One Hot Second

by Stacy Gail

  “The one I broke, if you’ll remember,” Oliver put in, his expression mournful. “When the story of Declan Junior’s conception was published, I thought the mysterious madam known as ‘Miss Louisa’ and Louisa Weems were probably the same person.”

  Chandler leveled a hard look at his employees. “So you just gossiped about it without checking with me, not to mention ignoring my warning that Miss Louisa’s descendant didn’t want to be revealed?”

  “She gave me permission,” Oliver blurted, gesturing helplessly toward the mayor. “It was my turn to pick up something for the office this morning, so I went to Pauline’s for a box of Danishes. The mayor was there at the counter ordering a latte and a croissant, and I asked her point-blank if Louisa Weems was her ancestor. She told me that while it was none of my business, she supposed she couldn’t stop me from talking because that was what I do best. Then she told me that she didn’t care if I told everyone in town, and to go right ahead.”

  “That’s true.” A young woman came to her feet, her toffee-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Parker recognized the woman, Lucy, as the pastry chef from Pauline’s. “I was there manning the register this morning, so I heard the whole thing. That’s the reason I came down here tonight, Madam Mayor. I wanted to know why you’re upset enough to resign over this, when you gave Oliver—the biggest gossip Bitterthorn has—permission to spill his guts all over town. That just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “It’s starting to make sense to me.” Chandler’s face was so hard it could have been carved out of granite as he turned his attention back to Mayor Weems. For just a moment she returned his look with eyes that burned with a hostility that not even her political instincts could cover. “Technically speaking, Mayor Weems hasn’t mentioned the word ‘resign’ yet. Now that the air has been cleared, was there anything more you wanted to say, Madam Mayor?”

  Apparently Mayor Weems needed several drawn-out moments to pull her thoughts together. “While it seemed Oliver was working as an agent of your newspaper, Chandler, I now concede I may have jumped to the wrong conclusion. When I believed I was being attacked on a personal front, I felt it was my obligation to this town—a town I love so much—to step aside before my private issues could bog down the everyday workings of Bitterthorn. Luckily that doesn’t seem to be the case, so I’m happy to announce that I will remain in my position as mayor. And it is an honor to do so.”

  What a crock. Parker shook her head. Unless her instincts had suddenly gone completely on the fritz, she was positive the older woman never had any intention of resigning. What she’d really wanted to do was stick it to Chandler so bad it could have put pressure on him to resign as editor of the Herald. Then she would have been sitting pretty, draped in the guise of a strong but suffering political martyr who’d survived the slings and arrows of a media bully. But maybe after this fiasco, the people of Bitterthorn would see their mayor for what she was. There’s always hope. She turned away, pondering the odds of beating the crowds out of the parking lot.

  “Wait.”

  Chandler’s commanding tone automatically brought her eyes up to find him looking right at her from his position at the podium. She froze, and suspected she now knew what a deer caught in headlights felt like.

  “Madam Mayor, we both owe Parker Radclyffe an apology,” Chandler said, continuing to hold Parker in a rock-steady gaze. She couldn’t have looked away now if her life depended on it. “Far from appreciating everything she’s done for this community by encouraging us all to delve into our past and appreciate it, you’ve been hostile to her from the get-go. And tonight you came very close to vilifying her.”

  “Vilifying? That’s a bit much, don’t you—”

  “I wasn’t any better,” he went on, and Parker could believe he’d already dismissed the mayor so completely from his mind that he hadn’t even heard the woman speak. “I’m ashamed to say that I also misjudged Parker. Badly. All she’s ever done since she came to Bitterthorn is be herself—passionate about her job and the history of this town, and the people who populate it. With her unique take on the past, she’s made me realize we’re more than who we think we are, and for that I’m grateful.”

  Grateful. The word echoed in her head as a smattering of applause broke out. Grateful was good. Better than vindictive, or not one of them, at least. But it wasn’t enough. It was time to lay everything out on the table, and she didn’t fool herself into thinking it was going to be as easy as it was in dealing with the mayor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The gooey romantic in Parker had hoped Chandler might want to talk once Mayor Weems concluded her farce of a press conference. But Doris and Oliver pounced on him to plead their case the moment he moved from the podium, along with what seemed like the rest of the room. For a suspended moment their gazes connected through the milling crowd, his eyes almost aglow with what looked like killer frustration. She could understand that. Fighting through a sea of bodies so they could have a private chat wasn’t her idea of a good time. The only option she had was to make a strategic retreat. Privacy wasn’t going to be happening any time soon.

  Unfortunately, she had no clue where they stood. He’d apologized—in front of the town, no less—for misjudging her. That was great, and in that moment she’d thought she’d never lose the warmth in her heart that his mea culpa had spawned. But the more she thought about it, the more it hit her that she’d never given him a reason to lose faith in her in the first place. Yet, the moment pressure was put on him, he’d turned and pointed a finger right at her when she hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve it. When push came to shove, his natural instincts became painfully clear. She was an outsider and always would be.

