by Sloan Archer
Sometimes the find was unpleasant, like when she’d cleaned out the middle drawer of a walnut hutch and closed her hand around the fossilized carcass of a mouse that must have died around the same time Bill Clinton was telling America that he did not inhale. Other times, it was downright bizarre and even a little dangerous. While removing boxes of Christmas ornaments from one of the bedrooms, she’d nearly been skewered through the chest when she inadvertently kicked over a carved tribal spear that had been leaning against the wall. Where Jeanie had gotten the thing she could only imagine.
Then there were times—and these times were her favorite—when she discovered treasures that were vastly out of place inside a humble farmhouse. She’d opened a beat-up cigar box one morning and found a large emerald and diamond engagement ring lying atop an old black and white wedding photo. From the footnote on its back, Vanessa learned that the couple were her great, great-grandparents, Verne and Martha. She let out a little gasp when she saw that Martha was wearing the same ring she now held in her fingers. She put the ring on and then brought her hand to her chest, silently vowing that she’d keep it forever—not because of its value, though she imagined it quite high, but because it was a piece of history. Her family history, which she knew very little of because her mother had alienated them from every relative they had left.
There was one piece of history that Vanessa couldn’t bring herself to look through, and that was the stack of returned envelopes from Jeanie. She’d gotten as far as two birthday cards before she burst into angry tears and shoved the stack into a shoe box that she hid under the bed. Maybe someday she’d look through them, but not now, when her pain was too raw and her emotional state too fragile.
Vanessa had also been keeping herself busy with the financial planning she’d been doing for Meredith and Meadow. Both women were impressed by the individual attention she had shown them, as well as her willingness to produce swift results. After seeing the preliminary plans she’d put together for them, their faith in her abilities only increased.
Meredith’s confidence in Vanessa was so strong that she’d recommended her services to Shawna, a friend of hers who owned a ski shop downtown. Shawna, like many other businesses in the area that relied heavily on tourism, struggled to cope financially during the off-season. A single mother, she was hoping that Vanessa could help her formulate a way to at least break even during the slow months so that she and her two daughters could live comfortably until business picked up again. Vanessa had immediately taken her on as a client.
Helping other women plan for the future gave Vanessa an altruistic boost. She knew all too well how important it was for females to have a backup plan, should life suddenly decide that it has a different design in mind, and how easy it was to become reliant on a partner’s assets. It was rare to hear of a man struggling financially after being thrown out on his tail during a breakup, yet it seemed to happen frequently to women—herself included, shameful as it was. Vanessa felt good knowing that there were three (soon to be four, once she met with Violet to put together a plan) ladies in Dunblair Ridge who she’d helped become financially self-sufficient.
Still, a few clients was not a career. Vanessa kept plugging away at her New York job search, though she might as well have not bothered. The stigma that surrounded her so-called embezzling remained like a bad odor, and despite her efforts her offers remained nil. She called and emailed prospective employers with a zealousness that came close to stalking, with each suggesting in their own unique way that they were not interested in hiring a corrupt financial planner—that perhaps she should consider switching careers altogether.
Vanessa’s treatment this afternoon at Jepson, Brookes, and Associates was particularly brutal. She sat on hold so long that the receptionist seemed to have forgotten that she was still on the line waiting. Vanessa could just imagine all the firm’s associates gathered around, laughing at her as she sat there like a fool humming along to nineties pop elevator music while the receptionist was probably off grabbing a coffee. Yah, it’s her. Again! Doesn’t she have any pride? It’s, like, hellooooo, nobody wants to hire you, you crook! Stop calling already.
Vanessa would not be derailed. She was feeling almost spiteful in her resolve—how dare they treat her like a joke, like some intern fresh out of college! She had all day to wait them out, if that’s what it took, but they would deal with her eventually.
“Jepson, Brookes, and Associates,” the girl chirped when she returned to the line.
“Hi, it’s still me,” Vanessa said in a cheerful voice that she hoped wouldn’t betray the irritation she felt. She once again explained that she was doing a follow-up call about her resume.
“What’s your name again?”
“Vanessa . . . Paul. Vanessa Paul.” They way she’d said her name made it sound almost as if she were apologizing.
The girl, who didn’t sound a day older than twenty, let out a snort. Never had she heard anything so ridiculous, so it seemed. “Uh, yah, we’re not hiring.” She disconnected before Vanessa had a chance to say anything else.
“Well, isn’t that just great,” she muttered. And yet . . . she felt a strange kind of relief. This wasn’t the first time that she’d felt this way, either, after a similar rejection.
Maybe it came down to her not wanting to leave Dunblair Ridge before the remodel was completed, which she’d have to do if she got a job with an immediate opening in New York. (Though fat chance of that happening.) If she left, the house may not be market ready for months or even years.
There was also a lot of preparation that would accompany a return to New York. She was starting to grow accustomed to the simple life, and planning for metropolis living was anything but. The most daunting task would be finding a place to live in a city where space was at a premium. Her new apartment would be nowhere as plush as the one she’d lived in with Greg. It would also be about the size of a postage stamp and in a neighborhood a lot less covetable than Tribeca—and it would still cost thousands per month. Her neighbors would be strangers.
