Her Secret Love

by Paula Altenburg

  Despite the curves her dress revealed, she weighed next to nothing.

  “Ouch,” he said. “I think I just threw out my back.”

  “Very funny.”

  He scooted around the front of the truck and climbed in beside her. She was studying him, her arm along the back of the seat, her head tipped slightly to one side. A length of smooth thigh taunted him, as did the subtle swell of one breast.

  He dragged his gaze upward.

  “If you were to get a tattoo,” she asked, “what would it be?”

  “A surprise.”

  He left it at that. He had no idea, himself.

  By the time they arrived, the Montreau was blazing with lights. Inside, chandeliers hanging from the coffered ceiling in the lobby had been turned low, and the furniture pushed back. Small tables for four had been arranged in sitting areas around what was now a dance floor, creating an intimate atmosphere. The newly refinished antique hardwood floors gleamed with polished warmth.

  The country and western band had been set up near the stairs to the second floor. Already, couples were dancing.

  “Earl reserved us a table out on the patio,” she said. “That was sweet of him.”

  Two sliding glass doors leading out to the patio had been drawn back, revealing a rose garden in full bloom. Trellises filled with blossoms of every color formed exterior walls, and divided each elegantly clad table from its neighbors. Lanterns had been strung between the overhead canopies.

  Their table was in a private corner at the very back. Damon left Jess there and went to the bar to get two glasses of wine.

  The hand-carved bar was a source of great Montreau pride. Transported across the country when the hotel was first built, the restoration had brought it back to its original glory.

  He bumped into his friend Patterson, slumped at the end of the bar. He had a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, frowning at the screen as he one-thumbed a text. When he noticed Damon beside him he shoved the phone in his pocket, guilt flashing across his face as if he had something to hide.

  “Oh. Hey, Damon. I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

  “Tony’s watching the gas station.”

  Patterson made a face. “That’ll keep him out of the casinos for one night, at least. And give him work experience to put on his resume.”

  Patterson and Aileen were cousins. It made things awkward for Patterson because he and Tony were also longstanding friends. Nothing Damon could do about that. A case could be made that Patterson’s life was a lot easier than Tony’s, so maybe he should cut him some slack. Patterson had been born into ranching and given a ready-made job.

  “Congrats on the artwork,” Patterson added. “I knew you used to make gates. My uncle has one on his ranch. But I had no idea you were into the girly stuff, too. You’ve never said anything about that.”

  Damon wasn’t offended. They’d been friends a long time. “Think about what you just said, then ask yourself why that might be.”

  “You know what I mean.” Patterson nodded toward the other side of the lobby, where the art exhibit was still on display. “I don’t know anything about art but it looks real professional.” A slight frown etched his forehead. He started to say more, stopped, then started again. “I’ve got to say, whatever this relationship you’ve got going with Jess Palmer is, it comes as a bigger surprise.”

  He didn’t confirm or deny. Any relationship they had—and even he couldn’t say what it might be—teetered on a rocky ledge. “Why is that?”

  “Dude. She left you on the side of the road without any clothes. Remember?”

  “What makes you think it was Jess?”

  “Why would I think that it wasn’t?” He ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “You used to hang out together. She had a reputation. And if there was trouble, she’d be in the middle of it. Davey Parks always swore she was the one who came up with the idea to put shoe polish and Vaseline on the toilet seats in the teachers’ lounge.”

  He had Damon there. “That prank was gold.”

  “Seriously,” Patterson continued. “I don’t think I could be as forgiving if a woman did something like that to me.”

  “Maybe you should try being understanding of the reason behind it.” The bartender handed Damon his wine. He nodded his thanks, then swung his attention back to his friend. “Besides. There’s nothing for me to forgive Jess for. She wasn’t there that night.”

  Patterson clapped him on the back. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, buddy.”

  Damon threaded his way through the crowd back to where Jess was waiting for him, bothered by the whole conversation. He’d never told anyone he was going out with her that night. He doubted very much if she had, either. Oh, she’d planned to. She’d want her parents to know. He didn’t doubt that. But he didn’t believe she’d intended to drive off and leave him naked.

  He didn’t know why she’d done it. That was why he couldn’t seem to leave it alone. If she had planned it, then Patterson was right.

  No one in his right mind could ever forgive something like that.

  He set the glasses on the table and reached for her hand. “Come on, Princess Twinkletoes. Let’s go show off that dress.”

  *

  His fingers closed around hers. She let him draw her to her feet.

  He moved his hand to the small of her back, where more bare flesh was exposed. As she preceded him to the dance floor, heat from his palm seared her skin.

  Now there was a tattoo worth considering.

  Her dress really was too much—and too little—for Cherry Lake. She’d thought she was long over demanding this kind of attention. As it turned out, she wasn’t. But if she could get through the evening without embarrassing Damon, she’d consider it a win for them both.

  He looked so handsome. Easily the most attractive man here. He was the one who should have gone into acting. Or modeling, perhaps. His smile alone could sell snow to Montana cattlemen.

