01_The Best Gift (3 page)

She doesn’t even know enough to come in out of the rain.
The thought came to Blake unbidden, and he shook his head.

The slight movement caught A.J.’s eye, and she glanced over at the tall man who was looking at her with a mixture of disgust and resignation. Was this Blake Sullivan? If so, he sure didn’t match the image she’d created in her mind. She’d envisioned a bookish type, fiftyish, probably wearing glasses, possibly balding, maybe a little round-shouldered, sporting a paunch. A fussy, precise and stern curmudgeon.

Well, the latter qualities might prove to be true of the man standing across from her. But she’d been dead wrong on the physical description. Blake Sullivan was tall—she classified anyone who topped her five-foot-ten frame as tall—with dark brown hair and intense, cobalt-colored eyes. His crisp, blue oxford shirt, beige slacks and well-polished leather shoes bordered on being preppy, though the effect was softened by rolled-up sleeves. His attire also showed off his athletic build—broad chest, lean hips, flat abdomen. And his shoulders were definitely not rounded.

A.J. tried not to flinch under his scrutiny. She could only imagine how she appeared. No, on second thought, she didn’t even want to go there. She could read enough from the look in his eyes. So much for first impressions.

With more bravado than she felt, she straightened her shoulders, tilted up her chin and gazed directly at the man across from her. “I’m looking for Blake Sullivan.”

He waited a moment, as if trying to decide whether he wanted to have anything to do with the pitiful vision in front of him or simply turn around and run. Finally, with obvious reluctance, he approached her, stopping a couple of feet away to fold his arms across his chest. “You’ve found him.”

She swallowed and extended her hand. “I’m A. J. Williams.”

Short of ignoring her courteous gesture, Blake had no choice but to narrow the gap between them so he could take her hand.

At closer range, he realized that A.J. was tall. She was probably a couple of inches shorter than him, but whatever shoes she had on put them almost eye-to-eye. If she’d been wearing any makeup prior to her dash through the storm, the rain had efficiently dispensed with it, giving her a fresh, natural look that actually had a certain appeal. There was a light dusting of freckles across her small, slightly turned-up nose, and thick lashes fringed deep green eyes highlighted with gold flecks. His gaze dropped to her lips, and lingered there a moment too long before he reached for her extended hand.

Given her height, he was surprised to discover that her hand felt small and delicate in his. But her grip was firm. At least it was until he felt a tremor run through it—and then throughout her body. He frowned.

“Are you okay?”

“A little ch-chilled. I’ll be okay once I ch-change out of these wet clothes.” She withdrew her hand from his self-consciously.

“Don’t you have an umbrella?”

“Of course. Somewhere in the U-Haul. Along with my coat. It was sunny and warm when I left Chicago. It generally gets nicer when you head south. But obviously not today. Then I had to park down the block because all the spots in front of the shop were taken. Which is why I’m sporting the drowned-rat look.”

Blake pointedly glanced at his watch. “It was quite a bit warmer here earlier. When you were supposed to arrive.”

A.J. flushed. “I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t plan on running into major road construction. Or having a flat tire. I’m a little out of practice, so it took me a while to change it.”

And she’d paid a price for doing so. Even before the blowout her hip had already begun to throb from her long hours confined behind the wheel. Dealing with the tire had only intensified her discomfort. She shifted from one foot to the other, trying in vain to alleviate the ache that she knew only a hot bath would soothe.

“You could have called,” Blake responded.

“Not without a phone.”

He looked surprised. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

“No.” Her budget barely allowed for a regular phone.

“It might be a good idea to get one…for emergencies.”

She felt her temper begin to simmer at his condescending attitude, but she wasn’t in a fighting mood tonight. Better to save her strength for the battles that she was beginning to suspect would surely follow in the days and weeks ahead. So, with an effort, she moderated her comments. “I’ll consider that. But I’d hardly classify today as an emergency. And I already apologized for being late.” Another shiver suddenly ran through her, and this time she made no attempt to hide it. “Look, can we continue this discussion on Monday? I came directly here and I’m cold and wet and hungry.”

Blake had to admit that she did look pretty miserable. The puddle at her feet had widened, and there was definitely a chill in the shop. The heating system in the older building hadn’t quite caught up with the sudden, late-afternoon plunge in temperature. So if
he
noticed the coolness in the air, she must be freezing.

“Monday is fine. Shall we say nine a.m.? That gives us an hour before the store opens.”

“Fine.”

He stuck out his hand. “Until Monday, then.”

