Harvest Moon (8 page)

They spoke to his parents, Frank and Norma Jamieson. Veronica had met them once when they’d visited Duncan and Sophie in the spring. Norma’s repeated glances at the low-cut front of Angie’s dress and her ample cleavage—the opposite of Norma’s elegant, chest-covering attire—screamed of displeasure. Trent and his father occasionally passed glances at Angie, too, but with thoroughly pleased expressions, much like the other men in the room.

Veronica lifted her fingers to her throat and fiddled with her pearls.
Pearls.
Her cheeks flushed and her gaze automatically shifted to Trent, just at the moment before his eyes found hers across the sea of bodies. Her trembling hand fell from her necklace, but his grin spoke the word for him.
Pearls
. Clear as day.

“In fact,” Jim said, his tone more suitable for a college lecture than a party, “Tuesday’s
Washington Post
had a piece about two drugs curing the same illness, made by the same manufacturer, and one sells for forty times more.”

“One of my parishioners posted the story on Facebook.” Dave Felton frowned, making his warm brown eyes and sweet face look almost pitifully sad. “It’s always about the almighty dollar these days.”

“It always is.” Bernadette tugged up the neckline of her summer print dress, showing more cleavage than she usually allowed. “Right?”

Jim nodded. He stood taller than the rest of their group, his hair short and tidy, his blue suit proper and appropriate for a country club. Appropriate summed up Jim nicely.

He glanced at Veronica with raised brows. “Did you read it? I sent you an e-mail with the article.”

“Sorry. It’s been a busy week.”

A wave of guilt washed over her. She’d found plenty of time to talk to Ry online, though. Oh, and kiss a man she didn’t even know.

Agony grew, silent chaos that stirred gentle panic. In less than thirty seconds, Trent Jamieson had violated her personal space. He’d melted invisible barriers nearly as fast as a lit match to wax, exposing desire Veronica had buried decades earlier. For so long, she had blamed herself for what happened on that horrible night. If she hadn’t found Gary attractive, joined him for a few beers and chatted, and then let him walk her home… She sighed. Too many “ifs.”

“Did you read it, Ronnie?” Bernadette studied her with a curious expression.

“Read what? The article?”

“No. The latest Oprah Book Club selection.”

“I’m afraid not.”

She almost mentioned the self-help book, but kept her lips tightly sealed. Only Ry knew about it and her fragile goal to face the past. Thoughts of him soothed her just enough to maintain her composure.

“Yoo-hoo, ladies!” Meg stood with her husband near the entrance and waved to them. “Be right there.”

Meg detoured to the bar, not far from Trent. Veronica dared to let her vision casually drift toward him and nearly jumped. He still watched her, a subtle smile curling the corners of his lips.

Gentle piano chords played in the background, the beat shifting to a livelier number and reminding Veronica of her promise to Sophie she’d sing tonight. How would she ever get through the song with Trent in the audience?

She inched closer to Jim and slipped a hand through his arm. He stiffened slightly at her touch, considered her with a raised brow for a split second, then continued his conversation with Dave.

Trent’s kiss teased her thoughts, even in hindsight still capable of making her knees buckle. Jim’s perfunctory peck on the cheek upon arrival was like unwrapping a paperback as a gift after receiving diamonds.

Veronica took Jim’s hand, although he’d probably question why. She’d never been the clingy type.

The day she’d walked into the neighboring town’s pharmacy and met him, she’d thought,
Perfect
. Neatly trimmed reddish-brown hair, a dab of gray around the edges, tall, lean shape, and a cute dimple on his chin. They’d met for coffee, and she’d summed him up as a perfectly decent guy.

Jim glanced down at her and smiled. Sometimes she wished he’d put an arm around her and brush his hand against her bottom, maybe work harder to pull her from her own shell, where public displays of affection didn’t come easily. Even in private, though, Jim didn’t display the romantic bravado Trent had shown at the bar. The qualities she’d admired in Jim a short hour ago suddenly didn’t seem as desirable.

When Bernadette chimed in on the discussion, Jim leaned close to Veronica’s ear. “You look nice tonight. New dress?”

“It is.” She smiled, very aware it wasn’t the sexy whisperings of Trent, but attention nonetheless. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I’m going to get another glass of wine. Can I get you one?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“I’ll join you.” Dave turned to Bernadette. “Hon, you want anything?”

