The Sweetheart Secret Page 8

  Unless you counted three months ago. And last night. And the pizza. The tension between them as thick as wool.

  “Call me Greta, please. Mrs. Winslow makes me sound like I’m one step closer to being the Crypt Keeper.”

  “Greta it is, then.” Yes, indeed, she liked this woman. A smile found its way across Daisy’s face, and for the first time since she’d arrived in Rescue Bay, she began to think maybe her idea of starting over here wasn’t so crazy after all. At least for Emma. Daisy . . .

  Well, Daisy had never been much for putting down roots. At her age, maybe it was too late for the leopard to change her spots. Maybe she should just move on, find a new adventure, after Emma was settled and running the inn.

  “So, if you haven’t seen each other in a long time,” Greta began, interrupting Daisy’s thoughts, “how can you be husband and wife? A proper husband and wife, that is?”

  “It’s . . . complicated. And honestly, I’d rather it didn’t become public knowledge.” Though Daisy suspected Greta had already told half the town. So much for coming to Rescue Bay in a calm, deliberate manner.

  Ha. Nothing about Daisy had ever been calm or deliberate. Starting today—okay, tomorrow—she was going to aim for calm and deliberate. There was no sense in trying to get a fresh start if she kept making the same old mistakes of the past.

  Greta leaned over the paper that Daisy had spread across the table. “My, that is an awful lot of red. Are you looking for a job or giving the paper a little love?”

  Daisy’s bright crimson lipstick circles dotted the classifieds like giant measles. “Oh, that. I didn’t have a pen.”

  Greta fished in a tiny purse beside her and came up with a ballpoint that she handed to Daisy. On the navy-colored barrel sat a white text ad for Colt’s practice. Coincidence? Or hint?

  Greta leaned closer. “So, what kind of job are you looking for? I might be able to help.”

  “Anything, really. I’m not picky.” Given the few jobs Daisy had seen in the paper, “not picky” was going to have to become her life motto. She’d hoped to find something that would pay well, and not require being on her feet for twelve hours a day, but apparently not having a degree cut her chances of that to almost zero. “I’ve been a waitress and a delivery driver, a short order cook and pretty much anything they paid me to do. Anything legal, that is.”

  “Hmm . . . let me ponder on that.” Greta sat back against the bright blue-and-white-striped chair, a finger to her lips, while her gaze assessed Daisy. “Are you planning on staying in town long?”

  Greta was clearly fishing for information, Daisy realized. A little neighborly prying. “Just long enough,” Daisy said with a smile, “to finish what I started.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I moved here, thinking I’d reopen the Hideaway Inn with my cousin, but . . .” She sighed and closed up the paper. None of the jobs she’d seen paid enough to finance the loan, or to allow her to pay for the renovations on her own. Daisy needed to face reality. She’d bitten off more than she could chew. That’s what she got for being too impulsive. “I can’t get a loan to repair the inn without a job, and even if I did, I don’t know if I can afford the repayment schedule. The amount the contractor quoted me is way out of my range.”

  “Finally, something I can help with, and something I’d be delighted to be a part of.” Greta patted Daisy’s hand. “I know a contractor. He’s fair, honest, quite a good-looking man, too, and happens to be almost family.”

  “Almost family?”

  “He’s marrying Diana, who is my granddaughter-in-law-to-be’s sister.”

  Small town connections. Daisy bit back a laugh. “Luke’s fiancée’s sister?”

  “The exact one. She’s also the town veterinarian, and she runs the local animal shelter with Olivia. Oh, and if you know anyone looking for a pet, the shelter is having a little adoption fair in the park this Friday afternoon.”

  Greta seemed determined to get Daisy plugged into this town. Probably a good thing for someone looking to reopen a local business, but still a little overwhelming for someone who’d never been part of anything larger than an apartment-building Labor Day barbecue before. “I’d appreciate the recommendation for a contractor, Mrs. Winslow—”

  “Greta, please. Remember, I’m not old enough to be called Mrs. Winslow.”