She seemed surprised by his gesture, but responded automatically. And his assessment was confirmed. Her fingers were like ice. He frowned, good manners warring with aggravation at her tardiness.

“Look, can I offer you a cup of tea first? We keep some on hand for the patrons.”

Again, surprise flickered in her eyes—followed quickly by wariness. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t exactly been welcoming—or hospitable—up till now.

“Thanks. But I think a hot bath is the only thing that will chase the chill away.”

His gaze scanned her slender form, and she suddenly realized her once loose-fitting outfit had become plastered to her skin. Her face flushed a deep red, and with her free hand she tried to pry the fabric away. When that attempt was unsuccessful, she tugged her other hand from Blake’s and took a step back. “I’ll see you Monday at nine.” Her voice sounded a bit breathless.

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

“Yes. And a real estate agent lined up tomorrow to look at apartments.”

He nodded. “Can I loan you an umbrella? It’s still pouring.”

She backed toward the door. “There’s not much point now, is there?”

He glanced at the puddle on the floor in the spot she had just vacated. “True.”

The crimson of her face went a shade deeper and her step faltered. “Oh…I’m sorry about that. I can clean it up, if you have a mop or…”

“Ms. Williams,” Blake cut her off, but his tone was cordial. “I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you follow your own advice? Take a hot bath and have a hot meal. We’ll make a fresh start on Monday. Okay?”

A.J. studied him for a moment. Did she detect a softening in his manner, a slight warmth in his tone? Or was it resignation? Or perhaps pity, because she was cold and wet and hungry and had a trying trip to St. Louis? Or was it pity for himself, because he’d been saddled with a partner who would need to be guided every step of the way?

If he thought the latter, he was in for a big surprise come Monday. But for now, she
was
cold, wet and hungry—and definitely not at her best. So she needed to exit. As gracefully as possible.

With a curt nod, she turned toward the door. And tried not to run.

A
t precisely nine o’clock Monday morning, A.J. knocked on the door at Turning Leaves. It was a gloriously sunny Indian summer day in mid-November, and as she waited for Blake to let her in, she surveyed the scene with a smile. Though Maplewood was a close-in suburb of St. Louis, this section had a small-town feel. The tree-lined streets and mom-and-pop shops hearkened back to another era, and morning walkers were already putting in their paces.

The door rattled, then swung inward as she turned back toward the shop. Blake stood on the other side, his clothes similar to what he’d worn on Friday except that he’d exchanged his blue oxford shirt for a yellow one, and his sleeves weren’t yet rolled up. His hair was damp, as if he’d showered very recently.

“Good morning.” She glanced at her watch. “You said nine o’clock, right?”

Blake ignored her question. If she expected him to compliment her punctuality, she would be sorely disappointed. It was the least he expected. Besides, he was still trying to reconcile the woman standing across from him now with the bedraggled waif who had dripped water all over his floor Friday night. Her hair was lighter in color than he remembered, and her topknot of natural curls was firmly in place. A few rebellious tendrils had fought their way out of the confining band to softly frame her face, which still seemed to be mostly makeup free. A touch of lipstick, perhaps some mascara, maybe a hint of blush—though the color in her cheeks could well be natural, he concluded. The sparkle in her eyes certainly was, enhanced by her open, friendly smile. It suddenly struck him that A. J. Williams was an extremely attractive woman. Not that he cared, of course.

When he didn’t respond to her greeting, she turned again and made a sweeping gesture. “Isn’t it a glorious day?”

Blake glanced around the familiar landscape. He’d jogged his usual eight miles before coming to work, but in all honesty he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings. He’d been thinking about his training schedule for the upcoming triathlon, a late order that he needed to follow up on at the shop, invoices that needed to be reconciled…and a myriad of other things.

“Just look how blue the sky is,” A.J. enthused. “And the sun feels so warm for November! I guess you haven’t had a hard freeze yet, because the geraniums and petunias still look great.”

Blake looked at the sky, then glanced at the flowers in the planters along the street. He wouldn’t have noticed either if A.J. hadn’t pointed them out. And for some reason her comment made him feel as if he should have. Which aggravated him. He didn’t need any guilt trips. What he needed was time to brief his new partner before the shop opened.

“If you’re ready to come in, we can get started,” he said shortly.

A.J. turned back to him and tilted her head. “No time to smell the flowers along the way, Mr. Sullivan?”

“I have work to do.” His voice sounded unnaturally stiff even to his own ears.

“I think God would appreciate it if we took a moment to admire His handiwork, don’t you?”

“I’m sure God has better things to think about. If He cares at all.”

A.J. raised one eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of cynicism in that comment?”

