Her Passionate Plan B (7 page)

“Next time I decide to relocate, remind me to look for a town where at least half the citizens are literate.”

“Have you thought about something for Faylene to wear?” Sasha examined her nails for any damage she might have done clearing out the last few shelves of books.

“Still working on it. Close the flap, will you? Who knows how long it'll be before I have a place to unpack.”

Sasha looked at her nails, wrinkled her nose and closed the flaps.

“Well, I guess that's it. I'm officially out of business. You know what? I feel like crying,” said Marty.

“Well, don't, it'll ruin your mascara.”

“I'm not wearing any.”

“That's the hell of being a redhead.” Sasha affected a dramatic sigh. “You want something to show up, you have to paint it on—anything besides freckles, that is. What are you going to do with a thousand and one used paperbacks?” Without waiting for a response, she said, “I started on Faye's hair this morning. She's supposed to shampoo out the conditioner as soon as she gets home, but even if it works miracles, I don't think she
can take a foil job.” The housekeeper's hair had been abused so many times with old-style chemicals it was a wonder it hadn't eroded down to the scalp. “I made an appointment with Paul for a trim and maybe an ashy rinse.”

“Good. Anything stronger than a temporary rinse and she'll go bald.” Marty shoved her own chestnut-brown hair back. It might be drab, but at least it was healthy. “Have you heard anything from Daisy today?” She opened the door of her minivan to let the heat escape. The temperature was only in the low sixties, but there wasn't a speck of shade around.

“No, but the news is all over town about this studly gentleman who's staying out at the Snow place. Evidently Kell and Blalock are trying to find out whether or not he was any kin to old Harve.”

“Studly, hmm? Having met him, I'd say that was a slight understatement. Dibs on him if Daisy kicks him out.”

“Thought you were immune,” Sasha teased. “Now, me, I never claimed to be immune. Besides, my spare room's not stacked full of books.”

“What about all those sample books? What about those bolts of drapery material you're waiting to get made up? What about—”

“Yeah, yeah—well, at least we won't have to worry any more about cheering Daisy up,” Sasha said as Marty slammed shut the side door of her minivan. “If she knows what's good for her, she'll put him through his paces before she turns him loose.”

“Right,” Marty said dryly. “And you'll decide to enter a nunnery and I'll write a bestseller and go on
Oprah.
”

The voluptuous redhead tested the vinyl seat with her hand before sliding inside. “She definitely needs a man, though. She's got that tight look around the eyes. She needs to pump up her immune system with a little preventive sex.”

Marty pulled out of the potholed parking area and headed toward her Sugar Lane address, named, according to local legend, for the enormous sacks of sugar delivered there back when moonshining was in vogue. “According to you, sex is the miracle drug. I doubt if Daisy would agree with you, I know I wouldn't. She didn't seem all that interested in her studly gentleman.”

“Don't let her fool you, she was trying a little too hard
not
to look interested.” Sasha tilted her seat back and propped her size-five platform sandals on the dash.

“After Jerry, who can blame her for not trusting men?”

“I doubt if she trusts anyone except for you and me.”

“And we're plotting behind her back,” Marty said with a sigh. “Some friends.”

“Well, dammit, somebody's got to take care of her. You want her to end up an embittered old woman, living alone on social security with a houseful of cats?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Well, not to me. It's unnatural. The only men she's dated since Jerry dumped her were losers, and even then she never dated any of them more than twice.”

“Well, duh.” Marty snickered. “That means she's smarter than you are.”

“I'm going to forget you said that. And what about all those doctors she works with?”

“Probably married. You know the drill—first wife puts him through med school, second wife comes along
once he's made it and claims the reward. Meanwhile he probably has a mistress waiting in the wings for act three.”

“God, you sound jaded.”

“I'm not jaded, I'm simply a realist,” Marty declared. “Anyway, picking a mate in the same profession almost never works out. My first husband was in publishing. I loved him dearly for the first three weeks, but after that we started disagreeing about everything. He thought what I read was trash—I thought what he read was pretentious crap.”

“What kind of publishing?”

“How-to books for computer dumbbells.”

“Oh. Then he wasn't actually literary, he was a nerd who knew how to spell.”

“Yeah, well—at least he was good at it. He made a lot of money teaching other people how to be good nerds before he got sick.”

