Sealed with a Kiss (8 page)

There was embroidered linen, mismatched silver, a maple hope chest and a brass headboard, all shown to best advantage by strategically recessed lighting. Tara stood in the center of her store and turned slowly, drinking it all in, overwhelmed with pride in her accomplishment.

“Thank you, Gran,” she choked on the endearment, “For giving me this chance to come home. I've learned a lot about this town since you've been gone, but I suspect you knew I would.” Her grandmother always insisted that roots ran deep and they would eventually pull her back where she belonged. Maybe it was true.

Three sharp raps at the entrance preceded the bell that jangled as the door swung open.

“Anybody home?” Sam called.

Tara cleared her throat. “Over here,” she answered.

Sam made his way through the maze of merchandise, stopping every few feet to touch and admire. He nodded approval, his eyebrows arched over wide eyes. “You got some nice stuff here, Rusty.”

“I reckon so,” she used his favorite phrase. “I see you finally got back.”

“Early this morning,” he acknowledged, pokerfaced, unwilling to share any details.

“How's everything looking downstairs?” She took a few steps toward him.

He puckered his lips and nodded his head. “No complaints. One more day should do it.” He shoved his hands into his hip pockets, keeping his distance. “You been lookin' for me?”

“The building inspector came up with a half dozen minor questions during your mysterious disappearance.” She waited to see if he'd offer an explanation. He didn't. “As it turned out there was nothing I couldn't handle. So, crisis averted.”

“Glad to hear it.” He turned to leave. “Well, I'm outta here.”

“Sam?”

He rested his hand on the brass doorknob and regarded her with dark eyes that gleamed beneath the overhead lights.

“Good luck on Saturday. I hope it will be a day we'll always remember.”

“Oh, you can take that to the bank,” he said as he slipped out the door.

 

With one heavy boot poised above the bottom step, he turned and looked back up at the name on the awning. He was glad it was almost over. He'd had his fun. It was time to end the charade and head back to his real life.

But if that was what he really wanted, why hadn't he slept well the past three nights? Why had he tossed in his bed, missing the small town that was winning his affection and the auburn-haired beauty who was winning his respect along with his heart?

T
wo grandfather clocks on either side of the entrance chimed the half hour. In thirty minutes Bridges would officially be in business. The sweet tones of three violins and a bass cello filled the air as the college orchestra's string quartet tuned up for the morning's event.

Silver clinked against cake plates while Lacey and her volunteer crew laid out the light brunch of quiche, fruit salad and pastries. If the RSVP notes could be counted upon, there would be at least thirty-five hungry visitors when the doors opened.

Tara brushed her hands nervously down the front of her vintage black-lace blouse and demure ankle-length skirt. The many ornamental mirrors decorating the walls confirmed her professional demeanor was flawless but did little to soothe the last-minute fidgets.

Would they come? Had her whirlwind round of baby showers, church potlucks and book-club meetings been enough? If she'd shown up at the campus library one more time she was afraid she'd be arrested for loitering. Tara made a mental check of the list she and Lacey had worked out diligently. Between deliveries at Bridges and short trips to the house on Sycamore for a few hours sleep, she'd done little else for the past two weeks besides reconnect with Beardsly's residents.

She'd barely laid eyes on Sam the day before. She'd drifted off to sleep last night praying away the niggling uneasiness that he was up to something.

“Ms. Elliott, where would you like these Depression-glass goblets?” The doe-eyed female student hired to work the espresso machine had been put to work unpacking last-minute arrivals.

“Those pink facets will sparkle like rubies if you set them on that shelf near the window,” Tara replied, gesturing toward the distressed pine cabinet.

“I think that's about everything.” Lacey shoved blond curls out of her eyes. “As soon as the girls finish setting up, we'll be ready for customers.”

Tara reached for her friend's hands to steady a case of runaway nerves. Lacey bowed her head, tugged Tara close and murmured a prayer.

“Loving Father, I trust you didn't bring Rusty back to us to let her fail. Bless this endeavor, if it's in Your perfect will. Amen.”

“Was that necessary?” Tara insisted, huffing out a pent-up breath.

“You know prayer is always necessary.”

“I meant the nickname.” Tara forced a scowl. “I agree with you on the prayer. I need all the divine intervention I can get today.” She ran fingers across the back of her hair to confirm the tight braid was still intact.

“If you want my opinion, I think you should have worn that yellow blouse and left your hair down.”

“I'll take that under consideration when we open our Austin branch,” Tara teased. “Now, let's check everything one last time. We've got twenty minutes before our guests arrive.”

