Читать книгу A Taste of Texas - Liz Talley - Страница 9

RAYNE SLAMMED THE GATE and stood a moment, trying to stop her insides from quivering.

Brent Hamilton had always done that to her. She’d been eleven when it had first happened. She’d spied him doing push-ups from over the fence. It was the first time she’d even noticed a boy’s muscles, and she’d stared for about ten minutes before he’d caught sight of her sprawled in the tree watching him. She’d scrambled down and disappeared, much too embarrassed to confront the boy who’d been her friend from the day she’d climbed out of her parents’ VW van, tripped up the front steps of her aunt’s house and noticed a boy throwing acorns at wind chimes.

Brent was still a good-looking son of a bitch with a rippling body and overtly masculine aura. But the emphasis should be on the son-of-a-bitch part.

She wasn’t a silly little girl, so she willed her shaking legs to obey and marched toward the peeling porch.

Henry stood there, arms crossed, brow wrinkled. He opened his mouth. “Mom, I want—”

“Don’t start, Henry. You violated a big rule, buster. Haven’t we talked about this before? You climbed into a stranger’s backyard.”

“I didn’t think anyone was home. Besides, you know him. You said so,” her son said, kicking the rail, causing the rooster planter to teeter.

“Stop before you make the planter fall. It’s my starter of cilantro,” she said, climbing the steps. She peeked into the pot. The sprouts had given birth to the fan shapes that would become the flavorful herb. “And it doesn’t matter that I know the neighbor. You don’t, and to do what you did is dangerous.”

“You said this town is safe. That I could run around and play and stuff. Can I go back and throw ball with him? Please?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, surprised her normally cautious son would want to go. It was the baseball that pulled him. But she didn’t want Brent messing around with her son. Brent was a lot of things. Charming. Egotistical. Unreliable. Things she didn’t want Henry to glean from a man who’d once had the town wrapped round his golden arm, and who would no doubt do the same with her impressionable son. “Every place has dangers. From now on, you consult me before you leave this yard. Got it?”

He made a face. “Okay, but can I go throw? Please. Please. Please.”

“Did you hear me?” She shook her head in wonder. Were all males born with selective hearing? “No. Now up to tackle that reading. I want you to make a good impression tomorrow.”

“I hate that dumb book. It’s about stupid cats and mice. You know I don’t want to read that stuff.” He kicked at the rail again. The planter tottered. She caught it with one hand.

She gave him the evil eye. He immediately stepped away from the rail and dumped his glove on the pew that sat to one side of the porch. “The book I bought for you is on the accelerated reader list. It’s a Caldecott book. They’re always good.”

Henry shrugged and tugged open the door of the bed-and-breakfast. “I don’t see how a book about mice can win awards. Everyone knows mice can’t really talk. It’s absurd.”

He disappeared into the house before she could say anything else. And he’d left his glove again. He kept forgetting they were not at home. They were at an inn and he couldn’t leave his things lying about.

Rayne placed her hands over her face and blew out her breath. Then she picked up the glove and sank onto the old wooden pew. Round one for the day. She could only guess what round two held.

She’d give her life for her son. She loved him with a passion that rivaled all others, but the boy was as alien to her as a Moroccan desert. Foreign. Exotic. And she didn’t speak the language.

He’d been that way since he’d turned nine months old and said his first word. Had it been mama or dada? No. It had been ball.

And thus it had begun.

The boy’s obsession with sports was epic.

And ever since he’d learned to throw, run, hit and kick, he’d reminded her of the boy who’d grown up next door to her aunt. The boy who’d climbed trees with her, studied stars with her, shared his dreams with her. He was near about the spitting image of Brent.

But Brent was not his father.

Rayne hadn’t even seen her childhood crush in over fifteen years. Not since the day she’d shaken the dust of Oak Stand from her sandals and headed for a new life and a new dream in New York. She’d locked up the memory of Brent and told herself not to think of him. But her heart hadn’t been good at following her head’s directive. She still thought about him at the oddest times. Such as when a baby bird fell out of its nest at the house in Austin. Or when Henry had hit his first grand slam. Or when she lay lonely in her bed staring out at a harvest moon.

She’d always been drawn to Brent Hamilton.

Even on the day she’d kissed Phillip Albright in front of the preacher and all their friends, she’d been half in love with the boy who had once sung Elvis songs to her while twisting her hair around his forefinger. She supposed it had been horribly unfair to Phillip to harbor tender feelings for a boy who’d never been hers to begin with, but she suspected Phillip didn’t mind. Their marriage had never been a head-over-heels, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-of-each-other kind of thing. More of a mutual respect, burning desire to succeed, quiet love and amiable friendship kind of thing.

Maybe that had been wrong, but she’d been happy with Phillip. He’d been the right man at the right time for her. And she’d tried to be the same for him.

God, why is life so complicated?

The only answer was the banging of the screen door. It jarred her into the present.

