Home Fires

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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

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Home Fires
Barbara Delinsky

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HOME FIRES
Barbara Delinsky
Dear Reader,
I'm a woman with a past—namely, a group of novels that have been lost for nearly twenty years. I wrote them under pseudonyms at the start of my career, at which time they were published as romances. In the years since, my writing has changed, and these novels went into storage, but here they are now, and I'm thrilled. I loved reading romance; I loved
writing
romance. Rereading these books now, I see the germs of my current work in character development and plot. Being romances, they're also very steamy.
Initially, I had planned to edit each to align them with my current writing style, but a funny thing happened on the way to
that
goal. Totally engrossed, I read through each one, red pencil in hand, without making a mark! As a result, what you have here is the original in its sweet, fun, sexy entirety.
I originally wrote
Home Fires
under the Billie Douglass pseudonym, and the most amazing thing to me in revisiting this book was the original bio. “Billie Douglass confesses that her family, friends and imagination influence what ultimately comes from her typewriter.” Typewriter? You gotta love that. But there's more. The bio goes on to say, “She spends hours at the library researching new and interesting locations.” Sadly, those hours went the way of the typewriter. I now work on a computer where, with the click of a mouse, I can take video tours of locales all over the world.
When it was first published in 1983, the title of
Home Fires
was
Beyond Fantasy
. From the start, that title fit. Isn't seeing a handsome stranger across a crowded room—you falling for him and him you, there and then—the ultimate fantasy? What happens to Deanna Hunt goes beyond fantasy, though. She may have no cell phone and have to stand in a phone booth stuffing in dimes while the rain pours down outside, but the love she finds is as warming as the home fires of the title.
Enjoy!
Barbara
 