“Sure. Another chardonnay, with ice.” Bernadette handed him her glass. “Don’t tell Sophie. She hates when I put ice in my wine.”

The two men walked off, and Bernadette stepped closer to Veronica and dropped her voice. “What the hell is wrong with you tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re distracted.” Bernadette fanned herself and puffed out her lower lip, blowing aside her bangs. “Is it hot in here or is it me?”

“It’s you. I am distracted. I got here early and met Duncan’s brother.”

“Ooh, the world famous Trent. His date tonight meets all my expectations.”

“What expectations?”

“His reputation as a ladies’ man.” Bernadette shrugged. “At least, Duncan’s hinted at that. Besides, just look at him. His whole body screams sex. So, you two talked?”

“A little.” Heat rushed her core, the kiss still so fresh, but she quelled the awareness. “We’d met once before. Remember the guy stuck with me in the elevator at RGI?”

Bernadette shed her white linen jacket, tossed it onto a nearby chair, and let out a hearty laugh. “So it was Trent in the elevator? Now the story is even funnier.” Bernadette lifted her arms, almost like a monkey and fanned under each armpit. “Geesh, I think I’m in perimenopause.”

“You might want to cool it on the armpit thing. The Jamiesons mix with a pretty pretentious crowd. Sophie says they already act like Northbridge has some strange characters living here.”

“We kind of do.” Bernadette stopped fanning herself as Sophie neared.

She eyed them skeptically, flicking a tendril of chocolate hair away from her eyes while the rest stacked on top of her head in a neat bun, a hairdo befitting the classy red party dress she wore, not her usual casual style. “What are you two whispering about?”

“About how jealous we are that you’re going to marry Mr. Moneybags and get to have a birthday bash like this.” Bernadette grinned.

“I’d have been happy with a backyard barbecue. Duncan was so excited to do this, how could I refuse?” She glanced over her shoulder and leaned close, lowering her voice. “Want some dirt?”

Meg pushed her way into the group, a wine glass in her hand. “Dirt?” Her large green eyes brightened. “Do tell.”

“Trent cornered me earlier. Asked details about a certain eligible librarian.” Sophie’s Cheshire cat grin aimed at Veronica.

Veronica’s cheeks warmed. “Who? Me? Like what?”

“Like how long I’ve known you, were you and Jim serious, where you work—”

“I hope you didn’t answer him.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because he’s not my type. Not even close. On the spectrum of types, he’s on another chart.”

“Not so sure I agree with you on that one.” Sophie cut a glance to the others who nodded their agreement. “If you ask me, meeting on the elevator was fate.” She slipped an arm around Veronica’s shoulders. “You’re exactly what he needs. Not another Angie, who—I swear—could be BFF’s with the last girlfriend he had. Lilly or Lola or something. He performs and meets these band groupies. Nice, but not long term material.”

“He’s in a band?”

Sophie nodded. “A small group of guys who play acoustic music. They’ve played at some clubs in New York City, Westchester, and around Connecticut. You know, I think he’s ready for a real woman. Maybe it really is fate you two met.”

Everything about men like Trent scared the hell out of Veronica. Warning lights flashed in her mind, a screaming reminder to listen to her gut. She’d trusted a smooth operator like him once before. She wasn’t stupid enough to do it twice.

* * * *

Trent focused on the dance floor, pushed his empty plate closer to the busboy’s reach, then draped his arm over the back of Angie’s empty chair. One of the guys from RGI had asked her to dance, and Trent sent them off with a smile, truly relishing a moment alone at their table while the others seated there also mingled.

His decent mood upon arrival had threatened to disappear with his father’s criticisms. Questions about Trent’s work on the vineyard came at him like machine gun fire, almost all followed up by the old man’s sarcasm-filled responses. Argh! Dad now sat at Duncan’s table, but even across the room, he still managed to crawl under Trent’s skin. He tried to tap into the more Zen-like philosophy of his martial arts training to gain focus, but with Dad in the room it wasn’t easy.