“Careful now,” she cautioned herself. That was the great thing about living alone on a farm, being able to talk to herself without anyone overhearing her and thinking she was crazy. “If you keep this up, you’ll end up staying in Dunblair Ridge.”
She looked around her sizeable living room, which in itself was almost larger than any apartment she could hope to get back in New York. She pictured her handsome neighbor across the field, who she’d already made warm memories with inside the farmhouse that she owned free and clear. She thought about the other friends she’d made in town, the wonderful group of supportive women who had welcomed her into their circle warmly, despite her lack of important connections or prestigious job. She thought about the clean Montana air and the charming downtown district only a short drive away. And she wondered: Would that really be such a bad thing, staying here?
She shook her head, annoyed that she could be swayed so easily. Of course it would. She’d worked far too hard to allow Jersaw and Morris to chase her out of New York over some misunderstanding. She’d come to Montana with temporariness on her mind, and she wasn’t going to stray from the plan. Because, if there was one thing about her life that she could control, it was her plan.
Maybe, too, she was romanticizing Dunblair Ridge because it was her only option currently. It was easy to fixate on the negative aspects of returning to New York when she had no real means of getting there. Sure, it was expensive, cramped, and the people a far cry from Montana polite. Most cities were. However, New York City also offered culture, excitement, an endless array of entertainment possibilities, and, most importantly, vast opportunities for career advancement. If she could only find a job.
But then there was the Cash thing.
“What Cash thing?” she asked the empty room.
She might as well face facts and stop trying to fool herself. He was a good friend, sure—a great one, even—but there were elements to their friendship that were undeni
ably romantic. There had been a time or two when they’d held each other’s gazes for a second too long. Squeezed each other just a little too tight when they hugged. Lingered on the front porch as they said goodnight.
Cash was a man who made it very easy for a woman—
No, not just any woman, YOU, she thought.
—to fall head over heels. He was kind, sweet, ridiculously handsome, and he made her feel good about herself. But was her attachment rooted simply in geography? He was the only guy she knew in town, so wasn’t it only natural that she would fixate on him? If she were in New York, would he still have caught her attention?
Yes, she decided, he would have.
But also no.
Maybe he would not have appealed to the woman she’d been prior to her stay in Dunblair Ridge. Before, she might have found him too laidback, his income too minuscule, his connections too finite. A shame, given that she would have been robbing herself the opportunity to have a truly wonderful man in her life.
Now, though, her outlook on what truly mattered in life had changed for the better. Without even realizing that he was doing so, she’d allowed Cash to turn her into a kinder, mellower person. If she were to run into Cash as a stranger in New York now, she might find him pretty close to perfect—perfect for her, that was.
But was she only seeing what she wanted to? Being dumped by her job and her boyfriend had done a number on her self-esteem. Was it possible that she’d become so desperate and clingy that she was misconstruing Cash’s kindness as romantic interest? And, really, what was she going to do even if he was interested—relocate her life just to be with him the way her mother would do?
With Cash now near the surface of her mind, Vanessa thought of the time. “Yikes!” she gasped. It was getting late, and she still hadn’t showered! She was heading over to his place at seven for a homecooked dinner, which he’d insisted on preparing despite her protests that he’d already done too much for her as it was.
He’d compromised by letting her bring dessert. She was making lemon cream cupcakes, a delicious culinary treat she’d made so often that she knew the recipe by heart—the secret ingredient was sour cream, which kept the cakes moist, and, of course, lots of lemon zest. She was going to garnish the tops with edible pansies picked from Jeanie’s garden, a pretty purple touch that would complement the light yellow frosting beautifully.
Vanessa went into the kitchen to start preparing the cupcakes. As her mind wandered, she contemplated what she’d wear over to Cash’s place for dinner. She also questioned what he was making for dinner. Most of all, she was thinking about how she’d probably never find a place to live in New York City where she could grow her own pansies in the back yard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cash’s eyes widened twice when he opened the door to Vanessa grinning on his porch. The first time was when he saw how lovely she looked. The second was when he noticed the cupcakes she was holding.
Vanessa’s outfit was a few basic pieces, but she wore them with the grace of a fashion model. Her long, cottony sundress fit like a song. Emerald green, it hugged her bustline in a flattering halter shape, tapering outward as was it reached her ankles. She wore muted gold sandals with a slight wedge. Her makeup was minimal, her lips soft pink and glossy, and her hair was long and flowy, with one side twisted back and held in place with a simple clip that matched the soft gold of her shoes. She transported Cash to a place of magic and fantasy, where wild horses roamed the earth and men and women walked amongst royalty.
Vanessa, of course, was queen.
Unfortunately, Cash’s knee-jerk reaction was anything but regal. “Wow, you look purdy,” he drawled, feeling like a complete idiot as soon as he said it. Recovering quickly, he provided her a genuine compliment and a kiss on the cheek. “Seriously, you look beautiful.”