 
“G
ood morning, Mrs. Hunt. Have you decided what you'll have for breakfast this morning?”
Deanna Hunt raised her eyes from the morning paper. With rare exceptions, she had eaten breakfast in the dining room of the Hunt International-Atlanta Hotel every morning for the past ten years. A menu was unnecessary.
“Any fresh strawberries today, Frank?” she asked softly.
Frank Pareto smiled and winked. “Fresh and sweet. With a little cream, perhaps?” he coaxed gently. In the years he'd been serving her, never once had he heard a condescending word pass her lips. Despite her youth, when Lawrence Hunt had married her and brought her to Atlanta to live, she had always been poised and gracious. Frank looked forward to her arrival in the dining room each morning. “The pecan rolls are particularly
good today,” he added on a note of temptation. “May I bring you a basket?”
Deanna returned his smile with a hint of chiding. “Are you trying to fatten me up, Frank?”
“That's my job, Mrs. Hunt.” The waiter tipped his head, not in the least hesitant As had many on the Hunt staff, he had grown more protective of her since the death of her husband nearly fourteen months earlier. She inspired that kind of caring.
“You do it very well.” Deanna's compliment preceded a decisive nod. “Make it strawberries with cream and one pecan roll.” She arched an auburn brow to emphasize the strict limit. Now that she had finally replaced the weight she'd lost after Larry's death, she no longer looked painfully thin. In fact, she had begun to notice gentle curves that had not been there when she'd first married. She had been nineteen then, barely out of her teens. Now she was several months short of thirty and a wealthy widow. It was a situation some women would have envied, yet Deanna increasingly sensed its flaws. With not a material worry in the world, she had no outward cause for complaint. What, then, explained the growing restlessness she felt?
Her disconcerted eye returned to the paper as Frank quietly disappeared into the kitchen and another waiter unobtrusively poured her coffee. He was a newer member of the hotel staff and slightly in awe of the presence of the head of the Hunt Foundation. Only Deanna knew her role to be a titular one. Like a queen, she was pampered and revered while the true power lay in the hands of others.
“Deanna?” A restrained male voice broke into her sober reverie, drawing her head up seconds before it brought a spontaneous smile to her lips.
“Jim, what a pleasure to see you!” she exclaimed,
warmly extending her hands to meet his clasp. “It's been a long time.”
James Drummond was relieved by the welcome. Though he knew that Lawrence and Deanna had purposely formed the habit of breakfasting in the dining room in order to be accessible to the hotel's guests, he feared that he had caught Deanna in a moment of private thought. She had borne a look of utter vulnerability in that split second before the mask of the hostess had fallen over those deep inner emotions.
“I haven't been in Atlanta for months,” Jim explained, releasing her slender hands slowly. “It seems that business has been concentrated around New York and Boston lately.” He paused. “You're looking very well, Deanna.”
“Thanks, Jim,” she acknowledged his concern. “I'm doing well. The foundation goes on and I try to keep busy.” Her eyes brightened. “How's Angie?”
At the mention of his wife, Jim smiled. Deanna had always been the perfect hostess, with a distinct knack for remembering such things as the name of the spouse of even a minor Hunt business associate such as himself. “Angie is just fine.”
“And the boys? The youngest must be … getting ready for college?”
“Entering Duke University next month,” he replied with renewed admiration for her memory. “He may just bring us in your direction more often.”
Deanna's smile broadened. “I hope so. You'll make a point to stop back again soon, won't you?”
“Of course, Deanna,” Jim assured her, sensing her sincerity. “Take care now.” With a brief salute, he was gone. Deanna's smile dissipated with his departure and she looked absently around the dining room for other familiar faces.
Lawrence Hunt had believed in elegance and that was what he had created when he'd built the hotel fourteen years before. This formal dining room embodied an old-world charm that had been abandoned in much of modern Atlanta. Here one dined in low-keyed splendor beneath graceful crystal chandeliers while seated in high-backed armchairs and served on fine white linen, with exquisite china and silver. If the cost of such grandeur was nearly prohibitive, the guests were undaunted. They returned repeatedly to visit the Hunts.
Catching sight of a familiar face at a table across the room, she smiled and nodded, then dropped her gaze to frown at the crease that her pale pink fingernail had distractedly inscribed on the padded linen tablecloth. There were always people to see and things to be done. Her days didn't lack for activities of her choosing. So what could be lacking?
Frank arrived with her breakfast. As she moved her hand aside to make way for the ice-embedded bowl of strawberries, she chanced to glance toward the far corner of the dining room, where the sun streamed through graceful bay windows. In the echo of a heartbeat she stared. There was a new face, one she didn't recognize. Surely she would have remembered had she seen this man before, for he was quite striking as his eyes captured hers.
“Powdered sugar, Mrs. Hunt?” Frank interrupted, the sugar bowl in his hand, its spoon poised to sprinkle.
Deanna tore her gaze from that of the stranger. “No. No, thank you. Cream will be fine,” she told him in the soft tone that now hid her uncertainty. Before she could reach for the small porcelain pitcher, Frank raised it and swirled its rich white contents over the ripe red berries. Cupping the empty vessel in his left hand, he used his right to nudge an opening between water goblet and
coffee cup for the lone pecan roll she'd ordered and its small rose-shaped butter pat.
“Will there be anything else now?”
“This will be fine.” She smiled her quiet appreciation and ever so subtle dismissal. She took her fork, then savored the sweet taste of several strawberries before venturing to look up again toward that far corner and that new face.
Eyes averted now, he read his own newspaper, his head bent. The morning sunlight filtered into the room, reflecting off the flatware before him and bouncing up to play among the chandeliers before spraying pale copper sparkles through hair that was every bit as thick and auburn as her own swept-up tresses, though far shorter. Even seated, he seemed tall and graced with dignity.
