* * *
Corey parked behind Jamal’s truck and lifted the beat-up leather tool belt from the passenger seat. It was his father’s. Corey felt a stab of pride every time he used it.
He walked along the side of the huge Georgian. According to Jamal, the house had been unoccupied for years before he bought it, but you’d never know by looking at it. The outside of the house was in pristine condition.
The inside was a different story. Over the past six months, Jamal had completely gutted it. His friend had some wild ideas when it came to incorporating green technology into older structures. The original owners were probably turning in their graves at the changes Jamal had made to the place.
Corey rounded the house and found Jamal hunched over a sawhorse, splitting a board of plywood with a table saw. He waited until the whirl of the saw had quieted before speaking.
“Looks as if things are going good,” Corey greeted him.
Jamal looked up with pure murder shining in eyes that were covered with safety goggles.
Corey held his hands up in surrender. “What did I do to get the death glare?”
“It’s what you didn’t do,” Jamal said. “You could have tipped me off about Phil.”
“What about Phil?” Corey asked, trying like hell to keep a straight face as he hooked the tool belt around his waist.
“Don’t give me that innocent crap,” Jamal groused. “You could have told me Phil was a woman—one who looks like a damn swimsuit model.”
Corey couldn’t hold back his grin any longer. “I didn’t even think about it,” he lied. “I went to high school with Phylicia. She’s always looked like a swimsuit model, even when she’s dressed in those baggy overalls. Did she do a good job with your wood?”
Jamal’s glower was lethal.
“Sorry.” Corey laughed. “That was too good to pass up. Seriously, will Phil be able to help? I know her business keeps her pretty busy.”
“She’s pretty bossy is what she is,” Jamal said. “She chewed me out because I removed the paneling from the entryway. Told me I was destroying this house. I had to keep reminding her that it is my house.”
Corey barked out a laugh. “Sounds like Phil. She gets passionate about this stuff.”
Jamal mumbled something under his breath. Looking up at the sky, he said, “If this rain holds out long enough for me to get all these boards cut, I might get the floors in the bathroom done today. Then I’ll just have to lay down the ceramic tile.”
“You know, Phil does a good job with flooring, too.” Corey held his hands up when Jamal shot him another of those looks. “I’m just messing with you.”
Corey dodged the wood chip Jamal pitched at his head and set about sanding the baseboards for the bathroom. Hours passed as they worked in silence with only the radio playing from a boom box, circa 1992, and the occasional roll of thunder rumbling in the distance. Despite the ominous clouds creeping in from the west, just enough sun shone down to make Corey’s mouth water for one of the beers peeking out of the ice-filled metal bucket.
As if he’d read his mind, Jamal asked, “You ready for a break?”
Corey glanced at his sports watch. “It’s about time for lunch. You feel like eating a po’boy from Mitchell’s? I think they’re open until two on Sundays.”
“I still don’t understand why people around here can’t just call it a submarine sandwich like the rest of society,” Jamal said.
“Because we do things differently down here, in case you haven’t noticed,” Corey said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and checking to make sure he had enough cash for two sandwiches and a couple of bags of chips. Jamal tried to hand him a twenty, but Corey waved him off.
As he pocketed his money, Jamal’s eyes focused on something over Corey’s shoulder. He held up a hand. “Hi there.”
Corey whipped around to find Mya walking toward them, carrying a foil-wrapped plate in each hand. She wore the same khaki capri pants and sleeveless shirt she’d changed into after her grandfather’s funeral, but his heart started to race so fast one would think she was wearing a string bikini.
“Hi,” Mya greeted them.
“You actually brought us lunch?” Corey asked.
She shrugged. “I’ve already visited Grandma, picked the rest of the ripe vegetables from the garden, swept the entire house and hung the bedsheets on the clothesline, although that was probably a mistake,” she said, looking back at the gray clouds inching closer. “Grandma has no internet or cable, and the library is closed, so I can’t even find a good book to read. Making lunch gave me something to do. You didn’t tell me which house on Pecan. Good thing I spotted your SUV.”
“I honestly didn’t expect you to come by,” Corey said. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Jamal said. “I’m Jamal, by the way.” He relieved her of the plates and handed one to Corey. “You want a beer?” he asked Mya.
“No, thanks.” She motioned toward the house. “You mind if I have a look? I’ve always wanted to see what this house looked like inside.”
“Go ahead.” Jamal nodded toward the open back door that led to what Jamal called a conversation room.
“I’ll give you a tour,” Corey offered. The food would be there when he got back. He wasn’t sure how long Mya would be around.
She studied each and every feature as they methodically went from room to room. “I’ve always loved this house,” Mya said, stepping over the threshold of the arched doorway that led to the formal dining room. “I can’t count the number of times I tripped on that bump in the sidewalk because I was so busy trying to catch a glimpse through the curtains as I walked to work.”
