by Janet Eaves
“I have a plan.”
Martin harrumphed. “Others have had plans, too. I assume you have the financing for renovation?”
He assumed correct. Brad suddenly had financing for just about anything he wished.
“Yes.” His answers were intentionally vague. These small town types, you never knew what they would keep confidential or pronounce in the coffee shop for the whole town to chew on.
That was the last thing he wanted, or needed: the whole town of Legend, Tennessee, all six-thousand-plus of them, chewing on his business.
No way. Not until he was good and ready.
“Lake Lodge is pretty special to the folks around here.”
Brad figured it was. Figured he’d also have a fight on his hands when they learned what he wanted to do with old Lake Lodge.
“Pretty special to me.” Brad left it at that and turned to Martin. “How soon can we close?”
Martin rubbed his chin with his forefingers. “Your loan is secure. The sellers are motivated. I’d say any time in the next few days. Let’s sign the paperwork and I’ll get it to their agent.”
He nodded and let a slow, languid grin spread across his face. “What else needs to be done?”
Martin studied him. “Well, for starters while you are here in town, I’d check with zoning, a local contractor or two, temporary utilities, et cetera.”
Good idea. It would keep him busy while he was waiting to take possession. Get the details out of the way so he could get to work.
He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
Martin thrust out his hand to shake Brad’s. “Good dealing with you, Mr. Matthews. Got a place to stay while you are in town?”
For the first time since his arrival in Legend, a hint of trepidation skipped down his spine. Slowly, Brad angled his gaze toward Legend Lake and across the expanse of water. It was the same view Lake Lodge boasted of in old brochures, the one that forty years ago drew tourists to the mountains and the lake in droves.
And if he had anything to do with it, they would return in droves again.
His eyes rested far across the lake on a moderate-sized clapboard home that sat nestled in a young cove of trees bordering the lake’s edge.
“Yes. With any luck, I will have a place to stay.” He turned to Martin and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. McClain. I’ll give you a call in the morning.”
Martin headed toward his older model Jeep. The guy was going to enjoy the commission he’d make from the sale. Well, good for him. He imagined the guy could use the money. Might as well let his inheritance contribute to the local economy.
Turning, he eyed his newest toy—a brand spankin’ new, baby-blue Harley Davidson Dyna—and swung a leg over the warm leather seat. Felt good to be in the saddle. In control. Two dreams coming true. A hog of his own and becoming his own boss real, real soon.
He was a man with a plan; knew exactly what he wanted.
But there was one more piece of his plan to accomplish, and he would work on that one, next.
He kicked the bike into gear and the rumble broke the mountain calm. As he spun out, he wondered what the locals were going to think when other rumblings broke the silence of the small town.
Like dynamite blasting a hole in the side of their favorite mountain.
****
What in the world did I forget?
Flour.
Eggs.
Cinnamon and nutmeg.
Sugar.
Blueberries.
Butter.
One by one Suzie Schul lifted the items out of her cotton grocery bags and placed them on her kitchen island. She’d forgotten something. What was it?
Darn it. Why hadn’t she made a list? She always made a list. Why didn’t she make a list today? Why not this time?
Seriously, she had to get over this bad habit lately of second-guessing herself. Mentally she ticked off the recipe items needed for her famous Legend Mountain Blueberry Muffins. Flour, check. Eggs, check. Spices, check and check. Sugar, check. Fresh blueberries, check.
Butter, check.
Damn. Milk.
She’d forgotten the stupid milk.
And she was bone-dry out. She frowned in disappointment. Tonight was the night she wanted to perfect the recipe for her new cookbook—At Your Leisure: Recipes of Legend’s Landing Bed and Breakfast. Thinking about the new title her editor had just approved, she smiled but then immediately frowned as she glanced toward the groceries on her kitchen counter.