 

“It
is
a stunning piece, isn't it?” Tara agreed with the married couple who admired the Victorian desk while they sipped free cappuccino. “I handled the restoration myself so I know every inch of it by heart.”

“Are you willing to come down on the price?” The woman's voice was hopeful. “It would be perfect in my study.”

“Not anytime soon.” Tara palmed her business card to the husband. “But check back with me in a week. I doubt it'll still be here, but if it is I might reconsider.”

As she drifted among her guests, the soothing melody from the quartet and the murmur of conver
sation filled the room. Judging from the first hour's turnout, Bridges's grand opening was going to be a rousing success.

Then the rumble began.

At first it was low and far away, like the hum of an eighteen-wheeler passing through town. Then it grew closer and louder, a persistent roll of thunder spoiling the quiet morning. And finally it became a roar that pierced the peaceful atmosphere and rattled the gleaming windows.

With voices overcome by the demanding sound, conversation dwindled and heads turned. Worse still, potential customers discarded their cups and plates and headed for the entrance to investigate the source of the sound. Tara didn't have to follow their lead to know who she'd find behind the disturbance.

Sam Kennesaw.

 

In the lead, Sam guided the pack of bikers past the college administration building and library, right up Main Street toward the Elliott Building. The colorful swarm, numbering close to two hundred, filled the air with a chrome-plated symphony. Decked out in their leather and denim finery, they cruised the streets of Beardsly two by two. Couples rode, men in front with wives and girlfriends behind, but women on their own bikes were in strong representation.

Sam couldn't hold back the smile he felt from his chin to his eyebrows. Beardsly had never witnessed such a parade, and his gut wrenched with desire for the town's approval.

The bikers' approach was the signal for the dark shades over the first-floor windows to be rolled up, exposing the interior of the shop to daylight for the first time. The double glass doors were swept wide and the tarp above the entrance was tugged to the pavement revealing the expensive neon sign. Sam's Cycles was open for business.

Red cones were set up at either end of the street to block all but bike traffic that streamed into the restricted area and parked at angles forming an impromptu bike show. Engines were cut, leaving the patrons of Bridges and passersby with a slight ringing in their ears. The echo was soon replaced by classic Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis broadcast from Sam's state-of-the-art sound system.

As the tower clock struck noon, a catering truck backed a huge portable barbecue pit into the reserved space. The massive lid was raised to expose tender racks of baby back ribs, roasted chickens and mouthwatering grilled burgers. Tubs of baked beans and potato salad along with gallons of sweet iced tea covered the serving tables that flanked the pit.

Sam shook hands and accepted good-luck claps on the back as folks lined up to enjoy the hearty
feast. He couldn't resist an occasional glance up the exterior stairway. With all the excitement out front, very few signs of life remained on the second floor. Just as he'd planned.

With an oddly troubled heart, he realized his carefully executed mission was accomplished.

He made his way past the throng of well-wishers into the interior of the shop. The black-and-white checkerboard tile floor, flashy orange walls and neon-rimmed showroom windows were a classic setting for the pristine bikes, display cabinets filled with after-market parts and racks of T-shirts. At this moment he'd expected to be filled with smug pride. Instead he felt a lump of guilt the size of Dallas settling into the pit of his stomach.

“I suppose you're pleased with yourself.” Tara stood with arms crossed just inside the door to his small office.

“Well, good afternoon, Rusty.” He let his gaze sweep over her, approving for once of the black lace that contrasted with her beautiful fair skin. “May I offer you something to eat?”

“You know very well that I have plenty of food upstairs.”

He caught the quiver in her chin as she jutted it a fraction higher to cover her distress.

“Why would I know anything about your plans? You never made any effort to discuss them with me,” he challenged.

“I left a dozen messages for you this week. I didn't have a phone number to reach you and nobody seemed to know where you were.” Her cheeks began to color with emotion.

“I've been back for two days,” he insisted.

“Yes, I know, sneaking past your ‘guards' in the alley in the morning and leaving at who knows what hour under the cover of night.” Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “You did this on purpose just to spoil my plans.”

“Kinda like you spoiled mine?”

She dropped her arms to her sides, her shoulders and chin sagging in defeat. “I should have seen this coming. I knew all along you were only doing this to get even with me.”

“That's where you're wrong,” he continued the lie. “I'm in it for the chance to rebuild my life in this community and I intend to be successful. If you're not, that's your own fault. And if I enjoy a little payback along the way, I'll consider it icing on the cake.”

“Well—” she turned to go “—I'll leave you to savor your dessert.”

The thick auburn braid trailed down the row of covered buttons, her creamy skin peeking demurely through the heavy lace.

