The Rebel (5 page)

As Frankie got out, she wondered who her sister was searching for.

 

H
E WOULD BE UP THIS
weekend, Joy thought. He always came for the Fourth of July.

Grayson Bennett drove a black BMW 645Ci. Or at least that had been what he'd come in last year. Two years ago, he'd had a big, dark red Mercedes. Before that, it had been a Porsche. His first car had been an Alfa Romeo convertible.

For a woman who didn't care about the automotive industry in the slightest, Joy knew a hell of a lot about cars, thanks to him.

There were a few people walking the clean, pale sidewalks and she sifted through them. Gray was easy to pick out of the crowd. He was tall, imposing and he didn't walk places, he marched. He also tended to wear sunglasses, dark ones that played off his black hair and made him look even more intense.

She realized that Gray would be thirty-six this year. His birthday bash, held every year at the Bennett estate, was one of the highlights of the social season although it wasn't as if she or Frankie were invited. The Moorehouses had once mixed with the Bennetts regularly, back in Grand-Em's day, but with the declining fortunes of Joy's family, the two had ceased moving in the same circles.

That didn't mean she couldn't picture a different scenario, however.

A favorite daydream of hers was to imagine going to that party, dressed beautifully, floating among his guests until he noticed her and saw her as she really was. As a woman, not some child. He would take her into his arms and kiss her and then they would go off somewhere quiet together.

In real life, their encounters were a lot less romantic. In the summer months, if she saw him around town, she'd plant herself in his path. He would stop and she'd hold her breath, willing him to remember her name. He always did. He'd smile down at her and sometimes even take off his sunglasses as he asked about her family.

From the left, she saw a BMW approach and she leaned forward. It was the wrong kind.

As she settled back against the seat, letting Grand-Em natter on about the opening of the town library back in 1936, she couldn't ignore how one-sided her attraction was.

She looked down at her bare ring finger. If she kept up the teenage fantasy, she knew she was on the winding trail to spinsterhood. She'd probably end up weird Auntie Joy who'd never married and smelled like mothballs and denatured perfume.

Now there was a picture.

If they could only leave White Caps and move somewhere with more people her own age, she might be able to get Gray Bennett off her mind. Maybe it
wasn't his fantastic good looks or his dark, sexy voice or those pale blue eyes.

Maybe it was just a lack of viable alternatives.

“Did you know that my fourth great-grandfather built that gazebo?” Grand-Em inquired. She wasn't looking for an answer. It was an invitation for a prompting.

“Really. Tell me about it,” Joy murmured, putting her hand down in her lap.

“It was in 1849. There had been a terrible winter that year and the old one had collapsed because of the snow. Great-grandpapa declared the structure unsafe….”

Grand-Em spoke with a proper intonation, her words carefully considered as if they were a gift to the listener and therefore must be chosen with respect and affection. And Joy usually found them fascinating. She loved listening to the old stories, particularly about the balls and the clothes.

But not today.

After nearly a decade of pining for a man she couldn't have, Joy was struck with how pathetic her attraction to Gray was. Pinning hopeless dreams on a fantasy was like feeding yourself with chocolate. A great short-term buzz with no lasting value.

It really was time to give up. The focus on Gray had gotten her nowhere except to the edge of obsession. And the fantasy, like her, was getting old.

Joy stared out at the crowd. Where was he—

“I beg your pardon,” Grand-Em remarked. “But the gazebo is out the other window. Whatever are you looking for?”

“The man I want to marry,” Joy muttered, turning her head so Grand-Em would continue. “As crazy as that sounds.”

“You are engaged?”

Joy shook her head, thinking that was never going to happen. “Please continue, Grand-Em. You were saying about the gazebo?”

Grand-Em nodded and started to talk again.

Moments later, Frankie jogged up to the car. She put the mail on the passenger seat in front and tossed over a little white paper bag that read Thomas Pills Rx.

“We're doing the gazebo story now?” she said, starting the car.

Joy nodded and thought maybe she'd ask Frankie for some advice. She sure could use some perspective.

Frankie threw the car in gear, did an illegal U-turn and bolted for home. “Listen, if you can handle lunch service, I'm going to do the lawn and water the window boxes. We had a cancellation for next weekend which means we'll only have one couple. One. Can you believe it? God, we used to be packed.”

Or maybe she'd just keep to herself, Joy thought.

“Oh, hey, you'll never believe who I ran into.”

