Bluegrass Hero

by Allie Pleiter

  Chapter Fourteen

  Very young customers—usually a staple around Mother’s Day—were among Emily’s favorites. So Emily could barely contain her amusement when a very serious nine-year-old Tommy Lee Lockwood came into the shop. He marched straight up to the counter and asked for a bar of Edmundson’s Self-Control Soap. “I got my four dollars right here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out four wadded-up dollar bills, along with three marbles and two baseball cards. “Daddy said if Mama don’t quit smoking soon, he don’t know what he’ll do, so I want to buy her this. I heard him saying last week that all she needed was self-control. And I heard you got some.”

  Emily wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that statement. “I got all kinds of nice things for mamas. And you’re sweet for wanting to help your mama do something so important. She’s lucky to have you.”

  “You got any math smarts soap? I could use that if it works.”

  Now Tommy Lee wasn’t all wrong: scents like grapefruit and bergamot were often energizing, and they could produce feelings of capability and were often attributed to clarity of thought. But math aptitude and self-control weren’t coming to him or his mama by way of a long hot bath with the right soap. “Where’d you get the idea that soap could help you with math, Tommy Lee?”

  “Around,” he said, looking away.

  Emily could just guess around where.

  “What is ‘roman therapy,’ anyways? Sounds kooky.”

  “It’s ‘aromatherapy,’ and it can make you feel calmer or more energetic but it can’t help your mama do something as important as quit smoking.” She saw Tommy Lee’s expression fall. “But you can help lots of other ways. You can encourage her and help her feel nice while she’s working so hard to quit. It’s really hard to do, did you know that? And you’re a smart man for coming to the store today because I’m having a very special sale. Your four dollars is going to go a long way. How about we make her up a basket of things to help her feel pretty?”

  The spark returned to his big blue eyes.

  Halfway through the gathering of a basket worth about four times as much as she was going to charge him, Emily looked at Tommy Lee. “Does your daddy know where you are?”

  “He thinks I’m at the bakery with Miss Hopkins. He got into a big ol’ discussion with the bad-man-farm man while we were down at the hardware store.”

  “The bad-man-farm man”? Emily had to think a moment. She didn’t like what came to her. “You mean Mr. Sorrent from Homestretch Farm?”

  Tommy Lee gave her a blank look.

  “Tall, dark, brown leather coat, kinda grumpy?”

  “Yep.”

  “How about I just call over there and let your daddy know you’re with me while you decide which color ribbon we should use.” She pointed to a spool of several ribbon colors while she called Gil’s cell phone.

  Gil and Matt Lockwood came in just as Emily was tying off the last ribbon on the basket. Tommy Lee insisted on showing it off to the men, and Emily watched in amusement as Gil hunkered down on one knee and let that little boy show him every item in the basket. The dad tolerated the little demonstration, but Gil listened as though Tommy Lee were showing him the coolest new gadgets. He even asked a few questions and made a point of congratulating Tommy Lee on making a good purchase.

  What impressed Emily most was the fact that Gil made a fuss over that little boy with an armful of “smelly stuff” after talking with Matt Lockwood, who evidently referred to Homestretch as “the bad-man farm.” It made Emily wonder how many little digs like that Gil Sorrent endured in a week.

  “How are you gonna stay in business if you sell expensive baskets like that for four dollars?” Gil said as he watched Tommy Lee wobble down street with the enormous gift.

  “I couldn’t help indulging him. He came in here looking for the Self-Control Soap to help his mama quit smoking. Isn’t that the sweetest thing?”

  “I heard the whole story. In detail,” Gil said, with the tone of a man who’d just been treated to more detail than he would have liked, “You mind telling me what exactly self-control smells like?”

  “Bergamot,” Emily said, smoothing out the crumpled dollar bills as she slid them into the cash register along with a marble Tommy Lee gave her as a tip for the gift wrap. “It’s mostly bergamot and grapefruit, with a bit of mint.”

  “Grapefruit? You gotta be kidding me.”

