Chapter 11
“Oh my,” Lesley whispered to herself.
S.W. Thomas had drawn her great aunt? Surely not the S.W. Thomas.
She flipped through the book again, searching for another entry. An old picture fell onto her lap. A black and white photo of Myrtle as a girl. The same odd sensation from earlier tingled in the back of her mind again. Anxious to see if her aunt met Samuel again, and if he was indeed who she thought he was, she thumbed through the pages once more…when the bulb in the lamp burned out.
“Crap.”
In the dark, she processed what she’d read. First, this man tried to kill Myrtle, then her aunt wanted to see him again. Lesley didn’t know what to make of the entry, her aunt’s past, or this S.W. Thomas. Were they both crazy? Did they become lovers? Her brain rattled at warp speed, and she wished she’d paid more attention in art history class. Wouldn’t she remember seeing her aunt’s face in an art book?
Surrounded by darkness, she took that as a cue to set the Bible aside and get some sleep. She fluffed the too thin pillow again. The overused cotton reminded her more of a piece of paper than a head cushion, and a two by four would have proved more comfortable than this couch.
Lesley tossed and turned, her mind not willing to slow down. She had to tell John about what she’d read. Maybe he would know more about her aunt’s past.
Tomorrow.
Just like Myrtle, she had her own man to meet. Probably the most stubborn human being she’d ever come in contact with in her entire life. She didn’t know whether to kiss or kick him half the time, and the thought of spending the afternoon with a horde of children celebrating his daughter’s birthday gave her the shakes. Why had she agreed to go?
She turned on her side and closed her eyes. A smile formed as she conjured a delightful thought. By this time tomorrow, she’ll see some of John’s bare skin, wet. There would be no more guessing what was under that shirt of his…she’d know.
Lesley closed her eyes and drifted off into an unexpected, blissful sleep.
****
John rapped his knuckles on the old Rosalyn Manor door. No one answered. He tried his luck with the knob. The wooden frame made a creaking sound as the door swung open.
Someone must be up for the door to be unlocked.
He balanced the coffee cups and bagels in his hands as he walked down the corridor and into the living area to find Lesley sound asleep, her body sprawled on the couch.
Apparently, not the princess.
Her hair hung loose and splayed across the pillow like sunshine, while her face still had some of that dirt from the night before. Her Christmas tree pajama shirt rode above her navel, and a flat stomach peeked out to say hello. Her morning look was one he could get used to. Well, besides the dirt.
Too soon, man. He shook his head. Way too soon.
John tossed the bag of bagels on her stomach, partially to wake her and partially to cover her up. He didn’t need something else rising to say hello.
“Princess,” he said as the bag made contact with her skin. “Rise and shine.”
She scrunched her lids and rubbed them with her thumb and forefinger before she opened one eye to stare at him. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
He pushed her legs over to sit at the end of the sofa. “We’ve got work to do. Wake up. It’s almost seven.”
“It’s Saturday.” She rubbed her lids again then her temples. Greenish-brown grit flaked off her face. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking the day off? Getting ready for the party?”
“The party isn’t until one. We have plenty of time if we get started now. Let’s get moving.” He thrust a coffee cup her way. “Here.”
She sat up, and the bag of bread rolled into her lap. “What’s this?” She pointed to the pastries as she grabbed the mug.
“Bagels. Eat one, get dressed, and let’s get moving. And for God’s sakes, wash your face. I’ll start loading up a pile of stuff left over from yesterday.”
She reached inside the bag and shoved a chunk of bread in her mouth. “Stop buying me bread,” she said around a mouthful of bagel. “I don’t usually eat carbs.”
Ha! Doesn’t eat carbs? He’d seen her scarf down a muffin, pizza, and now this bagel. “Let me guess…”
“What?” She licked the butter off her finger.
He pointed to her hand. “You don’t eat butter either.”
“How’d you know?” She stuffed another giant piece of the floured disk in her mouth.
“Lucky guess, I suppose.”
She propped her head on the back of the sofa, closed her eyes, and smiled while she chewed like she was in some sort of dough heaven.
“Happy?”
“Mmm…hmm.” She nodded her head.
Damn if his lips didn’t turn up at her delight.
No. They had work to do. He was her contractor. He couldn’t enjoy any of her delights. Not now, not ever.
“Well eat up, princess. Time to get to work.”
Popping the rest of the bagel in her mouth, she opened her eyes, peeking in the brown bag, spotting the other bagels. “There are three more.”
“I thought Bea and Leo would want one, and the other is mine.”
