Mad About You (52 page)

He retrieved the broom and leaned on it, thinking it would take a miracle to resolve his business dilemma. "I wish Mrs. Pickney would simply retire and give me her space," he announced to the disorderly room. Then he laughed wryly and began sweeping.

Wishing wouldn't get him anywhere.

After he swept up most of the glass, he unearthed his phone and made the necessary calls. His insurance agent, Saul Tydwell, a friend of his uncle's who always wore the same bad brown suit, arrived within the hour bearing stale donuts in condolence and a digital camera.

"If you weren't Ernie's nephew," Saul said, shaking his head between snapshots, "I'd never believe you. You must be sitting on some kind of fault line—and the underwriter is going to love that."

"Tell me my rates won't go up," Ladden said, knowing the answer even before the little man offered him a sympathetic look.

"I'll shop around for a better rate, son, but it doesn't look good."

Ladden dropped his head in his hands and visualized the money in his bank account dwindling like sand in an hourglass. He spent much of the afternoon turning away customers with explanations that became more vague as the day wore on. The building inspector's visit and subsequent ruling that the building was structurally sound seemed like the bright spot of the day until Ladden reached the bottom of the report. The inspector had noted with an asterisk that considering the results of interviews with surrounding retailers, he doubted that an earthquake had actually occurred. Meanwhile, his agent had called the state seismology department.

"Filing a false claim will get you in a heap of trouble, son," Saul said sternly over the phone. "Come on, Ladden, don't try to pull the wool over my eyes with some fake quake—it's too damn easy to trace." Then the man's voice softened. "If you're in trouble, busting up your place isn't the way to handle it. I'm sure your uncle Ernie would float you a loan."

"I'm telling you, it was an earthquake," Ladden said through clenched teeth.

"Then why doesn't the seismology department have a record of it, and why did no one else feel it?"

"I don't know," Ladden said. "Wait—there was someone else, a homeless man who wandered in from the street."

"Do you know this man?"

Ladden sighed in frustration. "No, and even if I could find him, he acted senile."

"I see," Saul said dubiously. "Well, I'm telling you, the claim will be denied if you insist on turning in this cockamamie story about an earthquake."

"Are you saying you want me to lie?" Ladden asked, his voice rising in anger.

"Look, son, you haven't filed a claim in fifteen years and you always pay your premiums on time. I'm trying to help you out. Think hard about what really happened and call me tomorrow."

Ladden listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then raised the phone over his head, ready to fling it against the wall. But he stopped there—he couldn't afford to buy a new phone. He set the instrument gently on the table, then mouthed every curse word he knew, and made up a few of his own.

Glancing at his watch, his spirits lifted a notch. Jasmine would be back within an hour, and he had made progress in the cleanup. Of course, he noted in one of the few unbroken mirrors, he was now wearing most of the store's grime. He banged his hat on his leg, stirring up another dust cloud, then trudged back through the storeroom toward his shower. He'd promised to stop by the family tavern to help celebrate a cousin's birthday, so he needed to be presentable, he reasoned. Cleaning up didn't have anything to do with Jasmine coming back.

He showered quickly and pulled on the only spare clothes he had at the shop—worn jeans and a dark red flannel shirt that was missing a button, and low-heeled black boots. With his pocketknife, he dug dirt from beneath his fingernails until they stung, then scrubbed his knuckles raw with an old toothbrush. He needed a haircut, he concluded as he fought to tame the dark curls that seemed determined to flip up around his ears and collar. Rubbing his whisker-shadowed chin, he longed for a razor, but his makeshift toiletries bag was not so obliging. It did, however, furnish a travel-size bottle of musky cologne that had been popular a decade ago. He unscrewed the lid and took a whiff. Not bad, he decided, and splashed on a few drops. But, when he surveyed the results of his labor in the tarnished mirror, his shoulders dropped. Jasmine Crowne would never be interested in someone like him.

On his way back through the storeroom, he paused to admire the rug and wave the remaining butterflies toward an open window. Then he scratched his temple. He could have sworn he'd left the rug draped over those old trunks, and now it lay a few feet away, stretched smoothly across the massive table he was holding for Jasmine. Oh well, he'd moved everything in the store at least once today. It must have slipped his mind.

