The Creed Legacy

by Linda Lael Miller

  Even Ellie warmed up considerably, though it was clear that she still had her reservations about her father’s new friend.

  When the air got chilly and the mosquitoes came out, it was generally agreed that the party was over.

  Carolyn offered to help clear the table and carry in the leftovers and the dirty dishes, but Stella and Charlie insisted that this was their job. Ellie could be their assistant.

  Bill walked Carolyn back to her car, stood on the sidewalk looking down at her with an expression of friendly regret in his eyes.

  “This airplane isn’t going to lift off the runway, is it?” he asked.

  Carolyn sighed, smiled up at him and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Can we still be friends?” Bill wanted to know. “Because here’s the thing, Carolyn Simmons—I really like you.”

  “I like you, too,” Carolyn said truthfully.

  He lowered his head then, and brushed his lips lightly against hers, but there was no charge.

  Both of them sighed in resignation.

  “I had to try,” Bill told her, smiling when she laughed.

  “I understand,” Carolyn replied, feeling sad but kind of relieved, too. “Did you mean what you said just now, about our still being friends?”

  “I meant it, all right,” he said.

  Carolyn rocked back on her heels slightly, something she did when she was thinking. “It would have to be take-out food or something,” she mused, “because I don’t cook very well. But I’d love it if you’d come over to my place for dinner one night soon.”

  Bill’s expression was one of pleased surprise. “Sounds good,” he said. “But if we’re not going anywhere, the two of us—?”

  Carolyn’s smile broadened. “If we’re not going anywhere,” she finished for him, “we can relax and have fun.”

  “I like that idea,” Bill said. “How would you feel about taking a spin in my airplane?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I’M GOING TO BE a little late getting to the ranch today,” Brody said into his cell phone.

  “What else is new?” Conner retorted from his end of the call, but there was a grin lurking in his voice. “You’re about ten years late already, not that I’ve been keeping track or anything.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” Brody said wryly. He stood outside the old snack-bar/projection house at the Bluebird Drive-in that sunny May morning, watched as his contractor and another member of the crew unloaded the gas-powered generator that would, hopefully, provide the necessary juice to run the movie on Saturday night.

  The original projector was useless; over the years, it had been converted to a mouse-and-spider condominium complex. Brody had rented the necessary equipment from an outfit in Denver, and a friend of his, a film distributor by profession, was overnighting a couple of first-run movies. An electrician was due any minute to check the antiquated speaker boxes, on their rusty poles, and run a line out to whichever one worked best.

  If any of them worked.

  Inwardly, Brody sighed.

  “Brody?” Conner prompted. “Usually, when people are on the phone, they talk to each other.”

  Brody chuckled. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Guess that’s an indication that the call is over. I’ve said my piece, and I have things to do.”

  “What things?” Conner wanted to know. Usually the classic man of few words, impatient with telephones, he was being downright chatty.

  “Who pulled your string?” Brody countered, giving the contractor and his helper a thumbs-up when they were ready to set the generator down.

  Conner sighed. “It’s like you to be late,” he said. “It isn’t like you to call and explain. What’s going on, Brody?”

  “It’s none of your business, little brother,” Brody replied affably, “but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m getting ready for a big date.”

  Silence.

  Now it was Brody’s turn to do the prompting. “Conner? You still there?”

  “I’m here,” Conner said. “What kind of ‘big date,’ Brody?”

  “How many kinds are there?” Brody countered, amused.

  Conner didn’t say anything right away, but the twoway twin radar was functioning just fine, and Brody knew what he was thinking.

  “I’ll tell you all about it later,” Brody assured his brother. “Provided you don’t keep me on this damn phone all day, that is. In that case, I’ll be rolling out there sometime tomorrow.”

  Conner broke down and gave a raspy chuckle then. “See you when I see you,” he said. “Davis and I will be on the range for most of the morning, rounding up strays, if you want to look us up.”