Her gaze shot back to him, and she looked as if someone had stolen her puppy. “Oh…right.”
Damn it. She wanted another bagel. His bagel.
“Go ahead,” he all but sighed.
“No, I couldn’t. It’s yours.”
He waved a hand at her. “Take it.” Didn’t matter that he was starving and that he hadn’t eaten since their late pizza lunch the day before, or that the smell of the bagels all the way from Emma’s shop to the manor had his mouth watering. He should have eaten his in the truck. Next time, he’d make sure to buy more food to feed the hungry, grit-faced princess.
She had it in her mouth before the words, “Thank you,” formed on her lips. Crumbs fell down her chin and onto her pajamas and the sofa, which made him realize she wasn’t sleeping in her bed.
“Why aren’t you in your room, slumbering on your new mattress?”
“Bea needed it more than me.” She rolled her neck from side to side. “But, I’m going to have to get another new pillow. These headaches are awful.”
He didn’t think about Bea and Leo when they were furniture shopping. It made sense if Myrtle’s mattress had been uncomfortable, then theirs would be, too…which would be the exact reason she volunteered to sleep in the living room.
What a caring princess. But he already knew that.
And even though Lesley’s budget pinched at the seams, without good mattresses, there was no way she could run a bed and breakfast.
“Well, then, eat up, get up, and let’s go back to the furniture store.” And Emma’s. He had to get some food.
“No.” She shook her head. “There is no need for that. I’ll sleep on the sofa for a while. It’s not a bother, really.”
He looked over the old couch. Springs stuck up through the worn fabric, two of which were poking him right in his ass. The cushions were about as soft as a bed of bricks. There was no way she could sleep on this another night.
“You’re not sleeping on this couch. Besides, you can’t run a bed and breakfast without beds, anyway.”
“The budget’s too tight.”
“We’ll make it work. With Emma offering to help, that’ll save you some money.” He patted her leg. “Now, get up, let’s get moving,” he repeated.
“Fine. You’re right.” She nodded.
He gave her a sly smile. “I usually am.”
She rolled her eyes as a soft tilt touched her lips. Her gaze moved over, and he followed her line of vision to his hand. He still gripped her knee.
No touching the boss. Quickly, he pulled away and diverted his gaze to the floor, and the Bible. “You got it open?” He pointed to the book, needing the change of subject.
She bent to retrieve the leather-bound tome from the floor and placed it on the sofa table. “Yeah, and you’re never going to believe what I found.”
“What?” More “faith” he didn’t believe in?
“Aunt Myrtle hid journal entries inside.”
“Well, at least it was good for something,” he muttered.
“What do you mean?” She narrowed her gaze. “What was good for something?”
“Never mind.” No sense in getting into a religious discussion. He reached for the book and flipped through the pages. “Did you read any of them?”
“Only one.” She took the Bible from his hand and flipped to an entry. “Myrtle met a man by the name of S.W. Thomas. Does that ring a bell to you?” She pointed to the writing on the page and angled the book toward him.
He stared at the letters. “S.W. Thomas? Wasn’t he a famous artist or something?”
“Exactly. You think it’s the same one?” She closed the journal and placed it back on the table with a plop.
“I have no idea, but wasn’t he from France? Why would a French artist be here in Georgia?” And with her Aunt Myrtle of all people?
“Good question, and I intend to find out.” She shot up. “But not today. Today, you’re right, we have mattresses to buy. I’ll get ready and grab my wallet.”
She ran toward the hallway, her pajama bottoms hugging her curves nicely. He hadn’t noticed that last night in the dark.
When she stopped and turned back around, he swiveled his head a little to the right and pretended he’d been staring at the cabinet beside her instead of her curvaceous behind.
“Hey, John?”
“Uh…yeah?” He refocused his gaze on her eyes.
Eyes only, big guy.
“Can I do my laundry at your house tonight? I really don’t have much left to wear.”
Laundry. He’d forgotten. This meant they would literally be spending the entire day together. But he had offered. “Yeah, sure.” He nodded reluctantly. “No problem.”
“Thanks.” She smiled again, and sauntered back to her room.
John glanced around the old house. He might as well get used to spending his days with her. Numbers rolled around in his head like dice as he tried to decide where to cut costs. Money was tight, but he could make it work. He had a strong hunch she needed this place to be remodeled as bad as he needed to be the one to remodel it. For the next few months, that’s all he would be doing, and damn it, if a small part of him wasn’t happy about it.
And not because of the money.
