by Mae Nunn
“This woman left your mother part of her estate?”
“Not exactly.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s complicated and I don’t want to bore you with the details. Suffice it to say I’ll need you to continue managing everything a while longer. Would you mind?”
The frown flipped upside down and spread into her best beauty-pageant smile.
“Not at all. Being on site every day has taught me so much more about the business. I’ll even admit your charming customers are getting under my skin.”
“You just enjoy having those men making fools of themselves over you.”
“Well, certainly it’s not insulting,” she admitted.
Sam knew the guys were awestruck over finding the legendary Claire Savage running the place. She knew it too and was so sure of herself she’d never blush over a compliment the way Tara would.
Tara. The scent of cinnamon drifted through his memory.
Where she was concerned, he was no better behaved than the customers who drooled over Claire. Every time he’d been near Tara lately he’d done something foolish. He’d kissed her. Twice. And three nights ago he’d walked out of her house in his stocking feet and kept going.
“You’re not listening to me, Sam.” Claire slapped her palms on the smooth desktop for emphasis.
“Of course I am.”
“Then what did I say?” she challenged.
“You said you liked the customers.” He faked it.
“Which is part of why I want you to consider selling me half the business.”
“What?” He bolted upright in the Windsor chair, certain he’d misunderstood. “Are you crazy?”
“There are more flattering ways to respond to a woman when she’s offering to make a significant investment in your business.”
“I don’t need an investor.”
“Then think of me as a partner,” she encouraged.
“I don’t want a partner, either. I want you to stand in for me for a few weeks. That’s all. Enjoy the change of pace, stretch your horizons, meet interesting people and be well paid for your trouble. But don’t expect anything more.”
“At least tell me you’ll think it over, Sam.” The determined tilt of her chin told him she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
“Do you understand me, Claire?”
“I always have.” She flashed her most beguiling smile.
The intercom interrupted the exchange.
“Claire, Joe Mason is here about the V-Rod and he—”
“I’ll be right there,” Sam barked into the speaker.
Claire extended her hand, palm outward, signaling for him to keep his seat. “There’s no need. Joe and I have been negotiating this sale for a couple of weeks and we’re about to close the deal. You get back to your spreadsheets and I’ll tell him you send your regards.”
Joe Mason, the penny-pinching heavyweight champ, negotiating? The guy owned four top-of-the-line models already and he’d never given a dime more than he had to. Maybe Sam owed Claire more credit than he was willing to admit.
But not a share of his business.
Besides, Claire was capable of developing an idea of her own. He wished he could tell her about Bridges but wasn’t willing to admit the duplicitous life he’d been living in Beardsly.
He glanced at his watch and imagined Rusty at her desk sipping her late-morning latte. He rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes.
What had come over him? Checking the time and wondering what she was doing when he should be reviewing his investment portfolio.
“And you have no idea when he plans to return?” Tara asked the construction worker. She was sick to death of talking to a stranger through a six-inch crack in the door. The building inspector was asking questions and she needed Sam’s input. This determination of his to keep everything under wraps was wearing thin.
Behind the plate-glass windows hung with dark drapes, saws whirred and hammers banged away day and night. Delivery trucks backed into a darkened warehouse, the overhead doors clanging shut before cargo was revealed. The place was shrouded in secrecy.
By contrast, Bridges was virtually open to the public already. Free samples of espresso were offered to browsers who oohed and aahed over the Elliott Building’s second-floor improvements. Tara basked in the excited compliments, almost convinced that staying in Beardsly had been the right decision.
“No, ma’am. I don’t know when Sam will be back. He said he had things to check up on and he’d be here directly.”
“What does that mean? Directly?” She’d almost forgotten that Texans have a language all their own.
“Well,” the carpenter drawled. “That could mean directly after dark or directly after summer. All I can tell you is that if you keep an eye out toward the corner, directly he’ll come around it.” He smiled a bumpkin smile that didn’t fool anybody, least of all Tara.
“I don’t suppose you know how to reach him?” It was worth one more try.
“Don’t suppose I do.” Bumpkin shook his head, raised his hammer in a congenial wave and closed the door.
She dragged herself up the new staircase for the hundredth trip of the day. The reason the second floor had seemed so appealing at one time was a mystery to her now. With calves and thighs groaning against the ascent, she stepped to the landing that positioned customers before the entrance to Bridges.
She’d selected hunter green as the trademark color to carry throughout the store. The deep hue striped soft cushions on comfy Adirondack porch chairs and adorned awnings above the front windows and doorway.
Leaded-glass doors she’d salvaged from the demolition of an old country church had been installed. The thick pine planks and smoky window-panes hinted at the atmosphere inside where shoppers would find hundreds of books to browse and lasting treasures to buy. She turned the brass knob and stepped into the cool interior, pungent with the smells of fresh paint and coffee beans.
She had a hundred and one details to attend to before the evening’s schedule. Back in her office, she moved her stack of to-do envelopes from the top of the desk to the pencil drawer as she checked her planner. She actually looked forward to the string of get-togethers. There was a kitchenware party at six, a golden wedding anniversary celebration at seven thirty and a candlelight prayer vigil for the troops overseas at nine.
