A Denial of Death (35 page)

"Not necessarily." His gaze ranged over me in an assessing manner. And not in a
hey baby, what's your sign
approach. More like the way I studied the engine of my car, Mustang Sally, when something acted hinky. "Any blurred vision?"

I loved his accent, though I couldn't place it. It lacked the nasal quality of someone from the North or the soft drawl of the South. Possibly he was from somewhere in the Midwest, where they called soda "pop," but I doubted it. The lilting tones reminded me more of the Australian couple whose wedding I'd catered last fall, but there was a crisp briskness around his every syllable that was a shade off.

"No, I can see just fine."
See that you are a sexy beast
.

Down, girl.

He didn't stare back. "Can you tell me your name?"

Was he hitting on me? Hell of a time for it. "Why do you want to know?"

He smirked at me—at least I thought it was a smirk. The man didn't make big grandiose gestures but moved with a smooth and graceful economy. "Just checking to make sure your mental faculties are all in working order."

"Are you a doctor?" I asked.

"I've had some medical training. Your name?" he prompted.

"Andrea Sofia Buckland."

"Andrea—" The way he said it rounded and smoothed the vowels like they tasted good in his mouth and made something inside me go all gushy. Like a marshmallow roasted over a campfire.

"I go by Andy," I said, but he'd glanced away as a siren pierced the early evening.

His gaze swung back to me. "Andy then. May I ask why you were tailgating me?"

My molars ground together, and all thoughts of vivid blue eyes fled. I'd been condescended to enough in my lifetime. "Listen here, pal, you were going like five miles an hour. Some of us have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon then just noodle along."

He quirked a jet black eyebrow at me. "The tractor in front of me was responsible for the 'noodling.' I was attempting to pass it when you decided to play demolition derby."

A likely story. "I didn't see any tractor. Your gargantuan gas guzzler was the only other vehicle on the road."

"Perhaps because you rammed your car up my tailpipe?" The way he said it sounded suggestive as all get-out, and I shivered despite my vow to ignore the effect of his bedroom eyes.

Nuh-uh. No way was he going to blame the whole thing on me. "I wouldn't have if you hadn't pulled out right in front of me. Not another vehicle on the road for miles—"

"Except for the tractor," he delivered in a flat tone. God help me, even
that
was blood-boilingly sexy. He smelled of wood smoke, and his long-sleeved black T-shirt clung to his well-developed chest muscles, and just the faintest hint of stubble coated his perfect chin. I was a total sucker for the scruffy look. My heart rate kicked up a notch. Arguing with him at this close range was hazardous to my thirty-something hormones.

To hide my physical response I said, "The tractor is a figment of your imagination."

He opened his mouth, probably ready to deliver another acerbic retort, but the emergency personnel swarmed over us at that moment like termites on a rotten stump. He shot out a bunch of terse updates to them while one of the paramedics examined him. All of his comments pertained to my wellbeing and made me feel like a big old bitch for hounding him about his driving.

An EMT wrapped one of those horrid collars around my neck. "This really isn't necessary," I told the young woman who attended me. "I feel fine."

"That's what they all say." She flashed me a quick grin with her even, white teeth. "Sometimes they keel right over dead, and others go on their merry way. Wouldn't you rather be safe than sorry?"

I bit my lip and thought about showing up in the pasta shop wearing this thing. The town would never let me live it down. "What are my odds?"

"She's exceedingly stubborn," the SUV driver spoke up. "And a hazard on the roads." Then the bastard winked at me! If he'd ask me to bear his children at that moment I probably would've agreed.

The paramedics helped me from the car once the dog collar was in place. I groaned when I saw the damage to both vehicles. My insurance would cover the cost, but finding the parts to repair my vintage Mustang was no small feat.

"No hospital," I insisted. Having just lost my job, I couldn't afford it, and if my girl parts could tingle in reaction to the other driver, obviously all my synapses were firing. Perching on the bumper of the ambulance, I tried to look casual as I offered the EMT a reassuring smile. "I'll just rest here a minute."

A police cruiser arrived on scene and assessed the damage for insurance purposes. Daniel Tate climbed from the car. I'd known Danny since high school. His parents had attended church with Nana and Pops, and he had been tight with Kyle, my high school boyfriend. He always wore cologne that smelled like bologna. "Andy," he said as he tipped his hat in my direction. "You all right?"

