by Jayne Denker
“I don’t even know how to interview for a job.”
“This is Georgiana Down. Believe me, even if you were a pro at interviewing, your skills would be wasted here. Just be yourself. Wait,” he amended, “be a more reserved version of yourself.”
“Save the crazy for after I get the job?”
“Exactly.”
Jordan took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Okay,” she declared. “Let’s burn this fucker down.”
“I hope you’re speaking figuratively,” Will said, chasing after her as she headed for the back steps. “Hey.” He tugged at her sleeve, and she turned back to him. “You can do this. Good luck.”
“What if I screw it up?”
“We find you a different job. Fuck it.”
That got a wry grin out of her. “Am I rubbing off on you, Boy Scout? Could be dangerous.”
“Don’t I know it,” he muttered under his breath, following her inside.
They found George and Casey in the kitchen off the back hallway, talking with Elliot and Nestor, two of their employees, about holiday decorations, as George attempted to untangle a string of lights that looked like a lost cause. When she spotted Will and Jordan in the doorway, she flung the knotted strand back into a box, apparently happy to give it up.
“Officer Billy!” she cried, crossing the kitchen to give him a hug.
“What’s up, sir?” Casey shook Will’s hand after George released him.
Will wilted at the snickering coming from behind him.
“ ‘Officer Billy’?”
Damn that stupid nickname a drunk George had bestowed on him a few years ago. He’d managed to eradicate it from Marsden usage since then—it had taken quite a bit of perseverance to accomplish it—but of course he couldn’t get George to stop saying it.
“Never mind,” he growled at Jordan. “You heard nothing.”
“Oh no, no. I will not never mind. It’s better than all the W names in the world.”
He ignored her. “George, let me introduce you to Jordan Leigh.”
“Hey. So you’re Celia’s cousin.”
As Jordan and the petite strawberry blonde sized each other up, Will prayed fervently that Jordan would stay just frightened enough not to blow this. Or was that a bad thing to want? Didn’t matter; he wished it anyway.
“Are you totally like Celia?”
“I’m totally not.”
“Celia’s a good person. Do you mean you’re totally not?”
Although Jordan looked alarmed, likely wondering if George was about to bring up every negative thing she’d heard about Jordan in town, George said this with an amused smile, and the other woman relaxed a bit.
“I’m different from my cousin.”
“Interesting. Do you know anything about event planning?”
“Uh . . .”
“Can you cook?”
“Er . . .”
“Do you know how to make beds and set a dining room table?”
“I can manage that.”
“Come on.” George put a slim arm around Jordan’s shoulders. “Let’s go to the office and talk while the men beat their chests and get their tools out.”
“Is that a euphemism?”
George laughed, and Will dared to hope things would work out all right after all. With a wink over her shoulder at Casey, George led Jordan out of the kitchen and down the hall, while Will settled in with the guys to help them sort out the lights and decorations that would go up on the windows, porch, roof, and lawn.
Chapter 15
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“It’s your second day.”
“Exactly,” Jordan whispered into her cell phone. Stomach twisting, she leaned her head against the cold, frosted glass of one of the inn’s bedroom windows. “I’m a friggin’ fraud.”
“Jordan,” Will said slowly and evenly, obviously trying to be patient with her, “you’re cleaning and making things look pretty for a conference. I’ve seen how you’ve kept Holly’s house. How much harder can it be, doing the same thing in a bigger place?”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
She hesitated. Why in the world had she called Will, a guy she wasn’t even sure wanted to hear from her? Was she that desperate? She supposed she could have called her grandmother instead, but she didn’t want to worry Holly. The last time Jordan had talked to her, Holly had been alarmingly concerned about her. She’d never acted that way toward Jordan before. She wondered if this change in behavior was part of her grandmother’s Alzheimer’s, or if Jordan was so bad off she even inspired sympathy from the woman who’d invented tough love.
So no. She couldn’t call Gran. Aunt Wendy and Uncle Alan were out of the question as well. Appealing to them for sympathy wasn’t even on her radar. She’d never been close to them; in fact, she hadn’t even told them she’d returned to Marsden in November, opting to let the Marsden gossip machine work its magic instead.
Although she hated to admit it to herself, she actually wanted to talk to Will. Officer Billy. Nope, not even George’s nickname made her feel better, and she’d gotten plenty of chuckles thinking about it—and using it on him—in the past couple of days.
“Jordan?” Will prompted. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I didn’t even ask you if you were busy before I started blabbing.”
“I’m just doing a little detective work on my day off. Somebody vandalized Nate’s office—used spray-can snow to paint very rude snowmen on his display windows last night.” He paused, maybe waiting for her to laugh, but she didn’t, so he went on, “Okay. Talk to me. Why are you freaking out?”
“I . . . I keep screwing up.”
“Again: It’s your second day. What can you possibly have done by now?”
Plenty, she wanted to say, but it was too embarrassing to list her transgressions. She’d shown up on time this morning, which she was mighty proud of. And it was the last thing that had gone right. Wrong sheets on the wrong beds, plus she put a lovely L-shaped tear in one. Used the vacuum on the antique Oriental rug which, she quickly found out from a suddenly nervous George, was very bad for an antique Oriental rug. Washed the knives, when they should never be dunked in dishwater. How had she not known all that? But she hadn’t.
