Hidden Hills (27 page)

****

Charlotte stepped out of her car, stopping long enough to praise the Lord one more time before crossing the red mud to get to Jake's house. When it seemed God's answer would be no, He'd given her more blessings than she'd ever dreamed possible.

Jake met her at the door where, still giddy with excitement, she threw her arms around him, burying herself in his chest. His arms tightened. ”What's wrong?”

“We have a lot to talk about.”

The kids surrounded her, everyone talking at once until he spoke up. “Give her room. She's not going anywhere.”

“Guess what, Mama? We're going to the Pizza Plate.”

She frowned at Jake. “I've got supper in the crockpot.”

“Good, I'm worn out.”

“Why don't you kids go play while we clean up this mess?” Not needing a second offer, they disappeared into the other room. She locked her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “I love you.” The safety of his arms had never felt so good, or his kisses tasted any sweeter.

“I was worried about you,” he said, coming up for air. “Jeremy didn't think you wanted to go, but according to Bruce, you went to see your boyfriend.”

“Not hardly.” She snuggled closer. “Grandpa's attorney called. I was afraid he'd found another mortgage, and I thought Ralph and Shelby might bail if he had.”

He rocked her back and forth, a comfort gesture when she wanted more. “I hate to tell you, but it's happening anyway.”

“What?” A seed of hope sprang to life. “Shelby didn't say anything yesterday.”

“It's because she didn't know. Ralph's boss offered him a partnership this afternoon if he'll stay with the firm. It's something he's wanted for a long time. He's probably going to take it.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“No, Charlotte,” he said, deep lines marking his forehead. “You don't understand. Without their cash investment, we'll lose Hidden Hills. I can't raise the money on my own, but even if I could, we'd still have to hire a couple to live there full-time. Unless someone has a vested interest in making it a success, they won't push the business like it'll have to be pushed.”

“It doesn't matter…”

“Yes it does. I've failed you, and I'm so sorry.”

“You haven't failed me,” she said, touched he'd tried so hard. “The day Mitch died, I had twenty dollars to my name, and a funeral to pay for. Our bank account was overdrawn, the credit cards were maxed out, and Mitch had borrowed on his life insurance without letting me know. When the shock began to wear off, it hit me. I also had a mortgage hanging over my head.”

“I had no idea it was so bad.”

“No one did,” she replied, taking a deep breath. “I was so depressed Mama spent the first six months with us, and Dad came up on weekends to help Uncle Eli with the repairs. When Mama realized I'd been selling the furniture to buy groceries, she and Uncle Eli sat me down, and gave me a good dose of common sense. I could pull myself together and live the rest of my life with the good sense God gave me, or I could wallow in self-pity and never receive the blessings He had in store.”

“I take it you pulled yourself up by your bootstraps.”

“Not exactly,” she said. “Mama went home, Uncle Eli became my babysitter, and I got a job at Milner's and finished the schooling my dad agreed to pay for.”

His hands cupped her face, lifting her gaze to meet his probing blue eyes. “And a couple of years later you found me.”

“Yeah, I did. You're one of those blessings Mama told me about.”

His forehead dropped to hers. “I don't deserve you.”

“Well, you'd better, because you've got me.” Laughing, she enjoyed the safety of his strong arms. Jake had become her best friend, her confidant, and soon to be, her husband and lover. His warm lips gave the promise of a loving devotion, destined to last a lifetime.

“You never said why Mr. Grant wanted to see you.”

“I didn't?” she said, floating back to earth. “Oh, yeah, I meant to tell you… I'm rich.”

“Well, of course you are, you've got me.”

She laughed. “I'm glad, but I'm also ‘blow me down' rich.”

“Sure you are.” He nuzzled the back of her ear. “Humor me. Just how rich are you?”

“Four-point-five million dollars.”

Jake kissed her lobe. “Of course you are.”

“I'm telling the truth.” She twisted her ear out of his reach. “At least you're not blubbering like an idiot, the way I did.” She felt him go limp the moment he realized she was serious.