I tried to nod, but the brace made it impossible. "Yeah. Though this isn't one of my all-star moments."

Danny surveyed the automotive carnage. "I saw you on TV. Elsie Giddings DVRed your show, and we watched it at the Spring Fling committee meeting. Never saw so many people vomit at once like that. Did anybody die?"

Heat scalded my face. "No. Just a mild case of food poisoning," I muttered.

His focus shifted to the SUV driver. "And who might you be?"

"Malcolm Jones." He extended his driver's license and insurance card to Danny.

Danny eyed his license with suspicion. "New York license and registration. You don't sound like any Yankee I've ever heard. Just passing through?"

Jones stood at parade rest. "No, I'm new to the area."

"Got any business here?" Bologna Boy was like a dog with bone, working it relentlessly to get to the juicy marrow. Fodder for the Spring Fling committee gossips, no doubt.

"Yes." Jones didn't volunteer anything more.

Before the full-scale interrogation commenced I blurted, "It was my fault. I was distracted, worried about Pops."

"All right. Well, we all know you've been under stress." Danny wandered off to protect and serve someone else just as the tow truck from Mike's Garage showed and rigged up my sweet little ride.

"This is so not my month," I muttered.

Jones stood by my side. "Thank you."

"I didn't mean to say that. It's just that they are all so suspicious of strangers around here, and they don't make 'em much stranger than you." Oops, that didn't come out right.

Our eyes locked, and my stomach dropped somewhere down by my knees. The wind picked up, and the skies threatened one hell of a storm in the making.

"Can I offer you a ride?" he asked.

My gut told me Jones wouldn't haul me off into the woods to mutilate me. A police officer had seen us together after all. Considering his vehicle was still in working order and mine wasn't, I leapt at the offer. "That'd be great. Do you know where the Bowtie Angel is?"

"Main Street, correct?"

"Yeah, it's my family's pasta shop. I'll set you up with the best homemade baked ziti you ever tasted."

His car smelled like new leather and male spice. On our way into town, we passed the damn tractor.

Jones only smiled.

*  *  *

The sky let loose as we turned onto Main, rain dumped by the bucketful into the street. Jones, God love him, slowed down even more until I pointed out the turn to our destination. The town was a throwback to an era long before McDonald's and Walmart had sprung up like demented Whac-A-Moles. No franchises were allowed within the city limits. The only drive-through was the Oakdale Elementary school on the corner of Broad Street and 8
th
.

"Well, here we are," I announced unnecessarily as he pulled the SUV up in front of the Bowtie Angel. I peered through the windshield and the pouring rain, trying to see the two-story house-turned ice cream shop-turned pasta bar, from a stranger's point of view. The white vinyl siding and brick red roof were the original colors. A brand new Coca-Cola machine stood sentinel outside the front door, under a smaller second section of roofing that ran perpendicular to the larger covering, encouraging people to stop for a cold beverage or to huddle out of the rain. A red and white striped canopy covered the rarely used outdoor porch with a mess of little round wrought iron tables and chairs too small for the average American butt.

During the warmer months, Aunt Cecily would plant fresh herbs in the built-in rectangular boxes, staples for the unique sauces and breads trademarked by the pasta shop. Now they sat empty, as if they too mourned the loss of my grandmother. A five-foot long ceramic angel with spaghetti-like hair, sporting a bowtie and holding a welcome banner flew over the door. Her smile had always looked creepy to me, and the Carolina sun had bleached her yellow hair to almost white. But Nana had been so proud when she'd brought the damn thing home from ceramics class, and Pops didn't have the heart to take it down.

"Guess you should come in so we can get you that ziti." Southern hospitality demanded no less, but in all honestly, the last thing I wanted was for Jones to witness whatever unique brand of crazy might be hatching beyond that red door.

"Another time perhaps. I'm already late for my scheduled appointment." He pronounced the word the British way,
shed-u-eld
. Color me charmed.

"Where are you from?" I had to know what region on the globe cultivated such a delicious accent.

"New Zealand, originally. Though I consider myself more a citizen of the world."