“Reckon it’s going to get warm today.” Aunt Frances said, stepping onto the porch and shading her eyes as she perused the tangle of her yard. Rayne followed her gaze. The lawn boy had been let go in the fall and spring had taken advantage of the free rein.

Rayne shrugged. “It’s Texas. It’s always hot.”

“When it’s not cold.” Her aunt laughed and sank onto the pew beside her. Aunt Frances had faded brown hair that fell just to her shoulders and always smelled of roses. Rayne caught the scent on the April breeze and it calmed her.

“I don’t want to forget about the loaves of honey oat bread. They can’t bake too long,” Rayne said, wondering why she constantly “remembered” out loud. Bad habit left over from her childhood.

“Mmm.”

“Avery Long’s oldest boy is going to help me clear the area for the vegetable garden tomorrow. But I need to get those weeds pulled. Can you keep an eye on Henry?”

“Oh, you mean Hank?” Aunt Frances said.

Rayne sighed. “Guess I’ve got something new to fight, huh?”

Aunt Frances nodded. “He’s a stubborn mule, that boy. Good trait to have, though. Get him far in life.”

“Maybe so,” Rayne said. “We’ve got Brent Hamilton to thank for that little gem.”

Her aunt smiled. “Brent, huh? You two were thick as thieves when you were younger. Always made me smile to see you two together. Come to think of it, that man might be what the doctor ordered, Rayne. He’s got medicine that’s cured a lot of gals round here.”

Rayne flinched. “You’re talking about the man whore of Oak Stand? No, thanks.”

Aunt Frances smiled. “Always been partial to man whores myself. Know what you get.”

Rayne shook her head. No way in hell was she going there. “I’d rather chew glass than mess with him. He’s overrated.”

Her aunt cocked her head. “You know this from experience?”

She wished. Kind of. But she and Brent had never had a chance to explore anything other than sweet kisses paired with unbridled teenage lust. “Not really. But that ship sailed long ago. Disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle. Sunk by pirates. Chopped up for firewood.”

Aunt Frances gave her that look. The one that said, baloney. “Okay. But I wouldn’t mind running my flag up his mast and I’m sixty-eight.”

“And a very sick woman.”

They both laughed. And it felt good to laugh. Rayne felt as though she’d nearly lost the ability. The past few months she’d been faltering, taking a step in one direction only to doubt herself and backtrack. It wasn’t like her to doubt herself. To not have a clear vision. And that flip-flopping was something she didn’t want to dwell upon for the moment.

“Okay, I’ve got to get to work. This yard won’t clear itself, and we’re already behind on getting things planted.” Rayne stood, slipped the apron over her head and tucked it beneath her arm. “Have the painters called? We need them on the job tomorrow if we’re going to have the inn ready by the middle of May.”

Her aunt pursed her lips. “About the painters. Well, they went to Houston for some kind of dirt track race. I’m not sure we can rely on them.”

Rayne closed her eyes and counted to ten. Her aunt moved at a different speed. The whole town moved at a different speed. She had to remember she wasn’t in Austin. She was in Oak Stand. “Well, I can’t paint the house, Aunt Fran. Tell Meg to call in professionals. She has a list, I’m sure. We can’t allow Susan Lear to waltz through the door to substandard accommodations. Her article is the key to a successful launch. I pulled strings to get this feature in Oprah magazine.”

The Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast, her aunt’s well-established but slightly faded business was being transformed into Serendipity Inn, a Rayne Rose exclusive getaway, part of Serendipity Enterprises. But there was much work to do before they could open the doors. Rayne had brought her assistant, Meg Lang, with her, but Meg had been bogged down with traveling back and forth from Austin overseeing the restaurant and the new project. No one else was assisting. Serendipity Inn was a family project and very much on the down-low.

Still, her aunt had insisted on using locals to spiff up the inn. The economy had been hard all over, but especially in small town America. Aunt Frances wanted to help the people of Oak Stand. Only problem was some of the people of Oak Stand didn’t want to help them.

Her aunt nodded. “No problem. I’ll take care of getting new painters. Someone will be here tomorrow morning. You take care of the garden, the kitchen and the menu. Meg will help me with the rest.”

Her aunt disappeared, entering the house the same way she’d emerged. With a bang.

Rayne slumped onto the bench. Why had she agreed to this?

Of course, re-creating the bed-and-breakfast had seemed like a brilliant idea months ago. After twelve years of slaving like a dog to build her career, the thought of reworking the bed-and-breakfast seemed exciting and restful at the same time. A sort of sabbatical with purpose. Something about her aunt’s calming touch and sitting on the front porch swing while viewing paint and fabric samples had sounded right. Rayne needed the comfort of her loving aunt, some privacy and a change for Henry.

But now she wasn’t so sure.

Maybe it was being in a place bathed in memories. Or maybe it was seeing Brent. Or perhaps it was the fact she felt so not herself sitting on a pew in her aunt’s backyard. So not like the woman she’d become.

