Читать книгу Sealed With A Kiss - Mae Nunn - Страница 9

The walnut armoire, one of Tara’s favorites, was an elegantly carved, Louis XIV cabinet with paneled doors and original nineteenth-century hardware. As a youngster she’d always suspected her grandmother’s furnishings were valuable. After earning a degree in art history and serving for several years as an appraiser’s apprentice, her suspicions were confirmed. Miriam Elliott had left behind a small fortune in antiques.

Tara’s hand slid across the cool, shining wood as she inhaled the pleasant, musky scent. Stacked on the shelves of the treasured piece were fragments of her childhood. Primitive artwork, English assignments, class photos and the remains of a shattered porcelain vase. Items that should have been thrown away years ago. She was grateful for the tender sentiments it revealed about her no-nonsense grandmother.

Their relationship had been turbulent since Tara’s show of independence had taken her to New York City following Sam’s departure from Beardsly. She deeply regretted confiding in her grandmother and couldn’t bear to stay in the town where Miriam Elliott’s influence had cost an innocent man his career.

At first, her grandmother had refused to support Tara’s desire to live so far from home. Once she proved able to make it on her own, financial help was offered to smooth the way. But she rejected any encroachment on her freedom.

Waiting tables seven days a week forced Tara out of her introverted shell. The work paid for a tiny sublet apartment and covered tuition for the remaining classes she needed at NYU. She embraced city life, shunning even brief visits to Beardsly. The two women talked often on the phone, but saw one another only during her grandmother’s trips to New York.

Tara stood before the open armoire, acknowledging that even in death, the wily old woman had left many messages before going to her grave. She had always had the last word. She’d hinted that a reunion for the young people was inevitable, but Tara hadn’t dreamed that Miriam would do something so outrageous.

After several hours of reading and rereading the papers, and finding no confusing legalese to dispute, Tara prayed for wisdom on how to meet the challenge. The choices were limited: dive into the project or lose the last of her family ties.

She considered giving it all to Sam. Her grandmother’s determination to ensure nothing developed between them had upended his conservatively mapped-out life. Maybe he deserved the remainder of Miriam’s property as compensation. Then Tara recalled his cavalier threat to demolish the landmark buildings.

She closed the carved walnut cabinet. She owed everything to the generosity of her grandmother. She had risked a carefully crafted reputation to offer hope to a frightened child. Tara could never let the town of Beardsly forget the sacrifice that was bigger than the scandal.

Miriam had willingly dispelled her “old maid” image and opened her guarded past to scrutiny when she’d come to the rescue of the illegitimate daughter Miriam had given up at birth. The unwed stranger, who was dying of breast cancer, had sought out her birth mother as a final act of love. She pleaded for a home for her painfully shy toddler, determined that her child would know her true roots. The unselfish agreement between the two women had changed a carrot-topped girl’s otherwise tragic future.

There was no choice at all. Tara set her sights on preserving what was left of Miriam’s reputation. The life of service to others was marred only by an action against Sam Kennesaw that she seemed determined to correct with this crazy partnership.

The French mantel clock chimed four times and resumed its soft ticking. Tara hurried through the entryway to the front door, giving a last glance at her appearance in the mirrored hall tree. As usual, wavy red wisps managed to escape the somber braid. Attempting to plaster them into submission, she licked fingertips and brushed moisture across the errant curls.

She slammed the heavy door of the huge luxury vehicle and muttered, “I thought these things were illegal.” She fumbled with the ignition and the navy blue beast purred to life. It eased out of the driveway and lumbered through the streets of town.

Passing the tired old five-and-dime store next door to the boring grocery market, she grimaced at the work of community elders who clung to traditional ways, voting down proposals that might usher in expansion and change. Frustrated young people graduated from the respected college and fled for the nearest big city, depriving Beardsly of their talent and energy. What kind of business would bridge the obvious generation gap?

