Suzanne Brockmann

by Give Me Liberty (written as Anne Brock) (lit)

  "I was an extra in 'A League of Their Own'," Lib said, smiling at him. "Remember the scene where Geena Davis goes to the league try-outs? I was in that scene, in the background, throwing a baseball around with a bunch of other women."

  "No kidding. You were an extra?"

  "Yeah," Lib said. "I started while I was living in LA, when I was in high school. I was trying for legit acting jobs, but all I managed to get was work as an extra. I worked in about a dozen movies."

  "I'm impressed," Luke said. "Wow, a real movie star, right here in Sterling, Vermont."

  Lib lifted her nose into the air and raised her hands, as if warding off an admiring crowd. "Please, please," she said. "No autographs, no pictures..."

  She laughed as Luke grabbed her around the waist and hauled her toward his truck.

  "Come on, Hollywood," he said. "I'll drive you down to the police station, you can file that vandalism report. Then I've got to get to work. You can take the truck into town and pick up the building supplies you need."

  He set her down, but didn't let her go. "Tell 'em to put it on my account," he said, "and—"

  Luke momentarily froze, briefly forgetting everything except the way her body felt against his.

  "You'd let me borrow your truck?" she said, gently trying to pull free.

  He released her, realizing he was standing there, holding onto her like some kind of idiot. He helped her up into the truck. "Yeah. Just pick me up at the sporting goods store at around six-thirty," he said, adding, "Is that okay?"

  For a moment there, she thought that he was going to kiss her. After her dinner with him last night, her dreams had been filled with romantic visions of Luke Fulton. Good grief, she had actually had a crazy dream in which she walked down the aisle of the Congregational Church, wearing a long, white dress. Luke had been waiting for her at the altar and

  "Where do you want me to pick you up?"

  Luke's straight teeth flashed white as he climbed in behind the steering wheel. "I'm working over at the sporting goods store this afternoon."

  "Working?" Lib was staring at him, obviously surprised. "Don't tell me, you own the sporting goods store, too...?"

  "I do."

  She was silent for a moment, looking out the window as he drove down Forest Road, toward town. "Is there anything in Sterling that you don't own?" she finally asked.

  "Oh, come on," he said. "It's not like I'm some business mogul. I own the video stores — which I'm in the middle of negotiating the sale of, the ski shop and sporting goods store, and the pizza parlor."

  "Not to mention you've got a share in Gate's Mountain Inn," Lib said. "You know, I've never been friends with a millionaire before."

  "Enjoy it while it lasts," Luke said, "because I'm only going to be a millionaire for another few months."

  "Now that needs an explanation," Lib said.

  "When I sold the back acres of the farm to Ken Avery, I made him add a rider to the contract," Luke explained, "saying that five years from that date, I had the option of repurchasing the land for one million dollars. Cash."

  Lib whistled.

  Luke smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. On September fifteenth, I'll have 24 hours to buy back my land."

  He wasn't kidding. His expression was deadly serious. But amusement glinted in his eyes when he glanced at Lib.

  "You think I'm nuts, don't you?" he said.

  "How much did you sell the land for in the first place?" she asked.

  "Two hundred thousand."

  Lib shook her head. "My God, Luke, are you saying that you took two hundred thousand dollars, and in less than five years, you turned it into a video store — no, more than one. You said stores, didn't you? Video stores, a sporting goods store, a pizza place and on top of that, you have nearly a million dollars cash sitting in the bank...?"

  "Less," Luke said.

  Lib blinked. "What?"

  "I started with less. Half of the money went to my sister, after taxes and my father's debts were paid off," he said. "We each got about sixty-one thousand."

  "And you got a share in Gate's Mountain Inn," Lib said. "Luke, you know, you don't need to buy the land back. As part owner of the resort, it's still yours."

  She watched the muscles tighten in his jaw. "The land belongs to the Gate's Corporation."

  "And the Gate's Corporation is owned by Avery, right?" Lib asked. "And you. "

  "And a bunch of lesser shareholders, yeah."

