Читать книгу Detour Ahead - Cindi Myers, Cindi Myers - Страница 10

WITH SHAKING HANDS, Marlee gathered up the left-overs from their lunch and stashed them in her bag. What had she been thinking, practically jumping Craig’s bones there on that log? Sure, he was a hottie and yummy as a hot fudge sundae, but what kind of a woman throws herself at a man she’s known all of three hours? He’d think she was desperate, or cheap—or both.

She headed for the car and he came up behind her as she was arranging things in the back seat. “About what happened just now…” he began.

She whirled to face him, her face hot with embarrassment. “It didn’t mean anything,” she blurted. “I mean…it just happened. And it shouldn’t have.” She stared at the ground. This was coming out badly.

“Yeah, uh, I guess we both got a little carried away.”

She risked a glance at him and saw that he had his head down, his hands shoved in his pockets. She relaxed a little. He didn’t look like a guy who’d gotten the wrong idea. He dug a trench in the gravel with the toe of his shoe. “Look, not that it’s an excuse or anything, but it’s been a while for me and…” He shook his head. “I don’t want you to think that because I’m giving you a ride, I think you owe me anything. Because I don’t. Think that. I mean, I’m not like that.”

Something in her melted right then. It was all she could do not to throw her arms around him again. For a guy who had come on this morning like Mr. Macho, she liked this version even better. Call him Mr. Decent. How many of those did you meet anymore? “It’s okay,” she said. “I guess….” She shrugged. “I guess we could say we both did what came naturally. But that doesn’t mean it meant anything.” Except she’d been on plenty of nature walks, camping trips and day hikes before and fresh air had never affected her this way.

“Right.” He nodded and took his hands out of his pockets. Their eyes met, then they both looked away, as if afraid to focus too closely on each other just yet. “So, we both agree we’ll go on like before. As if nothing happened.”

“Right.” Should she warn him that at various times she’d also sworn off chocolate, coffee and ice cream, and hadn’t managed to stay away from any of those temptations longer than a week? But then, a week was all she needed, right?

“So, I guess we’d better hit the road if we’re going to make it to Kingsport by dark.”

He started around the car to the driver’s side, but she stopped him. “Let me drive for a while. You can take a nap.”

He shook his head. “That’s okay.”

“Oh, come on. We’ll make better time and be more alert if we take turns driving.” Besides, this was another way to keep things even between them. Not that she didn’t believe what he’d said about her not owing him any “special” favors for agreeing to give her a lift, but she didn’t want any room for doubt.

He frowned. “I thought you didn’t have a license.”

A picky detail. “Yes, but that was just bad luck. I’m not a bad driver, really.”

He shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”

“Come on. We’re out in the middle of nowhere.” She spread her arms wide. “It’s a nice, straight road. What could happen?”

He stifled a yawn.

“See, you are tired!” She took a step toward him. He started to back up and bumped into the car. “I’m the only one who’s ever driven this car and I think it should stay that way.” He put his hand on the side panel, a protective gesture.

“I get it now. You’re worried I’ll hurt your precious car.”

He looked uncomfortable, but she saw she’d scored a bull’s-eye. What was it with men and their cars, anyway? “Look, if you’re tired, don’t you think the chances are greater that you’ll have an accident? Whereas I’ve already had a nap and I’m fresh and alert.” She leaned closer, almost but not quite touching him. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to your precious car.”

Confronted by her in such close quarters, he apparently decided to relent. “Okay, okay. You can drive. But only for a little while.” He held out the keys. “And no speeding. Be careful.”

She traced an X over her heart. “I promise. I’ll take it nice and easy. And you can get some rest.”

They got in the car and he pushed the seat back and reclined it slightly. She slipped on her sandals then started the engine. “See, this was a good idea,” she said.

He nodded. “Maybe you’re right. I mean, how much trouble could anybody get into way out here?”

MARLEE GRIPPED the steering wheel so tightly her fingers were practically fused to the leather. She gnawed her lower lip and tried to think calming thoughts. Deep breaths, she reminded herself. Take deep breaths. There’s no need to panic.

Except that she didn’t have a clue where she was, or even if she was headed in the right direction. She glanced over at Craig. Head back, mouth open, he snored softly. Thank God he wasn’t awake to see her predicament. Though if he was, he might be able to get them out of this mess.

