Читать книгу Her Passionate Plan B - Dixie Browning, Dixie Browning - Страница 8

Kell’s boots still weren’t dry, but at least he’d scraped most of the mud off. As disappointed as he was that he’d arrived too late to meet his half uncle, he had to admit he’d enjoyed watching the mystery woman dancing around, trying to keep from sinking up to her ankles. Not that he was a leg man, but she had nice ones. She was a blonde—sort of, anyway. With her hooded raincoat and shades, he hadn’t been able to see much more than half a pale face, a few wet strands and a pair of mud-spattered legs. But she definitely had world-class ankles.

Still reeling from learning that the guy he’d come so far to see had died, Kell hadn’t bothered to ask Blalock about the woman who had answered the phone when he’d called from the outskirts of town the night before. The one who had referred him to the banker. The bank had been closed by that time and he’d been forced to wait until this morning.

He should have called back when he’d first discovered a possible connection between the Snows of North Carolina and the Magees of Oklahoma City, but he’d had some things to wind up before he could leave town. Then, too, he sort of liked the idea of turning up unexpectedly, picturing Half Uncle Harvey opening the door, taking one look and recognizing him as his long-lost nephew.

Yeah, like that would have happened. Kell didn’t look anything like his dad. They might be built along the same lines, but Evander Magee had had red hair and freckles. The only facial features they shared were eye color and a shallow cleft in a chin that had been likened a time or two to the Rock of Gibraltar.

Okay, so he might’ve been overly optimistic, taking off without even notifying Snow of his intentions. A pessimist probably wouldn’t have bothered to track down a possible relative in the first place. Trouble was, even now, after all that had happened in his thirty-nine-plus years, Kell was a dogged optimist. Back in his pitching days he’d gone into every game fully expecting to win. As a starter, he might not go nine innings, but he’d damned well do seven. So it stood to reason that once he’d started the search, he’d had to follow through every lead.

It hadn’t helped when he’d got to Muddy Landing after dark only to find that the town’s only motel had been closed ever since Hurricane Isabel had blown through back in September. He’d had to drive miles out of the way and settle for a hole-in-the-wall place where the bed was too short, the walls too thin, the pillows padded with that stuff that fought back. If he hung around much longer he might be tempted to buy himself a camper and a good pillow, only he didn’t think the Porsche was rated for towing.

Bottom line—he had found Harvey Snow a couple of days too late, spent a miserable night on a lousy mattress and, as a result, overslept. He had skipped breakfast, showed up at the bank nearly an hour past opening time and then had to wait to see a man named Blalock who had tried to brush him off, claiming he was pressed for time.

Kell was no quitter. Blocking the door of Blalock’s office, he’d introduced himself and explained why he was there—that he’d been given his name, and that his father had had a younger half brother named Harvey Snow. And that he needed to know how to locate the man as the phone book listed a rural-route number instead of a street address.

That was when he’d heard the bad news. “I’m sorry to tell you, but the man you’re looking for recently passed away. He’s being buried today, in fact. I’m on my way to the service now, so if you’ll excuse me?”

It had taken Kell a moment to digest the news. He hadn’t moved.

“So far as anyone knows,” the smug banker had gone on to say, “Mr. Snow left no surviving relatives.”

Kell had felt like protesting, Dammit, I’m a surviving relative!

Instead he’d ended up following Blalock through a driving rain along miles of narrow blacktop to a country graveyard. After that, he’d followed him back to the bank. Only now, after the banker had called up a few records on his computer and then grilled him like a trout on a spit, was he finally headed out to see where his father had once lived.

Supposedly lived, as Blalock had stipulated.

Kell figured he could spare five days. A week at most. The boys back home could handle things at the store. If not, they had a go-to number.

Somewhere along the line, working with at-risk kids had segued into even more of a full-time job than the sporting goods store he used as a training ground. He was also in the process of turning a working ranch into a baseball camp, so he had just about everything a man could want. Satisfying work, financial security and enough women of the noncommitted variety to keep him happy well into his senior years.

On the other hand, there was this roots thing. Once he’d started digging, he hated like hell to give up. Blalock might have reservations about the Snow-Magee connection, but Kell trusted his instincts, and those were signaling loud and clear that he was right on target. His dad might have spent most of his life in Oklahoma, but Kell would bet his seven-figure portfolio that his roots were in Muddy Landing.

