Читать книгу Sweet Harmony - Felicia Mason - Страница 10

A rapidly growing crowd spilled off the porch of the Wayside Inn and along the sidewalk and street in front of the house. TV trucks and giggling girls holding posters of Marcus Ambrose caused even more disruption on the normally quiet street.

“Coming through, folks. Coming through.” A small path opened for the television crew headed for the porch. Right behind them came a woman balancing a large tray of pastries.

“Had I known this many people would be here, I’d have made an extra batch of pecan honey rolls,” Amber Montgomery said as the innkeeper held the door open for her while keeping at bay the camera crew from a cable TV entertainment show.

“You probably still have time. These people aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.” Then, louder, for the reporters. “Mr. Ambrose said he’ll be making a statement later today. Over at the college. At three-thirty.”

No one moved. Ophelia Younger sighed.

Amber followed her to the kitchen. “So, the famous Marcus Ambrose is camping out at the Wayside Inn.”

“This has been a nightmare from the moment that limo pulled up followed by those TV people. Mr. Ambrose and his staff, well, they’ve been incredibly nice, but what a disruption.” The innkeeper filled Amber in on all the details. “What’s this challenge thing they’re up to? I read Cyril’s story today in the Gazette. He had more to say about the verbal fireworks between Kara and Marcus than anything else.”

Amber shrugged. “If I see her, I’ll ask.” She pulled out the invoice from her catering company, Appetizers & More, and placed it on the counter. “I saw Kara on the news last night. She didn’t look like a happy camper.”

Upstairs, Nadira Wilson set a cup of green tea in front of Marcus and picked up her clipboard.

“This place is lovely, but it’s never going to work as an office for the next month.”

Marcus grunted. He’d come to that conclusion about three in the morning when, with his mind on Dr. Kara Spencer, he’d gotten up to head to the fridge for a snack, only to discover the kitchen door locked with a discreet little sign that said “Off-limits to guests.”

“Find me…”

“A house.” Nadira finished the thought and placed three sheets of paper in front of him.

He looked at the three houses for rent and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Radar O’Reilly.”

“Don’t call me that,” Nadira said. “The one on top comes furnished. The other two don’t. The furniture rental place can be here within three hours. The office equipment tomorrow. In addition to a large great room and several bedrooms that can be converted into office space, the middle one has a guest cottage on the property and a home theater with surround sound and a popcorn machine. The third house isn’t nearly as large. Just four bedrooms. But it’s located right next door to the woman you debated last night.”

Marcus perked up at that. “One more time?”

Nadira pulled out the sheet from the real estate company and placed it on top of the others. “This one is neighbor to Dr. Kara Spencer’s house. The real-estate agent made a point of letting me know that. He saw you two on the news last night.”

Marcus nodded. “Make it happen.”

Smiling, she placed a contract in front of him. “I figured that would be your choice.”

“Smarty-pants.” He glanced over the rental agreement, then thought of the man’s taunt last night. “Is there a pool?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I’ll show her some real-world living up close and personal.” He scrawled his name on the agreement. Then his mind jumped to something else, something he couldn’t live without. “See if there’s a fitness center here in town. If so, get a thirty-day pass. If not, see if some weight-lifting and workout equipment can be rented along with the furniture.”

She made a notation on the ever-present clipboard.

“And get me a couple of…”

Nadira placed two pain relievers on the table in front of him. He would have smiled if his head hadn’t been pounding so much.

Stress. That’s what the doctor said caused them. But there’d been no reason for one to develop now. He was here in Mayberry, R.F.D., also known as Wayside, Oregon, about to enjoy a month of what should amount to R and R. A month away from the press and call of Los Angeles and the nonstop flying across country for gigs. The only problem was that he had a backlog of business to tend to.

The good news was that the work he’d contracted to do for the music and film festival would take all of two weeks to complete even though it was spread out over the month. Theoretically, that left him with enough free time to settle down, get caught up on breathing lessons and to unwind a little.

Between studio time, touring dates and video and movie production schedules, Marcus rarely found time to just kick back.