Grand-Em coughed loudly, aware that another
conversation was interrupting her story. Frankie ignored the signal, so Joy turned and patted her grandmother's hand. The last thing they needed was for her to get hyper, which was what could happen when her narratives were cut off.

“It's okay,” Joy said gently. “Keep going.”

Grand-Em smiled and started to talk again.

“Gray Bennett,” Frankie said.

Joy flipped her head around. “What did you say?”

“Gray Bennett. I saw him in the post office. He's up for the weekend and said he was thinking about staying all summer.”

Joy's heart started kicking in her chest. “Really? The whole summer?”

Grand-Em coughed again.

“Yeah.” Frankie darted out around a car and splashed back into the right lane as they went up Yellow-belly Hill.

Joy stared out the window, trying to tamp down on her excitement and losing the battle. “Er—how did he look?”

“Oh, you know, Gray. He always looks good.”

Yes, she knew that. All too well. But she wanted to know everything. How long his hair was, was he wearing shorts, did he look happy?

God, did he have a ring on his finger?

She grimaced, thinking she would surely have
read about it if he'd gotten married. The wedding of someone like him would make it into the papers.

“He asked about you, by the way.”

Joy froze. “Really?”

Frankie nodded and then started saying something about the plumber.

As Joy looked out of the window, the sounds of her sister and her grandmother talking at the same time filled the inside of the car. Trapping her.

But when she began to think about Gray, she started to smile.

F
RANKIE WIPED HER ARM
across her forehead, bent forward at a steeper angle and pushed the mower harder. The blades whirled and grass was kicked up in a green flurry until it covered her running shoes. If she went fast enough, she could probably finish the side-and lake-facing portions of the three-acre lawn by the afternoon.

“Frankie!”

She lifted her head and saw Joy in a window.

“Phone! It's Mike Roy.”

Frankie stopped pushing as her mind jumped to conclusions. Why was her banker calling her in the middle of a holiday weekend?

“Frankie?”

“Coming.”

Leaving the mower where it was, she was heading for the back door when Stu pulled up with his truck full of vegetables.

“I'll be with you in a minute,” she called out.

He nodded, lit up a cigarette and seemed perfectly happy to wait.

As she steamed through the kitchen, Nate looked up from the stove. “The vegetables here?”

She nodded. “I'll be out in a—”

“Great,” he said, heading for the door.

Frankie paused, wanting to reel him back in. As a homeowner indebted up to her eyeballs, however, her banker took precedence.

In her office, she straightened her clothes before picking up the receiver, telling herself Mike Roy wouldn't be able to hear the fact that she was sweaty and disheveled. She grabbed the phone and imagined him telling her he was foreclosing on the mortgage. And selling White Caps to a real estate developer who was going to run two hundred condos with hot tubs up the mountain.

“Hi, Mike,” she said. “What's up?”

Have you turned into a shark after five years of being a lamb?

“I was wondering if I can bring someone by to visit White Caps. He's in town over the weekend and I'm showing him around. I can't very well leave out the place where Lincoln slept.”

She let out her breath with relief. “Of course, bring him over anytime. We have a guest in Abe's room but I'll ask whether he'd mind if you put your head in.”

“Great.”

There was a pause. Her stomach clenched. “Listen, Mike, about the mortgage payments. I'd like to come in and show you my plan for covering what I owe.”

“That'd be great. We'll meet next week in my office. But I'll see you in an hour or so, Frankie.”

As she hung up the phone, she played the conversation over and over again, searching for clues in the man's intonation and diction. But it was like reading tea leaves, she supposed. Useless and agitating.

Across the room, she saw the simple black picture frame that held the photo of her family. It was still lying facedown after Nate had picked it off the shelf. She went over and righted it, her thumb brushing over the image of her father.

Joy put her head through the door. “Frankie? Stu needs a check.”

She blinked.

“Are you okay?” Joy started across the office but Frankie went back to her desk.

“Yes, fine. Tell Stu I'll help him unload.”

“Oh, that's done.” Frankie frowned while Joy nodded over her shoulder. “Nate took care of it.”

Frankie grabbed the checkbook and one of the inventory receipt forms she'd created and went into the kitchen.

Stu and Nate were leaning back against the kitchen counter, both with their arms crossed in front of their chests. Their heads were facing out into the room, which made sense because Stu generally preferred not to make eye contact. Nate was nodding. They were chewing the cud, she realized.