  Brody grinned. “Goodbye, Conner,” he said pointedly, before shutting down the call. They’d had their share of long conversations, he and Conner, back when they were boys, yammering on about everything from girls and fishing tackle to what their lives might have been like if their folks had lived to raise them.

  They’d traveled their own separate broken roads for a long time after that, though, and, and despite all the progress they’d made, opening up to each other still took an effort.

  Maybe, Brody thought, his throat tightening even as his spirits rose, the worst was over, and those winding roads were finally going to converge.

  CAROLYN HAD THE SHOP all to herself that morning, except for Winston, of course. Tricia was at home resting. Over the phone earlier, she’d insisted she felt fine, and there was nothing to worry about—it was just that her ankles were swollen, she felt like an elephant and she was so tired.

  Carolyn couldn’t help worrying, at least a little bit, because Tricia was her friend, but she kept herself busy, and that helped.

  Not that there were a lot of customers, because there weren’t.

  Primrose brought in more art pieces—she apparently had a stockpile of them stashed in her home studio—and she and Carolyn decided on prices and hung the series of small batiks, all featuring Native American women, on one wall of the shop.

  After Primrose had gone, Carolyn took digital pictures of the arrangement and posted the best images on the website, since a lot of their business came via the internet.

  More boxes full of merchandise were delivered, thankfully, and Carolyn made the necessary changes to the inventory list she and Tricia kept on the downstairs computer, ignoring the pesky little blitzes from Friendly Faces—somebody likes your picture!—as best she could, given how intrusive they were.

  Once that was done, and the items had been tagged with prices and set out on shelves and display tables, it was lunchtime.

  Upstairs, in her apartment kitchen, Carolyn shared a couple of hard-boiled eggs with Winston and contemplated the long afternoon that lay ahead. To be followed, alas, by an even longer evening.

  Determined to make good use of what would otherwise be idle time—she didn’t want to close the shop early again that day, lest it become a habit—Carolyn lugged her portable sewing machine downstairs and set it up on one of the display tables. She carted down stacks of fabric next, along with various sewing notions, and settled in to run up a new supply of aprons.

  Two local women came in around 3:00 p.m., looking for birthday gifts for a friend, and bought up the pair of aprons Carolyn had just finished making, sending her happily back to square one.

  It looked like the rush was over, as far as customers were concerned, and Carolyn, with tiny threads stuck to her clothes and eye strain setting in, decided four-thirty wasn’t too early to close.

  She was at the door, in fact, just about to turn the dead bolt, when she saw someone step up onto the porch, hesitate and then reach for the knob.

  Carolyn swung the door open, never one to turn away a potential sale, and nearly gasped.

  The woman standing on the other side of the threshold was about her own age, and outlandishly beautiful, with copper-blond hair and striking brown eyes. Except for her modern clothing, a trim tan pantsuit, she might have stepped out of a Renaissance painti
ng, she was that regal.

  Instantly, Carolyn knew who she was.

  “Angela?” she said, stepping back and holding the door open wide.

  “How did you know?” Angela asked, after a short and rather nervous nod of acknowledgment.

  “Wild guess,” Carolyn said, with a smile. “Come in.”

  “I—I didn’t really come here to shop. I just wanted—”

  Carolyn touched the woman’s arm. “Come in,” she repeated. “I’ll make tea.”

  Angela finally stepped into the entryway, and was instantly greeted by a purring Winston.

  The Botticelli face lit up, and she bent to pet the cat. “Hello, there,” she said.

  Winston, the diplomat, Carolyn thought, with a tender twist to her heart. Except when it came to Brody, the animal was a one-cat welcoming committee.

  “This way,” Carolyn said, and moved through the entryway, then through the shop and into Natty’s big kitchen.

  Angela followed, politely reluctant. She was probably wondering what had possessed her to drop in on the woman Bill Venable was dating, though she gave no outward indication of that.

  Carolyn liked to brew tea the old-fashioned way, especially when she had guests, and she warmed the china pot with hot water while putting the kettle on the stove to boil, got out the canister of fresh tea leaves.

