Sealed with a Kiss

by Mae Nunn

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She bristled.

  “I was forced to relocate when my opportunity here dried up. But you had every advantage and every reason to stay. These folks may talk slow but their minds work just fine. They know the difference between being left behind and being dumped. I think they’ll give me another chance. You, however, might have some charred bridges to rebuild.”

  Sam’s insight was a punch to the solar plexus. Had she been a fool all these years, unconcerned about how the hometown folks would react to her refusal to visit? Suddenly she envisioned her grand opening with no one to sample her fancy cappuccino, no kind face to purchase her hardbound books, no supporters to guide well-heeled shoppers her way.

  She knew a thing or two about changing. She might have accepted her grandmother’s challenge without seeing all the relationship repairs that would be necessary but, thanks to Sam, the blindfold was off.

  She had a name for her store. Bridges to build.

  Literally.

  Five days after her loan application was accepted, Tara was still without funds. Buying on credit and scrimping to cover her few personal needs brought back memories of her early years in the city, years she’d sooner remember with distant nostalgia than with familiar clarity.

  Sam made building an exterior entrance for the second floor his top priority. By the end of today she would no longer need to bother him for passage upstairs. The thought of not seeing him at his homemade drafting table made her heart sink a bit. But it was just as well, since he goaded her at every turn.

  Sitting behind the scarred secretarial desk she’d picked up at a local thrift shop, Tara’s best sales voice echoed in the otherwise empty room.

  “Miss Frieda.” Tara tried to sound confident. “I assure you Bridges will pose no threat to the campus bookstore traffic. If anything, we’ll work in concert with you to fully meet the needs of the students.”

  “Young lady, as you may recall, I’ve been ‘fully’ meeting the needs of my students for almost forty years, now. Did you ever lack for anything during your school days in Beardsly?”

  Her fear was confirmed. The woman at the other end of the telephone line had an ax to grind.

  “No, ma’am, of course not. I wanted to tell you myself about the opening of Bridges and let you know my intention is not to compete with your sales, but rather to offer literary alternatives.”

  “Well, you’re a few days late. I’ve heard all about your literary alternatives.”

  Tara smiled to herself. So, word was out. There must be some buzz on the street.

  “That nice young Sam Kennesaw already told me all about your plans.”

  Nice? Young? Well, by Frieda Walker’s standards Tara supposed he might be.

  Her smile flipped upside down. Was he secretly going behind her back to poison everybody’s opinion? Was he planning to drive her out of town and keep everything for himself?

  “Um, I see. So Sam gave you a call already then?” Maybe with some careful questioning she could find out what the big sneak had been up to.

  “Sam? Gave me a call? Not hardly. He knows how to do things the proper way. He’s been in the bookstore and student center every day this week. How else is everybody supposed to find out about his bike shop?”

  Careful questioning of the college bookstore manager was not going to be necessary. Miss Frieda was in a chatty mood.

  “And I saw him down at the Varsity Theater, too. The poor boy can’t afford advertisement, but I always say word of mouth is the best mode of communication, anyway.”

  Tara began to suspect she was the one person in town who hadn’t been the target of Sam’s one-man ad campaign.

  “Which is another reason for my call. I wanted to let you know the grand opening of Bridges is scheduled for—”

  “I know, June first, the same day as Sam’s place, Sam’s Cycles. He’s already told everybody.”

  Everybody but Tara.

  So that’s what he’s up to. He plans to overshadow my special day with a little excitement of his own, huh? We’ll see about that.

  “He’s living with the students? Over in those tiny apartments?” Tara questioned.

  “That’s what I heard.”

  She and Lacey filled their plates from the all-you-can-eat salad bar at Ruthie’s Kitchen. They ladled creamy dressing atop greens and choice veggies, tossing raisins and croutons on for good measure. Neither woman was inclined to pass on lunch in favor of squeezing into designer jeans. Tara’s all-black, figure-minimizing wardrobe had become infamous about town. It had also become unbearably hot as the mercury rose into the nineties before noon each day.

