“And if you hadn’t wanted to, we wouldn’t be standing out here in the rain, arguing over who’s going to figure out the lock,” Brandon told her. “You’d be in your nice warm bed in Bend by now.”
“Which is where I should be!” She turned back to work on the lock. “Arrgh! Why won’t this combination work?”
“Are you sure you’ve got the—”
“Yes, I’m sure. If you want to be useful, go get the flashlight I keep on my key chain. I think my keys are in the console of the car.”
He backtracked to the car through the mud and got the flashlight. Back by her side, he held it over the lock’s face and yanked it back when she would have grabbed for it.
“How are you going to hold the light if you’ve got both hands on the lock?”
“With my teeth, of course.”
“Okay, so you’ve proved that you’re superhero tough. Can we just get this lock undone? I’m tired and wet and cranky.”
Penelope glared at him. “I didn’t ask you to get out in the rain, so don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”
She didn’t seem to expect an answer, and he didn’t give her one. The rain pelted him on the back, cold and hard through the cheap poncho, as he held the flashlight. Watching her fiddle with the lock was killing him by inches.
He gritted his teeth and held the light and got soaked for his trouble. But then, like the sun parting the clouds after days of rain, Penelope smiled. The lock popped open in her hands. She looked up at him in complete, childlike wonderment.
“I did it! I actually got it!”
Even though he was soaked to the skin, he couldn’t help smiling back. “So you did. Now, will you accept a little help to get this gate open? It looks as though it’s on the heavy side.”
Her smile didn’t dim.
Together they pushed the gate back, then dashed for the car.
Now, aided by a dim security light, Brandon could see the house take shape in the darkness as Penelope drove. He squinted for a better look. Two-story clapboard, stark and plain, in a yard that looked maintained but lacked that extra something indicating someone’s TLC.
He reached into the backseat for his garment bag and Penelope’s overnighter. The thing weighed a ton, but he bit back any complaint. Otherwise, she’d start a whole new argument over who was going to get her bag.
Thankfully the house proved far less of a challenge to get into than the gate had been and Penelope had them in out of the rain before they got any wetter.
She flipped on the lights as she went, revealing a house that was comfortable in a sensible sort of way. Brandon could see gaps in the furniture and on the walls. He hazarded a guess that the best pieces were in someone else’s home now.
“Mom said she had the caretaker leave us some bread and milk, basics for breakfast, but if you want anything beyond that, we’ll have to forage in town.”
Brandon glanced out the window, where the rain was coming down in sheets now. “Nah. That last burger we grabbed at the airport will do me.”
“Okay, kitchen’s that way, the satellite’s cut off, so no TV. Bedrooms are upstairs.” Penelope reached for her bag, but Brandon gripped it tighter.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I know how heavy that thing was this morning. You want to be my bellboy, that’s okay by me.” She led the way upstairs.
Halfway up, Brandon spotted a child’s crayon drawing on the wainscoting, carefully framed with picture molding. He stopped to examine it: a typical kid-scene of a house and cows and a family, made untypical by the energy of the colors and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. In smaller marker-print at the bottom right, an adult had added, “Penelope, age four.”
He called after her, “You did this?”
Penelope halted at the top landing. “What? Oh, that. Yeah. I can’t think why Grams never bothered to paint over it.”
“You’ve always been an artist, then.”
The observation seemed to catch her unawares. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Brandon turned back to the picture.
The house in the picture was obviously this house, and the picture was scribbled directly on the wall. Uncle Jake or his mom would have skinned him alive if he’d colored on walls. But someone—her grandmother, maybe—had thought enough of Penelope’s talent to cherish it and nourish it.
“It’s really good for a four-year-old. I was still doing scribbles then.” Brandon realized too late that he was speaking to empty air. Penelope had vanished.
He took the stairs two at a time and headed for the door that was open and the sniffle that was coming from it. Brandon found her sitting on the bed, her face screwed up in an effort not to bawl.
“Hey, what’d I—” He dropped the overnight bag by the door and the garment bag on the bed and knelt in front of her. “Did I say something?”
Penelope shook her head in an abrupt jerk. “I—I’m tired, I think. And Grams isn’t getting any younger. Maybe I’m banging my head against a brick wall. But she—she’s always believed in me, you know? She was the one who gave me part of the money for the house, said it was an investment. In my career. She’s always...”
“But you’ve never mentioned her. You always said ‘the bank.’”
“I did borrow money from the bank. But Grams loaned me money, too, so I didn’t have to borrow quite so much at such a high interest rate. Why? What difference does it make?”
Brandon sat back on his heels, trying to suss that out for himself. It did make a difference, somehow.
Penelope chewed on her thumbnail and stared off into the distance. “I hope Mom hasn’t told her I lost the commission. She’d be so disappointed that I’m welding farm implements for a living.”
He slid a palm against her cheek. Dark ringlets, still damp, brushed against the back of his hand. “If she’s the kind of grandmother who framed a four-year-old’s scribbles on a wall, she wouldn’t. She’d be proud of you for finding a way to make your dream a reality.”
