Hard to Resist

by Jean Brashear

  “Andrew, I do believe you have what every woman is looking for.”

  Oh, help. Had she just said that? Regretting her penchant for saying the first thing that popped into her mind, unsettled by the intense scrutiny of cool silvery eyes and the flush that completely overtook her, Rue snatched the quarter, stood up, grabbed her doughnuts and shot out of the shop.

  She was no sooner out of the diner than she realized she’d left her purse behind. Wild horses couldn’t drag her back in there. Andrew Clark probably thought she was the worst-behaved woman in town.

  Crawling around on the floor in a public place was bad enough if you were eighteen and skinny as a toothpick. But when you’re over forty and working hard to keep your backside from attaining the shape and size of your over-stuffed recliner, you have no business advertising the fact at Maudie’s Down Home Diner.

  Sheila would send somebody over to the shop with Rue’s purse. The best thing she could do was forget about the incident and start her day over. Start it off right.

  Besides, Rue had better things to do than worry over a divorced man who wouldn’t know the meaning of fun if it grabbed him by the seat of his pants. Everybody in town—including NASCAR heroes—flocked to her shop for great cuts and large doses of fun. But Andrew Clark never darkened her door.

  So be it. She would color him gone.

  Her shop bell tinkled when she pushed open the door. Rue marched in with a big smile on her face. She loved the smell of green-apple shampoo and floral hair spray and sassy nail polish. She loved the cozy feeling of women with towels wrapped around their wet hair sharing the town’s stories as they flipped through magazines that told the latest doings of their favorite movie stars.

  She was glad to see that Daisy had already shampooed Rue’s first customer and good friend, Patsy Clark Grosso. Grace Clark was also waiting her turn at the wash basin. She was an extraordinarily successful caterer as well as the daughter who’d been stolen from Patsy and her husband as a baby and only discovered last year in a fairy-tale ending.

  Careful, Rue told herself. No jokes about falling at the feet of Andrew Clark.

  Patsy was Andrew’s sister. And Grace Clark was Andrew’s niece as well as his stepdaughter-in-law. She was the one who had finally captured the heart of Andrew’s sinfully good-looking and former playboy stepson, race car driver, Garrett Clark.

  Placing the doughnuts on a table in the middle of the shop, Rue announced, “Chow time.”

  Daisy was first to the table. Poor little thing. She was trying to save up for the baby she would raise alone, stuffing every penny she could make in the drawer of her styling station. If Rue could wave a magic wand, she’d replace the baby’s father, who had died. But short of miracles, she was doing the next best thing: planning a shower for Daisy.

  Grace and Patsy, holding a towel on her head, grabbed a doughnut. They chatted about next week’s race at Indianapolis and speculated about which drivers would be auctioned at the upcoming NASCAR charity benefit. Rue thought it was wonderful how quickly this mother and daughter had bonded after being separated for more than thirty years.

  The shop bell tinkled and in walked Bart Branch.

  “Save any doughnuts for me?”

  “You’re early, Bart,” Rue said, as if she had to ask why. Every time he got his curly blond hair trimmed, he came early to kid with the women. Bart loved to keep a good joke going.

  “Somebody has to keep you out of trouble, Rue.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”

  “The caper at Maudie’s. Big news travels fast in a small town.”

  Rue hoped that big news didn’t include details of what she’d said to Andrew Clark. She still blushed to think of it. And she wasn’t even the blushing kind.

  She was trying to think of a comeback quip when the shop’s bell jangled again. At the rate people were pouring into her shop, Rue was going to have to send Daisy for another box of doughnuts.

  Before Rue turned around to greet the newcomer, she saw Bart go from devil-may-care to Little Boy Falling in Love with the Cutest Pet in the Shop Window.

  “Rue, I brought the purse you left in the diner.”

  The soft voice belonged to Mellie Donovan, the new waitress from Maudie’s Diner. With her big brown doe eyes and wispy hair, she looked as fragile as a baby bird. Every time Rue saw her, she wanted to wrap her in warm blankets and sing “Rescue the Perishing,” though everybody in town knew Rue couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. As it was, she hugged Mellie and thanked her profusely for returning the purse.