“Hmm,” she fell into her old habit of thinking aloud. “What can I possibly bring to the town-time-forgot that will stand out and fit in at the same time?” Having felt like a misfit most of her life, Tara knew how important it would be for her idea to seem more like part of the scenery than something entirely new. Then there was that other pesky issue.

Sam Kennesaw would be her partner.

As the brown-brick two-story building came into sight, her stomach churned. Heat crept up the back of her neck.

“This is ridiculous.” She dropped her right hand from the wheel and spread her fingers across her abdomen while she inhaled through her nose and exhaled through parted lips.

“I wasn’t this nervous when I asked for the summer off from work to settle Grandmother’s estate. If placing my future at The Heritage in jeopardy didn’t send me into a panic, a twenty-minute meeting with Sam should be a piece of cake.”

She steered the land yacht into the alley and slammed on the brakes to avoid a two-wheeled chrome-and-leather monster angled across the drive. She poked her head out the window.

“Only an idiot would stop there. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she shouted over the car’s engine. “Didn’t you see the parking spot out front?”

Eyebrows raised, he glanced over his shoulder regarding the ostentatious sedan.

“Yeah, I noticed it, but I figured you might need it for your limo.”

She squashed down the desire to smile at his wise-guy tone and familiar drawl. Instead, she switched off the ignition and pushed open the door. Since he hadn’t budged from his comfortable spot, she’d be forced to go to him.

With one leg slung over the seat of the bike and muscular arms folded across his chest, there sat the man she’d idolized since they were kids. Her heart drummed a frantic beat. Beneath the five-o’clock shadow and shaggy dark hair was a glimmer of the serious boy who had done his homework at her grandmother’s kitchen table.

Obviously unaffected by her arrival, Sam resumed his apparent study of the building’s rear wall. It would take the patience of Job for her to readjust to this town. Life moved at a snail’s pace and the uniform of the day was jeans and a T-shirt bearing an advertisement. Sam seemed to be no exception.

“I suppose I should thank you for your consideration.”

“Forget it,” he assured her. “Being considerate of you is pretty low on my list.”

She winced as the comment hit its mark.

“Actually,” he continued, “I wanted to see the condition of the alley side first.”

“That’s a good idea,” she recovered, glancing down the length of the building. “I have the keys to the back entrance.”

A fast rifle through the black clutch produced the cluster of keys.

She stepped toward the security door, then hesitated as Sam shifted his weight off the bike. He gestured for her to continue the lead.

He followed, his nose detecting a delightful scent as he watched with genuine approval. He noted how the afternoon sun glinted off her copper hair. Here and there, strands had worked free and the natural curls leapt to life.

Uninvited, the vision of a little girl’s curly red hair against a kitchen’s sunny window invaded his mind’s eye. He heard the spray of an aerosol can and smelled lemon furniture polish as his mother dusted in the next room. She checked on him from time to time, making sure he finished his homework while she completed her cleaning duties.

Homework wasn’t half as much trouble as Miriam Elliott’s pesky granddaughter, but she’d grown on him as a kid and invaded his heart as a teen. He shrugged off the familiar moment and refocused on the steel door where his flame-haired nemesis struggled to throw the heavy bolt.

“Here, let me.” He reached for the keys, tapping Tara’s hand in a signal to move.

She jerked her fist against her body as if he’d soiled her.

So that’s how it’s gonna be. You probably think I’m just a dirty mechanic. Okay, Rusty. Works for me.

He turned the bolt, pushed the door wide and stepped through first. A few feet inside the building he paused while his pupils adjusted to the darkness. Though the place was swept clean of the former tenant, spiderwebs indicated many months without attention. Possibility permeated the cavernous, empty space.

He faced Tara, interested in her reaction to the building.

“This place always reminded me of a dungeon,” she complained. “The best light exposure is upstairs. There should be more to work with on the second floor. Maybe we’ll use this main floor for storage.”

“And what is it you plan to store in here, if you don’t mind telling me?”

“Well, inventory mostly. Since my expertise is in antiques, I naturally want to sell vintage furnishings.”