Following the narrow, wet highway between flat fields and a marshy shoreline dotted with private landings and small boats, he was wishing he’d paid more attention back when his old man used to reminisce about bear hunting in the Great Dismal Swamp and fishing on the Outer Banks. Both areas were less than an hour’s drive from Muddy Landing. That alone was evidence that he was on the right track.

Trouble was, he’d usually been too impatient to listen. Hanging in the open doorway, baseball glove in hand, he’d been like, yeah, yeah, look, I gotta run now, the guys are waiting. He wished now he’d paid more attention when his dad had had a few beers and got to rambling, but at the time about all he’d been interested in was playing pickup baseball and showing off his best stuff in case any girls were watching.

Speaking of girls—or in this case, women—he had a feeling the woman in the black raincoat was the same one he’d spoken to on the phone, the one who’d referred him to Blalock. Hadn’t Blalock said that Snow’s nurse was still staying at the house, winding up a few things? Kell thought it was damned decent of her to show up at the funeral. Not many others had bothered. Dressed the way she was, with those wraparound shades, she’d reminded him of one of those mysterious women you saw in movies standing alone at some high-class funeral. They always turned out to be the Other Woman.

The question was, whose Other Woman was the lady in black? Half Uncle Harvey’s?

If Blalock knew, he wasn’t talking. After only a couple of brief conversations before and after the graveside service, Kell got the distinct impression that the banker was reluctant to uncover any possible link between his client and Kell’s father. From an executor’s point of view, a relative coming in from left field at this stage of the game might muddy up the waters. Blalock struck him as the kind of guy who liked his waters nice and clear with no hidden snags.

Kell should have assured him right off the bat that he wasn’t interested in the estate. Now that it was too late to meet his relative, all he wanted was a chance to learn more about his father’s early life and maybe even meet a few cousins if any lived nearby.

The trail had split some fifty-odd years ago when sixteen-year-old Evander Magee had left home. Kell, who’d been fourteen when both his parents had died in the fire that had blazed through their double-wide, burning any documentary evidence they might have possessed, had never even thought about his roots until recently. The combination of watching his fortieth birthday barrel down on him and becoming a godfather to his best friend’s twin sons had set him to thinking about family.

That’s when Kell had first confronted the fact that he was the last in the Magee line. That was a pretty heavy burden on the shoulders of a man who had conscientiously avoided anything that even smelled like commitment.

He thought again about the bedraggled blonde in black. Kell liked blondes. He liked women, period—wearing black or any other color. Better yet, wearing nothing at all. She’d sounded pretty cool on the phone. She’d looked cold, wet and miserable in the flesh.

He wondered if she’d thawed out yet.

The day of the funeral seemed endless. By late afternoon the rain had finally tapered off. While her friends, who evidently thought she shouldn’t be left alone, sipped iced tea and leafed through an old issue of Southern Living, an exhausted Daisy relaxed in the dark green cane rocker on a screened porch that had been damaged in the hurricane and never repaired. She watched rose-tinted clouds float over the hedgerow, smelled the fresh green scent of broken branches and wet, overgrown pittosporum. This was her favorite place to sit as long as the mosquitoes weren’t too bad.

It had been slightly more than two months since Hurricane Isabel had come whipping across the sound, roaring upriver all the way to Muddy Landing and beyond. Things were still in a mess. Construction workers, already pushed to the limit building those little starter houses that were springing up like toadstools, had quit building to repair hurricane damage. The owner of her apartment building kept making excuses as to why the place wasn’t ready for reoccupancy, and she understood, she really did, but darn it, she couldn’t stay here much longer. She had her own life to get on with.

Sprawled out in the glider, Marty and Sasha were talking about a DVD they had recently rented, arguing the merits of Jude Law over Johnny Depp. Daisy wished they would leave so she could get on with the job of going through closets, drawers and shelves, and helping Faylene give one last cleaning to rooms that hadn’t been used in decades. Maybe tomorrow she’d feel more like shopping and doing something about her hair, but not now. Not when she was surrounded by reminders of a gentle man whose entire adult life had been filled with pain and loneliness.

“Stop mooning about that poor man. He lived a full life,” Sasha said.

“I doubt it,” Marty murmured. “Didn’t you say he was bedridden, Daisy?”

“Only the last few months. After his strokes. Before that he got around just fine in his chair. And I’m not mooning, I’m tired. I promised Eg—Mr. Blalock we’d have the house ready to show by the end of next week.”

“Show to who? Whom?”