  And his eyes. They sold him to women. Heads turned as they passed, and people weren’t all staring at her.

  A lot of them were, though. Jess had gone out with more than one of the men in the room. In high school, she’d been a second base kind of girl—possibly third—and she’d let the guys tell the stories they’d liked about her. She’d been that eager to get her parents’ attention.

  She recognized most of the women those men were with, too. Right now, she had to wonder what stories their girlfriends and wives had been told, or what they’d heard secondhand.

  “Maybe we should sit this one out,” she said, slowing her steps and looking up at Damon.

  He had eyes and ears. He’d been there in high school. He knew why she was suddenly so reluctant, although he might not grasp the reason behind it. She didn’t care for herself.

  He pushed her forward. “Not a chance.”

  The music shifted from upbeat to a waltz. Swaying bodies spilled onto the dance floor. Damon positioned his hands on her hips, his fingertips touching the cleft at the base of her spine, drawing her so close that his knee brushed the insides of her thighs where the two panels of her dress parted ways.

  “Now I see what that split in your skirt is for,” he said, lowering his mouth to whisper in her ear. “Dirty dancing.”

  That made her laugh. It gave her tingles, too. She settled more comfortably into his arms, locking her wrists around his neck and splaying her breasts to his torso. If he didn’t care what people thought then neither did she.

  They danced a few songs and were on their way back to their table when a hand touched her arm. A face she couldn’t quite place bent closer to hers. “May I have this dance?”

  His smile was friendly enough. He seemed sober, too. She looked up at Damon, unsure whether or not to say yes, or if he might mind. They weren’t a couple, but she was still here as his date.

  “Go ahead,” he said to her. He shook the other man’s hand. “Hey, Mike. I think I’m going to see if your wife would like to take a
turn around the floor too, since we’re swapping partners.”

  “She’s all yours,” Mike replied. “But just for one dance.”

  He put a light arm around Jess’s shoulders as he led her away. “You don’t remember me, do you?” he said to her.

  The name Mike didn’t ring any bells. He was shorter than Damon. Stockier, too, and had sandy-colored hair and brown eyes, and the sun-weathered skin of a cowboy.

  “I’m afraid not,” she admitted. “I’ve been gone a long time. People look different, especially the men.”

  “I played football. Second string. We went on a few bus trips to games together. My senior year you would have been in tenth grade. I was too quiet to ask you out. But I wanted to.”

  “You were the one!” she exclaimed. “I knew I’d missed somebody.”

  His smile revealed one slightly crooked front tooth that didn’t detract at all from his looks, but rather, added more character to his already pleasant face. “Your bad luck. I’m happily married.”

  She tracked his soft gaze to where Damon was leading a pretty woman with dark curly hair, clad in a short, flirty dress and cowboy boots, onto the floor a few couples away.

  She rested her hands on Mike’s shoulders and followed his lead as they stepped into the music. “I’m going to assume recently, too.”

  His expression grew proud. “You missed me by five months.”

  So this was what a newlywed looked like. Jess felt a sharp pinch of envy but couldn’t narrow down why. She’d never had any interest in marriage. It hadn’t seemed a necessary institution. Not until it was too late to do anything about it.

  “She’s a lucky woman.”

  They finished their dance. Someone stopped her as she was leaving the dance floor. He was one of the artists and wanted to thank her for her hard work. He’d sold two of his larger pieces to a couple visiting from New York.

  Jess looked around for Damon but he’d disappeared. She decided to make a trip to the washroom before returning to their table.

  As she entered the ladies’ room, she heard two voices in conversation. One belonged to Shanda White. She sounded angry and frustrated. “I don’t understand what he sees in her.”

  “She’s very pretty.” That voice, Jess didn’t recognize.

  “She’s trashy. Look at that dress. And she was some old man’s mistress, for heaven’s sake.”

  They were talking about her. That was no surprise and nothing she wasn’t used to. It was never nice to listen to, however. But she couldn’t walk away, as she should.

  “It doesn’t matter how trashy she is or what her dress looks like, or even who she might have been involved with. Damon broke up with you long before she came back to town. The truth is he’s just not that into you. He never was.” The woman didn’t sound as if she were trying to be mean but was simply pointing out facts.

  “I know,” Shanda said. “But I still don’t get why, after what she did to him, he’d give her a job and bring her to a dance, and yet he won’t give me a second chance.”

  “You don’t know for a fact that she did anything to him.”

  “Oh, please.” Jess could practically hear the eye roll, even over the loud drum of her heart. “Everyone knows it was her. He did her homework for her in school. They spent a lot of time together the first few weeks of summer. And then, after that night, she left town like her skirt was on fire. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

  “Maybe she had her reasons. Maybe he feels sorry for the situation she’s in now. You don’t know what the story is, Shanda. Or even if there is one.”

  “All I do know is that you shouldn’t let your husband dance with her. And quit sticking up for her.” Jess heard running water and splashing, then the sound of the paper towel dispenser. “On the plus side, she’ll be off looking for another rich old man to take care of her once she figures out Damon’s got nothing.”