Now when he’d been blessed with the time, the headaches were pounding his head again. He wanted to get a jump on the early applications for the foundation he headed. The deadline loomed, still a week away. That meant the bulk of applications would pour in on the very last day. Nadira had already arranged to have them overnighted to Wayside. They’d reviewed about ten already and still had a box to go through.

He rubbed his temples.

“Do you want me to call Dr. Heller?”

The concern in Nadira’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. He shook his head. “I’m fine. But just in case…”

“I’ll get the prescription filled.”

He nodded. “You should give yourself a raise while you’re at it.”

“You already pay me a sinfully large amount of money.”

“And you earn every penny of it. You anticipate every need before I even voice it.”

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss man. Now, as for the agenda today…”

He shook his head and rubbed his temples again, not really up for the task in front of him. But putting off the workload would simply make things snowball. “I need some time first.”

“All right.” She glanced at her to-do list. “Marcus, I know we’re pretty tied up here, but would it be all right if I swing down to L.A.? My dad’s not doing so well and I want to check on him.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’ll make sure someone’s here when I’m gone. Just a day on the weekends or when there aren’t any events.”

Absently, he nodded. “Tell him I said hello.”

“I will.” She put copies of the Los Angeles Times, Billboard, the Wall Street Journal and the Wayside Gazette on the table in front of him. Marcus made a habit of keeping up with the news from home when he was on the road, and he always liked to know the issues affecting the locals, whether he was in a large metropolitan city like Chicago or Dallas or in a one-stoplight place like some of the towns he’d been in while in Alabama and Mississippi.

“How much time do you need?”

Marcus glanced at the papers and at the breakfast Nadira had talked the innkeeper into letting him eat in his room. “Give me an hour.”

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Normally they worked through breakfast. When the door closed behind her, Marcus let out a weary sigh. He had sixty minutes of peace before Nadira brought in the files of requests they’d spend several hours reading and critiquing.

Despite his grousing, Marcus truly enjoyed giving back to the community through the JUMPstart activism grants he’d created. The first two donations had been anonymous ones to programs he’d heard about. Shortly thereafter, he’d developed a mechanism to provide funding to worthy community groups through a foundation he headed. But he took not a word of credit for it. For six years now he’d been playing Santa Claus, and he loved it. But the volume of applications to JUMP grew each year. If the early submissions were any indication, this year would set a record.

It seemed everyone wanted a piece of the action, whether they knew he was the backer or not. He got plenty of legitimate requests that had nothing to do with the JUMP program. Then there were the diatribes demanding that since to whom much is given much is required, he should therefore fork over considerable assets to whatever cause célèbre the requester named. Marcus liked to keep a handle on where his money went, even though staff weeded out the true crazies. That still meant he had a lot to wade through.

Then there were the résumés and pleas for work in his production company and the songwriters and musicians pitching projects.

Usually he loved it, but lately it all just seemed to wear on him in ways that made it difficult to remember what his purpose was supposed to be.

Last night Kara Spencer’s questions and issues had pricked his conscience. For a long time now, his public work had run far afield of his original intentions and plans. Every now and then someone like Kara or something he’d see or hear would remind him.

And the music she’d called him on, particularly the lyrics, no longer held the appeal it once had. On his past four releases he’d slipped in a track or two that only careful listeners might recognize as more than his usual fare.

Thinking about the project he worked on when he couldn’t sleep, he got up and put the cassette tape in a player. A moment later his own voice accompanied by nothing except the piano he also played rang out. These lyrics, about grace, restoration and redemption, didn’t fit with the unfinished studio project waiting for him back in L.A.

Marcus ran a hand over his face. He sighed.

Instead of reaching for one of the newspapers or even his fork, Marcus pulled his Bible from his suitcase and settled in the comfortable chair at the window. But before he even opened the Bible, a knock sounded at the door.

“It’s open, Nadira.”

The door swung open a bit. “Mr. Ambrose?”

Marcus rose at the innkeeper’s polite inquiry. “Hello, Mrs. Younger. Come in.”

He liked Ophelia Younger. In looks and temperament she reminded him of Mayberry’s Aunt Bee.