  They slid into an empty table as Lacey continued. “You know the older boys don’t want to live in the dorm anymore. So, three or four of them get together and share one of those little efficiencies that have less square footage than a dorm room, go figure. Well, Sam’s living in the smallest one of all, which makes sense, seeing as he doesn’t have a pot to cook in or a window to throw it out of.”

  Lacey paused to collect a getaway crouton and pop it into her waiting mouth. “Anyway, they have a new evening ritual of sitting out behind the apartments, drinking sodas and asking Sam for advice on keeping life simple. He’s becoming their mentor.”

  At this new piece of information, Tara sucked in a surprised breath and, along with it, a raisin. Heads turned toward their table while she sputtered and coughed in an effort to dislodge the fruit. She struggled to free her airway, tears trickling over her lashes.

  “Honey, are you gonna be all right?” Lacey pleaded.

  Tara nodded, swiped at her running nose and continued to struggle for breath.

  Strong arms grabbed her from behind, hoisted her to her feet, positioned clasped hands against her chest and gave a powerful tug in and upward. A whoosh of breath was forced from her lungs. A small projectile shot across three tables and into the trash can by the exit door.

  The lunch crowd burst into cheers. She didn’t need eyes to confirm what her intuition already suspected. The conquering hero was at it again.

  Lacey stuffed a wad of paper napkins in Tara’s hand, motioning she should wipe her face.

  Sam released his grip and stepped around the table, his concern turning to amusement as Tara smeared navy mascara from one temple to the other. On the tips of her auburn lashes, he found the blue color enchanting. But by the time she’d finished wiping her eyes and nose, the streaks had given her the appearance of a masked character from the comics.

  “Thank you for your help,” she sniffed. “I should go to the ladies’ room and freshen up.”

  “No, that’s not necessary. You’re fine, considering you were almost done in by a dried grape.”

  “Tara, I agree you should make that trip to the ladies’ room,” Lacey cautioned, gesturing toward her own eyes.

  “Nonsense.” Sam took Tara’s hand as he sat and drew her down into her chair. “Now, finish your salad. Oh, by the way, my mama taught me to chew each bite twenty times before swallowing.”

  “That must be my problem. I didn’t have a mama.”

  “No, you had a rich old grandma and I’m sure she gave you the same lecture.”

  He motioned for Tara to continue her meal.

  “Since you mentioned your mama, how is she, Sam?”

  “Fine. She married a nice retired guy a couple of years ago. They own a condo on South Padre.” He crunched a crouton that he snagged from her plate.

  “Aren’t you having anything?” She stabbed a forkful of spinach.

  “I’m waiting for the guys.”

  “The guys?” Tara’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, you mean the students. Yes, I hear you’ve managed to worm your way into their living quarters.”

  “If you call keeping my expenses low by renting the cheapest apartment in town ‘worming my way into the student quarters’ then I guess you’re right. Too bad Grandma didn’t leave us the house together.”

  “But she didn’t.” The menacing gla
re was wasted in the swirls of navy that stained her eyelids and cheeks.

  “That’s a shame, too. Instead of rocking on your veranda at night I’m sitting on lawn chairs in the parking lot, enjoying the smell of simmering asphalt.”

  “Somehow, I think it suits you.”

  He was grateful for the excuse to smile at the ridiculous picture she made in her severe black jacket and skirt, straitlaced hairdo and birdman mask.

  A mechanical roll of thunder overwhelmed the clinking of stainless on Melamine as three choppers pulled to a stop near the entrance of Ruthie’s Kitchen. Burly men clad in leather removed their helmets to reveal colorful do-rags over balding heads.

  Sam scooted the chair back and pushed to his feet. “Gotta go. The guys are here.”

  “Those men? I thought you were talking about some of the students.”