  “Greta,” Daisy corrected with a smile, “but I can’t promise that I’m going to get the financing to pay for the work. I’ve run into a . . . snag with the bank, and I’m debating whether it’s just a sign that I’m doing the wrong thing.”

  Greta’s hand covered hers. “No, it’s a sign that you need to work harder, my dear. Everything worth having is worth fighting for.”

  If she had fought harder for Colt all those years ago, would they still be together? Or would she have realized sooner that they were a mistake that never should have been? And what if she fought like hell to save the Hideaway Inn, but never got her cousin back?

  “What if you fight,” Daisy said softly, “and still lose?”

  “Don’t let a little defeat stop you. My daddy always said that a closed door is really just an invitation to break in through the window.” Greta winked, then got to her feet. “So find yourself a window, my dear, and if you need to throw a brick through it, well, just make sure you sweep up any broken glass afterward. After all, you’re going to be keeping that contractor busy enough.”

  Eight

  As soon as that infernal woman pulled out of the driveway, Earl picked up the phone so he could get the hell out of here before that visiting nurse got it in her foolish head to come back—or worse, send reinforcements. The second the nurse had shown up, Earl was ready for her. Nothing said I’m not interested in being poked and prodded like a man on the porch with a twenty-two. The dust cloud from her hasty exit was just settling when the phone call connected. “Pete, it’s Earl. Need a favor.”

  Pete didn’t question. Never had, never would. Earl had worked on Pete’s fleet—if one could call three taxis for the only taxi service in Rescue Bay a fleet—for more than two decades. In twenty years, Pete had never lost a day of work, or a dollar of wages, because Earl had kept his good friend’s cars running in tip-top shape. “Be there in five minutes.”

  True to his word, Pete showed up, waiting in the drive, the bright yellow and white Taurus idling softly. Earl descended the few stairs of the bungalow, cursing that he had to grip the handrail. It was the little things that told a man he was getting old. The tremors that knocked a fresh cup of coffee to the floor. The shortness of breath after a walk in the summer heat. The trepidation about something as simple as descending a flight of stairs. He’d never been a man to rely on help from anyone or anything.

  And that—that was what pissed him off the most about his age. That he needed help. Earl Harper prided himself on being a man who paid his own bills, pulled up his own bootstraps, and ran his own ship. Now he was living in someone else’s house, following someone else’s orders, and waiting on someone else to come and tell him what to do all over again.

  He climbed into the cab and shut the door. Relief at being out of the house filled him, but was chased by the emptiness that followed Earl, no matter where he went or how hard he tried to escape. “Hey, Pete.”

  Pete tossed him a grin. “You know, you can sit up front.”

  “Feels more official this way.”

  Pete chuckled, then tugged his ball cap brim a little lower. “If there’s one thing you’ve never been, Earl Harper, it’s official.” He put the car in reverse and began to back out of the driveway. “Same destination?”

  Pete asked the question as if he didn’t know the answer. Maybe he thought it made Earl feel less pitiful that he’d been going to the same spot for the last seven hundred Wednesday afternoons and had yet to find what he was seeking.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

 
Pete just nodded and started driving. He kept up a constant patter of conversation as he wove his way through Rescue Bay’s streets, talking about his wife, his kids, his grandkids. Didn’t matter to Pete that Earl didn’t respond. Their decades-long friendship came with an understanding that if one man didn’t want to talk, the other just filled in the gaps. Earl had done a lot of chattering when Pete was going through his divorce, then he’d done a lot of listening when Pete and Colleen reunited. For the past fourteen years, though, Earl had done a lot of listening and not much talking.

  Finally, Pete pulled into a grassy lot, and shut off the car. He sat back, closed his eyes, and prepared to wait.

  Earl climbed out of the car and shut the door. His steps moved slow, but sure, guided by the memory of a well-worn path that he’d been traversing since he could walk. He’d come here with his grandfather, his father, and then his son and his grandsons. He knew every tree, every rock, every curve in the water. He knew the best spots for fishing and the best spots for thinking. And he knew the one spot that made his heart ache like a phantom limb.

