Club Cupid (15 page)

“So if your restaurant falls through, will you be coming back?” Charley asked.

Oscar scoffed. “It won’t fall through, you dolt. Frankie said a restaurant would have to be pretty bad to fail in Atlanta, didn’t you, Frankie?”

She nodded, her cheeks warming when she remembered Randy’s words. “Someone told me that once—I certainly hope it’s true.” What would he
say if he could see her now? Thinking of the Valentine’s bon voyage picture stuck in her vanity drawer at home brought an affectionate smile to her face. Randy had been on her mind all day, probably because he should receive her package soon. She wondered what he would think of the helmet, and if it would fit.

“What’s so funny?” Oscar asked, looking morose.

“I’m just happy, that’s all,” she answered quietly.

“I’d like to know what happened to you in Key West,” he muttered. “Did you have a near-death experience or something?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “Sometimes getting away just gives you a little…perspective. Thanks for putting together this little going-away gig.”

“Glad to do it,” he said, nodding at the last people to leave. “Can I give you a lift home, Frankie?” He looked hopeful.

“No, thanks,” she answered gently. “I didn’t have time to load a couple of boxes of desk junk into my car before dropping by here, so I need to swing back by the office.”

“I saw the boxes and carried them down,” he said with a defeated shrug. “It’ll only take me a couple of minutes to transfer them from my trunk to yours.”

She gave him a fond smile. “Thanks, now I won’t have to go back to that empty office.” Frankie hesitated, wondering if she should record another voice message to say she’d left the company. Then she changed her mind. Everyone who knew
her knew she was leaving…everyone who cared, that is.

A
S THE WEEKS PASSED
into May, Randy’s hurt that Frankie hadn’t returned his call dulled, then flamed to anger. She’d been stranded, broke, dirty and scared when he first met her, and he’d gone so far as to extend his home to her. The least she could do was acknowledge his phone call and spare five minutes to see him if he came to
her
city.

Friday nights were the worst, and this particular Friday night he found himself sitting in the bar office, tinkering with his new desktop computer and holding the phone, considering leaving her another message. He drank a mouthful of beer, then hesitated. Maybe he should wait until Monday during the day and try to catch her in her office. Then he sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. What did he care? He’d left Frankie a message—three of them, he recalled wryly—and she hadn’t bothered to call back with so much as a howdy-doo for the man whom she “couldn’t thank enough” for all he’d done for her.

A rap on the door broke into his thoughts. “Yeah?”

Parker stuck his head inside. “A minute of your time, Randy?”

“Sure, come on in.”

The older man closed the door, removed his reading glasses and poked the tip of the earpiece into his mouth. “Randy, I realize only a few days have passed, but I’m anxious to know if you’ve given any thought to my offer.”

Randy sat up and crossed his arms. “Well, sure I
have, Parker. It’s too much money not to give the idea some thought. But for the life of me, I can’t imagine why you’d want this place.”

Parker’s mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. “It’s not so complicated, my boy. I have the money, I’m here more often than not anyway, and, well, quite frankly, my agent thinks a tavern of my own would be good for publicity.”

Randy’s eyebrows rose and his companion had the grace to blush. “Thinking of changing the name, are you?”

Parker shrugged as a sheepish smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Perhaps.”

Randy chuckled, shaking his head. “There’s just one problem, old man.”

“And that is?”

“What the heck would I do?”

Parker scoffed, dismissing Randy’s concern. “You’ve had your little rest, now it’s high time you got on with your life. Get back into investments where you belong.”

Randy frowned wryly. “Parker, I know there’s a lot of money in Key West, but this isn’t exactly the financial pulse of the South.”

“You’re a free man, you can go anywhere—Miami, Orlando…Atlanta.”

Randy tensed for the sick feeling that descended every time he thought about Atlanta, but it didn’t come. Instead, flashes of the things he loved about the city entered his mind: the skyline, the hectic pace, the mild climate; blazing azaleas, pine trees and the Braves.

He mulled over the idea for a while, then
glanced up and shrugged. “Maybe I’ll…give it another try…someday.”

“You can go into business for yourself this time.”

Randy pursed his mouth, nodding slowly. “Develop my own portfolios and treat clients
my
way.” Warming to the idea, he squeezed his fingers to his temples, shaking his head. “Dammit, Parker, just
think
of all the money I’ve missed out on making for other people over these last ten years.”

