by Peggy Webb
She kissed him softly on the lips, then went through the connecting door and leaned against it, trying not to cry.
Be brave, she told herself, but it was hard to be brave when you were wearing nothing but a bedsheet and beard burns. It was hard to be brave when your heart was breaking in two.
Jolie was quiet on the drive back to the nursing home to get Lance’s motorcycle. He glanced over at her and said, “Are you okay?” and when she said she was, he felt relief that labeled him a coward. Or worse.
Last night he’d broken all his own rules. After vowing to himself that he would never sleep with this woman without promises, what had he done? Spent the entire night reveling in her arms. As if that weren’t bad enough, he’d let his guard down again this morning. Heck, he hadn’t even put up a token resistance.
It wouldn’t happen again. He’d make sure of that.
Mercifully, the drive to Hanging Grapes Haven was short. He parked beside his bike, and Jolie slid over to take the wheel.
Leaning in at the open door, he said, “You be careful now.”
“I will.”
She looked at him with soft, luminous eyes that made him feel both heroic and cowardly. God, he was so confused he didn’t know which way was up.
He lingered beside her car, but there was nothing else to say, so he closed her door and walked away without looking back. He fiddled around with his bike till he heard her turn around and head out of the parking lot. Then he followed, closely enough to see that she didn’t get into any trouble, but far enough back so that he couldn’t make out her face in the rearview mirror.
There was only so much temptation a man could stand.
Elizabeth greeted them at the front door, and immediately immersed them in her high energy and lofty plans.
“I’m so glad to see you. What perfect timing. Lance, I’d like to film you first, if you don’t mind.”
“Just give me a chance to change.” He rubbed his chin. “And shave.”
“Great. You know the way to your room.”
Oh, God. Connecting doors. Again.
“I do. Give me twenty minutes.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Thirty, tops.”
Lance looked Jolie’s way and fell briefly into her eyes, then tore himself away and raced upstairs. The first thing he did when he got inside his bedroom was draw the bolt on the connecting door.
It wouldn’t stop him, of course, but if insanity overtook him in the middle of the night it might slow him down enough for him to come to his senses.
Elizabeth had set up her cameras in the library, the camera crew was nowhere in sight. But more importantly, neither was Jolie.
“The crew went for a barbecue, and Kat’s with Mom. They went to Ben’s house to help pick out the furniture she wants to move over here when they merge households,” Elizabeth told him.
“Was I that obvious?”
“Yes. Look, Lance, you don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I know that. You’ve proved yourself a good friend.”
“I want to show you something.” She went to the bookshelves and returned with a dog-eared book of fairy tales. Flipping it open, she came to a color picture of a woman in medieval costume being carried off on a white stallion by a man wearing a crown. The faded stain on the page looked suspiciously like chocolate.
“Sleeping Beauty and her prince. Kat got this book for Christmas when she was four years old. This is her favorite story. I can’t tell you how many times she made me or Matt read it to her.”
“While she ate chocolate?”
“How did you know?”
“I know her.”
“Well, then you don’t need me to tell you this. Matt always thought she loved this story best because of the picture of the white horse, but I think she loved it best because deep down Kat is a true blue romantic.”
Elizabeth closed the book and put it back on the shelf. “If you ever decide you’re interested, Kat needs real romance.”
“You’re a good woman.”
“And you’re a good man.” Elizabeth studied him. “Are you comfortable now? Warmed up? Ready to start filming?”
Smiling, he nodded. “I take back what I said about good. You’re a devious woman, Elizabeth Coltrane.”
“Don’t tell.” She handed him a typewritten sheet of paper. “Take a look at these questions. Basically, I’m going to ask how you met the woman called Birdie, under what circumstances, and what has transpired since. Just tell the truth.”
“Including the part about her stealing the O’Banyon family’s Christmas?”
“Especially that. It’s colorful, and a great human interest angle.” The crew came into the library just then, and for the next few minutes Elizabeth was busy giving instructions.
Finally she said, “Okay, everybody. Places. Let’s get started.”
All the way back from Ben’s house, Lucy talked about weddings. Not that Jolie minded weddings. On the contrary, she was always the one who grabbed the June brides’ section of the newspaper every summer when they featured local debs modeling their chosen finery. Lucy had paid little attention, and Elizabeth none at all.
Now here was Lucy, chatting about a wedding as she drove hill and dale. And here was her youngest daughter, who ought to be happy, taking exception because she wasn’t the bride-to-be. How tacky could you get?
Thank goodness it was too dark for her mother to see her expression.
Lucy twisted around to face her abruptly. “I’m thinking about wearing purple. What do you think?”
Jolie grabbed for the wheel and steered the car away from the shoulder. “I think you’re not going to live to be a bride if you don’t watch the road.”
“Sorry. Of course, Elizabeth will want me to wear white.... Well, I guess she will. With her you never know.”
“White. She’s a romantic at heart.”
“I never noticed that. How do you know?
“Because she used to read ‘Sleeping Beauty’ to me all the time. She loved that story.”