  The birds chirped happy songs, flitting from tree to tree. A heron paused on the bank, alert and still. Earl eased onto a tree stump, his feet settling into a well-trampled space where the grass no longer grew. A fish flipped in the water, scaring the heron into flight, and sending a flutter of ripples across the lake’s placid surface.

  Earl sat on that stump until his legs grew numb. He sat there and he listened to the quiet song made by the trees and the wind. He sat there and he watched Mother Nature paint the world in blues and greens, then kiss it all with gold. He sat there until he couldn’t sit there anymore, because it hurt too much.

  Then he hung his head and he sat there some more, until tears moistened his cheeks and the day grew long. Peace stayed just out of reach, a fickle, mean mistress.

  * * *

  Break in through a window.

  Now that was something Daisy had experience with. Granted, not since she was a teenager trying to avoid getting caught coming home in the middle of the night, but still a skill she knew well.

  If your husband signs off on the loan, I could get this approved without a problem.

  Which meant she needed to find a way to convince her “husband” to remain married. And add his signature to some loan documents.

  Yeah, should be about as easy as negotiating peace in the Middle East. Considering Colt hadn’t answered her calls, and hadn’t come by the motel yet to see her, or called her cell. Clearly, he wasn’t planning on negotiating.

  Last night . . . well, last night had been crazy and wonderful and bittersweet. She’d enjoyed stepping into that homey world, where there were squabbles over what to eat for dinner and who did the dishes. For a moment, Daisy had felt . . . warm.

  Not just when Colt was standing close, either. That hadn’t been warm—that had been hot and tempting and a thousand other things Daisy was determined to avoid. She needed to get involved with Colt about as much as she needed a wolverine for a pet.

  He was no longer the Colt she had fallen in love with and never would be again. He was the kind of man she ran from—buttoned up and organized and dull.

  Okay, maybe not dull, but not the Colt she remembered.

  The man Daisy had known years ago had been a risk taker. The kind of guy who would hop on his motorcycle, blast out of Florida with Daisy on the back, and elope, without a second thought. She had no idea where that man had gone, but if there was a chance she could get through to that side of him long enough to convince him to sign off on the loan—

  Well, she was going to pull out all the negotiation tactics she knew.

  Which was what had Daisy making two stops that Thursday morning. For ammunition that she knew Colt Harper would not be able to ignore. And a little secret weapon.

  A little after nine, she parked in front of his office, and strode inside the squat brick building, a white box in one hand. The tidy, tastefully decorated waiting room was empty. A blessing, to be sure, since the last thing Daisy wanted to do was interrupt another appointment and really aggravate Colt. Daisy plastered a smile on her face, then strode up to the reception desk.

  Frannie got to her feet, putting out her hands. The tall, buxom, auburn-haired woman cut an imposing figure, and her stony face said this was her front office, her domain, and there was no way Daisy was gaining the upper hand again. “I can’t let you back there, unless you have an appointment. Direct orders from Doc Harper.”

  “I totally understand. Frannie, is it? I was out of line the other day. Way out of line. I stopped by to apologize.” Daisy lifted the lid, and tipped the box forward a little. “And what better way to do that than with beignets? They’re a specialty in New Orleans.”

  “Beignets?” Frannie’s eyes grew round. She leaned in, inhaled the scent of fresh baked goods. “Oh my. Where did you find those in Rescue Bay?”

  “I asked the local bakery to do me a favor and make some.” Actually, begged them to do her a favor was a more apt description. She’d paid twice as much for the beignets because they’d been a last minute request, but if a few dollars of pastries helped Daisy save the Hideaway Inn, then it was a worthy investment. A business expense, of sorts.

  Daisy moved the box closer to Frannie. “I have been craving them ever since I left Louisiana. They smell so divine, I almost ate one in the car, but then that wouldn’t be much of an apology gift, would it?”

  “They’re still warm?” Frannie shot a glance at the exam room area, then back toward the beignets. Melting confectionary sugar added a sheen to the top of the fried dough, and the sweet, warm scent wafted temptation across the desk. She bit her lip, considering. “No one is due in for the next few minutes. And it is almost time for my coffee break. I’d hate for these to get cold. Why don’t we go back to the break room and just have a couple bites?”

