by Beth Ciotta
“Sure. If McGraw’s was in a cosmopolitan hotspot,” said Faye. “But it’s in Eden.”
“Please don’t mention cosmopolitans,” Kylie said, massaging the dull pulse at her temples. “Anyway,” she pressed on, “I was thinking about painting the walls this color with these accents. Maybe something similar for the exterior? And wall-to-wall carpet. I like this color. Or maybe this.”
Travis nodded. “Bold.”
Faye looked around his shoulder. “Disastrous.”
“I get what you’re going for,” he said.
“Yeah,” Faye said. “Spenser’s boot up her butt.”
Kylie smirked. “Ha.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Faye asked. “Spenser will have a cow. And what about your mom and grandma? What about tradition?”
“The only tradition I care about is Kabuki Theater and zongzi.”
“I’ll bite,” said Faye. “What’s zongzi?”
“A glutinous rice dumpling wrapped in bamboo leaves.”
“I take it back. I won’t bite. Sounds disgusting.”
“It’s the food of honor at the Dragon Boat Festival.”
“Still disgusting.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe it’s orgasmic. Not that I’ll ever know,” Kylie muttered. The way things were going, she’d never make it to Japan or China, let alone both. She’d be lucky if she ever made it across state lines. She glanced at Travis, who was still studying her photos. “Since you get what I’m going for, would you please box up everything I need?”
Travis raised a brow. “Everything?”
Kylie nodded.
Faye nudged her. “Don’t you think you should get an estimate?”
“If you’re talking an extensive renovation,” Travis said as he moved to his work station, “it could get expensive. Especially when you factor in labor.”
Kylie scrunched her nose. “Hadn’t thought about hiring help.”
“Don’t tell me you planned on handling everything yourself,” Faye asked.
“Not all by myself.”
Faye’s eyebrows rose to her bleached hairline. “Me? You expect me to help? I’m not good with simple home repairs, let alone an entire renovation.”
“You renovated the Orchard House.”
“I picked out colors and furniture. Stan renovated the building.” Faye blinked, smirked. “Oh. You expect me to rope Stan into helping.”
Kylie smiled. “Free shoes for the family for a year?”
“As tempting as that sounds…”
“In addition to some sort of cash fee, of course,” Kylie added. Maybe that’s why Stan and Faye were fighting. Money troubles. “I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of anyone, especially your husband. You guys are like family.”
“Stan won’t take money from you. Same reasoning. Family.”
“What about the shoes?”
“What about the B and B? We have a business to run and I can’t do it alone. Not with two kids in the mix. Besides, we’re knee-deep in our own spiffing-up. The Apple Festival is next week. Starting midweek we’re booked solid and…” Faye broke off and looked away.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“But—”
“Just when did you plan to start your renovations?” Faye asked, swinging the subject back around.
Kylie’s head spun. “Today.”
“Naturally.”
“I know it’ll be hard work,” Kylie babbled, flustered by Faye’s ongoing sarcasm, “but, I want to reopen McGraw’s on opening day of the festival. I ordered a special line of stock. Shoes that’ll appeal to the tourists and…” She flushed when she noted her friend gaping at her like a widemouthed bass. “You’re right. What was I thinking? I can’t expect you and Stan to…never mind.”
“We would if we could, Kylie.”
“I know. It’s okay. I didn’t think things through. Drunken stupor and all that. Obviously, I’m going to have to hire a crew or at least one very productive man.”
“I have an estimate,” Travis said.
Kylie and Faye moved to the counter. They looked at the figure Travis had scratched on a yellow pad. Kylie swallowed. “That much, huh?”
He slid her Internet printouts under her nose and picked up a pencil. “If you cut this and this—”
“Nope. Gotta have those.”
“What about these?” Faye said.
“I’ve had my eye on those for months. Spied them in InStep Magazine.”
“You could cut cost by renovating the interior only,” Travis said.
“Yeah,” Faye said. “It would save time, too. Also, Spenser would only be half as mad.”
