Sealed with a Kiss (6 page)

The auburn tips of her eyebrows tilted together.

“You mean that truck stop on the edge of town with the giant stack of pancakes for a roof? That place belongs to them?

“That one and forty-seven others across Texas.”

As the news sunk in, he watched her crystal-blue eyes widen.

“That's right,” he confirmed. “They could probably buy everything in both our showrooms out of pocket cash and still have money left over to put a freshman through college.”

“Then what in the world are they doing selling bobble-head dolls at a flea market?”

“The Carltons aren't exactly known for their conventional business practices.”

She shook her head, looking as if she felt a bit foolish.

“I guess I don't need to worry about making a killing off that desk after all.”

He climbed on the bike, reached for Tara's hand, and hauled her up behind him.

“All you need to worry about right now is how you're going to pay me back tomorrow after I help haul your junk up that flight of stairs.”

Before he let her soft hand slip away, he couldn't help noticing how well it fit into his much larger palm. Neither could he ignore the arms that encircled his waist.

Determined to put a barrier between his thoughts and his passenger, he brought the powerful engine to life with the push of a button. The bike's obedient response brought a smile to his face and then the mechanics of safely negotiating back roads en route to the highway occupied his mind.

But not entirely.

A
t cruising speed and with fifteen minutes of silence stretching ahead, unwanted memories betrayed Sam.

The years hadn't dimmed the bittersweet recollection of his student's confession of love. She'd stubbornly insisted God had a plan for the two of them and she'd wait it out. To make matters worse, she'd boldly sealed the revelation with a whisper of a kiss. His heart still ached over the pain in her eyes when he'd told Tara that, under the circumstances, there could never be anything between them.

She hadn't left well enough alone that day any more than she had as a pesky child. Only this time her determination to have her way had cost him everything.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a split second to extinguish the thought.

With an explosion like a Black-Cat firecracker, the tractor-trailer up ahead blew out one of its eighteen wheels. His eyes opened wide as huge shards of rubber spewed across the road, an instant obstacle course.

“Hold tight,” he shouted.

Before she could question the instruction, he accelerated, deftly navigating the debris field, confident as any downhill-slalom Olympian. He bypassed chunks of rubber, marveling as always over the aerodynamic technology of the machine he'd grown to love.

Tara's high-pitched shriek drew Sam back to reality. Certain she was terrified, he eased off the throttle, slowing to cruising speed.

“No!” she shouted.

“I'm sorry.” He imagined her face bloodred with terror. “You want me to pull over?”

“No,” she repeated. “Do it some more.”

A warmth he'd never experienced before spread from the core of his body to the tips of his limbs. He punched the air with his fist, offered up his salute and kicked it up a notch.

In no time at all, the bike eased alongside the battered rental truck. With the music of the engine still ringing in his ears, he gripped Tara's hand to help her stand.

“That was…incredible.” She tilted her face up to him, an easy smile reaching her unforgettable eyes.

“Sorry about the road gators, but they're a hazard of the sport.”

“If all the hazards are that exciting, I see why you love this thing.” She thrust her helmet in the direction of the bike.

He took the gear, dropped it on the seat beside his and turned to find Tara moving toward the truck, her hand slipping through the blaze of auburn hair. The urge to let his fingers do the same was uncontrollable. With a single step and a full arm's reach, his hand followed hers as it trailed through the softness. The feathery-fine silk slipped through his fingertips.

Tara lifted her face at his touch, tilting her head back so he could see into the blue depths.

His hands moved unconsciously to hold either side of her questioning face. The heat from her skin seeped into his flesh, a match for the unfamiliar warmth in his heart. He closed the inches between them and paused to moisten his dry lips before he covered her mouth with his.

 

The blast of a car horn shattered the magical connection.

“Hey, Sam!” The cheerful passerby waved as they stepped apart.

Tara witnessed Sam transform from helplessly involved to blatantly arrogant. He offered up his signature salute as he swaggered away and busied himself with the bike.

“Sorry about that, Rusty. You have a way of doing that to me. Something you might want to remember.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Her mouth tingled from the impetuous kiss.