  “I think that is a brilliant idea.”

  Frannie opened the door separating the waiting area from the exam rooms and waved Daisy down the green carpeted hall and into a small room at the back of the building. A round laminate table took up the center of the space, while boxes of supplies lined the shelves against the far wall. White, sterile, and boring, the break room had all the personality of a ream of paper.

  A young woman dressed in nurse’s scrubs came into the room. “Oh, wow. Dessert?”

  “Don’t tell Doc Harper, Suzie. He’ll have a cow.” Frannie shut the door behind the nurse, then opened a cabinet, withdrew some paper plates and a plastic knife, then sat down at the table. “Just one, really fast. Doc Harper has this thing about eating healthy. He’s not a fan of the carbohydrate, and he’s very anti fried food. Lectures everyone about what it does to your arteries. But what he doesn’t know we eat can’t hurt us.” Frannie had a beignet halfway to the plate when the break room door opened.

  “Frannie, are we—” Colt’s words jerked to a halt.

  Daisy did a slow, easy pivot toward him, and waited while his gaze took her in. She gave him time, a couple heartbeats, for the full effect of the deep green dress she’d bought in a local dress shop to work its magic. The jersey material fit her like a glove, curving in all the right places, then showing a slight peek of thigh with a bias cut slit up one side. She’d swept her hair up into a bun, then released a few tendrils, to give it that messy, tumbled look. It wasn’t a brick through a window, but it was as close as Daisy could get.

  “Hi, Colt,” she said, as friendly as a long-time neighbor. “I didn’t mean to bother you again. I was just stopping by to apologize to Frannie for bursting in the other day. It was wrong of me and I brought her a little something to make up for my craziness.”

  “Well . . . thank you.” But he scowled as he said it, clearly not pleased to see her in his break room. Despite the dress and the hair.

  Okay, so maybe he wasn’t as attracted to her as she thought. Maybe she didn’t make his hea
rt skip a beat anymore. Maybe she’d just compounded her problems instead of making them better. Or maybe he just needed a little . . . sweetening up.

  “I felt so bad, I brought along a little New Orleans apology.” Daisy held the box toward him. “Beignets.”

  For a moment, she thought she’d made a mistake. The scowl lingered on his face, then, one degree at a time, his gaze softened, his features lightened and yielded to a small smile, then a step forward, then an inhale. “Beignets, did you say? I haven’t had one of those since . . .”

  His gaze settled on hers. In the space of a heartbeat, a loose thread between them tied in a knot.

  “That time you ran out and bought me a dozen for breakfast,” she said softly. She still remembered being snug in the bed, waiting for Colt. He’d come back with a big white box, similar to the one she held today, then climbed under the covers with her and fed her a beignet, one tempting bite at a time. “We were so hungry, we ate them all.”

  “I think it was the only thing we ate that day.” His blue eyes locked on hers. The heat in the room arced up a few degrees.

  She thought of the bed, the beignets, the crumbs that had dusted her chest. The way Colt had licked each one off, then devoured her. “We were . . . busy.”

  Frannie looked from Colt to Daisy. Then back again. “Uh, I think Suzie and I are going to take this to my desk. I think we have something . . . to do or talk about or something.” A moment later, the two women bustled out of the room. Daisy hardly noticed them leave.

  “Would you like one?” Daisy asked Colt.

  “I shouldn’t. They’re like fat pills and very bad for your heart and . . .”

  “A little indulgence once in a while never hurt anyone, Colt.” She broke off a piece of the dough, and held it out to him, just as he had with her years ago. “Just one bite.”

  “Along with a trip down Memory Lane?”

  Was he thinking of that day in the bed? Their honeymoon, filled with days and days of nothing but making love and eating as fast as they could, then slipping beneath the sheets again and finally, blissfully, into each other. Did he remember those amazing days? Those exquisite nights? When the only piece of furniture they’d had—or wanted—was a king-sized mattress on the floor of their fifth-floor walk-up.