Sealed with a Kiss (3 page)

At night, any lighted activity inside would beckon to citizens crossing the square. But what would attract college students? Hardly antiques. As much as she hated to agree, Sam was right.

There was a shuffling sound behind her. He'd been waiting quietly while she made her notes. She turned to find him still standing in the wide doorway, watching her.

“Thanks, but you don't have to wait on me.”

“I can take a hint.” His hand on the knob, he turned away.

“No, wait. I wasn't trying to run you off.” She groaned inwardly at the poor choice of words.

Sam chuckled without humor and shook his head at the irony. “We both know you don't have to try at all when that's what you have in mind.”

The past hung between them, as obvious as the
dust motes that floated through the shaft of light from the dirty windows. The need to tell Sam what had happened all those years ago pounded like a migraine in Tara's head. They'd never make peace until it was done and he understood this bizarre arrangement was Miriam's way of putting things right.

She crossed the empty space separating them.

“Listen, Sam, we need to talk—”

He stopped her by holding up both hands, palms outward, his face unreadable.

“I don't want to hear it. It's been too many years and there's nothing you can say now that will make a difference in my life. So don't try to soothe your guilty conscience at my expense.” Sam pushed his way through the metal door and let it fall shut behind him with a loud clang.

She stared at the cold metal surface, suddenly understanding. He blames me. He thinks being forced out of Beardsly was all my doing.

With nine years of bitterness built up, she'd never convince him otherwise.

 

Tara leaned against the oak griffin dining-room table, her notes and figures spread across the polished surface. Her one faithful friend, Lacey, sat with a leg folded beneath her, raising her short torso enough to reach the bag of chips in the middle of the table.

“Sam thinks what happened was entirely my fault,” Tara blurted out.

Lacey's curls tossed as her head popped up. “And you didn't tell him the truth?”

Tara shook her head hard enough to rattle her senses.

“Listen,” Lacey placed her hand over Tara's, “you owe Sam the truth, and then you two can begin to put all the hard feelings behind you. Maybe even start over. Together.” Her smile was full of hope.

“Even if he did believe it, he'd only transfer his anger from me to Grandmother. I won't give him the ammunition to do or say anything to soil her reputation.”

“After the second chance she's given him, he'll forgive her anything, don't you think?” Lacey insisted.

Forgive anything? Tara hadn't mastered that herself.

No matter how distant, she would never forget the angry words that still resonated in her grandmother's elegant dining room.

“How could you hurt him that way? How could you do this to me, Grandmother?”

“Listen to reason, child. You have your whole life ahead of you and I won't have you waste it on the son of my housekeeper.”

“That's so unfair! He's respected in his position at the college. The kids love him and I love him, too. But you've ruined everything.”

“That's where you're wrong. I've simply steered you both in different directions. If, as you insist, it's God's will for you to be with Sam, you'll find one another again one day. But you'll both spend time growing up first.”

“I'll never forgive you for this!”
Tara had swept her arm across the oak sideboard, sending silver and porcelain crashing to the hardwood below. She'd stared through hot tears at the shattered treasure, turned and run up the stairway.

Now Tara's gaze sought the gouged floor where the hand-sculpted Asian vase had met its demise. “How can I expect Sam to forgive her when I spent the last nine years punishing her myself?”

“You have to find it in your heart, Tara. I watched Miss Miriam volunteering so much of her time, giving away so much to charity, trying to atone. And I was the one person in town who understood why she did it. Don't let regrets steal your joy, too. Promise me you'll pray about it, okay?” Lacey asked.

“I'll put that on my prayer list along with the funds for the books I have to order.” Tara changed the subject.

“Is that what you decided to add to the antiques? Books?” She narrowed her eyes as she thought it over. “I like it.” Her head bobbed agreeably.

“Thanks.” Tara smiled, grateful for some encouragement. “I stopped at Shoppers' Mart to get some
magazines this afternoon. Standing in that dark little aisle it suddenly occurred to me it was the only place in town to buy something to read.”