The old man smiled. “There will always be more money to be made, my boy.” He clucked. “But I can see in your eyes that you are making a wise decision in this new direction. You already seem more…energetic. I sensed you were looking to make a change ever since the girl left.”

Randy didn’t have to ask who “the girl” was. In fact, for once he felt too good to argue, so he simply nodded. Loving Frankie—he stopped, then pressed on—loving Frankie had been a catalyst for his mind and body, reminding him he was alive, with a searching intellect. “I’ll need to take some refresher courses, renew my license, find an office…”

“You can maintain your little home here—I’ll rent it out for you if you like. And with the money from the tavern, you should be able to secure a nice office space, say in Midtown?”

Randy pointed his index finger toward Parker. “Midtown—now you’re talking.”

“A chum of mine is refurbishing a charming old building to house apartments, professional offices, eateries, and the like. We can jet up next weekend and take a look around.”

“Sounds great,” Randy agreed, his adrenaline churning. He trusted Parker’s taste implicitly.

“So, do we have a deal on the bar?” Parker extended his hand.

Randy looked around the tiny, shabby office for a few seconds, contemplating all the soul-searching and drinking he’d performed within the confines of its walls over the last ten years or so. Then he glanced to his friend and stood, accepting his hand with a firm shake. “Deal.”

F
RANKIE FELT CLOSER
to Randy in Atlanta, and not just in terms of physical miles. Since her café served only breakfast and lunch, occasionally she explored the city in the evenings on foot. At times, she experienced a tightness in her chest or a tingling over her skin and she would imagine she and Randy had walked over the same ground. The notion was silly, she knew, but since moving to the city, she’d become more susceptible to daydreaming and flights of fancy. The experiences of the past few months had freed her mind and spirit—she was determined to make a go of the café, and in time, when her heart had rebounded, she’d find a man who would help her forget about Randy Tate.

Thanks to Parker’s friend, she had found a decent apartment on the outskirts of Midtown, a leisurely walk from her brand-new eatery. She’d decided to take decorating chances in the one-bedroom flat she wouldn’t have considered in her conservative condo in Cincinnati. A couple of gallons of paint and a hundred yards of brilliantly colored fabric later, she had transformed the ho-hum quarters into a wonderfully eclectic living space, appropriately hip for the artsy area of town. Frankie immersed herself in her new life-style, dividing her time between working at the café, plant
ing a herb garden on her apartment terrace, dining with neighbors, avoiding her parents…and missing Randy.

She had planned to be so busy with the café that she’d scarcely have time to think about him, but for some reason he preyed on her mind with increasing intensity. The nights were the worst. From her pillow, she had a clear view of the
D
in the huge neon All-Night Diner sign on the other side of the wide street. The bright illumination reminded her of the lights of Key West, and a flood of other memories invariably followed. A spring heat wave forced Frankie to sleep with the windows open to cool her un-air-conditioned rooms. She lay on her new, crisp sheets and imagined Randy’s big, tanned body next to her, their legs tangled, their desires sated. Indeed, instead of his memory growing dim, he seemed to have mined his way deeper into her heart.

R
ANDY SAT
on the windowsill of his open bedroom window in his boxers, perspiring. Late spring, and the Atlanta air already hung hot and heavy. The heat wave was a freak of nature, he knew, ill timed to aggravate his restlessness, reminding him of two steamy nights in Key West with one Frankie Jensen in his bed.

He turned his face toward Cincinnati, wondering what she was doing and who she was doing it with. Unfortunately, the neon sign across the street for the all-night diner blocked his view. Randy sighed, hoping the adrenaline of building his new business would sustain him through the inevitable lows of missing Frankie.

He stood and massaged his neck, then eased into bed and pulled an extra pillow close to his chest.

T
HE MEMORY-INDUCED
insomnia was taking its toll, Frankie acknowledged with a yawn the next morning as she unlocked the door to the café. Of course, naming the place the Shiny Penny was probably not the best way to get Randy Tate off her mind. But since he’d inspired her to strike out on her own, she wanted to pay him homage in some way, even if she was the only person who knew.

Small and scrupulously neat, tables and booths inside the café featured hundreds of pennies sealed under thick sheets of clear acrylic. The breakfast menu boasted fresh doughnuts, croissants, bagels, coffee and cappuccino. For lunch, the eatery offered gourmet salads, sandwiches, soups and desserts. Frankie prided herself on using the freshest ingredients and rotating the items for new selections every day. Customers were served in a cafeteria-style line run by herself and a promising young woman named Jan she’d found through a local university’s culinary program.