It was the exact wrong thing to say. Kylie shook her head. “I want the whole sushi roll.” She nabbed the pencil from Travis and scribbled her own figure. “This is how much I have to spend on supplies and labor. Obviously, I need someone who’ll work cheap. And fast. Oh, and I’ll throw in free shoes.”
Travis looked at the figure.
Faye looked at the figure. She whistled. “You’re taking that out of the business account? Without Spenser’s approval?”
“No. I’m dipping into my personal account.”
“Dipping? It’ll wipe you out! What about your dream trip?”
“It’s just that, Faye. A dream. Sometimes you have to make lemonade out of lemons.” She shrugged. “Or in this case, cider out of apples.”
“I can’t believe you’re giving up,” Faye said. “You’ve worked so hard. Skimped and saved. Again. I can’t—” Her cell phone blared—ringtone of the month, Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life.” “I have to take this,” she said after checking the screen. “Hi, Miss Miller.” Sting’s kindergarten teacher. “He did what? He…I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Hold on.” Faye gestured to Travis and Kylie she needed to move outside.
Kylie wondered what planet she’d been on when she’d thought about enlisting Faye and Stan’s help. They had full lives. A business. A family. A marriage. They didn’t have time to indulge her life crisis. Especially when they were, possibly, immersed in their own crisis. Except, if that were the case, why hadn’t Faye confided in her? Which brought Kylie back to her initial worry that Faye’s anger was actually directed at her, not Stan. But why?
Dang.
“What about me?”
Kylie blinked out of her musings and focused on Travis. Her temples throbbed as she processed. “You’re offering to help me renovate?”
“I am.”
“But you work full-time and I’m on a tight schedule.”
“I have vacation time coming.”
“Wouldn’t you rather spend that time somewhere else? Somewhere out of Eden?”
“I would, but I can’t.”
Hmm. Maybe he was strapped for funds. “You could relax—”
“I prefer to keep as busy as possible these days.”
Or maybe he didn’t want to travel alone. She suspected keeping busy kept his thoughts off of his deceased wife. Three months back, Mona Martin had succumbed to cancer. Travis had been devastated. He was still damned somber. How long did it take to get over a spouse’s death? She hoped to never know.
Kylie crossed her arms over her middle, trying to decide what to make of the man’s offer. She asked straight out. “Why would you want to do this?”
“To shake up my life?”
Had he been in the bar last night? Had he heard her rant?
“Maybe you miscalculated that figure I jotted. To be clear, I can’t pay you close to what you’d deserve for your time and effort.”
He almost, sort of, smiled. “Happy belated birthday.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT 10:00 A.M., TRAVIS entered his boss’s office and put in for vacation time. If Hank had refused, he’d been ready to quit. But it didn’t come to that. The man felt sorry for him. Assumed he was still mourning Mona—which he was. Only this wasn’t about Mona. This was about two people stuck in a rut.
By 10:45
a.m., Travis had loaded several cans of paint and various other supplies into the bed of his truck. Hank didn’t carry the kind of lighting fixtures Kylie wanted. Not wanting to wait weeks for an order to come in, she’d been ready to settle for something more conservative. Travis didn’t want her to settle. He told her not to worry. He’d track down those contemporary fixtures or something damn close.
At 11:15 a.m., Travis pulled into his driveway. A burst of adrenaline made his hands shake. He’d broken his routine. He’d tempted fate. Again. He wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure how he felt about that. But this time he wouldn’t turn back.
He raided his work shed for a ladder and toolbox. He pulled a roll of canvas and a bin of paint brushes out of his attic. The whole time he’d been at work boxing up everything Kylie needed, he’d been mentally ticking off items he could bring from home. He’d try to save her what money he could. It bothered him that she’d given up on a dream. He knew all about giving up something important. It ate at your soul. It was too late to save his, but maybe he could save Kylie’s.
Mona wouldn’t approve. She wouldn’t understand why he’d stick his neck out for a person he barely knew. He couldn’t explain it. All he knew was that Kylie McGraw had unleashed the part of him that he’d kept locked away for seven long years. Time to shake up the life forced upon him.
