by Diane Moody
The Teacup Novellas
Book Two
Diane Moody
Cover design by OBT Graphix
Front cover image photo: © Photoeuphoria | Dreamstime.com
Front teacup photo: Katie at The Vintage Teacup on Etsy
Front fire photo: Dan Logan | Flickr
Interior lighthouse image: © Daniel Dupuis | Dreamstime.com
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Strike the Match
Book Two of the Teacup Novellas
Copyright © 2011 by Diane Moody
All rights reserved.
Published by OBT Bookz
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Dedication
To Sally Wilson
For introducing me to your beautiful state of Oregon,
for sharing this love of writing and always inspiring me,
but most of all for being such a forever friend.
Love is a fire.
But whether it is going to warm your hearth
or burn down your house,
you can never tell.
— Joan Crawford
Love bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never fails.
— I Corinthians 13: 7a
Prologue
I blew my nose and reached for another Kleenex. A whole fleet of them dotted my desk, wadded up like so many wilted white roses. This was ridiculous. You’d think I just lost a best friend or something. Why so many tears, you ask? I just finished writing a particularly touching scene in my newest novella. One of my main characters just got hurt, and I could literally see him lying there in the hospital bed . . . such a dear man. He was only trying to help!
Okay, okay. I know. I get way too carried away. I can’t help it. My characters are closer to me than some members of my own family. After all, I crafted them. I gave them life, as it were. Of course I’d be invested. Involved. Face it, they do nothing without me telling them to. So if one of them gets hurt, it only makes sense—
“Lucy? You home?”
Speak of the devil. My brother.
“Back here, Chad. In my office.” Gertie leaped off her chair, her nails tapping like a drum cadence against the hardwood floor as she flew down the hall.
“There’s my girl! Hey Gertie!”
Those two. If anything ever happens to me, I don’t need to worry about my sweet Scottie. Chad spoils her rotten. He’d steal her in a heartbeat if he thought he could get away with it. I can hear the love-fest getting closer.
Chad filled the door frame of my office. Still scratching Gert behind the ears, he looked up, his eyes immediately tracking to my desk and all my used tissues. “Oh no. Let me guess. Another gushy love scene?”
“No,” I protested. “I’ve got a cold.” I plucked up each and every one and moved past him toward the bathroom where I quickly deposited them in the trash. I’d left my office trash can in the garage. Or somewhere.
“Doesn’t sound like a cold to me.”
“Did I ask you?”
Gertie jumped up against his knees, begging for more attention. “Well, no. And come to mention it, you don’t look so hot.”
I planted my hand on my hip and blew my hair out of my face. “You always did have that natural charm thing going. Any other observations you’d like to make? Is that why you’re here? To bolster my self-esteem?”
He smiled and gathered me into a hug. “Nah, I just came by to say hi.”
“Hi,” I mumbled, my mouth smashed against his chest. He smelled really good. Must have just showered.
He pulled back. “I was just worried about you. Hadn’t seen you in a few days. Where’ve you been?”
I pulled another ratty tissue out of my jeans pocket and wiped my nose. “Here. Where did you think? I never go anywhere.”
“Oh, but you go lots of places. A few weeks ago you were in Austin with Jane Austen, right? And I think this week you mentioned something about Oregon, is it?”
“Very funny.” I shuffled past him making my way to the kitchen. “Want some tea?”
“Sure. Sounds good.” He and Gert followed me down the hall. “Coast of Oregon, that’s it. Some fictional town on the coast of Oregon. Something about a fire and a journalist and a student home from college. Oh—that’s why you were crying? Did the journalist break the college girl’s heart? Wait—did she ‘carry a torch for him’? Get it? The fire? Carry a torch?”
“Chad, it never ceases to amaze me how funny you aren’t. Besides, you know I don’t like discussing my plots with you. Can we talk about something else? How’s school?”
My brother teaches history at the local high school. The kids are all smitten with him. And not just because of his good looks. He makes history fun and fascinating. They can’t get enough. He even started a history club that’s bigger than the marching band. You have to admit that’s pretty rare. They take field trips to museums in DC and visit a lot of the battlefields around Virginia.
He loves those kids. He has such a passion for his students, which only makes them love him more. Well, not love love. He’s extremely careful about those schoolgirl crushes that often sprout up in his classes. Smart man, that brother of mine.
“School’s great. But that’s not why I’m here.”
I handed him his favorite mug filled with the steaming tea. “Then pray tell why you are here, dear brother mine.”