“Jake?” She tightened her arms to keep him from falling. “Do you need to sit down?”

“Maybe I should.” He grabbed the closest chair he could find and pulled her onto his knees. Big gulps of air seemed to clear his head. “I felt a little woozy there for a second.”

“Are you okay?”

He nodded, raising his hands like she was supposed to lay an explanation on his open palms. “What
exactly
did he tell you?”

“Well, it was Mr. Grant and Mr. Reynolds, and they said…”

“Who's Mr. Reynolds?”

“A financial advisor out of Birmingham is all I know. Anyway, it seems Grandpa made a stipulation to his will. It couldn't be read until Mitch and I had owned the estate for three years — that's today.”

“So, how much does the house and land account for?”

She shook her head, watching his mouth fall open. “This is the certificates, stocks, bonds, gold, and silver. Oh, and oil… I've got oil holdings, too. Oscar Reynolds said the house and land wasn't included.”

“So you mean…”

Charlotte watched the expression in his eyes change with the calculations. Her excitement of being rich did a quick nose-dive at the look in his eyes. Was he going to bail on her?

“Good heavens, woman. You're worth over eight million dollars.”

“No.” She caught his face, with its day-old stubble, in both hands. “
We're
worth over eight million.”

His head started shaking. “Charlotte, I…”

“Now, you listen to me, Jake Weatherman. I love you and you love me — you said so.”

“But that was before…”

“I proposed marriage, sort of, and you accepted. There's no backing out.”

“Yes, but…”

Sitting on his lap, Charlotte had the upper hand and she intended to use it. Her lips captured his, preventing him from saying anything else. The her hot kiss got even hotter when she pressed up against him, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other unbuttoning his shirt to stroke his hairy chest. Seconds later his hands electrified her body, moving down to her waist, from where streaks of desire shot through her veins.

“You think they know each other now, Jeremy?”

“It sure looks like it.”

Charlotte shot bolt upright, trying to pry Jake's hands from her bottom when she saw his boys standing in the doorway, their innocent eyes wide with wonder. She blushed, smoothing down her shirt. “Um, uh… your dad and I found the money to pay for Hidden Hills.”

Becky came around the older boys. “Can we go home?”

“You want to go home, now?” Charlotte glanced toward the house next door. Her weak legs wouldn't hold her up, much less walk across the yard.

“No, Mama, I mean to our old home.”

One by one they entered the room, sliding into the empty chairs around the kitchen table in what appeared to be one of the family meetings she'd heard so much about. Jeremy lifted Andy to sit in the chair beside Jake before taking his own seat. “Yeah,” he said. “The one with a cool tree house and creek.”

“And the pool,” Bruce added. “Don't forget the pool. Oh, and everybody gets a horse. We can have saddles and cowboy hats, and maybe a buggy or even a wagon to go on hayrides.”

“Mama.” Maggie leaned against her leg. “If we move to our other house, can Uncle Eli come home?”

Charlotte ran her fingers through the soft, red curls. She'd forgotten how much her girls loved their Uncle Eli. He'd attended tea parties, read bedtime stories, and chased the monsters from under the beds after Mitch died. Their entire lives revolved around the old man before his surgery, but he'd left the hospital without a goodbye, when his daughter took him to live with her.

Becky leaned against her side. “Yeah, Mama. We miss Uncle Eli.”

She turned to Jake. “What do you think?”

He shrugged. “It's up to you, but didn't you say you'd never live there again?”

“It's only lonely when I'm by myself. Maybe we should see if Uncle Eli wants some new nephews.” Charlotte relaxed into the strong arms circling her waist. “It'll be nice having a built-in sitter for these little monsters.”

A worried frown passed between the older boys, making her wonder what they were up to. She had to learn to recognize their plots, nipping them in the bud, before they had time to escalate into disasters. “Something bothering you, boys?”

“Spit it out, son,” Jake said.

