by Mae Nunn
“Once they get over the shock of it, I promise you’ll find yourselves agreeing for the first time in years.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
Sam squinted against the sunshine pouring through the glass doors as the kid headed for his next class, a heavy backpack slung over his shoulder. The advice Sam gave was sound, but he felt the smallest twinge of hypocrisy. There was a time when he’d practiced what he’d just preached, even if it had been a while.
He shook off the uncomfortable feeling and returned to his task. As he steadied the bike with one hand and turned the crescent wrench with the other, his thoughts drifted to Frieda’s early-morning call. The challenge of rallying the local business owners for the sake of the school had such hometown appeal. He was downright excited to be invited to participate.
His two-day revenge trip was stretching into two months with no end in sight, and he’d grown fond of the locals. Especially the students. Word of his Spartan-living philosophy had spread among the young male population and they sought him out in increasingly larger numbers. At first it was to get a look at one of the few custom bikes in the area. Then it was for academic and career guidance. Now they stopped by his tiny apartment at the drop of a hat for advice on everything from the price of gas to the girls they liked.
When talk turned to women, Sam surprised even himself when he became the spokesperson for reason and restraint. As odd as it seemed, the biker’s conservative views endeared him all the more to students and parents alike. Small-town values slipped back over his life like a favorite sweater, old-fashioned and comforting.
With reluctance Sam realized the things he valued had never changed, even though the direction of his fortunes had taken a major turn. When the folks who’d opened their hearts to him found out about his wealth, and he was forced to leave again, he knew it would be much harder the second time.
The fellowship hall was packed. Tara made her way through the crowded room, smiling into worried faces and touching tense shoulders as she passed.
Pastor Ryan asked everyone to take a seat. She spotted Lacey motioning to join her near the front. Tara edged toward the rows of chairs, stopping to greet a group of women she recognized from Emily’s baby shower.
Tara sank into a folding metal chair next to her friend, immediately aware of the man seated in the row before them. His thick mane was subdued beneath a baseball cap. A few dark curls escaped, contrasting with the white T-shirt stretched tightly across his muscular shoulders.
“Hey, Sam.” Lacey gave his hair a tug. “Anybody sitting in those two seats?”
He turned with an easy smile for Lacey and patted the chair beside him. “Saved this one for you.” His eyes flickered to Tara. “I reckon your friend can take the other.”
Lacey jostled Tara across the packed front row and into the seat right beside Sam. As the meeting began, Sam sat with his feet planted wide and his elbows resting on his knees, leaning forward and giving his full attention to the pastor.
Worse than a schoolgirl, Tara couldn’t think beyond the solid form pressed so near.
She nervously crossed and uncrossed her legs several times. Then she covered her mouth with her hand to clear her throat as if that would clear away her thoughts. Sam glanced over his shoulder and gave her squirming a disapproving glare.
“Thank you all for coming out on such short notice. It’s suppertime and I hear stomachs rumbling, so we’ll try to keep it short.” There was a ripple of agreeable laughter.
“As you all read in the Herald this morning, the college is about to announce some staff and curriculum downsizing. You probably wonder why I’m the one talking to you and not Dean Grant. Well, he’s spent most of the day meeting with the City Council to get a proposed tax increase moved up to the general election in November.”
The group groaned its displeasure at the news.
“I know how you feel. Money’s tight everywhere and nobody wants to see tax increases. That’s why Dean Grant is making personal phone calls to every member of our alumni who may be capable of increasing their giving.” The pastor paused for enthusiastic cheers then held up his hands to silence the sidebar conversations that broke out across the room.
“Beardsly College is our largest employer and has offered a fine education to our young people for over a hundred years. The faculty and staff have always been here for us, and now it’s our turn.”
“You’re not fixin’ to pass the plate, are you, Pastor?” a man shouted. The pastor laughed along with the others and shook his head.
“I wish it was that simple. No, our goal tonight is to put together a team of merchants to develop a major fund-raising campaign with the proceeds going to the college.” He glanced down to the front row. “Sam and Tara, I know this is putting you both on the spot, but you did such a splendid job with your grand openings. Would you two be willing to head this committee and manage this fund-raiser?”
Before either could respond, a burst of applause approved the nomination.
Sam stood, turned to face the crowd and extended his hand toward Tara. The gripping fear of standing before a crowd was immediate and intense. There was no choice in the matter. She placed her palm in his, praying he wouldn’t notice hers was sweating already.
Sam tugged Tara to her feet and pulled her behind him to the podium.
“Thank you for the encouragement,” he spoke into the microphone. “I hope we’re worthy of your vote of confidence.”
He took a step to the side. “And now my partner, Tara Elliott, will tell you how we’re going to raise a million dollars.”
Chapter Eleven
“A million dollars! Are you crazy?”
“I didn’t mean it in the literal sense.”
“Then why did you say it?” Tara demanded.
Sam enjoyed the way her auburn eyebrows drew together when she was annoyed. At the moment she was a grown-up version of the little girl who’d scowled over math homework and science projects.