The front showroom looked brighter and shinier, although a little bare to his eyes. At least he'd found the lid to the copper lamp Jasmine had become so enamored of. He lifted the piece from the counter, impressed at how well it had turned out. Even the dents seemed less noticeable in the lustrous glow of the restored finish. The etchings on the side were in some kind of foreign language—probably the family's name, he mused. Or a recipe for disaster. He'd certainly had enough trouble since he brought the lamp home—and that rug. Then a thought struck him. Was it possible the copper lamp and the rug had originated from the same household?

He grabbed a scrap of paper and copied the letters and symbols on the lamp in case the woman who came to value the rug would find the information useful. He had just finished when he heard a knock on the door and glanced up to see Jasmine waving through the glass.

His heart thudded crazily as he unlocked the door. She, too, had changed from her dusty clothes and wore a loose, turquoise silk tunic over a slim, flowered skirt. The long, dark ponytail had been braided and hung over her left shoulder, clasped with a simple silver ring that matched the thick chain at her throat. Her bare legs were golden from a lingering tan and her own natural coloring, and she wore strappy sandals that exposed her pink toenails. She looked beautifully exotic, and Ladden didn't trust himself to speak.

"You made a lot of progress," she said, turning in place in front of the counter.

He nodded, his mind racing for something clever to say. "Yeah," he managed.

"Oh, and the lamp is beautiful!" she exclaimed, her eyes glowing as she lifted it and stroked the surface.

"Yeah." Why couldn't he think of something, anything, to say to prolong her stay?

"How much do I owe you?"

Ladden bit the inside of his cheek. He felt funny about charging her for a little whatnot, considering his heart was hers for the taking. "How about dinner?" he asked, as amazed at the words that came out of his mouth as Jasmine appeared to be.

"Dinner?"

"Sure." He leaned against the counter so he wouldn't fall down. "I know a great little place down the block with the best seafood in town."

The corners of her mouth turned up even as her brow furrowed. "That sounds nice, Ladden, but I don't think—"

Her response was cut short by the clanging bell on the door announcing another visitor. Ladden turned to see his Uncle Ernie lumbering inside, still dressed in his plumber's uniform of dark coveralls. "There you are, Lad. Your Aunt Silvie was getting worried about you, then I got a strange call from Saul a few minutes ago and thought I'd better see what's keeping you." The tall, burly man stopped and glanced at Jasmine with dancing eyes. "But I see what's keeping you."

"Er, Uncle Ernie," Ladden said with rising embarrassment, "this is Jasmine Crowne. Jasmine, Ernie Sanderson."

"Pleasure, little lady," Ernie said, offering her a big paw to shake.

"Same here," Jasmine said with a small smile.

"Well, come on," Ernie said, gesturing to Ladden. "Maddie is waiting to blow out the candles. Silvie will have one of her spells if that chocolate cake melts down."

Ladden shifted uncomfortably and jerked his head toward the door meaningfully. "You go ahead, Ernie, and tell them not to wait. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"That's all right," Jasmine interjected. "I need to be leaving, too."

"You're coming with Lad, aren't you?" Ernie asked, his bushy brows high on his creased forehead. "We have a family tavern and hangout. Ladden's Aunt Silvie would love to meet the woman in his life."

Ladden closed his eyes, tingling with humiliation. "Ernie, please go ahead."

"I really do need to go," Jasmine said hurriedly, tearing out a check and signing it quickly. "Let me know if this isn't enough," she said, stuffing the paper into Ladden's hand. She practically ran to the door, holding the copper lamp against her chest. Ladden's heart fell as she scrambled out the door.

"Thanks, Uncle Ernie," he said.

"What did I say?" Ernie demanded, throwing up his hands. "Are you sleeping with her?"

"No, I'm not sleeping with her! What's the matter with you?" Ladden bellowed.

"Ah," his uncle said, nodding calmly. He put his arm around Ladden's shoulder and steered him toward the door. "Then that explains why you're so aggravated… and why you smell like a muskrat."