  There were a lot of things she was capable of putting up with. That wasn’t one of them.

  She’d just shut the car door when her phone sounded with Chandler’s ringtone. She almost ripped off a fingernail diving for it. “Hiya.”

  “You’re not leaving yet, are you?”

  It was crazy, how her brain jumped into instant overanalysis mode. Leaving the library? The parking lot? Bitterthorn? The state of Texas? Did he sound happy or sad about it? Through the background noise on his side and total insanity on hers, she couldn’t figure it out. “I’m in my car now.”

  When in doubt, say something random.

  “Have you ever heard of Ernest Westerman?”

  She blinked. Clearly he’d also gotten the memo on random communication. “No.”

  “He almost flunked out of Frank Lloyd Wright’s School of Architecture and needed to ace the final exam by designing a house that exemplified Wright’s system of using the surrounding geography and topography. So he designed a house called Whispers of the West—the only house he ever designed, incidentally. It bowled Wright over, and it just happens to be right here in Bitterthorn.”

  “You’re kidding.” She tried to pump some enthusiasm into her voice, but it was a stretch. Normally the mere mention of Frank Lloyd Wright was enough to send her into raptures, but not now. Even in her world there were more important things than architecture. Chandler and their future—or lack thereof—fell smack in the middle of that category. “Where is it?”

  “I’ll show it to you.” There was a rush of nonsensical talking, and she frowned, trying to understand the garbled sounds. “Damn. I have to go, but hang around a few more minutes, okay? We need to talk about...everything. And you really need to see this house.”

  A house. After everything, he wanted her to hang around to see a house. She stuck the key in the ignition, willing herself to find the strength to turn it. The engine remained silent.

  “Parker? You still with me?”

  Yes. “I’m...I’m still here.”

  “Just stay put and I’ll be out as soon as I can. And Parker...” There was another spate of loud talking in the background, answered by Chandler, who asked f
or calm before his attention turned back to her. “I just wanted you to know I meant what I said.”

  She drew a breath to ask him what he meant by that when the call disconnected and she was left to shake her phone like it was a Magic 8-Ball. But neither the power of a kid’s toy nor her abused phone would tell her what the hell Chandler was driving at with that statement. Had he meant it when he said she was vindictive? Or that she was an amazing woman whom he’d personally vouch for?

  She didn’t know. And she couldn’t leave until she did.

  With the sun suspended low over the oak-studded hills in the west and the heat still set to broiling, Parker was forced to turn on her car’s air-conditioning before she passed out. She was toying with the idea of seeing if Pauline’s shop was still open so she could pick up some ice cream for dinner when Chandler emerged from the heavy Gothic doors. He was followed by several people, but he waved them away even as he searched the jam-packed parking lot. He spied her car and made a beeline for her, pulling his car keys out as he went.

  “Follow me.”

  Whatever she’d been expecting, it sure as hell wasn’t a terse command. But she pulled in behind Chandler’s car with a frown and headed west toward the fiery orange sunset. It would have been nice to catch a hint of that softening in his eyes she’d seen earlier when he apologized. Maybe even a word—just one damn word—to ease the hard, fist-sized knot in her stomach. But he’d given her nothing. She probably shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing else had gone right today, so why should the demolition of her expectations be any different?

  Less than five minutes later Chandler pulled into a long straight drive lined with sculpted arborvitae that pointed like a dozen slim daggers to the sky. At the end of the drive was a magnificent work of architectural art. In only the loosest sense was it a Prairie-style structure, with the center portion almost traditional with a wide veranda made out of the limestone of the surrounding area and exposed beams and trusses. What made it so eye-catching were the identical triangular prow-style wings on either side that soared upward like two cathedral points. The walls of the pointed structures had to have been made by the finest artisans of the day; constructed entirely of glass and wood, it appeared as if the wood window frames had grown from the ground like the branches of the live oaks dotting the hills, writhing this way and that up through the glass to become a distinct whole. The influence of Frank Lloyd Wright was present in the ultra-geometrical hipped roofline of the central structure and long overhang of the eaves, and for a moment her fingers itched for a camera. Then Chandler parked and headed toward her car with a determined set of his jaw, and everything vanished from her mind.

  “Whose place is this?” she asked when he pulled her car door open for her.

  “Mine, now. Declan Junior was the one who snapped up Westerman’s design.”

  Somehow she wasn’t surprised. “First a royal engineer and architect, then a protégé of Frank Lloyd Wright’s. The Thornes really insist on having the best of everything, don’t they?”

  “I told you—that’s why I brought you to Bitterthorn.” Without waiting for an answer he led the way up the verandah’s stone steps and invited her in with a sweep of his hand. “Make yourself at home.”