“I want you to join me for dinner. Saturday night. Fitzgerald’s.” He looked at me with eyes feigning innocence.
I poured tea into my own teacup. The Russian one that I was using in my current novella. Gorgeous design. Delicate blue netting on a white background, as if tied with simple gilded bows. I stirred in some cream and watched it swirl around before blending into that perfect shade of caramel.
“Hello?”
I looked up. “What?”
“I realize the tea is far more interesting than I could ever be, but I ask
ed you a question. Would you join me for dinner Saturday night?”
“What’s the catch?” I asked, then blew on my tea.
“Who said there’s a catch?”
“Chad. It’s not my birthday. It’s not your birthday. It’s not a holiday. You never ask me out to dinner. There’s got to be a catch.” I looked over my glasses at him, pinning him with my best accusatory glare.
“Okay, fine. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. I’ve got a date. I thought we could—”
“Nope. No way. I don’t do double dates. Not with you. Not with anyone. End of discussion.”
He slapped his palms on my countertop. “Lucy, why are you so stubborn?! What could possibly be the harm in going out for a nice meal with your brother and a couple of other people?”
I flashed him a palm. “Not happening.”
“When was the last time you had a date? Had cell phones been invented yet? Were eight-tracks still in your stereo? C’mon, sis. Humor me.”
I blew out a huff for effect. “I have no interest in going out, sitting around and making small talk with some stranger while—”
“He’s not a stranger.”
“—you sit and make goo-goo eyes with some girl.” I stopped, setting my cup down. “What do you mean he’s not a stranger?”
“It’s someone you know.”
I blinked. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Who is it?”
“I don’t know if I should say. You’re making this all so difficult. Maybe he deserves better. Maybe I should find someone who actually wants to go out with him.”
“Chad, I swear. I’m gonna hurt you.”
Gertie barked. Twice.
Chad reached down to pet her. “See? Even Gertie’s upset with you.”
“Fine. I don’t want to know.” I slammed a drawer shut then stomped toward the refrigerator. I opened it, unsure what I was looking for. Ah. Leftover fruit salad. I grabbed the bowl and ripped off the plastic covering while shutting the refrigerator with my rear end.
Chad reached for a strawberry, but I batted his hand away. Our eyes locked.
“Y’know, for someone who doesn’t get out much, sis, you sure don’t seem very grateful.”
“Who said I need help finding dates? That’s what I want to know. Why is it your business to beg some poor guy to go out with your ‘pitiful’ sister?” I plopped down on the opposite stool at the counter and chomped down on a slice of fresh pineapple.
“First, he’s not some ‘poor guy.’ Second, I didn’t ‘beg’ him to take you out. He asked me about you. Okay? And third, it’s my business because I care about you. You sit home night after night, so absorbed in your stories, you never even think about doing something fun for a change. Seriously, Lucy, your characters have more of a life than you do! How sad is that? And it’s not like you couldn’t get a date, you just haven’t made any effort in, what—a decade?”
I ran my hands through my hair then rested my chin on my fist. “Who is it, Chad?”
“Mark Christopher. Your UPS guy.”
My heart skipped a beat. At least I think that’s what it was. Mark? My hunky UPS guy? Mark asked my brother about me? No way. I lifted my head to pin another stare on him.
“How in the world would you even know who my UPS guy is?”
He grabbed the biggest strawberry in the bowl and tossed it in his mouth. “Easy. We both work out at the Y. I see him there several times a week.”
I let that one work itself through my brain cells. I could easily see Mark working out, what with him being so buff and all. And Chad was a die-hard when it came to staying in shape. It’s what caused all his female students to bat their mascara-drenched eyes at him.
Huh. Mark and Chad. Working out together. Small world.
“He’s in great shape. The guy’s an ox. He can lift—”
“And what, he just came up to you and said, ‘So you’re Lucy’s brother, I wanna ask her out?’”
Chad’s lips turned up in that smile of his. “Well, not word-for-word, but yeah. More or less.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. Huh. Seems you have an admirer, little sister.”
“And he wants to go out with me. Saturday night.”
“That’s a fact.”
“I haven’t got a thing to wear.”
He jumped up. “That’s it. I give up. Try to do a favor and what do I get? Nothing but grief. Honestly, Luce, you’re worse than my students.”
My mind fingered through my closet. “Wait. I’ve got that little black dress. I haven’t worn it since—”
“We’ll pick you up at seven.” He jumped up and started to leave the room. “Oh, and sis?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to get over your cold by then, okay? That red-eye-snotty-nose thing is not a good look on you.”