****
John rounded onto Main and glanced at the clock on the dash. Eleven thirty. He and Lesley had spent the whole morning testing different mattresses for the manor. Because of the fun they’d shared mattress hoping, he’d lost all track of time before he realized he had to go. He still needed to pick up decorations for the party, and with only an hour and a half left to get everything done his anxiety rose. He tensely tapped the steering wheel with his fingers.
What in the world did a six-year-old girl want at her birthday party? He had no idea. And more disturbing than picking out decorations, his lack of preparation, or time to do so was the fact that he’d enjoyed shopping with Lesley. Shopping. With Lesley. He shook the ludicrous thought aside.
“Do you mind stopping at the store?” she asked. “I need to get a bathing suit for the party.”
He tightened his twitching clutch on the steering wheel. Seeing her midriff earlier was about as much as he could take for one day. He didn’t think he could add legs to the mix. And even though her black, spandexy pants she wore now hugged every curve in her legs, at least those said pants covered those said legs.
“Sure.” John kept his eyes straight ahead. “I need to pick up some things anyway. Can you help me pick out decorations for the party?”
“You haven’t got the party favors yet?” Her voice hitched.
He turned to face her to find her eyes open wide in concern. He shrugged. “No. Is that a problem?”
“John, we don’t have much time.”
That, he’d already realized.
She held her phone up and glanced at it. “It’s almost noon. How many kids are you expecting?”
“No idea.”
She placed her device back in her purse. “How many invitations did you send out?”
Invitations? Why did he need to send out invitations? He glanced back at the road. “Well…none.”
“What do you mean, ‘well…none?’ ”
“You really don’t have to send out invites here. Parties go by word of mouth.”
“So, you’re telling me the whole town of Bakersville could show up at your daughter’s birthday party?”
“The whole town won’t be there, but people will show up.” He glanced back at her, his vision hovering between her and the road.
Lesley bit her lip. A nervous twitch he noticed.
“Okay, then we’ll just do cookies, unless Emma is doing cookies.”
Where did the idea for cookies come from? Maybe she was a little bit like her aunt. Cuckoo.
“What do you mean, cookies?”
Her sigh filled the cab of the truck. “We have to have a party favor for the kids, but since we don’t know how many are coming, cookies are the easiest. You know, those ones with the icing and sprinkles? They’re cheap and taste great. I’m sure they’ll have some cellophane bags we can buy, and I’ll just twist tie them inside. So…is Emma bringing cookies?”
He stared back at her. Lesley tapped her foot on the floorboard, a look of get it done crossed her features. He wished she had that look when it came to clearing the manor.
“Uh, I don’t think so,” he finally said. “She didn’t mention cookies.”
“Okay good.” She gave one curt nod and let out another long sigh. Of relief?
Party favors? Cookies? While she might feel relief, he didn’t. Since when was a child’s birthday party such a big deal? Then again, he’d always had someone else to plan the parties while he’d just shown up.
Perhaps she wasn’t crazy after all.
And perhaps, since she offered to help him, he should offer to help her by doing her laundry for her. His groin tightened. Okay, maybe not. The thought of washing her delicates was a little more than he could handle right now.
He tried to focus on the tail lights in front of him. “Thanks for your help with this,” he said for no other purpose than to get his mind off her delicates. “I’m usually not the one doing all the planning.”
“No problem.”
He stole another glance at her.
She continued to gnaw at her bottom lip. She had pouty lips. He moved his gaze higher. She scrunched her eyes as if deep in thought.
“What’s on your mind, princess?”
“I was just thinking about the last birthday party I threw.”
“Big hit?” He stopped at a stop sign and waited for the other cars to take their turns passing.
“No.” She gave a slight chuckle. “Not really.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Surprise party for my husband…except the surprise was on me.”
That didn’t make any sense. “Yeah? How so?”
“He thought I was out of town, and he showed up at our house with his boss.” Instead of meeting his gaze, she looked out the window.
A car honked at him to go. He raised his hand in a slight wave and stared back at the road in front of him. “This boss was uh…a…female?”
“You guessed it.” She sniffled.
Damn, why did he have to ask? Etiquette told him to say something, anything, but his gut churned like he’d swallowed a cup of sour milk, which would have been better than approaching this topic. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
“Yeah, it was.” Her voice came out barely more than a whisper.
“You know.” He shifted in his seat. “I never understood why people cheat. It’s not right, and it’s something I’d never do. A real man wouldn’t. I believe if you love a person enough to marry them, then you should respect them enough to be faithful. Going outside the marriage is never going to solve something that’s broken inside. You deserve better.” All of that was true. No one deserved to be betrayed like that, and she did deserve more. She might be a bit different than he was used to, but she seemed good nonetheless. Despite her city slicker car and clothes.