  “No, really, citrus has a very cleansing effect on most people. Very energizing. Clarity of thought. That kind of thing. Makes sense when you think about what makes up self-control.”

  He looked straight at her. “You really believe all this aroma nonsense? That smelling something affects how anybody feels and acts?”

  She’d been waiting for him to ask her that. Seen the question festering behind his eyes since that day she’d asked him to describe how his coat smelled. “Feels, yes. But acts? No. I believe scent affects people. It changes how we view a room, how we taste food, how we remember a moment. It affects us as much as sight and touch, or sound.” She reached for a stack of scented shelf liners, wanting to shift her gaze off his face. “I’ve never really understood why people give smelling something less importance than hearing music or seeing a sunset. It’s a sense, like the other four, but it gets the short shrift, if you ask me.”

  “Well, I do admit to caring a lot about how things taste, that’s true. And Paulo tells me I don’t care near enough about how I look, but then I’d say Paulo cares way too much, so we’re even there.” Gil crossed his arms and leaned back against her counter. It was the first time Emily thought he looked anything near comfortable in her store. The hard edge was gone, and the set of his shoulders wasn’t so tense. She knew he was somewhere in his late thirties, but his face had the texture of a hard life about it. Dark lines and rough patches. It had made him look older at first, but not so much now.

  “But the soap,” he said taking a step toward her. “I’m talking about smells changing things. Altering things.”

  “You mean do I believe it can bring love or joy or peace or patience? No, I don’t believe that. I don’t believe it can transform a person.” She hesitated briefly before adding, “I think only the Holy Spirit can make that kind of change.” She looked at him. “You didn’t think because I bought all that soap that I…?”

  He stared at her. “No, but I just needed to hear you say it.” Gil ran his finger down the side of a vase sitting on a nearby shelf. “So, what about you? I mean, if you think scent affects people, what kind of soap do you use?” He suddenly looked embarrassed, as though he hadn’t meant to ask such a highly personal question.

  It felt highly personal, but was it? Was it any different than asking a mechanic what kind of car he drove? Emily tried to tell herself it wasn’t a personal question as she felt a blush color her cheeks. “Well,” she started, trying to sound technical, “as you’d expect, I change it a lot. Depending on what suits me any given day.”

  Gil tucked one hand into his back pocket. Either he had no idea of the depth of what he was asking, or he hid it in the name of curiosity. “Surely you’ve got favorites. I mean you must really like the stuff.”

  “I do. Have favorites, I mean. I always try things before I sell them in the shop, too.”

  “Unless it’s Pirate Soap,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, well, I reckon that’ll go down as the biggest whopping mistake in Emily Montague history.”

  Gil scratched his chin. “You could do worse.”

  Of course, the owner of the Homestretch Farm rehabilitation program for offenders would be highly aware of what qualified as life’s whopping big mistakes, wouldn’t he? “I suppose you’re right,” Emily said. She picked up a bottle of peach-cream bubble bath. “This is a personal favorite sure to wrinkle the nose of any rugged American male.” She unscrewed the cap off the tester bottle and handed it to him.

  He sniffed it and frowned. “Do you eat this or bathe in it?” He put the bottle down quickly. “Why is i
t women think men like their women to smell like food? Men like food to smell like food, and women to smell like women.”

  “Oh, is that why you think we do it? For your benefit?” She quickly added, “I mean, speaking of the female and male populations as a whole. You think we use scent only to get men?”

  Gil clammed up, looking as though he’d decided there was no safe way to answer that question. He was right, and she made sure her glare let him know it. “Women use scent because we like it. Because we recognize the effect it has on us. It’s an enhancement.”

  “So which ‘enhancement’ is your favorite, aside from that peachy stuff? You don’t always smell like food, so they’re not all fruity like that.”

  He hadn’t even realized what he’d said. He’d just given away far more than he knew, because by admitting that he knew she didn’t always smell like peach, he just admitted that he knew what she did smell like. That he could recognize her scent. “Could you pick it out? Can your high-tech brain meet such a low-tech challenge?” Emily asked, smiling.