Within a few weeks, the lunch crowd had grown to profitable proportions, but the morning trade left a bit to be desired. Since she’d been lucky enough to land a choice spot in an older building that was being refurbished, her initial morning customers were construction workers who drank their weight each day in coffee. But once the workers dwindled, the gourmet java houses down the street were difficult to compete with.

“You need a gimmick,” Jan announced.

And so, she borrowed one. Remembering the
claim from Rum King’s sign, she posted a huge sign in the window—7:00 to 9:00 a.m., First Cup of Coffee for a Penny.

The plan worked. Before long, the yuppies who were rapidly filling the offices in the building discovered the café, came in early to buy a cup of coffee for a penny and typically ended up buying a couple of doughnuts or a bagel.

Frankie and her accountant marveled over the numbers. By the end of May she added another worker to handle take-out orders and had been approached for several catering jobs. She welcomed the extra workload—the money was good and it would help take her mind off other less attainable goals.

“Mr. Red Tie is definitely flirting with you,” Jan whispered one day at the end of the morning rush.

Frankie used tongs to transfer slices of fresh banana bread to the deli case. “I’m not interested,” she murmured, then stopped and stared as a knot of people bustled by the window in the pouring rain.

Jan craned her neck. “See someone you know?”

“No,” Frankie said softly, shaking her head. She really was losing her mind if she was seeing Randy Tate in the faces of businessmen on the street in Atlanta.

“Why don’t you take five?” Jan suggested. “It’s starting to slow down and I can handle the orders.”

Frankie nodded gratefully and headed to her tiny office, where she sank into her desk chair and sighed, listening to the rain on the tiny window. Except for sending the motorcycle helmet, she had
refrained from contacting Randy, afraid he would be his charming, flirtatious self and her heart would be falsely cheered. But today she felt overwhelmingly compelled to reach out to him. She checked her watch—almost nine o’clock. Since no one would be in the bar at this hour, she could leave him a breezy message. Somewhat buoyed, she picked up the phone and dialed directory assistance for Key West and asked for the number for Rum King’s.

“I’m sorry ma’am. I don’t show a listing for Rum King’s.”

“It’s a bar,” Frankie added. “On Herald Street.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, no listing.”

Frowning, she suspected a mistake in the directory, then asked, “How about Tate? Randy Tate?”

“I have a Randolph Tate the third.”

Frankie smiled in surprise. “Yes, connect me please.”

The phone rang three times, during which her heart thudded out of control. What would she say?
Just loving you to distraction and thought I’d give you a call?
But when a woman answered the phone—a young, firm-sounding woman—she froze, her heart jammed in her throat.

“Hello?” the woman repeated. “Is anyone there?”

Frankie replaced the handset gently in its cradle. So much for fantasies of Randy pining for her.

R
ANDY STOPPED
inside the entrance to the building that housed the office he’d leased last week and shook his umbrella over a huge floor mat. He pushed his fingers through his hair to disperse a
few wayward drops. He’d shorn his hair the day he received his broker’s license, and swapped a tiny gold stud for the hoop earring when he met with the lessor of the office space he’d chosen. He’d traded his cutoffs and old T-shirts for jeans and new T-shirts—minus the beer logos—and acquired a few sport coats for legitimacy.

Having entered the building through a different door to escape the weather, he glanced around to get his bearings. Straight ahead was a dry cleaner’s, a branch-bank office and a mini drugstore. To the right, elevators servicing the ten-story building and a long hallway that led to the west side of the building—the area where his office was located on the eighth floor. To the left, a newsstand and a small café.

He smiled at the name of the eatery and lifted a hand to rub the small sphere under his T-shirt. Try as he might these last few months, he hadn’t been able to get Frankie out of his mind. Granted, wearing the crude necklace he’d fashioned from her tossed penny hadn’t helped matters, but the piece of makeshift jewelry gave him comfort and inspiration, so he wore it.

When he spotted the sign in the window about the first cup of coffee for a penny, his chest squeezed at the coincidence and he moved toward the café. Then he shook his head and pivoted toward the elevators. He was looking for reminders of Frankie, he told himself as he glanced over his shoulder. He could remember her coming into the bar and pitifully gathering her coins for the cup of coffee as clearly as if he were seeing her now.
Randy squinted and his heart contracted again as he caught a flash of red hair though the window.

He stopped several yards away and stared into the café, incredulity flooding him as his mind assimilated the possibility that Frankie was not only here in Atlanta, but she worked in a café in the same building where his office was located. Still unconvinced, he stepped closer, dodging bodies rushing to their own destinations, his throat constricting. He collided twice with harried businessmen.