Both women fell silent, thinking of former relationships that hadn't worked out. Then Sasha said, “Drop me off at the corner—unless you need help getting those boxes into the house?” The two women lived a block and a half apart in a small subdivision that had been built back in the seventies when Muddy Landing had first begun to expand. Marty's house had been built several years before the rest, so it wasn't actually a part of the development that had grown up around it. Pulling over to where a curb would be if the neighborhood ran to such amenities, she said, “I'm going to leave everything in the car for now.”

“Whatever. Save the juiciest ones for me, okay? You know the authors I like. I'm doing a new office complex
at Kitty Hawk starting next week, which means I'll be running up to Norfolk a lot, but I'll still have plenty of time to read.” Sasha was an interior designer. She opened the door and extended one long, silk-clad leg.

“Speaking of prospects…” said Marty.

“Were we?”

“Speaking of prospects, if Daisy doesn't want the studly gentleman, maybe we should add him to our list of candidates.” The skimpy list ranged from the barely possible to the enthusiastic hubba-hubba, but not every prospect turned out to be available.

“For Faylene?” Sasha looked horrified. “No way!”

“Didn't we decide on Gus for Faylene?”

“Oh, right. But we'll let Daisy have first pick. What do you think, does wearing western boots and being from Oklahoma make a man a cowboy?”

“Beats me.”

“Yee-haw, ride 'em, cowboy,” Sasha caroled, wriggling her well padded behind.

Marty laughed. “It'll help if you haven't destroyed what's left of her hair with that smelly goop you call a conditioner.”

“Hey. A friend of mine invented that goop. She's trying to get it patented.”

“As what? Insect repellant?”

T
he air coming through the open window smelled of marshy riverbanks rather than soybean fields and pine woods. Daisy yawned and stretched. Evidently the wind had shifted. If rain was on the way, she hoped it would get it over with by Wednesday. She still had a few reservations about the plans for Faylene and Gus, but now that Marty's bookstore had closed, her friend needed a distraction.

Rolling over onto her side, she slid her foot over the smooth percale sheet. This had always been her favorite time for planning, before the affairs of the day intruded.

One intrusion in particular came to mind. Kell Magee. To have known him no longer than she had, he was making far too large an impression. How long was he planning to stay? If the woman who'd called here was an employee, the sooner he got back, the better. She
didn't sound particularly capable, not when he'd had to call the police on her behalf.

It was none of her business, Daisy warned herself.

The trouble was, the longer he hung around here, being helpful, looking sexy and wistful, asking questions she couldn't possibly answer, the harder it was to remain detached.

She moved her foot again on the narrow bed, imagining how it would feel to encounter a warm, hairy calf. Then, with an impatient exclamation, she sat up and rubbed her scalp, trying to restore a bit of circulation to her obviously oxygen-starved brain.

Order of the day, she told herself firmly: get up, finish what has to be done, get out of here and get on with your own plans. “And while you're at it,” she muttered, “forget you ever met Magee.”

Easier said than done, she admitted ruefully as she went through a few lackadaisical stretching exercises. At least now she was clear on her priorities. With the start they had already made, it shouldn't take long to finish up in the library and whip through the last few rooms. By the end of the week, or maybe even sooner, she'd be finished.

By that time Kell would have wound up his affairs and be on his way back to Oklahoma.

Well, good. That settled that, then. One lucky cowboy would never know how close he'd come to having his bones jumped by a sex-starved female whose brain was on temporary leave.

By the time she'd showered and pulled on a pair of scrubs, Kell was gone. The coffeemaker was cold and empty, and there were no dishes in the sink, which
meant he was either going without breakfast or headed out of town.

Whatever, it meant he wouldn't be hanging around, offering to help with whatever job she tackled. Tempting her with quick grins and lazy, drawling double entendres.

Not that they were, it was only that in that dark-chocolate voice of his, a simple question about the local schools sounded like foreplay. “Miss Daisy, you are truly pathetic,” she murmured, amused and a little bit alarmed. At least she knew now that the use-by date on her hormones hadn't expired.

The house was almost too quiet as she finished her skimpy breakfast. She washed her bowl and mug and left them to drain dry, bracing herself to tackle the last few things in the library—stacks of periodicals, the photo albums and the big desk. She hated the responsibility of having to be the one to decide what to trash and what to save, but then, that was why Egbert had asked her to do it. She'd known Harvey better than anyone in his latter days.