Eleven-forty-five. He stashed his name badge and work hat in a drawer. Changed into a fresh T-shirt and a clean but paint-splattered long-sleeved button-down. He tugged on an Indiana Colts ball cap. In his heart, he rooted for the Eagles.
Lunch consisted of a ham sandwich—white bread, yellow mustard and American cheese, Lays potato chips and a Coke. Of the times they’d shopped together, three times Travis had reached for a package of provolone. Mona had nudged him away.
“They don’t eat provolone,” she’d reminded him after they’d reached the sanctity of home.
Not typically. Typically they ate American, Swiss or Cheddar. Travis had grinned. “I feel daring.”
“No, you don’t,” she said as she put away the groceries. “You feel like everyone else in this county. You dress like them, talk like them, eat like them….” She bobbled a can of Campbell’s soup. It should have been Progresso. “Anything out of the norm—”
“—is dangerous. I know.” He’d hated the fear in her voice. He’d pulled her into his arms and hugged her. He’d assured her that American cheese was just fine.
Only it wasn’t. And Mona was no longer here to reassure.
By 12:40 p.m., Travis was on the road and on his way to McGraw’s Shoe Store. Renovating Kylie’s business called to his artistic side. He’d liked the pictures she’d shown him, although he’d suggested slight variations in the color scheme so as not to deter the male clientele. He’d also recommended scattered throw rugs—a mix of abstract and art deco—as opposed to the wall-to-wall carpet. Less expensive. More impact. Splashes of vibrant color against the dark hardwood floors. Kylie had applauded his vision, naming him a kindred spirit. He didn’t know about that. But he sure liked the way she made him feel.
Alive.
He popped open another can of Coke and floored the Chevy. He knew he’d work hard and work late tonight. Maybe he’d reward himself later…with a bottle of Chianti and a wedge of provolone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACK SAT BEHIND HIS DESK sorting through old newspapers, budget reports, trade magazines and assorted mail. A daunting task, complicated by the fact that he couldn’t concentrate. He’d played with fire this morning. First to soothe his ego. Then to satisfy his desire. He’d wanted to hold Kylie’s hand, to stroke that ivory skin. Watching her blush and ramble had been a turn-on. The more she denied an attraction, the keener his arousal. Growing up, given their four-year age difference, he’d never paid much attention to Kylie-the-kid. But Kylie-the-woman…she was a fascinating enigma.
Mesmerized, he’d imagined her in his arms, in his bed. He’d imagined her flexibility and fiery spirit. He wanted to lose himself in all that spunk and sweetness. He wanted to protect her from men like Ashe Davis and Bobby Jones. In that split second, he’d felt possessive of Kylie Ann McGraw. A sign that he was in deep shit. He wasn’t sure if he could shovel himself out. Worse. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Spenser was always bragging about his sister’s grounded, caring spirit. Connecting intimately with all that goodness could do wonders for Jack’s cynical soul.
Tempting.
The desk phone rang, jerking him out of his destructive musings. “Chief Reynolds,” he answered.
“Personal assistant to Chief Reynolds,” Dorothy Vine replied.
Jack frowned at the woman’s caustic tone. “What is it, Ms. Vine?”
“As requested, I phoned your sister on your behalf and invited her and her daughter to your house—or anyplace of their choice—for dinner.”
It had been a desperate act on his part, asking the squad’s administrative assistant to act as a liaison of sorts. But dammit, he’d been in town for almost a week and Jessie had avoided him at every turn. He knew she had to be heartbroken. She’d finally learned the truth about the Cheating Bastard. Frank Cortez was ruled by his dick, not his heart. That’s if he had a heart. Jack wanted to help Jessie through this. He wanted to help his young niece.
“Jessica Lynn asked me to give you a message,” said Ms. Vine.
“Okay.”
“She said…”
“Go on.”
“Fuck off.”
