Irresistible Stranger (7 page)

But someone wasn't so nice. Two fires in less than two weeks? No record of arson in years, until Lily suddenly came back in town? It just didn't make sense.

 

Lily couldn't escape the B and B to save her life. As fast as she'd gotten here from Griff's, she'd tiptoed in the back door, scooted up the back stairs in bare feet, and hustled inside her room. Trying not to make a sound, she'd peeled off her clothes, grabbed a satchel of toiletries and opened the door to go into the bathroom.

And there was Louella, standing there with a heap of fluff-dried pink towels. “I thought you'd might appreciate some fresh towels, honey.”

“Thank you so much.”

“The whole town's talking about the fire at Griff's. And I worried when you didn't come in last night. But I told myself, Louella, it's none of your business. She's a grown woman, I told myself. But then I remembered, you don't have any parents to watch out for you, and you're young and pretty, and I don't like to—”

“Louella, I absolutely have to take a shower.”

“Of course, you sweet thing. You just go on. I won't say another word.”

And she didn't, she just turned around and headed for the stairs—yet somehow, her beaming face was there when Lily opened the bathroom door twenty minutes later. “I wanted to tell you that I'd saved you some cinnamon rolls from breakfast. But also, since you missed breakfast, I thought, well, you might like a little sandwich with me.”

Lily had never lived with anyone so intrusive,
but Louella was like an honorary grandmother. An unshakeable honorary grandmother. She managed to pull on clam diggers and a violet cami, swooshed up her hair with combs—she
had
to get it cut or she was going to go out of her mind. Louella watched her apply brush, lipstick, mascara.

And since Lily still hadn't managed to shake her by then, she figured she might as well try grilling Louella. “Were you living here when the mill closed?”

“Of course I was. That mill closing almost killed the whole town.”

“Did you happen to know my dad? My mom?”

“Of course, honey pie. Your mom—she thought the sun rose and set on her daughters. She always had you dressed so cute. And y'all had manners, not like kids are raised now. All you girls could shake a stranger's hand, say hello, sit quiet in church. You were angels, all three. Although I have to say, your older sister—”

“Cate.”

“Yes, that one. She had a little hellion in her. Used to make me laugh. I can remember one time, your mama must have wanted her to have a bath—she was maybe four? And Cate, now, she didn't want it, ran out of the house stark naked with your mama chasing after her, carrying a baby under one arm, must have been you? And Cate, oh my…”

Lily wanted to laugh. She could easily picture her independent older sister being that kind of handful—but just then, she couldn't be diverted. “Louella, do you know if there are people still living here who were connected
to the mill back then? Anyone who might have known my dad?”

By then, Lily had herded Louella down the stairs, through the kitchen, had accepted a wrapped bag of something homemade and fragrant—but before Lily could leave, Louella had parked her ample body in front of the screen door.

“Well, yes,” she said slowly. “The owner of the mill back then was Webster Renbarker. Your daddy was his second in charge. The mill didn't close because it wasn't thriving, you know. The place did real well, once your dad took on the management reins. Everybody said so. The problem with Webster was that he got a brain tumor. Started acting goofy. Hid his own money from himself. Sabotaged his own shipments. Nobody could figure out what was going on until it was too late.”

“He died,” Lily assumed with a sinking heart.

“Oh, he's alive. It was just nothing at that point could keep the mill from bankruptcy, between Webster's shenanigans and his medical bills. Came a point, they took out the tumor. He lost the sight in one eye, as I recall. And he'll never be what you'd call normal. Lots of days he's fuzzy. That's what I hear from the grapevine, anyhow—”

“I don't suppose you know where he lives?”

“Why, sure I do. Lives in North Carolina, some place for seniors. Has some supervision. You know. That kind of place.”

“Okay.” For a few moments, Lily actually thought she had a real lead. She tried not to feel disappointed as she
aimed firmly for the door. “Well, thanks for sharing all that, Louella—”

“A course, he's here now.”

Lily whirled back. “Say what? You mean here? In Pecan Valley?”