Bruce eyed her, his angelic expression making her leery. “Well, you see… we know Dad's almost bald, and he's getting kind of old, but we were wondering if you'd marry him anyhow?”

Laughing, she kissed the thickening stubble on Jake's head. “Should we tell them?”

He glanced up, taking the initiative. “At the risk of being further humiliated, it might be a good idea. Kids, you'll be glad to know, I've asked Charlotte to marry me and she said yes. We're going to be a family.”

Andy grinned. “I like Mama Char-it.”

“Yes, son. I like her too.”

Born and raised in northwest Alabama,
Jannette Spann
is a retired hospital ward clerk. Coming from a large family, she is the tenth of eleven children. Married to the man of her dreams for forty-six years, she is a wife, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. She loves to write about family, love, and loyalty. With as many family members as she has, there's always funny material to exploit.

Chapter One

The irritatingly dramatic voice drowned out the squeal of the espresso machine.

"Claire Gissler! Where have you been hiding yourself?"

Sometimes she cursed the day she moved to a dinky Pacific Northwest island. Couldn't she get a stinking cup of coffee without running into half the people she knew?

Okay, one person. Just her luck for it to be the biggest mouth in town.

Claire dug a five-dollar bill out of her jeans pocket, slapped it on the counter in front of the teenage barista and grabbed her extra-hot vanilla latte. “Thanks, Tyler.”

“Take care, Mrs. G.” Tyler gave her a sympathetic smile from behind the register as she turned to leave.

“Hi, Bea. Sorry. I'm in a hurry.” She attempted to brush past the large woman.

No such luck. A simple shift of weight was all it took for Beatrice Atwell to block her exit.

“But I've got wonderful news.” Bea leaned in confidentially, although her volume didn't alter a bit. Apparently she'd never learned the difference between inside and outside voices that any sane mother taught her children. “I've found someone for you.” She bared her teeth in what was probably supposed to be a smile.

“Excuse me?”

“A man. He's taking over Dr. Wainright's dental practice. I know several women who would love to meet him, but you're at the top of my list.” Bea looked like she couldn't have a more perfect gift if she had been Santa Claus himself.

The nerve of the woman! Who did she think she was, throwing random men at her — as if anyone could take the place of Mark? Claire narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin. "I'm not looking to be set up.”

Bea placed a fleshy hand on Claire's shoulder. “It's time, dear. And he's perfect!”

Time? As if there were a limit on how long one could be alone? She bit back an angry retort and tried again. "I don't date dentists."

"Nonsense. It's a perfectly good profession. And I hear he'll be offering Botox." Bea had the gall to point to the creases between Claire's eyes. Creases that were getting deeper by the second. It was time to try a new strategy.

“Botox? That's fascinating!” Claire's voice dripped with sarcasm. “I wonder if he'll do it for free if I sleep with him? After all, it works for the plumber, the eye doctor, and my lawn boy.”

Bea's bright pink mouth fell open. Good. That shut her up. Then the single clink of a teacup settling into a saucer alerted Claire to the general silence that had descended on the rest of the patrons. She looked around to find several pairs of eyes resting on her. Most faces wore expressions of shock or disbelief, with the exception of one man leering at her through a grizzled beard, hastily pulling out a business card.

So much for snappy comebacks. When would she learn to just bite her tongue?

Her cell phone rang. Thank heavens. Saved by the bell, for once. She grabbed her cell phone from the pocket of her fleece jacket and buried her attention in it while she made a hasty exit from the coffee shop.

“Hello?”

“Well it's about time you answer your phone.” Flo Liebowitz was her agent. Claire had been avoiding her calls for a week.

She stifled a groan. “Sorry, Flo. I've been busy.”

“Writing, I hope.”

She didn't bother answering. They both knew that wasn't the case.

“I've got bad news.” Flo never beat around the bush.

“What is it?”

“They've dropped you.”

And with those simple words, on a rain-soaked sidewalk overlooking the marina, her career ended.