She shrugged. “All those people who’ve been calling, I guess.” She drifted off again, thinking of all that needed doing and where to draw the line. Thank goodness she had never collected much beyond her clothes, a few nice pieces of furniture and a shelfful of her favorite authors, the latter thanks to Marty’s generous discount. That was one of the benefits of having a bookseller for a friend.

Sasha said, “Well, he’s always been pleasant to me, even when he had cars lined up waiting for service.”

Who, Harvey? Daisy jerked her meandering thoughts back to the present. Being nice to a gorgeous redhead was no big deal, but since when had Harvey had cars lined up? He hadn’t driven in years. Didn’t even own a car anymore.

“His garage is neat as a pin—for a garage, that is. And we know he’s honest,” Sasha continued.

Oh. They must be talking about Faylene’s potential suitor. “How do we know that?” Daisy wasn’t particularly interested in the prospective match. If they’d been talking about matching up anyone but Faylene she might have opted out, but none of them could get along without the housekeeper. If Faylene wasn’t happy, someone had darned well better find out why and do something about it.

“For one thing,” the redhead explained, “when he changed my oil and rotated my tires last week he charged me exactly what he charged Oren.” Oren being her next-door neighbor.

“Okay, so it’s just barely possible he won’t try to con her out of her life’s savings.” Having once been taken for everything she owned by a man who claimed to adore her, integrity ranked high on Daisy’s list of requirements—another area where Egbert scored in the top one percentile. “When it comes to dealing with his customers he might be trustworthy, but—”

“Look, all we’re trying to do here is get them together for a first date. They’re bound to know each other casually, the same way everybody in Muddy Landing knows everybody else here, right?” Sasha waited for nods of agreement. “So all we have to do is get the two of them up close and personal and see if anything clicks. I mean, Gus is no Joe Millionaire and Faye’s certainly not whatsername, fill in the blanks, but they’re probably about the same age—fiftyish—and they’re both single. Who knows, he might take one deep look into her eyes and—”

“And ignore everything else,” Marty said dryly. “Okay, so Gus has all his own hair and teeth, and Faye—well, you have to admit she has great legs.”

It went without saying that her hair was a disaster and her face had more wrinkles than a box of prunes. Her exact age remained a mystery, but she wore white sneakers, white shorts and support hose in all but the coldest months so that her legs, which really were shapely, appeared at first glance to be bare and smoothly tanned.

Daisy said, “He’ll freak if she takes him home with her.” Faylene lived in Crooked Creek Mobile Home Park, the small area surrounding her single-wide graced by forty-seven pieces of concrete sculpture at last count.

“So she collects art.” Sasha shrugged. “He probably collects something, most men do.” Two of her three husbands had collected other women.

“Whatever, they can work it out between them. Anyone heard anything about his sexual practices?”

“Does he practice?”

“The question is, how many hours a day does he practice?”

“No, the question is, how good is he?”

The two other women batted that particular ball back and forth until Daisy broke into a reluctant grin. Chuckling, Sasha said, “Oh, hush up, y’all know what I mean. After that last fiasco, we need to be sure of his, uh—persuasion.”

Marty said, “Methodist. You reckon he goes to any box suppers? I don’t remember seeing him there.”

“If he does, that means he probably can’t cook,” Daisy offered.

“Or that he’s big on charity.” The box suppers raised money for various charities, most recently for victims of Hurricane Isabel. The three women had found it a handy place to dish a little dirt and scout out matchmaking prospects—or as Daisy put it, victims.

“If he can thaw and microwave, that’s more than Faye can do,” Sasha reminded them.

“Here, here.” Marty lifted her glass of iced tea in a toast. “So are we going to do boxes for the next supper?” We, meaning Daisy. The other two women provided the raw material; it was Daisy who turned it into a delectable feast. “I think it’s Wednesday after next—or maybe this coming Wednesday. What’s today’s date, anyway?”

Daisy’s attention had strayed again. Maybe she should try one of those short, spiky cuts. Or maybe not. Egbert probably preferred a more conservative style. “Hmm? What date? Oh, Faylene’s date.”

Sasha glanced at her watch, which, depending on the button pushed, revealed everything from the phase of the moon to the Dow Jones averages. “Okay, this is Friday—it’s this coming Wednesday. Outside if the weather holds, in the community center if it rains or turns out cold.”

“Oh, great,” Marty said dryly. “That’ll be romantic. Dibs on the table by the john.”