“There's the campus bookstore,” Lacey reminded.

“And as long as I want a textbook or a paperback those two places are fine. But to thumb through a special-event cookbook or a gardening guide or a biography of a musician I'd have to drive to Dallas,” Tara pointed out.

“What do you think Frieda Walker will have to say about you taking business from the college?”

“Oh, I wouldn't dare compete with the textbooks and classics she sells on campus. I'll carry contemporary genres, popular magazines and international newspapers. Maybe even a computer or two for research and online chatting.

“And here's something else I'm considering.” She clasped her palms together beneath her chin in nervous anticipation of her only friend's reaction. “What if I set up a coffeehouse in one corner of the store to give the students someplace new and trendy to hang out?”

“That's perfect! They'll love it.”

Tara's heart lifted at the thought of something that would bring the younger crowd into her business. “We'll serve all those great flavored coffees and they can visit with their friends like the kids do in the big chain stores. I'll use the antiques as dis
play background for the books and collectibles and
everything
will be for sale.”

“I've got to hand it to you, girl, you've thought of something for everybody,” Lacey enthused.

“Now I've just got to think of a way to make up the difference between my savings account and the cost of inventory.”

“You ought to consider selling some of the antiques Miss Miriam left you.” Lacey surveyed the room. “Your own auction house could find you a buyer, Rusty.”

“First, promise you won't call me that anymore?” Tara pleaded. “That name belongs to another lifetime, agreed?”

Lacey nodded.

“And second,” Tara continued, “I'm not interested in selling anything in this house.”

“This stuff is the only solid collateral you have.”

Tara leaned elbows on the table and rested her face in her hands. “I don't know what to do, Lacey,” she mumbled through her fingers. “If my grandmother thought for a minute I'd sell her things, she'd have donated them to charity herself.”

Lacey shook her blond head in disagreement and thumbed through the will. “She didn't have any problem placing restrictions on your ownership of the Elliott Building or Sycamore House. If she hadn't meant for you to sell the antiques she'd have done the same with them. It says right here ‘to dis
pose of as she chooses,' and that means she gave you her permission and her blessing to do whatever you have to do.”

“What if I borrow against some of the most rare pieces? If I fail I can always sell them. But if my idea is a success, I'll still have my grandmother's things.”

Lacey munched a potato chip and wiped the barbecue residue on her jeans. “Makes sense. Okay, let's make a few calls and see who's offering the best line of credit against collateral. By the time your inventory starts to arrive you'll have the money to pay for it.”

Tara felt a smile of relief curve her mouth for the first time since learning of her grandmother's death. Already organized, she reached for her folder marked Stock and thumbed through the publishing printouts. Tomorrow she'd order books, place ads in surrounding counties for antique consignment pieces and begin the marketing research on coffee houses. Remodeling and advertising came next if she intended to meet the self-imposed grand opening in four weeks.

“What's going in on the first floor?” Lacey asked.

Tara froze. She'd been so wrapped up in her own plans that she had no idea what Sam had in mind for the ground floor of the Elliott Building. She tried to recall their conversation. He had said he was
going to make the most of this opportunity, but she'd never asked him how he intended to do it. He'd agreed to anything she wanted to do and now she was committed to doing the same for him.

“Tara?” Lacey nudged her. “I said, what are Sam's plans?”

“He didn't tell me.” A chill ran up Tara's spine at her vulnerable position. “But Sam knows this town and we're right on the square, so it's bound to be something conservative.” She hurried on, trying to sound convincing. “He may appear rough around the edges, but he comes from a respectable background. Surely he won't do anything foolish and risk this chance to make something of himself….” Her speech faltered as she caught sight of her friend's eyes rolling upward. “Would he?”

Lacey took a short break from popping chips into her mouth. “Better hang on to your fancy pants, city girl. I think you're in for a wild ride.”