Rayne Rose Albright was successful beyond all expectation with a New York Times bestselling cookbook, a restaurant that repeatedly made top ten lists and a possible deal on the bubble at the Food Network. She even had her own line of ruffled aprons under production with an Austin designer.

A lot of good it did her. Not when she could barely crawl out of bed some mornings. Not when her child chewed holes in his shirts for fear of being lost or left behind. Not when crazed fans penned weird letters and showed up on her front doorstep. What good was money, fame, success?

Not much if you were miserable.

Rayne opened the door and stepped into the old Victorian house. The smell of fresh bread wrapped around her, soothing her, reminding her why she was there—to recapture the simplicity of life. She took a deep breath. Then released it.

The house exuded charm from every nook and cranny. It would make a fine inn, a retreat for wealthy cosmopolitans who wished to experience a trip to trouble-free times. Most of the work they’d do over the next month was cosmetic in nature. Aunt Frances had always run a tight ship. The antiques were well-polished, the decor was country without being cliché and the house was in fairly good repair. They needed to shore up the front and back porches, repaint windows and doors, replace fabrics and purchase some new furniture. And get the backyard tamed and productive with a veggie garden, pretty herbs and edible flowers.

The highlight would not be in the surroundings, but in the smells, sensations, tastes of the bounty of the earth.

And that was Rayne’s job. To create a menu of simplicity and sophistication.

She entered the kitchen and quickly set about tucking away ingredients before pulling the golden loaves of bread from the Viking ovens. They looked perfect. She set them on a cooling rack just as something brushed against her ankle.

“Ack!”

A streak of ginger raced by her. She trotted backward, banging into the baker’s rack.

What the heck?

She scurried after the animal, hoping it was merely a cat and not something more menacing.

It was just a cat.

A fat ginger cat that paced at the front door.

“Rumple,” Henry called from the stairway.

She looked up at her child as he ran down the stairs. “Careful, Henry.”

Henry paid no heed. Simply tumbled down, tossing the book he’d been clasping onto the bench. He dropped to his knees and started stroking the fur of the now-purring cat. “This is Rumpelstiltskin ’cause he sleeps all day. Aunt Fran calls him Rumple. He lives next door. At that guy’s house.”

The Hamiltons’ cat. They’d always had one. She remembered Sweettart, the gray tabby that followed Brent around like a dog for years. He’d stroked that ragged-eared tabby the way Henry stroked the one now curling about her ankles. The purring cat rumbled as he arched against Henry’s strokes.

“Well, he doesn’t need to be in the house.” She swung the door open and toed the cat with her bare foot. “Out, Rumple.”

“Stop,” Henry cried. “I like to pet her. She loves me.”

“Keep it on the porch. And take your book,” she called out to the boy as he followed the cat through the oval-paned door.

Before she shut the door, she caught sight of Brent heading toward his truck. His brown hair curled over his ice-blue polo shirt collar and his jeans hugged a pretty spectacular butt. He drummed a beat against his thigh with his right hand as he’d always done. The phrase “Idle hands are the Devil’s tools” popped into her mind. Yes, that man knew how to create sin with those hands. She remembered the mischief they’d stirred in her… and how much she’d liked those new feelings. But then again, lots of girls had cause to remember those hands. That thought was cold water down her back.

She stepped away from the door.

Brent had cultivated a reputation he’d been content to keep all these years. Who could blame the girls of Howard County? It would be hard for most women to resist the potent combination of Brent’s charm and physical hotness. He was the kind of guy a gal would be content to watch mow a yard or unclog a toilet. He was beauty in motion. Always had been.

Hunger struck her out of nowhere.

And it wasn’t for the bread she’d set out to cool. It was the same old hunger she’d first felt long ago, stirring that summer night she’d pulled on her new pink-striped nightgown, a parting gift from her parents. She’d be staying with Aunt Frances in Oak Stand for high school while her parents and sister headed north to New York State to live in a commune for artists. Rayne had tied the satin ribbons on the shoulders and moved to the window to draw the shade. Brent’s shades weren’t drawn and she caught sight of him across the empty darkness between the two houses. She tucked herself behind the curtain as Brent dropped his towel and ran a comb through his hair. At fifteen, his bare backside had been as intriguing a sight as she’d ever seen. A strange warmth had curled round her midsection and taken up residence in her tummy. It was the first stirring of desire, the first step she’d taken down the path of obsession with Brent.

And it was a path that had gotten her nowhere because fifteen years ago Rayne Rose had been oatmeal to Brent’s French crepe with chocolate-raspberry sauce. He’d sampled her when he had nothing better to do. She’d never been important enough to acknowledge as she sat in the stands watching him play or at the dances where he hung out with the cool kids. But still, she’d loved the boy he was when he was with her. When no one else was around and he became hers alone.

She’d been such a fool.

Yet despite what she’d told Aunt Frances moments before, she still wanted a taste of Brent.