Disappointing, but not unexpected. Almost amusing coming from straight-laced Ms. Vine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jack hung up and focused back on his paper-ridden desktop. Better than obsessing on his fractured relationship with his sister and nonexistent relationship with his niece. Better than obsessing on Kylie. According to Ziffel, Chief Curtis had had a filing system. Damned if Jack could figure it out, and he wasn’t about to ask Ms. Vine. Not today. The squad’s administrative assistant, a fifty-something woman with choppy silver hair, green cat-eye glasses and a fondness for polyester suits, had rolled in an hour late—eyes swollen from crying over the former chief, manner brusque. Ziffel was right. She didn’t like the coffee and she didn’t like Shy. She’d spent the next hour sweeping, dusting and dousing the air with pine-scented Glade.
Shy cowered under his desk. He didn’t blame the dog. She probably felt like Toto hiding out from the Wicked Witch of the West. He had to admit, Dorothy Vine was a little scary. Then again, grief caused people to act in strange ways.
Take the parents of the victim who’d instigated Jack’s breakdown. Instead of wanting revenge or, at the very least, demanding justice, they’d swallowed their misery and moved on. Their emotional lockdown had made Jack hyperaware of his own numb state.
“Chief.”
Jack looked up. His expression must’ve been fierce because Ziffel stepped back. “What is it, Deputy?”
“Got a call from dispatch. Disturbance at 1450 Main.”
McGraw’s Shoe Store. Given his previous dark thoughts, Jack tensed. “Define disturbance,” he said as he rose.
“Kylie’s making a scene.”
Shaking things up. He almost smiled. He definitely welcomed the distraction. Jack braced himself for another encounter with the woman—Just don’t touch her for Christ’s sake—and nabbed his jacket. “Let’s roll.”
Shy scrambled out from under the desk and followed them into the administrative office.
Jack tugged on his EPD cap, glanced at Dorothy who was tapping away at the computer. “Do you think—”
“Not a dog-sitter.”
Right.
Head down, Shy zipped ahead of the two men.
Dorothy spritzed the air.
“You,” Ziffel said to Shy as they left the building, “stay downwind.”
“YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS of me, J.J.”
“Maybe not, but you don’t call the shots either, missy.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m ten years old!”
Arguing with her elders wasn’t Kylie’s style. Nor was airing her dirty laundry, especially in broad daylight directly in front of McGraw’s. But she’d already been knocked dizzy by Faye’s prickly mood and Jack’s unsettling touch. She’d be danged if she’d be bullied into ditching her home-spun adventure just because these fuddy-duddies were opposed to change! Insulted, Kylie smacked a hand to her racing heart. “I am responsible. My family owns this store and we’re renovating.”
“Anyone in your family know about that aside from you?” asked Max.
Kylie felt a small pang of guilt for not running the idea by her mom and grandma. Although they’d never taken an active interest in the business end of things, they did consider McGraw’s a family venture. As for Spenser, well, someone had to take a progressive role. Moving McGraw’s into the twenty-first century would shake things up in a good way. She hoped. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could easily contact her brother or her mom and grandma due to their current exotic locales. That thought only fueled her determination.
“Just as I thought,” Max said. “She’s acting solo.”
J.J. and Keystone chimed in, citing last night’s inebriated rant and a pre-midlife crisis.
Kylie fumed at being ganged up on. First the owner of the pharmacy, then the owner of the barbershop. The two businesses flanking hers. She’d never known these two men could be such curmudgeons. To make matters worse, Max, who still had shaving cream on his chin, had followed Mr. Keystone out of the barbershop to add fuel to the inferno.
“Since when do you fan flames instead of putting them out?” she blasted.
“Just doing my civic duty,” said Max. “Wouldn’t be right if I let you deface property.”
“Damn right,” said J.J.
“I’m not…I’m just…” Spitting mad. She was so dang mad she couldn’t think straight. She lost her train of thought as a crowd gathered.
“Is that pink?” someone asked.
“Prissy pink,” said Max.
J.J. tsked. “If Spenser was here—”
“Well, he’s not,” Kylie snapped.
