had helped Faith, calmly coaching her through the work of arranging the jagged bits of color. Planted with a cascade of
mint, it would be a jeweled treasure chest of fragrant green sprigs.
Closing her eyes, Jessica envisioned the Shures’ monochromatic garden transformed into a rainbow of color. The Helping Hands containers, artfully filled with Sam’s flowers and foliage plants and accented with delicate florist’s ribbons, would provide the one-of-a-kind backdrop Madeline envisioned for her daughter’s reception.
“Are you sure you can provide enough pots? This is going to be a major undertaking and I have to start right away.”
Gail turned toward her studio and motioned for her guest to follow. Jessica gasped with delight at the contents of the storage room. It was the mother lode. Mosaic containers of every shape and size were stacked high against the walls.
“We’ve been collecting them for over a year, hoping for the opportunity to have a proper fund-raiser.”
Jessica’s heart beat faster at the thought of having so many charming pots, each one an individual masterpiece, lovingly fashioned by caring hands. She impulsively hugged Gail in delight.
“This is going to be a huge success, Jessica. You can take that to the bank.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jessica answered. Her excited heartbeat shifted to a nervous drumming. “Otherwise there’ll be nothing for either of us to take to the bank.”
By noon on Wednesday, Helping Hands had delivered two pallets of carefully chosen pots of various shapes and sizes. In keeping with the wedding’s color scheme, Jessica’s plan called for sponging on golden highlights and accenting each with matching satin ribbons. Then the pots would be filled to overflowing with all the flowering plants in season.
Adding some expensive silk blooms would take a bite out of the remaining cash, but in her mind’s eye she saw the end result and knew it would be just the touch to satisfy the Shures’ expensive taste. Selling Madeline on a complete overhaul of her boring boxwoods would be the next project, once the wedding job was successfully in the bag.
Jessica estimated a full week of working nights to get the pots accented. For the sake of style and consistency she was determined to do them all herself. Bless her heart, Becky Jo had offered to help, but Jessica still had a vivid memory of the shared college apartment they’d painted together during their sophomore year.