She’d be worn out but she’d fall asleep as soon as her head hit the feather pillow, too exhausted to wonder where Sam was or what he was up to.
Sam dropped the day’s Wall Street Journal on the nightstand beside his bed as he sank down onto the thick mattress. He hooked first one heel and then the other into the wooden jack and pried off his black leather boots.
After a quick shower he slid between the cool, Egyptian cotton sheets and punched the voicemail function of his speakerphone.
“Boss, it’s me again. That redhead was by the new shop twice today. I sure hope you make it back up here tomorrow. If I play dumb one more time she’s gonna draw back and hit me with that little black purse.”
Sam’s laughter rang in the spacious master bedroom.
“One last thing,” the voice continued, “I got confirmation from two more bike chapters so we’re on track for a heck of an opening-day crowd.”
The phone clicked off, leaving the room in silence. The evening quiet Sam always preferred had left him anxious and tossing in his king-size bed for the past two nights. The comfort of the custom-built bed no longer appealed compared to the pull-out sofa in his tiny apartment in Beardsly.
He admitted to himself that it was more about familiar background noise than back support. Two months ago he’d have chosen his River Oaks home over any five-star hotel in the country. Tonight he’d rather be with the chattering kids who congregated on the steamy, heat-soaked asphalt parking lot than alone in this hushed, climate-controlled, personal sanctuary.
He stared at the white walls and the tray ceiling above his Danish headboard and considered adding some jewel-toned wallpaper and the
vintage look of copper molding overhead. And as long as he was remodeling, he might as well rip up his boring carpet and lay a handsome mesquite floor. He glanced at the modern furnishings and realized they wouldn’t suit the new look of his bedroom. What he’d need could only be found at an estate auction.
He squinted as the hundred-watt lightbulb went on over his head. He was unconsciously copying the rooms of Sycamore House. Tara’s home.
His insides knotted in an unexpected and unwanted surge of confused feelings. But not for the house. For the woman who lived there.
The revelation robbed him of sleep and by seven he was fueled with black coffee and on the road. Each mile that brought him closer to Beardsly drew him closer to her. His pulse raced in time with the tires on the pavement when he left the city, the road narrowing to two lanes as he moved deep into the country.
It would be over in a few days. He’d have his moment of revenge. Then he could put it all behind him forever and return to the life he’d built for himself after the Elliott women had yanked the rug out from under him.
His moment of revenge. The thought that had excited him weeks earlier held less appeal today. All the more reason to get on with the plan before it lost all attraction. He’d invested too much time and money in the scheme not to have the last laugh now.
“It’s so good of you to come. I know how busy you are with your own big event just a couple of days away.” Emily wrapped her arms around Tara and pulled her as close as thirty-eight weeks of pregnancy would allow.
“It’s my pleasure.” Tara smoothed her hand down a cascade of silky brown hair and patted the girl’s thin back. “I’m glad Lacey let me know about your shower.”
Tara followed the mother-to-be as she waddled into the fellowship hall where a small group of women waited to share cake and childbirth stories and their secondhand newborn things. Emily had come to Beardsly against her farming family’s wishes four years ago as a college freshman. Now, just short of graduation she found herself pregnant and alone with no means to support a child.
“I promised God and my baby that I’d find a way. But from the looks of things—” she smiled around the circle of strength “—he found a way for me.”
For the umpteenth time in her life, Tara wondered how her grandmother had found the courage to give up her own precious child. Even more, she was amazed at the faith of her mother in giving Miriam a second chance through the gift of a granddaughter.
They blessed Emily with prayers of good health and lifted their hands in praise and thanksgiving for the new life she carried. Laughter echoed in the church hall as each mother confessed her most embarrassing moment of child-rearing ignorance. Tara pinned a twenty to the money tree and placed a small stack of children’s books wrapped in pink-and-blue paper on the gift table.
She admired the confident glow in the eyes of the unwed mother, marveling over the girl’s sense of peace in what was surely the most uncertain time of her life. Emily was not fearful about her lack of security. Instead she looked forward to the precious child God was about to entrust to her.
An hour later, Tara cut the engine on the luxury sedan and took the steps up to the second floor of the Elliott Building. The script letters spelling out her store’s name were emblazoned boldly on the canopy above the door. In two days she’d place the open sign in the front window for the first time and welcome customers.
Flipping lights on as she walked through the rooms, she saw the displays of merchandise with fresh eyes. Colorful glassware was creatively backlit through stained-glass window panes. New computers hummed atop heirloom library tables and stacks of New York Times bestsellers were clustered inside apple crates from the flea market.
There was embroidered linen, mismatched silver, a maple hope chest and a brass headboard, all shown to best advantage by strategically recessed lighting. Tara stood in the center of her store and turned slowly, drinking it all in, overwhelmed with pride in her accomplishment.
“Thank you, Gran,” she choked on the endearment, “For giving me this chance to come home. I’ve learned a lot about this town since you’ve been gone, but I suspect you knew I would.” Her grandmother always insisted that roots ran deep and they would eventually pull her back where she belonged. Maybe it was true.
