Down by the River (11 page)

He edged away subtly from Wyleen and looked at his watch. “I gotta go get my girls, Wyleen.” Jack didn't usually lie, but he suddenly wanted to leave Rookie Beezer's place and this whole scene.

Wyleen put her hands on Jack's chest and leaned up to kiss him. She tasted like beer and cigarettes, and Jack felt suddenly revolted.

Kindly, he backed off and patted Wyleen's cheek. “You be good now, you hear?” It was a standard line of Jack's, and it brought the low chuckle he expected.

“You should know that I'm always good, Jack.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a suggestive look. “And you know where I live if you want to come by one night. We could make a few more good memories.”

Jack knew he could drop by tonight, but he had no desire to. He and Wyleen had a little past together, but there was nothing more to it than that. And tonight, he felt no attraction to her at all. Jack shrugged. Actually, there was no one here he felt any attraction to. He didn't even know why he wasn't having a good time. It was Friday. He was free and single; he should be having a great time. He had a lot of longtime friends here at Rookie's. But the truth was he felt discontented with them tonight. He even felt discontented with himself.

He drove home, let himself in the house, and then wished his girls were there for company. The house seemed entirely too quiet, and Jack's discontent increased. Maybe he was having some kind of midlife crisis or something. He'd read some articles about that somewhere, sitting in the dentist's office or at the barber shop. He couldn't remember now where he'd read about it. He wished he could.

Not liking the fuzzy feeling in his head from the beers he'd drunk at Rookie's, Jack made a pot of coffee. It would probably keep him up late. But, heck, it didn't seem like he was likely to fall into a good sleep right away anyway, the way this night was going.

Jack took his cup of coffee outside on the screened porch. Feeling restless there, too, he walked down the path that wound down the hillside from his house until he came to the rock patio that looked down on the river. He slipped into one of the old metal chairs there and propped his feet up on the rock wall.

It was a nice night. A full moon and the light from it played down on the Little River that flowed through Townsend. He had a nice view here—high on the hillside where he'd built his house a few years after Celine had left him. As soon as he could, he'd sold the cabin they'd lived in up on Rich Mountain, and he'd moved back home near his family by the river. Roger had designed his house here—a weathered, gray-gabled home tucked high above the river in the woods. It was a private place; you had to be looking for it to find it. Jack had been happy here raising his girls—except for those occasional times when he'd heard from Celine and when she wanted money.

She'd given up her custody rights to the girls after she left and they divorced. But she had contacted Jack for a handout every now and then in the early years. Now that she was a star and famous in the soaps, he didn't hear from her anymore. He hoped he never did again. Jack knew now that she'd only married him because she'd found herself pregnant.

“Did you ever love me?” he had asked Celine once.

She'd shrugged carelessly. “You were the area playboy when we met, Jack. I didn't think that sort of thing concerned you. We were good for a while in the way it mattered. You know. Then I found out I was pregnant. I thought for a bit marriage and a family might be fun.”

Celine had studied her nails before looking up at Jack candidly. “I was wrong. I wasn't cut out for the marriage and family thing.” Celine had paced around the room restlessly then. “This is not where I belong, Jack. I need to get back to Hollywood. I have my looks again now after the babies. This is my time. If I wait much longer, I'll miss my chance.”

He shouldn't have been surprised to find her gone not many weeks later. The foolish thing was that Jack had fallen in love with her. She was a good actress, all right. And she'd taken him in. She had been a stunning redhead with cat-green eyes. The fact that she was in Townsend doing a movie had fascinated Jack. He'd never met anyone like Celine Rosen before. Admittedly, he'd felt smug back then to squire her around, even smugger to have her fall for him. She seemed a lot like him—reckless, free, and uninhibited. But he had been wrong about her being right for him. She was selfish and only able to love herself.

Across the river, Jack saw the back porch lights switch on at the Mimosa Inn and watched Grace come out into the light of the porch. She let herself out the back door and started down toward the river. The dogs ran with pleasure around the yard.

Jack smiled. “So, you're restless tonight, too, Grace Conley.”

He watched her stroll down to the river and stop to look up toward the hill where his house stood. She couldn't see him sitting on the rock patio behind the wall. But he could see her.

Jack felt a tightening in his gut. “Are you thinking about me, Grace? Looking up here toward my home? I'd like to know.”

He realized suddenly that Grace was the reason he hadn't had a good time at Rookie's party tonight. She had gotten to him. He hoped he got over it soon. For Grace wouldn't be like Wyleen Deadrick and invite him over for a night to enjoy a good time. She was a different kind of woman. And Jack had no business being attracted to her.

