by Ellen Parker
“Call me Tuesday. After seven.”
“Thank you.” He raised her hand again, lifted his gaze to her eyes, and pressed a gentle kiss to her warm, tender skin before she could object.
She stood still as a dog in championship stance for a moment, then she blinked and stepped around him.
“Tuesday. After seven,” he repeated her words to her retreating back. Touching one finger to his lips, he imagined what taste and treasures lay beneath her beautiful exterior.
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday afternoon, Beth hummed one of the tunes from Hamilton as she finished the chicken chores. The birds wandered in and out of their coop, for the most part ignoring her. She shifted the basket of eggs to the opposite arm and unlatched the chicken yard gate. With a quick look for stray poultry, she stepped outside the fence and secured the entrance. Exhaling a larger than average breath, she paused and listened.
Chickens scratched the dirt within their enclosure, and in the distance, the tractor droned. Anita was harvesting the last few acres of popcorn. The day after tomorrow, the snack food company was sending their truck. By the time they arrived, all of the crop needed to be harvested, shelled, and ready to be moisture-tested. They would make it. They always did. Two years ago they cut it close, with only an hour to spare, but in time.
Need to check Lottie. The shepherd’s litter was due any day now, and the bitch had shown signs of early labor this morning. First things first.
She carried the eggs into the basement. A short time later, eggs wiped, sorted, and set in their cardboard flats, she reached for the hand towel.
Woof. Woof. Woof. Dancer and Greta announced a vehicle before she could pick up the sound of the engine.
Stepping out into the afternoon light, she called the dogs to her side before approaching the delivery van. Figuring the driver of the red vehicle with Wagoner Floral emblazed on the side had taken a wrong turn, she waited. With any luck, Beth would be able to give directions to the correct farm.
The middle-aged female driver lowered the passenger window and called, “Is this Big Cat Farm?”
“Yes.”
Appeared she wasn’t lost. Beth scrolled flower-giving occasions through her mind. None of the cousins had birthdays until November. Was Sam sending flowers to Anita? Not likely. His gifts ran toward what he called practical—gift cards, farming gadgets, and magazine subscriptions. He claimed not to be the flower type.
The driver came around, opened the side door, and retrieved an arrangement covered in green tissue, only the bottom three inches of a white vase visible. “Delivery for Beth Cosgrove.”
“Who?” She took two steps back so fast she bumped against Greta. “That’s me.”
“Ahh. This is unexpected then. If you could sign the delivery ticket, please.”
“More toward shocked.” Draping the towel over her shoulder, Beth advanced and signed the line on the form.
Questions about who and why wrestled in her throat, but she blocked them with pressed lips. When was the last time she’d gotten flowers? She blinked. The year before last, for her birthday, from her parents.
“Nice animals.” The driver handed over the vase and offered her hands for canine inspection. “Almost missed the last turn. Usually my deliveries are in the village. Care center or one of the churches, most of the time.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Have a nice rest of the day. Enjoy your flowers.”
Beth stood for a long moment, watching the van turn around and drive back to the Valley Road. Her thoughts swirled with all the information arriving today. Between finishing the weekly accounting for a dairy farmer client and a pre-lunch check on Lottie, the Illinois State Police had called. Human remains, several bones, had been discovered near Bruce’s last reported location. They advised patience until testing was completed and promised to stay in touch.
A doggie nudge against her hip brought her out of the reverie.
“Yes, Dancer, you’re a good girl. Let me take these into the house and then I’ll go check on your friend Lottie.”
An hour later, Beth emerged from the kennel humming a happy tune. They had puppies. Seven plump baby shepherds had all been licked off by mama. Currently they were in close contact with each other and learning the knack of nursing. Lottie had her new family under control.
Beth shed her chore boots in the basement, scrubbed up to her elbows in the deep sink, and took the steps two at a time toward the scent of sizzling onions in the kitchen.
“Greetings.” Carla crumbled ground beef into a hot skillet. “Who belongs to the flowers?”
Beth opened an upper cabinet and claimed a tumbler. When she turned to open the fridge, she dared a glance at the table. The floral arrangement sat in the center, the green tissue still concealing the actual blooms. “That would be me.”
“From?”
“I haven’t read the card yet. They came between chicken and dog chores.” She poured water from the pitcher and took a long drink. “Lottie whelped. Seven. Four girls and three boys.”
“Since you’re in here, I’m thinking mother and babies are doing well.”
“They are. I’ll go back out in another couple hours just to be sure she’s done.”
Beth gave in to temptation and drifted to the table. A moment later, she loosened the thin paper cover to reveal six yellow roses. Pulling on a slender white ribbon, she detached a note from one stem.
The stiff paper trembled in her hand as she read in a whisper, “‘Offer of friendship is sincere. Set ground rules at coffee/breakfast? Jackson.’”
“Louder, please,” Carla teased while tending their supper.
“Your hearing is too sharp as it is.” She went over to the desk in the corner and tucked the note under the keyboard.
“Did you say Jackson?”
“Afraid so.” She wanted to call back all the words from the note. It was too… personal. True, the cousins tended not to keep secrets from each other. Life in the same house was more pleasant when communication stayed honest and open. For example, after his phone call tonight, she’d tell the others what they needed to know of the contents.
