On Lone Star Trail (18 page)

While Gillian sipped her shake, Russ entertained her with stories of Dupree's past, acting as if he were one of the founding
fathers rather than a man only in his midthirties. Church socials, Fourth of July picnics, Christmas parades—nothing was too big or too small to have escaped Russ's notice. Gillian suspected he could—and would—continue talking until closing time, but she had other things to do.

“This was superb,” she said as she drained the last drop of milk shake. “May I have my bill?”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not. That's on the house. It's the least I can do.”

Smiling at the number of times she'd heard that particular phrase today, Gillian left the small diner. She'd taken only a few steps toward the senior center when she heard a man calling her name. Turning, she saw Pastor Bill approaching.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked. “There's something I want to discuss with you.”

Gillian glanced at her watch. “Can we do it walking? TJ's going to be at the center any minute, and I don't want to keep him waiting.”

“TJ, the RV—” The minister broke off abruptly and nodded. “Yes, of course we can walk and talk.” He matched his pace to Gillian's. “I'm glad you have help with the center. It's a fine thing you're doing for Dupree.”

“It's a fine thing for me too. I'm enjoying being busy.”

Pastor Bill greeted two of his parishioners as they headed for the diner, then turned back to Gillian. “It's good you like being busy, because that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Mrs. Bautz—she's the church organist—has a new grandson in Dallas. She left today to visit him and won't be back for a week.” He paused for a second. “I was going to come up with some fancy appeal to convince you, but I might as well cut to the chase. Will you take her place on Sunday?”

The milk shake that had tasted so delicious only minutes ago began to curdle in her stomach. How could Pastor Bill even ask her to do that? He knew her career was over.

Though Gillian wanted to shout her refusal, she forced herself to take a deep breath. Perhaps that would slow the pounding of her heart and help her give a more measured response. If she'd learned anything from her father, it was the importance of being polite.

“I haven't played in public since my accident,” she said when her heart had resumed its normal rhythm. “The truth is, I haven't played very much at all. My right hand will never be the way it was a year ago.”

She looked at the scars that were the only visible reminders of the accident. The badly shattered bones had healed better than anyone had thought possible that first day. Unfortunately, her tendons had not recovered as well.

“I'm no longer a professional musician.”

Pastor Bill looked as if he'd expected that answer. His expression was warm and friendly, not judgmental. “This isn't Carnegie Hall,” he said mildly.

“True, but . . .” Gillian looked down at her hands, wondering if the right one would betray her if she tried to play a hymn.

The first time she'd tried some simple five-finger dexterity exercises, her index and ring fingers had refused to cooperate, and she'd pushed the bench away from the piano as tears had streamed down her cheeks. Though therapy had helped, she had had to face the reality that what had once been second nature to her would now always be a struggle and that on bad days she would sound like a first-year student.

Gillian was about to give the minister an unconditional refusal when the memory of yesterday's service flashed through her mind. The hymns had been joyous musical offerings of praise. While the congregation could have sung a cappella, it wouldn't have been the same. They might have struggled to stay on key, and even if they had managed to follow the melody, the hymns would not have sounded as beautiful without the organ.

If she refused, Gillian knew that she would be disappointing
more than Pastor Bill and the congregation. She would also be disappointing God. He'd given her a talent, and now he was giving her another chance to use it.

“All right,” she said, feeling her spirits rise as she pronounced the words. “I'll do it.”

The minister grinned. “Thank you. You won't regret it.”

T
his looks good if I say so myself.” Gillian smiled as TJ gestured toward the newly painted walls of the senior center. He'd come as soon as the school day had ended, intending to help her, and had been surprised that she was almost finished with the last wall.

“I agree.” Though this was only the primer, the improvement was dramatic. The formerly blotchy walls were now a uniform white. Though she was as paint-speckled as she'd been when she worked on the ceiling, Gillian didn't mind. Paint was an occupational hazard and one that was easily remedied.

She headed for the kitchen, gave her hands a quick scrub, and opened the small refrigerator. “One more day and we should be done. The furniture is scheduled to be delivered on Friday.”