She’d done fine for the first hour or so, cruising along at a nice safe speed, humming in harmony with Bonnie Rait on the stereo, enjoying the beautiful spring day.

Then one of those nasty orange signs had popped up on the side of the road. One that said Road Construction Ahead. And then an even nastier sign had appeared. Detour.

She’d sat up a little straighter in the seat and told herself she could handle it. All she had to do was follow the signs and she’d end up back on the highway, traveling in the same direction. No problem.

Except she must have missed one of the signs, or maybe they’d forgotten to put one out. She made two or three turns and by that time she was so confused, she couldn’t have said which way was the right way to go.

So she guessed. A dangerous proposition, but the only other alternative was to wake Craig and ask for help. What self-respecting woman wanted to do that? Especially one who had made such a big deal about driving?

She shifted in the seat, trying to get more comfortable, and stared down the road, hoping for a road sign or a billboard or anything to tell her where she was and where she needed to go. But all she saw were empty fields and distant trees. No houses, no people and no signs.

Keep driving, she told herself. You’re bound to come to a town eventually. That’s what roads do. They connect towns.

She glanced at Craig again. His hair was ruffled and dark beard stubble showed along his jaw. She imagined he’d look like this first thing in the morning.

Her imagination quickly stripped him of his shirt, and painted a picture of him reaching for her across the rumpled sheets….

Stop that! She jerked her gaze back to the road, and tried to ignore the very different kind of heat scorching through her body. This was insane. She didn’t usually behave this way with the men she dated. And she had to travel three thousand miles with Craig. She couldn’t keep looking at him like a dieter contemplating the dessert of the day. She was an adult. She ought to be able to control these…these urges, and relate to Craig like another adult. A friend. A very sexy, very male friend.

She stifled a groan and clutched the steering wheel even more tightly. Why couldn’t they have met back in Washington? Gotten to know each other over a few weeks? Then they could fall into bed guilt-free. But not on a cross-country trip when they were still practically strangers.

What did it matter? He obviously wasn’t interested. Oh, his body was, but you couldn’t trust a man’s physical reactions. They could get turned on by pictures in magazines or random hints of certain perfumes. So when she’d come on to Craig back there by the creek, she would have been amazed if he hadn’t responded.

His mind wasn’t interested, though. He’d made that clear up front. He didn’t want any “complications.” Which she figured was a polite way of saying he didn’t want her. Mr. Strictly Business wasn’t interested in Ms. Anything Goes. What else was new?

She passed a house, and then another. A small billboard urged her to shop at Dave’s Auto Parts in Downieville. Half a mile farther a green sign announced that she was entering Downieville, population thirteen hundred. And three. Relief flooded her. She’d stop at a gas station or grocery store in Downieville and ask for directions. She checked Craig. He still slept soundly. With any luck, she could find out what she needed to know and head back in the right direction before he ever realized what was going on.

As she guided the car down the two-lane through the center of town, nostalgia overwhelmed her. Downieville reminded her of Dimmitt, with its mom-and-pop stores, signs in the windows celebrating the accomplishments of the local school teams and flower boxes along the sidewalks. It looked like the kind of place that would be fun to poke around in, if they had more time.

The town was small, but busy for a Saturday afternoon. People filled the sidewalks in front of the neat rows of shops, and traffic was heavy. Cars, trucks, even a fire engine clogged the street up ahead. Had there been an accident? Or maybe there was a big game.

She followed the stream of cars, inching past sidewalks lined with people. Some had even brought lawn chairs and sat down to watch. Some of them waved to her, and she waved back. She rolled down a window, intending to ask a passerby what was going on. Just then, a band started up, trumpets and a big bass drum loud in her ears.

She looked behind her and indeed, a high-school band, complete with a trio of twirlers in leotards, marched in formation behind her car. Beyond them, she could see a truck pulling a trailer decorated with crêpe-paper flowers. Facing forward again, she saw two clowns skipping ahead of her, bunches of balloons in their hands.

The band let out another loud fanfare. “Huh? Wha—?” Craig sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked around, blinking. “Where are we? What’s going on?”

She watched one of the clowns hand a balloon to a giggling toddler. “I think we’re in a parade.” Ahead of them in the traffic, she could make out a red convertible, with a tiara-clad young woman perched on the back seat. She tossed out candy, and the children scrambled for it.

“A parade! Are you crazy?”

“Look in my tote and get that bag of hard candy, will you?”

“What?”