* * *

"I'm starving," Ladden announced as he held open the door of Tabby's, the family watering hole for the last two decades, for his Uncle Ernie. He kissed his Aunt Silvie and pulled his young Cousin Maddie's ear after she blew out twelve of the thirteen candles on her chocolate cake, joining them in a booming rendition of "Happy Birthday." When the song was done, he crossed the spacious restaurant to the bar and yelled a greeting to Malone, the bartender.

"Here you go, Ladden," Malone said, sliding a mug of beer toward him.

Ladden pulled out his wallet, but Malone waved it off. "Drink up tonight, buddy," he said. "Your friend covered your tab."

Confused, Ladden asked, "What friend?"

Malone shrugged. "Some old guy with a turban. He gave me a brand-new hundred dollar bill and asked me to give you this note."

Frowning, Ladden took the small folded note and opened it.
A wise first wish, Master.

* * *

Jasmine walked briskly toward her car, more rattled now than she had been this morning. No one had asked her out since she'd started seeing Trey McDonald, and she liked the idea that everyone seemed to think she was off-limits—spoken for by one of the most powerful men in the state. No one had presumed to compete with his charm, his looks, his influence, his money... except Ladden Sanderson, a quiet, rough-around-the-edges man who, for the most part, made his living with his big hands and strong back.

What seemed even more incredible than his forwardness was her impulse to take him up on his offer. He had looked so appealing, standing there all scrubbed and brushed, his big body filling his clothes in the most sexy way. At the hopeful look in his dark eyes, she'd nearly buckled. The thrill she'd experienced at his invitation went beyond flattery. But she wasn't about to risk her current relationship over a strong physical attraction to a man who, although very nice, didn't share her lifelong goals, her circle of friends, or her ambition to rise as far as possible above the poverty she'd grown up in, in a shack on the outskirts of Glenhayden.

Jasmine squashed the unpleasant memories, then halted abruptly and looked around. "My car," she muttered. "I know I parked it right here." She craned her neck, looking up and down the street, pacing back and forth in front of the empty spot where she was sure she had left it. Panic bloomed in her chest—could it have been stolen?

"Are you looking for a white carriage?" a strange looking man wearing a turban yelled from across the street. He spoke with a rich accent and appeared to be selling watches from a card table.

Jasmine nodded. "Did you see my car?"

"A big machine with a hook on the back pulled it away," he said matter-of-factly.

"Towed? Oh, no." Jasmine glanced at the expired parking meter—she was sure it had time on it when she’d parked. She reached into her purse for her cell phone, then bit back a moan when she saw the dark power light. It was six-thirty—most shops were already closed for the evening, but she should be able to find a phone in a bar or restaurant. Morosely, she realized the press would have a field day when they discovered the governor's girlfriend's car had been towed because she hadn't fed a fifty-cent parking meter.

She shouted at the watch man, "Can you tell me where I can find the nearest phone?"

The man screwed up his face in thought, then pointed in the direction she’d just come from. "That would be a place called Tabby's."

Chapter Four

JASMINE STEPPED GINGERLY into Tabby's, warming immediately to the cozy atmosphere. Buffed to a high sheen, the wood floor dipped and rolled from the passage of many feet over the years. An enormous pecan-colored bar lined the wall to her right, fronted by red upholstered stools. Aproned waitresses wound their way between tables surrounded by low, comfortable looking chairs, most of which were occupied in the height of the dinner hour. The din of conversation and laughter almost drowned out the background piano music. It was a nice, family place, Jasmine decided, seeing as many children as adults enjoying the spaghetti and meatloaf.

The hostess greeted her just as she recognized Ladden standing at the bar, holding a beer in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. With a jolt, she realized this must be his family's restaurant. She acknowledged a small thrill at seeing him again, even though seeing him in such a casual setting was a bit of a shock. How odd that she'd never really thought about Ladden's life outside of his shop. He was studying the paper with a creased brow, but when he glanced up and saw her, his dark eyes widened.

She raised her hand in a wave as he straightened and moved toward her. "Hi," she offered when he was within earshot.