  “Have a doughnut, Mellie.” Rue thought the young woman could use a little meat on her bones.

  “I have to hurry back.”

  “I’d be glad to escort you.” Bart had mostly recovered, but he still looked a little starstruck. Everybody in the shop knew he’d been making eyes at Mellie.

  “Oh.” Mellie’s hands fluttered to her spiky, dark hair as if she were checking to see if it was still there. “Thank you, but no. I don’t need anybody.”

  Everybody needs somebody, Rue thought. Except me.

  When Mellie waved at Daisy then left the shop, the usually cheerful Bart sounded downright crestfallen.

  “I guess I lucked out again.”

  Rue winked at him. “I’m older than God but you’ve still got me.”

  “Rue Larrabee,” Bart said, “the woman who founded the Tuesday Tarts will never be old.”

  When he grabbed her in a dance hold and twirled her around, everybody in the shop clapped.

  Rue was doing what she did best, making other people happy. And that felt good.

  Still, the uneasy feeling she’d awakened with persisted, that she’d lived her life vicariously, that while she was rescuing everybody else, her boat had sailed away.

  Rue grabbed a hair dryer and a styling brush and went to work on Patsy’s hair. There was nothing like work to stave off the blues.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ANDREW CLARK’S GARAGE was a beehive of activity as they geared up for the race at Indianapolis. A team of analysts was going over race data on a bank of computer screens. Hydraulics screamed, metal tools clanked and blowtorches shot sharp blue light as mechanics bustled around various race car parts. Jared Hunt, owner of Jared Hunt Engines, Inc., and touted by the press as a miracle worker and engine whisperer, put the engine of Garrett’s much vaunted No. 402 car through diagnostics.

  Billy Cook, marketing director, was sequestered in his office down the hall planning what Andrew considered a brilliant marketing strategy, while Andrew was holed up with his crew chief, Robbie, his spotter, Jamie, and Garrett doing a postmortem on the race in Chicago.

  Though Andrew would have preferred to be in his more austere and businesslike office, his stepson felt more comfortable in his office among his rather brilliant nature photographs and his motley collection of memorabilia, which included a plastic figure of the Tasmanian Devil. Andrew swelled with pride. This was the stepson who had chosen to live with him instead of his own flighty mother, the son he’d brought up alone, the son who had saved Andrew and the entire FastMax team from financial ruin by winning last year’s NASCAR Sprint Cup championship.

  There was a knock on the door followed by the appearance of a beautiful, blue-eyed blonde with the smile as well as the heart of an angel.

  “Surprise!” Grace said. Garrett bounded to the door to kiss his wife, while Andrew pulled out a chair for his stepdaughter-in-law. He adored her. She not only loved his son, but she had also given Garrett a ready-made family—three precious children—and provided him a stability his mother never had.

  A woman’s touch. Even Andrew, for all his love and attention, had been unable to give that to his stepson.

  “Did you bring something good to nibble on?” Garrett said, and everybody grinned. Grace owned Gourmet by Grace, had her own TV cooking show and had penned a NASCAR cookbook.

  “You mean, besides me,” she teased her husband, and then took a black-and-white checkere
d cloth off a basket of steaming brownies.

  The crew chief was the first to dive in. “Better watch out, boy. I’m gonna steal her from you.” The idea of Robbie, the approximate size and shape of a fireplug with the pugnacious personality of a bulldog, stealing Grace brought howls of laugher.

  While the men vied for a spot at the brownie basket, Grace said to Andrew, “Buying that antique race car was a brilliant idea. It seems meant for you.”

  She was referring to Andrew’s newly acquired 1946 Novi. With a supercharged, 4-Cam, V-8 engine, the historic Novi had set records at Indy and at Bonneville Salt Flats. The Novi and the people involved in its development were part of the Indianapolis legend. That Andrew had one of the only two ever built was a great source of pride. The other was in the Speedway Museum at Indy.

  “First a bribe and now flattery,” he teased. “What are you up to, Grace?”

  “Do I have to be up to something to visit you?”

  “Probably.”

