6. Is it human nature to dislike those who are different from us? Do you think it is the role of the parent to teach children to see others as individuals with the same potential to make the world a better place?
7. Do you think Becca was wrong to keep Emmy at home instead of having her hospitalized?
8. Do you believe Matt’s grandmother left Becca the lake house in the hope that she and Matt end up having a life together?
9. Do you think Becca should have stayed with Aaron after Emmy died?
10. Do you think Aarron married Becca knowing she could never love him in the same way he loved her?
11. What do you think Tinker’s Knob represented for Becca?
12. Do you think Becca is right to finally choose her own path instead of the one chosen for her?
Thank You!
I would like to thank you for reading Crossing Tinker’s Knob. Reading choices are plentiful these days, and I’m honored that you took time out of your life to read Matt and Becca’s story. I so hope you enjoyed it. I would really appreciate your leaving a comment on Amazon if you don’t mind taking a little more time to do that. It is extremely helpful and greatly appreciated.
Next, you’ll find a 15 chapter excerpt of Jane Austen Girl, a story with a slightly different tone from this one, but one whose characters I hope you will enjoy meeting. Please don’t miss the Free books offered at the back of this book as well!
Wishing you many great escapes,
Inglath
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Prologue
“Is there a girl out there who doesn’t want to be looked at the way Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth?”
― Grier McAllister - Blog at Jane Austen Girl
The morning had started out typical enough, and might have remained so, if it hadn’t been for the eagle flying just above traffic on Park and Sixty-fifth.
From the back seat of a Lincoln town car, Grier McAllister removed her sunglasses, lowered the window and stuck her head out for a better look. Surely, she’d been mistaken. But there it was, soaring in a left to right pattern, no higher up than the top of the street lamps. An eagle? In Manhattan? What in the world?
She remembered then something she’d once heard her mother say when she was a child. Eagle sightings hadn’t been so unusual around Timbell Creek, although it was still something to make a person stop and look. Grier had been six or so the day she and her mama had taken a picnic out in the pasture behind her grandparents’ house. Her grandpa had an old mule named Lloyd who was willing to act as their shade tree in exchange for the carrots she kept stuffed in her pockets. It was actually a good memory of her mama, and maybe one of the last Grier could actually recall.
They’d spotted the eagle at the same moment that day, watching the majestic bird swoop low out of the sky, like an airplane guided by radar.
“What’s he doing, Mama?” Grier had asked.
“Looking,” she’d said.
“For what?”
“Most likely his next meal. But my daddy once told me that whenever you see an eagle, it’s a sign that maybe you need to pay closer attention to what’s happening in your life. Or even what’s not happening.”
Grier had frowned and asked, “Why?”
“Some people believe eagles are messengers and that they appear when there’s something we need to do in our lives.”
“Is he trying to tell us something?”
“Maybe.”
“Like what?”
“I guess that’s the part we’re supposed to figure out.”
Even at that age, Grier had wondered if the eagle might be trying to warn her mama about the glass bottle she kept hidden in her nightstand. Sometimes, the bottle would disappear, and their life seemed almost normal. No men Grier didn’t know coming into the house late at night. No hearing her mama throw up in the toilet in the morning. But then, the bottle always reappeared again, and those were the days Grier wished she could be somebody else, anybody else. The days when she would disappear inside a book, the only escape hatch she could find at the time.
“Did you see that?” she said to Jason, the twenty-something driver maneuvering her through the rush hour traffic to her office on Madison and Sixty-first.
He looked up, blue eyes locking on hers in the rear view mirror.
“What?”
“That eagle,” she said, pointing at the sky.
“An eagle? Really?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was right there.”
He opened the sunroof and looked upward, shrugging. “You sure?”
“Positive,” she said, peering up again only to realize it had now completely disappeared.
“Not too many of those in Manhattan,” Jason said, the twinkle in his voice suggesting she might have added a little shot of something to her morning o.j.
“No,” she said, feeling silly now and wondering if she had indeed imagined it. “I guess not.”
Jason slid the car into a spot in front of a Starbucks green awning. “Same as usual?”
“Yes, thanks,” she said, watching as he got out and jogged inside the store. She leaned forward again and searched the strip of sky in between the buildings on either side of the car. She couldn’t seem to shake the uneasy feeling that she’d seen that eagle for a reason.
Resolving to put it and any unintended symbolism from her mind, she pulled her phone from her purse and began checking e-mail. Twenty-five new messages since she’d gone to bed at midnight. Several new client requests. Seriously needed. A few pleas for last minute appointments. Would see what she could do.
Jason arrived back with her coffee and passed it to her over the seat. “One sugar. Shot of half and half,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, returning his smile.
He held her gaze for an extra moment, and then said, “No problem, Ms. McAllister,” before pulling back into the traffic.