Grace walked out onto the swinging bridge, and Jack's heartbeat quickened. He didn't know how he'd handle it if she came climbing up the hill to him. Probably not well. His thoughts were not gentlemanly ones tonight.

Sensual passion slid up Jack's spine as he watched Grace stand on the swinging bridge looking down the river. He wanted her—that was for sure.

“You better go home, Miz Grace Conley,” he said. “The big bad wolf's out tonight. It would be dangerous for you if you ran into him right now.”

The corgis whined at the entrance to the bridge, obviously afraid to walk out on it. Jack heard Grace's laugh float up to him as she shook her head in amusement at them. Her laugh tickled through Jack's senses, pumping his blood.

Grace turned then and walked slowly back across the bridge, her hips swaying softly in the loose fabric pants she wore. Jack gripped the arms of his chair to keep from calling out to her.

“You're driving me crazy, Grace Conley.” His words were soft and raspy. “I sometimes think it would have been better if you hadn't bought the Oakley back in May. If you'd stayed angry at me and just gone back to Nashville. We wouldn't be in this fix if you had. And I'll be danged if I know what we're going to do about it.”

Jack's eyes followed Grace as she walked through the yard and let herself back in the Mimosa Inn. Then he sat quietly and watched as the lights winked out on the porch and eventually in the rest of the house. It was a long time before he made his way back up from the rock patio to his own house. He had spent a lot of time thinking. But he couldn't say he'd found any good answers.

Well, time would sort things out. He told himself this as he locked up the doors before starting back to his bedroom to call it a night. When he settled into the big king-size bed in his room, sleep was slow to find him. He fleetingly thought of getting up and going to Wyleen's, but he knew that wasn't the answer right now.

Instead, he found a good mystery in the cabinet by his bed and proceeded to read himself to sleep.

T
he early weeks of summer slipped quickly by. Grace was surprisingly busy at the Mimosa. The reopening invitations she'd sent out in May to Mavis Oakley's old customer list had brought many repeat clients back to the inn. In addition, a few choice magazine ads, word-of-mouth, and drive-by traffic through Townsend had brought in even more. A steady stream of guests came to the inn each week now, and Grace's balance sheets were looking very impressive.

Here on Tuesday, on a weekday, when Grace had no guests, she'd finally gotten back to work on the woodcraft shop Carl Oakley had left behind. The shop, about the length of a double garage, had two parts. The back held a workshop, and the front a sales area with built-in display shelves, counters, and tables. Between the workshop and sales area the wall was partially open so anyone in the back—working on a project—could see anyone who came into the front door of the shop. Likewise, customers could look through to watch the crafter at work while they browsed.

Of course, it had taken days for Grace to clean out the place—and to discover that there were a half-bath and a storage room in the far back of the shop. Now, most of the boxes of supplies sat piled in the shop's storage room or, temporarily, in the next-door garage. Grace had repainted inside and out. Since the front of the shop had a small porch across it and two windows, Grace had added green shutters to the windows and painted the old wood furniture pieces on the porch to match—so the shop would coordinate with the inn.

She was hanging a pair of begonia plants from the porch rafters when she saw her mother, Dottie Richey, come up the driveway.

“Hi, Grace,” her mother called. “I went to the front door of the inn and saw your note saying you were here in the shop.”

Grace stepped down from the porch to give her mother a hug. “What a surprise, Mother. I'm so pleased to see you.”

“Well, I've owed you a visit. And it's hard to get away from the business.” She smiled at Grace. “You know how that is now that you're running the bed-and-breakfast, don't you?”

“I do.” Grace blew back the stray hairs from her face. “And I'm afraid you caught me in a mess.” She looked down at herself, attired in old work clothes sprinkled with paint and dust. “A mess in more ways than one.”

Grace's mother walked up the steps to peek into the door of the shop. “Is this a storage building?”

“No. The former owner, Carl Oakley, was a woodworker. He had a shop here.” Grace pointed toward the back. “He worked in the back of the store and out here in the front he sold the walking sticks, birdhouses, picture frames, and other woodcrafts he made. After he died, his wife just left everything here the way it was.”

Grace's mother walked inside to check out the interior of the store, while Grace gave her this short explanation. Dottie turned around to look at Grace. “It looks nice since you've painted it. What are you going to do here, Gracie?”