“Well, yes, for a couple more days. He's visiting his wife's cousin, Barbara Marr, it's an annual thing they do in the summer, bring him here for a week, take him back. You know the Marr house, the red-tile roof at the far end of Magnolia Drive? He was here last week at least. Remember seeing him at Debbie's Diner. Not like he can't do some things on his own. He just tends to be unpredictable, bless his heart. And when he's home here, people look after him, not like anything was his fault. Right after…”

A minute later, Lily was gunning the engine of her rental Ford. If this Webster Renbarker was shortly leaving town, she had to try to reach him before the chance was gone. Griff was going to wonder where she was. She wanted to be with
him
, not gallivanting all over town on what was probably going to be a wild-goose chase.

But if there was even a small chance the long-ago fire had a connection to the immediate fires, she had to try.

She knew where the house with the red-tile roof was. It couldn't take ten minutes to drive there—even less if she speeded, which she most certainly intended to do.

O
kay,
Lily thought as she charged up the steps to the library,
nothing was going to go smoothly today.
She'd found Barbara Marr's house, but not Webster Renbarcker. “Web” was at the library, his cousin claimed. She often dropped him off to spend a couple hours there. If Lily wanted to find Mr. Renbarcker, she needed to go there.

So she had.

She swung open the heavy library door, fretting that this was going to be a whole wasted morning, when she could have been with Griff. What she'd risked that morning—what she wanted to risk with him again—made her wonder if she was losing her mind.

Chasing an old man who might not even talk with her seemed another symptom of insanity—yet she only took a few steps into the old, cool library to feel bombarded
by a flush of great memories. Her dad had often brought the girls here—likely to give their mom a break, Lily thought now—but as a child she'd only known those mornings as a special treat. The smell of books, the tall windows letting in the long, yellow ribbons of light, the quiet, the big chairs that a little girl could curl up in…she'd loved it all when she was a child.

Still did. The old blue rug looked the same, so did the giant, oak library desk. It was impossible not to feel safe here. She ambled through aisles in the adult section, not certain what Webster Renbarcker looked like—but for sure, he had to be a senior.

There was no one over fifty in adult fiction, or in the reference room in back. Disappointed, she just glanced in the childrens' room, even as she was aiming for the back door…and there he was. An older man with longish white hair and scratchy white whiskers was sitting on a cushioned stool, leafing through a child's picture book.

A couple kids huddled in the corner with an older sister; a mom and toddler had claimed the sunny spot under a window. Lily quietly approached the older man, said gently, “Mr. Renbarcker?”

He immediately looked up with faded blue eyes.

“My name is Lily Campbell. I used to live here. My dad used to work at your mill.”

He brightened up as if she'd given him a present. Once he started talking, he couldn't seem to stop. He tended to fade out now and then, but the past seemed clearer to him than the present.

“Never thought I'd see any of you Campbells again. Your daddy never set that fire, honey. He loved the mill.
He loved me. He'd been watching out for me from before I got sick, watched out for my wife the same way.”

It was as if the old man's heart hurt. Words just poured out of him.

“He knew I was sick, your daddy, because he found me on the floor one day. I'd had some kind of seizure. He was just a boy then, almost fresh out of college. Had a young wife—your mama, prettiest thing I've ever seen, she was. I didn't have a son. Didn't have any children. Couldn't. Maybe my body knew I was going to get sick, you think?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“The thing was…your daddy, he covered for me, every which way from Sunday. I made mistakes. He tried to catch them. I'd be fine one day, selling the farm the next, sending shipments to Canada instead of Louisiana, I could get that goofy. I couldn't face it. Couldn't believe it. Hid it from my wife as long as I could. I thought I was crazy.”

“It sounds so frightening, Mr. Renbarcker.”

“It was. It was. That was just the thing. I didn't know it was an illness in the beginning, or for a long while. I just thought I was losing my mind. Your dad was better than a son to me. I loved him. I loved your mama, too.”

Lily felt tears well. Good tears. Loved tears.

“When it got real bad…well, I'm sure you know. I lost the mill. It had to be closed. I'd mucked up far more than your father could fix. But when they said he was despondent over losing his job—honey, it wasn't like that at all. He knew I was sick. He knew what was coming.
There was no shock to him, no sudden surprise. He knew we were going down.”

Lily suddenly couldn't breathe. For the first time, she was talking to someone who knew her dad back then. Who was describing her dad as a good man—a hero, not a coward. A man who'd never had a “depressed” reason to set that fire—or any other fire.