“Hmm. Michael hasn’t called since she got here. I wonder what’s going on?”
“Oh, you know Elizabeth. When she works, she works.”
“She works too hard, if you ask me. She ought to read my latest book. She might learn a thing or two.”
“I certainly did.”
Lucy laughed. “Good. Beats having to give those dreadful birds-and-bees talks to my children.”
“Mom, I’m hardly a child.”
“Just kidding. You know, of course, I’ll want you to be a bridesmaid.”
“Great.” She’d have to buy a bridesmaid dress and dye a pair of satin shoes a color nobody would be caught dead in.
Jolie was glad when the ride was finally over, and even happier when she discovered that everybody else had gone to bed. She wouldn’t have to stand around and pretend.
The only painful part of this visit with her family was that everybody expected her to be cheerful. Nobody expected it of Elizabeth. She was the studious, serious type.
And then there was Jolie. All she needed was a bulb nose, red rag hair and some big clown shoes.
Jolie kissed her mother good-night, then went upstairs and stood in the middle of her bedroom staring at the connecting door.
“Open sesame,” she whispered, but of course, it didn’t.
And she wasn’t about to go through.
She put on a nightshirt that said Save the Rain Forests, then went to bed determined to sleep. After she’d counted two hundred and fifty-nine sheep, she gave up, went to her closet and rummaged around on the top shelf till she found her old childhood pal, a raggedy lion.
“Hello, Beast. Long time no see.”
She lay down with the stuffed toy cuddled under her arm, then started giggling, thinking what a good story this would make for Connie.
What did you do last night, Jolie?
I went to bed with a beast.
Connie would laugh, and so would Jolie.
There w
asn’t enough laughter in this world.
She’d always known that truth in her bones.
And maybe that’s why she wouldn’t strike clown off her list in her attempts at self-improvement.
Lance stood at the bolted door, arguing with his conscience.
Lift the latch. You’ve already made love with her. What difference does it make now?
Because he loved her, damn it. If he went through the door now, it would be a commitment of sorts, and he was far from ready for that.
Jolie needed declarations of love. She needed a wedding in a big church, with all her family in attendance. She needed romance. Hadn’t Elizabeth told him that?
Lance leaned his head against the door and breathed deeply. He ached so much for her he could barely move. He caught a whiff of her fragrance. Or was it his imagination?
When he got his passion under control, he put his hand on the door and whispered, “Good night, my love.” Then he climbed into his cold, lonely bed.
Chapter 18
Goodbyes were never easy, especially saying goodbye to Jolie.
He said his farewells to Elizabeth and her mother first. Then finally to the one who mattered most.
“Jolie.” She turned toward him with a wistful look that caught him high under the breastbone and wouldn’t let go. “I just came to say goodbye.”
“You’re leaving? So soon?”
“Elizabeth’s finished with me, and I’ve received an assignment in Richmond, Virginia. I have to be there tomorrow.”
Jolie shot him a brave smile that nearly broke his heart. “Well, then, take care.” The small hand she offered was a shocking reminder of how explosive contact with her could be.
“You, too.”
“I will always remember you, Lancelot.”
He didn’t want to raise false hopes, so he kept the truth to himself. He would never forget her. How could he? She was the only woman who had ever made him feel completely comfortable in his own skin, the only woman who had ever made him wish for a home to call his own.
Still, he couldn’t say those things. Not yet. “Don’t go chasing after any more thieves,” he finally said.
“Not without my mop and soccer pads.”
God, that smile. He had to get out before he did something foolish. Still, he couldn’t walk away from that smile, that sweet upturned face that moved him most when it had a little chocolate smear near the mouth. A mouth he had kissed. A mouth he was going to kiss again. Audience or no audience.
He cupped her face, then kissed her tenderly on the lips, a small, brief kiss that made his heart beg for more. Wisely, he ignored his inner pleadings.
“Goodbye, Jolie,” he whispered, and then he left quickly, without looking back.
By the time Jolie finished her part in Elizabeth’s documentary, her face was frozen into a permanent mask of false merriment. She’d have to use a crowbar to pry her mouth back into its natural shape.
Two days after Lance had left, Jolie headed back to Memphis. She had been home no more than fifteen minutes when Connie came over to discuss her wedding plans.
Her neighbor prefaced her monologue with “I’ve just got a minute, I’m on my lunch break,” and ended with, “You’ll be my bridesmaid, of course.”
That meant more dyed-to-match shoes. By the time Jolie finished being a bridesmaid for all those weddings, she’d have enough tacky satin shoes in Easter egg colors to open her own shoe store. On the bright side, if her job with the SPCA didn’t come through she’d have another way to shore up her income.
“I’ll be happy to,” she told Connie.
“You don’t look happy. What’s wrong?”
Jolie wasn’t about to reveal intimate details. Not even to her best friend. Some things simply weren’t meant for sharing, and what she’d felt during those beautiful hours in Lancelot’s arms fell into that category.
“It was lovely while it lasted, and then he said goodbye. I knew he would because he told me he couldn’t make promises.”