“We need to raise a small fortune and it might as well be a million as a fraction of that at this point.”
“Exactly how are we supposed to do that?” She motioned with her index finger back and forth between the two of them.
Tara and Sam sat in a booth at Ruthie’s Kitchen, the daily specials on the table between them all but forgotten.
“We’re meeting tomorrow night at your house as you so eloquently suggested.” He held up both hands to defend himself against the fork she brandished.
Overcome by nerves, Tara had sputtered in front of the podium. She finally drafted people for a core team and recommended they sleep on it and come to Sycamore House prepared with ideas the following night.
She stabbed into her meat loaf with the fork as he continued. “We’ll have each committee member present their individual ideas and then vote on them. We’ll plot a timeline and some rough revenue projections and discuss it with Dean Grant on Thursday. Between our efforts and what he’s been able to accomplish, I hope we can offset any budget shortfalls for the rest of the fiscal year.”
“Then what? The town can’t be expected to step in every time the college needs money.”
“No, but I’m confident the alumni will come through and the Board of Regents will find other areas to reduce cost without cutting jobs.”
“Meanwhile, we pray,” Tara said, matter-of-factly.
Sam was silent, pushing green peas around his plate.
“You still pray, don’t you, Sam?”
“No,” he muttered.
“Why not?” she pressed.
He met her gaze. “I just don’t feel the need anymore.”
She stared hard, as if trying to see into his very soul.
“When you left Beardsly did you leave behind your faith, too?”
He focused on the gold flecks in her blue eyes as he considered the question.
“No, I still remember what I learned in Sunday school. I simply don’t need it anymore.” He tore off a bite of yeast roll to keep his hands
busy and stuffed it in his mouth.
Her eyes narrowed at the blunt words. She wasn’t going to let it go.
“Let me ask you something, Sam.”
He pushed his plate away. “I’d rather we got back to the subject of the fund-raiser.”
“Just let me give you one thing to think about.” She covered his hand with hers to hold his attention.
“What if you lived all your life accepting the sacrifices your mother made for you, but never thanked her for it? And what if you’d never bothered to share your heart with her because you thought being close to your mama was something you didn’t need anymore?”
“Get to the point.” He tugged his hand free to check his watch.
“If you don’t share your heart with God, how can you have a relationship with Him and know what He wants for your life?”
“I know what I want for my life and that’s all that matters. A long time ago I tried doing things—” he crooked his fingers indicating quotation marks “—the ‘Christian’ way. It didn’t work out, so I’m living life on my own terms, now.”
“I didn’t get what I hoped for, either, Sam. But I still trust that in His time, God will give me what He feels I need.”
He arched one eyebrow and stared pointedly into her face. “With your grandma’s money you didn’t have to worry about whether or not God would come through for you. You’ve always had everything you could possibly need.”
Color suffused her throat and fingers of crimson crept up her neck. Sam marveled at the speed with which her creamy, fair skin became a mottled mask of obvious discomfort. She didn’t close her eyes and start that silly breathing. Instead, she stared him down, her eyes bright with the threat of tears.
“I said, ‘I didn’t get what I hoped for.’ There’s an obvious difference and, since your memory is so good, there’s no need for me to embarrass myself by elaborating.”
Recalling her tender declaration of love all those years ago, he felt a stab of regret over the hand fate had dealt him. A split second later he shook off the nostalgia. He’d become so adept at playing the pauper he’d almost convinced himself it was true.
In fact, from a financial standpoint, he was a hundred times more successful, thanks to the upset that sent him away from Beardsly. His life in Houston lacked nothing of material value. He lived in comfort in a fashionable River Oaks home with a state-of-the-art, six-car garage to showcase his car and bike collection.
So he didn’t have what he’d once hoped for, either. He certainly had much more than he needed. And here he was, needling Tara to the point of tears.
And for what? Amusement? More revenge?
No. He was past those things. He was doing it out of self-pity. The very idea sickened him.
Her hand still rested on the tabletop where he’d shrugged it off moments earlier. He slipped one palm beneath hers and cupped it with his other hand, rubbing his warmth into her cool fingers.
“You’re right.”
“On which count?” She stared down at their hands and let out a long slow breath as if to expel some of her distress.
“Both. What I once hoped for is not what I got, but I have almost everything I need.”
She lifted moist eyes and squeezed his hand. “Almost?”
As he studied the full lips curved into a sympathetic smile, he felt a rush of compassion. And something else he was pretty sure was…love.
For Tara Elliott.
Tara stared at the lace canopy over her four-poster bed and counted the rings in the intricate pattern the way an insomniac counts sheep.
She had a lot of nerve lecturing Sam about his faith. Her own belief that God intended Sam to be her husband was the very thing that had flipped both their lives upside down. She should keep her mouth shut on the subject and enjoy their occasional moments of closeness. But a small voice inside told her to speak out again when she got the chance. Sam knew the truth and he would return to the roots of his faith in God’s timing, she felt certain of it.
She replayed their evening together in her mind. Tonight he’d held her hand between his, his face wearing a small grin that hinted at his perfect smile. At that moment she’d struggled against the need to lean forward and kiss him, right there in Ruthie’s Kitchen.