Grace's heart warmed at the old childhood nickname. “I thought I might have a little craft shop here—open it at whatever hours I could manage around my business at the inn.” She dropped her eyes. “Probably not much will come of it. But it might be fun.”

“Stop selling yourself short.” Her mother's eyes flashed. “You're very gifted, and I've long wondered why you haven't done more with your abilities.”

Grace could feel her brows lift in surprise.

“Not used to compliments, are you?” Dottie's voice was touched with sarcasm. “I'm not surprised.”

She smiled at Grace then. “Let's go sit down on that nice little porch out front. I've been over in Maryville seeing about an upcoming wedding we're doing all the formal wear for, and it would be good to get off my feet.”

“Oh, sure,” said Grace. “Do you want a cola? I have some in a cooler in the back.”

Her mother nodded.

Grace got two cans of diet soda and brought them back out on the porch. She found her mother in one of the newly painted rockers.

“This is such a nice place, Grace.” She took the cola Grace offered and took a long drink. “I'm proud of you for starting a new life for yourself, for getting busy and using your talents.”

Smiling, Grace took a sip of her soda, too. She studied her mother then. Dottie was silver-haired now. Her dark hair had turned white early, as had Myra's. Myra looked very much like Dottie; both had the same short hair and hazel eyes, and both were shorter and more full-busted than Grace. Their father, Mel, was white-haired, too, and it looked like Leonard would follow suit in time. All the Richeys had been dark-haired except for Grace.

Grace noticed her mother was watching her, too. “You look more and more like your Grandmother Martha Steen as time goes by—a true, tall, blond Norwegian. I'm going to bring you my portrait of her to hang in your inn. The resemblance is striking.”

“I always looked different than everyone else in the family.” Grace dropped her eyes again. “And
was
different, too. All of you stayed in the formal wear business, stayed right in South Knoxville. Stayed close.”

Grace's mother reached across to pat Grace's hand. “We each have to be who we are, Gracie. And celebrate that—different or not. You're still our family, even if you walked to a different beat.”

“Did I always? Walk to a different beat?”

Her mother laughed. “How can you ask that? Surely you can remember what a wonderful and unique girl you were. Always busy. Always organizing and creating. Full of ideas and plans. Bright and always so beautiful. That was a gift, too.”

“I'm not so beautiful now.” Grace blew out a long sigh.

“Nonsense. You are stunning. Haven't you looked in the mirror lately? And you still have that beautiful ease and charm about you when you move. Almost sensual. Your father had to beat the boys off with a stick from the time you were young. But you always kept your head there. You knew what you wanted from a young age.”

“Did I?” Grace looked at her mother in surprise.

Dottie shook her head. “Gracious, child. Just because you married young and then had your family quickly, surely you haven't forgotten your early dreams.”

“I remember I modeled while in school. I loved that. And I was majoring in design.”

“You were gifted in design. You just couldn't decide then if you wanted to design houses or clothes. I remember you told your grandmother, rather saucily one day, that you were going to design and run something special one day.” Grace's mother looked around. “It looks like you've done it, Gracie. If not sooner, then later.”

“Well, I can't claim credit for designing the Mimosa, Mother. And my children are certainly not happy about my being here. Neither is Jane.”

“Aggravating woman, Jane Conley. She never had a good thing to say about you, either. It used to make me so mad I wanted to spit nails.” She reached over to pat Grace's hand again. “And your children will come around. You give them time.”

“I hope so.” Grace frowned.

“You told me all about their reactions when you visited over at the house. I just think they are finding it hard to envision you as anything but their mother. That's all you were for so very long, you know.”

“Was that wrong?” Grace looked at her mother questioningly. “I did so love being home and raising all of them, being there for Charlie, helping him with the business by entertaining clients and friends. It wasn't like I was ever idle. There were so many civic responsibilities. So much to do and so many expectations.”

“Ahhh.” Her mother caught her eyes. “Much of what you did was from your heart, Grace. But much of it was because of the expectations of others, as well. You married into wealth, and there were expectations about what Charles Conley's wife should be like. You worked hard to fulfill those expectations. And you did a good job of it.”

“But?”

Dottie smiled kindly, patting Grace's hand again. “But you lost a little of yourself along the way. You were so busy being what you should be that you forgot a little of who you really were and what you might be in yourself.”

Grace frowned, feeling a little piqued at the criticism. “Charles was happy with me, Mother. If he hadn't died, things would have been okay.”

Her mother was silent.

Grace's mother's silences had always spoken more than words.

“You've been disappointed in me, haven't you?”

“Sometimes. I have to be honest.” She gave Grace a candid glance.