Marisa had ordered that, saying she and Blake wanted to be part of the project. While his pockets weren't as deep as Greg's, Blake's bestselling novels had given him and Marisa financial security. “Then all that's left will be the finishing touches.”

Accepting the soda Gillian offered him, TJ asked, “Like what?” He popped open the can and took a long swig.

She led the way back into the main room. “I'm still debating
over whether to have curtains or shades, but I definitely want some artwork for the walls.”

Though she hadn't expected a reaction from him, TJ seemed pleased by her answer. “I've got an idea for that—the artwork, that is. The curtains are all yours.” He took another drink of soda in what Gillian suspected was a deliberate attempt to increase suspense. She'd watched him tell stories often enough to recognize what she'd heard described as a pregnant pause.

After yet another sip, TJ said, “I wondered if you'd like prints of some of the pictures I took at the work party. I thought the seniors might enjoy seeing the change from dingy to dynamite.”

It was a good idea, much better than the travel posters she'd considered. “I like the idea, but I have to tell you that you sound just like Kate. Dingy to dynamite was the way she described the work we're doing.”

A mischievous grin lit TJ's face. “I might have overheard her say that.”

Gillian felt blood rush to her face as she remembered the footsteps she'd heard outside Marisa's office. How much had TJ heard? She wouldn't ask.

“Which pictures did you have in mind?” Gillian asked, determined to pretend that she wasn't concerned by what TJ might or might not have overheard. If he'd just been walking by Marisa's office, he'd probably caught only the tail end of the discussion. There was no reason to think he'd overheard Kate's assertion that Gillian was in love.

“I thought you should select them.” TJ glanced at his watch, apparently focused on nothing other than artwork. Excellent. “If we pick them out tonight, I can order the prints and have them framed by Saturday. There's a place in Blytheville that's supposed to be first rate. One of their claims to fame is having a great selection of frames.”

Relieved by the innocuous direction of the conversation, Gillian studied the walls, trying to imagine them with pictures
hanging on them. “How many do you think we should have and what size?”

She and TJ were discussing the pros and cons of fewer but larger pictures when Gillian's phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, intending to let it go to voice mail, but when she saw the caller was Mike, she excused herself and walked to the corner of the room. He deserved better than voice mail.

“Hi, Mike. Can I call you back? I'm in the middle of something.” Though their last call had been brief, Gillian didn't want to make the assumption that this one would be equally short, nor did she want to leave TJ standing around while she talked to Mike. That would be rude.

“I'll make it quick,” Mike promised. “The problem with a callback is I'm going to be hard to reach. This is turning into another one of those weeks when there's not even time to sleep.”

His voice was warm, friendly, and filled with more than a hint of frustration. “I was calling to invite you to spend Sunday with me and my family. I think you'd like them, and I really want them to meet you.”

Gillian blinked. Dinner at a fancy restaurant was one thing, but an invitation to spend a day with his family was taking their relationship to a new level.
He's smitten
. Kate's words echoed through Gillian's brain. Was she right? And if she was, how did Gillian feel about that? Though her brain was whirling, she was unable to answer either question.

“The whole family goes to church together,” Mike continued, “and then Mom fixes a big meal. After that, we just hang out.”

Still unsure of her feelings, Gillian realized she had a valid reason for refusing. “That sounds like fun, but I'm afraid I can't. I've agreed to play the organ here next Sunday.”

“That's not a problem.” Mike wasn't accepting the excuse. “I'll pick you up afterwards. In fact, maybe I'll come early and attend your service. Maybe I'll even bring the family along. I'm sure they'd enjoy hearing you play.”

The thought of Mike's family coming to Dupree simply to hear her at the organ bothered Gillian. Though the evening at Strawberry Chantilly had felt like a flashback to her former life, the simple fact was that she was no longer Gillian Hodge, renowned pianist. On Sunday she would be nothing more than a substitute organist.

“I'd rather you didn't.” Sensing Mike wouldn't give up easily, Gillian made a quick decision. “Getting together later would be nice.”