Carla lifted the skillet and drained grease into a can before settling the pan back on the stove and pouring in the other ingredients. “May as well spill. Anita won’t be in for another hour or two.”
“He wants to be friends.” Beth sorted through the day’s bundle of mail. “Actually, he asked me for a date. I gave the usual response.”
“And if you didn’t have your… situation? Would you have accepted?”
“He’s a lawyer. And I can’t ignore my status.”
Beth tossed a flyer for a sale at a store where none of them shopped into the trash and wished to throw a stirred-up memory away as easily. Instead, she stared at the back of her hand, half expecting to see an imprint where Jackson had kissed it on Saturday evening. Three days and multiple hand washings later, she knew it wouldn’t be visible. It hadn’t been visible ever, but the warm pleasure he’d sent up her arm with the simple gesture lingered in her memory.
Her cousin’s question circled and Beth’s accountant traits prepared a mental chart of the pros and cons of accepting the qualified invitation in the note. Discussing ground rules sounded innocent. Set the date and time for details during his call tonight.
She pulled out her phone and checked the time. Half an hour until he called. No way to keep the call private. Oh, she could go outside and preserve the contents, but the fact of the call, that would be common knowledge, like the roses on the table. He’d asked to establish a friendship. She’d need to insist it stay such, without the physical contact of dating. Could she handle it? When he sat near her on the lawn swing on Saturday, she’d needed every bit of willpower in her reserve to concentrate on the conversation and not lace her fingers with his.
I’m in trouble. A tiny crack in the wall constructed to keep her heart safe and life beyond even a suggestion of scandal starred out between the stones.
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Chapter Seventeen
Jackson glanced at the courthouse clock across the street. Seven twenty-five. After a quick scan of foot traffic, he stepped inside Wagoner’s only downtown café. He paused long enough to inhale the delightful Thursday morning atmosphere. Ahhh. Fresh coffee tinged with bacon—all days should begin so good. He glanced once more at the traffic along Wagoner’s main street before walking over to the hostess stand. He skimmed his gaze over the patrons, looking for one particular auburn-haired lady. She was not within sight.
“How many, sir?”
“Two. A young—”
“By the window if possible.” Beth swept through the door, pulling sunshine in with her. A series of small, quick steps later, she stood beside him.
“Good timing.” Jackson exhaled relief, not willing to admit until that moment his fear that she’d changed her mind.
“I try.” She clutched an oversized tan wallet.
While their Tuesday evening phone conversation had been pleasant, he’d been concerned she’d call and cancel at the last minute. One face-to-toe-and-back-again gaze over her, he decided a long-sleeved pale blue sweater with cables or ribs or whatever was his new favorite look on her. Light from the overhead fixture set her birthstone pendant sparkling, emphasizing the match to her eyes.
A few minutes later, with coffee and water in front of them, they studied each other across a small square table.
“You first.” He unwrapped flatware from a large paper napkin.
“Our place is busy with new puppies.”
“Are they allowed visitors?”
She laughed, a small musical sound that warmed his blood. Friends. Ground rules. He needed to keep his mind on the business at hand.
Shaking her head, she added one teaspoon of sugar to her coffee. “Maybe next week. Lottie’s rather possessive right now. She’s a good mother. I swear she counts them before, during, and after any of us enter the kennel.”
He managed one of his father’s favorite comments regarding intelligent dogs. “As long as she doesn’t count aloud in English.”
“She won’t. I’ve made it clear to all of them—they start speaking English, and they get sold off to a television studio.”
“Good way to handle it.” He paused as the server arrived with their plates of the Thursday special—pancakes and scrambled eggs with diced ham. “Shall we get to the topic of the day? I need to admit, your phrase of ‘I can’t’ took me by surprise.”
“It’s true. I’m not in a position to date. Any relationship needs to be as acquaintances, neighbors, or casual friends.”
“Might be difficult.” He watched the way the freckles across her nose danced as she spoke. He wanted to touch. Count. Lose track of time under her spell.
“Necessary.”
To ensure he’d not missed it the first five times he’d glanced at her hand this morning, he checked again. No ring. In fact, the only jewelry he noticed was her necklace. “I’m willing to use friends as a starting point. You’ve intrigued me since the first day we met, when you handled children better than a Sheltie herds sheep.”
Silence thickened over their table.
He paused in cutting his pancakes. “No need to blush. But it does look good on you.”
“It makes me look like a spotted tomato.”
“Actually, it reminds me that all the best confections are sprinkled with cinnamon.”
“You hang around Mona and her apple recipes too much.” She scooped up a forkful of eggs.
He laughed. Living with Mona and her talent in the kitchen would soon render his limited culinary skills so rusty as to be useless. “Seriously. What’s your first suggested guideline for the two of us?”
“No touching.”
He hesitated. Get him within reach, and she turned into a magnet. Even while waiting for their meals today, he’d found it necessary to mess with the place setting to keep his fingers from sliding across the table. “Not even holding hands?”
“We cannot get romantic.” She hesitated a moment before lifting her coffee mug.