He handed over her purse, motioning for the truck's keys. She dropped them in his open palm.

The truck shook as he pumped the gas several times and cranked the tired vehicle to life.

“I had one of the boys come fill the tank.”

“That was very kind of you, Sam.”

“I wasn't trying to be kind, just efficient.” He held the truck door open. After she climbed up into the cab he slammed and locked the door. “Now we can both be on our way so the evening won't be a complete waste.”

Tara bit the inside of her lip, determined to control the quiver that threatened. “See you tomorrow?” she asked, as he walked away.

“Don't see how it can be avoided.” He tossed the comment over his shoulder, straddled the bike and angled his head for her to take the road.

As the highway widened, the bike blew past the old truck. Its rider leaned forward, alert to the road, muscles taut, obviously intent on putting distance between the two vehicles.

Clearly she wasn't the only one suffering the effects of the brief kiss. For almost a decade her
dream was dormant. But it dared to sprout a tiny bud as she offered up a prayer of hope from inside the old truck.

 

Six days and as many delivery trucks later, Bridges was bulging with cartons and furnishings. By night, Tara painted, papered and hand-stenciled the walls of her shop. By day she arranged collectible volumes on hundred-year-old bookcases, piled inviting hardbacks on the shelves of family-heir-loom pie safes and arranged pine tables and cushioned chairs in groupings to encourage conversation.

Yet where activity at Bridges was open to curious visitors, shades were drawn on the first floor. The overhead warehouse door was down and locked except for the now-familiar delivery truck, and even that was unloaded behind a closed door.

Consumed as she was by Bridges, she couldn't help wondering what the noisy activity on the first floor would produce. But Sam kept their encounters few and far between. He had all but avoided her since the day of their kiss.

“Folks are getting so excited about the new stores,” Lacey said, between sips of iced latte. The gleaming new brewing equipment was stationed atop an 1890s saloon bar courtesy of the Carlton brothers. Tara's acquaintance with the pancake moguls was proving to be heaven-sent.

After one glance at Bridges's floor plan, the
twins simultaneously insisted there was another must-have in the barn back home. Hoisting the twelve-foot, marble-topped cabinet up the double-wide flight of stairs was tricky, but who argued with brothers who brought along their very own forklift?

“Excitement is nice as long as it translates into sales,” Tara replied, her nose in the user's guide. “All this thing does is make coffee and it's more complicated than the computer we bought to manage the inventory.”

“Stop calling it coffee. It's espresso. Coffee is sold at the gas station for seventy-five cents. Espresso costs four times that much and nobody sells it but Bridges.” Lacey held her cup aloft with pride.

Tara's throat tightened as she offered up a prayer of gratitude for her dear friend. There were sleepless nights when Tara feared remaining in Beardsly was a mistake. Once the polite outpouring of sympathy ended, few people had seemed particularly glad to see her stay on.

Not that she'd expected a party or anything, but she hadn't anticipated some folks being downright hurtful. Being ignored in the market or not offered a seat in church reminded Tara of her youth when the extroverted locals had mistaken her shyness for arrogance.

To make matters worse, word was out that there was friction between her and Sam. People weren't sure what it was about, but many had made up their
minds that Sam was near-perfect. What did that make her?

He courted the college students with a master's skill. They adored his unconventional lifestyle. He was virtually camping in the tiny apartment, going for broke with his business, and seemingly had not a care in the world about the financial outcome. The fact that he had so few material possessions yet seemed so rich in life experience drew students to his door like kids to an ice-cream truck.

“He's like the Pied Piper,” Tara muttered.

“Huh?” Lacey scrunched her brow. “I thought we were talking about the new espresso machine.”

“I'm sorry.” Tara whacked the crown of her friend's head with the small paper manual. “I got a little distracted there for a minute. Okay, I confess, I'm nervous about the opening.”

“Why?”

“Has it escaped your notice that folks are treating Sam like a conquering hero while I'm not exactly getting a warm reception?”

Lacey crossed her arms and tilted her head in concentration. “Well, if you think about it, he's an easier fit than you. They don't have to stretch too far to embrace Sam. You, however, always were on the quiet side and you've changed so much since you moved away that they really don't know you.”