“Is that so?” He crossed his arms and waited, amazed at her new air of self-confidence. “And how does that meet the requirements of a ‘profitable enterprise that will serve the financial interests of Beardsly, Texas’?” He quoted from the will.

“A lot of consumers stay away from antiques either because they think they can’t afford them, or they don’t know anything about them.”

Tara’s eyes flashed a spark of excitement in the dark room. “If you know where and what to search for, Southern collectibles are quite valuable.”

He couldn’t resist squashing her idea like a bug. “Before you wear your arm out patting yourself on the back, you might want to consider selling something besides old furniture in an old town. Not exactly a commodity that’s in short supply.”

The slight droop in her shoulders said he’d driven home the supply-and-demand theory he’d taught hundreds of college freshmen.

“I hope the second floor works for whatever you sell. Just don’t get any ideas about keeping your inventory down here. I have a business plan of my own.”

“But I’m sure I’ll need this space, too,” she insisted.

“Now listen.” He fixed her with a narrow stare. “You just called this place a dungeon and said yourself the real potential is upstairs.” He had her there. “I’m willing to take the ground floor and approve of whatever you want to do with your half of the building, as long as you afford me the same courtesy. The old lady’s will says we have to cooperate. If you don’t plan to comply, right out of the gate, you might as well pack up and head back to New York.”

He admired the determined curve of her jaw, tensed as she clenched her teeth at his intentional rudeness.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Reckon I would.” He smiled. “I didn’t ask for this opportunity, but I’m going to make the most of it. Nobody’s ever given me anything in my life. I’ve worked hard for what I have. If you’re not willing to do the same, I’ll be happy to take your inheritance, princess.”

Even in the darkened building he could see Tara’s face begin to color. She closed her eyes and started that deep-breathing business again.

“So, what do you say?” He rushed her out of the moment of concentration. Her eyes flew wide in the middle of an openmouthed exhale. She resembled the flame hawkfish in his salt-water aquarium.

“For your information, I know quite a lot about hard work myself. Since I moved to New York, I haven’t accepted a dime from my grandmother.”

“Why start now and spoil your independence?” he challenged. “It’s not too late to get out of Smallsville and back to your real life in the big apple.”

“However twisted her logic may be, she had some purpose for what she’s done and I intend to respect her wishes.”

“Respect her money, you mean.” He stroked his chin, pretending to consider something. “Speaking of money, why don’t we sell both places, split the profits and be done with it.”

“I don’t plan to sell anything,” Tara insisted. “That house is the only home I’ve ever known and I couldn’t bear to part with it.”

His slow applause echoed in the empty space. “I see you haven’t lost your flair for melodrama. You almost had me feelin’ sorry for you.”

“I’m trying to tell you that whatever I figure out to do here I’ll do it with all my heart. I’ll put what money I have saved and all my time and energy into making it a success.”

“Good, then we don’t have a problem.” He moved away from her to walk the first floor’s perimeter, checking for any obvious plumbing or electrical-repair needs. He heard Tara’s hesitant footsteps as she climbed the wide stairs leading to the second story.

“Hold on a minute and I’ll get you some light.” He returned with a halogen flashlight that illuminated a wide arch on the wooden staircase. “Do you want me to go up with you?”

Her gaze followed the steps upward to another heavy security door. She held out her hand for the cluster of keys. “No, thanks. I’m fine on my own,” she insisted, swiping at a spiderweb dangling over her head.

“Oh, come on.” He stomped ahead of her. She followed without argument.

As she’d predicted, the rooms on the second floor were in fair shape. With paint, elbow grease and some luck, Tara could make a go at whatever she came up with.

Watching her pace off the dimensions of the rooms, he became conscious of the traitorous way his mind found her spicy scent tempting. She, however, seemed unaware of his presence, making notes on the small pad she pulled from her purse.