“Mr. Ambrose, I’m honored that you’ve chosen to stay at Wayside Inn, but we just aren’t prepared or equipped to deal with this. Had we had some advance notice of your needs, maybe I could have worked something out.”

He took the older woman’s hand in his. “Not to worry, Mrs. Younger. I’ve just found a house to rent for the duration of my stay here. It’s over on Brandywine Street.”

Tension drained from the innkeeper’s face. “Oh, thank goodness. It’s not that we don’t love the idea of a celebrity here. The reporters, though, and the girls, they’re all camped outside and it’s been a distraction. I’ve gotten complaints from other guests.”

He apologized for that, even though he himself wasn’t to blame. Then he added, “Reporters? How’d they find out I was here?”

“Well, it isn’t every day that a white stretch limousine is parked in front of the inn. We’re more of a sedan and minivan place.”

Kara’s words came back to him. A little ostentatious.

“She was right.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Marcus shook his head. “Just thinking out loud.”

“Your assistant told me to tell them you’d be over at the college at three-thirty.”

He took both her hands in his. “Thank you. I’m sorry we’ve put you out.”

Ophelia shook her head slightly. “Those people wonder why the media gets a bad rap. Someone’s trampled my impatiens.”

Marcus went to the window, but didn’t see or hear the circus she described. “Are they all gone now?”

“Goodness, no. But I did send someone out with brownies and pecan rolls. For sale, of course.”

Marcus grinned.

“This room is at the back of the house, so you can’t see them,” Ophelia explained. “I thought you’d like a garden view. The trucks and the girls and my ruined flowers are outside in front.” The innkeeper twisted her hands together. “I don’t think the nasturtiums will ever recover.”

“I apologize. And I promise to make it right, whatever damage has been done,” he said. “The entertainment reporters and paparazzi can be pretty relentless until they get what they want.” He shrugged. “Some people think it’s news every time an entertainer sneezes. I’d hoped for a nice quiet month here in your town.”

The innkeeper grinned. She hooked her arm in his. “You said your house is on Brandywine?”

He nodded.

“To my recollection, the only empty one over there is Mrs. Abersoll’s house, God rest her soul. It’s a lovely home. And it’s next to Kara Spencer’s place.” As soon as she said it, a sly smile crossed her mouth. “I saw the two of you on the news last night. Kara’s a nice girl. And she’s single, you know.”

Marcus got more than a whiff of preliminary matchmaking in the works and decided to remain neutral. “The forum was well attended and she was on the panel.”

The innkeeper chuckled. “Umm-hmm. But the electricity between you and our Kara was pretty intense.”

“Well, uh…”

“I know how to outsmart them,” Ophelia said.

“Who?”

She jerked her head toward the front end of the house. “Here’s what you have to do.”

“I don’t have a comment,” Kara kept trying to tell the smiling reporter. The card the woman had thrust into Kara’s hands announced that she was a field correspondent for All Urban Entertainment, a cable program Kara had never heard of.

This was the third crew she’d dealt with already. At this rate, she’d never get any work done today.

“Don’t be shy, Dr. Spencer. All of Marcus Ambrose’s fans want to know what’s at stake in your challenge. Is it true that you’re the reason he abruptly broke it off with actress Cameron May?”

Another name she failed to recognize. “Who? No, I—”

“He proposed to you last night and if he wins the challenge you’ll marry him? Is that it?”

“What?”

The cameraman leaned forward, zooming in first on Kara’s waist and then her ring finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Dr. Kara, it’s obvious—”

“That you all shouldn’t be picking on the good doctor.”

Three heads snapped toward the deep drawl behind them.

Marcus leaned against the railing leading to Kara’s front porch.

“Good morning, Dr. Kara.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

The reporter whipped around. “Marcus, delighted to see you again. We understand you’ve found a new love.”

While they were preoccupied with Marcus, Kara slipped back into her house and closed and locked the front door. In the kitchen she put a kettle on a burner to boil water for tea, then dumped cut-up apples into a cast-iron skillet. Water, sugar and cinnamon followed.

She should toss a load of clothes in the wash and eat a late breakfast, but that grant application still waited.

She’d just put a foot on the first tread of the stairwell when the front doorbell rang. Again.

