The Cottage on Pumpkin and Vine (20 page)

Chapter 6

S
idney drove blindly through town, not bothering with the GPS, breathing hard as she looked determinedly for a street named All Souls Avenue.

“How hard can it be?” she yelled at the windshield. “It's a town of fifteen damn people!”

She swiped angrily at two more hot tears as they left her eyes, hating every second of the weakness she felt coursing through her veins. She was a strong woman now. No more of that insecure twit she used to be. The one who fawned over Caleb James like a starved puppy. Falling into his arms and his mouth on graduation night, buying the body language and the sexy words. Believing his lies that he wanted her with him, that he was serious.

Caleb James. Sawyer Finn. Whatever the hell he was calling himself. It was all a farce. And the fact that it had chased her out of the Rose Cottage like her ass was on fire just set her belly to boiling. Nothing was supposed to undo her like that. Ever again. That was why she was still single. No one got under her skin. No one could hurt her like that again.

“And why the hell am I crying about it now?” she yelled. Again. “Ugh!”

It was one damn night on the heels of an intense year.
Twelve
years ago. To look at her now, one would think she was engaged to the guy. Last week. Good grief, this was ridiculous.

“Get it together,” she breathed, wiping another stray tear away. “Get it fucking together.” She had a job to do. She didn't need to think about how he looked or the expression on his face or any of the other 459 little details she could obsess over if she let herself.

“What the hell street am I on?” she muttered, thinking maybe she did need to pull over and consult her GPS. But her car was making that weird clacking noise it had made on the way in, and she was a little afraid to stop. She might not get going again. “Seedling Street,” she noted, passing a sign. “All Souls!”

It was straight ahead in front of her, and Sidney almost did a happy dance right there in the car. Thank God. Something else to focus on.

Turning onto All Souls Avenue, which was lined with a variety of pumpkins in front of each door, she glanced left and right, looking for the soda shop. She hadn't thought to ask if it still had a sign. Or what the sign might say. And she didn't remember what the name of the shop was, only that the address was 163. Okay. Maybe she could have studied the file a little closer before hitting the road, or had the professionalism to bring it with her, but she'd kind of planned on doing that while freshening up in her room before leaving. Which didn't happen. Because—
ugh
. The way she bolted out of there, she was lucky she'd had her damn wallet with her.

So she'd be winging it. With hopefully at least—please tell her she had a pad of paper somewhere in the car. God, she wasn't starting this off very well.

A picture of an ice cream soda in a tall glass caught her eye to the right, and she tapped the brakes in relief and pulled into a parking spot. A tiny 163 showed above the glass door, but it certainly wouldn't have been enough to wave and get her attention. Blowing out a breath, she rooted around in the console, found the small spiral she'd once used to track her mileage, a pen she tested quickly for ink, and set them next to her wallet. And the little skeleton key on the rose key chain.

Oh, this day.

Makeup—that would have been a grand plan. She took a quick look in the rearview mirror and did a swipe-and-repair job on her eyes. Did she look like a lawyer people could count on to take care of business?

“I look like a war orphan,” she said to her reflection.

One more deep breath, and she cut the engine and palmed the keys, praying it would start again. She got out and patted the hood on her way to the door, trying not to smell the aroma of burning something-or-other. Surely her car wouldn't do that to her. It had gotten her this far.

Grasping the old door handle, she pulled it open.

“Mr. Teasdale?” she called, remembering the old woman's words. Had she checked up on her? How on earth did she know whom Sidney was there to see? Then again, small towns did tend to know everything. About everyone. She certainly knew that.

“Yes?” came an answering elderly voice.

“Mr. Teasdale, I'm Sidney Jensen?” Sidney called again, stepping inside to way too much heat. “From Finley and Blossom—er—Orchid's firm?” And why was she posing everything as a question like a first-year associate?
Woman up, Sidney.