Engrossed in decorating ideas, she penciled on the walls indicating possible paint colors and several wallpaper styles. Light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the west side of the building. Once those windows were cleaned, the old shutters replaced by modern wooden blinds, the place would be warm and inviting during the day.

At night, any lighted activity inside would beckon to citizens crossing the square. But what would attract college students? Hardly antiques. As much as she hated to agree, Sam was right.

There was a shuffling sound behind her. He’d been waiting quietly while she made her notes. She turned to find him still standing in the wide doorway, watching her.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to wait on me.”

“I can take a hint.” His hand on the knob, he turned away.

“No, wait. I wasn’t trying to run you off.” She groaned inwardly at the poor choice of words.

Sam chuckled without humor and shook his head at the irony. “We both know you don’t have to try at all when that’s what you have in mind.”

The past hung between them, as obvious as the dust motes that floated through the shaft of light from the dirty windows. The need to tell Sam what had happened all those years ago pounded like a migraine in Tara’s head. They’d never make peace until it was done and he understood this bizarre arrangement was Miriam’s way of putting things right.

She crossed the empty space separating them.

“Listen, Sam, we need to talk—”

He stopped her by holding up both hands, palms outward, his face unreadable.

“I don’t want to hear it. It’s been too many years and there’s nothing you can say now that will make a difference in my life. So don’t try to soothe your guilty conscience at my expense.” Sam pushed his way through the metal door and let it fall shut behind him with a loud clang.

She stared at the cold metal surface, suddenly understanding. He blames me. He thinks being forced out of Beardsly was all my doing.

With nine years of bitterness built up, she’d never convince him otherwise.

Tara leaned against the oak griffin dining-room table, her notes and figures spread across the polished surface. Her one faithful friend, Lacey, sat with a leg folded beneath her, raising her short torso enough to reach the bag of chips in the middle of the table.

“Sam thinks what happened was entirely my fault,” Tara blurted out.

Lacey’s curls tossed as her head popped up. “And you didn’t tell him the truth?”

Tara shook her head hard enough to rattle her senses.

“Listen,” Lacey placed her hand over Tara’s, “you owe Sam the truth, and then you two can begin to put all the hard feelings behind you. Maybe even start over. Together.” Her smile was full of hope.

“Even if he did believe it, he’d only transfer his anger from me to Grandmother. I won’t give him the ammunition to do or say anything to soil her reputation.”

“After the second chance she’s given him, he’ll forgive her anything, don’t you think?” Lacey insisted.

Forgive anything? Tara hadn’t mastered that herself.

No matter how distant, she would never forget the angry words that still resonated in her grandmother’s elegant dining room.

“How could you hurt him that way? How could you do this to me, Grandmother?”

“Listen to reason, child. You have your whole life ahead of you and I won’t have you waste it on the son of my housekeeper.”

“That’s so unfair! He’s respected in his position at the college. The kids love him and I love him, too. But you’ve ruined everything.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve simply steered you both in different directions. If, as you insist, it’s God’s will for you to be with Sam, you’ll find one another again one day. But you’ll both spend time growing up first.”

“I’ll never forgive you for this!” Tara had swept her arm across the oak sideboard, sending silver and porcelain crashing to the hardwood below. She’d stared through hot tears at the shattered treasure, turned and run up the stairway.

Now Tara’s gaze sought the gouged floor where the hand-sculpted Asian vase had met its demise. “How can I expect Sam to forgive her when I spent the last nine years punishing her myself?”

“You have to find it in your heart, Tara. I watched Miss Miriam volunteering so much of her time, giving away so much to charity, trying to atone. And I was the one person in town who understood why she did it. Don’t let regrets steal your joy, too. Promise me you’ll pray about it, okay?” Lacey asked.

“I’ll put that on my prayer list along with the funds for the books I have to order.” Tara changed the subject.

“Is that what you decided to add to the antiques? Books?” She narrowed her eyes as she thought it over. “I like it.” Her head bobbed agreeably.

