Sealed with a Kiss (15 page)

Tara was barely aware of the commotion she was causing on the crowded feeder street. Her heart pounded in her chest and she gasped for air, openmouthed and wide-eyed as a guppy. The sign ahead read Sam Kennesaw Cycles.

 

“Sam, you need to step out here immediately.” Claire's always cultured voice carried over the intercom with a hint of panic. “Tara Elliott has just walked into the showroom.”

He pushed to his feet so fast his Windsor chair rolled backward and banged against the wall behind his desk.

“What did you say?” He stared at the speakerphone, certain he'd misunderstood.

“Excuse me, Miss. You can't go back there. That's Mr. Kennesaw's private office,” Claire called from the end of the hall.

Heels clicked on the terra-cotta-tile floor as the intruder approached his open door. Sam stepped around his desk. His heart pounded. His ribs ached. Fine perspiration broke out across his forehead.

“Mr. Kennesaw and I are old friends.” Tara stood in the doorway. “He doesn't keep any secrets from
me.” She nailed him with her piercing blue eyes. “Do you, Sam?”

“Sam, I'm sorry,” Claire apologized. She looked over Tara's shoulder, her blond eyebrows drawn together, her pretty face a mask of sympathy.

“It's okay, Claire. The lady's right. We are old friends and she's welcome in my office.” He waved Claire away.

“Is that so?” Tara quizzed. She stepped into his professional sanctuary and ran her hand along the edge of his valuable turn-of-the-century partners' desk. “I'm welcome in your office, but I'm still not welcome in your life.”

“That's not true, Rusty.”

“Don't call me that,” she snapped. “The boy who gave me that name was my dearest friend. He was my heart. He was my love.”

“He still is.” Sam inched toward her, as if any sudden move would crack her composure. But he noted, for once, her skin was clear and fair in an emotional moment. She was in complete control, which scared him even more.

“It's all been a game for you, hasn't it, Sam? You saw your opportunity for payback and you couldn't resist.”

“I admit that
was
true.” He held both palms outward in his defense. “But only at first. You have to believe me,” he pleaded.

“Believe you?” She snorted and rolled her eyes
toward the ceiling before impaling him with a challenging stare. “Believe the down-and-out guy who accepted my grandmother's generosity so he could have a last chance to make something of himself?”

She glanced at his silk wall hangings. “Believe the dirt-poor fella who lives in cheap student housing because he can't afford anything better?”

She took several slow steps toward him. “Believe the struggling business owner who has to have questionable financing to survive? Or the pied piper who tells all the kids it's not how much you have, but how much you give that matters?

“Which one of those men would you have me believe, Sam?” She punctuated her question by slapping her black purse on his desktop so hard the clasp broke, scattering the contents on the carpeted floor.

A shiver of defeat ran through his body. There was no defense for what he'd done. His determination to settle the score had turned an omission of the truth into a lie that controlled every aspect of his duplicitous life. And the crazy part was that the life he'd concocted in Beardsly was far more appealing and fulfilling than his real existence.

“Will you hear me out, please?” He gestured toward the plush sofa, but she ignored him and stood her ground. “I've already admitted it,” he began. “You're right. It was all about a pound of flesh. I wanted you to have a small taste of the loss I suffered because of you.”

“You don't seem to have suffered too much.” She swept her hand to indicate the wealthy trappings of his office.

“In the big picture, no, I haven't. In fact, I've recently realized that being forced out of Beardsly was the best thing that ever happened to me. Being forced to make it on my own made coming home that much sweeter.” Pulse racing, he risked a step closer, hoping for a break in her rock-solid calm. “And living a lie all these weeks made falling in love with you that much more frightening.”

Her expression never changed. He watched as she stooped to gather up the things strewn from her purse. She reached toward the small wallet and papers and her hand froze above the familiar Persian rug. The tree-of-life pattern was identical to the carpet in her home that she'd always believed was one of a kind. As the realization that he'd led her on about that subject dawned, she probably reasoned that every conversation he'd had with her for months had been a lie. She brushed her fingertips across the intricate weave. Then, clutching her possessions, she stood and crossed the remaining gap that separated them.

“How dare you mention love to me?” Her voice quivered when she spoke. “All I ever wanted was you. And now I see all you ever wanted was what belonged to me. Well, you've won, Sam.”

She turned a slip of paper over in her hand and
thrust it into his face. He read the words
Westheimer Gallery
on the six-figure cashier's check.

“It's all yours now. What's left of the Elliott Building, Sycamore House and this, the money from the sale of Grandmother's antiques.”

Unable to believe what he was hearing, he reached for the check, but she crammed everything back into her bag.