Sam closed the door behind her and flopped into his desk chair. It wasn't supposed to be like this. On his day of triumph, he should be handing out his Houston business cards, flaunting his success. In
stead, he was perpetuating the simplistic persona he'd inhabited for over a month. He steepled his fingers and rested his chin against them to reevaluate his plan.

 

“I've been such a fool,” Tara insisted. She soaked up the dribble of tears, careful not to smear her mascara. She and Lacey were pressed together in Bridges's small restroom.

“Why? Because you trusted him to do the right thing? And because you did everything possible to make amends with the folks here?” Lacey patted her friend's back. “Honey, that's not foolish, that's honorable.”

“Yeah, well, honorable is a luxury I can't afford right now. Everything I have is at stake and my customers are out in the street eating barbecue courtesy of Sam's Cycles.”

She gave a final noisy blow and dropped her tissue into the trash. With Lacey close behind, Tara returned to the cashier's counter.

“Look at this,” she ordered. Both heads bent over the register receipts. “We've barely made enough to cover the coffee grounds and the day's revenue has already peaked,” she fumed.

“I don't know what makes you say a thing like that,” a voice called from the doorway. “We're not the Rockefellers but last time I checked my bank statement I could still afford a book and a cup of
decaf.” Ward Carlton entered the room, a sight for sore eyes.

Tara hurried to hug her new friend, determined not to burst into fresh tears.

“Where's Walter?” she asked, looking past Ward for his twin.

“Oh, he'll be on up in a minute. He's downstairs with our womenfolk. They couldn't resist takin' a gander at those fancy bikes. Walter thinks he might like to have him one.”

Ward strolled toward the saloon bar turned coffee counter. “Didn't I tell you this old piece was perfect for this spot?” He slid a gnarled hand across the polished surface. “She cleaned up real well.” He turned and winked at Tara

“With a lot of help from me,” she countered.

“Well, God helps those that help themselves, so I'd say you're due for a little interest on your investment.” He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Don't you worry, little girl. You're gonna be just fine.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor and cleared her throat.

“So,” he spoke to the young lady behind the counter. “What does an old man have to do to get a fancy cup of coffee around here?”

“Make mine a double shot. And we'll take some of that quiche before it's all gone.” Walter and two ladies crossed the floor to join them.

“Excellent suggestion,” Lacey answered from the buffet table, as she readied a plate for each of the newcomers.

Ward made introductions as the quartet returned from their break and launched into a lively Irish jig. The twins' silver-haired wives, clutching their plates and designer bags, began to circle the room admiring the unique furnishings and wide variety of books and collectibles.

Tara was refilling a pastry tray when the door opened to admit a dozen women outfitted in boots, tight jeans and T-shirts and a wild assortment of leather accessories. The primly dressed Carlton wives turned to stare at the group as they drifted into the room.

“Welcome to Bridges. May I serve you ladies some fresh fruit?” Tara was quick to offer.

“Oh, would you? I'd love something besides barbecue and potato salad for a change,” one admitted. “Don't Texans know there's life apart from beef and spuds?”

“Please, help yourselves,” Lacey encouraged.

The women swarmed the buffet table in response, cooing their approval of the meal.

And as they ate, they shopped.

 

As night fell, a country and western band in the gazebo on the square struck up a rousing Texas two-step. Tiny white lights tucked among the branches
twinkled by the thousands as couples gathered around to listen to them play. Spirits in the small town were higher than they'd been in years, thanks to one man.

Sam Kennesaw.

He admired the neon sign above his door.
Sam's Cycles
was scripted in his very own handwriting. It wasn't how he'd intended to make his mark on Beardsly, but it was as rewarding as his name above a classroom doorway any day.

At that moment he made a decision. He was going to stay. For a little while longer, anyway.

He glanced at his watch, knowing his chance to atone was ticking away. Bridges would close any minute and Tara would slip out the handicapped entrance to her car on the side street. He took the wide staircase two steps at a time, his heavy boots announcing his arrival.

“Come on in and browse. We'll be closing soon but there's still cappuccino if you're interested,” Tara called from her crouched position behind the bar.

“I'm interested, but not in coffee,” he drawled. “I've got something to say.”

Her head popped into view, azure eyes wide with surprise over the identity of her late visitor. Then the eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“If you've come to gloat, don't bother.” She rounded the counter, drying her hands on a white
cotton apron. “We managed to rally despite your best efforts to spoil my grand opening.”

“Is that so?” he asked.

“And, believe it or not, some of my best clients turned out to be your biker friends.”

“Hmm,” he fingered a large sold tag on the Victorian desk. “No wonder my sales were low today. The women had the checkbooks in their purses and they were up here all afternoon.”