Читать книгу Love Sign - Susan Kirby - Страница 11

Jake walked through the garden, then moved the lawn sprinkler close enough to give the tomato plants a good drink. He glanced toward his lighted office window and returned to the porch to take off his damp boots. Paula joined him on the steps.

“Gram’s tucked in,” she offered. “Her eyes were closed almost before her head hit the pillow. What’s this about your houseguest getting left at the altar?”

“Who told you that?” Jake asked, sitting straighter.

“Antoinette. I saw her at the store, and mentioned that you and Gram had a guest. It put her mind at ease to hear it. She felt terrible over having to turn Shelby away.” Paula slid him a glance and ventured, “How’s she holding up, anyway?”

“Couldn’t say,” he replied evenly.

Paula’s gaze lingered, but she let the subject drop.

Dusk fell over the yard in deepening shades of purple. The shadows brought to Jake’s mind the bruise of broken promises that lingered in Shelby’s eyes. She was having a hard time of it, yet she didn’t complain. There was nothing of the pathetic about her. He liked that. Liked her manner, too, how she had taken Gram’s mental lapses into stride without comment.

Paula spoke up, asking about Joy’s employer, Mr. Wiseman. “What do you suppose happened to him, anyway?”

“He’ll turn up,” Jake said.

“It is peculiar, though. And speaking of peculiar, what’s this about you driving Joy to the edge of town to check out Colton’s face-lift?”

“You mean the sign? That wasn’t my idea,” Jake answered.

“I guessed as much.” Paula sighed. “She asks about him all the time lately. She can’t understand why I never told him about her. She badgered me until I finally told her that as far as I’m concerned, Colt wouldn’t be in the dark about her if he had stayed home where he belonged. It’s the truth,” she added.

Part of it, anyway. Calling the rest to mind served no purpose. Jake asked, “What’d she say?”

“‘Get over it, Mom.”’

“She’s just testing the stretch in your apron strings,” Jake said. “You’re doing just fine. Blondie’s a good kid.”

“By the grace of God and a lot of help from you.” Paula patted his knee and came to her feet.

“Where you going?” asked Jake.

“Home. Joy’s a bear to get up if she isn’t in bed by ten.”

“I’ll get her for you,” Jake offered.

“Thanks, Jake. I’ll see you at church tomorrow.” Paula crossed the yard to her car.

Jake dropped his boots inside the door and trekked through the house in his sock feet. The door to his office was open, the desk in full view. Joy and Shelby were side by side at his desk, facing the door. The computer monitor partially hid their faces.

“So how come he walked out on you?” he overheard Joy ask Shelby.

“He had his reasons,” replied Shelby.

“Good ones?” pressed Joy.

“I suppose they were to him.” Shelby glanced away from the computer screen and saw Jake. Dusky eyelids fell behind the lenses of her reading glasses. Color swept up her pale cheeks.

Jake’s gut clenched at the humiliation in her swiftly averted gaze. “Your mom’s waiting in the car,” he said to Joy.

“But I’m showing Shelby how to…”

He cut her short. “I’ll show her.”

“Retrieve from the trash? You don’t even know yourself, I’ll bet,” replied Joy, tipping her chin.

“Go home,” he said.

“I was trying to help,” she huffed.

“Some help,” Jake muttered as Joy passed him in the door.

Joy made a face at him. He crossed to the desk, wondering whether to apologize to Shelby on Joy’s behalf or pretend he hadn’t overheard. He was opting for pretense when Joy called to him from the open door.

He pivoted to see her hand over the light switch.

“Nighty-night,” she said as the room went dark.

“Turn it on, Joy,” ordered Jake.

She snickered instead and closed the door behind her.

“Sorry, I don’t know what gets into her,” apologized Jake, though under the circumstances, darkness wasn’t all that unwelcome.

“I gather she heard things,” Shelby said.

“Not from me,” he said quickly. “There’s a remote switch. Reach into the desk drawer.”

“Which drawer?”

“Top,” Jake replied, though he could have as easily crossed to the switch. The drawer squeaked as she opened it. He heard pencils rub pencils, the metallic sift of paper clips and other desk drawer contents shift beneath Shelby’s unseen fingers. The darkness amplified the cat-paw soft sounds of her search. That, and the silence to which Joy’s cheeky question clung like a fly caught on a glue strip. No use ignoring it.