It seemed like everything Jordan attempted to do, she did wrong, and George was getting more and more terse as the day went on. At this point Jordan was thinking she should return to a life of crime and stop trying to hold down a regular job. Now she was hiding in the bridal suite, curled up on the window seat behind some heavy draperies, until she could slink away unnoticed and never come back.
Will’s voice broke into her thoughts. “How late are you working today?”
“Just till noon. Then I’m going to go home, hide out, and lick my wounds.”
When she pulled into her driveway that afternoon, Will was there waiting for her, a large cup from his brother’s coffee shop in each hand. He held one out to her as she got out of her car.
“For you. Gabe’s hot chocolate has been known to cure leprosy, balance the federal budget, and establish world peace. I figured you could use some right about now.”
“Whatever magical properties this might have,” Jordan said, lifting the cup to her lips, “there is no way it can possibly repair the damage I’ve done in just . . . oh my God!”
“Told you.”
With a massive effort, Jordan lowered the cup; if she hadn’t, she’d have downed the whole thing without coming up for air. “He’s created the nectar of the gods.”
“The secret is a liberal use of real cream. Local stuff from Lester Biggs. He’s a complete wackjob, but he keeps his cows happy. Spoiled rotten, even. Makes for great output. Are you healed yet?”
“Just about.”
“Atta girl. So. Now that you’re functional again, come with me.” He started walking toward his vehicle, which was idling at the curb, but Jordan hung back.
“Wher
e are you taking me?”
“I thought you could use a home-cooked meal.”
“Depends on what home we’re talking about.”
Will nodded knowingly. “I will admit lunch is at my mom’s house, but she didn’t cook it.”
“That’s all right, then. Who did?” she asked, climbing into the Jeep, careful not to spill even one drop of her hot chocolate.
Will slid behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and swung around in a U-turn on the wide street. “I did.”
“You?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I happen to enjoy cooking, when I’m allowed out of my hovel and given more free rein than just heating stuff up in my microwave.”
“I’ll refrain from sounding impressed until I actually taste this meal. And survive. What are we having?”
“Cream of mushroom soup and homemade bread, made fresh this morning. The bread is cooling and the soup’s simmering on the stove. You in or what?”
Now Jordan’s stomach was rumbling, probably loud enough for Will to hear, so there was no point in being coy about it. “Guess so. That is,” she amended, “if we ever get there. What’s this dude’s problem?”
They’d pulled onto Main Street behind an old red pickup truck, more rust than paint, with a one-by-six for a back bumper. The suspension was shot, and the entire truck tilted at a precarious angle, but it ran no risk of hitting a bump too hard, because it was going at a snail’s pace.
“That’s just Burt Womack.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“This is what he does. Never goes above fourteen miles an hour.”
“Can’t you . . . I don’t know . . . do something about it?”
“Like what?”
“Dude. Cite him for blocking traffic or something.”
Will smiled. “Nah.”
“It is a thing, isn’t it? Impeding traffic? I’m not just making stuff up?”
“No, you’re right. I could. But it’s not worth it.”
“You’d get the guy off the road.”
“Jordan, here’s the thing about being a police officer in a small town: Sometimes it’s not worth it to cite people for really minor things, even if technically you could. If I gave Burt a ticket—and I could come up with a few, by the looks of that truck—it wouldn’t be worth it. I know he wouldn’t be able to pay the fines. Then we’d have to bring him in for unpaid traffic violations. And then we’d have to transport him to the county lockup, which the county would not appreciate. He’s, well, kind of . . . fragrant.”
“Fragrant?”
“He’s not big on the whole soap-and-water thing.”
“Ew.”
“So as long as Burt isn’t hurting anyone, we’ll just let him be.”
The meal turned out to be actually palatable. Jordan was duly impressed, and she didn’t even mind Annie and John joining them, although she was grateful Cam wasn’t around. She found it easier to talk to the congenial and nonjudgmental Nash parents when the rest of their sons weren’t leering at her and waiting for her to do something stupid. She enjoyed the quiet afternoon and the opportunity to repair the damage she’d done on Thanksgiving.
When Will offered her a beer, she turned it down in favor of water. When Annie or John spoke, she listened, and if they asked her a question, she gave polite, thoughtful answers instead of just blurting out the first thing that came into her head.
It was a lot of work.
It was worth it.
By the time they’d moved on to tea and pastries (from the bakery), Will’s parents were not only relaxed around her, but actually smiling. She was proud she’d won them over, thrilled that finally some more Marsden residents weren’t looking at her suspiciously, as though if they turned their back on her, even for a moment, Jordan would sneak up behind them and give them wedgies.