“I know who you are,” said the old man, coming around a corner, a cane taking on the brunt of the weight on his right side. His tone was gruff, but his eyes gave away a softer side. They were light blue and surrounded by wrinkles that proved a lifetime of laughter. A full head of white hair, meticulously groomed, and starched and ironed jeans proved he was related to Orchid. “You're the one my niece sent so that she didn't have to come trudging over here.”

“No, actually, I offered,” Sidney said, feeling the odd urge to defend her boss. “I needed the brownie points,” she lied with a wink. “Still working my way up, you know.”

She discreetly fanned herself with her blouse. He must have had the heat cranked up to ninety in there. A bit overkill for the low damp fifties that was outdoors.

Besides that, it was charming. An olden-days feel to the ambience, antique fixtures and an oversized soda fountain bar, round tables and wooden chairs, a chalkboard menu. It was adorable. And closed.

“So,” Sidney began, looking around. “This place is amazing. Did it just not make it, or you closed on purpose?”

“I'm Arthur Teasdale,” he said slowly, holding out a hand.

“Sorry,” Sidney said, shaking his hand and eternally grateful he didn't grasp hers as if it was a wet fish. “Very nice to meet you. Orchid had all nice things to say.”

“No, she didn't,” he said, propping his cane against a chair, and pulling out another to sit in. He gestured for Sidney to do the same. “I'm surprised she even said we're related.”

“Well,” Sidney said, putting on what she hoped was a believable smile. “She's a busy lady. I hope to be as good as her one day.”

“Don't hope for that,” he said. “Don't turn into her.”

Sidney started, surprised. This was his niece he was talking about. “Why?”

“Because she lost her soul along the way,” he said, settling in with a long sigh. “Once upon a time, she was a sweet, funny little girl. Then my sister and her husband got some money and got snobby, and passed that crap on to Orchid.” He scoffed. “Smith, by the way.”

“What?”

“Her last name,” he said. “It's not
Blossom
. It's Smith.”

Sidney's eyebrows raised, and she laughed, the feeling relaxing her muscles again. “Seriously?”

“She changed it to that ridiculous name before she went to law school,” he said, waving his hand. “Guess she thought it made her stand out more. Look all feminist or some such crap.”

“Oh, wow,” Sidney said, covering her mouth.

“Yeah,” he said. “The things you learn, huh?” He pushed back his chair a little to spread his legs. “So, to answer your question, my wife died. That's why I closed this place.”

“Oh, shit,” Sidney said, clamping her lips closed on the word.
Thinking before speaking. Professionalism. Not cursing in front of clients.
“I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” he said. “Wasn't your fault, and I'm sure Orchid left that out, too. If she even remembered. No, God wanted my Layla back, unfortunately before me, and so she had to go.” He rubbed at his face, not a whisker to be seen. “But this was her baby, not mine. Her passion. She had a way with it. With people.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don't have that skill.”

Sidney chuckled. “I know the feeling.”

“I just didn't have it in me after she was gone,” he said. “I tried, but—” He shook his head, and Sidney could see the sadness in spite of what he attempted to cover up. “So I just want to be done with it. I'm selling everything in here for whatever I can get, and moving on. Or if I can't move on—to pay the damn rent.”

“So you're stuck in the contract?” she asked.

“Crane,” he said, the sharp focus coming back to his eyes with the name. “Asshole has no compassion, no soul, no anything. All he cares about is his monthly rent.”

“Crane,” Sidney repeated, wishing like hell she'd brought the file so she could look remotely in the know. “I don't have your file in front of me, remind me of his name and—”

Out of the corner of her eye, an old green pickup truck slow-rolled past. One she'd seen—damn it, it had to be his. It had been hooked to that low-boy. Sidney felt her heart speed up like a jet readying for takeoff.

“Edmund Crane,” Mr. Teasdale said, loud enough to be heard over the blood rushing through her ears. “He's kind of a business mogul around here. Owns a bunch of land and buildings. Doesn't give a rat's butt about the people who pay him to use them. My wife had patience with him. I don't.”