“Claire?”

“I heard you.” She sank onto a nearby bench and immediately regretted it. She'd have a cold, wet butt on her mile-long walk home. She sighed deeply.

It wasn't that she hadn't seen Flo's news coming. Her publisher had been threatening to drop her for several months unless she presented him with a new manuscript for her Hetty Graham series. She'd tried, she really had. But without Mark in her life, the words just wouldn't come.

“What about Emily? Won't she fight for me?”

“Emily left to have her kid. You've got a new editor. And he thinks Hetty's finished.” To her credit, Flo's voice softened, as much as her voice ever did. “One more thing.”

“I'm not sure I can take one more thing right now.”

“Understandable. But I have to tell you.”

“What?”

“They want their advance back.”

One hundred thousand dollars. She closed her eyes. How on earth was she going to pay that back? Unbidden, the stack of unpaid bills on her desk at home came to mind. Claire shook her head and opened her eyes. She couldn't think about that now. She'd figure out how to pay that back another day.

“I'm sorry, Flo.” Brash though she was, Flo had stuck with her during these last two years of creative destitution. Claire hated to disappoint her.

“We'll figure it out, hon.” The sympathy in Flo's voice made Claire's heart swell with affection in spite of the bad news she was delivering. This woman had been there for her in her time of need.

“Now that I've dished out the bad, I've got good news for you, too.” Flo's brisk tone meant she was back to business.

“I'll take any good news I can get.”

“A London publisher is picking up the series.”

“Really? Someone's finally taken us up on the foreign rights?”

“Yep. They want to publish in August.”

“Well, that's something.” Claire cradled her coffee to keep herself warm while the sun struggled to shove aside the oppressive March cloud cover. Not likely. The words “sun” and “March” simply didn't go together in the little island town of Friday Harbor.

“There's one condition.” Were those Flo's acrylic nails she heard tapping on her desk over the airwaves?

“What?”

“They insist you do a book tour.”

“In London?”

The gloom that shrouded Claire started to lift. She hadn't visited London since college. It was one of her favorite cities. One that, sadly, she'd never experienced with Mark. They'd always planned to go, even talked about renting a place there once Anna went off to college. But that hadn't happened. And now it never would.

Still, it was London. Claire almost smiled. “I could use an all-expense paid trip to London.”

“You'll be lucky if I can get them to cover your airfare. I wouldn't count on much more.”

“But, it's work.”

“Everyone's cutting costs these days, and you're in no position to demand much.”

“Well, how on earth am I supposed to do that?” Claire sprang off the bench and stormed down the sidewalk in her frustration, paying no attention to where she was headed. “I'm broke. I have a daughter in college, remember? My credit cards are maxed out. I… oomph—”

She collided with a broad male chest.

As her phone clattered to the ground and the extra-hot latte splashed onto her hand and down the front of the man's plaid flannel shirt, everything hit at once: the hundred grand she owed, being dropped by her publisher, idiots who didn't understand her grief, the humiliation of spilling coffee all over a perfect stranger. She burst into tears.

“Hey, Claire, it's okay. It's just a shirt.”

Something in the timbre of the soothing voice was recognizable, but that was all that registered. As much as she hated to cry in front of anyone else, she simply could not hold back the tears.

“Look, Claire. It's really okay.”

“N-no… it's no-o-ot…” Her face dripped and her breath came in short huffs and puffs, barely supplying oxygen between her sobs.

“My place is right down there.” An arm gestured toward the harbor, but her vision was too blurred to see anything else. “Come with me.”

She felt herself being gently pulled down the street. That got her attention. Whoever this man was, he was not taking her to his place. She locked her knees and pulled away.

“Stop!” Yanking her arm free, she brushed her sleeve across her eyes, drying them somewhat. She tilted her head back to take a good look at the man and gasped.

She was staring into the face of the man responsible for her misery.