  "Technically, it's still your land," she said.

  "It should be Fulton land. It shouldn't be owned by a corporation," he said. "I can't pass it down to my children and my grandchildren."

  "But you can leave them your shares in the resort," Lib said. "Think about it. That's probably far more valuable than the land."

  Frustrated, Luke shook his head. "No, you don't get it," he said. "That land has been in my family for generations."

  "And it still is," Lib said.

  "That land was claimed by my ancestors," Luke said tightly. "When they came here, it was nothing but a wilder­ness. But they built that house and cleared that land with their blood and their sweat. They created something that could be passed along to their children, and to their chil­dren's children—"

  "Which is exactly what you can do with your shares in Gate's Mountain Inn," Lib said.

  "You don't understand." Luke's hands were clenched around the steering wheel.

  "Yes, I do—"

  "No, you don't. An outsider like you wouldn't ever understand," he said harshly.

  Lib recoiled as if she'd been hit.

  "Well, jeez," she said, her eyes bright with anger. "It's nice to know what you really think of me."

  Silently, Luke cursed, regretting his words. "Lib, I didn't mean it—"

  She laughed, but her smile didn't hold a trace of humor. "Save it," she said shortly. "Someone like me knows exactly what you meant."

  There was one traffic light in town, and as Luke pulled up to it, Lib unlocked the door and jumped down out of the truck. "I'll find my own way to the police station, thanks," she said, slamming the door behind her.

  "Damn it, Lib, wait!"

  But she was already walking down Main Street, her shoulders set and her head held high. Luke swore under his breath, and as the light turned green, he jerked the truck into gear and followed. She hadn't gotten far, and he quickly pulled off the road in front of her, sending a cloud of dust and dirt into the air as he skidded to a stop.

  As Luke climbed down out of his pickup truck, he caught more than one curious pair of eyes on him. Christmas, this was just what he needed — a public scene with the woman the entire town had no doubt pegged as his new girlfriend. Perfect. Just perfect.

  Lib walked stiffly past the truck, ignoring him completely, and he forgot about the people watching them. "Liberty, wait."

  He caught her arm, and she spun, glaring at him and shaking free of his hand.

  Her eyes were dark with fury. "Sterling is the closest thing to a hometown that I've ever had, and I love it here every bit as much as you do. But you think that because I didn't grow up here, because I wasn't born in the county hospital, because I didn't spend every waking moment of my life breathing in this goddamned fresh air, you think that I don't understand what it means to have roots, to feel like I belong to the land?" She pushed him backwards, jabbing his chest with her fingers. "Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Founding-Father Fulton," she said. "It's because I don't have roots, because I don't belong anywhere that makes me love this town more than someone like you could ever possibly understand."

  She opened her mouth to take a breath, and Luke grabbed at the opportunity to get a word in edgewise. "Lib, come on. We can talk about this in the truck. Everyone's watching—"

  Lib glanced around, as if aware for the first time that they were standing in the center of town. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "There's nothing more to say," she said. "Except that you can take your loan and stick it. I don't need it.
I'll wait for the insurance company to pay up, thank you very much."

  She turned and began walking away.

  Luke felt something horribly like panic gripping him, and he followed her, lengthening his stride to keep up. "What about dinner?" he asked quietly.

  She barely glanced at him. "Why should I waste my time with someone who doesn't take me seriously?" She turned suddenly, crossing the street, waving to an elderly woman who stood on the opposite sidewalk. "Mrs. Etherton! Hi! Remember me? Lib Jones, Harriet's niece?"

  Luke stood staring after her, shocked by how desperately he wanted to see her tonight. What on earth was wrong with him?

  He watched Lib walk down the street, arm in arm with old Mrs. Etherton. He was going to have to watch what came out of his mouth around Liberty Jones. He shook his head, remembering the hurricane force of her anger, the intensity and conviction of her words. It was clear that she felt like an outsider in Sterling, and it was equally clear that his words hadn't helped any.