Three sharp raps at the entrance preceded the bell that jangled as the door swung open.
“Anybody home?” Sam called.
Tara cleared her throat. “Over here,” she answered.
Sam made his way through the maze of merchandise, stopping every few feet to touch and admire. He nodded approval, his eyebrows arched over wide eyes. “You got some nice stuff here, Rusty.”
“I reckon so,” she used his favorite phrase. “I see you finally got back.”
“Early this morning,” he acknowledged, pokerfaced, unwilling to share any details.
“How’s everything looking downstairs?” She took a few steps toward him.
He puckered his lips and nodded his head. “No complaints. One more day should do it.” He shoved his hands into his hip pockets, keeping his distance. “You been lookin’ for me?”
“The building inspector came up with a half dozen minor questions during your mysterious disappearance.” She waited to see if he’d offer an explanation. He didn’t. “As it turned out there was nothing I couldn’t handle. So, crisis averted.”
“Glad to hear it.” He turned to leave. “Well, I’m outta here.”
“Sam?”
He rested his hand on the brass doorknob and regarded her with dark eyes that gleamed beneath the overhead lights.
“Good luck on Saturday. I hope it will be a day we’ll always remember.”
“Oh, you can take that to the bank,” he said as he slipped out the door.
With one heavy boot poised above the bottom step, he turned and looked back up at the name on the awning. He was glad it was almost over. He’d had his fun. It was time to end the charade and head back to his real life.
But if that was what he really wanted, why hadn’t he slept well the past three nights? Why had he tossed in his bed, missing the small town that was winning his affection and the auburn-haired beauty who was winning his respect along with his heart?
Chapter Nine
Two grandfather clocks on either side of the entrance chimed the half hour. In thirty minutes Bridges would officially be in business. The sweet tones of three violins and a bass cello filled the air as the college orchestra’s string quartet tuned up for the morning’s event.
Silver clinked against cake plates while Lacey and her volunteer crew laid out the light brunch of quiche, fruit salad and pastries. If the RSVP notes could be counted upon, there would be at least thirty-five hungry visitors when the doors opened.
Tara brushed her hands nervously down the front of her vintage black-lace blouse and demure ankle-length skirt. The many ornamental mirrors decorating the walls confirmed her professional demeanor was flawless but did little to soothe the last-minute fidgets.
Would they come? Had her whirlwind round of baby showers, church potlucks and book-club meetings been enough? If she’d shown up at the campus library one more time she was afraid she’d be arrested for loitering. Tara made a mental check of the list she and Lacey had worked out diligently. Between deliveries at Bridges and short trips to the house on Sycamore for a few hours sleep, she’d done little else for the past two weeks besides reconnect with Beardsly’s residents.
She’d barely laid eyes on Sam the day before. She’d drifted off to sleep last night praying away the niggling uneasiness that he was up to something.
“Ms. Elliott, where would you like these Depression-glass goblets?” The doe-eyed female student hired to work the espresso machine had been put to work unpacking last-minute arrivals.
“Those pink facets will sparkle like rubies if you set them on that shelf near the window,” Tara replied, gesturing toward the distressed pine cabinet.
“I think that’s about everything.” Lacey shoved bl
ond curls out of her eyes. “As soon as the girls finish setting up, we’ll be ready for customers.”
Tara reached for her friend’s hands to steady a case of runaway nerves. Lacey bowed her head, tugged Tara close and murmured a prayer.
“Loving Father, I trust you didn’t bring Rusty back to us to let her fail. Bless this endeavor, if it’s in Your perfect will. Amen.”
“Was that necessary?” Tara insisted, huffing out a pent-up breath.
“You know prayer is always necessary.”
“I meant the nickname.” Tara forced a scowl. “I agree with you on the prayer. I need all the divine intervention I can get today.” She ran fingers across the back of her hair to confirm the tight braid was still intact.
“If you want my opinion, I think you should have worn that yellow blouse and left your hair down.”
“I’ll take that under consideration when we open our Austin branch,” Tara teased. “Now, let’s check everything one last time. We’ve got twenty minutes before our guests arrive.”
“It is a stunning piece, isn’t it?” Tara agreed with the married couple who admired the Victorian desk while they sipped free cappuccino. “I handled the restoration myself so I know every inch of it by heart.”
“Are you willing to come down on the price?” The woman’s voice was hopeful. “It would be perfect in my study.”
“Not anytime soon.” Tara palmed her business card to the husband. “But check back with me in a week. I doubt it’ll still be here, but if it is I might reconsider.”
As she drifted among her guests, the soothing melody from the quartet and the murmur of conversation filled the room. Judging from the first hour’s turnout, Bridges’s grand opening was going to be a rousing success.
Then the rumble began.
At first it was low and far away, like the hum of an eighteen-wheeler passing through town. Then it grew closer and louder, a persistent roll of thunder spoiling the quiet morning. And finally it became a roar that pierced the peaceful atmosphere and rattled the gleaming windows.