The shock of the realization took any words from Claire. She simply continued to stare. Adam Lambright. The last year had added lines around his eyes and salted his brown hair with gray, and the day-old growth of beard did nothing to hide the tense set of his mouth. Her brows came together. Why was she analyzing this man's looks when she should be nurturing her hatred?

A searing pain drew her attention from his face to her hand. It had turned an angry shade of red.

“That's going to be a nasty burn if you don't get something on it fast. I've got cold water and ointment on my boat.” He gestured down the nearby dock.

Still in shock, she didn't resist when he took her elbow and escorted her to a sleek motorboat. He confidently stepped onto the small back deck then put out a hand to assist her aboard. He opened the door to the cabin and gestured for her to go before him, cautioning her with a “Watch your head.”

She ducked and headed down the short steps to a cozy sitting area and galley.

“Have a seat.” He pointed to a built-in eating area. She sat, knowing her wet jeans would leave a big ol' wet spot on the cushion. Good.

Adam grabbed a bottle of water from a small refrigerator and poured it into a bowl. He placed it on the table in front of her.

“Put your hand in that. I'll get some ointment. Oh, and here. You dropped this.” He pulled her phone out of his jeans pocket and set it on the table then headed through another small door that she suspected led to a sleeping area. She slowly lowered her hand into the cold water, sighing at the immediate relief from pain. She looked down at her phone, still damp from its fall. At least the screen hadn't cracked. She unzipped her fleece with her free hand and wiped the phone on the dry shirt underneath then set it on the table.

While her hand soaked, Claire looked around the compact space, noting the slightly-dated upholstery, the neatly-stacked pilot magazines, the tidy galley.

Not a single sign of Jen. But then, Claire knew how painful memories of a loved one could be.

Thanks to Adam.

She yanked her hand from the water, noting the immediate return of pain, and stood to leave. Adam entered at that moment wearing a dry shirt and carrying a small tube. He grabbed a cotton towel hanging from the tiny oven door and held out his hand.

“Let me see your hand.” It wasn't a request.

“I'm fine.”

“Don't be stubborn. This will help.” He held up the tube of burn ointment.

She huffed and retook her seat, holding out her hand for him. He sat across the table from her and took her hand gently, blotting it dry with the towel. Then he unscrewed the cap off the tube and gently rubbed the ointment onto the burn. It felt good. Well, the ointment did, anyway. The brush of his thumb, the way he tenderly held her hand, that was… incredibly awkward.

She wished he wouldn't be so annoyingly kind.

She searched for something to say to break the uncomfortable silence. “When did you get a boat?” It was the first neutral topic she could think of.

“'Bout a year ago. I still have the house, but there are too many memories there.”

Neutral. Right.

“They're brutal, aren't they?” she said. “But, I live on them, too.” And her chin started to wobble.

He noticed, and alarm crossed his features. He stopped rubbing the ointment. “Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head, but the wobble persisted. The ends of her mouth pulled down, as if magnetized. Her eyes filled. And overflowed.

He seemed truly concerned now. “What's wrong, Claire?”

“Ev…ery…thing.” She couldn't stop the tears — blast it — and she spilled the whole story. She must have blubbered for a full ten minutes, at least. At some point, a box of tissues appeared before her. Eventually, she had nothing more to say, and her world came back into focus. There was a mountain of used tissues on the table in front of her. And he stood there, leaning against the galley counter, his arms crossed, watching her.

How in the world had she come to this? Crying out her woes to Adam Lambright, of all people?

“I gotta go.” She bolted from her seat and up the stairs to the deck, forgetting to duck on her way up.

“Ow!” Her head smacked into the roof of the boat. The headache was instant, but she didn't slow down.

He followed her onto the deck. “Why don't you let me give you a ride home?”

“I can walk.”

He rushed to her side to help navigate the rather large step from the boat to the dock. She didn't slow and would have tripped, if he hadn't grabbed her arm just in time.

“You sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine.” She paused, not meeting his eyes. “Thanks for… the ointment.”