A week later they were sitting at a table at one of the nicest eateries in town.
But this wasn’t like it used to be. In the old days, they’d be riding around in Jack’s pickup, not sitting across from each other, a white tablecloth stretching between them.
Conversation was halting at best.
Their server arrived holding two plates. “Roast chicken?”
“That’s me.” Jack raised a finger.
“And vegetable strata,” she said, placing the second dish in front of Harley.
When they were alone again, Jack said, “Maybe we could start over. Pretend the past never happened.”
How was that possible? Jack had altered the course of her life in ways he still didn’t know about.
She shrugged. The alternative wasn’t working very well. Anything would be better than these long, awkward pauses.
“Good.” He settled deeper into his seat. “Let’s start from the very beginning. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”
“Well,” said Harley. She took a sip of wine. “Let’s see. I had a great childhood. Grew up outside a small farm town in a valley where there were no boundaries—”
“—that you obeyed,” inserted Jack, grinning, thinking of all the times she’d trespassed in his family’s vineyards.
“Details. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I had wonderful parents who let me be me. A great teacher-mentor. I’ll stop there and let you have a turn.” She stabbed a carrot with her fork.
“That’s interesting, because I grew up in the same kind of place. Except that I had a lot of boundaries.” He switched to a serious tone. “I’m not like you, Harley. We might have grown up next door to each other, but from the way we were raised, we might as well be from different countries.”
“For example?”
“Well,” he said, munching a bite of his salad, “I always knew that one day I would take over the family business. Everything I did was geared toward that.”
“Whereas . . . ?”
“Whereas you could do whatever you wanted.”
“You make it sound like your upbringing was better than mine.”
“Not better. Just different. It’s like the difference between majoring in, say, business and liberal arts.”
“I see. So what you’re saying is, we never had a chance.”
Jack set down his fork. “I didn’t say that.”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
“Will you just shut up and let me explain?”
“You want me to shut up?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “I’m making an effort, here. Why do you have to take offense at every little thing I say?”
“You tell me to shut up and I’m not supposed to take offense? I’ve got news for you, mister. Just because you happen to have been born a Friestatt doesn’t make you better than anyone else.”
“You think I don’t know that? Why don’t you just say what it is you’re really thinking—that I think our differences are all about wealth? For your information, I don’t believe that having money makes one person better than the next one. Everyone has value as a human being.”
“Oh, really? Isn’t money the reason you chose Emily over me?”
“What? No! That may have been my mother. But that was never me.”
People were staring.
Harley threw her napkin on the table and rose. “Take me home.”
“Glad to.”
They drove to her house without speaking. He’d tried, but this was never going to work. There was just too much against them.
Jack walked her to her door. “Thanks for going out with me tonight,” he said by rote.
“Thanks for dinner,” she mouthed without looking at him.
“You’re welcome.” He waited for her to put her key into the lock, then turned to leave for what would probably be the last time, already reviewing the disastrous date and trying to figure out who was most at fault. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he must have missed the first porch step in the dark. The next thing he knew he was tumbling down the steps, cursing as his elbows and knees banged against the wood.
“Jack!” Harley’s heels clattered behind him. She squatted beside him, sprawled on the brick walk, her hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Fine.” He was such an idiot! Quickly he scrambled to his feet.
“Sit down for a minute.” She yanked him down next to her on the step and put her arm around his shoulders. Her body felt good against his. Her scent was clean and green, like sheets dried on the clothesline in the summertime.
He blinked at her, bringing her face into focus in the faint glow of the porch light. Her brow was furrowed with concern.
“What?” she asked. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he said, studying the spiky shadow of her lashes on her cheeks. She was still the same Harley he’d been crazy about all through school. Being here next to her again felt good and right. Inevitable. Like they’d been running in opposite directions on a circular track and had finally met up with each other again. “Nothing at all.”
“I don’t believe you.” She wrapped her arm around him in a side hug.
“I appreciate what you’ve done with your life, Harley . . . all that you’ve accomplished since high school. I know how important your success is to your self-worth. But I never thought of you as less than equal. I always respected you for who you are.” He just hadn’t known how much. It had taken time and life to teach him that.
“Are you going to be okay?”
He nodded as he got to his feet.
“You sure?” she asked doubtfully, rising with him, her hand still on his upper arm.
He turned to her and gazed down at her face. “I will be.”
They both would be, he vowed to himself, despite the rocky start to their reunion. He didn’t know how, but he was going to make certain of it.
Chapter Twenty-three
Friday evening, Harley opened the door with a flourish to her very first guests. “Hello! Welcome to Honeymoon Haven! How was your trip?”
“Ms. Miller-Jones? We’re the Pettys.”
Harley’s research told her that what guests wanted most in a B and B hostess was a people person. But it wasn’t hard to be personable when you really were excited.