  “Is that a dare?” he said with a very particular tone in his voice.

  “It’s on that table over there.” Emily told herself to wipe the smirk off her face as she pointed to a display of hand lotions. Somehow, she knew he’d get it. He’d know which. She’d be able to see it on his face, and she was unsure what that moment would do to her.

  He walked cautiously over to the table, scanned the collection, and picked up the rose-scented bottle. He sniffed it, ran his finger around the top of the bottle for some reason, then set it down. Emily shifted her feet and coughed, suddenly unable to find anything to do with her hands. Why on earth was she behaving this way? Why did this man drive her to impulsive acts she’d surely regret?

  Gil tested a second bottle—a sandalwood-almond scent—and although he had to sniff it a second time, he put it down, as well.

  He picked up a patchouli-rosewood blend, one she knew was the correct choice. Oh, my. She was right. She could tell the moment he recognized it. His whole body changed, and it sent a jolt down through her toes. The moment caught them both by surprise, although he hid it better than she suspected she did.

  He walked back over to the counter and put the bottle between them. “That’s you,” he said softly.

  When he looked up at her, she knew he could sense it as much as she could. It. The simmering tug when they were together. That thing that made her look twice as long as she ought to, that made her remember what his jacket smelled like and how his shirt collar never did stay down on one side. “That’s you,” he said again.

  Emily waited a long moment before she nodded, mostly because she knew that her nod meant much more than just acknowledging his correct choice of bottles. “My favorite,” she said quietly, and she saw something kindle in the depth of his eyes.

  Just then a cluster of teenage girls burst into the store, ending the moment with a storm of noisy giggles and activity.

  Emily couldn’t say if she was mad at or grateful for the interruption.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gil usually enjoyed stacking hay. It was hard, honest work a man felt down to his bones. Of course, that was probably when it was necessary work. Right now, it was more like he was rearranging hay. But he needed something physically hard to do, and there weren’t a lot of those kinds of tasks on the farm this time of year. He figured a good half an hour moving big, awkward objects might shake the willies out of him and help him think.

  After the hay had been rearranged, and rerearranged, Gil resorted to wandering among the stalls. He did some of his best thinking—and his most fervent praying—near the animals. They had that effect on people; gently imploring eyes, subtle movements, huffs of breath that sounded like sighs. Nobody begged to be petted in a stable; they just seemed to stand there and listen. It worked calm into a soul. A calm that was one of the basic principles of Homestretch Farm.

  It wasn’t like he didn’t know what was eating at him, making him restless. He did. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

  He knew the basic story of Emily’s husband’s death. Talented local man heads off to the big city to further his career only to find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had never surprised him that she’d been opposed to Homestretch Farm three years ago. She had a right to be wary of criminals. Her suspicion didn’t bother him at all.

  It was people like Matt Lockwood, Tommy Lee’s dad, who drove him crazy. Those people pretended tolerance, pretended to support Homestretch Farm, but deep down wished it would go away. Did Matt really think Gil didn’t know Tommy Lee called it “the bad-man farm”? Did Matt think Gil had any doubts about who taught him to call it that?

  That was the difference between people like Matt and people like Emily. Matt would always pretend but never change his mind. Emily had never pretended. If he had changed her mind—and he believed he had—it was because he’d earned it.

  Supporting the farm was one thing. On a more personal level—and it was growing more personal by the day—Gil didn’t think Emily would be able to deal with his past. Is this Your idea of justice, Lord? I finally find someone I want to be able to forgive my history, and it’s the woman in Middleburg most hurt by crime?

  Romeo nuzzled at Gil’s jacket, obviously remembering where he usually tucked a carrot when he came out to the stables. “No goodies today, boy.” He picked up a brush and began working over the horse’s gleaming coat, more for something to occupy his hands than for any grooming need. I’m lonely, Lord. I wouldn’t let myself admit it before now, but I’m lonely. It didn’t help matters one bit that tomorrow was Valentine’s Day.