  “I know. You assume way too often, Rusty. And you know what they say about people who assume.”

  “Save your clichéd pearls of wisdom for the college boys, Sam.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that. I value the guidance of a woman who drinks in my every word and memorizes the lines on my face.”

  Tara was mortified. The man must have gone home after her humiliating teenage soliloquy and made notes. All these years she’d prayed he’d forgotten her passionate profession of love. Of the millions of forgetful men in the world, she’d had to fall for one with a razor-sharp memory.

  And Sam wasn’t likely to forget anytime soon. As long as she took the bait, he’d keep setting the trap.

  She considered tossing her glass of ice water in his insolent face. Instead, she took a long drink to cool down the heat that threatened to rise in her throat and cheeks. She stood, picked up her black clutch and turned away.

  His strong hand shot out, grasping her forearm with surprising speed. As if sensing the unnecessary pressure, Sam loosened his grip. She fixed the offending hand with a hot stare and he released his hold.

  “Wait, we need to talk,” he insisted. “This involves structural changes to the building that I think you should know about.”

  He angled his dark head toward the sound of the bikes. “Those guys are my demolition crew. Tomorrow morning their equipment will arrive and we’ll begin knocking out the alley side of the building to accommodate overhead doors. The day after that we’ll take out chunks of the front side and replace it with showroom windows. It’ll be noisy and dusty. I didn’t want to get started without showing you the drawings and explaining it all first. And I need your signature on a couple of permits.”

  The heat creeping up her neck couldn’t be stopped by a barrel of ice water. “When did you start planning this ‘demolition’ as you call it?”

  “About fifteen minutes after the reading of your grandma’s will.”

  “And you’re just now asking for my permission?”

  Sam threw his head back and laughed. Not like you’d laugh out loud at a funny joke. More like you’d laugh with hysterical relief if you won the lottery. The lunch crowd at Ruthie’s had stopped watching the commotion out front and were all staring at Sam when he caught his breath and wiped away the tears of mirth.

  “You still don’t get it, do ya, Rusty? I’m not asking for your permission. Not today. Not ever. I have as much right as you do to make changes to that building and if you want to drop by this afternoon, I’ll give you a preview of the coming attractions. If not, I suggest you work from Sycamore House tomorrow, because it’s going to be dusty when those bricks fall.”

  He retrieved his helmet and headed toward the exit, but he didn’t exactly make a beeline for the door. Instead he worked the crowd as if he were running for office. He smiled and complimented the ladies and glad-handed all the men. If there’d been a baby in the place, he would have kissed it.

  Along with everyone else, Tara found herself mesmerized by the vision of Sam and the other men beyond the plate-glass windows. Then, she caught sight of her reflection in the shiny pane. As Tara’s hands flew to her face, Lacey’s blond reflection joined that of the wretched blue-faced creature in the glass.

  “You have to admit, I did try to get you to go to the ladies’ room.”

  Tara opened her black clutch and withdrew a small canister of pepper spray. She handed it to her friend.

  “In the future, if I ever refuse to follow your instructions, use this.”

  Chapter Four

  By noon the next day, a hole big enough to accommodate a fire engine gaped in the back wall of the Elliott Building. Each time a sledgehammer met with the antique structure, Tara shuddered from the impact, but she was intent on watching the entire operation.

  The hems of her black silk-knit slacks were coated in dust. Fine particles of baked clay clung to the tail of the matching knee-length tunic, a sign of her dogged determination to retrieve as many undamaged bricks as possible. Surely, she reasoned, some quaint and nostalgic collectible could be fashioned and sold at Bridges from the hundreds of otherwise useless blocks.

  “Why don’t you leave that to the crew? They’ll be just as careful and you won’t be picking bugs out or your hair for the rest of the day.”

  Sam removed a leather work glove and touched the top of her head. Waving his fingers in front of her face, he dangled a shriveled granddaddy long-legs.