Tara snorted at the observation. “Oh, right, and Sam's the same today as he was nine years ago.”

“Truth be told, yes, he is. Sam may be physically different, but in his heart he wants the same things. An uncomplicated life, respect, friends.”

Tara suspected she was the one person in town who saw through the good-old-boy act. Was she also the only one who remembered he had a Master's Degree in Economics? “Please don't tell me he has the hook set in your lip, too?”

“Maybe he does. And maybe you need to dangle a little bait of your own.” Lacey swirled the ice in her plastic cup.

Tara slapped the manual on the surface of the bar. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, get to know everybody again. You make zero effort to fit in. For starters, look at yourself.” She waggled fingers up and down at her friend's dark apparel.

“I sold you that great outfit and you wore it once the day you bought it. You insist on shrouding your body in long black pants and skirts even in the heat of the summer when everybody else is in shorts.”

“That's not fair. I don't tan like everybody else. I'm fish-belly white when you're all brown as cocoa beans.”

“And that won't change if you don't get out of those fancy pants and into something short and cool,” Lacey insisted.

“There are a couple of very good reasons why I don't dare.” Tara held up two fingers. “One, in case you haven't noticed, I've put on about twenty pounds. My thighs are more dimpled than a golf ball. And, two, the glare from my skin is enough to put somebody's eye out. So I'm doing us all a favor and keeping my fancy pants on.”

Lacey gulped the last of her latte, crunching ice from the bottom of the cup as she considered her response. “If you'd spent any time reconnecting with the few high-school friends you had, you'd have noticed that none of us look like we did when we were teenagers. And most folks don't care. Appearances may be everything on Madison Avenue, but down on Beardsly Square we like to think it's what's inside that counts.”

“You sound like my grandmother,” Tara conceded.

“That's because most of our grandmothers tried to teach us the same thing. I know Miss Miriam didn't bring you back here to hurt you. She had to believe you'd figure out how to fit in or she'd have made it easy for you to stay away.”

“You think?”

Lacey rounded the bar. “I'm positive.” She draped her arm around Tara's shoulders. “So stop worrying about what's wrong with you and let's focus instead on the stuff that's a perfect fit for Beardsly. I'm going to get a pad and pencil from the
office and we're going to make a list of things to get you into circulation before the grand opening.”

 

At nine o'clock, Tara flopped faceup across the bed. The motion of the ceiling fan caused the Battenburg lace canopy to billow overhead. Long past being tired, she huffed out a deep sigh of exhaustion. Throbbing quads and biceps cried out from the physical work of hanging wallpaper and installing hardware.

But nothing ached more than her head from the afternoon of brainstorming. Two weeks would be enough if she kept a tight schedule. Watching her time judiciously, she should be able to make all the upcoming events and still wrap up a thousand details at Bridges.

During the years Tara had lived in New York, Lacey Rogers had become an expert listener, the virtual spout of the town's communication funnel. Any information of note passed through Lacey's Closet. As a result, the details of every baby shower, birthday party and Sunday school social were tucked away in her planner.

A few strategic phone calls produced a gaggle of friendly invitations. Tara's life was already a whirlwind of activity, but she was about to be thrust for the first time into the storm surge of Hurricane Beardsly. She prayed her nerves could handle it.

After a cool shower, her damp hair hanging past her shoulders, she slipped one of her grandmother's
old patchwork gardening smocks over a pair of baggy shorts and padded down the stairs.

The side-by-side refrigerator yielded bottled water and leftover pizza. The silence of the kitchen was broken by the whir of the huge appliance and her thirsty gulps. Errant drops of the soothing water dribbled down her chin. She wiped them away with the hem of the smock, then lifted her hair to press the chilled bottle to her neck.

The three-tone door chime echoed inside the quiet house. Rolling her eyes at her friend's persistence, Tara plunked the bottle on the countertop, and crossed into the dark foyer.

“Please don't tell me you thought of something else,” she called out as she pulled open the massive walnut door.

“As a matter of fact,” Sam said, “I
was
thinking of something else. But with you standing there looking like a crazy quilt, I can't remember what it was now.”