“I’ll tell Paula to talk to her,” he began.

“Please don’t,” Shelby interjected. “You’ve done enough.”

Jake twitched, certain she believed him the source of the things that had piqued Joy’s curiosity.

He circled the desk. “Slide back. I can put my hand right on it.” In the absence of light, he misjudged her position. His hand skimmed her curls in a chance touch that tickled his palm and his fancy, too. “Sorry.”

“My fault,” Shelby murmured and rolled the desk chair away from the desk, giving him more room.

The darkness heightened her flower-sweet fragrance. Feeling enveloped by it, Jake’s hand closed over the remote in the drawer. “Those your toes I’m walking on?” he asked, in no hurry to shed light on the room or the inspiration behind an unorthodox and not-so-chance but gentle collision of feet.

“No harm done,” she said, and withdrew them.

Jake’s sock-clad feet begged to disagree. The harm was a sweet ache that started in his feet the moment she pulled hers away. Jake swallowed a sigh and hit the remote. Light flooded the room. Her silk-stocking clad feet were tucked beneath the chair. He reached to close the yawning desk drawer and in so doing, noticed her shoes neatly aligned beneath his desk. They looked good there. Like small white hens come home to roost. Foolish to think it, much less want to say so. He moved to one side, making elbow room for her as she put on reading glasses, tilted the lined pad beside the keyboard and began typing.

“Ready for some cake now?” he asked for want of a better excuse to regain her attention.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

Curious as what so firmly held her focus, Jake reached for her tablet. His finger barely touched down when she whisked it away. He blinked, cupped his elbow in one hand and rubbed his chin. “So, what’s this you’re writing?”

“Not much at the rate I’m going,” she said, her fingers poised over the keyboard.

Jake leaned in, trying to read the screen. Her silky lashes swept upward, lush and long and thick. Strained patience flashed in hazel depths. “Sorry,” he said, and backed away.

“For what?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. But I didn’t get that much of a reaction when I dropped my crane on your car,” he said, wincing.

Color flooded Shelby’s face. Grabbing the tablet was pure reflex. Just as strong was the urge to erase the screen with a keystroke rather than to let him read her work before it was finished and polished. Unwilling to admit how raw and inadequate her first drafts seemed to her, and how she cringed at the thought of anyone else reading them, she swept a curl behind her ear, and explained, “What I’m working on is a rough draft. If I let you read it, it weakens my motivation to finish the thing.”

“Top secret, eh? Now I am intrigued.”

“You have no hang-ups?” she countered quietly.

“Classified, like your story,” he claimed.

His gentle jesting cooled her rising hackles and left a foolish grin on her face. She wiped it clean, curled a leg beneath her and offered, “Shall I have my publisher send you a copy?”

“Will you sign it for me?” he pressed, mouth tilting.

“If you like.”

“Just your name? Or could I have an inscription, too? Something like, ‘To Jake, You Have My Number.”’

“I sure do,” she countered.

He laughed and she smiled and the anchor eased its grip on her heart. But only for a moment. The interest flickering in his eyes reminded her that Patrick had once looked at her that way, too. Rejection, like honeybees, left the stinger in. Shelby averted her face before the heat of that bite brushed her cheeks.

“What’s it take?” asked Jake. At her blank glance, he propped a hip on the corner of the desk and added, “Time wise, I mean.”

“From here to here in a year.” She tapped her temple, then spread her hands as if she held a book. “Unless I get stuck.”

“I better go then, and let you get back to it,” said Jake.

Her smile, though fleeting, did nice things to her face. Like the blush on a peach. Though on closer scrutiny, Jake found that pinch never quite left her eyes. Her lashes came down, closing the beaches on those hazel seas. Intrigued, he wondered at her thoughts. That, at least was rational. The impulse to sweep her out of her chair and into his arms to kiss those pinch lines into retreat was not.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, and came to his feet.

“Good night. Thanks for everything,” she called, breathing easier now that he was leaving.