 

By late afternoon Daisy was exhausted and grimy up to her elbows. If Egbert wanted the old newspapers and periodicals cataloged along with the books, he could call in a librarian. As for the photo albums, unless Egbert objected, she intended to offer them to Kell. He could take them back to Oklahoma with him and resurrect a complete family history, real or imaginary.

And no, she did not feel sorry for him, not one bit. At least he knew who his parents were. Evander and Lena, the half-Cherokee barrel racer who cooked something called bean bread. That was far more than she was ever likely to know about her own parents.

A few minutes later she was standing by the refrigerator, drinking ice water straight from the container before washing and refilling it, when she heard Kell drive up. If she'd wanted to make a good impression on him—not that she particularly did—but if she had, this was hardly the way to do it.

Painfully honest, Daisy admitted that in the back of her mind a plan had begun taking shape. By the time he returned, having finished the library, dusted under all the doodads in the parlor, she'd imagined herself relaxing on the side porch wearing something casual, but flattering. If he came close enough he might catch a hint of her Tea Rose body lotion, but nothing heavier. Perhaps a hint of blusher and tinted lip balm…

Instead, a light rain was blowing in on the porch, she looked like Cinderella on a bad hair day and reeked of dust, furniture polish and Murphy's Oil Soap. So much for best-laid plans.

“There you are.” Kell poked his head into the kitchen, his hair and tanned face gleaming with moisture. He reminded her of one of those sports car advertisements that always showed some flashy guy racing along a winding road at a hundred miles an hour with the top down. All he lacked was a pair of aviator shades.

“You look like you've had a successful day.” The observation sounded snide even to her own ears.

“Yep, sure did.” One more eye-twinkling grin, Daisy thought, and she'd buy him a damned sports car herself and tell him where he could road test it. The Himalayas came to mind.

“Fine. Me, too.” She set the water container in the sink, added a drop of detergent and turned on the tap.

“Had supper yet? I found this service station that has a deli on the side not too far down the road.” He draped his damp leather jacket on a chair back, then thought better of it and hung it in the utility room.

Supper? She hadn't even had lunch, not that she intended to admit it. The last thing she needed was for him to offer to feed her when she was obviously in a weakened condition. “Late lunch,” she lied. “If you're hungry there might be a few cans of soup left in the pantry.”

He was staring at the boxes she had lugged out into the hall, planning to load them in her car once the rain stopped. “What's all this?” he asked, pointing to the stack with the toe of his left boot.

And that was another thing, she fumed. Boots like that were purely an affectation on anyone who didn't ride, and there wasn't a horse in sight. “Stuff to go,” she said. “Some to the dump, some to the thrift shop.”

“Anything I might be interested in seeing first?”

“I doubt it. I left the photo albums on the table in the library. If you're interested, I'd appreciate it if you'd go through them and take whatever you want, because I'm hauling the rest away first thing tomorrow.”

He waited two clicks and then said, “Got a headache, have we?”

“No,
we
do not have a headache.” She did. It had come on the moment he'd strolled into the kitchen and caught her looking like a refugee from the city landfill, drinking ice water straight from the container.

“Sit down and let me work out some of that tension,” he offered.

“No thanks, I'm not tense, I'm just tired,” she snapped, feeling defensive for no real reason.

“Daisy,” he taunted softly. “Hey, I've been on the receiving end of a good massage more times than I can count.” She'd just bet he had. “Believe me, it helps.”

“I know that. I've been giving therapeutic massages for years.”

“Can't give yourself one, though, can you?”

Before she could escape, his hands came down on her shoulders and he pressed her down into a chair. Slowly he began to move his thumbs. A soft moan escaped her lips. “You're way too tense.”

Her head fell forward. She was tense, all right. Unfortunately, not all the tension was in her shoulders.

“Met some interesting people today,” he said as he kneaded the back of her neck, his touch just short of painful.

“Hmm?”

“Couple of guys in Elizabeth City. One of them belongs to the historical society, lives out on Wellfield Road. Fascinating fellow. You wouldn't believe the things he knows. Talk about a walking encyclopedia.”

A small sound escaped her lips as he touched a particularly sensitive spot. “That hurt?” he said, softening his touch to stroke the back of her neck.

“A little. It feels better, though. Really.” She sighed. Unfortunately, the tension that had left her shoulders had settled in another part of her anatomy.

“What you need now is a long, hot shower. Set it to needle-spray and let it beat down on the back of your neck, and I guarantee when you're through you'll be floating on air.”