This was a surprise because Stu didn't curry well
to strangers and he never seemed to say more than two words at a time.

“Hi, Stu,” she said. “How much do we owe you?”

Stu took off his John Deere hat and looked at it. “Think a hundred'll cover it.”

She wrote out the check, gave him the following week's order and thanked him.

“Good talking to you,” Nate said.

“Yup.” Stu lifted his hand as he left.

“Nice old coot,” Nate remarked as the screen door slapped shut.

Bracing herself, she went into the walk-in, unsure whether she'd find a disorganized jungle or not. Fortunately, Nate's organizational skills were as good as his penmanship. The lettuce was in one corner, standing up on a plastic tray. The heads of broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage were on another shelf in milk crates. Root vegetables on the floor in a bin. Pretty much where she would have put everything.

She started making notations on her clipboard when Nate's voice came from behind her shoulder.

“Checking my work?” he said dryly as he reached over her shoulder for some celery.

Stepping out of the way of his arm, she tugged at the collar of her shirt and tightened her lips. The walk-in suddenly felt like a sauna, which meant either the compressor had finally died or she was having a hot flash.

She hid a grin. At least she could call a HVAC guy if there was a mechanical problem with the refrigerator. If her libido was acting up, she might be in trouble. She doubted there was an estrogen repairman in the Yellow Pages.

“What's all this?” he asked, coming close again.

She looked down at what she'd been writing, determined not to fixate on how his biceps were straining his T-shirt's short sleeves.

“An inventory system I developed.” When he didn't leave, she tipped the paper his way and stepped back. “It's a really helpful method of determining our food costs and measuring our prices.”

She was surprised when he took the clipboard and thumbed through the pages with interest. “This is good.”

“I enter everything in the computer and can pull up Excel spreadsheets of our inventory consumption, staff costs, debt financing, income. Anything that comes in or goes out the door, I have by month. Year. I can project trends, track performance.” Aware she was babbling, she reached for her work and he let her take it.

“Where did you go to B-school?”

“I didn't.”

His eyebrows rose. “You came up with this all by yourself?”

“I just figured out what I needed to know to make the right decisions. I wish the trends were better, of
course. But I feel more in control if I know what's going on.”

He looked at her, studying her thoughtfully.

“Did you need something else from the walk-in?” she asked.

His smile was lazy.

“Not right now.” He nodded at the clipboard. “That's really good work.”

She looked down again, trying to convince herself that the respect in his voice didn't matter to her at all. But as she started counting the broccoli again, she began to smile.

“Hey, Frankie?”

She glanced up.

“What do you have around here for a nightlife?”

It was an unexpected question and kicked up an image of him on the prowl for women. He'd probably go for the kind who wore short skirts and belly shirts and could lay a man out flat with a pyrotechnic smile. Which meant she lost on all accounts. The only expression she had that could get a man's attention was the one she made when she was angry. And as for her wardrobe, the closest she had to anything tight was an old pair of stockings.

She pushed aside an odd disappointment. It was none of her damn business what his type was. And there was nothing wrong with loose clothes, either. She didn't like things that chaffed or had to be removed with a crowbar. And thongs were nothing
more than wedgies you had to pay for the privilege of getting. Which was nuts.

Nate cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her answer.

She shrugged. “We've only got fireflies and shooting stars here at White Caps, but there is a bar in town. Somehow, though, I imagine you'd prefer something more exciting than what the Stop, Drop and Roll offers.”

“That's the name of the bar?”

“It's owned by a volunteer fireman.”

He smiled. “Well, I think what you have here will do just fine.”

She shot him a skeptical look, refusing to read into his words. “Coming from New York City, I'm sure you'll want something with more of an edge.”

“That depends on who I'm with. Sometimes quiet is better.” His eyes moved down to her lips and his grin disappeared. “Sometimes, two people only need the night.”

A moment later he turned away, leaving her staring after him.

Her fingers went to her mouth and she wondered whether you could be kissed without actually being kissed.

After he'd looked at her like that, she'd have to say yes.

Frankie leaned forward and put her forehead against a shelf. Oh, God, what was she getting herself into? And why now? After years of being as close
to a nun as a woman could get while not actually wearing the habit and crepe-soled shoes,
now
she decides to get all hot and bothered about a man? A man who, by the way, was just passing through and would be gone by the end of the summer? Who was her employee?