I threw a blueberry at him, which bounced off his retreating derriere and dropped on the floor tiles.
“See you Saturday!” his voice echoed down the hall.
I cleaned up the kitchen and decided I should get back to work. I’m not quite sure why, but I found myself strolling by the front door, stealing glances out the beveled glass. Y’know, just in case a brown truck should drive by . . . or maybe stop by to make a delivery. Or something.
A few minutes later I was reviewing my last couple of pages. I loved writing these stories. Ever since I’d received my Aunt Lucille’s teacup collection, I’d been a writing machine—each of those cups inspiring romantic tales in all kinds of settings. Some were stories that popped into my own imagination as I studied these porcelain works of art. Others sprang from all the fascinating stories she’d shared with me so many years ago during those magical afternoon tea parties.
My finger traced the Russian teacup, with its unusual blue and gold netting design. A smile curled its way up my face as I warmed back into my story. I loved these characters. Loved them. And suddenly, I knew just what needed to happen next . . .
Chapter 1
“Keri! The Blankenship cabin is on fire! Get over here. Now!”
Keri McMillan strained to see her alarm clock. Three-fifteen in the morning. “No, no, no! This can’t be happening!” she shouted into the phone. She threw back her covers and jumped out of bed. “Carson, did you call the fire department?”
“They’re already here. Hurry, Keri!”
“On my way.” She flew into her closet, grabbed her clothes and dashed into the bathroom. A minute later she was dressed and rushing outside into the frigid Oregon night.
Oh God, no! Please let them save it!
Tires squealing, she stomped the accelerator and headed for the construction site, consumed with dread. The Blankenship’s cabin was her dad’s latest design, intended to be a high-end showcase for his log cabin company. Perched high atop a bluff overlooking the Pacific, the luxury home was just one week shy of opening its doors to the new owners with plenty of time left to decorate for the holidays.
Keri’s mind raced, a storm of thoughts and emotions swirling in her head. She’d only been home from school for three days, returning after first semester finals during her second year at New York University. With dwindling funds, Keri decided to move home for a year, work for her dad, and stockpile every penny she earned. She was determined to fill her savings account then head back to complete her degree in journalism.
As she pulled up to the raging fire, she couldn’t help but think her dreams were going up in smoke before her eyes. Fire trucks flanked the back of the house, their hoses attempting to douse the flames that licked the sky from the enormous two-story structure. Keri’s heart pounded as tears burned her eyes.
I’ve got to call Dad.
As she reached for her cell phone, someone banged on her window. Keri jumped then pushed open the door. “Carson, you scared me half to death!
“Sorry, Keri, I was just—”
“What happened? How did it start?” She stepped out of her vehicle.
“Don’t know yet.” Her dad’s construction chief rubbe
d his face with his hands. “A neighbor called the fire department, then Bill called me first chance he got. He knew this was one of ours. It’s bad, Keri. Real bad.”
She wrapped her arm around his thick waist. Carson had been with her dad from the start when they first launched McMillan Log Homes twenty years ago. She wanted to comfort him but couldn’t think of a thing to say. He hung his arm around her shoulders, releasing a long, tired sigh.
“We called the Blankenships, but all we got was their voice mail. Apparently they’re still in Europe. We’ll keep trying.”
“Carson, I’ve got to call Dad. He needs to come home.”
“I know. I was just hoping the guys could put this out before any major damage was done. Too late for that now, I guess.”
She looked at the emerging shell of the massive home, sickened by the sight of it. The lump in her throat hindered a response. Keri climbed back in her car, pressed the auto-dial number for her dad’s cell phone, and closed her eyes.
Grant Dawson hit the brakes on his SUV and grabbed his camera. His windshield reflected the blaze roaring against the black December sky. His mind began framing the best pictures, the captions catapulting through his head. He could see the bold print on his front page. NEW OCEANSIDE ESTATE DESTROYED BY FIRE. No, too blah. DREAMS SHATTERED BY MIDNIGHT BLAZE. Too cheesy? Maybe—
“Grant! Over here!”
He couldn’t help but smile. Nita Sanders, in all her glory. Pink foam curlers wrapped with her bright white hair peeked out beneath a wool scarf. Green flannel pajamas flashed from beneath her winter coat, tucked into oversized yellow galoshes. He was tempted to snap a picture just to get a rise out of her, but it hardly seemed appropriate at a time like this. When he moved here six months ago, Nita was the first person in this tight-knit coastal town to befriend him. She had welcomed him with uncommon hospitality, taking him in like one of her own.