Deanna was held in his spell by the powerful masculine command he exuded. She helplessly admired his dark business suit, crisp yellow shirt and silk rep tie, all complementing his dark hair and bronzed skin perfectly. From a distance, she guessed him to be in his late thirties.
Despite her intent regard, the width of the room kept the fine details of his features hidden. Perhaps it was just as well, she realized with a jolt. For, while she would have liked to have examined him more closely, she found her interest new and frightening. He was different. Very different.
As his attention momentarily left the paper to focus on the plush burgundy carpet, Deanna felt an odd premonition. Then, as she had known he would, he lifted his gaze to meet hers directly and she felt strangely excited. The man was absolutely compelling. His expression contained an enigmatic blend of curiosity and vulnerability, all somehow rooted in a potential for strength that held her rapt for several long moments before she finally managed to force her eyes downward once more and slowly released the breath she'd been holding.
Her hand was less steady as she ate another strawberry, her thoughts on the riveting man with the most unusual expression on his face. He was different. But in what way? She had seen many attractive men come and go over the years, many just as charming, equally good-looking and as virile. What set this one apart from the others?
She sipped her coffee, not quite daring to confront him again. Looking in the opposite direction, she spotted a couple approaching and smiled quickly, grateful for the diversion. “LeeAnn and Tom! What a nice surprise!” Half rising, she offered a cheek to each of the pair in turn before sinking back into her chair.
LeeAnn Walker was an attractive brunette of roughly the same age as Deanna. The two women had been tennis partners for several years. “I couldn't resist showing you that he's actually taking me to breakfast,” LeeAnn quipped, slipping her arm affectionately through her husband's as she looked at him. “We're doing it in style.”
Deanna laughed. “I can't argue with that. How are you, Tom? I see your better half often enough, but not you,” she scolded softly.
“That's because I'm busy earning the money to support not only the club membership but breakfasts at the choicest spots in town,” Tom countered, not in the least disturbed by either expense. Deanna knew of the success of his law practice. The couple had recently moved into a new house, then shortly after had taken a trip to the Orient. She might have liked to have gone herself … had Larry been alive.
Determinedly thrusting aside the might-have-beens, she spoke to Tom. “LeeAnn tells me how well everything is going for you.”
Tom's grin confirmed it. “Very well. And very busy. By
the way, I'm hoping to do some work with Jay Knowlton for your fund-raising drive.” Jay Knowlton was chief legal counsel for the Hunt Foundation and the fund-raising drive in question was for a new children's hospital to be heavily endowed by the foundation.
“Really?” Deanna brightened. The hospital had become her pet project “I didn't know that! Hmmph.” She scowled in feigned exasperation, first at LeeAnn then back at Tom. “I'm often the last one to know these things.” It had been happening more often than she'd like lately, and her exasperation was only half in jest “I think that's great! We could really use your help—both of you!”
LeeAnn warded her off with a wave of her hand. “Don't look at me, Deanna. I've already enlisted.”
“I know.” Deanna smiled more gently. “And I'm pleased. It'll be fun working together.” She meant it. Given her own quiet personality, good friends her age had been hard to find. While she was socially poised and knew the right things to say at the right times, she was, and had always been, a basically private person. The outwardly confident and polished woman she portrayed was a product of years of practice and loving encouragement, first on the part of her parents, then her husband. But her innate introversion had on occasion been mistaken for aloofness by her peers, keeping them at arm's length. LeeAnn and she, on the other hand, had formed a warm relationship and now spent the better part of three mornings a week together at the club playing tennis, enjoying a sauna and massage afterward. Both women accepted the fact that their social lives went in different directions, Larry's group had been older and now that he was gone, Deanna rarely went out.
The maître d' appeared by Tom's side. “Your table is ready, Mr. Walker.”
LeeAnn grinned at Deanna. “I'll see you at ten?” It was Wednesday. Their standing court time was from ten to eleven.
“Sure thing, LeeAnn. It was great seeing you, Tom. Enjoy your breakfast”
LeeAnn swooped close with a stage whisper. “Any recommendations?”
Deanna shot a glance at her own plate. “I'm told that the pecan rolls are good today. I'm trying one. Why don't you order a basket?” she asked, grinning mischievously. “You can work it off later.” It was a standing joke between the two. If Deanna was often two pounds short of ideal, LeeAnn was two beyond.
“Why don't you have the basket?” LeeAnn rejoined wryly, then followed the quip up with a gentle laugh that faded as she allowed herself to be led to her table. Tom's parting wave said they'd see her later. Once more, Deanna's smile slowly evaporated. She had never minded being alone. It was part of her personality. Why, then, did she now feel lonely?
On an inexplicable impulse, Deanna sought out that far corner of the room. A glimmer of anticipation passed through her, quickening her pulse. But the table was empty. The handsome stranger had left. Her hope faded as quickly as it had arisen. With a quiet sigh of resignation, she returned to her breakfast.
By the time she had finished her second leisurely cup of coffee, it was nearly nine o'clock. At her request, one to which he was accustomed, Frank bagged several additional pecan rolls, then held her chair as she stood to leave. For a brief minute he watched her go, silently admiring the class of this woman who was always so polite and soft-spoken. She might own the hotel, he mused, but there was not an ounce of arrogance in her.
Frank's wasn't the only eye to follow her departure. Almost everyone who knew her shared a similar admiration.
She had survived Lawrence Hunt's sudden death with a dignity that would have made him proud and she now carried on the Hunt tradition he had worked so hard to establish.

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