  Grace put on a pretty pout, and Andrew saw how his stepson had fallen for this lovely and charming woman. Garrett had chosen wisely and well. Andrew wished he might have had the same good luck with women, but the moment passed quickly. He had too much to do to waste time in regrets. Last year he’d taken enormous financial risks, mortgaging and leveraging everything he had, to get Garrett to the championship. But winning the NASCAR Sprint Cup championship was just the beginning of his hard work. Andrew had no intention of letting FastMax and his stepson become a one-shot wonder.

  “Since you’re going to be an old bear, I might as well just spit it out. I want you to be part of the ‘date with a bachelor’ auction.”

  “I’ve already told you I can’t, Grace.” Andrew hated telling her no, but on some things he had to draw the line.

  “Aw, come on, Dad. Pamper my sweet little wife.”

  Grace playfully tweaked Garrett’s ear. “Your sweet little wife can handle herself, darling.” To Andrew she said, “That’s why I’m asking again. You can’t say no.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, you’ve always supported the NASCAR children’s charities.”

  “Yes. With a check.”

  “For another, the benefit is the brainchild of none other than Patsy Clark Grosso. There’s no way you can turn her down.”

  “My sister doesn’t scare me.” In fact, he and his sister had patched their differences over Garrett’s win last year and now talked nearly every day. The balancing act was to be competitors and still be family. Having three grandchildren in common helped. “My answer is still no.”

  “What else do you have to do Wednesday night?”

  “Yeah, Dad. Everything’s under control here. You need to loosen up.”

  Grace and Garrett thought they had a good point, but Andrew didn’t see it that way. He had more than enough to fill his life—Garrett and now Grace and the kids. He had FastMax and his cars, plus the adrenaline-rush excitement and bone-deep contentment of NASCAR. Though Andrew had never been a shining star, Garret’s win had catapulted them into the limelight. Everybody, the press included, loved a great “underdog takes the title” story.

  Additionally, he had his books, his gardens and his late-night classic Western movies. What more could a man want?

  Though he had no social life outside of his immediate family by choice, Andrew figured his daughter-in-law must think him the most boring man on earth. Still, there was no way he could get up in public and be auctioned off to a woman who was bound to have an agenda. They always did.

  Besides, he was out of his league around women. As if his failed marriage to Garret’s mom wasn’t enough to prove that, look at his track record prior to marriage. Women flocked to him, all right, but only to try to change him into something he was not—some kind of giddy, good-time Charlie, all fun and games.

  Take this morning, for instance. Any other man trapped at Maudie’s with that flamboyant beauty-shop owner practically upended at his feet would have rescued the embarrassing situation with a clever remark. Andrew had stood there like somebody in a shootout at the OK Corral.

  Heck, you could look under the hood of a car and figure out everything you needed to know. But women didn’t have hoods, and even if they did and you could look under there, you’d see such a tangled mess of jumbled-up baggage, you wouldn’t know which way was out.

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I can’t help you out.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” she said, and Garrett gave her a high-five.

  “You two are conspiring against me.”

  “Kick up your heels, Dad.”

  “Son, you’d better be concentrating on your next race instead of urging an old dog to try new tricks.”

  “The auction will only take a few hours of your time,” Grace said. “Won’t you do it for me? Please.”

  Though he knew Grace was using emotional blackmail, Andrew felt like a cad telling her absolutely not.

  “All right, then.”

  “Way to go, Dad.” Garrett winked, while Robbie and Jamie looked like they were holding back big guffaws.

  “That’s fabulous! Thank you.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. Grace’s joy seemed all out of proportion to her request. Andrew figured he’d just been cornered into something he was going to live to regret.

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing. Just show up at the auction, take the woman who bids for you to dinner, say good-night and go home.”

  That all sounded too easy. Andrew had the sinking-gut feeling of a man who had just jumped out of an airplane without a parachute.

  RUE HAD FOUNDED THE Tuesday Tarts with the idea that women needed regular sessions with friends in order to remain sane. The Tuesday Tarts had no dues, no agenda and no rules except one: don’t take yourself too seriously. Because the membership was made up of women, such as Patsy and Grace, who were involved in NASCAR racing as wives and relatives of drivers or team owners, there were no attendance requirements.