Will excused himself to take a call from Zoë, and Jordan wandered into the living room. She liked the Nashes, but their house made her claustrophobic. Itchy. It made her want to escape to the open air as soon as possible. She’d felt it on Thanksgiving, thinking it was because the place was crowded with guests, but she felt the same now, and she realized why: Even with nobody around, the place was still crowded . . . with stuff. The house wasn’t messy—not even a little bit—yet a vast amount of furnishings and decorations filled every corner of the place. And there were a hell of a lot of corners. Gran’s house used to be like this as well, but hers was different somehow—almost everything had been a necessity and had been used at some point, then ended up still sitting there because it had always been there and nobody thought to remove it. (Console television, anyone?)
The items in the Nash home, on the other hand, were quirky, frivolous. A collection of shells and rocks on a shelf. A kid’s crayon drawing, so old the corners curled, propped up against some books in a dark corner of a bookcase. An Asian fan. An arrangement of antique photos in just-as-antique frames. A fossil on a table. A collection of crocheted doilies. A bundle of porcupine quills in a small glass vase. A group of children’s handprints in clay, which Jordan suspected belonged to the Nash boys. She took a closer look; sure enough, each disc was etched with their names and a twenty-year-old date.
The place was lived in. Every item was a reminder that a large family lived here—one with a rich, vivid history. She was certain if Annie were standing there and Jordan pointed to something at random, the Nash matriarch would be able to tell a detailed story of how the item came to be in the house and its significance to the family.
And Jordan wouldn’t want to hear one word of it.
Family stories bored her. Hell, families in general bored her. She avoided these things whenever possible.
“Do you like that quilt?”
Dammit.
Reminding herself that Annie was a nice person who had reached out to her on more than one occasion, Jordan put on a smile and said, “It’s very nice. Where’d you get it?”
“I made it.”
Double dammit. Now she was going to get a family story and a lesson on the art of quilting.
Annie amended her statement with a gentle laugh. “Well, I helped. You could say I did the heavy lifting. But do you see this wonderful piecework?”
Jordan did not. All she saw were shapes, colors, and tiny stitches. Still, she squinted and tried to seriously examine the fabric hanging from a wooden bar on the wall.
“That’s the work of the best quilter this area’s ever seen. Shame he retired.”
“He?”
“Absolutely. Quilting isn’t just for women, you know. That’s such a nineteenth-century outlook.”
“Mom, you did not just out me.”
“I didn’t, but you just did.”
A wicked smile crept onto Jordan’s lips. Will? How delicious. First the Officer Billy moniker, and now this? She’d have ammo to last for years. In fact, she could start firing right now . . . but she wouldn’t. Not in front of his obviously proud mother. It could wait.
Will knew what she was thinking. “Yeah, go ahead. You know you want to.”
“No, no. I want to hear all about your art.”
Annie was more than happy to fill her in. “When Will was little, he used to watch me and my friends quilt, and he’d say, ‘Mommy, can I do that too?’ I started him cutting pieces for me, and darned if he didn’t arrange them in the most beautiful patterns. So I taught him to sew.”
“Mom, for God’s sake . . .”
“Don’t interrupt your mother.” Annie held up a hand as if to block the sight of her son’s dismayed expression and continued, “He took to it just like that. His little hands could create such tiny stitches, and he was so careful and neat—never sloppy or in a rush. It was amazing to watch. He had my entire quilting group fascinated, and they made him an honorary member.”
“He created this design?” Jordan ran a hand over the bumpy stitches and bits of fabric, laid out in a truly eye-catching star pattern that was almost an optical illusion.
“He did
. I have other ones packed away that he made all by himself. I’m saving those.”
“For his hope chest?”
The older woman laughed as her son groaned. “If he ever gets his head straight and gets married, I will set him up with one, and these will have pride of place.”
“Stop right there. I cannot deal with this right now,” Will muttered. “Zoë just asked me to come in early; Ricky’s not feeling well. Jordan, if you’re done dragging all my humiliating secrets out of my mother, I’ll drop you off home on the way to the station.”
“Hang on a minute. I want to know what happened to the boy genius of the quilting world.” She turned back to Annie. “You said he retired?”
“Well, it wasn’t too long before he figured out quilting isn’t what manly men do. Then he just . . . dropped it. Never picked up a needle again. Of course, his brothers giving him grief about it just hastened the inevitable.”
“And I’m sure the world isn’t suffering for the loss,” Will interrupted. “Jordan, let’s go.”
“Yeah, yeah. Before your mother tells me any more juicy secrets about you, right?”
Chapter 16
“Now?”
Will glanced over at Jordan with trepidation. They’d been driving for at least two minutes, and she hadn’t started her teasing tirade about his past textile indiscretions. He couldn’t stand the suspense.
“Mm,” Jordan replied neutrally, a placid smile on her lips as she gazed out the passenger-side window. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What, you’re saving this for when you really want to embarrass me?”
She turned to him, pulled off her knit hat, messed with her hair, then yanked it back on again. “You know, I don’t think I will.”
“Like I believe you. This is prime material.”
“Ah, I see what you did there. Nyuck, nyuck.”
He rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t intentional.”
“You should always say you planned something clever, whether you actually did or not.” Jordan shifted in the Jeep’s bucket seat. “No, I’m not going to hold the whole quilting thing over your head.”