“Just do it.” She smiled and gave her best Miss America wave to the passing crowd.

Craig handed her the candy. “How did we end up in a parade?”

Ignoring him, she ripped open the bag and tossed a handful of candy out the window. It landed short of the sidewalk and children rushed to gather it up. “Smile,” she told him. “Everyone’s watching.”

He looked around, scowl still firmly in place. “I can’t believe this.”

“Here. Throw some on your side.” She shoved candy into his hand. “It’s fun.”

Looking doubtful, he rolled down the window on his side and threw out a handful of candy. One of the clowns strolled over and handed him a balloon. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, but the clown had already moved on to the car ahead of them.

“How sweet!” Marlee laughed at a boy and his dog who watched the parade from the back of a pickup parked at the curb. “Do you need more candy?”

“What I need is to know how we got into this mess,” he said.

“Maybe I thought it would be fun to visit the strawberry festival.” She pointed to the banner stretched across the street in front of them. Downieville Strawberry Festival! it proclaimed.

“Downieville’s not on our route. And we don’t have time for this. We’re already behind schedule.”

“Oh, stuff your schedule!” She spoke without rancor, still smiling and waving to the crowd. All the cars and trucks and floats turned in beneath the sign, which appeared to be the entrance to the local high school.

As Marlee pulled into a parking space and shut off the engine, a round, crinkly-faced man with straw-blond hair and bright blue eyes rushed up to them. “Welcome to Downieville,” he said, thrusting his hand in the open driver’s-side window. “I’m Ed Hoskins, the mayor. I saw you folks get caught up in our parade. Thanks for getting into the spirit of things.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mayor Hoskins. I’m Marlee and this is Craig. You have a wonderful little town.”

“Glad to meet you. And thank you.” He shook both their hands, though Craig continued to frown. “We think Downieville’s a special place. Now y’all come inside and join in the festivities. We’ve got all kinds of craft and food booths. Games. Fun for everyone.” He opened the door and ushered Marlee out.

Craig joined them. “Sir, I—” he began.

“Ed, we’ve got a problem!” A harried-looking older woman rushed up to them. She gave Marlee and Craig a brief smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need the mayor’s help here.”

“Nancy, what is it?” the mayor asked.

“Doc Nelson had to leave to deliver Sue Nicholson’s baby, and he was supposed to judge the bake-off. Now we’re a judge short.”

“I’m sure we can find someone who won’t mind tasting all those delicious pies and cakes for a good cause.” The mayor turned back to Marlee and Craig. “You’ll want to stick around for this, folks. After the judging, the goodies are sold by the slice. The money goes to our summer youth program.”

“Craig can be your judge,” Marlee said. “He’s a famous Washington, D.C., chef.”

“I don’t think I—”

Craig started to back away, but she caught hold of his arm. “You’d be perfect,” she said. “And we’d be helping these nice people out of a jam.”

“A jam! Strawberry jam! We have that, too.” The mayor put his arm around Craig’s shoulder and led them toward the high-school gym. “A famous chef. Imagine that! Wait until I tell the committee.”

Craig looked back over his shoulder and glared at Marlee. She pretended not to notice. So what if this wasn’t exactly part of their planned itinerary? Craig worried too much about things like schedules and plans. He needed to learn to relax more. To slow down and smell the roses. Or the strawberries.

CRAIG SPENT the next hour sampling strawberry pies, strawberry cakes, strawberry cookies and muffins. Women and men of all shapes and sizes presented their creations with attitudes ranging from great solemnity to open flirtation. “I know you’re going to love this,” cooed one buxom blonde. “It’s my specialty.”

“Stop wasting the man’s time, Victoria.” An older woman with a face like a bulldog shoved the blonde out of the way and fixed Craig with a stern stare. “Young man, if you’re really a famous chef, then you’ll recognize my award-winning strawberry pie as the best in the state. I developed the recipe myself and it’s never failed to win a ribbon.” The words held a definite threat.

Craig managed to keep a smile on his face as he picked up his fork. “I’m sure it’s delicious.” He gave an equally friendly smile to the blonde. “As I’m sure yours is, too.” Who knew judging a small-town baking contest would be so rife with intrigue and danger?

When the women moved on, shooed away by one of the bake-off organizers, Craig looked around the crowded gym for Marlee. He spotted her over by a face-painting booth. Dressed in an oversize red apron, she was painting a butterfly on a little girl’s cheek. Marlee had a strawberry painted on her own face. Her hair was tousled and she looked like a kid herself, and every bit as happy.