"Huh." Well that was a dumbass thing to say. I cleared my throat.

 "Well, thanks for the ride."

Jones actually climbed out and circled around to help me down. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his collar, yet he still looked so unruffled. My skin tingled where our hands touched, and our gazes met for a sizzling instant. A herd of butterflies let loose in my stomach as he escorted me under the awning. "See you around." My voice came out higher than normal, a little breathy.

"I'll look forward to it." With a smile, he was gone. I sighed like a silly schoolgirl as his taillights disappeared into the gloom.

Turning, I gasped at my reflection in the plate glass window. Bedraggled would have been a step up from the mess staring back at me. Hair plastered to my scalp, ripped flannel shirt worn jacket style, hole in the knee of my jeans. "No career, no man, no reason to get out of bed in the morning
,
"
the outfit screamed. I was a walking testament to a woman who'd given up. Add to that the lines of strain that had formed around my eyes and mouth plus that not-so-fresh-from-a-car-accident feeling…ugh. Not a pretty picture.

Vanity could take a backseat though, the way it usually did. Pulling open the door, I entered the pasta shop. The sound of the jingling bell above the door greeted me first, followed by the yeasty scent of fresh bread and the savory aroma of garlic, basil, rosemary, and oregano.

The Bowtie Angel had been an ice cream shop sometime during the fifties, until my grandmother and her sister, my great aunt Cecily, had bought it and turned it into their own pasta shop. The display case that had once held gallons of tutti-frutti and heavenly hash now housed rigatoni, ziti, angel hair, macaroni, and linguini made fresh daily, as well as an assortment of sauces and other toppings, like pine nuts, basil leaves, cherry tomatoes, black olives, and fresh Parmesan and Romano ready to be grated at a moment's notice. The food could be carryout or dine in, and the shop was oftentimes a gathering place for the townspeople on every day but Sunday. Sunday was church day in that international hotbed of intrigue, Beaverton, N.C.

The pasta shop actually felt more like home than Pop's Victorian on Grove Street. I'd worked there every day after school and almost every Saturday. The black and white tile floor, the plush red booths by the window, the gleaming chrome on the barstools, scents of fresh herbs, buzz of happy conversation, Dean Martin crooning from the jukebox, all of it was as familiar as my reflection.

The booths were jam-packed with patrons who'd decided to stay and eat a hot meal instead of dragging their food out into the cool spring rain. Aunt Cecily didn't encourage people to linger, not the way Nana had done for years. My grandmother had used the restaurant as the hub of her social life, but in the South, old habits die hard and then resurrect themselves like a freaking pasta-eating zombie.

"Andy!" Mrs. Getz waved to me from the booth to the left of the door. She'd been my fourth grade teacher, a cheerful plump woman who loved to gossip and can her own jam. For years she'd been hounding Nana and Aunt Cecily to offer her jams in the pasta shop. But as Aunt Cecily put it, "What is a lasagna going to do with jam? Nothing, because my lasagna, it is not stupid."

Aunt Cecily, queen of public relations.

I moved over to greet Mrs. Getz and her husband. "Mrs. Getz, Mr. Getz. How are you?"
Walter Getz looked up from his plate of baked ziti with a side of rosemary bread. "Just fine honey, can't complain. How about you?"

Irma Getz kicked him not so subtly under the table. "So sorry about your show, Andy. Such a shame. I had almost raised enough money with the Rotary Club for a sign with your name on it. Like that one in North Myrtle Beach, that says 'Home of Vanna White.' But then you poisoned all those people, and we decided to put it toward the St. Patrick's Day parade instead."

The smile froze on my face. The way she'd said that rankled, like it had been part of some master plan. No wonder Pops wasn't doing well. His friends and neighbors thought his granddaughter was some kind of homicidal lunatic. Was that a step up or down from a "poor child" turned "opportunistic gold digger"?

Before I could come up with a decent response, Aunt Cecily pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, spotted me, and left the steaming pan of Italian meatballs on top of the register. "Come, I must look at you."

All movement in the diner stopped as though everyone feared they were the unlucky person she meant. Without Nana's sweet to balance out the sour, Aunt Cecily seemed more imposing than a four-foot-eleven-inch octogenarian ought.