“In what ways?” Grace really wanted to know.

“In how you let Jane push you around. In how you let Charles dictate to you. In how overly eager you always were to please Charles, Jane, and so many others.” Dottie paused and frowned slightly. “Also in the way you were so busy living up to an image that you forgot to please yourself. I thought you lost yourself somewhat over the years.”

“Ouch.” Grace winced.

Dottie Richey caught her daughter's eyes. “I would never have said this, Gracie, if I hadn't seen you take life in your hands again. If I hadn't watched you snatch back your life against opposition and begin to live your own dreams. It hasn't been easy for you, and I wanted you to know that your father and I applaud you. And we were all thrilled to see what you're creating here when we came to your open house last month. We're truly proud of you, Gracie.”

Grace looked at her mother in surprise. “I think that's the first time I've heard you say that in a long time.”

Her mother snorted. “I'd say it's the first time you've heard anybody say it in a long time.”

“That's not really fair, Mother.” The criticisms were prickling. “Charlie loved me and was always proud of me. He said so often.”

“He was proud when you were the lovely hostess, the beautiful wife, the devoted mother, the gracious Mrs. Conley.” She gave Grace a direct look. “But how often was he proud of you when you branched out doing something on your own—like going back to college, taking those crafts classes, winning those arts and crafts awards, or making your own dress that time for Michael's wedding? If I remember, Charles made you go out and buy an expensive one instead from a Nashville boutique. One that wasn't handmade. Like it would have been an insult—wearing a dress you had made yourself.”

Grace looked down at her hands.

Her mother's voice softened. “You mustn't misunderstand, Grace. The difference was that I celebrated all those things. You do beautiful work. I have your lovely craft items all over my house. I cherish them. You made this purse for me, remember?” She held up a richly embroidered purse.

“You still have that?” Grace marveled. “I made that five years ago.”

“It's my favorite purse.” Dottie smiled. “I hope the fact that you're cleaning out this woodwork shop means you'll definitely open a little shop of your own here where you can sell your own beautiful things, too.”

“I'd thought of it,” Grace admitted. “But I'm usually so discouraged about my crafting work that I was afraid to admit the idea to anyone.”

“Well, it's a wonderful idea.” Dottie's eyes lit up. “Come show me what you have in mind.”

And so it was that Grace spent the next hour getting to know her mother in a new way as they talked about the craft shop Grace planned to create.

As Grace tucked her mother in the car several hours later, after they had also toured the house thoroughly again, Grace couldn't resist asking her mother one final question that was in her heart. “Mother, why doesn't Myra like me?”

“And what makes you ask that, Gracie?”

Grace twisted her hands. “Well, I know we haven't been close. And it isn't hard to see that there's something there between us. Some rift or divide.”

Dottie looked up at Grace. “First, Myra is four years older than you are, Grace. I had my three children rather spread out. Sisters that far apart in age are not often close like sisters who are only a year or two apart.”

“It's more than that, Mother, and you know it.” Grace sent her mother a pointed look.

Getting back out of the car to lean on the hood, Dottie asked, “Why do you think there is a divide, as you put it, between you and Myra, Gracie? I guess we need to talk about this.”

Grace hesitated. “I really don't know. But I first felt it back in late middle school.”

“Well, let's look back to that time.” Dottie's voice was matter-of-fact. “Myra was seventeen, tall, thin, awkward, and wearing braces. She was introverted and shy with anyone she didn't know well. She often wished for more friends and wished for a boy to notice her. You were only thirteen then—but already blond, beautiful, extroverted, and talented. You had a score of girlfriends and already had boys mooning around the house over you and calling you on the phone. You got invited to the eighth-grade dance that year; Myra didn't even get invited to the junior prom.”

Dottie shifted so that she could look more directly at Grace. “Honey, it was hard for Myra to see life come so easily to you when it was so difficult, and often painful, for her. Myra stayed and worked in the store because she was comfortable there. She felt safe and loved there; she could be herself there. She was fearful to branch out too far. Unlike you—who made plans to go before any of us were ready to consider it.”

“I never realized. . . .”

Grace's mother nodded. “No. You never realized. That's one of the reasons there is a divide, as you put it. You never even saw Myra in any realistic sense as a person and not simply a big sister. Then after you married, you never saw Myra's limitations and how you might have become a friend to her.”

“Now, wait a minute, Mother.” Grace's temper flared. “That's not fair. I never did anything to hurt Myra.”

“No. And you never did anything to reach out to Myra, either.”