“M
otorcycles!”

“Not just any motorcycles. The best American-made bikes ever.” Sam glanced up from the makeshift drafting table, savoring the moment and the site of Tara's lovely face contorted in disgust.

“It doesn't make any difference what kind they are. They're all foul-smelling and noisy. You might as well sell kerosene and chain saws down here.” Tara swept an arm toward the empty first floor, soon to be occupied by Sam's Cycles. “Come on Sam, you can't be serious about this.”

“I'm quite serious.”

“Then you're doing it to spite me.”

He rolled his eyes and snorted. “You need to get over yourself, Rusty. Not everything's about you. Did you consider consulting with me about any of your plans?”

She drew a breath to speak, but he ignored it and continued.

“No, because you want to do what interests
you
. Well, bikes are what interest me. Since it's a subject I know a little something about, I intend to make a living selling them right here in the Elliott Building. By the way,” he paused, considering a new subject, “I'd like to talk to you about changing the name to the Kennesaw Building.”

“How dare you.” Her azure eyes bulged.

“I dare because it's time to bring this town into the new millennium. Modernize. Move with the times, don't you reckon?”

“Are you quite finished?”

“Honey, I'm just gettin' started.” Sam smiled and looked her up and down. Instead of shrinking from his gaze, she stood taller and squared her shoulders beneath the solid black ensemble. He expected a battle and it seemed she wouldn't disappoint.

“Grandmother wanted us to come back here and do something to help the community. I can think of a hundred reasons why you're wasting your time trying to sell motorcycles.”

“Name three,” he challenged.

“Well, first of all, nobody around here rides those things.”

“Yet,” he countered. “And that's because they don't have a local dealer or service center. Once
that objection is eliminated, you're gonna see bikers everywhere.”

Tara grimaced at the suggestion. “And secondly, you'll never make any money at it. How are you going to afford all those greasy parts, let alone new stuff?”

“I have
connections.
” He gave Tara a conspiratorial wink. “I happen to have a very successful contact in the business who can front me the stock as long as I can meet the, um, payment arrangements.”

“And if you can't?” Her forehead wrinkled with apparent concern.

“I'd sooner not think about that.” He dismissed the subject with an exaggerated shudder. “Besides, I have a hunch Sam's Cycles will be a hit.”

“Well, a hunch is not sufficient reason to go into business. You need something sensible to draw customers.”

“Like expensive antiques, huh? I reckon that's just what we need to get this depressed economy back on track.”

She held up a hand to slow his argument. “You made that point with me yesterday and I've reconsidered my original plans. Thanks to your comments there will be a variety of products in
all
price ranges. So, I guess I owe you one.”

“That's the understatement of the decade.”

She ignored his jab. “I'm also going to sell a wide range of books and other reading materials,
and there will be a modern coffee bar. I intend to have something for every level of spending.”

“And you've done extensive market research to confirm that adding books and coffee will attract buyers by the score, I presume?” He enjoyed the flicker of annoyance in her stormy blue eyes.

“You only ask that because you think
you
know the answer. However, I have years of study and experience in appraisal and sales. I'm studying the markup on the merchandise I expect to carry, I know what the folks around here can afford to spend and I have a marketing strategy to draw shoppers from other towns.”

“Well, it's nice to know my days as a teaching assistant weren't completely wasted. Sounds like you didn't spend all your time in Economics 101 daydreaming about being my bride.”

He was never going to let her forget her uncharacteristically bold confession and the subsequent kiss. And, it seemed, he would use it against her.

“If you intend to humiliate me at every turn, this has no chance of being a cooperative effort.”

“If you're waiting for an apology, don't waste your time or mine. I have a lot to do in the next few weeks.” Sam dipped his head and resumed drawing on the large pad of graph paper, which lay atop his makeshift desk, a sheet of plywood balanced over two saw-horses.