Blake shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s just say I haven’t seen much evidence that God cares.”

A.J.’s eyes grew sympathetic. “That’s too bad. Because He does.”

Blake frowned impatiently. “Look, can we just get down to business? Because we’ve only got an hour before the shop opens, and I’d like to show you around before the customers start coming.”

“Absolutely. I’m ready whenever you are.”

He stepped aside, and as she swept past he caught a faint, pleasing fragrance. Not floral. Not exotic. Just…fresh. It seemed to linger even after she moved away.

A.J. took a moment to look over the shop, something she hadn’t done Friday night. As she completed her circuit, her gaze returned to Blake. He was still at the door, and he was staring at her. She couldn’t quite read the expression in his eyes, but it looked as if he’d found something else to disapprove of. Her chin lifted a notch.

“Anything wrong?” She tried to keep her tone mild, but a note of defiance crept in.

Blake studied her attire. She wore a white peasant-type blouse in some wrinkly fabric, and a funky bronze cross hung from a chain around her neck. An unusual metal belt cinched her impossibly small waist. Her skirt, made of several progressively longer layers of what appeared to be a patchwork of fabrics, brushed her legs mid-calf. If his attire bordered on preppy, hers could well be described as hippie. Which did not evoke happy memories.

“Mr. Sullivan, is something wrong?” she repeated more pointedly.

He frowned. “I haven’t seen clothes like that in a long time.”

She looked down and smoothed her skirt over her hips. “Probably not. They’re from a vintage clothing store I discovered in Chicago. Pretty cool, huh?”

Actually, he had another word for her attire. But he settled for a less judgmental term. “Interesting.”

The look she gave him told him very clearly that she knew exactly what his opinion was. And that, in turn, she had judged him to be stuffy, uptight and conventional. “Very diplomatic. I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” Before he could respond, she turned back to the shop. “So, how about that tour?”

Blake thought about responding to her comment— then thought better of it. He had to work with this woman for the next six months, and it would be to both their advantages if they made an effort to get along.

“Sure. Let’s start with a walk-through.”

The shop wasn’t huge, and A.J. only made a few comments as Blake showed her around. There was a small area for children’s books, and sections devoted to books on travel, cooking, fiction, gardening and general non-fiction. There was also a reading nook, with four comfortable chairs, and a coffee and tea maker tucked in a back corner. A small stockroom and tidy office were behind a door marked “private.” Two big picture windows flanked the front door, and each featured displays of the latest releases. The older building was well-maintained, with a high ceiling and hardwood floors, and A.J. felt comfortable in the space immediately. Just as she’d felt comfortable in the tiny apartment she’d found Saturday. It, too, was in an older building, in a neighborhood that had obviously seen better days. But it was safe and in the early stages of renewal, the real estate agent had assured her.

When the tour was over, Blake waited for her to say something.

“This is a great space,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “It’s sunny and bright and inviting. There’s a nice selection of books. And the layout is…interesting.”

She’d borrowed the word he’d used earlier to describe her attire, and Blake gave her a suspicious look. “What does that mean?”

She lifted one shoulder. “We might want to think about rearranging a few things.”

He frowned. “Our customers seem to like this setup. We do quite well.”

“Yes, that’s what Seth Mitchell said. Which reminds me, I’d like to spend some time going over the accounts with you.”

A flicker of amusement crept into his eyes. “That could be a little tedious. It might be better if I meet with your accountant. Or, if you don’t have one, I’m sure Mr. Mitchell can recommend someone. But I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have today.”

The condescending tone was back, but this time A.J. was ready for him. “That’s kind of you,” she said sweetly. “I do have a few.”

“Shoot,” he said amiably.

“Okay. Let’s start with some basics. I’d like to get the details on return on capital, net profit, blue-sky value, inventory turnover rates, payroll expenses and any major debt. I’d also like to get some breakdowns on customer demographics, sales by book category, store traffic patterns and volume, and repeat customers. That’s just to start, of course.”

The dazed look on Blake’s face was totally satisfying. As was the lengthy time it took for him to recover from her barrage of questions.

“I’m not sure I have all those answers at my fingertips,” he said slowly. “It might take me a couple of days to pull the data together.”

“Okay. I jotted down some other questions, too.” She fished in her purse and withdrew two pages of additional typed questions and handed them to him. “You might as well work on these at the same time.”

He scanned the list quickly, frowning, and when he looked back at her she could read the question in his eyes. She answered it before he could ask.

“I have an M.B.A. From Wharton. I chose not to pursue a business career for a variety of reasons. But I have the background. And it’s kind of like riding a bicycle. You never forget.”