“I know Jamal paid an arm and a leg for it, but he was determined to have this house.”
“I’m surprised the family sold it. Most of these houses have been owned by the same families for generations.”
Corey shrugged. “I guess the younger generation decided they didn’t want small-town life. You know how that is, don’t you?”
Her eyes narrowed in a reproachful glare. “I’m not the only one who left,” she said.
“I came back,” Corey challenged. “Even if it was just long enough to lay flowers on my parents’ graves and stop in on a few of our friends from high school. I came back.”
“I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“But for how long?”
The air crackled between them like a charged wire. Mya held her chin stubbornly in the air, and all Corey could think to do was take it in his hand and tilt her face so he could kiss her. Desire pumped heavy and hot in his veins, the need to claim Mya a tangible thing.
Her chest rose on a deep, shuddering breath and her eyes dipped to his mouth. She ran the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.
“Have you shown her what I did to the kitchen?” Jamal’s yell from the hallway snapped the pull between them.
Mya was the first to look away, tearing her gaze from his and looking beyond his shoulder over to Jamal, who’d just stepped into the room.
“No, he hasn’t,” she said. “I’d love to see it.” She dipped under and away from him, walking over to admire the wainscoting Jamal was pointing out. “You’ve done a great job here,” Mya remarked.
“I haven’t done it alone,” Jamal said. He nodded toward Corey. “My man here has been right beside me for most of it. If baseball hadn’t worked out for him, I think he would have made a good house builder.”
Mya cut him a sly glance. “House builder, huh? I’m not sure if that fits the Corey Anderson I remember.”
More like a house robber. Corey could practically hear her unspoken words.
As Jamal led the way to the kitchen, Corey hung back, assessing Mya.
The Corey Anderson she remembered was a bad boy wh
o bucked authority and did his damnedest to mimic Shawn and Stefan, who had turned making mischief into an art form. Corey had been well on his way to a life of trouble, until Coach Edwards rescued him. But after being a hell-raiser for so long, it was hard to change people’s minds.
He was determined to show the people of Gauthier that he had turned over a new leaf. Maybe in the process he could show Mya what she was missing out on. If Corey had anything to say about it, she wouldn’t be so quick to run back to the big city. She had been away too long; he was going to remind her how great small-town life could be.
Chapter 5
As the steel door closed behind her, Mya was catapulted back to her past. Gauthier High School looked exactly the same, from the light green walls to the speckled vinyl tile flooring stretching from one end of the corridor to the other. It even smelled the same, like wax and lemon.
She walked with measured steps down the main hallway, her eyes wandering over framed photographs of various academic and social clubs throughout the years. She stopped in front of a picture of the National Beta Honor Society from her senior year and laughed out loud at her hairstyle. She’d spent a good portion of her weekly paycheck from the pharmacy buying the hair gel she used to keep those finger waves shellacked to her scalp.
A cackle of laughter resonated from the end of the hallway. Mya made her way to the home economics room where the civic association held their bimonthly meeting. She was instantly bombarded by people she’d just seen a few days ago at her grandfather’s funeral, all conveying again how sorry they were about Big Harold’s passing and inquiring about her grandmother’s health. Claudette dragged her to a table with store-bought cookies and punch and insisted she have both.
“I saw Eloise today,” Claudette said as she piled on the cookies. “She told me you were joining the committee.”
Mya choked on her drink, shaking her head so vigorously punch sloshed out of her cup and onto her knuckle. “I’m not joining anything,” she said. “I’m just here to take notes and report back to Grandma. She’ll be out of the hospital and able to join you all soon.”
“Whatever you say, honey.” Claudette gave her a patronizing pat on the arm.
Before Mya could voice a rebuttal, Corey walked through the classroom door wearing a green polo shirt with Gauthier Fighting Lions embroidered on the left chest pocket.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Practice ran over.”
Margery Lambert, who had been the head of the deaconess board at her childhood church for as long as Mya could remember, clapped her hands together and said, “Now that all the board members or their proxies are here, we can get started. As always, we will open with a prayer and ask God for special healing for Eloise Dubois, who can’t be with us today.”
Mya inched her way over toward Corey as Margery proved to the room just why she deserved her position as head deaconess.
“What are you doing here?” Mya asked in a fierce whisper.
“Shhh,” Corey said. “We’re supposed to be praying.”
“Corey Anderson, don’t stand there pretending you have a religious bone in your body. I know you.”
The sexiest smile in the world pulled at the corner of his mouth, causing Mya’s insides to turn into a melty puddle of goo.
The prayer ended and Margery passed out xeroxed copies of an agenda.
“What are you doing here?” Mya asked again.
“I’m a member of the civic association,” he answered, that smirk broadening.
Yeah, right. Corey Anderson so did not fit in with this crowd.
As Margery ticked off items on the list, ranging from encouraging parish government to fill potholes around town to painting the benches in the park, Mya continued to hound him. “Stop playing around, Corey. What are you really doing here?”