“You’re not a teen. Neither am I. In case you want to know, I’m an even thirty. Unattached but willing to change.”
“It’s not a matter of age.”
“Speed? I can slow down. I’ll let you take the lead, set the pace.” He took a bite of syrup-covered pancake. “I’ll ask again. Are you engaged? Boyfriend? Middle of a divorce?”
With a slight shake of her head, she laid down her fork. “None of the above. I told you it was complicated. Dating me wouldn’t be fair to you. If that’s your aim, I suggest you find a different girl. Carla’s available. Scheduling might be a problem. She works twelve-hour shifts every weekend.”
“I don’t want to date Carla.” He frowned at the eggs on his plate. Carla appeared to be a nice girl, smart, and attractive in her own way. But she wasn’t Beth. Talking with her didn’t make his heart do a stutter-step or give him an urge to touch her hand. And more. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be harsh. But why are you pushing me away? I showered this morning. Make it a regular habit.”
She responded with her brief, musical laugh. “Hygiene isn’t the problem.”
He rubbed his chin to prevent capturing her hand. “You talk in riddles.”
“We don’t know each other well enough to speak otherwise.”
“In that case”—he checked his watch—“I’ve got thirty minutes to share biographies.”
She smiled. “You’re on.”
He launched into paragraphs about his childhood in West Allis, bragged about his parents and their respective veterinary skills, and followed with the names of undergrad and law schools. “Next?”
“Oh my. You give a difficult performance to follow.” She recounted the moves and adventures of growing up on a series of Air Force bases.
He absorbed her words, thirsty to find out what basics they shared to build on.
“Since Dad was stationed in Illinois at the time, I took advantage of in-state tuition and attended University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. And the rest will need to wait for another day.” She pushed back her chair. “I’ve rambled too long. You’ll be late.”
“To be continued then.” He stood and collected his credit card and receipt.
“Yes, we can chat again.”
“Saturday? Beer and conversation at the micro-brewery? That is, unless you prefer Jack’s. It will have to be late. The orchard stays open until sunset, and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get away.”
She shook her head. “Not in Crystal Springs. Too much gossip.”
“Suits me. I’ll call early Saturday afternoon and set up the details.” He trailed her to the door with his hand behind his back, first two fingers crossed.
* * *
Kevin stood in the kitchen of his upscale condo on the edge of downtown Rockford, IL. The scent of the blackberry jam he slathered on a second slice of toast mingled with coffee in the air. A moment later, he opened the next tab on his laptop. This had been an amazing week so far. By “liking” and “following” the kennels and suppliers from last weekend’s dog show, he’d picked up tidbits likely to be useful in his next conversation with Beth. He wanted her to file divorce papers and remove herself from the family. It would make it easier to press the rest of the clan to reclaim that investment portfolio. Why Grandpa rigged it up for first married instead of first born didn’t make sense from his vantage point. Perhaps he could still build a little common ground and develop some trust with her.
Volume on her private email was light, consisting of routine messages to her family and a few college friends. Her business account, however, was experiencing a surge of inquiries. It appeared she had more puppies to place. He pulled up his calendar, counted ahead eight weeks, and marked a couple days as tentative vacation. He’d find a way to befriend her with this new litter.
After finishing up the last of her messages, he clicked over to check his appointments for today. No meetings for another hour. It gave him
plenty of time to check newspapers from the nearby counties. Out of habit, he began with the Jo Daviss weekly publication.
“What?” He spewed coffee across the keyboard. Grabbing a paper towel, he wiped his chin and blotted the electronics. “They couldn’t. They didn’t. ‘Local Boy Scouts Find Human Remains.’” He read the headline aloud twice.
Forgetting about breakfast, or schedules, or even morning meetings with a client, he read the entire page-three article in silence. As he absorbed the sentences, his fingers, then wrists, and finally elbows locked in place.
“It couldn’t be. Not after all this time.” He read and reread the scant information. “Is this accurate? ‘DNA matching procedures have improved in the last few years.’” He swallowed and felt the cold lump of fear join the iceberg in his stomach. This changes—everything. The entire timeline is altered. Suddenly he had a few months at best, if the lab was backlogged, to get Beth to sign divorce papers.
A few moments later, he shook blood and movement back into his tingling fingers and pushed away from the breakfast bar. He walked in a circle, the size of each pace and the route with each lap increasing until his steps encompassed the entire living room and kitchen. How long? How much time did he have left? Who would know the backlog at the state lab?
He broke out of his pacing pattern and headed for the bedroom. Opening the dresser’s top drawer, he moved the ugly Christmas socks out of the way and pulled out a small, faded greeting card box. He studied the assorted keys, cuff links, and tie tacks for a long moment before selecting the safe deposit key in the brown envelope. Slipping it into his pocket, he added an errand to his lunch hour. For his own sanity, he needed to see, and touch, the contents of that box.
As he returned to the kitchen, his computer chimed with an incoming email. He paused in front of the laptop to check the message.
She started chatty. He endured three lines that addressed nothing. Another meeting? He couldn’t commit. With a few terse words of reply, he instructed his hired computer expert to be patient.