  Angela, meanwhile, took a seat at the table.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, after long consideration and a shake of her head. She wore her hair in a tidy, upswept style, accented with a braid across her crown. That probably accounted for the Renaissance look. “I never do things like this.”

  “Things like what?” Carolyn asked, determined to put her visitor at ease.

  “I needed to see what you look like,” Angela confessed, in a little burst of self-exasperation.

  Carolyn laughed softly, mindful of her blue jeans, baggy T-shirt and the coating of tiny threads clinging to her clothes and probably her hair, too. She spread her hands, while waiting for the tea water to boil, and joked, “Here I am. Are you impressed?”

  A little smile flicked at one corner of Angela’s Cupid’sbow mouth, but her eyes were sad. “Actually,” she said, “yes. I am impressed.”

  Carolyn didn’t know what to say to that—“thank you” wouldn’t sound right—so she went to the breakfront, another of Natty’s belongings, passed down to Tricia, and took out china cups and saucers. Silver teaspoons. And where were the sugar bowl and the little milk pitcher?

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” Angela said.

  The teakettle began to wobble on the burner.

  Carolyn crossed to the table and sat down across from Angela. Trying to project friendly receptivity, she simply waited for the other woman to speak again.

  Tears swam in Angela’s eyes, but she quickly blinked them back.

  Ah, Carolyn thought, another tough cookie, like me, holding it together.

  “Bill has a perfect right to go out with other women,” Angela announced.

  Carolyn let her mouth quirk at one corner, but held her peace. The ball was, after all, still in Angela’s court.

  “Do you like him?” Angela’s voice was small now, almost timid.

  “Yes,” Carolyn said. Not in the way you think, but, yes, I definitely like Bill Venable. I like him a lot.

  Angela gave a little sigh. “Help me out, here,” she said, her eyes glistening again. “Please?”

  “What do you want to know, Angela?”

  The teakettle came to a whistling boil.

  Great timing.

  Carolyn hurried to the stove, took the kettle off the heat and poured hot water into the china pot, over the waiting leaves of orange pekoe, left the works to steep for the requisite five minutes.

  “Is it serious?” Angela asked. “Between you and Bill, I mean?”

  Carolyn considered her answer carefully. Obviously, Angela cared for the man, whatever her reservations might be concerning his work as a flying firefighter, but this was dangerous ground.

  She meant to tread lightly.

  “I guess that depends on your definition of serious,” she said, at last.

  “I know I don’t have any right to ask,” Angela said, shaking her head and looking baffled, as if she just didn’t understand herself sometimes.

  God knew, Carolyn could relate to that feeling.

  “I like Bill,” she reiterated, albeit gently, “but I wouldn’t feel right trying to explain his feelings. If you have questions, Angela, you need to ask him.”

  Angela was quiet, thoughtful. But, thank heaven, no longer tearful.

  Carolyn brought the teapot to the table, giving her unexpected company a few moments to collect herself. She poured for Angela, then for herself and shushed Winston, who was lobbying for his sardine ration. Not trusting the milk she had on hand, she retrieved the sugar bowl but not the matching creamer.

  Angela, somewhat recovered, actually smiled—and went from beautiful to dazzling. “Ellie was right,” she said. “You’re a ‘nice lady,’ Carolyn.”

  “I try,” Carolyn said, spooning sugar into her tea. Silver rattled against the inside of her cup. And, of course, the conversation lagged. To get it going again, Carolyn added, “I hear you teach school.”

  “Third grade,” Angela said, with pride.

  “Is Ellie in your class?” Did nine-year-olds go to third grade? Carolyn couldn’t recall.

  Angela’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted her teacup to her mouth, took a sip and shook her head, but she was more relaxed than before.

  Not that that was saying a whole lot.

  “She was last year,” Angela replied. “That’s how—” She paused to blush. “That’s how Bill and I met. At a parent-teacher meeting.”