This wasn’t the first time Jason had given her the look, or the first time she’d decided to ignore it. Aside from the obvious, at thirty-seven, the only thing she was likely to have in common with a barely twenty-something guy was an unfortunate weakness for pizza.
And besides, she had recently decided to excuse herself from the predictable course of events that disguised itself as dating in Manhattan. Attraction. Pursuit. Greener-grass-syndrome. She’d just experienced the third phase of this sequence, a nice way of saying she’d recently been dumped.
Carter Mathers – fresh off the divorce train, eyes glazed by the sudden buffet of available women – hadn’t actually put it like that. His wording was more along the lines of, “Grier. We’re at different places just now. I don’t want to lead you to think I have something more to offer you than I do. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?”
Fairness being his personal life mantra, of course.
Dating in New York City was its own basic training boot camp. After a while, Grier developed an ear for the subtext and knew that what he really meant was: “Grier. I think you’re getting too serious. I like you, but it’s only fun as long as no one cares. Besides, there’s a great-looking blonde at the table by the window. I’d really like to ask for her number.”
Grier had decided long ago that the key was to make expectation parallel with reality. If you knew that, for the most part, Manhattan was full of men who didn’t want to see the same face two nights in a row, then expecting to find one who did was simply unrealistic, like hoping your tricep jiggle would completely disappear after two workouts with Gunar at Fitness House.
But if you decided that settling down probably wasn’t everything it had been touted to be, then a nice dinner could be had with no hard feelings when he didn’t call the next day. Of course, in the case of cute-driver-Jason, she would be the one buying the dinner. But eve
n that might have its upside. At least neither of them would foster any unrealistic expectations.
For the next ten minutes, they crept along with the rest of the traffic toward Madison. She lowered her window a few inches, letting in the sounds and smells of the city. Manhattan had its own rhythm, its own heartbeat. Even after nineteen years of living here, it somehow still managed to surprise her. She’d grown up in a different kind of place, a place where the pulse of life beat at a very different rate.
She’d left that place behind at the age of eighteen, catching a bus out of downtown Roanoke for New York City where she’d been offered a job as a prostitute within twenty-four hours of arriving.
For the first few days, she wandered the streets with her small suitcase, sleeping on benches in Central Park, wondering if someone like her could ever make it in a place like this. She decided then that one of two things could happen. She could let the city run right over her, or she could breathe in the heady power of the place and let it fuel her ambitions. She chose the latter, and she’d never looked back.
At exactly eight-thirty, Jason pulled over in front of her office building on Madison. He got out and opened her door, again leveling her with a steamy gaze she felt certain he’d used to great effect numerous times before now.
“Good luck with the audition this afternoon,” she said, slipping out with her briefcase and purse in one hand, coffee in the other.
He smiled the smile that would surely win him the role. “If I don’t get it,” he said, “I’m going to come see you about that image redo.”
She laughed, shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll be needing it, Jason.”
“Have a great day, Ms. McAllister,” he said. As she walked away, she felt his gaze on her backside. In Timbell Creek, they’d had names for guys brazen enough to cop a feel or leer behind a girl’s back. It was just plain bad manners, like talking with your mouth full of potato salad at the church picnic, and would have earned the offender a cuff in the head from Somebody’s Daddy. Those of them who had a daddy, anyway.
But with forty in the headlights, Grier decided to take it as a compliment.
Franklin, the doorman, smiled as she approached the building. “Notice anything different about me today, Ms. McAllister?” he asked, with an exaggerated smile.
She stopped, gave him a surmising look. By Manhattan standards, she wouldn’t call herself tall, but Franklin stood a good foot below her. He was seventy if a day and had worked the eight to four shift in this building for nearly thirty years. He had a book’s worth of short stories he could tell about the people he’d seen come and go through its doors. “That’s a new suit, isn’t it?” she said.
He straightened, lifted his chin a little, then smoothed his hands down the center of the navy jacket. “What do you think?”
“Smashing.”
He flashed her another big grin. “Anything else?”
She smiled. “Why, Franklin, look at your teeth. They’re beautiful.”
“Who knew I still had these under all those years of smoking? Thanks for telling me about that dentist. Nice guy. And the whitening thing didn’t hurt a bit.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “You look great.”
“Remember I told you about Marla, the lady who works in the Macy’s shoe department?”
“I do,” she said. “Any luck?”
“I haven’t asked her out yet. She’s taller than I am,” he said, sounding suddenly worried. “Think that matters?”
“With that smile? No way.”
He ducked his head, embarrassed. “I wanted to get your okay on the changes first.”
“Franklin, she’d be crazy not to go out with you.”
“You think so?”
“I absolutely do.”
He nodded hard. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“I’m counting on it,” she said and headed for the elevator.
On the third floor, she stepped through the glossy red door of Jane Austen Girl, Inc. to find her assistant, Amy, hovering by her desk. As always, Grier felt a little surge of pride for this office she’d worked her way up to. Literally, worked her way up to. The early days of her business had been conducted in an apartment approximately the size of a walk-in closet. A small one at that.