Jake wished she would use his name. He hesitated a moment, realizing he hadn’t used hers, either. It formed on his tongue. But already, she had shut him out. Her white fingers were over the keys, skipping like whitecaps. Divorce, Jake had heard, was second only in trauma to suffering the death of a loved one. Where, then, did getting jilted rank? Somewhere in the ballpark with desertion, he wagered. He was still seeing the consequences of that in Paula’s life, and Joy’s too, as she struggled to fill the void left by a father who didn’t know she existed.

Jake checked on Gram before turning in. It was a long while later when he heard water running and knew Shelby had called it quits for the night. He rubbed one eye and peered at the illuminated dial of his alarm clock. It was 3:00 a.m. And after the day she had had. She had stamina.

Jake rolled over and slept until the aroma of perking coffee stirred him awake. It was six. He could have grabbed another hour of sleep. But these days, Gram and the stove were an unpredictable mix.

Shelby smelled coffee and heard voices. In the time it took her to get her bearings, she remembered she had no car, and nowhere she had to be today. On that note, she dozed off again and got up a good while later to an empty house. A shower and a dash of lipstick helped a face in need of some color. She rubbed scented hand cream from elbows to fingertips and went downstairs.

There was coffee in a carafe and cold bacon and biscuits on the kitchen table. Shelby made a biscuit sandwich and poured coffee. She ate quickly, carried her dishes to the sink, turned on the tap and her thoughts, too. By the time she reached the study, words were crowding, wanting out.

Ringing church bells drew Shelby to the window at noon. Moments later, Jake’s Jeep turned up the back alley and parked in the drive alongside his building. He climbed out loosening his tie and circled to help Gram Kate from the front seat. Three more cars pulled in behind him. Doors flew open and a blend of Jacksons piled out. Shelby assumed they were Jacksons—lanky frames and blue eyes were in the majority. She watched Joy turn down the alley. A boy pedaled toward her on his bicycle. Joy hurried to meet him. They slipped out of sight behind Jake’s sign building.

Jake climbed the stairs to change out of his suit and saw the guest room was empty. He returned downstairs and found Shelby at his desk. Her fingers moved over the keys. She paused, lips pursed, and typed on, unaware of him in the open door. It was the sort of concentration he looked for in crane operators. He could have used some of it himself yesterday on the bank building, letting his eye stray to a pretty woman climbing out of her car in the lot below. For all the good it did. It was plain to see that her heart was still attached to the one who had cut her free.

Smitten in spite of himself, he called to her, “How’s the story coming?”

She glanced away from the screen. “Pretty well, thank you.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a vacation, closed in with your work.”

“It’s a treat not to have to squeeze it in between my hours at the office.” She pushed her chair back, and rose smoothing her dress. It was sleeveless, with a fitted yoke, brown as toast. A drift of yellow pleats fell from the bodice.

“That’s a nice sunflower dress you’re wearing,” said Jake, though the loose fit left a lot to the imagination.

“And you said you didn’t know flowers,” she countered.

Jake grinned. “No, but I’ve pulled enough weeds…”

“It’s a weed? A sunflower is a weed?” she said doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

“Look it up.” Jake reached for his favorite gardening book on the desk, and pushed it her way.

Shelby thumbed through dog-eared pages and plunked back into her chair. “You’re right.”

His mouth tipped at her disheartened sigh. “I haven’t ruined it for you, have I?”

“‘A rose by any other name’…” She set the quote adrift, and tucked a curl behind her ear. The pencil tunneled there wobbled and fell in her lap. “How was church?”

“Crowded,” he replied, and ducked under the desk to retrieve the pencil. “But we would have made room for you.”

“I overslept. By the way, I’ve been thinking about that loaner car. Perhaps it’s time I phoned my insurer.”

“No use trying on Sunday,” he told her, fingers brushing hers as he returned the pencil. Her nails were trimmed short, but neatly curved and tinted ivory. “Anyway, I checked with my agent last night. He said he would have a car for you sometime tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Shelby said. “I’ll stop by your shop then, and get the manuscripts out of the trunk.”

“If they’re that important, we can go today,” he offered.

“Could we? I wouldn’t bother you with it, but I’m responsible for them,” she explained.

“We’ll go after lunch. My sisters brought covered dishes for lunch,” he said.

“What can I do to help?”