  Their meeting location was always at Maudie’s. Besides catching up, they managed to get a lot of things done. Last year they’d raised enough money at a one-day carnival on the street in front of the Cut ’N’ Chat and Maudie’s Down Home Diner to add two new computers to the Mooresville Public Library.

  That evening the talk was about how much money they were going to help raise for the upcoming NASCAR children’s charities. Rue was relieved that nobody had mentioned her unfortunate early morning encounter with Andrew Clark.

  Suddenly Patsy turned to Rue. “Are you planning to attend the bachelor auction tomorrow night?”

  Until today, Rue had actually been thinking about attending. After making a fool of herself in front of Andrew Clark, there was no way she’d attend any event where the odds of seeing him were about one hundred percent.

  “Are you kidding? Much as I love my NASCAR drivers and their families, I’m up to my neck with other plans.”

  “What other plans, Rue?” Patsy asked. Anybody else might have taken her question as nosy, but Rue knew better. Patsy was constantly urging her to look after herself and have some fun instead of trying to take care of everybody in town.

  “For one thing, planning Daisy’s baby shower.”

  “We’ll have it at the diner.” Sheila spoke with the authority of the last word, and all the women gathered around to throw in their two cents worth about the baby shower.

  Rue’s conscience twigged her, but only a bit. She’d only told a small white lie. Shoot, she could plan that shower with her eyes shut.

  The only real plans she had for Wednesday night were to shampoo her hair and touch up her roots. Still, she could easily find other things to do. For one thing, she could bake a peach pie for her next-door neighbor, old Mr. Crumpett, whose arthritis was acting up. For another, she could call Mellie and volunteer to babysit her darling little daughter, Lily. She knew Mellie sometimes worked the two-to-ten shift on Wednesday nights, and she often filled in to give the regular sitter
, Booie, a break.

  The more Rue thought about it, the more she liked that plan. She shouldered her bag and turned to tell everybody good-night, but they were so busy in their huddle, they didn’t even notice her.

  “Hey, Sheila,” Rue yelled. “What’s everybody in such a tizzy about?”

  “We’re discussing punch and cookies for the baby shower.” Rue started to put her purse down, but Sheila waved her off. “Go on home and put your feet up. I can handle this.”

  Rue was more than happy to oblige. It had been a long and eventful day. All she wanted to do was go home, make a cup of tea with vanilla and cream and forget that she had presented her worst side to Andrew Clark at Maudie’s Diner.

  WEDNESDAY MORNING Rue couldn’t bear the thought of stopping by Maudie’s. What if she ran in to Andrew Clark? What in the world would she say? I was just kidding. You don’t have what every woman wants.

  Good grief. Why did she think she had to fill every silence with a quip? What was she, town comedienne?

  Sighing, she picked up the phone with the full intention of calling Daisy to say, “Sweetie, can you run by Maudie’s and pick up the doughnuts this morning?”

  Suddenly Rue balked. Why should she change her lifestyle for any man? Besides, Daisy had enough on her mind with plans for raising a baby alone while Rue had an easy day ahead, a short morning’s work followed by a long-awaited and much-deserved afternoon off.

  Too, if she asked Daisy to pick up doughnuts, she would start asking questions Rue wasn’t willing to answer.

  Though practically everybody in town flocked to Rue with their secrets, she made a habit of never sharing her personal life. It was easier that way. Less painful. Why dredge up broken dreams? She had her house, her shop, her friends, her gardens. What more could she want?

  Rue selected a blouse the color of the cardinal on her front porch railing. It perked her up. Not many redheads had the audacity to wear red. Feeling sassy and almost her old self, Rue grabbed her purse and pranced out of her house.

  A MAN OF HABIT, Andrew always had breakfast at Maudie’s when he was in town, the same every morning, two eggs sunny-side up with country-fried ham. But on Wednesday he broke his routine and poured himself a bowl of cold cereal with two percent milk. It looked totally unappetizing. And his coffee wouldn’t be nearly as good as Sheila’s down at the diner.