It was her.
His mouth went completely dry. She smiled at someone he couldn’t see and handed them a disposable cup and a small brown bag, her lips moving. She was beautiful, her hair caught up on her head, and pale as ever, especially against the white apron she wore. His mind whirled at the amazing turn of events. How was it possible they could be in the same place at the same time? Then his shoulders sagged and he laughed at his own gullibility.

Parker. Parker had talked him into selling the bar. Parker had put the idea of moving to Atlanta into his head. Parker had introduced him to the man who owned this building. He’d bet his bottom line that Parker had somehow been in touch with Frankie and convinced her to relocate to the same darn building. That sly dog. He knew Randy was hopelessly in love with her, even if Randy himself wouldn’t admit it.

Walking slowly toward the Shiny Penny, his blood pounded in his ears. Was the name of the café an indication she’d thought of him, that she’d put some emotional stock in their brief affair?
What would he say?
The weather’s lousy today…? How about those Braves…? You changed my life in one weekend and I can’t live without you…?

She stood with her back turned, chopping lettuce on a cutting board an arm’s length behind the counter. At this distance he saw that a hair net held her piled tresses in place, and she wore thin plastic gloves. The apron draped over her slight curves, cinched loosely around her slender waist. His fingers curled, itching to touch her. His throat closed and his muscles refused to respond.

An attractive dark-haired woman asked, “May I help you?”

He kept his gaze on Frankie’s slender back, then said, “Coffee, please. Hazelnut, with sugar, cream and a little cinnamon.”

Frankie’s hands stilled when she heard the voice, heard the words. Her heart vaulted. It was impossible, of course—Randy couldn’t be here. Almost afraid to burst the bubble of her fantasy, she turned around slowly. The man before the counter stared at her, a slow grin spreading across his face. He bore little resemblance to the raggedy beach bum she’d last seen in Key West, having shorter hair, a gold stud earring, and handsomely clad in a sport coat and jeans. But she’d never forget Randy’s unmistakable golden eyes. Her voice nearly failed her. “Randy?”

“Hi, Red.” He moved closer to the counter, his face wreathed in smiles. “Small world.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, still unable to believe he stood before her.

“Buying coffee,” he answered smoothly.

Her heart fluttered cautiously, warning against
reading too much into the fact that he was here. Just because he’d worn a path in her heart didn’t mean he felt the same about her. Looking for something to do with her hands, she retrieved a cup and filled it with dark, rich brew. Despite his order, she knew he preferred his coffee black. “Here you go,” she said, sliding it across the counter with a hesitant smile. “Sorry—no Kahlúa.”

They stared at each other in silence for several seconds. Frankie didn’t know what to think, but she knew she had to say something. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until I walked in here, I had no idea you were living in Atlanta. I moved here two weeks ago. My office is on the eighth floor of this building.”

Her heart fell, but she managed to smile. “So this is just a coincidence?”

“When Parker Grimes is involved, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

Parker had somehow set them up. So Randy hadn’t hunted her down…he’d probably never given her a second thought once her ship disappeared. She felt like an idiot, pining for a man who obviously didn’t feel the same way about her.

“Frankie, when did you move?”

“Mid-March,” she said brightly, the date indelibly etched on her mind. “The nineteenth.”

A smile—of relief?—lit up Randy’s face, confusing her. Then just as quickly, it disappeared. “Did your boyfriend come with you?”

“Boyfriend?”

“Osgood?”

She angled her head. “You mean Oscar? Of course not. We were never involved.”

He nodded, fidgeting. He dropped his gaze and his expression became unreadable. She hated the stiff formality that resonated between them. The casual ease, the chemistry of Key West, was apparently as fleeting as her unplanned visit to the island. Was Randy now thinking of a way to politely evade her since it seemed likely they would cross each other’s paths?

With a sinking heart, she glanced toward a line forming at the counter. “I should get back to my customers,” she murmured. “It was nice to see you again. Perhaps next time you can tell me about your business.”

Randy nodded. “Uh, sure. That would be great.” He stepped away from the counter, then snapped his fingers and turned back with an apologetic smile. “I almost forgot to pay for the coffee.”

Frankie wished they hadn’t run into each other again—at least her memories would have remained unblemished. Faking nonchalance, she dismissed his comment with a glib wave. “D-don’t be silly. It’s on the house.”