  High heels clicked against the flooring in the narrow hall outside the ladies’ room as someone approached. Jess didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. Neither did she want a confrontation. Not tonight.

  She opened the door, slipped through it, and closed it behind her as quietly as she could. She smiled brightly at a middle-aged woman as they passed each other in the hall, refusing to let on that anything was wrong.

  Inside, however, she was seething with anger. This was so junior high. She wasn’t an object to be pitied or scorned. Her business was nobody else’s. And neither was Damon’s. He had hopes and dreams. He was working hard to achieve them.

  How dare Shanda say he had nothing?

  He was sitting at their table, talking to Mayor Clinton Calloway. She remembered Clinton as an insurance salesman, and a friend of her parents. She’d never much cared for him, although she’d never paid a whole lot of attention to him, either.

  Both men stood when they saw her coming toward them, threading her way between the tables. The air was heavy with the thick scent of the trellised roses. The cut of Damon’s shirt drew her eye to the muscles outlined beneath the crisp white cotton.

  He had something, all right.

  And she and Shanda had something in common. They’d both thrown this away.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‡

  The evening had been nice, but not the resounding success he’d intended. She’d seemed distracted. He still hadn’t wished her a happy birthday, either. Her gift remained safely hidden behind the passenger seat.

  It was now or never.

  He drove past the exit for her cousin’s house.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  To the place where everything had gone wrong between them. If things went wrong again—if she hated the gift—he’d have lost nothing.

  If she appreciated the thought he’d put into it, however…

  He’d have better memories of her this time when she left Cherry Lake.

  “You’ll see.”

  He could feel her apprehension growing as she figured it out. He pulled his truck off the road, onto the worn tire tracks that led through the orchard. He parked between trees bare of cherries now that the harvest was over.

  “I have something for you.” Her eyes widened in the moonlight. “Relax, princess. Nothing like that. I’m not as easy to get out of my pants, anymore.” He flipped on the cab’s interior light, then reached behind her seat and grabbed the gift he’d made for her. The flat, awkward package was colorfully wrapped, dolled up with a pink ribbon and bow. He placed it in her lap, trying to sound casual even though he was anything but. “Happy birthday.”

  “You remembered my birthday?”

  She sounded so pleased.

  “Quick. When’s mine?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood, worried he’d made a huge mistake by bringing her here and offering this particular gift. He had one elbow resting on the steering wheel, the other on the back of his seat, so that he could face her.

  “December third.” She laughed. He could well imagine the confounded expression on his face. “Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are that I remembered. I think you were writing an English essay for me and it was due the next day.” She toyed with the wrapping paper, her laughter disappearing abruptly. “My God, I was selfish.”

  He remembered that birthday in a far different light. “You’re harder on yourself than anyone else is, you know. You weren’t nearly as bad as you think. You brought me cupcakes and helped blow out the candles. Go on,” he urged her, indicating the gift in her lap with a flick of his fingers. “Open it.”

  She tore off the wrapping paper, then stared at the sculpture without saying a word for so long that his nervousness grew.

  He’d made a wall hanging for her—a three-dimensional piece, three feet by two feet, with the figure of a woman crafted from leaves of polished steel in the center. On one side of her was the outline of a man’s face in profile. He’d used strips of iron, working hard to get the sharp lines angled just right to convey youth. On the other side of the sculpture
the same face had aged. The lines were less firm and distinct. He’d shaped them a little softer and broader. The eyebrows had thickened. The nose was longer and wider.

  “It’s John’s face,” Jess said. Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. She traced the tip of one finger along the line of the older image’s brow. “How on earth did you do this?”

  He had no idea what she was thinking, or how she felt about the gift. He couldn’t read a thing from her tone.

  “All I had to work from was a photo I found in your wallet. It’s not like it was easy to find, either,” he added, poking gentle fun. He’d gotten her keys from her purse more than once when he’d had to drive her car into the service bay and she was busy with the cash or the phone, so he had no problem admitting to snooping. “You have a ton of crap in that bag. People all over the county use it as a geocaching location.” He still couldn’t decipher her reaction. “You asked for a sculpture. I wanted you to have something special—that would mean something to you. It’s called ‘Timeless.’ I had to guess at how he might have looked when he was young. I tried Googling his name but couldn’t find any history.” Now he was babbling. “This was a bad idea. I can make you something else.”

  “No.” She hugged the sculpture to her chest and drew back a little as if she was afraid he might try to grab it from her. “It’s perfect. This whole night was perfect.”

  Then why was she frowning? Why wasn’t she happy?

  Why was she so damn hard to understand?

  All his clothes were still on. He had the car keys. This time, she couldn’t drive off without any explanation. He intended to have one.

  “I’ve done something wrong,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

  Gold rimmed the green in her eyes. “That’s just it. You haven’t done anything wrong. You never do.” She looked away. “I’m not perfect. I’ll never be perfect. When I’m with you, you try to make me see myself differently, but all I see are these expectations I can’t possibly live up to.”