Trent thought back to the stretch of time when his dad had softened toward him, encouraged him to attend law school, and begged him to carry on the family business. Favored son Duncan’s lack of interest in the field had left the old man empty-handed. Trent had taken the bait, like a starving fish. The price he’d paid turned out to be as valuable as water to a fish—his lost happiness. He’d hated the work, hated the long days with his father, whose demands grew. Ultimately, he’d hated getting up and going to work. To ease his days, he’d hopped on the path to further substance abuse. Eventually his father asked him to leave the firm.

Thickness blocked his throat, shame from his actions still strong. In his constant state of soberness, he often found the memories embarrassing. Across the room, his parents talked to Sophie’s father. The couple stuck out compared to the other guests, like diamonds in a sea of costume jewelry. Old money always did. His father and Alan Moore were probably talking about fishing, because his mother seemed to have lost interest, now scanning the room. Trent’s heart swelled with fondness for her. At least she’d tried to make up for his father’s shortcomings. Still, there was a part of him that always believed he’d become another one of her charity cases, like the many she ran for the Junior League.

His gaze drifted back to the dance floor. Beyond Angie and her partner, Veronica moved with her date to the slow number. Trent moistened his lower lip with his tongue, replaying the sensation of her soft mouth melting to his, her eager reaction still able to have an influence on him even now, making him shift in his seat. Sometimes a kiss was much more than a kiss.

Her back to him, he took full advantage of the view, combing every inch of her tall, lean frame. Gentle curves graced her hips and her nicely rounded bottom. He inhaled, subconsciously recapturing the perfumed fragrance of her hair, catching instead a whiff of coffee being poured at the table next to his.

He turned, hoping to flag the waiter. His gaze landed on a man with thinning gray hair and rounded nose sitting alone at the table next to him, arms crossed, covering the older man’s tartan plaid tie worn with a yellow dress shirt. Sophie had introduced the man earlier as her former boss at the newspaper, Cliff Rogers.

“Hey.” Trent nodded. “Not one for the dance floor?”

“Just taking in a quiet moment.” Cliff smiled with a gentle curl of his lips. “Quiet is underrated.”

“I hear you, man.” Trent chuckled. “Now if only the rest of the world understood.”

“You can say that again.” Cliff leaned forward and fished a business card from his shirt pocket. “Sorry to mix business and pleasure, but I meant to give you my card earlier. The paper wants to do a story on the vineyard.”

“Cool. We need publicity.”

“Sophie tells me you like baseball. Our high school made state last year. Maybe we can catch a game in the spring.”

“Sounds good. I used to play on my team…many years ago.”

Cliff chuckled. “Not as many as I did.”

Trent liked this guy’s easy and relaxed attitude. “How about I call next week? I’d like to run some newspaper ads for the tasting room opening, too.”

“Sounds good.” Cliff leaned back in the chair. “We’ll talk.”

Trent’s mood improved, and he returned to his purview of Veronica. The day she’d stepped onto the elevator at RGI, she’d snagged his attention; he never turned down a chance to admire a beautiful woman. The second she’d opened her mouth, however, citing proper broken elevator behavior, she’d left him…not attracted to…but what? Curious? Yes, wanting to know more.

He scrutinized her date. Trent had caught the perfunctory peck on the cheek he’d given Veronica at his arrival and how in their time together, they rarely touched. Did she respond to his kiss with the same hunger Trent had sampled at the bar? For some reason, he didn’t think so.

According to Sophie, they’d been dating around six months, but they moved on the dance floor like an example from the Arthur Murray guidelines for proper dancing. A stance befitting two strangers, not lovers.

Interesting to learn she worked as the local library director. Did she run her life with card catalog organization and spend her nights at home reading? Even if she did, he couldn’t stop the wheels in his head from spinning, trying to figure out what made her tick. His gaze shifted to Duncan and Sophie, staring in each other’s eyes while they danced, so in love it made Trent’s chest ache.

He looked down to the table, tracing a circle in the linen cloth with his finger while the pain of the divorce rolled across his chest, then vanished. Relief settled over him when the waiter poured his coffee, a reason to think about something else besides the one woman who’d claimed his heart. He slowly stirred the cream in his cup and concentrated on the piano music. His fingers itched to get on the keyboard.

The music stopped, and the older man playing the piano stood. “Tonight I have a special treat. Veronica Sussingham has offered to sing for us.”

Everyone clapped. Veronica left the dance floor and went over to the piano player, giving him a hug.