“Thanks.” Tara smiled, grateful for some encouragement. “I stopped at Shoppers’ Mart to get some magazines this afternoon. Standing in that dark little aisle it suddenly occurred to me it was the only place in town to buy something to read.”

“There’s the campus bookstore,” Lacey reminded.

“And as long as I want a textbook or a paperback those two places are fine. But to thumb through a special-event cookbook or a gardening guide or a biography of a musician I’d have to drive to Dallas,” Tara pointed out.

“What do you think Frieda Walker will have to say about you taking business from the college?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare compete with the textbooks and classics she sells on campus. I’ll carry contemporary genres, popular magazines and international newspapers. Maybe even a computer or two for research and online chatting.

“And here’s something else I’m considering.” She clasped her palms together beneath her chin in nervous anticipation of her only friend’s reaction. “What if I set up a coffeehouse in one corner of the store to give the students someplace new and trendy to hang out?”

“That’s perfect! They’ll love it.”

Tara’s heart lifted at the thought of something that would bring the younger crowd into her business. “We’ll serve all those great flavored coffees and they can visit with their friends like the kids do in the big chain stores. I’ll use the antiques as display background for the books and collectibles and everything will be for sale.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, girl, you’ve thought of something for everybody,” Lacey enthused.

“Now I’ve just got to think of a way to make up the difference between my savings account and the cost of inventory.”

“You ought to consider selling some of the antiques Miss Miriam left you.” Lacey surveyed the room. “Your own auction house could find you a buyer, Rusty.”

“First, promise you won’t call me that anymore?” Tara pleaded. “That name belongs to another lifetime, agreed?”

Lacey nodded.

“And second,” Tara continued, “I’m not interested in selling anything in this house.”

“This stuff is the only solid collateral you have.”

Tara leaned elbows on the table and rested her face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do, Lacey,” she mumbled through her fingers. “If my grandmother thought for a minute I’d sell her things, she’d have donated them to charity herself.”

Lacey shook her blond head in disagreement and thumbed through the will. “She didn’t have any problem placing restrictions on your ownership of the Elliott Building or Sycamore House. If she hadn’t meant for you to sell the antiques she’d have done the same with them. It says right here ‘to dispose of as she chooses,’ and that means she gave you her permission and her blessing to do whatever you have to do.”

“What if I borrow against some of the most rare pieces? If I fail I can always sell them. But if my idea is a success, I’ll still have my grandmother’s things.”

Lacey munched a potato chip and wiped the barbecue residue on her jeans. “Makes sense. Okay, let’s make a few calls and see who’s offering the best line of credit against collateral. By the time your inventory starts to arrive you’ll have the money to pay for it.”

Tara felt a smile of relief curve her mouth for the first time since learning of her grandmother’s death. Already organized, she reached for her folder marked Stock and thumbed through the publishing printouts. Tomorrow she’d order books, place ads in surrounding counties for antique consignment pieces and begin the marketing research on coffee houses. Remodeling and advertising came next if she intended to meet the self-imposed grand opening in four weeks.

“What’s going in on the first floor?” Lacey asked.

Tara froze. She’d been so wrapped up in her own plans that she had no idea what Sam had in mind for the ground floor of the Elliott Building. She tried to recall their conversation. He had said he was going to make the most of this opportunity, but she’d never asked him how he intended to do it. He’d agreed to anything she wanted to do and now she was committed to doing the same for him.

“Tara?” Lacey nudged her. “I said, what are Sam’s plans?”

“He didn’t tell me.” A chill ran up Tara’s spine at her vulnerable position. “But Sam knows this town and we’re right on the square, so it’s bound to be something conservative.” She hurried on, trying to sound convincing. “He may appear rough around the edges, but he comes from a respectable background. Surely he won’t do anything foolish and risk this chance to make something of himself….” Her speech faltered as she caught sight of her friend’s eyes rolling upward. “Would he?”

Lacey took a short break from popping chips into her mouth. “Better hang on to your fancy pants, city girl. I think you’re in for a wild ride.”