“We'd talked about it many times, Lily. I urged him to quit and leave me with my own problems. He had you three girls by then—and nothing he adored more than his daughters. He had to be worried about finances, yet when I told him to leave me, find another job, he said that you girls loved mac and cheese, and none of you needed a fancy car. He'd saved. Enough to knuckle down and find himself another job when that had to be, but he was sticking by me to the end. You know what bothered me most, young lady?”

“Tell me,” Lily urged him.

But the old man suddenly leaned forward with a wheezing cough, and when he finally straightened again, there seemed a hazy fog over his eyes. “Danielle, did you make me some of your famous huckleberry pie for dinner tonight?” He winked. “You look so pretty today, my dear. I love that color of blue on you.”

“I…thank you.” She'd learned so much. She wanted to get to her cell phone, call her sisters. Wanted to figure out what all this information meant—if her dad had never set that long-ago fire, then who
had?
And did that have anything to do with the two fires since she'd come back to town?

And then there was Griff. She wanted to get back
with him, to see what was happening to his store, to dig into whatever she could help him with. And yeah, to dig into whatever crazy place they were going personally together, too.

But she couldn't just up and leave the older man. Mr. Renbarcker wasn't thinking straight. She didn't know if or when his cousin would come looking for him. The mom and her toddler had wandered off; the clutch of other kids had been picked up by their father. Another group of kids popped in. Mr. Renbarcker kept talking to “Danielle” as if Lily were the one and only love of his life.

A boisterous group of tweeners piled in the doors, girls, giggling loud enough to raise the dead, finally arousing the librarian to stand in the doorway with a frown. It was the first thing that had distracted Mr. Renbarcker, who finally looked at her and said, “I know you, don't I?”

Putting a solution in motion seemed to take forever. The librarian, Sarah-Leigh Jenkins, was enlisted to track down Barbara Marr's phone number, but Sarah seemed to think it was suspicious for Lily to take an interest in the old man. Lily managed to reach Barbara Marr; but really, it was easiest just to drive the older man back home, since he was willing to get in the car with her—even if the librarian was scandalized all over again. Driving him was just faster than waiting for his cousin to get there, and Lily couldn't fathom why anyone would think anything was hokey about a young woman being kind to someone elderly.

Only, by then, outside, it was hot enough to fry bacon on the pavement. Her rental car's air conditioner coughed and sputtered like a pneumonia case.

She got Mr. Renbarcker back to his relatives, then
finally
was free to drive back to Griff's. By then she was frustrated and itchy-hot, and verging on cranky. Her cell phone registered five calls—all from her sisters. Admitting to Cate why she'd come back to Pecan Valley this summer had clearly alerted her sisters' alarm bells. Now there'd be no end to their advice. And she'd call them both back.

But not yet. Right then, she just wanted Griff.

 

“Hey, Griff, I just want to…”

“Griff, what do you think of…”

“Griff, how can I…?”

Griff considered hurling out the back and beating his head on the closest rock. He'd been patient all morning, but at this point he was hot, cranky, frustrated and just plain fed up. There were too many problems—all of which needed addressing immediately. There were way too many questions with no answers, and a zillion people hovering every damn time he had a chance to dig in.

This time, when he turned around there was Mrs. Georgia Maryweather, four-foot-eleven in heels and a ribboned hat, holding a peach-pecan pie. “Griff, I felt certain you'd need a little pick-me-up, bless your heart. The mister and I, we were so sorry to hear about the fire. It sure is a mess.”

“What a kind thing to do. Thank you, Mrs. Maryweather.”

Griff gave himself credit. He didn't blow his temper, because of course he'd never bellow at a sweet old woman. Or a crotchety old woman. Or any woman. As anyone in town knew, he didn't have a temper. He was low-key, never moved fast, never expressed anger.

Damned if he would behave like his dad. Ever. No matter what the provocation.

Mrs. Maryweather, of course, wanted a complete, chatty version of what had happened, who did it, what the damage would cost, what she and Mr. Maryweather could do to help, when he'd have the store back in business, the problem with young people today, the terror of crime and the story of her sister's daughter's cousin's break-in last year.