“Like a fool, I forgot to handle the insurance upgrade. The only way to make it up to you was to sell everything that was mine, just as grandmother's idea of making things up to you was to give you everything that was hers. Including me.”

His guts churned with the force and reality of her words. He knew his next admission would twist the knife. “I don't need your money.” He lowered his voice to soften the blow. “My shop was insured and I added enough coverage for the contents of the entire building as a precaution.”

Her lips curved in a brittle smile of surrender. Her naturally bright eyes were dull with the shock of his betrayal.

“You thought of every detail, didn't you, Sam? You had all your bases covered. You bought the town's goodwill and respect with parties and donations and you still have enough left over to develop lakefront property. All the things you coveted are finally yours.

“Well, let me remind you of something you heard
yesterday. Treasures stored up in Heaven are the ones that last. I hope you'll be happy with all your hard-earned material possessions, Sam. My conscience is clear.” She pulled the check from her wallet and tossed it on the Persian carpet. “And now my debt to you is paid in full. I don't intend to lay eyes on you ever again.”

Tara pivoted on her heel, crossed the room and disappeared through the door. He stood rooted to the spot, letting her go. She had every right to her anger. He didn't dare to presume he could make this horrible situation right in one conversation. In a day or two she'd be calm and willing to listen to reason.

He hoped.

“Sam?” Claire's voice was little more than a whisper. “Forgive me for eavesdropping, but it was obvious there was about to be a scene and I wanted to be able to help if either of you needed it.”

He sank into the chair behind his desk and dropped his head into his hands. “I've managed to foul things up so much that nobody can help me this time.”

From her position beside his chair, she dropped to her knees and scooped his trembling hands into hers. “It sounds like you've been wrong a lot lately and you're wrong about this, too. You
can
make things right with Tara, but you need to make things right with God first.”

Sam closed his eyes and squeezed her hands and opened his heart to God the Father as Claire Savage prayed.

D
ust swirled at the end of the driveway as the last cargo truck pulled away. Tara pressed a clenched fist to her lips to hold back the tears and stumbled to the privacy of the gazebo. Her resolve collapsed along with her knees as she dropped onto the wicker loveseat. The sobs she'd held inside for months burst free at last.

She wrapped tense arms around her body and let the tears flow as she rocked herself gently. Searing pain seeped out with hot tears. It coursed down her face and splashed on her black skirt. She cried for the mother she couldn't remember and the grandmother she'd never forget. She cried for the loss of her family and the loss of her home. She cried for the man she'd always love and the grief she couldn't escape.

Finally the tears trickled to a stop and dried on
her cheeks. She leaned her head back and stared at the bright blue sky through the latticework overhead. The color of heaven seeped through the white slats, washing warm comfort across her cold soul.

“Father, You don't force us to love You and I shouldn't have tried to manipulate Sam into loving me. Please forgive me for interfering with Your will and thinking I could take matters into my own hands. Give me the strength to get through this day and the peace to accept my yesterdays. I willingly give You all my tomorrows. Amen.”

Resigned to finishing the job, she pushed to her feet and made her way past the vacant greenhouse into the nearly empty home. Hours earlier the rooms had been filled with solid pieces of history. Now they were almost deserted. Only a few items remained that she couldn't bear to part with. The moving van would pull into the drive tomorrow and impersonal hands would wrap her remaining prized belongings and pack them off to a storage vault in Manhattan.

“Anybody home?” Lacey called through the screen door.

Tara straightened her spine, tilted her chin upward and went to greet her lifesaver.

“Not for much longer,” she answered and pasted on a determined smile as Lacey stepped into the foyer. The two friends hugged tightly.

“You know there are other ways to handle this,” Lacey mumbled against Tara's shoulder.

“But this is the way that works for me.” They walked arm-in-arm through the forlorn rooms.

“I need to put this all behind me as soon as possible and move on with my life. Grandmother meant well, and I gave it my best shot, but we were both wrong. The price for being wrong is high, but in this case it seems fair.”

“You're a generous woman to give your home away, my friend,” Lacey sniffed.

“I'm a
broken
woman with nothing more to lose.” Tara squeezed Lacey's arm. “Believe it or not, it's almost a relief.”

Lacey checked her wristwatch. “We still need to stop by Mr. Latimer's office. We'd better get on the road if you're going to make your flight tonight.”

“My bags are on the porch. Are you sure you don't mind keeping an eye on things around here tomorrow? Mr. Latimer offered to handle it, you know.”

“I wouldn't trust any man to oversee the packing of Miss Miriam's china and crystal.” She gave a playful wink. “It will be my honor.”

