What Florida contact information I find is a couple of years old, but it gives me a place to start. It seems there is a co-op that I can contact and see where to go from there.
Another discovery that I make is that Bristol and Darling have an aptitude for art. Well, I’m assuming it’s both of them. There are no names on the artwork, but a lot of the pictures are done twice.
It’s interesting, this box. As much as Court’s scent invades this room, I catch a fresh, sunny, flowery scent every now and then on the papers.
Vague memories of seeing MaryLeigh with Court on the television when I did have the unfortunate timing of being at home when a race was on, try to make their way into my mind. Visions of blondness and sunglasses are about all I can recall.
Deciding I need to start scanning the documents, I try to download the printer drivers on my computer. One frustrated hour later, after a slow internet connection and being unable to locate the software in any of the drawers, I shove my jump drive into Court’s computer.
I don’t like working from someone else’s computer, but unless I want to keep digging in this box, this is my best bet.
Mrs. Stratton comes in the office. “Would you like me to make you dinner?”
I look at my watch. Six-thirty. “No. That’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“There are plenty of items to make a salad. Several different salad dressings in the refrigerator.”
“Okay. Thanks. That sounds perfect. Have a good evening.”
“Same to you. Are you almost done?”
“Getting there. I have a few more items to scan.” I wave my hand over the many stacks still sitting on Court’s desk.
“Should have been done long ago, in my opinion. But the Mrs. could do no wrong. In anybody’s eyes. Not speaking ill of the dead, mind you, but facts are facts. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With those parting words, she shuts the door.
The sound of the feeder jamming brings me back to reality.
I unjam the feeder, and restart the batch of papers.
The stack is rather large, and when it appears they will go through without jamming, I sit back at Court’s desk. He only has a couple of folders on his desktop, unlike mine which is littered with documents and folders.
A cute picture of Bristol and Darling is his screensaver. As each batch finishes scanning, I hit the display button and name the file, then store it to the jump drive.
A pretty monotonous project.
Quite boring actually.
Until I accidentally hit the wrong drop down box and find myself in Court’s documents folder.
There aren’t too many documents. A lot less than I would expect from a business owner like Court. Unable to stop my curiosity, I scan the titles.
One catches my eye.
TAG Investigation.
What kind of investigation?
Is Court’s company investigating someone or something?
Is somebody investigating Court’s company?
My wandering mind is once again interrupted by the sound of the feeder jamming.
My face flushes at my nosiness.
Whatever is going on with Court’s company is his business, not mine. He hired me to take care of Bristol and Darling, not snoop into his computer files and imagine crazy scenarios. Wringing information out of Jared is entirely different than opening Court’s documents.
As I turn my chair to unjam the feeder I almost back into Court.
His gaze is fixed on me, his lips are in a straight line, and his arms are crossed. “Find anything interesting?”
MENACING
I’M AMAZED AT HOW calm I feel with him towering over me, looking more menacing than I know he is.
At least I hope he’s not as menacing as he appears right now.
Since he hasn’t moved there’s nowhere for me to go. My knees are almost touching his as I continue to sit in his chair.
“Wow.” I decide that honesty is the best approach. “This looks really bad, I’m sure, but I didn’t open any of your documents. I accidentally hit the wrong drop down and then the printer jammed, so…”
“So I can thank the printer for keeping you out of my personal files?”
Even though his expression hasn’t changed his tone is lighter.
Or maybe that’s my imagination.
I want to reach up and uncross his arms.
But I don’t.
That would be overstepping boundaries for sure. “I wouldn’t have looked.”
“And I know that because?”
“You don’t. You just have to trust me.”
Uncrossing his arms, he then runs a hand through his hair. His thick, black gorgeous hair.
“I’ve trusted you with my children, but…”
His more relaxed stance has relaxed me. “I’m telling you I didn’t open anything. Please believe me.”
Knowing that I didn’t do anything wrong is normally all it takes for my conscious to feel okay when a situation like this comes up, but for some reason, it’s important for me to know he knows I’m telling the truth.
He backs away, his gaze not leaving me. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
Those words don’t settle anything inside me. They keep me on edge, a feeling I don’t like.
He picks up one of the stacks that haven’t been scanned. “Have you been working on this all day?”
He’s not far enough around the desk that I can get to the printer, so I stay seated, which I feel puts me at a great disadvantage. I don’t like looking up to him. “I have.”
I decide not to reveal how interesting I find the information and in some cases, lack of information. I’m sure he knows his wife’s strengths and weaknesses. We all have them.
But MaryLeigh Treyhune definitely had organizational issues.
And issues with authority, it appears.
Now I wish I had paid more attention to the television when my dad watched those races. Not that I could have gleaned much personal information from a few seconds of camera time, but it would have been interesting to see Court’s interaction with MaryLeigh. If he had a smile for her, a kiss on the cheek or the lips before stepping into the race car.