“You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

She smiled and followed him into the kitchen where he made introductions, then slipped upstairs to change out of his suit.

There was enough physical similarity between Jake’s sisters that Shelby had a hard time remembering who was who. It was even more difficult with the children. Shelby counted seven boys and six girls. Then Joy came dashing in, flushed and fresh as a rosebud dressed all in pink.

“Where you been?” asked one of her cousins.

Joy pinched his arm.

“Ouch!” he squealed. “Quit it, Blondie Blake-a-cake,”

Joy’s giggly cousins shouted with laughter and took up the chant: “Blondie Blake-a-cake! Blondie bake-a-cake, Blake-a-cake,”

“You better quit calling me that or you won’t be eating any of my cake,” warned Joy with a lofty sniff.

“Another cake? You’re turning into a regular Sara Lee,” Jake said, joining the teasing.

He had changed into khakis and a loose-fitting shirt that suited his eyes. The writer in Shelby made mental notes. Preoccupied with the process, she saw his smile shift to silent inquiry and realized her gaze had lingered too long. His smile came on again as their eyes met. The glow of it spread heat within, like bottled sunshine. Startled at her instinctive response, Shelby averted her glance and finished setting the table. When the dinner call came, Jake held a chair for her, another for Joy, and settled between them.

The family joined hands for the blessing. Once again, Shelby found herself comparing Jake’s broad, callused palm to the one her heart knew so well. With an effort, she focused on the bountiful table and the congeniality of Jake’s family. The adults were welcoming, the children boisterous and lively. The meal, right through to dessert, was seasoned with humor and affection, and a balm to Shelby’s bruised spirits.

“Scratch chocolate. Lemon’s my favorite,” Jake told Joy as he dribbled warm lemon sauce over his slice of lemon cake. “Second only to butter bean.”

“Butter bean? I never heard of butter bean cake,” said Joy.

Everyone laughed.

Joy’s cheeks turned as pink as her dress. “You made that up,” she accused, and flipped her braid over her shoulder.

“It’s served in all the finest restaurants,” claimed Jake. “A real delicacy. Isn’t that right, Shelby?” he prompted with a gentle elbow and a blue-eyed wink.

Shelby indicated her mouth was too full to answer.

Thwarted, Jake wagged his head. “And here we were about to cut you in on our after-dinner baseball game.”

The children gulped dessert, grabbed their baseball gloves and tramped out, arguing over teams. The men followed. Shelby stayed behind with Jake’s sisters to clear away dinner and learned how to load and start the dishwasher.

Afterward Paula, Wendy and Jake’s other sisters joined Gram Kate on the veranda. Shelby slipped up to her room for her notebook. She was on her way down to the study when Jake met her on the stairs.

“You’re not going to spend your afternoon working, surely,” he chided.

“I’m behind,” she explained.

“Good position to be in.” Grinning, he pivoted on the step. “You won’t go wrong. Fall in behind me, and I’ll take you out for some air.”

“I meant behind on my work,” she protested.

“Even God rested from His work on the seventh day.”

His plainspoken logic nudged Shelby’s conscience. But it was his coaxing smile that tipped the scales. “You’re right, you know.” Capitulating, she followed him downstairs.

“You want to pitch?” he asked on the way outdoors.

“No, thanks. Words are the only game I have any success with. Anyway, I’m resting. Remember?”

Jake chuckled at having his own words fed back to him. He left her with his sisters, and joined his team of Jackson progeny waiting in the yard. Shelby shaded her eyes and watched from a wicker lounger a makeshift game of men and kids and elastic rules that stretched to accommodate the smallest among them.

“So tell us, Shelby. What is it you’re writing about?” asked Jake’s youngest sister, Wendy.

“Teens,” Shelby said.

“Joy’s twelve, and already, I feel like I could do a book on teens!” exclaimed Paula.

In the company of her sisters, Paula was just one talker among many. Shelby’s gaze returned to the game, and Jake, now hunkered down behind home plate with a catcher’s mitt in hand.

“Hey, batter, batter,” he chanted as a young nephew toddled up to bat. After the second strike, Jake dropped his glove and helped the pint-size batter swing.

The little guy was stunned when the bat cracked the ball. “Jimmy hit!” he cried. “Jimmy hit!”