  Luke sighed, climbing back into his truck. Fact was, she was an outsider. Someone like Liberty Jones couldn't come barreling into a sleepy little town like Sterling, Vermont, driving a neon blue convertible, looking like something out of a Hollywood movie and expect to fit in.

  Lib saw Luke's truck do a one-eighty on Main Street. She wouldn't let herself turn her head to watch him drive out of sight. Well, that was terrific, she thought, waving good-bye to Mrs. Etherton as the older woman went into the public library. Lib kept walking, heading for the police station, mentally kicking herself. She had finally met the man of her dreams, and what did she do? At the very first sign that he wasn't perfect, she lost it, and let him have a double-barrel dose of her famous bad temper.

  Luke considered her one of the enemy, lumping her in the same group as the tourists and skiers and vacationers who flocked to his beloved mountains and frightened the wildlife, started forest fires and littered the camp sites.

  Luke was a smart man. He'd made a fortune off of those same tourists and skiers. But even that didn't change the line between the townsfolk and 'them' for him.

  Until Lib could convince Luke that she planned to stick around, he wasn't going to trust her. Until he trusted her, she didn't have a chance at winning his heart. And, God help her, that's what she wanted.

  * * *

  After filing the vandalism complaint, Liberty used the pay phone in the police station lobby to call Richard Lowell, Harriet's lawyer and the executor of her estate. It took nearly all the change she had, but Lowell's secretary picked up on the first ring.

  Lib identified herself, and the older-sounding woman immediately knew who she was.

  "Oh, good," the secretary said. "You made it into town. Rich has some documents for you to sign and—" She broke off, listening to someone on the other end. "Can he meet you in town this afternoon? He's got an appoint­ment in Sterling at five o'clock. Can he meet you at four-thirty?"

  "Sure," Lib said. "Where?"

  "Coffee shop," the secretary said without hesitation.

  "I'll be there." Lib hung up the phone and looked at her watch. It was barely nine o'clock. Her stomach growled, but she resolutely turned her back on the bakery and started to walk home. She'd bought some bread and pea­nut butter yesterday and it was still in the back of her car. Money was going to be an issue for a while — she couldn't afford to buy any expensive donuts or pastries. She picked up her pace, breaking into a jog. just think how healthy she was going to be.

  * * *

  In the late afternoon, Luke stood out on the sidewalk in front of the sporting goods store, and tried to stay awake while his store manager ran through a list of the pros and cons of stacking the rowboats either to the left or to the right of the front doors.

  Lib's bright blue Spitfire turned the corner onto Main Street, and Luke instantly woke up. He watched her drive slowly down the street, toward him, and he ran his fingers through his thick hair and made sure his shirt was neatly tucked into his pants. Maybe she was coming to apologize

  She drove right past, not even acknowledging his pres­ence with a wave.

  "So what do you think, Luke?" Chet, the store manager, was waiting for some kind of voice of God pronouncement about the damned rowboats.

  As Luke watched, Lib parked two stores down and crossed the street toward the coffee shop. She'd changed her clothes since that morning. She was wearing a pair of green safari shorts, and a darker green sleeveless blouse that looked as if it might be silk, soft and smooth to the touch. She looked fresh and cool despite the late afternoon heat. Her hair was back in a ponytail, and still damp, as if she'd just gotten out of the shower.

  Except she didn't have a shower. She didn't have running water.

  Luke had a sudden vivid image of Lib bathing in the secluded pond behind the Harlowe house, washing the dust of the day from her hair. He could imagine her rising up out of the pond, water streaming from her naked body as she crossed the grass, reaching for her towel

  "Luke?"

  Luke cleared his throat, looking into Chet's waiting eyes. The rowboats. Right. "Whatever you think," he said, turning back to watch Liberty pull open the coffee shop door. "It's fine with me."

  * * *

  There was only one man in the coffee shop wearing a suit and tie. Lib approached his booth, and he looked up, then got to his feet.

  "Mr. Lowell?" she asked.