Dale never would kiss me in public on the mouth. He always kissed my cheek or forehead if people were watching. I asked him about it once, and he said if he kissed me the way he did in private he might forget we were in public.
That’s what he said, but he really meant that classy people didn’t kiss on the mouth in public.
It wasn’t a sign of status.
My parents always kissed on the lips.
Hence, no status for the Madisons.
“Why don’t you call it a day?”
Court has now walked over to the door.
“I will. As soon as I unjam these papers. Then, I’m going out. I need to buy a Father’s Day card for my dad. Not that’s it’ll get there by Father’s Day.”
Court stops his exit from the room. “Thanks for the reminder. I need to do the same.”
Then he disappears and I open the printer once again.
“No sense in taking two cars. I’ll drive.”
When I look toward the door where Court’s voice came from, all I see is his hand on the doorframe for a moment.
He’s gone.
As I focus my attention on unjamming the printer, I realize there are far worse things in life than hanging out with Court Treyhune.
WE MAKE QUICK WORK of buying cards. Well, Court much quicker than me. I think he bought the first one he picked up, while I am more particular, reading several before finding the message I want to say to my father.
Seeing how it’s June, we exit the card shop into daylight, even though it’s after eight o’clock. I do notice the nice breeze that seems to never end here in the town of Hampton Cove, making it bearable to be outside.
Although, I must admit, being around Court can throw a heat-wrench into any situation. I try to stay as far away from him physically as I can.
We walk past a café with an outdoor seating area. Most of the tables are occupied, but there are a couple of empty ones.
“Are you hungry?” Court asks.
I think back to the day and the half-sandwich I had for lunch hours ago. I have no reason to lie to Court, except that he might suggest we eat together. And again, there are worse things in life. “Actually, I am. Lunch was a long time ago.”
“Do you want to stop here and grab a bite?” He nods toward the café.
“Sure.”
We walk to the hostess stand and in moments are literally on the other side of the fence as we are seated at a table. Now we are watching others walk by.
It’s awkward sitting here with Court. I barely know him, yet am privy to many personal things about him. I notice other women looking longingly his way as they walk by. They are probably jealous of me, yet if they knew the dynamics of our relationship, they wouldn’t be.
After the waiter brings our drinks, Court looks at me. “I talked to Bristol and Darling earlier. They said to tell you hello.”
Bristol and Darling. Mine and Court’s common denominator, Team Twin. “When you talk to them next, tell them I said hello back.”
“I will.”
Although he asked me on this venture, he is definitely far away in his thoughts. I wonder if he’s thinking about his dad. Or the girls. Or his business.
Or maybe his dead wife.
I can see how they would all captivate his attention.
“So, you and Jared have been friends for a long time?” No harm in finding out a little background information while I can.
“You are interested.” His tone and expression are flat. This is not the impression I want to give.
“Not for reasons you think.” Jared and I wouldn’t last a minute dating. I’d probably end up slapping him across the face, or he’d tire of being unable to impress me with his fake charms.
He scoots his chair back and crosses his right leg over his left leg. “I don’t blame you. Jared is single, nice-looking, according to all the women, and he makes a decent living, although why he never has any money is beyond me. Watch out, you might have to pay for dinner if you go out with him.”
I laugh. “I don’t want to go out with him. Promise.”
“I don’t know. You are going to a concert with him. And here we are, barely settled in our seats and the first thing you do is ask about him. Sounds like you’re interested.”
How do I convince Court that my interest in Jared has nothing to do with the dating factor? “He’s not my type. At all.”
Court half smiles. “What is your type?”
“Somebody more like you.” And there it is. I really said that.
I would like to say his expression looks surprised, but honestly, concerned is more of what I’m seeing on his face.
That’s not good.
“Don’t take it personally,” I add, trying to ease his mind. “I’m talking about your whole persona. Business man. Clean cut. Handsome.”
Court nods. “Jared is all those things.”
“Yeah, I guess so. But there’s something unreal about him. That probably doesn’t make sense to you since you’ve known him so long.”
“He’s complicated, I’ll admit. But he does have a good heart. I just don’t think he knows that.”
The sound of chairs scraping across the concrete invades the atmosphere as the table of four next to us prepare to leave. Even though it appears the two women are with the two guys, I can’t help but notice the women stare at Court as they walk past us.
The guys are not staring at me.
Court demands that kind of attention.
A glimpse tells me one of them recognizes Court, but she doesn’t say anything.
Court is oblivious.
I want to stop talking about Jared. I’ll have to glean information on my own from now on. No more probing Court.
The door to the restaurant opens and I recognize the women who walked by a couple of minutes ago coming back toward their table. I glance over at it, thinking maybe they left something behind.
But they don’t make it to their table.
No, instead they stop at ours.
“We’re sorry to interrupt, but aren’t you Court Treyhune?”
The woman who speaks is a platinum blonde, beautiful and expensively dressed.
Court straightens in his seat. “I am.”