“Don’t stand on ceremony. Call me Harley. What should I call you?”
The Pettys exchanged a priggish look. “Mr. and Mrs. Petty,” they said in unison.
“Oh.” Harley’s head swiveled from one to the other. “Mr. and Mrs. Petty it is. All righty, then.” She clasped her hands together. “Let’s get you settled. Right this way.” She kept up a running commentary on the way to the podium that passed for a front desk. “What are your plans for the weekend? Which wineries do you have reservations at? Are you going to go downtown for dinner tonight? I can recommend some great places to eat. Just let me know what you’re in the mood for. Sports bar, craft brewery, seasonal American fare . . .”
As Mrs. Petty examined the foyer ceiling with a critical eye, Mr. Petty set down his duffel bag and pulled out his wallet. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, handing Harley his credit card.
“Of course.”
Upstairs, she lingered in the doorway of the guest room she had so carefully prepared for them, but it seemed they were fresh out of compliments.
Jet lag, she thought. Poor things.
No sooner had they set down their bags than they were gone again.
Harley went about her day as usual, working at her desk, taking occasional breaks to walk outside in a fine Pacific Northwest drizzle, satisfied knowing that she was making passive income.
Late in the afternoon, she began looking for the Pettys, thinking they might come back to grab a nap or freshen up before heading back out for dinner. But dinnertime came and went with no car pulling up the drive.
Night fell, and though she longed to get out of her clothes, she felt a mate
rnal need to wait up for them, as if they were teenagers. After all, they didn’t know the area. They could get lost, or get in the wrong person’s car or be tricked into buying drugs or—
The sooner her baby arrived, the better. Her maternal instincts were in overdrive.
Just after midnight, when she had finally washed off her makeup and donned her pajamas, she heard the key in the front door. She pulled on a robe and scampered down the stairs to meet them.
“How was your day? Did you find everything okay? Did you have a nice dinner?”
“Fine. What time is breakfast? We want to get an early start.”
“How’s eight?”
“We were thinking seven.”
She had picked eight arbitrarily, assuming guests might want to sleep in. “Seven it is. Is your room okay? Do you have everything you need?”
“If we need something, we’ll let you know,” he said, closing the door softly in her face.
Harley stood there, stung. Clearly, that advice about being chipper was from an unreliable source. She decided to focus on the part of her that was relieved they’d returned safely.
She returned to her bed with a contented sigh and squeezed her eyes closed. But when she heard the faint sound of conversation and the shower running, her eyes flew open again.
It had never occurred to her to check the solidity of the walls.
She had finally dozed off when there was a knock at her door. She opened it to find Mrs. Petty, hugging herself, her teeth chattering.
“Do you have any more blankets? Our room is like an igloo.”
“It’s in the fif—” Harley bit her tongue as she retrieved one of her own blankets from the linen closet. She knew from waitressing that the customer was always right.
* * *
It was pitch black outside Saturday morning when Harley’s alarm rang. She dragged herself from her bed, slapped some concealer on her under-eye circles, and went down to put the coffee on, preheat the oven, and fry the bacon for the quiche, hoping the Pettys would be more cheerful after a good night’s sleep.
By six fifty-five, the silver urn was full of freshly brewed coffee and there were two carafes of cold juice on ice. The table was set with the quirkily mismatched china she’d picked up at salvage stores. She straightened a fork a centimeter. And then she took off her apron and glanced up the stairs in anticipation.
Seven o’clock came and went. Maybe she had taken the Pettys too literally. Surely they’d be down any minute.
Seven fifteen. Seven thirty.
At 8:05 she finally heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Good morning!” she chirped, smoothing down her apron with its grape-cluster print. “How are you?”
“My back is killing me,” said Mr. Petty.
“I’m sorry,” said Harley. Maybe she should have taken all the mattresses for a test drive. But Mrs. Grimsky had assured her that they were like new.
“Does it rain three hundred sixty days a year in the Willamette Valley?” asked Mrs. Petty.
It seemed the only thing that could erase the scowls on the Pettys’ faces was a syringe of Botox the size of a cookie press. Harley was a hair’s breadth from snapping, Don’t be silly, only two hundred twenty.
“Do I smell bacon?”
“You do! Doesn’t it smell amazing?”
“Not if you happen to be vegan.”
Harley’s face fell. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked,” they replied. Did speaking as a unit come naturally to the Pettys, or was it a practiced skill?
“Got me there,” Harley said. Dietary preferences and restrictions . . . one more thing to check on, from now on.
“Do you have any steel-cut oats?”
Last week, when Harley was stocking up on groceries, she had debated the box of cereal in her hand, but she’d put it back on the shelf, fearing serving cereal was the mark of a lazy hostess.
“Or at least some fruit.”
Harley peered into the fridge, brightening when she spotted a Fuji apple. “Do you like apples?”