She'd been busy worrying about what would happen if he got his hands on Joy, but maybe she'd do better looking into a mirror. She should probably be giving
herself
a stiff lecture about not ending up heartbroken in September. Because that was the way it would end between them. He would go back to the city. She would stay behind.

Just as it had been with David.

The cold metal pressing into her eyebrows reminded her she was standing in a walk-in. As if the pounds of vegetables and the hearty draft wouldn't have clued her in.

Frankie straightened up and looked at her inventory sheet. The orderly rows of columns were a comfort, but when she tried to get back to work, her fingers had pretty much frozen stiff and her handwriting was like a child's. She rushed through the inventory thinking that, with Nate gone, she could feel the cold through her clothes.

When she rushed out, blowing into her hands, she thought that at least the walk-in's compressor was still going strong.

 

Nate was happy to see the tow company's truck pull up. After greeting the guy, he walked over to the barn behind the mansion and opened the double doors, motioning the flatbed back. He knew Lucille would feel right at home. The stalls on both sides were full of dust-covered, broken-down equipment, including a riding mower, a rototiller and a snowblower.

Though maybe she'd just be depressed by the company.

When Lucille was in the barn, he paid the guy and popped her hood. After giving her engine the once-over again, he crawled beneath her and looked at her undercarriage. She'd leaked out all her oil and that was what worried him. All her hoses were plugged in and her oil pan was solid because he'd replaced it a year ago. He had a feeling her engine block might have cracked. Not encouraging.

Nate shrugged out from under the car and stood up, looking for something to clean the grime off his hands. There was nothing around so he used the edge of his T-shirt, figuring it needed to go into the wash anyway. He opened the trunk, took out his duffel bag full of clothes and was slinging the thing over his shoulder when the back door to the house slapped shut. Frankie walked out into the pale sunshine.

She was wearing a pair of shorts that gave him a clear look at her legs and they were terrific. Long, muscled from physical labor, with smooth skin. He
wondered why she hid them under those god-awful black pants.

Hell, maybe it was so guys like him wouldn't hit on her. Which was what he'd been working up to when they'd been alone with all that produce.

It would explain her glasses, too.

Staying in the shadow of the barn, he watched her go over to a push mower and hike up her sleeves. She confronted the piece of equipment like she was taking on an animal she was hell-bent on training, and her mouth was moving, as if she were talking to the thing. He was more than willing to bet, if the mower hadn't been an inanimate object, it would have snapped to attention and done just as she'd asked.

Nate shook his head and leaned back against the doorjamb. He'd been on the verge of kissing her in that walk-in. The only thing that had stopped him was the danger that George or Joy could have barged in at any moment. And a deep freeze wasn't exactly the best place to make love.

Not for a couple's first time, at any rate.

Nate frowned, remembering a couple of employers or supervisors he'd been with in the past. Maybe hitting on Frankie wasn't such a good idea. White Caps was a small enterprise. And even if he was only staying two months, sixty days could feel like a lifetime under the wrong circumstances.

Frankie bent over the mower, adjusting the blade. As his eyes traveled from her ankles up to her thighs
and over her hips, he shifted his weight impatiently and felt like cursing.

Sure it was probably better if he left her alone. But she did crazy things to his body and he was just the kind of meathead who'd give up an opportunity to be sensible in favor of having even one night alone with a woman like her.

He knew damn well he was going to end up asking her out. Kissing her. Hopefully, taking things even further. He was sure she was attracted to him. He could see it in her eyes. And he definitely wanted her. So there was absolutely no harm in two adults having some fun.

No harm, no foul. Just a little summer affair.

Nate winced and wondered why an ache had settled in his chest.

Ah, hell. He knew why. Frankie wasn't like the other women he'd fallen into bed with, he thought as he rubbed his sternum. She didn't parade around, looking for attention from men. In fact, all the signals she sent out were of the lay-off variety and he didn't think it was just him. She didn't seem to flirt with the male guests, either.

Although Mr. Little wasn't exactly tall, dark and handsome, granted.

Nate dropped his hand.

He hoped his conscience wasn't going to ruin what could be a terrific time between the sheets.

She started pushing and he frowned, measuring
the size of the lawn around White Caps. He couldn't believe she was going to do the whole thing by herself, and then thought, of course she'd do it alone. He was tempted to go right over to her, but figured he'd give her a little time to wear herself out. He knew she'd wait until she was half dead before she'd accept help. And even then it would be under stinging protest.