It wasn’t that the grocery store was that far away, or that it would take her hours to go back and get it. It was, however, the simple fact that getting back into the car, driving the ten minutes to the local Piggly Wiggly, working her way to the very back corner, grabbing the milk, and making her way to the checkout aisle would be another damned exhausting trip down memory lane. One she didn’t want to take again today. She’d already been there an hour or so ago, much to her chagrin.
Their voices still nagged at her….
“Suzie, honey, so sorry to hear about…Cliff.” Cluck, cluck. Old Mrs. Wilson. Her dementia had set in about a year ago and she recalled everything that happened exactly one year ago, over and over again. Whenever she saw Suzie, all the genteel older woman ever thought about was how Cliff had left her.
Poor, poor Suzie.
Pat-pat on her hand. “You feeling better, dearie? You look a bit peak-ed.” Mr. Wilson moved his hand up her arm. Suzie knew better than to turn her back on the old man because he’d be pinching her backside before you could say, “Howdy do.”
Then there was Betty Jo. Grocery clerk. Scowling across the melons. “That sister of yours should have known better. She wasn’t raised that way.” She violently shook her head. “You need to get out and find a man, sweetie. It’s time. Want to go to Knoxville with me Saturday night?”
Ummm…no.
Tsk tsk. Geraldine Wisemueller. Obviously on her way home from her daycare job as she had baby spit and some sort of green goo on her shoulder. Geraldine sidled up beside her. “Now, tomorrow evening you are to come over for dinner and we’ll have meatloaf and pie and lemonade. You’ll forget all about the terrible man who left you and that little…um, and your sister.”
Best meatloaf in town. At least she thinks so. Suzie begged to differ.
Sympathy run amok.
She didn’t need any more sympathy run amok, thank you very much. Or any more hand patting. Or clucking after her ex-husband. Or tsk-tsking her sister. Or meatloaf.
She didn’t need any of that.
Or a man.
No.
Definitely didn’t need a man.
She needed milk.
Dammit. Just milk.
And she wasn’t going to get it today that was for certain.
Besides, it had been over a year since her husband of fourteen years up and ran off with her baby sister, Chelly. She was over it. She was! When would they—meaning the entire town of Legend, Tennessee—give it up, too?
Talk of the town. Yep. Little Suzie Schul.
But she was tired of the whole sordid affair. Seemed like she and Cliff stirred up more gossip around these parts since, well… Since Pammy Gruber ran off to Nashville in ‘43 with the preacher from the Church of Christ.
Times like these she wished she didn’t live in a small town. Everybody knows your business. Everybody wants in on your business.
Arghh!
There were days she just wanted to run away.
But wait, she’d tried that once, right? And it hadn’t quite turned out so well.
She shook off the shiver that accompanied the thought.
Truth be known, she could never leave. Legendarians stayed put. It was sort of like a rule. Legend was her hometown. She was as homegrown and homespun as they came around these parts. Couldn’t imagine herself living anywhere else, especially in a big city. No, Legend was where she belonged and Legend was where she’d stay.
And she’d fight to keep this small town the way it was, had a
lways been, no matter what its quirks or characters.
She picked up the dozen eggs and headed for the refrigerator, putting all that out of her mind. Hell’s bells. She’d have to endure the quirks and go out and get the darn milk. Shouldn’t take long. A guest was coming later this evening and she’d need the milk for morning breakfast. After all, she had her reputation to stand on, right? Well, Legend Landing’s Bed and Breakfast’s reputation at the very least. Hers might still be questionable.
Because the other half of the “talk of the town” was that she must have done something to make poor Cliff go and do what he did. Cliff had always been such a good guy (albeit a tad boring). What in the world was it, many speculated, that little Suzie Schul had gone and done? And just why had she moved to Gatlinburg, anyway, for those months?
Like she’d give them fuel for that discussion.
No way.
The groceries. Put away the groceries, Suzie.
On the way to the refrigerator, she glanced at the red blinking light on her answering machine and punched at the button.
A voice crackled. Bad connection. “Um…Suzette?”