He didn’t buy her story about wanting to stop off at the Strawberry Festival. She must have gotten lost because there was no Downieville listed on his route plan for their trip. Amazing. How could a person get lost on a straight highway?

“Mr. Brinkman? It’s time to announce our winners.” Nancy, the gray-haired women in charge of the bake-off, led him to the small stage at one end of the gym. While she alerted the crowd that it was time to discover the winners of the contest, he shuffled through the notes he’d made on index cards. One advantage of being a stranger here was that he had no idea who had baked the winning entry, so he could be sure he’d judged fairly. He only hoped the losers wouldn’t come after him with a lynch rope.

He looked out at the crowd gathering around him and felt transported back to the junior-high talent show he’d entered when he was thirteen. He’d spent weeks rehearsing his act, but when he’d taken the stage in a gymnasium very much like this one, he’d been paralyzed with fear and had made a mess of things. When he’d heard everyone laughing, he’d run off the stage and vowed never to put himself in that position again.

“And now, our special celebrity judge, Chef Craig Brinkman, from Washington, D.C., will announce our winners.”

The sound of his name brought him out of his trance. He stepped forward, clutching his stack of index cards, and cleared his throat. “The first runner-up is the strawberry pound cake, um, number seventeen.”

Squeals erupted to the left of the platform and a teenage girl rushed forward, pausing every few feet to embrace an enthusiastic friend. She accepted her purple ribbon from Craig, then turned to beam at the crowd while a woman who must have been her mother snapped half a dozen photos. For all her excitement, you’d have thought the girl had won the Pillsbury bake-off. Here in Downieville, the Strawberry Festival was apparently just as big.

He waited for the commotion to die down, then consulted his next card. “Third place goes to the chocolate strawberry cake. Number twenty-seven.”

Laughter greeted this announcement. After a pause, a burly young man wearing a letter jacket from the local high school shuffled to the platform. The group of high-school girls giggled and whispered behind their hands as he approached. Apparently things hadn’t changed all that much since Craig’s school days. A boy who cooked was still something of a novelty.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked as he shook the young man’s hand.

“Uh, it’s Mike. Mike Brewster.”

“Congratulations, Mike. You might make a great chef someday.”

Mike looked uncertain, then grinned. “Thanks. I guess that’s pretty cool, huh?”

“I always thought so.”

As Mike returned to his place at the back of the crowd, he walked with an extra swagger, his shoulders straight. “Did you hear what he said?” He showed the ribbon to his friends. “He said I could be a great chef—like him.”

“Second place goes to the strawberry tart. Number forty-eight.”

The sour-faced woman who’d confronted him earlier made her way to the platform with much dignity. She accepted the second-place ribbon without a smile. “I’ll have you know this is the first time my strawberry tart has failed to take first place,” she said. “That’s what happens when you bring in outside judges. All that fancy nouveau cuisine has obviously ruined your tastebuds for good, American cooking.”

He tried not to cringe, and reminded himself that he would in all likelihood never have to see this woman again. Thank God for that.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” Now that he’d been up here a while, he wasn’t so nervous. “I have to say, this was a really tough choice. Most of the entries were excellent and you are all to be commended.”

“Just tell us who won!” a man shouted from the back.

“Right.” He double-checked his notes. “The winner is the strawberry cream tart, number forty-seven.”

A woman squealed and the next thing he knew the buxom blonde was on stage beside him, her arms wrapped around him. “I told you you’d love it,” she exclaimed, and kissed him soundly, to the laughter and hooting of the crowd.

Somehow he managed to extricate himself from her grip while Nancy distracted her with the trophy. He took out his handkerchief to wipe lipstick off his face. As kisses went, this had been nothing spectacular.

Now his kiss by the creek with Marlee—that had been a spectacular kiss. A woman who could kiss like that didn’t need to know how to cook. It made him wonder what other “special talents” she might possess.

Don’t go there, he told himself. That kiss had been a mistake. He couldn’t imagine what had come over him. Maybe the watercress he’d picked was some wild hybrid, with hallucinogenic properties. How else to explain his sudden attraction to a woman who was so far from his ideal match it was ludicrous? No sense wasting their time with each other. The thing to do was to get back on the road and get to the wedding as quickly as possible.