Sealed with a Kiss (10 page)

“H
ow can we ever repay Miss Frieda for coordinating the publicity?” Tara asked.

“The woman missed her calling. She's worked night and day for the past two weeks and the results of her efforts are spectacular.”

Tara and Lacey edged across the crowded lot as a throng of visitors parked their cars on the already steamy asphalt and prepared to descend on the Beardsly College campus for the day's festivities.

“She's still got fifty cents of the first dollar the campus bookstore ever made,” Lacey pointed out. “We should have known she'd take our meager budget and turn it into a windfall.”

Getting the word out on Texas Treasure Days had been a full-time job since the date had been locked in. With fourteen days to plan and execute the event, each member of the team had spun into a mad rush
of activity. The town pulled together to cooperate in a manner that could only be compared to their response to the tornado of '38. The twister that had leveled Main Street had nothing on the Texas Treasure crew.

Word spread throughout the interstate network by truckers who stopped at Flapjack Heaven and left with a stack of event fliers tucked in the bright yellow to-go bags. Churches got the word out through prayer chains, and prayer warriors came from hundreds of miles away to be firsthand witnesses to God's generosity.

Metropolitan papers carried the heartwarming story of the town that pulled together to prevent teacher layoffs and tuition increases. Radio and television stations sent reporters and camera crews across the state to interview the Treasure Team for Sunday inserts and human-interest pages.

The students built the Texas Treasure Web site, updating it as the schedule of events, celebrity visitors and auction items grew. The town hummed with excited activity. Residents invited family members they hadn't seen in years to come for a visit. And they all showed up. With every room within ten miles of Beardsly rented for the weekend, historic homes opened their doors and became temporary bed-and-breakfasts.

Sycamore House was no exception. The Heritage Auction Company in New York City would be
well represented by the owner's son, Ethan Beckham, and his assistant. The confirmed playboy had taken up residence in the spacious downstairs master suite. From the moment he stepped across the threshold into the historic home and began to examine Miriam Elliott's antique collection, his appraiser's nature had been kicked into overdrive. Tara knew it was all he could do not to take out his calculator and begin tapping in figures.

“Oh my stars.” Lacey's eyes flew wide as they rounded the administration building and got their first look at the line forming outside the cafeteria. Dozens of people lugging prized possessions were already waiting with hopeful expressions on their faces.

“I
knew
this was going to a draw a nice crowd,” Tara said, awed by the early turnout. “But I didn't expect them to start arriving for a while yet.”

“These are probably the same folks who turn up at garage sales at dawn.”

“The early birds.” Tara nodded agreement. “Fortunately, we're all set and Ethan has consumed his weight in double-shot espresso so he's chomping at the bit to get to work.”

“You have to be at the auditorium at six sharp to get dressed for the fashion show,” Lacey reminded her friend.

“Like I could forget? I can't believe that with everything else I have to worry about, I let you talk me into that, too.” Tara attempted a stern glare.

“Oh, relax. It's gonna be fun. All you have to do is walk out on the stage, pause and turn at each of the marks, and then exit behind the curtain. You'll be a natural.”

“I'll probably be a klutz and everybody will demand their money back. You have me in something black, right?”

“Gotta run. See you at six.” Lacey made a quick getaway.

“She
better
have me in something black,” Tara muttered.

 

Sam backed the hundredth-anniversary classic off the trailer and walked it up the path to the gymnasium. He was tempted to crank it up for special effect, but Miss Frieda's media blitz had been so successful that working to draw attention was not an issue this morning. Cars began filling up the narrow streets well before the events were expected to begin.

The items listed on the Web site for silent auction had daring first-timers and seasoned bidders out in droves. Latimer had come through with his claim that he had more favors to call in than Johnny Cochran. Everything from Nolan Ryan's autographed cleats to a Caribbean cruise was listed in the catalog, still warm from the printers. True to his word, Latimer had showcased the hard-to-find bike as the grand finale, the must-have item of the auction. Sam
positioned it beneath the spotlight set to show off the custom paint job and stood back to admire his contribution.