“If I can move at all,” she said, huffing a little laugh
because it was either that or fling herself into his arms and beg him to redirect his therapeutic attentions.

Ten minutes later she had to admit that he'd been right about the shower, at least. Not that she wouldn't have prescribed the same thing for herself. Hearing noises coming from the kitchen, she headed that way, clean and wearing scented body lotion and her last clean pair of scrubs instead of her favorite caftan.

“Soup's on,” Kell announced. He had tucked a tea towel under the front of his belt. She stared at it and felt her face grow warm.

Warning: curiosity may be hazardous to your health.

“Taste it. Too much horseradish?” He held out the long-handled cooking spoon he'd been using to stir whatever was in the pot on the front burner.

“Tomato?” She reached for the spoon. Their fingers brushed and she could have sworn she heard the sizzle of an electrical arc.

“With a few of my own gourmet touches. I'm not totally clueless in a kitchen, you know.”

She tasted, not because she was hungry—well, she was, but it was more that she couldn't resist a tall, handsome guy wearing lean jeans and a tea towel, regardless of what he was offering.

“Oh, my—oh, wow!” Her eyes watered as she tried to catch her breath.

“Too much horseradish?”

“Funny—I didn't hear the smoke alarm go off.”

“Sorry about that. There was a clump in the bottom of the jar and it all fell out before I could catch it.”

She fanned her mouth and reached for the milk. Four percent would have been better for putting out the fire,
but two percent was the best she could do short of licking out the butter dish. “Dump in another can of soup,” she gasped. “Maybe if you dilute it…”

They dined on pyromaniac's delight, Daisy's term for the concoction Kell had made from a perfectly innocent can of store-brand tomato soup, plus a select few incendiary seasoning ingredients. The heat didn't seem to bother him in the least.

“So what did your historical friend have to say?” she asked when she was sure her tongue would work.

“He knew my dad…at least I think he did. He also claimed to have helped the Wright brothers find a place to park their bicycles while they tested their plane. That would make him pretty precocious, to say the least. He can't be that old. You want to finish up the last of the soup?”

“No thanks,” she said hastily.

“How's the tension?”

“Better. Gone, in fact.”
But not for long if you don't stop looking at me that way.

“You feel up to showing me those albums tonight? I'll just put this stuff in to soak and wash it later.”

Daisy didn't want to spend any more time alone with him for the simple reason that she wanted it too much. “I need to call Egbert,” she said, reminding herself what was important and what was strictly temporary.

“Can't it wait until tomorrow?”

She gave in far too easily. “I guess. I just needed to be sure of what to get rid of and what to leave here.”

“Get rid of?” He looked worried.

She found herself torn between smoothing the frown from his rumpled brow and making a run for it while a
few of her synapses were still firing. “Donate or recycle. I'll check with the library, but they probably already have all the back issues of
State Magazine
and
The Daily Advance
they need.”

She let him put the dishes in to soak and then led the way to the library. Looking wary, almost as if he were afraid of what he might find, Kell picked up one of the albums. “While you glance through those,” she said, “I'll just finish going through these drawers.”

As executor, Egbert had already removed anything pertinent to the estate, but he hadn't bothered to sort through the rest of the contents. She was flattered that he trusted her to handle something that was technically his responsibility.

She started with the middle drawer. A few bent paper clips, a notepad advertising a real estate firm and a letter opener. She emptied everything into the trash box and opened the next drawer.

From time to time Kell made a remark as he leafed through the pages of the old photo album. Once or twice, he even laughed aloud.

Glancing up, she seemed to recall that the album he was going through now held mostly black-and-white photos. She'd glanced inside each one before setting it aside, but looking any further had somehow seemed like an invasion of Harvey's privacy. Obviously, Kell didn't feel that way.

“Come here a minute, I want to show you something.” He was smiling.

As determined as she was not to involve herself in his odyssey, there was no way she could refuse. “What's so funny?”

The pictures were held in place by those little black corners. He pointed to a deckle-edged snapshot of a young man standing on a ladder behind a half-decorated Christmas tree holding a wreath over his head as if it were a halo. The sheet draped over his shoulders was probably meant to go around the base of the tree.

Daisy had little trouble recognizing him even though he was laughing so hard his eyes were nearly closed. “That's Harvey. The angel on top of the tree,” she said softly. “I told you he had a sense of humor, didn't I?”