Grandmother was either hiding her eyes or leaping for joy in Heaven. With each day that passed, Tara suspected the latter was true. Miriam had devised this plan so she could smile from eternity at her final earthly accomplishment.
So many critical issues loomed in Tara’s mind. This was no time to be overwhelmed by a schoolgirl crush. She had to get a grip. The store needed her. The college needed her. The town needed her. If only Sam did too.
Hadn’t he looked her right in the eye and told her he had almost everything he wanted? If his cycle shop continued to do well he’d have financial security. All the things he’d hoped for were within his grasp. When he could afford the life he’d always wanted, would he still be satisfied by a small east Texas town?
An unexpected excitement flowed through Sycamore House. Instead of feeling the weight of the town’s problems on their shoulders, the committee members’ spirits were buoyed by the creative ideas each had come to share. Every chair around the oak dining-room table was occupied and the dessert plates had been cleared away.
“Ward, would you like to get us started?” Tara asked with her pen poised over a notepad.
“Be glad to,” Ward Carlton spoke up. “We’ve made a pretty good living flipping flapjacks.”
The understatement drew chuckles from the small group.
“I think I should stick with what I know and volunteer some kind of flapjack-eatin’ contest or an all-you-can-eat flapjack week with the profits going to the college fund.”
Sam nodded agreement. “Great idea, Ward. Lacey, how about you?”
Lacey leaned forward with a gleam in her eye. “I want to put on a designer-collection runway show. It won’t be fashion week in Milan, but we could sell a lot of tickets and have fun at the same time. I can get the clothes on loan from the merchandise mart in Dallas and we can have the women of Beardsly as our models.”
“You can count on my wife,” Ward said. “She’s always looking for an excuse to buy new shoes. I swear the woman’s got more pairs than Imelda Marcos.”
“We have two excellent ideas so far. How about you, Sam?” Tara asked.
“I’d like to supply an anniversary-edition model to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
“What?” the table chorused.
Sam held up his hands as if he’d expected the confused reaction. “I provide the bike at cost, the auction reimburses Sam’s Cycles and the profit goes to the college fund.”
“What happens if nobody can afford to bid that much?” Ward put words to everybody’s thoughts.
“Leave it to me. I have friends who can come up with the money if we don’t get a local bidder willing to go that high.”
Tara shivered as a crop of goose bumps prickled her arms. Sam’s frequent references to his “friends” with money concerned her more each day.
Wade Latimer cleared his throat and pushed tortoiseshell glasses up his nose, signaling he was ready to speak.
“It so happens that I am prepared to coordinate a silent auction. After forty years of practicing law in Texas, I have hundreds of professional friends and acquaintances who could be convinced to donate as well as bid on items for a worthy cause. It would be my pleasure to wring every last dollar out of their rich pockets. And I for one think auctioning off Sam’s bike would be a spectacular finish.”
“You’re not gonna charge us two hundred dollars an hour for your services, are you, Latimer?” Ward slapped his friend on the back.
“Don’t give him any ideas,” Sam quipped. “How about you, Tara?”
The full attention of his dove-gray eyes was like a caress in the crowded room. She returned his smile, proud to share her contribution.
“I would like to propose that we do our own ve
rsion of the Antiques Roadshow. I’m qualified to evaluate a number of collectibles and I’ve already contacted one of the partners from The Heritage and he’s willing to spend a weekend in Beardsly acting as a guest appraiser. We can charge a small fee and let people bring their items for appraisal. We could even tape it and run it on the East Texas Cable Channel afterward.”
Excitement erupted around the table as each idea was discussed for merit and financial potential. They were close to a frustrating impasse when Sam joined Tara in the kitchen to make fresh coffee.
“Sam, I appreciate your generous offer but I have to admit I’m worried about these friends of yours. We can’t afford to have any shady dealings involved with a college fund-raiser.
He dumped two more scoops of grounds into the filter, turned to face her and leaned against the tile counter. He shook his head at her comment and grinned. Mesmerized by the vision of his lazy smile, she lost interest in filling the glass pot under the tap. Water overflowed the pot and splashed in the sink, bringing a sparkle to Sam’s eyes. She filled the coffeemaker and dried her hands.
“Can I ask you a question, Sam?”
“If it’s about my friends, no, you can’t. You’re just going to have to trust my judgment.”
“It’s something else. Something personal.”
He stepped closer, inclined his head toward her and waited.
She hesitated, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. “When did you get your teeth fixed?”
“Oh, that. Actually, not too long after I got my first job in Houston. They had good dental coverage so I invested in orthodontic work.”
“I don’t think I’d ever have worn braces if the choice had been mine,” she insisted, remembering her early teens with a mouth full of metal.
“Back then I’d have given about anything to trade places with you,” he said.
“Are you serious?”
“You better believe it. I’d run into you and your girlfriends at the theater and you’d be complaining about not being able to eat popcorn or caramels and I’d promise myself that one day I’d have that problem.”