“Run, Jimmy! Run!” hollered Jimmy’s father, Curtis.

Jimmy froze, clutching the bat. Jake scooped him up and ran the bases with him. Jimmy was still clinging to the bat when they crossed home plate. He beamed as Jake set him down amidst his cheering teammates.

“Jimmy hit,” he said again.

“Jimmy sure did!” Jake heaved Jimmy aloft and onto his shoulder and ran a victory lap.

“Jake needs a family of his own,” Wendy commented.

“Wendy hasn’t been married long,” Paula said to Shelby. “The blush is still on the rose.”

“But the kids do love Jake,” pointed out Jimmy’s mom, Christine. “Joy thinks the sun rises and sets on him.”

“She should. He’s always been there for us,” Paula stated.

“That’s all good and well. But it’s time he was thinking about a nest of his own.” Wendy turned a beaming smile on Shelby. “Say! Do you have any friends we could set him up with?”

“I could probably think of someone. But it would be a long drive for him,” Shelby replied, rising from her chair. She caught Paula rolling her eyes, and angled for the door, adding, “Excuse me, would you? I left my sunglasses upstairs.”

“That was real subtle, Wen,” Paula chided Wendy.

“What?” protested Wendy with feigned innocence. “All I said was, did she know anyone.”

Restless, Shelby retrieved her sunglasses, and on impulse, phoned her parents. No one answered. She wasn’t surprised. They were very busy. Even in childhood, it was a catch-as-catch-can proposition.

She left a message explaining the circumstances that had forced a change of plans, where she was staying and how to reach her. As she did so, she could almost see them trading benign and somewhat surprised glances at her bid to reassure them she was fine. It wouldn’t occur to them to think otherwise.

Ball game forgotten, Shelby let herself into Jake’s study, closed the door and turned on the computer. Time fell away as she polished her first chapter.

THE FIELD

Chapter One

The sun was rising as Cheryl gathered with half a dozen sleepy-eyed teens beneath the park pavilion. Yesterday’s rain had distorted the bill of her Weed Buster’s cap. Her sneakers were stiff with dried mud and the edges of her cutoff shorts were unraveling.

“So where’s the boss?” she asked one of the boys waiting there.

“Who cares? he said. “Waiting’s easy cash.”

Cheryl wished she could be so carefree. She looked up the empty street, then sat down on a picnic table to wait. As the minutes stretched into half an hour with no sign of Mr. Weedman, the rest of the kids picked up their lunches and hoes and ambled away, Dudley among them.

But Cheryl stayed, pacing now. He would be along anytime with a logical explanation. He would apologize for keeping her waiting. They would round up the other kids and go to the field.

Seven-thirty and still no Weedman. Where was he? Why didn’t he come? She needed to work. Needed the money. Needed to kill weeds and self-doubts. Blue-eyed dirt-track speed-demon Jack Cook, in not exposing her, had given her purpose. She wanted to be who he thought she could be.

Seven forty-five. Get a brain, Cheryl. He isn’t coming! She picked up her lunch cooler, her hoe. And yet…what harm was there in waiting a few more minutes?

Eight o’clock. No Weedman. Cheryl was angry now. And scared. She tried to reason away the fear. But she was cold inside. Cold with the growing conviction that something was terribly wrong. That she had seen the last of Wiley Weedman.

And she was dead right.

“So here you are! Why aren’t I surprised?”

Shelby looked to find Jake leaning in the door, a grass stain on one knee of his khakis and his baseball cap in hand. “Who won?” she asked, her eyes returning to the screen.

“Hard to say when it erupts into a brawl,” he said. “I called the game. Gram separated them as best she could, put them in their cars and sent them home.”

“Hmm,” Shelby replied, struggling against the gravitational pull of her story.

“It tuckered her out, until it was all she could do to climb in the last car out the drive. She said don’t wait supper, she’ll make them feed her before she comes home.” Jake crossed to the window and lowered the blinds. “If you can find a stopping place there, we’ll go into town and rescue your homework. May as well eat while we’re at it.”

“Is it that time already?”

“Getting close,” he said. “If you’re not hungry, we could go for a walk.”