When she'd ended the call, she turned back to TJ, who'd been staring at the far wall as if fascinated by the primer. “Sorry about that.”

As he turned, she saw that he had clenched his fists and wondered why. Surely he didn't mind her talking to Mike.

“I couldn't help overhearing,” TJ said, his voice betraying no chagrin that he'd been an eavesdropper. “You're going to play the organ?”

Feeling oddly disappointed that he was bothered by that rather than her date with Mike, Gillian nodded. “Yes. Do you think it's a bad idea?” The clenched fists and stiff posture seemed to indicate that he did.

TJ unclenched his fists. “Not at all. I'm just surprised. I didn't think you were giving public performances.”

“It's not a performance,” Gillian protested. “Pastor Bill needed a substitute organist and asked me.”

“I thought you were a pianist.”

Gillian nodded. “That was my primary instrument, but I also studied the organ when I was at Juilliard. The flute and violin too, although I certainly didn't excel at either of those.”

TJ did not look convinced. “Be that as it may, once word gets out—and it will, because everyone will be speculating on who's going to replace the regular organist—the church will be packed. After all, it's not every day people get to hear Gillian Hodge in person.”

Though Mike hadn't used those exact words, the thought had been the same, making Gillian wonder if she'd made a mistake in agreeing to be Mrs. Bautz's substitute.

“This isn't a concert,” she said. “It's a church service. People will come to worship.”

TJ didn't look convinced. “Maybe, and maybe not.”

“Does that mean you'll come?” If her playing brought TJ back to church, Gillian would have no reservations.

He stared at her, his expression firm. “Sorry, but no. Not even for you.”

“You look like you could use some company,” Greg said as he joined TJ on his cabin's porch. Ever since he'd returned from Firefly Valley, TJ had been sitting on the porch, staring into the distance. He shouldn't care—he didn't care, he told himself—that Gillian had another date with Mike or that her best friend was convinced she was in love. Gillian was a beautiful, loving woman, and Mike Tarkett was the kind of man she would be attracted to.

“I'm afraid I'm not very good company right now.” Perhaps Greg would take the hint and leave.

No such luck. “A problem with the Firefly Valley kids?” he asked as he settled onto the second Adirondack chair.

“No. The problem's me.”

“My guess is it's something to do with Gillian.”

Though he hadn't planned to respond, hoping Greg would tire of silence and leave TJ alone, he found himself saying, “Why do you say that?”

“Because you look the way I do when Kate and I have a falling out. I've seen the way you look at Gillian, and it's clear she's more than a friend.”

Anger bubbled up from deep inside TJ. Anger that he hadn't
been able to hide his feelings. Anger that Greg, a man he'd known for only a few weeks, had been able to read him so easily. Anger that his life hadn't turned out the way he'd expected. “She's just a friend. She can't be anything more.” And he was a fool to wish it could be otherwise.

“Because of Mike Tarkett?”

It was true TJ didn't like Gillian having another date with Mike, but that wasn't the crux of the problem. Even if Mike were out of the picture, TJ couldn't do anything about the tender feelings he harbored for Gillian. It was wrong to even admit how often he thought of her, how he wished he had something to offer her.

“Mike's not the problem.” TJ shook his head. “I am. Deb was the love of my life.” With her gone, he was only half a man. The good part of him, the heart of him, had been buried along with his wife. Like Gillian's father, he was a one-woman man.

Greg leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “And you don't think God gives us second chances at love?”

“God's given me what I deserve, and there are no second chances included in that.” The words burst out of TJ with more venom than he'd intended. He thought of apologizing but couldn't force the words past his lips. That would only prolong a conversation he didn't want to be having.

Greg was silent for a long moment. “I see.” He let out what sounded like a sigh. “So, tell me this: if you'd been the one to die, would you have wanted Deb to spend the rest of her life alone if she met someone she could love?”

“Of course not.” The idea was preposterous. “I'd want her to be happy.”

“Then why do you think she wouldn't want the same thing for you?”