“Oh, hush, the weather will be perfect. So…shall we do our usual, only this time four boxes instead of three? I have a big purple gift bow I can donate. All we have to do then is tag one of the boxes with Faylene’s name and tip Gus off that the one with the purple bow has all his favorite food inside.”

“First we’ll have to find out what his favorite foods are,” said Daisy, ever practical.

“No, first I’d better do something about her hair.” Sasha was into hair. Her own had ranged from apricot to auburn to titian over the past few years. When she’d claimed to have forgotten what her original color was, Marty had suggested she watch her roots for a clue.

“Well, she can’t wear those shorts to a church box supper. Her legs might look great from a distance, but once you get closer—” Marty shook her head and grinned.

“As the lucky guy who buys her dinner will inevitably do.” Sasha again. “Okay, I’ll work on her hair. Marty, you organize something decent for her to wear. That leaves the box. How about it, Daisy?”

The youngest member of the group by two or three years was still gazing out at the soybean fields and hedgerows bounding the Snow property. She would miss the peacefulness once she moved back to her apartment. Muddy Landing had started life as a tiny settlement with only a few farmhouses—one of them being Marty’s—a farm equipment dealer and a bait-and-tackle shop. Over the past few decades it had tripled in growth, and now that the Greater Norfolk Area was spilling out across the state line, it was rapidly turning into a bedroom community.

Sasha snapped her fingers. “Earth to Daisy. You still with us, hon? What about it, you want to do your famous buttermilk fried chicken, a few of those luscious corn fritters, maybe some slaw and a couple of slices of that sinful chocolate-rum pie?”

“What? Oh…well, sure, but maybe we should run through a few more candidates first.” Daisy might be still single, but she knew how these man-woman things were supposed to work. Chemistry was important, but it would get you only so far. Unless there was something solid underneath, once the initial reaction fizzled out you were left with a total stranger.

Not that chemistry was even an issue where Egbert was concerned. That was the soundest part of her plan. Since there was no chemistry to begin with, it wouldn’t be missed when it fizzled out, as it inevitably would. She might not be as experienced as her friends, Daisy assured herself, but that didn’t mean she was naive. Far from it. The difference was that, unlike either of her two friends, she recognized good, solid husband material when she saw it.

At least she did now.

The wonder was that they hadn’t already added Egbert to their list of candidates. His wife had been dead almost a year now.

When the phone rang inside the house, Daisy groaned and got up to answer it, muttering about what she would do if one more salesman tried to sell her anything.

The moment she left, Sasha and Marty started talking in hushed tones. “Dammit, I told you she was depressed! She can’t even keep track of what we’re talking about—she just stares out there as if she’s lost her last friend,” Sasha hissed.

“Well, they were close. He was sort of a grandfather figure, especially once she moved in with him.”

“Big mistake. I told you so at the time, remember?”

“Yes, well, spilt milk and all that.” Marty looked around for her glasses. They were on top of her head.

“Anyhow, she said Faylene’s coming over this evening, so we need to get her to find out what she likes and doesn’t like in a man.”

“What who likes, Daisy or Faylene?”

“Both. Either. Oh, you know what I mean. The trouble with Gus is he lives over that garage of his. Even if things work out, can you see him toting Faylene up those stairs to get her across the threshold?”

Marty pursed her lips. Sasha had told her more than once that if she’d just get a few collagen injections, she could pass for Julia Roberts, only with bigger eyes. “He could always use the lift—that thingee he uses to get cars hoisted up so he can see all the whatchamadoodles underneath.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that for a former bookstore owner, your vocabulary is lamentably lacking?”

Before Marty could come up with a suitably erudite response, Daisy was back.

“That was Egbert—Mr. Blalock,” she said. “I’ve been routinely referring calls to his office since Harvey’s lawyer died last fall. He said a man showed up this morning who claims to be a relative.”

“Of Harvey’s? I thought he didn’t have any family,” Marty said.

“I don’t think he did, at least no one close enough to count. But Egbert—that is, Mr. Blalock’s been going over some records since the service this morning and he thinks this one might warrant checking out. He said the man had even insisted on going to the funeral.”

Daisy’s eyes suddenly widened. Please, not the cowboy! If that’s who was claiming to be a relative, she was out of here. Vamoosed. Whatever. All she knew was that she couldn’t deal with anyone that distracting. Besides, he hadn’t looked anything at all like Harvey.

After a sleepless night and an endless day she looked like something the cat dragged in.

Not that it mattered, she told herself as she hurried to the bathroom to do something about her hair.