“After an afternoon of baseball?” Trying to talk words at odds with the words she was typing was too much. Shelby looked up just as Jake perched on the corner of the desk and reached for her hand-scrawled notes.

“Please don’t…”

“…read your stuff,” he finished, withholding the tablet.

Shelby restrained herself from leaping across the desk and wrestling her tablet away. His baiting smile triggered heat, which she strove to hide, even as she tried to divert his attention from her scribbled notes. “About this walk. Would it take us past Mr. Wiseman’s house?” she asked.

“I guess it could. Why?”

Shelby hit a key, watched the screen darken and pushed out of her chair. “Has he turned up yet?”

“Not that I know of,” Jake said.

“Do I have time to run upstairs and get my walking shoes?”

“Sure. No hurry. Aren’t you forgetting something?” he called after her.

Shelby turned in the door and caught the tablet as he pitched it across the room. “You’re a tease, Jake.”

He crooked a brow and countered, “Here I thought you had eyes only for your story.”

“You noticed?”

“That you weren’t hanging on my every word? Of course I noticed. What man wouldn’t?”

He spoke in jest. And still it gave Shelby pause, for until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to her that anyone but Patrick would find her preoccupation with her story objectionable. She mulled the thought as she climbed the stairs to freshen up. What good was a forward view if her future became a repeat of the same conflict she had had with Patrick? Hearing the phone ring, Shelby tucked away the thought with her tablet, splashed her face and combed her hair and returned downstairs.

“I thought she left with you,” she heard Jake say as she joined him in the living room. “No, she’s not here. Sure, I’ll send a carton with her if she turns up.”

“Who’s missing?” Shelby asked.

“Joy. She told her mom she would walk home. Paula thought maybe she could catch her before she left. She’s out of eggs.” He held the door for Shelby.

The air had cooled. It was fragrant with the neighbor’s freshly clipped grass and pine needles. A canopy of old trees shaded the crumbling sidewalk.

“Liberty Flats,” murmured Shelby when the silence grew heavy. “Kind of an odd name for rolling prairie, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is if you don’t know its story,” Jake replied. “The township was settled by abolitionist farmers from the east. Along with forty acres of land, each settler got a lot in a little town they called Liberty. Some men in the colony ran a station on the underground railroad. Thus, the name.”

Shelby listened as he explained that when the railroad bypassed Liberty a few years before the Civil War, the tiny village was doomed to return to the prairie.

“A guy by the name of Dan Flats came along and offered to sell the town fathers some land adjacent to the tracks, if they wanted to pull up stakes and relocate Liberty. He quoted a bargain rate with the stipulation that they name the new town for him,” Jake continued. “So when the ground was frozen, Liberty loaded their houses and sheds onto ox-driven sleds and moved east three miles. And Liberty Flats was born,”

“Interesting stuff,” Shelby said, silently appraising the easy pride he took in his hometown.

“It gets better,” Jake continued. “A few years went by, and come to find out Flats didn’t have clear title on the land he had sold. The public was put out enough at dapper Dan, they tried to change the town name.”

“To what?”

“That was the problem. They couldn’t agree. By then, Dan’s grown sons had put down roots in town. When it came to a vote, Liberty Flats got seven votes. The rest were split between a dozen other suggestions. So Liberty Flats carried the day,” explained Jake. “Dan was pleased enough, he nailed together a little hotel by the railroad tracks, and spent the rest of his life in Liberty Flats, trying to clear himself of any wrongdoing. Claimed he’d been taken in by a slick land agent.”

“Was that true?”

“According to Dan’s descendants, it is,” Jake said. But his grin left room for doubt.

Modern concrete gave way to quaint brick sidewalk. Flower beds dotted green lawns that unfolded toward the street. Jake paused beside a picket fence. “This is it. Wilt Wiseman’s place.”

Shelby stopped in front of the two-story clapboard of chipping paint and fading glory. The grass needed cutting, the newspapers were piling up and a garbage can at the back corner of the house was overflowing.

Shelby was about to walk on when she heard a clatter. Joy, still clad in her pink dress, darted into view without seeing them. She grabbed the garbage can by one handle and dragged it behind the house.

“Now what do you suppose she’s up to?” Jake opened the gate, took a beaten path skirting the house and disappeared around the far corner.