  Across the stall, Lady Macbeth whinnied and stomped, jealous of the attention Romeo was getting. “What’s with you, ’Beth? You lonely, too?” Lady Macbeth had been a risky purchase. She’d been abused as a young horse, and for months was skittish around people. Gil couldn’t let the less-experienced hands near her for the first year. Now, with two years of love and care, Lady Macbeth had become one of the gentlest horses on the farm, and a shameless flirt, besides. He’d known he could trust her to do right by Emily. Gil had a special soft spot for ’Beth, because he loved risks that paid off.

  Valentine’s Day. The house seemed dark and far too big. Even after four years, this day was just plain hard. Ash had made it so special each year that the day itself just seemed to magnify his absence. She imagined it was a hard day for anyone who was alone, but having known such loving, romantic celebrations of the holiday seemed to make it worse. It was a blessing of sorts that West of Paris was always busy right down to the last minute. A bath shop was a major destination for panicked men on Valentine’s Day, and she’d spent every one of the last four years glad for a reason to keep the store open late. Sandy joked that Emily saved a dozen marriages a year by staying open and helping last-minute shoppers.

  Once the key was turned and the shop lights were out, however, it was a hollow satisfaction.

  Emily puttered around the house for a few hours, too restless to go to bed early, too blue to call anyone for company. It wasn’t until nearly eleven that Emily remembered it was Tuesday. Which meant it was pie night at Deacon’s Grill. A walk to Deacon’s was just the kind of diversion she needed. She could even have a slice at the diner, and take another home for a decadent breakfast. Confident that she had the perfect plan, Emily snagged her hat and house key, and headed out the door.

  She had forgotten—or maybe just blocked out—Deacon’s other Tuesday-night regular. Gil was just settling down to a mile-high slice of lemon meringue when Emily walked in. Well, of course he’d be here. Hadn’t he been the one to let her in on the Tuesday-night secret of Deacon’s?

  “A new Tuesday-night regular, are we?” he joked as she slipped onto a stool two away from his at the counter. He took a huge bite of his pie. “Ahh. I told you it was worth it.”

  Emily was just about to go into some explanation as to why she had nothing better to do on Valentine’s Day then eat pie i
n a diner when the door opened behind her. In walked Peter Epson and Megan Walters, looking supremely lovestruck.

  Gil leaned toward Emily with a smart-aleck look plastered on his face. “Isn’t that a certain mail carrier?”

  “Hush,” Emily chided him, amazed that the entire diner didn’t erupt in “aww”s as Peter pulled out Megan’s chair at a corner table. “Don’t you dare say anything, Gil. Not a word.”

  By this time Peter had excused himself and strutted—yes, that was most definitely a strut—over to Emily.

  “It worked,” he whispered with glee. “Wow.”

  Gil looked like he had a dozen opinions on that, but Emily ignored him. “The gift certainly caught Megan’s eye, hmm?”

  “Yep,” he said in a distracted tone as he stared back over his shoulder at Megan. She waved. He sighed.

  Gil choked on his coffee.

  “I think she likes you,” Emily whispered.

  “Yeah,” Peter beamed. “I think so. But she’s so perfect. I don’t think she’d have looked at me before.”

  “She’s lookin’ at you now, that’s for sure,” Gil cut in. “That girl’s hung up something fierce on you.”

  “Maybe she is.” Peter said it like it was the most unlikely thing in the universe. “Wow.”

  “Wow, indeed,” Emily replied. “Now go wow her and stop talking to me.”

  Gil leaned in and nudged Peter. “You leave a pretty gal alone like that on Valentine’s Day and there’s no telling what could happen.” Peter erupted in an awkward, almost teenage laugh. “No, really,” Gil said with a bit more emphasis, “you need to get over there.”

  “Oh, yeah, right, I suppose I should.” He gave Gil an us-men-know-all-about-that-kind-of-stuff grin and strutted back to his newfound lady love.

  Gil stared after him. “Tell me I was never that young.”