Leaving nothing to chance, he'd planted a few associates in the crowd to drive up the bid. So what if he ended up buying back his own property? It would be more fun than donating the money outright and his cover would be protected.

“You've outdone yourself, Latimer,” Sam clapped the lawyer on the shoulder to show his gratitude.

“Well, thank you.” Latimer's eyes glowed behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “I haven't had the opportunity to work a cause like this in a long time. It's been exciting watching this event come together in two weeks. You've certainly played a key role in making this happen, Sam.”

“I don't know about that,” Sam shrugged off the accolade. “I got a few permits pushed through with the promise to teach a bike-safety course this fall.”

“Don't try to brush it off. Everybody on the committee knows how hard you and Tara have worked to coordinate all the weekend events and we won't forget it.”

At the mention of Tara's name, Sam couldn't help but smile over the long line outside the campus cafeteria. Everything that could be balanced on a hand truck seemed poised and ready for its moment before the appraiser. Television stations from
Houston and Dallas had sent crews on the outside chance that something of unusual value was discovered.

“You have things under control in here, so I'm going to go check on the rest of the team.” Sam gave Latimer the infamous salute and headed for the exit.

Inside the cafeteria, volunteers categorized items and directed owners to the proper stations. Originally, Tara and her friend from New York were to be the only appraisers. But once word of the event hit the airwaves, there were volunteers from other auction houses eager to participate in the town benefit.

It was a good thing, because two professionals, no matter how well-rounded and efficient, could never have serviced the unexpected crowd. There was no doubt about it. At twenty dollars a pop, Tara's brainchild was going to contribute handsomely to the Texas Treasure fund.

Even in the noisy room, packed with artwork, furnishings and excited visitors, Sam spotted the sleek auburn braid trailing down the back of a somber jacket. On a day when most folks battled the heat with shorts and tank tops, she was dressed in her black
uniform
. Probably to impress the rich guy and his elderly assistant who were freeloading at Sycamore House.

Sam had to admit, even in the heat, the clingy dark fabric was flattering, making the flashes of
fair skin at her neck and wrists magnetically appealing. Watching her now from afar, admiring her quiet confidence, he was intrigued by the emotions she stirred in him.

In the two very long weeks since he'd confronted his feelings for Tara, he'd refused to examine the personal revelation too closely. A great deal of water had run under that bridge and he was certain she'd never risk her heart with him again. As if sensing his gaze, Rusty turned and stared him down. She was not a shy kid anymore. Making it on her own in New York City had given her the bold self-assurance she'd always lacked. And now she was so confident in her faith, something he admired and almost envied.

 

Tara's heart pounded beneath her lightweight, silk-knit jacket. In recent weeks Sam had locked eyes with her many times in that way of his that made her pray for much more than this cat and mouse game. He'd switched his tactic from controlled anger to manipulative interest, but she knew it was still about revenge.

Sam was drawing out his payback for as long as he could but she was enjoying the rare moments of one-sided intensity. Resisting his attention would be wise, but knowing the probable outcome she chose memories for the future over good sense at the present.

“Who's the guy?” Ethan interrupted her thoughts.

“What guy?” She feigned innocence.

He pointed his number-two pencil in Sam's direction. “Bad boy over there with the dark hair that needs cutting. Bet he owns a motorcycle.”

Tara burst into laughter at the astute assessment. Ethan's years of evaluating auction items gave him a sixth sense about people as well as their possessions. He used it to great advantage with the women.

“Oh, you're just jealous because he
has
hair,” she pointed out to her prematurely balding employer.

“Don't remind me and stop trying to distract me. Who is he?”

Sam ended his brief conversation with a young man in the line who was carrying a weathered guitar case, and headed straight for Tara.

“Never mind. I'll find out who my competition is for myself,” Ethan said as he stood to greet the new arrival.