  He held out his hand for her to shake. "Rich," he said. "You must be Liberty Jones. Cool name. Sit down."

  He was in his late forties, and was still a handsome man despite the hefty amount of extra weight he carried around. It was clear from the huge serving of apple pie and ice cream that sat in front of him, that 'diet' was a word that hadn't made it into his vocabulary yet. His eyes were a twinkly shade of blue, his smile was genuine, and Lib liked him immediately. Harriet surely would have liked him, too, especially considering that ten years ago, when Lib's great-aunt had first hired him, he'd been ten years younger and probably even more handsome.

  Rich patted the file folder he'd set on the table next to his apple pie. "Paperwork. We need to talk about things like inheritance taxes. But are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?" He waved the waitress over.

  "I'd love an iced tea," Lib said. She looked up at the waitress. "No sugar, extra lemon, please?"

  The waitress disappeared, and Rich opened the file. "Harriet left you a little bit of money," he said, "but to tell you the truth, it doesn't even begin to cover the taxes on the house and the property."

  Lib sat forward, trying to read the upside-down figures. "When was the last time the house was assessed?" she asked. "I don't know if you've seen it lately, but the last tenants did an amazing amount of damage." Briefly she filled him in on the extent of the necessary repairs.

  Rich nodded, glancing up as the waitress set an iced tea down in front of Lib. "Not good. I'm sorry to hear that. You're right, we should have it reassessed."

  "Rich, what happened to Harriet's furniture?" Lib asked, taking a sip of the cool tea. "When I was a kid her place was packed full of stuff. Was it all sold?"

  "I was getting to that," Rich said, flipping through his file. "Here it is. Triple A Self Storage, "'Contents of Num­ber 2 Forest Road'." He read from the paper.

  "Victorian sofa, writing desk, dining room table with eight high-backed chairs, dressing table. Etc. Etc." He handed the inventory to Lib.

  "There's a catch," Rich said. "We paid the storage charges quarterly from Harriet's savings. The quarter's up this Tuesday. You have till then to move the stuff out — or pay the next quarter's charges."

  "How much?" Lib asked.

  "Eleven hundred dollars."

  Lib sat back against the coffee shop booth, out of breath. "Eleven hundred?" She shook her head. "Harriet's been paying forty-four hundred dollars a year to have that stuff stored? It's been eight years!"

  "I advised her to sell the furniture," Rich said. "But she insisted on saving it for you. She wanted you to have it. A
pparently, it was worth it to her."

  Lib flipped through the inventory. It took up three full pages, single-spaced. "I'm supposed to move this stuff by next Tuesday?" she asked, looking up at Rich. "Today's Wednesday. That's less than a week. Where am I going to put all of this? I can't put it in the house — the roof leaks."

  "Let me know by Monday if you want me to release the money from Harriet's account," Rich said. He glanced at his watch. "Look, I hate to have to cut this short, but I'm meeting another client in a few minutes and—"

  "One quick question," Lib said.

  Rich nodded. "Shoot."

  "Insurance," she said. "I need the name and address of the insurance company so I can make a claim and—" She broke off, noticing the look on the lawyer's face. "What?"

  He just shook his head. His blue eyes were appalled.

  Lib felt sick. Oh, God, no. She carefully kept her voice calm and even. "You're not going to tell me that Harriet didn't have insurance, are you?"

  Rich pushed his apple pie away from him as if he'd suddenly lost his appetite. "Harriet didn't have a mortgage, so she wasn't required to have insurance. I tried to talk her into it, even just a bare bones policy, but she wouldn't budge, and... I'm sorry."

  There was no insurance. Lib held onto the edge of the table, as if trying to anchor herself to reality. She owed thousands of dollars in inheritance taxes. The roof needed immediate fixing, with a price tag of close to five thousand dollars, or the house would be damaged beyond repair. But there was no insurance to cover it, and there were eight rooms of stored furniture that she had to move before next Tuesday, or pay another eleven hundred dollars