“Thanks. It’s warm out, so I thought I’d break out a dress for the occasion. I’m surprised you recognized me without cobwebs in my hair and paint on my face,” she said and he chuckled. She gestured down at her outfit. “I went shopping after I met with Meredith—she’s the one who owns the ski shop—and I couldn’t say no to this dress.”
“It’s nice.”
She smiled guiltily. “I know I shouldn’t be shopping, given my current joblessness, but it was crazy on-sale. So, really, it would be like losing money if I didn’t buy it, right?”
He gave her a skeptical look.
“Okay, I know that’s not how it works. And if any of my clients fed me the same line, I’d give them the same face you’re giving me now. And a lecture,” she said with a laugh. “But the color reminded me of you, so I thought to myself: If Cash ever invites me to dinner, I’d better have something to wear that’ll match his eyes. So, really, it was like I was doing you a favor.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Is that right?” She was obviously putting him on, but he was still pleased. She’d noticed the color of his eyes well enough to comment on them, which was awesome.
“Would you get in here, already?” he grinned playfully, holding the screen door open for her. It was difficult for him not to gawk as she walked through. He’d spent the whole day around stinky, stubborn cattle that had not taken kindly to being herded, so Vanessa was a pleasant change. She smelled divine, like flowers and cupcakes.
Remembering his manners, he said, “Thank you for bringing dessert. What are those, vanilla? Yum.”
She looked worried. “No, not vanilla—lemon. You do like lemon, don’t you?”
Lemon just so happened to be one of his favorites, which he told her. “They look so professional. You sure you didn’t just buy them downtown, take them out of the package, and bring then here of your own plate?”
She placed a hand over her heart. “Honest to goodness, I made ‘em myself. You can come over and check the dirty bowls in the sink, if you like.”
“Nah, I’m good. I know you and your aunt used to bake way back when.”
“You remember that?”
“Sure,” he said a lot more seriously. “I remember a lot of things from back then.” Like, for example, his solemn vow to marry her. He wondered if she remembered it as well, but he hadn’t mustered the courage to ask her.
He took the plate of cupcakes and went into the kitchen to set them aside for later. He could feel her watching him. Over his shoulder, he asked, “What?”
She seemed flustered over getting caught. “Nothing. Was just thinking that you look nice, too.” She smiled mischievously. “Purdy.”
He laughed. “Oh. Thanks.”
“Did you get a haircut?”
“Sure did.”
“It looks good. Very handsome.”
Well, look at them, all full of compliments for each other. It felt almost like a real date—at least to Cash it did. He was feeling a giddiness that first dates usually provided, and his stomach had done a few flipflops since Vanessa’s arrival.
Cash had made an effort to spiff himself up the way he usually did for a date with a woman he could see a plausible future with. In addition to the haircut and clean shave, he was wearing a new button-down shirt. He also had on a pair of light grey cotton chinos, paired with brown leather loafers that he’d hardly worn since his days of living in the city, as well as a nice watch. It was no tuxedo, but his efforts showed and he felt good.
He’d seen the way Vanessa had gotten dolled up when she’d met the girls for drinks—and how could he forget the way she’d been dressed on the first day she’d arrived? He’d taken a risk straying from his normal DIY look, and he was thankful that he had. He would have felt like a rube if she’d shown up looking the way she did and he was wearing just any old T-shirt and jeans. Cash wanted to show that it was still possible to get spiffed up living in Dunblair Ridge, as he imagined this might be something that would be important to her, glamourous as she was. Vanessa, like himself, was clearly a person who felt good when she looked good, though Cash suspected she could wear a potato sack and still be a goddess.
> Despite seeing Vanessa casually on most days, he wanted his dinner to feel like an act of entertaining. Barring the afternoon they’d had ribs at Bowdie’s, which would hardly qualify as highfalutin cuisine, they hadn’t had a chance to do anything that didn’t revolve around the remodel. Being a bachelor, he usually ate using whatever mismatched dishes and flatware he found rattling around the cupboard, but he’d brought out the good stuff for tonight’s feast: antique sterling silver flatware and pretty blue and white china that, like the ranch, had been in his family for generations. At the center of the table was a Mason jar bouquet of wheat and wild flowers that Cash had slowly accumulated throughout the day. On either side of it were two off-white candles.
Vanessa was impressed. “Did you do all of this for me? It’s gorgeous in here.”
Cash was both delighted and embarrassed by her gushing. “I figured that we might as well go all out tonight, since we’re not knee-high in dust and building supplies. Do you think it’s hokey?”
“Are you kidding? I love it!”
“You do?”
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Do you know how long it’s been since a guy did something like this for me?”
“How long?”
“Thirty-four years!”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You’ve been hanging out with the wrong guys, I think.” In a gesture that was almost automatic, he brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it.
If Vanessa was taken aback by the kiss, she said nothing. Still, she unclasped her fingers from his as their hands dropped and smoothed her hair back off her shoulder. She was just as nervous as he was, Cash could see. But was she nervous because she had feelings toward him, or because he was making her uncomfortable with his forwardness?