The blonde flushes while her friend doesn’t seem affected at all. “I thought so. I just wanted to tell you I hope your dad is going to be alright. We’ve been praying for him.”
Well, knock me down. An autograph? Yes. Slipping Court a phone number? Yes.
Telling him you’ve been praying for his dad? Never in a million years would I have guessed that would be the reason they sought Court out.
“Thank you.”
For the first time since I’ve been around him, Court seems uncomfortable. His hand has settled on his knee. He has just run his other hand through his hair. And he only speaks those two words.
It’s not my place to intervene.
To speak.
To do so would give these women the impression that I am somebody I’m not.
“We’ll continue to pray,” the blonde says. “Have a good evening.”
She and her friend depart, and I wonder if they hear Court’s second “thank you.”
“That was nice of them.” Why I feel the need to say something in their defense is beyond me.
“Prayer.” Court rubs his chin with his right hand. “Interesting.”
I’m given a moment to think about the exchange as the waiter takes our order. He scoops up our menus and promises to top off our waters momentarily.
He seems oblivious to who Court is.
Which is probably a relief to Court.
“I thought they were going to ask for an autograph.” I might as well throw my thoughts out there.
“Me, too.”
“It’s good to know people are praying for you. I mean, I’m sure you know the whole racing nation is praying, but to hear personally from people, like that lady, has to be good for your soul.”
His eyebrows raise. “Racing nation?”
I feel my eyes widen at my slip of “race speak.” Hearing my daddy all those years has now come to life. “You know, the fans.”
“Are you a fan?”
Are his eyes hopeful?
“Not really. I’ve never followed the sport.” Which isn’t a lie. Daddy followed it, I didn’t.
“I like your name, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
He fiddles with the napkin, his gaze lingering on me. He now seems relaxed again. Like the edge the woman put on him when she mentioned prayer has now left.
Court has no faith, and he doesn’t want to talk about prayer.
It’s a good thing we aren’t involved. That wouldn’t make Mama happy at all.
MONSOON
FRIDAY MORNING BRINGS torrential rains which squash any attempt at running. Thunder rumbles early and wakens me from a night of surprisingly good sleep.
I thought the late dinner and time spent with Court might make for a restless night, but I was wrong.
Mrs. Stratton needed the day off, so I make the coffee. I’ve pulled my hair back in a ponytail and am reading the Wall Street Journal online when Court steps into my world.
He nods toward the back of the house where sheets of pouring rain are visible through the floor to ceiling windows.
“No outdoor activities today.” He pours himself a cup of coffee before joining me at the bar.
“I agree.” As I sip my coffee, I spy the card I had bought for my dad. It’s addressed and stamped, ready to be mailed.
Picking it up brings fond memories of my dad. I will miss spending Father’s Day with him this year.
“Need to mail that?” Court asks.
“I do. I’m sure the rain will let up soon and I’ll run it out there.”
Court leans over, tak
ing the envelope out of my hand. “The mail comes first thing. I’ll take it.”
“No. You’ve already showered. I’ll run it out there.” I make a move to slide off my barstool, but his hand on my shoulder stops me.
“I’ll do it. Keep reading.”
He half-smiles and I’m mesmerized to do what he says.
Which is not like me at all.
But my gaze follows him as he walks out of the kitchen and down the hall. I hear the door open then the garage door opening.
Moments later, and I swear it’s barely moments, I hear the garage door shut again.
He’s back.
Like it’s second nature, I jump up off the barstool when Court enters the kitchen, hair dripping and shirt speckled with large rain-soaked spots.
Grabbing a towel hanging from the oven door, I hand it to him. “Here.”
He holds the thick red towel in his hand and shakes his head. “I’m not sure what Mrs. Stratton would think of me using a kitchen towel to dry my hair.”
I swallow hard, waffling between not being embarrassed at my maybe lame gesture and unsure of what to say.
His expression holds a hint of mischief as he rakes the towel over his wet hair. “I guess we won’t tell her.”
The fact that his words have the ability to relax me doesn’t escape my notice. Maybe the fact annoys me, but I’m aware.
It’s impossible not to be aware of Court Treyhune on any level. “I guess we won’t.”
“This needs to go to the laundry room.” He drapes the towel over his arm as he brushes his hair with his hands.
“Good idea. Mrs. Stratton will be none the wiser.”
Once again he disappears, but I barely have time to process him leaving the room before he returns.
He doesn’t stay in the kitchen. He walks into the keeping room and stands, one hand on the window, the other shoved in his pocket. The rain seems to hold his attention, and I quietly wonder if I slipped away would he even notice.
As I’m about to take a step his voice stops me.
“You’re refreshingly real.”
I know he’s talking about me, but since I feel anything but real, an unwanted wrench settles in my stomach. He didn’t ask a question, so there’s no obligation to respond.
Rich in Faith (Richness in Faith, Book 3) Page 7