Kara wasn’t a swearing woman, but a few choice words came to mind. She snatched the door open. “I have no comment!”

“All right, then. I do. I’m sorry about all of this.”

Her gaze rose and met Marcus Ambrose’s. She hated the way her breath caught.

“This is exactly the point I was making last night before the forum turned into a Marcus Ambrose fete.”

“May I come in? If they swing back and see me here they’ll just keep ringing the bell.”

“I’ll call the police.”

“May I come in?”

Kara nodded. Just as soon as she acquiesced, she wondered why she didn’t send the man packing. He’d disrupted her entire morning.

“Wow. Something smells great.”

“My casserole,” she said.

He followed her to the kitchen. Decorated in blue and white, the room had a country chic look and feel to it. Blue-and-white gingham curtains fluttered at open windows at the sink and behind a table with four chairs. The pattern repeated on the chair pads and place mats. But the appliances and all the kitchen accoutrements were top of the line.

She checked the breakfast casserole in the oven. Five more minutes.

“About last night,” he began. “It was great meeting you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you. The music and film festival.”

Kara shook her head. “No. I mean here.” She pointed to the floor. “In my kitchen.”

He shrugged, and Kara got a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a boy. Ready to charm his way out of anything.

“The inn was overrun with media.”

“And so you led them here? How could you?”

“Mrs. Younger showed me a shortcut.”

Kara nodded. “Through the alleys?”

“Bingo.”

“Well, thanks for getting rid of that reporter. You may leave now.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me to breakfast? Whatever’s in that oven smells too good to miss.”

The look on Marcus Ambrose’s face held such little-boy longing that Kara couldn’t resist.

He had rescued her, after all. Though, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t have been in need of rescuing—and she could take care of herself, thank you very much—if it hadn’t been for him. Still, there was plenty of sausage casserole. Would it kill her to be nice to him?

Yes!

But instead of kicking him out, she heard herself say, “The dishes are over there.”

Marcus set the table with a skill that surprised her.

She brewed two cups of tea. “I’m trying to wean myself off coffee,” she said. “I had a six-cup-a-day habit. But I can make a pot, if you’d like.”

He grinned. “I only drink green tea.”

“It figures,” she muttered.

“Is that a slam against Californians? Another stereotype, maybe?”

“Not at all.” She didn’t want to admit they had something in common. “You’re in luck, then, song man. I happen to have some green tea.” She tried to grab a canister of tea leaves without him seeing her extensive collection of teas, greens in particular.

“Song man?”

Kara blushed. Had she really said that? “I’m sorry. It’s what I always used to call you when my sister rhapsodized about you. She drove me crazy. She thought the sun rose and set for you.”

The telephone rang. Kara sighed. “Who now? The phone has been ringing nonstop all morning. I’ll never get any work done.”

“Would you like me to answer it?”

Horrified, she jumped up. “No.” She snatched up the cordless phone from the base. And a moment later she relaxed and sent a bright smile his way. “Hey, Patrice. I was just talking about you.”

That genuine smile, filled with affection and a hint of teasing, rippled through him the way the notes of a new song did. He relished the feeling, even though the chances of anything developing with the very attractive Kara Spencer were nil. She’d made that abundantly clear.

“Yeah, you left them over here. I put them in your room. Okay.”

She rang off and rejoined him at the table.

“Grace?”

Marcus bowed his head and said grace over their meal.

When was the last time he’d done that? He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a meal at a kitchen table. Anybody’s table.

This felt so good.

“I’m glad you recommended the inn. It’s great.”

“I told you.”

“But I’m not staying there. I’m looking for a house to rent while I’m here,” he fudged.

Kara nodded as she chewed. After washing her food down with orange juice she said, “There are several mansions over on Cherryville Drive that are available for lease. The paper did an article about them a couple of weeks ago.”

Something told Marcus that the hospitality and truce they were enjoying would end the moment he told her he’d actually found a house, next door, not one of the mansions. So he kept quiet. She’d find out soon enough. And she’d bite his head off then. No need to spoil a good breakfast.

A knock at the back door did that before he had a chance to.