 

Tara's eyes followed the movement of his thick mahogany mane as his head dropped forward. The devastating appeal of his clean-shaven profile was undermining her determination to remain calm. Against her better judgment, she admired the tanned arms stretched forward across the drawing. Her attention was drawn to the white paper where Sam was positioning windows and doors against a solid wall.

“How about number three?” she asked.

“What?” He glanced up, a puzzled expression in his eyes.

“You told me to name three reasons. Don't you want to hear number three?”

The confusion left his face, replaced by a look of expectation. Sam sat tall on the stool he'd fashioned from concrete blocks, folded his arms and cocked his handsome head to one side as he waited.

She had his full attention and no idea what to say next. “Even if you can sell a few motorcycles, it's only a matter of time before you get bored with this place and want to leave again,” she blurted.

The deep crease between his brows softened as he dropped his arms to his sides and indulged in a slow shoulder roll followed by a patronizing smile.

“I can see where a city woman like you might think that,” Sam reasoned, “but there's still plenty for me in Beardsly. But have you considered that
folks might be a bit suspicious of
your
staying power?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” She bristled.

“I was forced to relocate when my opportunity here dried up. But you had every advantage and every reason to stay. These folks may talk slow but their minds work just fine. They know the difference between being left behind and being dumped. I think they'll give me another chance. You, however, might have some charred bridges to rebuild.”

Sam's insight was a punch to the solar plexus. Had she been a fool all these years, unconcerned about how the hometown folks would react to her refusal to visit? Suddenly she envisioned her grand opening with no one to sample her fancy cappuccino, no kind face to purchase her hardbound books, no supporters to guide well-heeled shoppers her way.

She knew a thing or two about changing. She might have accepted her grandmother's challenge without seeing all the relationship repairs that would be necessary but, thanks to Sam, the blindfold was off.

She had a name for her store. Bridges to build.

Literally.

 

Five days after her loan application was accepted, Tara was still without funds. Buying on credit and scrimping to cover her few personal needs brought
back memories of her early years in the city, years she'd sooner remember with distant nostalgia than with familiar clarity.

Sam made building an exterior entrance for the second floor his top priority. By the end of today she would no longer need to bother him for passage upstairs. The thought of not seeing him at his homemade drafting table made her heart sink a bit. But it was just as well, since he goaded her at every turn.

Sitting behind the scarred secretarial desk she'd picked up at a local thrift shop, Tara's best sales voice echoed in the otherwise empty room.

“Miss Frieda.” Tara tried to sound confident. “I assure you Bridges will pose no threat to the campus bookstore traffic. If anything, we'll work in concert with you to fully meet the needs of the students.”

“Young lady, as you may recall, I've been ‘fully' meeting the needs of my students for almost forty years, now. Did you ever lack for anything during your school days in Beardsly?”

Her fear was confirmed. The woman at the other end of the telephone line had an ax to grind.

“No, ma'am, of course not. I wanted to tell you myself about the opening of Bridges and let you know my intention is not to compete with your sales, but rather to offer literary alternatives.”

“Well, you're a few days late. I've heard all about your literary alternatives.”

Tara smiled to herself. So, word was out. There must be some buzz on the street.

“That nice young Sam Kennesaw already told me all about your plans.”

Nice? Young? Well, by Frieda Walker's standards Tara supposed he might be.

Her smile flipped upside down. Was he secretly going behind her back to poison everybody's opinion? Was he planning to drive her out of town and keep everything for himself?

“Um, I see. So Sam gave you a call already then?” Maybe with some careful questioning she could find out what the big sneak had been up to.

“Sam? Gave me a call? Not hardly. He knows how to do things the
proper
way. He's been in the bookstore and student center every day this week. How else is everybody supposed to find out about his bike shop?”

Careful questioning of the college bookstore manager was not going to be necessary. Miss Frieda was in a chatty mood.