She froze. Only one person in the world called her Suzette. No, it couldn’t be. She smashed the stop button. Panic raced through her. He couldn’t have found her.
Could he?
Carefully, she pushed the button again then turned to put away the eggs. Like, if she didn’t pay too much attention to the message it wouldn’t have too much importance.
Yeah, right.
“Um…Suzette? It’s…Brad. I’m…” Crackle, crackle, crackle. “…in…for a… Here’s my number. I, uh…proposition…you.”
And without further ado, Suzie missed the shelf of her refrigerator entirely and dropped the full dozen eggs, splat on her kitchen floor.
Damn.
Milk and eggs.
Pammy Gruber had nothing on Suzie Schul. Especially if Brad Matthews was coming to town.
Chapter Two
Suzie hoisted the last of the twenty-five pound bags of mulch from her car with a grunt and dropped it next to the stone foundation of her house. There. Ready for her to spread in the morning.
Looking up, she caught the sun settling over downtown Legend, a half mile or so in the distance. She loved living on the edge of town, right on the lake. She liked being just so far removed from Legend’s daily hustle and bustle. If you could call it that. Downtown Legend did boast of a business district, but nothing compared with the likes of nearby Knoxville or the vacation and shopping hot-spots of Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge.
But Legend was Legend, small town at its best. No big box stores. No strip malls. Just a busy little downtown. And they liked it. Just the way it was.
Life and business, and living in her new home, were good. She marveled every single day how she’d acquired the quaint Victorian cottage. It was a dream come true. And every day she said a little prayer of thanks for any higher power who might have assisted in her achieving this dream.
Legend’s Landing Bed and Breakfast was hers. She’d worked hard to convert it to her bed and breakfast and renovate the kitchen for her cooking classes. It was also the perfect place to work on her cookbook.
Cliff had left her, yes. And her sister had betrayed her, yes. But secretly she thanked the two of them, and held no grudges against them, because their decisions had forced her hand. And when that happened, she’d started making plans on how to live the rest of her life.
Legend’s Landing was the rest of her life. She intended to stay here, running this little B&B and doing her cooking thing for years to come.
Her gaze spanned the horizon and then settled on the lake. Smiling, she rubbed her hands together to rid them of dirt and then wiped them on the thighs of her pants. The flowers she’d planted and watered would be fine for the night. She was bone tired. Dusk was settling in, and all she wanted was a quiet walk down to the lake for a few moments of silence.
But after taking one step, the growing rumble of a surly engine forced her to turn back toward the front of the house. A large motorcycle—one of those bad-boy types—and its rider leaned into the curve and then smoothly made their way up the short drive to her home. She liked the way the bike thundered into her peaceful existence and wasn’t quite sure why. Perhaps because it gave an edge to the night, a hint of excitement that the B&B normally didn’t lend at this time of evening.
The rider stopped the bike after a couple of revvings of the engine then abruptly cut the thing off.
Suzie stood spellbound staring at the man on the cycle. He wore black from head to toe—helmet, leather jacket, hip-hugging tight jeans, and boots. Yes. Bad boy. The man stood silent and unmoving, staring back at her.
She’d expected another guest this evening, a Mr. Logan, and supposed it was him. He hadn’t said anything about coming in on a bike—not that her guests ever indicated the type of vehicle they’d arrive in.
She stepped forward, again wiping her dirty hands on her pants, silently wishing she’d ended her planting early and had showered. She reached out, ready to shake his hand and welcome him.
He dismounted the bike and slipped off his helmet. His steady gaze met hers and held while he shifted the helmet to his left hip and ran five fingers through his ruffled, jet black hair.
An icy panic shot up her back and she sucked in a breath and held it. She’d know that finger-rake mannerism anywhere.
It was at that precise moment Suzie felt herself go a little lightheaded. Dizzy.
Before she realized it, she’d hit the ground with a thud.
****
“Christ, Suzette. I didn’t mean to scare the hell out of you.”