Penelope pulled away from him. “Why am I telling you all this? If I fail, you win. You get to pick up the land for a song. Half the time, I suspect all your politeness and good manners are just a salve to ease your guilt. I think that’s why you’re so kind to me, when you are.”
“That’s not true. I’m kind to you because I want to be.” That wasn’t strictly true. He hadn’t been kind very often, and when he was, it was in spite of not wanting to be.
“I could believe that. I could. Except for the way you talk about Grandpa.”
He laid a finger against her lips. “Shh. Don’t. I’ve already made that mistake tonight. I’m starting fresh with my promise. Let’s pretend the world ends at Oregon’s state line. Just for tonight.”
“But we can’t, can we?” Penelope started to stand, but he pulled her back down.
“I can try. We have our moments,” Brandon said.
“We do. But I can’t take it, Brandon. I can’t take the guilt that comes from enjoying being around you. Simply being here with you feels like I’m a traitor to—”
“The promise?” he interrupted.
She made a sound in the back of her throat and closed her eyes. “Silly. This is silly.”
He ran his hands along her arms, up to her shoulders, along the graceful arc her neck made, and into her curls. Brandon pressed his mouth to her temple, slid his lips down along her cheek. She turned her mouth into his kiss, her lips searching his out. He kissed her and drew back.
Penelope looked up and met his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but this time she was the one who silenced him with a finger to his lips. No, there’d be no more talking, no risk of hurt feelings or wounded pride. For them, it seemed, Penelope had decided the world did end at the Oregon state line.
Brandon kissed her finger, opened her palm an
d pressed a kiss there, too. He saw those hands of hers in a million different memories—building her barn, petting Theo, welding his tractor for him, holding his hand on the airplane.
Without saying a word, he released her hand, slipped her raincoat off her shoulders and tossed it aside.
He kissed away one last tear tracking down her face, followed it as it slid down her cheek to her jaw. She leaned into him as he pressed his lips to hers again.
“You’re sure we can forget about Georgia for a while?” Brandon whispered.
She nodded, the very slightest dip of her head.
Penelope drew a fingertip along his face. “The question is,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off him, “are you?”
Brandon swallowed the guilt. “I want to.” There, that was honest. But did that honesty go far enough? Could he really keep that promise? He captured her fingers in his, opened her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. He looked up, met her steady questioning gaze. “For you, I’d want to forget every bad thing in the world. And for now, for this trip, I’ll give you my very best effort.”
She closed her fingers tightly against her palm, as if she were holding onto his kiss. “Okay. I believe you. And I’ll try, too. Now beat it, buster. I want to show you the Pacific tomorrow.”
The warmth of Penelope’s smile speared into him, making him ache to be able to forget Murphy and the farm. He would try. He owed the both of them that much.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PENELOPE AWOKE the next morning to find more rain pattering on the window. She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at the raindrops sliding down the pane.
Could the promise she and Brandon had made work? Or was she stupid to think they could bridge the chasm between them? If he cared about her—and when he’d kissed her last night he’d certainly seemed to care—he’d back off hounding Grandpa Murphy into prison, wouldn’t he?
You care about him. Does that mean you’re ready to sacrifice Grandpa’s future so that Brandon can have his dream? You of all people know about dreams.
The clock flashed half-past eight. If she wanted to share the Pacific with Brandon, then she couldn’t afford to linger, not if they were going to make their flight to Redmond. Penelope slid out of bed, jerking back her feet at the coldness of the hardwood floor. She was used to warmer winters already.
She listened intently, but heard no sounds from Brandon in the room next to hers. Penelope opened her palm, where he’d placed his kiss like a gift, a vow, the night before. She laid her palm flat on the wall that separated them—four inches, more or less. Four inches of honor and stubborness and pride, a gap that was maybe a little narrower after their heart-to-heart last night. And today? Today was a brand new start.
With that thought, she banged on the wall. “Hey, sleeping beauty! You awake in there? We’d better get a move on if we’re going to make that plane.”
Brandon’s groan came through the old plaster loud and clear. “Not again. Not another plane. Can’t we stay here forever?”
Now that’s the answer. If we could stay here, charmed, isolated...
She pushed away the thought. Shower, breakfast, a walk down the beach, and then on to Portland.
* * *
“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m walking in the rain on a beach,” Brandon said as they locked the front door. “This is nuts.”
“You were the one who wanted to see the Pacific in the fall. What’d you expect? Blue skies? Are you afraid of a little rain? Up here, we’re used to the wet stuff.” Penelope pointed to the galoshes she’d scored after searching the closets. “And we come prepared.”
“I guess up here they come in handy, huh.”
Luggage stowed, Penelope turned the car back toward town, and, once she hit Tillamook, made a right toward Cape Meares State Park and the ocean.