“And I saw him down at the Varsity Theater, too. The poor boy can't afford advertisement, but I always say word of mouth is the best mode of communication, anyway.”

Tara began to suspect she was the one person in town who hadn't been the target of Sam's one-man ad campaign.

“Which is another reason for my call. I wanted
to let you know the grand opening of Bridges is scheduled for—”

“I know, June first, the same day as Sam's place, Sam's Cycles. He's already told everybody.”

Everybody but Tara.

So that's what he's up to. He plans to overshadow my special day with a little excitement of his own, huh? We'll see about that.

 

“He's living with the students? Over in those tiny apartments?” Tara questioned.

“That's what I heard.”

She and Lacey filled their plates from the all-you-can-eat salad bar at Ruthie's Kitchen. They ladled creamy dressing atop greens and choice veggies, tossing raisins and croutons on for good measure. Neither woman was inclined to pass on lunch in favor of squeezing into designer jeans. Tara's all-black, figure-minimizing wardrobe had become infamous about town. It had also become unbearably hot as the mercury rose into the nineties before noon each day.

They slid into an empty table as Lacey continued. “You know the older boys don't want to live in the dorm anymore. So, three or four of them get together and share one of those little efficiencies that have less square footage than a dorm room, go figure. Well, Sam's living in the smallest one of all, which makes sense, seeing as he doesn't have a pot to cook in or a window to throw it out of.”

Lacey paused to collect a getaway crouton and pop it into her waiting mouth. “Anyway, they have a new evening ritual of sitting out behind the apartments, drinking sodas and asking Sam for advice on keeping life simple. He's becoming their mentor.”

At this new piece of information, Tara sucked in a surprised breath and, along with it, a raisin. Heads turned toward their table while she sputtered and coughed in an effort to dislodge the fruit. She struggled to free her airway, tears trickling over her lashes.

“Honey, are you gonna be all right?” Lacey pleaded.

Tara nodded, swiped at her running nose and continued to struggle for breath.

Strong arms grabbed her from behind, hoisted her to her feet, positioned clasped hands against her chest and gave a powerful tug in and upward. A whoosh of breath was forced from her lungs. A small projectile shot across three tables and into the trash can by the exit door.

The lunch crowd burst into cheers. She didn't need eyes to confirm what her intuition already suspected. The conquering hero was at it again.

Lacey stuffed a wad of paper napkins in Tara's hand, motioning she should wipe her face.

 

Sam released his grip and stepped around the table, his concern turning to amusement as Tara
smeared navy mascara from one temple to the other. On the tips of her auburn lashes, he found the blue color enchanting. But by the time she'd finished wiping her eyes and nose, the streaks had given her the appearance of a masked character from the comics.

“Thank you for your help,” she sniffed. “I should go to the ladies' room and freshen up.”

“No, that's not necessary. You're fine, considering you were almost done in by a dried grape.”

“Tara, I agree you should make that trip to the ladies' room,” Lacey cautioned, gesturing toward her own eyes.

“Nonsense.” Sam took Tara's hand as he sat and drew her down into her chair. “Now, finish your salad. Oh, by the way, my mama taught me to chew each bite twenty times before swallowing.”

“That must be my problem. I didn't have a mama.”

“No, you had a rich old grandma and I'm sure she gave you the same lecture.”

He motioned for Tara to continue her meal.

“Since you mentioned your mama, how is she, Sam?”

“Fine. She married a nice retired guy a couple of years ago. They own a condo on South Padre.” He crunched a crouton that he snagged from her plate.

“Aren't you having anything?” She stabbed a forkful of spinach.

“I'm waiting for the guys.”

“The guys?” Tara's eyes narrowed. “Oh, you mean the students. Yes, I hear you've managed to worm your way into their living quarters.”

“If you call keeping my expenses low by renting the cheapest apartment in town ‘worming my way into the student quarters' then I guess you're right. Too bad Grandma didn't leave us the house together.”