He refused to answer her; he just continued to stare at the paper in his hand as if the meeting agenda had the most fascinating words ever written.
“What are we going to do about this new store that’s trying to bully its way onto Main Street?” Barbara Cannon, whose husband owned Lou Cannon’s Dry Cleaning, asked.
“Talk to him,” Margery said, pointing at Corey. “He’s the one who’s trying to put everybody out of business.”
“That is not what I’m trying to do,” Corey said with an exasperated sigh. “Like I said at last month’s meeting, the new developers are promising to work with the local businesses, not against them.”
“That’s what they say now,” Claudette chimed in. “I stopped in at their Slidell location when I went to visit my daughter. They stock at least twenty national brands in their hair care section, all for less than what I can afford to sell them.”
“Mrs. Claudette, people have been going to your shop for years. They’re not going to stop because of this new store.”
“They’ll come to get their hair done, but they’re going to go over to that new store to buy their hair spray. The money I make selling styling products pays my shop’s utilities. You think I can do anybody’s hair without electricity?”
Corey glanced over at Mya with a look that said save me!
She was tempted to let him suffer a bit longer, but it was evident that the room was becoming hostile. The grumblings were near a fever pitch.
“Why don’t we revisit the issue regarding the new development later,” Mya suggested. “If possible, I’d like to move the discussion to the downtown revitalization project.”
“Oh, yes. I have some ideas.”
Mya glanced to see who’d said that and barked out a nervous laugh as Clementine Washington waved her hand in the air.
“Actually,” Mya interrupted, before Clementine could make any suggestions about her grandson pulling a rabbit out of a magical hat. “There is one thing I wanted to mention. As I was going through Grandma’s notes, I couldn’t help but notice that everything you all have planned for the revitalization project involves just the handful of people in this room.”
“Well, we are the civic association,” Margery said. “It’s up to us to make sure stuff gets done around this town.”
“You all can champion it, but you don’t have to do it by yourselves,” Mya pointed out. “Why don’t you try getting the entire community more involved in the revitalization effort?”
Margery shot her a well, duh look. “That’s what we’re trying to do with the celebration.”
“No, I mean before the celebration takes place. Why not get them involved in the preparation? Main Street is pretty well preserved, but when I was downtown earlier I noticed that there are bricks on the sidewalk that need to be replaced and those wrought-iron lampposts could use a new coat of paint. I’m sure you can get people to donate a few hours of their time to help spruce things up before the celebration.”
“That’s a good idea,” Clementine said with a hint of awe, as if she was surprised Mya could come up with one of those.
“That’s a really good idea,” Corey agreed. “We can make it an organized event. I’ll get the entire baseball team to pitch in. Gauthier High now requires students to earn fifty hours of community service before they graduate. I doubt most of them have reached that yet.”
“The Lions Club can help, too,” someone added.
“And the churches would certainly recruit people.”
“Are you going to head this up, Mya?” Claudette asked.
“No.” Mya shook her head. “I was just making the suggestion.”
“Oh, I’ll bet we can get supplies donated from the big hardware store in Maplesville,” someone else said.
“We might as well clean up Heritage Park, too,” another said.
“Mya, why don’t you make a list of everything that we need.”
Mya tried to protest again, but it was as if she were talking to a brick wall.
&nbs
p; No doubt sensing her panic, Corey leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll work with you on this.”
She slanted a glance his way and wasn’t sure whether she should feel relieved or even more frightened at the thought of working with Corey on anything.
How had she ended up here? She should have been in her apartment in Brooklyn, eating a slice of pizza from the little restaurant down the block and watching reruns of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. Instead she’d just been volunteered to head up a committee to spruce up downtown Gauthier?
Mya felt the walls of the town closing in on her. And she couldn’t do a single thing about it.
A half hour later, as she walked to Aunt Maureen’s sedan, which was her new mode of transportation now that she’d returned her rental car, she was stopped by a hand to her shoulder. Mya jumped. She spun around, her hand flat on her chest.
“Sorry,” Corey said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay,” she said with a relieved breath when she saw it was him.
“Thanks for saving me back in there,” he said. “I’m pretty sure pitchforks were about to come out.”
“I still think those women are right about the store,” Mya stated.
He rolled his eyes and ticked items off on his fingers. “New jobs, greater selection of products, more sales tax revenues. Need I go on?”
Resting against the driver’s-side door, she folded her arms across her chest and said, “Nothing you can say will convince me that this store is a good idea, Corey. The one thing I’ve always loved about this town is its unique character, and Main Street is a big part of that. Constructing a huge, windowless monstrosity of a store will do nothing but take away from the character and charm of Main Street.”
“So, is that what your cleanup day is supposed to do? Help restore the character and charm of Main Street?”
A Forever Kind of Love (Kimani Romance) Page 6