Sidney rubbed the goose bumps down on her arms that had nothing to do with being cold. Not in this building.

“Known him since grade school,” he said. “He was an ass then, too. Always stealing people's milk.”

“And where can I find him?” she asked.

“You don't have that information?” he asked. “I e-mailed it all to Orchid.”

Yes. Yes she did. Back at the cottage on her bed, where she left it when she bailed like a hormonal teenager. A place she didn't want to go back to right now—although it would be the time to do it while
he
was out driving around.

Why was he driving around?

Looking for her?

“Yes, but not with me,” she said. “It's back at the cottage, where I'm staying. If you can tell me, it'll save me a little time. I can drive there straight from here.”

“I can save you more than that,” he said. “It's right across the street there.” He pointed a slightly gnarled finger. “Catty-corner over to the left. Says ‘EC Consolidated' on the window.”

“He's across the—” The green truck came back the other way, turned around, and pulled in next to her.
Fuck. Is he—fuck
. She swallowed hard, and wiped her hand over her damp forehead. It was the heat. That was all it was. She fanned her blouse again. “Across the street, and he won't meet with you?”

“Always conveniently gone,” Mr. Teasdale said. “Or busy. Or just plain tells me a deal's a deal. He's done that twice.”

“That's ridiculous,” Sidney said. “Any contract can be gotten out of. Especially something as simple as a lease. I mean, he can impose a penalty for early departure, but he can't legally force you to stay.”

“Well, good luck finding him,” he said.

The door pulled open, and Sidney felt her throat close up. Seriously? She was working. He was tracking her down while she was—

“Hey, Sawyer,” Mr. Teasdale said, pushing to his feet.

“Hey, Mr. T,” he said, holding out a palm as his eyes darted to Sidney. “Don't get up, I'll go get it.”

Sidney's head spun. He wasn't there for her. “It?”

“Sawyer's picking up an antique desk for me—son, you can't manhandle that thing on your own,” Mr. Teasdale said. “Why didn't you bring help?”

“My help isn't available till tomorrow,” he said, his voice muffled from wherever he'd disappeared to. “And I need them to help me with Amelia Rose's cornucopia.” He stuck his head back around a door frame. “I'm already bribing them with a six-pack,” he said on a grin. “Didn't think I should throw in an extra job.”

The grin made her fingertips go numb.

“You know Sawyer?” Mr. Teasdale asked, looking back at Sidney. “He works out at the cottage—didn't you say that's where you're staying? You kind of have that same accent, even. Where are you from?”

Know Sawyer? Hell no, she didn't know
Sawyer
.

“No, never met,” she said, hearing the nasty dripping from her tone.
People skills.
“But he looks a lot like a guy I used to know. A long time ago.”

“Well, they say we all have a double out there,” Mr. Teasdale said.

Sawyer walked back around and leveled a gaze at her, as she felt the sweat trickle down her spine.

“I'll say,” she said.

“Sawyer's indispensable around this town,” Mr. Teasdale said. “Seems like he's got a hand in helping everybody do everything. So, how do you like the Rose Cottage?” Mr. Teasdale asked.

She couldn't look away from him. From Sawyer. From the boy she knew who now stood maybe six feet from her, a man. Now there was no obsessing over the little details, now she was looking right at them. The dark eyes that still could root her to the floor. The tiny lines showing next to them. The hair that was a darker blond than it used to be. Her gaze dropped to his hands, where he crossed them over his chest. The hands were the same. She didn't let her gaze fall any further. She was having a hard enough time sucking in the hot air as it was.

“Um, it's—I really just got here, so I can't say,” she managed. “In fact, if I can track down Mr. Crane today, I probably won't have a reason to stay at all.”

“Oh, well, that's a shame,” Mr. Teasdale said. “Nice place. They say it's magic, you know.”

Sidney did a double take. “I'm sorry, what?”

“The house?” Mr. Teasdale said, nodding. “Yes ma'am. Interesting things happen there.”