“I thought you’d never get here,” Amy said, her voice a near squeak of excitement. She pressed one hand to her cheek, the other waving wildly in front of her like one of those wind up toys kids get in their Easter baskets. A huge fan of old movies, she changed her style according to whatever was currently in her DVD player. Judging from the leggings, the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and ringlets in her normally straight hair, Grier guessed last night’s showing had been Flashdance.
“Very Jennifer Beale,” she said.
“Thanks!” Amy said, obviously pleased that she got it. She clapped her hands together, her voice catapulting to another pitch. “Oh, my gosh, Grier. You are so not going to believe this.”
Amy talked this way. Emphasis on every two or three words, her eyebrows rising with the intonation so it was easy to get distracted and end up with no idea of what she’d just said.
“Try me,” Grier said, heading for her office where she dropped her briefcase and purse onto a leather chair by the window.
“So-an-Irish-Duke-is-coming-to-New-York-and-you’ve-been-chosen—”
Even though Grier was dying to hear the rest, she held up a hand to keep Amy from hyperventilating. This happened to Amy with over stimulation of any sort. The last incident involved a drop-in visit a few weeks before from an A-list movie star whom Grier had worked with in the early days of both their careers. Jess Mercer had been her first real transformation, a guy born with true physical beauty and not even a modicum of style. The day he’d come to her then pitiful excuse for an office, he’d been wearing a horizontal striped rugby shirt with plaid pants and shoes that could only be described as a close cousin to those most often used for bowling.
Apparently, a drama teacher at Juilliard had told him he could be the next big thing if he’d hook himself up with an image consultant who could teach him how to dress. He’d found her in the Yellow Pages, confessing he’d picked her ad because it was the smallest, and he figured he could afford her. No great boost to the ego, but Grier liked to think it worked out for both of them.
At the sight of him in a black Armani jacket and Lucky jeans, Amy had simply lost the ability to breathe. The three of them ended up at the Cedars-Sinai Emergency Department where she was treated for a panic attack and earned the eternal gratitude of the on-duty nurses who got autographs from Grier’s former client.
Thinking they might be headed that way again now, Grier pulled a paper bag from the stack in the bottom of her desk drawer, popped it open and handed it to Amy. She took a few deep breaths, and when she spoke again, her voice was back in its normal range. “Thanks,” she said.
“So tell me.”
“Okay. George Fitzgerald, Irish Duke of Iberlorn is coming to Manhattan next month for a charity fundraiser ball. The KT Network is doing an episode on it for their show Dream Date.”
Grier sat down at her desk, flipped open the lid to her MacBook and turned it on. “Are we being asked to do one of the makeovers?”
“Noooo,” Amy said, all but shaking with excitement. “It’s even better than that! They want to use the name Jane Austen Girl for the episode and the ball. They also want you to hold a contest in your hometown to pick ten girls for the show.”
At this, Grier sat back in her chair, feeling the color drain from her face. “What?”
“Isn’t it great?” Amy went on without noticing that Grier had just choked out that last word. “To be able to go back to where you grew up and pick some lucky girl who might end up on a date with a duke? How cool is that?”
“Why my hometown?”
“Apparently, they want a small town girl makes good story. Like your own, I guess.”
Quiet for a moment, Grier said, “Is that part optional?”
“Which part?
“The hometown part.”
Amy looked at her, blinking as if she could not imagine where the question came from. “I don’t think so. It sounded like part of the setup.”
“Could you call and check?” she asked, trying for nonchalance and hearing her own failure.
“Why?” Amy asked, blue-shadowed eyes widening. “Is that a problem?”
“Ah, yes, actually, it is,” Grier said. An understatement, if there ever was one.
“But things have been kind of slow,” Amy reasoned. “This could keep us busy, like, forever.”
“You might be right, but I haven’t been home in nineteen years. Going back to Timbell Creek isn’t even a possibility. Not for a duke. Not for anyone.”
“Oh,” Amy said, all of the enthusiasm draining from her face almost instantly. She worried her lower lip with her front teeth, looking at Grier with uncertainty, as if she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.
“You can call me an idiot for turning it down, if you like,” Grier said. “Most likely you’d be right.”
“It’s just that—”
“Just that what?”
“Mr. Goshen from the bank also called this morning. He asked me to let you know they can’t give you an extension on the remainder of your loan. He said the balance would be due at the end of the month as originally scheduled.”
Grier sat back in her chair. “Why? He was just here yesterday and agreed to it.”
“I know,” Amy interrupted. “He said to let you know it was out of his hands.”
Grier turned to stare out the window, trying to remind herself that she had been in tight spots before. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the discomfort. But paying off the loan at this point would wipe out any cushion she had.
Crossing Tinker's Knob Page 28