“Good morning, Sam.” Tara smiled to cover the butterflies swirling in her stomach. “Allow me to introduce my New York employer, Ethan Beckham. Ethan, Sam Kennesaw.”

“Ah, yes. Sam's Cycles. It all makes sense now,” he said with a knowing glint in his eyes.

She adjusted her jacket to cover the motion that sent a pointed elbow into his side. Evidently, he got the message.

“You must be the donor of the anniversary-edition bike that's listed in the auction catalog.” The two men shook hands as Ethan inclined his head toward Tara. “When this redheaded tyrant allows me a short lunch break, I intend to grab one of those famous Texas barbecue sandwiches and make a pass through the auction hall.”

“Please do. And leave your name on several of the bid sheets while you're there. We're grateful for the donation of your time, but we'd prefer to keep some of your money to remember you by.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Ethan assured Sam before resuming his assessment of a Revolutionary War musket.

“Got a minute?” Without waiting for her reply, Sam stepped away from the table and Ethan's interested ears.

“In case you weren't aware of it, I have about a hundred people waiting for me.” Tara motioned toward the crowd.

“Sorry, I wanted to tell you I noticed you neglected to add Sycamore House to the historic site tour and gourmet meal package. So, I penciled you in myself.”

For the second time in five minutes, Tara rammed her elbow into a man's ribs. “There was no neglect involved. I don't want to participate,” she insisted.

“Why not?” Sam rubbed the spot where she'd gouged him.

“Because I can't cook! I'll poison somebody,” she wailed the admission. “I can hardly warm soup in the microwave. I get carryout from Ruthie's Kitchen almost every night.” Perturbed, she stamped a foot. “Sam Kennesaw, you better fix this.” She drew back to deliver another blow to his ribs, but he jumped out of the way.

“Okay, okay, I'll think of something, but I can't remove the listing because there's a bid already.”

“You think?” She needed convincing.

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

Her agitation abated. The idea that somebody would pay money for a tour of the house and a home-cooked meal was somewhat flattering. Maybe she'd get out her grandmother's recipe books and try a few dishes.

“Did you recognize the name?”

“Sure did.”

“Well?” She waited. “Who's the unsuspecting victim?”

“Me.”

 

As the day wore on, cash boxes overflowed with sales receipts and the giant treasure chest filled with contributions. The flapjack breakfast ended when the batter ran out, a phenomenon the Carlton brothers had not seen in forty years of selling pancakes.

With the women in the community battling
amongst themselves to model the latest styles, there was standing room only for the fashion show. The silent auction generated lively competition among the bidders, driving prices higher than expected. The arts and crafts fair on the lawn of the library and the barbecue cook-off in the student parking lot enjoyed a steady stream of traffic.

But the big surprise of the day was Beardsly's version of the
Antiques Roadshow.
At five-thirty the line of participants still filled the sidewalk that wrapped around the building.

“Are you sure you don't mind doing this again tomorrow?” Tara asked. The turnout was so enthusiastic that all the appraisers had agreed to stay on another day.

“We can't send these folks away, not when they've dragged hope chests and grandfather clocks all over the countryside. Anybody willing to come back tomorrow will get an appraisal.”

She gave Ethan a quick hug, then dropped her arms self-consciously. “I don't know how I'll ever repay you for your help.”

“Well, you can start by telling me whether or not you plan to come back to work. You know we can't hold your job open forever.”

There it was. She'd known the subject was bound to come up. She'd worked hard for her position at The Heritage and she had a home and friends in New York. Yet, as much as she loved the excitement
of the city, she was becoming content with the quiet of the country and the easy pace of her hometown. Her life was full of purpose and friendship. As soon as Bridges turned a profit she'd be able put another part-timer to work.

As a tribute to her grandmother, she'd started the process of registering Sycamore House as an historical landmark, and she was feeling at home at Mount Zion Church. The Bible study group she sponsored met at Bridges twice a week. Tara was growing right along with the students as they studied the Word of God together.