The quiet between her and Brandon didn’t irritate her like last night’s trip had. But she was glad he wasn’t talking much. When he talked to her in the way he had this morning, warm and loving, carefully avoiding the subject of Grandpa Murphy, she found herself willing to believe this could last.
On the deserted beach, with the wind and spray and cold rain slicing through her raincoat, Penelope held Brandon’s hand and tried not to think of what she’d face back in Georgia.
How could she face Grandpa now that she’d gotten close to Brandon? And how could she tell her grandfather that she could never go through with the land sale to the solid-waste company? He needed money for his defense. A federal investigation wasn’t going to disappear, as much as she wanted it to.
The incoming tide nibbled at her boots as they headed toward the stark basalt face of Cape Meares. Her choices seemed just as stark.
“Beautiful,” Brandon called beside her over the sound of the surf. “Beautiful!”
“Yes, it is!” she called back. Penelope stretched out a hand toward the basalt face. “That’s my favorite part of this whole stretch of beach.”
He grinned and shook his head. “My favorite part is right here!”
His frank admiration warmed her and reignited her guilt. Traitor. I am a traitor.
* * *
WHAT SEEMED an eternity and another change of planes later, Brandon felt the plane begin its final approach to the Redmond airport and looked out past Penelope to see the unexpectedly stark landscape glow in the afternoon light. Weird how he’d assumed Oregon would be all lush green pines. This looked more like a desert than the home of the Spotted Owl.
He touched Penelope. She stirred from where she’d been nestled against his shoulder, and he flexed his arm gratefully.
She yawned. “Are we there yet?”
“Yeah. I think so, anyway.”
Penelope peered out the window. “Yeah, we’re closing in on Bend, sweet Bend. Oh, joy.”
“You really aren’t looking forward to this, are you?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. There are worse things,” she replied with a laugh. “Root canals. Traffic court.”
“What have I got myself into? Are your folks nuts or what?”
“No, they’re...not like me. Definitely not like me.”
“Your mom seemed nice enough on the phone.”
The plane suddenly dropped toward the runway and landed with a few stomach-hurtling bumps. Brandon tried hard to hide how disconcerting it was to him. How could Penelope sit there so calmly? How had she managed to sleep on the plane?
Well, you did keep her up talking and kissing most of the night.
They hadn’t discussed anything about their future beyond this trip. Brandon was grateful Penelope had seemingly taken to heart the nothing-beyond-Oregon deal. As long as they skirted exactly how they were going to deal with Murphy once they got home, then Brandon could fool himself into not thinking about it.
It was coming, though. And he couldn’t lie, he was anxious to hear what Marlene Langston had to tell him about her father. Maybe some of Murphy’s skeletons would come back to haunt him and show Penelope exactly who Murphy was.
Off the plane and in the airport, they made their way past the luggage carousel. Brandon was shifting his garment bag over his shoulder and dragging Penelope’s rolling duffel behind him when he heard her say, “There they are.”
He looked up to see a tall, slender brunette waving excitedly.
“Darling!” Marlene Langston greeted her daughter, wrapping her in an effusive embrace.
“Wow, Mom, what a hug! Careful or I’ll think you missed me,” Penelope told her, returning it.
“Of course I’ve missed you!” She turned to Brandon and extended a hand. “I’m Marlene Langston, Penelope’s mother. And you must be Brandon.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for having me.”
Marlene craned her head back toward a quiet, silver-haired man waiting behind her.
“Peter, did you hear that? Ma’am. He called me ma’am. And that accent. Takes me back home.”
In person, Brandon could barely detect the slight Southern lilt in Marlene Langston’s voice. It was covered by an accent that sounded a lot like Penelope’s.
Peter Langston stretched out a hand. “Thank you for taking care of our daughter. I’m afraid she’s no good at taking care of herself.”
Beside him, Penelope winced. “Dad, you may not like to hear it, but I have managed to survive on my own for several years now. I’m not a complete idiot.”
Her father didn’t seem convinced in the slightest. His argument was cut short by Marlene steering Penelope toward the exit.
“Peter, I’m sure they’re tired—such a long trip from Tillamook—how was the house, dear? Did you get to take Brandon to the beach? Was it raining? The weather here has been terrible, and Jill’s mother insists on an outdoor wedding for two hundred people. And Jill insists on being barefoot. Oh, dear, it’s a mess....”
Brandon tried to wrap his mind around a 200-person guest list for a wedding with a barefoot bride. The weddings he’d been dragged to involved hoop skirts and tulle straight out of Gone With The Wind. Maybe this one wouldn’t be quite so uptight as those.
But his hopes were dashed on the way to the car, as Marlene launched into a long description of the wedding plans. It sounded as complex as any other wedding. Maybe he and Penelope should simply elope.
The errant thought caught him flat-footed. Had he just been thinking about marrying Penelope?
“Brandon? Did you leave something behind?” Marlene asked.
He realized he’d stood still and let them walk on ahead. “Uh, no.”
A Place to Call Home (Harlequin Heartwarming) Page 17