Blake felt his neck grow warm. Jo had long ago taught him not to judge a book by its cover. Yet that was exactly what he’d done with A.J. She didn’t look like a businesswoman. At least not his image of one. So he’d assumed she had no business skills. He felt suitably chastised—but he didn’t like being made a fool of. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shrugged. “You seemed to have your mind made up about me from our first conversation. So I figured I’d wait and play my hand when the time was right. Which turned out to be today.”

So A.J.
wasn’t
some ditzy airhead after all, he conceded. She had business savvy. Quite a bit of it, if the questions she was asking were any indication. But it was only textbook knowledge. She might be able to analyze the balance sheet, but she had no practical experience. And he did. He knew the book business. So she needed him. Which meant he still had some leverage. And some control. That knowledge gave him some comfort. Because ever since Jo’s death and A.J.’s first phone call, he’d been watching his control erode. And it was not a good feeling.

When the silence lengthened, A.J. sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if you jumped to conclusions about me. Obviously, I have the financial background to run this shop. But I don’t have practical experience. I guess Aunt Jo hoped you’d teach me. And I’m willing to learn. So can we just start over? Otherwise it’s going to be a long six months.”

Blake couldn’t argue with that. “Maybe it would help if we set some ground rules.”

She made a face. “Why don’t we just take it a day at a time? Make up the rules as we go along?”

“You mean wing it?”

“More or less.”

“That’s not the best way to run a business.” Or a life, as far as he was concerned. He liked rules and structure. He’d had enough of “winging it” to last a lifetime.

“We’re not a Fortune 500 company, Blake. We can afford to be a little flexible.”

That was another word he hated. Too often “flexible” became an excuse for not honoring commitments.

At his grim expression, A.J. grinned. “Loosen up, Blake. Life’s too short to sweat the small stuff.”

“I don’t consider Turning Leaves small stuff,” he said stiffly, sounding uncharacteristically pompous and self-righteous even to his own ears. This woman just brought out the worst in him.

“I didn’t say it was. I was referring to your ground rules. I don’t want to get hung up on making a lot of guidelines that may not be necessary. Let’s just work things out as we go along. And before you know it, the six months will zip right by.”

The bell jangled over the door, and A.J. turned her attention to the customer who had just entered. “Oh, look at that darling little girl!”

Blake glanced at the young mother and her child. The toddler looked to be about four, and she was clutching a glazed donut. Which translated to sticky fingers— and sticky merchandise. He started forward, then stopped. The house rules said no food in the shop. But he had a feeling the house rules were about to go out the window.

Blake sighed. It was going to be a long six months.

“I’d like to start closing the shop on Sundays.”

Blake stared at A.J. as if she’d lost her mind. Their first week as partners had been remarkably smooth. She was an eager learner, and Blake was beginning to think that maybe this arrangement would work out after all. Until she’d dropped this bombshell.

“Excuse me?”

She looked up from the catalog of new releases she was perusing. “I’d like to close the shop on Sundays.”

“Why? We’re always busy on Sunday.”

“I’ve studied the traffic and sales data. We do have a lot of window-shoppers on Sunday. But it’s not one of our bigger sales days. And we’re only open for five hours, anyway. I don’t think we’ll notice much impact on our bottom line.”

This was exactly the kind of impetuous action that Blake had been afraid of. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Nancy observing the exchange, and he took a deep breath before responding.

“I don’t think changing the hours is a good idea. Everyone else on the street is open on Sunday. Our customers will be disappointed.”

“We can change our phone message and have a sign with our new hours made for the window. People will adjust.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Why is this such a big deal? Sunday hours are convenient for our customers and we always have enough sales to justify being open.”

A.J. closed the catalog and looked at him steadily. “My main reason for wanting to close has nothing to do with sales or with customers. Sunday is the Lord’s day. A day of rest. A day to keep holy. A store like ours that sells nonessential items doesn’t need to be open.”

Blake stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

He tried a different approach. “Jo was very religious. And
she
was open on Sunday.”

“When did she start opening on Sunday?”

“A couple of years ago.”

About the time he took over the day-to-day management of the shop. Neither voiced that thought, but it hung in the air.

“Did she work in the shop that day?” A.J. asked.

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Nancy and I alternated.”

A.J. glanced over at Nancy. She didn’t know the part-time worker very well yet, but she’d learned enough to know that the divorced mother had a tough life, that she juggled two part-time jobs just to make ends meet, and that she was a churchgoing woman with a quiet, deep faith.