  The interior was just as remarkable as the exterior. With an intricate herringbone pattern in cedar on the ceilings, puzzle-piece limestone for the flooring, a main fireplace that resembled a natural cave with an asymmetrical opening, and views everywhere she looked, Parker should have been in heaven. Instead, her brain kept trying—and failing—to come up with the right words to bridge the gap that had opened up between them. No, it hadn’t just opened up, like it was a spontaneously occurring thing. They’d made this chasm, digging it deep with their words and insecurities and flat-out stupidity. Now was the time to put some muscle into filling it back up.

  He’d already offered her what might have been the most public apology the town had ever witnessed. The least she could do was take the first step now.

  “This place is really something.” Not sure how to proceed, she stuck her hands in her pockets before any nervous movement could give her away. “I’m surprised you didn’t show it to me right off the bat.”

  “It’s always been in the back of my mind, but I held back.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it was like my version of having an ace in the hole.” That seemed to be the only explanation he was ready to give as he dropped his keys in a bowl on a low stone credenza. “So? Do you like the house?”

  “It’s magnificent.” And it suited him. Unique, sleekly stylish and unexpected. “I didn’t think I could like anything more than Thorne Mansion when it came to this town’s structures, but this place is a masterpiece. Thank you for showing it to me.”

  “I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance.” There was a beat of silence as the space of the room yawned between them. “Why’d you show up at the press conference?”

  “I wasn’t going to. I was so pissed off that all I could think was that we were done. Or that I was done—done with the mansion, done with Bitterthorn, done with you. Just done.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you showed up this evening.”

  “Thinking that I was done and proving it by leaving...those are two very different things.” She considered explaining how the reality of leaving had chilled her to the bone, but she couldn’t find words big enough to express herself. “What did you mean, you meant what you said? You’ve said a lot of things today.”

  “Isn’t that the truth.” For a moment his expression twisted, as if he tasted something nasty. “Both in your office and at the press conference. But I can’t seem to get the right words out, and for a guy who makes a living with words, that’s one hell of an embarrassing thing.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I meant it when I said I was sorry, Parker. And I meant it when I said I believed in you. But as much as I meant all of that, it still isn’t exactly what I wanted to say.”

  “It was still nice to hear, though. Even before Oliver stepped up and confessed to being the inadvertent leak, you came to my defense. You stood up in front of the whole town and said you believed in me. I...” She put a hand over her mouth before he could see it quiver. Now was not the time to bawl like a baby. “That meant so much to me. Thank you for that.”

  “I should have believed in you from the beginning. I did believe in you. I just got so tangled up inside when the fact that you were leaving soon was shoved right in my face with that damned email.”

  “What email?”

  “The one that said a marquis wanted to get you to France that much sooner. The one that’s had me in a pissy mood ever since I read it.”

  She frowned. “Okay, you’ve lost me. What does my leaving have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t want you to go.” Each syllable seemed to fight its way out of him, and she wondered if their escape was as painful as it sounded. “I know you’ve got a new project waiting for you ten thousand miles from where we are right now. I know that hopping from place to place is the only life you’ve ever had. But every time I think of you leaving, I feel like I’m suffocating—like I don’t know how to breathe when you’re not around. I got pissed off at you because you’re the reason I’m dying inside, and so I lashed out.”

  Her heart thudded as the admission, so much so she couldn’t believe it didn’t echo around the room. “Did it make you feel better?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, a weary gesture that spoke volumes. “I know I accused you of trying to cut ties, and at the time I believed it. But now that I’m calmer, I think I was the ass who was trying to sever things before you had a chance to do it. Maybe if I beat you to the punch and broke things off, it wouldn’t hurt so much when you left. But it didn’t work out that way. I’ve been in agony from the moment I opened my s
tupid mouth.”

  “I’m still headed for France,” she said when she was sure he’d finally wound down. The way he flinched hurt her heart. “But once I’m done...I’m coming back.”

  He went still. “What?”

  “You’re right about me.” She wasn’t sure how to explain this, when she was still figuring it out herself. All she could do was let loose the bottled-up emotion and hope it didn’t make things worse. “I’m not used to staying in one place for long. It’s going to take a while for me to figure out how to plant myself here in Bitterthorn. But that’s what I want to do.”

  Chandler continued to do his statue imitation with the exception of his eyes, which burned over her like fire. “Are you saying you want to make Bitterthorn your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  A storm of nerves tried to choke her. “Because you’re here. Wherever you are, that’s where my home is.”

  His breath huffed out of him, and for an instant his eyes squeezed shut. Then he closed the distance between them as if his life depended on it, crushing her to him so feverishly she half-believed he was trying to meld them together.

  “I thought I was losing you.” He whispered the words into her hair, ragged with desperation. He kissed her cheek, her neck, then sank to his knees and pressed his face to her stomach while his arms gripped her waist. “I thought I did lose you, and it was killing me.”