“Thanks for what you’re trying to do. And, I agree, cheating is wrong.” She nodded and stared at her hands in her lap. “But, I guess not everyone else does.”
Her voice trembled, proving the conversation had upset her. His gut churned again.
“So, you want to talk more about it?” He cringed. What was the etiquette to get off this conversation? Changing the subject to the weather seemed a little callous.
“Not really.”
Whew. Weather it was. “It’s a—”
“Apparently, he’d been cheating for two years, and I never knew,” she stated, her voice low as she shook her head then looked back out the window.
Shit. She was talking about it. He should have shut his big mouth.
John gripped the steering wheel tighter. “So, is that why you stayed in a motel? Because you and your husband separated?”
“Yes, and not separated, divorced.” She said the d word with such finality.
“You didn’t fight him for the house?”
“I don’t want his money. Especially after I realized what had been happening while he earned it. Sad thing is, I even thought we were ready to start a family.”
No money? Kids? This princess had more layers than an onion.
“I thought you didn’t want kids.”
“Peter didn’t. I was open to it at the time. I thought if we had kids, he might come home more. He seemed to be drowning himself in his work. Claimed he wanted to rise to the top to support us. God, I was so stupid.”
“Lesley, it’s not stupid to believe your husband.” In fact, he found the idea heartwarming that she would have such trust in her spouse. Sandra always believed him and in him.
“It is when you aren’t hurting for money. He didn’t need to rise to the top. We were doing just fine. More than fine, and I was dumb enough to accept whatever lies he told me. I thought being married meant our love was strong, and I truly believed expanding our family might have helped him keep some sort of balance.” She finally turned away from the window and glanced at him. “And you know what makes it even worse?”
Worse? The expression of torment on her face caused his churning gut to tighten like a rock. He stared straight ahead, and avoided the agony in her hazel eyes. “No, what?”
“Never did I suspect him of cheating or doubt our love. Not one time, until he showed up at our house with her. Pretty naïve, huh? I never saw the signs.”
“It’s not naïve to believe in your marriage, Lesley.”
“Yeah? Well, it sure felt like it when I, along with all our friends, saw his affair in the flesh. And to think I thought I would make a good mother. That’s even sillier. With my lack of experience with children, I’d be a terrible mother.”
This was the same nonsense she talked about at the pizza parlor. She’d be a great mom.
“I guess I owe him a thank you for not allowing us to bring a child into our messy relationship.”
A quick glance her way showed a tear threatening to fall down her cheek. Oh, damn. Not the water works.
“Listen, I understand having a kid with him wasn’t what was best for you, but you can’t let one bad thing ruin who you are or who you are meant to be. Being a parent is awesome, and scary, and tiring, and about a million other things, but I can’t imagine my life without my kids. Don’t give up on being a mother if you really want to be one someday. I meant what I said at Preppy’s—you’d be a great mom.”
“You think so?” she asked, her voice low as she cut her glossy gaze to him.
“Yeah, I do.” He wanted to reach out, rub a hand over her leg, pull her into a side hug and offer her some physical sort of comfort. Instead, he forced his hands to stay on the wheel and kept his focus on the road ahead of him.
“Thanks, John.”
“No problem.”
His hunch had been right. For her own self-esteem, she needed the manor running as much as he needed the work, and he was going to make sure he gave her that. He couldn’t save his wife, but rebuilding a home, helping Lesley start over, those were things he could do.
The supermarket sat right ahead. He pulled into the parking lot, glad for the chance to change the subject. “We’re here.”
“Great.” Her voice rose to its normal tone as she dabbed her cheek. “I hope you have your running shoes on.”
She slid out of the truck and stood by his vehicle, waiting on him. When he rounded the hood, the determined, confident Lesley stared back at him. Just the way he liked to see her.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Lesley had him sprinting through the supermarket like they were a couple of trainees for the Boston marathon. A little breathless, he placed his items on the checkout conveyor behind hers: a few T-shirts and shorts. Work clothes, no doubt, but it wasn’t those garments that had him worried. It was the string bikini on top of those clothes. His heart rate increased as a slight panic seeped into his chest.
If he believed in God, he would have asked for his help. Bakersville wasn’t ready for the likes of Lesley DeLoach in a bikini, much less one with so few threads. Inviting her had turned out to be a very bad idea after all.
He focused on breathing, in and out, and stared straight ahead. She was just a single, attractive woman around his age who would be donning a bikini soon. He could handle it.
Not.