Griff could feel the start of a tic in his right eye. His stomach had shrunk to the size of a small, tight knot. Early-afternoon heat had come in like a prize-fighter, fast and sharp, a hot blow that could fell anybody.

“Now, Griff, sugar, you just tell me if you…”

“Griff…?”

For four hours now, he hadn't accomplished anything substantial. Couldn't finish a conversation. Couldn't end a sentence. Either the cell phone was buzzing or a fresh batch of people showed up. It wasn't as if this was the fire of the century. It was just a mess.

“Now, Mr. Maryweather and I, we'd—”

A sudden movement caught his attention—the shine of glossy brown hair braiding through the crowd. Lily. Ignoring everyone, including a few accusing stares
directed her way, she seemed solely focused on him, his face, his expression. Herman Conner, who'd been unshakable all morning, hitched up his trousers and aimed to block her path.

But nothing was stopping Lily. She barged past elbows and looks and conversation, the frown on her brow deepening as she finally reached him. “I'm really sorry. I assumed I could get here a lot earlier. I got caught up.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he assured her. “In fact, I should have called your cell, told you to forget it. There's nothing anyone can do to help me right now.”

She searched his face, barely whispered, “Yeah, right.” And then, in a sudden loud soprano, “Griff, I'm feeling sick with the heat. Could you just help me sit down for a minute? I'm afraid I'm going to faint.”

She wasn't going to faint. He couldn't imagine why she'd pull such a drama, grabbing his arm, lifting her other hand to her forehead like a swooning Scarlett O'Hara. It was the hokiest acting job he'd ever seen…but he couldn't be 100% positive of that. Lily
did
have trouble with heat, and it wasn't as if he could ignore a woman asking for his help.

Much less Lily.

He'd have brought her into the nearest air-conditioning—which was the shop next door—but somehow Ms. Drama Queen, even as she moaned and groaned, elbowed him around the side of the store, down the alley, to a patch of shade. Faster than a snake, she wiggled through her purse and emerged with two water
bottles. The first one she opened and poured over his head before he could even think about sputtering.

The second, she handed him for a drink. “Sit,” she said.

“What the hell are you doing?” He pushed a hand through his dripping hair, refusing to enjoy the sudden burst of cool. Although Lily couldn't possibly know it, there were certain things Griff never did. Obey orders was one of them. Allow himself to be “handled” was another.

“We're going to cool you down and calm you down. Or you can vent a bunch of yelling on my head, if you'd rather. Both choices are okay with me.”

“What?”

“Griff, you looked seriously ready to explode.”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah? I'm a teacher. I told you that. I work with gifted students. I think I told you that, too. Extra-bright kids.” She nudged the cold water bottle toward him again and couldn't help miss how he glared at her, but still, he took a long, long pull. “I'm used to knowing when they're going to blow.”

“I don't blow.”

“Of course you blow. Everybody gets angry sometimes.”

“I couldn't be less angry.”

“Right. See, my kids—they're used to high expectations put on them. They're used to meeting those expectations, getting a thrill when they even do more. But when they can't quite make that A-plus grade, they can go through a mighty crash. They hate it.”

“I'm not one of your kids, Lily. And I sure as hell don't need caretaking. By anyone.”

“There's no reason in the universe why you can't come unglued now and then.”

There sure as hell was. His father capitalized every reason why a man—A Good Man—expected control from himself. Always. No exceptions. No discussion. “I'm not unglued.”

She didn't take a breath, didn't look patient, didn't keep pushing the psychology crap. He had to get back to that infernal commotion, he knew that. He'd been talking all morning, couldn't waste time on any more useless talk. Stuff had to be
done.

But somehow—not because he was unraveling or unglued or any nonsense like that—he did spill a little. “Everyone's talking about the fire. Hell, me, too. It's arson. That's damned upsetting, but reality is still…there are some practical things that have to be done. I got hooked up to a temporary generator, but it doesn't have enough juice for what I need in the back room. Debbie—of Debbie's Diner—has taken the fresh ice cream, going to sell at the restaurant. But I've got my batch freezers, my barrel freezers, the high-sheen blenders, the flavor tanks. All the equipment it takes to make and test serious ice cream. I don't care about some stupid financial loss. It's the mess. It's—”