  She yanked off her own gloves, tossed them on the pile of rubble and brushed frantically at her crown, further dislodging hair from the already beleaguered braid.

  “Oh, I hate spiders!”

  “Don’t get excited.” It was obvious from the chuckle in his voice he was enjoying her discomfort. “The thing’s been dead for ages.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The very idea of a spider touching me makes my flesh crawl.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s right, you sure do.” She looked up into his dark sunglasses and, instead of obsessing over her dirty reflection, she noted the mischievous grin on his face. As a child she’d seen that smile many times, often accompanied by a silly prank.

  “I figured you’d toughen up and get over that.”

  “I thought I might, too. Then I moved to Manhattan into an apartment that had to be the spider capital of the world. And I don’t mean a few here and there that you manage with a can of bug spray. I mean millions of the creepy things spinning webs faster than I could knock them down with a broom.” She shuddered from the memory.

  “You wouldn’t exaggerate, would you?”

  “No.” She swatted at the top of her head again, certain the drop of sweat that slipped down her once-careful part was an errant arachnid. “Working with antiques, you run into all kinds of insects nesting in forgotten corners. I can live with moths and carpenter ants and I don’t mind the odd beetle now and again. But spiders…”

  “I remember when you first came to live with your grandma.” Sam removed his glasses, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “I was eight and my mama told me to be nice to you because you were Miss Elliott’s granddaughter. It took me six years to work up the courage to ask how Miss Elliott came by a grandchild when she’d never been married herself.”

  Tara nodded, understanding the circumstances surrounding the sudden appearance of a three-year-old in spinster Miriam Elliott’s life. As small as she was, even Tara could sense the heads and tongues wagging behind their backs. By the time she’d started school the scandal was old news and most of the whispering had stopped.

  “Anyway, you wouldn’t give me any peace till I came up with a deterrent.”

  “How did you know I was afraid of spiders?”

  “What little girl isn’t?” He smiled at the recollection of his plan. “It was worth a few minutes under the front porch to find out.”

  Tara grimaced at the long-buried memory. “You were bad to bring that jar of spiders into the kitchen.”

  Sam tilted his head back and laughed. Again, she was struck by the appeal of his smile, her mind sweeping back to the one tender kiss she’d given him years ago.

  “Hey, Sam, you
want to measure this cased opening one last time to make sure we’ve got it wide enough to suit you? Then we’re gonna knock off for lunch.”

  Sam turned his back, striding away without so much as a nod. She shook off the dismissal and returned to the salvage operation. Reaching for another brick, she noted the hopelessly chipped state of once well-maintained nails.

  “Oh, well,” she mused aloud, “the first time I strip a cabinet with five layers of paint you’ll be history anyway. Might as well throw out all my polish and trim you short.”

  “You still talk to yourself, I see.”

  Tara looked up from her conversation with her fingernails, embarrassed yet again to have Sam catch her looking foolish. She huffed out a breath of exasperation in resigned response.

  Sam let her off the hook, but not for long. “Want something for lunch? Preferably without raisins. I won’t be able to keep an eye on you while you eat today.”

  “No, thank you.” She brushed the back of her filthy hand over her brow, damp with perspiration, feeling the gritty film layered on her skin. “I’ll eat something at the house. I need to change for an appointment.”

  “As long as you’re changing anyway, why don’t you wear something that’s not so…not so…” He seemed to search for the right word. “Black.”

  She glanced down at the chic and now very dirty ensemble she’d been fortunate to acquire at a fashionable second-hand shop in Manhattan. She fervently hoped the fabric’s thick covering of red dust was temporary.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “And why not?” Sam crossed his arms, waiting for a reply. She studied the muscles flexed across his chest and lost her train of thought.

  “Hmm?” she mumbled.

  “Why isn’t it possible for you to wear something that’s not black?”

  “Oh, that’s simple.” Her eyes snapped back to his face. “Because everything I own is black.”