  “I see,” Carolyn said.

  Angela spoke reluctantly. “Did Bill tell you about me?”

  “Yes,” Carolyn answered, in a tone that said she’d go that far, but no further. As she’d told Angela before, if she wanted to know how Bill felt about her, she was going to have to ask him.

  Angela sighed. “There I go again,” she said. “You must think I’m on the short list for my own reality show—they could call it The Real Crazies of Colorado.”

  Carolyn laughed. She liked Angela, hoped they might become friends at some point. “Do you like teaching?” she asked. “I used to want to be a teacher, once upon a time.”

  Again, Angela lit up. “I love teaching,” she said. “Make that, I love children. The job itself can be really discouraging—the pay is bad, and the parents can be impossible. But the kids, well, they make it all worthwhile.”

  Carolyn had been blessed with several insightful, compassionate teachers while she was doing her best to grow up, and their kind guidance had made all the difference. They’d told her she was bright, and talented, and she could be anybody she wanted to be, if she was willing to put in the effort.

  “What stopped you?” Angela asked, breaking into her thoughts, bringing her back to the here and now.

  Carolyn must have looked puzzled, because Angela immediately clarified her question. “From being a teacher, I mean.”

  “I didn’t go to college,” Carolyn said, off the top of her head.

  “Oh,” Angela said, and took another sip from her elegant teacup. Now she was the one doing the waiting.

  “Which means,” Carolyn went on presently, “that I didn’t want to teach badly enough to go the scholarship, student-loan route. When I did manage to take a few night courses, they were all design-related. Color theory. Perspective. Things like that.”

  “You’re an artist?” Angela asked, with genuine interest.

  “No,” Carolyn hastened to say. “I sew a little, that’s all.”

  She thought of the gypsy skirt, hanging on its hook upstairs, behind her bedroom door, and she felt a twinge of guilt, as though she’d been disloyal to a trusting friend.

  “Sewing is an art,” Angela said.

  To Carolyn, sewing was a craft, n
ot an art, but it was also sacred. There was no magic quite like making something useful and pretty from a bolt of cloth; for her, the process was almost mystical, a form of active prayer. “I guess for some people, that’s true,” she said. “I’ve seen some quilts that belong in museums.”

  Angela nodded in agreement. “I’d like to see something you’ve made,” she said. Then she blushed. “I’m not good at sewing myself. I could never set a sleeve, or put in a zipper that didn’t look as though it was the work of a chimpanzee.”

  Carolyn, smiling, thought of the aprons she’d been working on, but immediately dismissed the idea. She had the oddest desire to show Angela—a woman she barely knew—her masterpiece, the gypsy skirt. So far, only Tricia had seen it.

  She bit her lower lip, thinking.

  “I’ve overstepped,” Angela said. “Again.”

  “Wait here,” Carolyn told her, pushing back her chair. Before she could change her mind, she hurried upstairs, grabbed the skirt and brought it back down to Natty’s kitchen.

  Shyly, she held the garment up for Angela to look at.

  Angela’s eyes widened. “Oh, my,” she said, setting her teacup in its saucer with a little rattle. “You made that?”

  Now that she’d done the deed, Carolyn was suddenly flustered, even a little embarrassed. The skirt probably seemed gaudy, with all those shimmering beads and ribbons.

  Oh, but the way they captured the light, those beads and ribbons. The sight made Carolyn’s breath catch in her throat, just like always.

  “It practically makes music,” Angela said, with what sounded like wonder. She stood up, approached and examined the skirt carefully, though she was careful, Carolyn noticed, not to touch it.

  It practically makes music.

  Carolyn felt quietly joy-stricken by the comment.

  “You are an artist,” Angela pronounced, her voice taking on an insistent note now. “Do you take orders? For custom-made things, I mean?”

  Carolyn was thrown by the question, which was really strange, considering that she’d been making clothing for other people since that first sewing class in high school. “I…yes, sometimes,” she managed to reply.