His voice was soft, whispery and caring, with that familiar rasp around the edges. In her haze it felt like he was stroking her face with his fingertips, brushing her hair out of her eyes. No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he? But she felt so warm, protected, like he had cradled her deep in his arms.
Suzie blinked several times as her brain came back to awareness.
He was holding her. She was cradled in his arms. He was stroking her face and cooing down at her.
Shit! She bolted upright. He grabbed her and pulled her back down into his lap.
“Suzette! Sit still. You passed out and hit your head.”
“What… What are you doing? Oh…” Dizzy again. Damn.
“Would you quit squirming? I’m not going to hurt you.”
That was probably the understatement of the century. Hurt her? No, Brad Matthews would never hurt her—physically. Emotionally? Probably. She searched his face. It had been eighteen months since she’d seen him. She didn’t want to acknowledge to herself how much she had missed that face.
She scooted up, rubbed her temple, and pushed away from him. “Brad…I….”
“Let’s get you in the house and get an ice pack for your head. And a painkiller. You’re going to have a nasty bruise. You realize you hit your head on the edge of that stone wall? We may need to take you to the emergency room.”
The last thing she wanted was for Brad to take her to the emergency room. Think she was talk of the town now? Wait until the gossip mongers got hold of that story. Bad-boy motorcycle jock tending to poor Suzie’s needs… Even more frightening was him taking care of her in her own home. She didn’t need that. Too close, too private, too many memories flooding back.
But for some insane reason, she let him lead her into her house, his arm steadying her, and she followed along quite nicely like an obedient little puppy. Which was fine since it appeared she was still a little weak in the knees.
She was pretty certain it wasn’t from the fall.
Brad took a deep breath as he entered her house, looked around, and settled Suzette on a comfy sofa in the living room.
“You sit tight,” he ordered. “I’m going for ice. Which way is the kitchen?”
Slinking back into the sofa cushions, she had a glazed look in her eyes that worried him. Suzie pointed down the hall, holding her hea
d, and he moved in the direction she’d indicated. The last thing he’d wanted to do was frighten her. Or hurt her. That was certainly not in his plan. He’d contemplated for days how she’d react when she saw him, when she realized the Mr. Logan who had made a reservation with her last week was really him. He’d known she’d be thrown for a loop, that she might even get mad. He’d walked himself through all of those scenarios a hundred times. He knew exactly how he would react to any of a dozen things she might toss at him.
But he hadn’t planned for this. Scaring the hell out of her and hurting her. Dammit!
He bolted into her kitchen, looking right and left. Ice. Yes, that’s what he needed.
The gourmet kitchen took him momentarily off guard and for a split second, he stood and admired the bright and cheery room painted sunshine yellow with white accents. The large center island balanced a trellis of polished pots hanging above. The stainless steel, restaurant-style gas ovens sat on the spit-shined hardwood floors. Bright white cabinets—some with glass doors—and a host of other stainless appliances, cutlery, and utensils graced organized counters.
This was a kitchen he could get lost in.
Never mind, Matthews. Salivate over her kitchen later. She needs your attention now.
His gaze shot back to the side-by-side stainless refrigerator/freezer combo. He quickly located ice, a large zipper bag, and a hand towel. In a few quick steps, he was back by her side in the living room.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing soft.
For a moment, all he wanted to do was watch her. A flash of memory seared through his brain. Watching her come awake was one of his fondest memories of the short time they’d spent together. Strawberry blond hair slinked lazily over her brow, honey-brown freckles sprinkled over a pert nose and cream-colored complexion—heaven, pure heaven. Those small chili-pepper lips could both tempt and beckon a man. Ah.
Not now, Matthews. Not now.
“Suzette. Wake up, sweetheart. You shouldn’t sleep.”
He roused her. A few quick blinks batted at him. “Hm?”
He moved closer and shook her shoulder, then lifted her head to place the ice on her growing head bump.