They stared at the apple, prompting Harley to do the same. On closer examination, its skin was as loose as Grandma Miller’s when she went into assisted living.
“Or not,” she said, tossing it into the trash.
The Pettys exchanged their trademark flat affect. “We’ll just stop along the road somewhere and get breakfast.”
Harley didn’t bother asking if they were interested in goat yoga.
When they exited for the last time, Harley slammed the door and flattened herself against it, sighing, “Joy to the world.”
She had to spend the morning laundering the sheets and cleaning the guest room before she could get to her “real” job.
But Kelly had an OB visit today and had promised to call Harley this evening with a baby update.
And after that, Jack was coming over. He had called to ask, and she’d said yes.
Chapter Twenty-four
Saturday. Jack had penciled in a date with his daughters. Mother had gone to the farmers market, and for the first time since he could remember, both girls were in a good mood.
“What do you want to do this afternoon?” Jack asked the girls at breakfast.
“Please take us to the park,” the girls begged.
Since the day of the demonstration, they’d developed a fascination with the park.
“It’s not very nice out,” he said, looking out at the drizzle. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather catch a movie?”
“That’s okay. We can wear our hoodies,” they cried.
Then again, if you waited for a sunny day to go outdoors, you might end up staying inside forever.
“If that’s what you want to do, grab your jackets and a couple of softballs.”
* * *
The three of them had been tossing the ball around in a triangle for about an hour.
“I love the park,” said Freddie. “I would be so sad if it wasn’t here anymore.”
Frankie sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand and asked, “Tell me, what’s aesthetics again?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” said Jack. “I never got art myself.” He tossed the ball underhanded to Freddie. It slipped right through her hands.
“The ball’s slippery,” she complained, chasing it with Fang.
“That’s because it’s too wet. Our feet are getting soaked. How about we find something to do inside where it’s dry?”
“What?” they asked.
“A lot of new stores have come to Newberry since we were overseas. I have an idea.”
A few minutes later, they left an exhausted Fang sleeping on the backseat of Jack’s truck and walked down the sidewalk until Jack stopped beneath a sign that said NEWBERRY ART COLLECTIVE.
“What’s this?” asked Frankie, looking around.
“It’s a place where local artists can show their work.”
“Can people buy it?”
“Of course they can, silly,” said Freddie, on their way inside.
Jack followed the girls as they made their way slowly past displays of ceramics and abstract objects and useful, handcrafted wood items.
The walls were lined with paintings and photography. “Look at this!” exclaimed Frankie, pointing at a picture of a dancer. “Is that a photo, or did somebody draw it?”
Jack looked around, but the only shop worker was busy with another customer. He stepped closer to the picture and stared hard at it. “Sorry, Frankie. I don’t know.”
“Come look at this!” Freddie called from another aisle.
“It started out as a comic book, but the pages have all been folded in different directions and it’s been painted on. I wonder why?” She frowned.
Jack searched again for the shopkeeper, but she was still tied up.
But the girls had already found new things they were curious about. Again and again, they threw him queries the same way he tossed them the softball, and again and again, he droppe
d the ball.
For once, his daughters’ good moods overlapped with the window of time he had set aside to spend with them, and he couldn’t answer their most basic questions about art. It was frustrating.
Then it dawned on him. He knew someone who could. And she just happened to love kids.
Chapter Twenty-five
On hearing his knock on the front door, Harley jumped up from where she’d been studying her baby’s sonogram and wiped a happy tear from her eye.
Halfway to the door she paused, surprised at how much she was looking forward to seeing Jack’s smiling, familiar face given their last attempt at getting together. Then again, anybody would be better than the Pettys.
She opened the door to find him holding out a bottle of wine. “This is for you.”
“You have great timing. I could use a glass of wine.”
“How’d it go with your guests?” he asked, peering tentatively into the living room.
Behind him, Harley closed the door and leaned against it, trying not to stare at the way his broad shoulders narrowed into his waist.
“The Pettys? Let’s just say they lived up to their name. I’ll go find a bottle opener. Have a seat in the living room.”
“You’re going to meet all types in the hospitality biz. Trust me.”
There was that word, trust, again.
“How are the girls? I’ve been thinking about them. I hope my getting arrested didn’t traumatize them too much.”
“Funny you should ask. You’ll never guess who’s the chair woman of the plan to tear down the park.”
Harley looked up from where she struggled with the cork pull. “Don’t tell me.” She sighed and slumped. “I never intended to cause any trouble—” As if Melinda didn’t hate her enough before she got arrested. The memory of her telling Harley she had no idea what she was in for with her B and B came back to her.
Jack came over, took the bottle and cork pull from her hands, and expertly twisted it in. “The demonstration was happening right in front of us. There was no way I could have shielded the girls from it. Anyway, that’s life. Have you heard any more about why it’s being torn down?”
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