“Don’t worry about it. They all say that at first. If it’s meant to be, he’ll come around.”
“You’re talking fate here. Do you believe in that stuff?”
“Yeah. Tarot cards and auras and numerology, too. You never know. The world is full of mysteries.”
“Yeah, like why hasn’t the SPCA called about my job application? Do you think I forgot to put my phone number on the form?”
“I don’t know. You might try calling them.”
But as Connie was getting ready to leave, the phone rang. Jolie answered, then stood there speechless while her friend mouthed, Are you all right?
She hung up, then stood paralyzed with shock. Connie grabbed her shoulders.
“Kat, say something.”
“I got the job.”
“Let’s go somewhere and celebrate.”
“We’ll celebrate here. I’ll cook.”
“You can’t cook.”
“Lance taught me.”
He had taught her many things, among them, how to feel like a woman well loved. But she wouldn’t dwell on that now. She had a great new job, and dinner to cook.
Her new workspace in downtown Memphis couldn’t actually be classified as an office, but Jolie referred to it as one, anyway. Giving the cubicle an important label made her feel as if she had accomplished one of her major goals: moving up the career ladder. Shoot, she was barely on the first rung, but she would be working three days a week doing publicity for the SPCA, which meant, even with cutting back her pet grooming to two days, she’d still come out ahead. And if she did a good job at the SPCA, she would move up the ladder.
With her increased income she’d be able to afford lovely surprises for Birdie. Shoot, she could even get a few things for herself—maybe that pasta machine recommended by some of the world’s best gourmet cooks. With practice, she could cook holiday feasts for her family without Lance’s help.
Oh, help.
She traced the design on the tooled leather desk set he’d given her. It looked wonderful. And important. Like Jolie was going to be somebody.
Well, heck, she already was. Just ask Jimmy Stewart.
Jolie glanced around her tiny space to see if she had room for Jimmy, but decided she didn’t. Besides, she needed to make a good impression, and talking to a cardboard man might not be the best way to do that.
It had been two weeks since he’d last seen Jolie, and Lance was surviving. But not living. He maintained a molelike existence, buried in his work by day and in his search for family by night. All clues led right back to Phoenix. Still, there had been no word from Clyde Shane, so another trip would be useless. Clyde was not the kind of man who caved under pressure.
Leaving his computer screen glowing, Lance stood at the window looking at the surrounding houses. He would be in Richmond only for the duration of this assignment, so he was in another borrowed neighborhood. It shouldn’t matter to him what the houses looked like or who lived in them, since he would be there such a short time, but it did. The houses were old and rich with history. Judging from the large number of senior citizens and children, they were filled with extended families.
He could see Jolie in a neighborhood like this. He could picture her inviting her parents and her husband’s parents to live with her when they could no longer take care of themselves. He imagined her humming through spacious rooms while children played on the swing set in the backyard and two sets of grandparents, and aunts and uncles, gathered in the living room for another holiday feast.
She deserved that.
He jerked the curtain shut as if he could shut out his thoughts, as well as the neighborhood. The computer screen blinked at him from his desk.
He cut the power. What was the use? He was too disheartened to continue the search for family. He’d already said goodbye to Jolie. He’d said he could make no promises.
So let it go. Get on with your life.
He flipped on the television and was surfing aimlessly through the cha
nnels when his cell phone rang. It was Clyde Shane, and he was ready to talk.
Clyde and his wife, Lydia, flew to Richmond the next day. She was a pretty woman, small and dark. The photograph Lance has seen on her husband’s desk didn’t do her justice, probably because it was hard to capture a lively spirit on film.
They came to his house at nine o’clock in the evening, bearing photograph albums and a leather-bound diary with an eagle embossed on the cover. Sitting in the straight-backed chairs in the apartment’s combination dining and living room, Clyde spread the items on the table.
“My wife made me come,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for Lydia, I would still be in Phoenix.”
“No, you wouldn’t, Clyde.” She patted his hand. “You’d have come around to the right way eventually.”
Lance itched to see inside the albums, to thumb through the diary. To hear the words he’d waited for all his life: I know who you are. Trained for discipline and patience, he waited.
Clyde’s hand shook when he opened the first album to a photograph of a young girl with big dark eyes and familiar cheekbones.
“This is Sarah,” he said. “My sister, your mother.”
Lance had dreamed this moment a thousand times. He’d dreamed what he would do—laugh, cry, shout. He did none of those things. Instead he looked into the eyes of the man who had just become family and said, “Thank you.”
Clyde reached out and Lance clasped his hand, while Lydia rummaged around in her purse for her handkerchief.
“I told Clyde you’re the only thing we have left of Sarah, and that she’d want us to make you a part of our lives. If you’ll have us, we’d like to be family to you.”
“I’d like that. Very much.” Lance studied the picture of his mother. She was so young, hardly more than a child herself. “I’d like to hear her story.”
“There were six of us children,” Clyde said. “Daddy had been killed in a construction accident when I was five years old. In order to keep the family together, Mother did every kind of odd job she could—washing, baby-sitting, baking.”