Tara's heels tapped softly across the mesquite floors for the last time. Her gaze swept over the staircase, across the entry to the dining room and through the cozy library. She blessed the home to the safekeeping of its new owner, turned and pulled the heavy door shut with a very final thump.

Wade Latimer was nothing if not efficient. True
to his word, the legal documents were prepared and waiting for her signature. He didn't bother with trivial conversation. With a glisten of sympathy in the kind eyes behind his glasses, he watched her sign away the cashier's check along with her remaining possessions.

Lacey took the back road away from town claiming it was a shorter route to the interstate. Tara knew better. It was to spare her a final view of the campus and the blackened ruins of the Elliott Building.

At three o'clock on a hot August afternoon, Tara whispered goodbye to the image of Beardsly, Texas, in her side-view mirror as it shrank to the size of a pecan and disappeared in the dust.

 

“I thought I might see you today,” Lacey said when she answered the door at Sycamore House late the next morning.

Sam crossed the threshold and felt the weight of his lower jaw as it sagged with disbelief. He hadn't dreamed Tara would move so fast. Not only were the rooms empty but carpets were rolled up and artwork was boxed for storage. Professional packers bustled through the rooms wrapping glassware in brown paper and stacking the contents of the bookcases into sturdy corrugated boxes.

“Stop what you're doing, right now!” He shouted to get everyone's attention.

“Sam,” Lacey calmed him and signaled for the
busy activity to continue. “They've been at this since daylight. They have orders to work straight through till everything's packed and loaded. The house will be empty and ready for you to take possession by tomorrow.”

“Consider the orders changed.”

“You don't have the authority to make that decision,” Lacey informed him.

“Then who does?” He ran shaking fingers through his thick mop. Things were not going according to plan, which shouldn't surprise him since nothing had gone his way this past week. The world was tilted against its axis, spinning wildly out of orbit.

“Mr. Latimer has Tara's power of attorney concerning the remainder of Miss Miriam's estate.”

“Where's Rusty? We have to talk.” The big sedan was parked in the drive. She must be upstairs. Without waiting for Lacey's reply he bounded up the carved staircase, his boots clomping with heavy echoes as he checked first one empty bedroom and then another.

His feet slowed as he stood in the door of her girlhood sanctuary. His mind flashed back to a long-forgotten day when he'd tiptoed up the back stairs to get a secret glimpse of the second floor. A four-poster bed, so tall it required a stepping stool, had dominated the room. Topped by a white lace canopy and piles of fluffy pillows, it was angled beside the
back windows of the house where curtains billowed in the warm breeze.

The bed was gone, the windows stripped of their coverings. The closet door stood ajar. Still feeling like an intruder, Sam crept across the floor and pulled the door wide. Bare padded hangers swung on the wooden rod. Shelves had been cleared with no trace of Tara remaining.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, sorrowful breath. As oxygen filled his lungs, the lingering scent of cinnamon drifted into his senses. His chin dropped to his chest and he gave in to the sob that escaped past the anxiety lodged in his throat.

For two nights he'd suffered in silence. Folded into the comfortable leather recliner in his spacious den, he'd stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at his lagoon-style backyard pool. As recessed lights waltzed beneath the faux lily pads, visions of wooing Tara had danced in his mind. Being forgiven over a candlelit dinner, having her accept his proposal, agreeing to allow him to restore the Elliott Building and update the property surrounding Sycamore House were the fantasies of his sleepless nights.

He'd never once imagined that she'd be gone, leaving nothing but a faint trace of her spicy essence clinging to the closet shelves. Inside the dark enclosure he steadied himself against the wall and kept his eyes pressed tightly closed. As the long-forgotten feel of warm tears trickled down his cheeks, he
recalled Claire's prayer and spoke the words aloud as best he could remember.

“Father, I've been so wrong about so many things in my life. Even so, You've blessed me beyond all I dreamed of. You made a way for me when my own way was blocked. Please, make a way for me now. I love Rusty. I've always loved the girl she was and now I adore the woman she's become. Lord, if it's Your will for our lives make a way for us to be together again.”

He dragged the tail of his T-shirt across his eyes, relieved that the work was now in God's hands and thumped back down the steps.

“When did she leave?” he asked.

Lacey looked up from her work of slipping silverware into fuzzy cases. “Last night. She starts work on Monday so she had to get back to open her apartment and unpack.”

He checked the time and glanced around at the stacks of moving boxes. “If you let these guys keep working it's just going to take you that much longer to put everything back the way they found it.”

“Sam, this is what Tara wants.”

He shook his head. “No, it's not. This is what she's accepting because she thinks I can't give her what she wants. She's wrong, Lacey. And you're going to help me prove it to her.”

 

“Forgive me for interrupting your meeting, sir.” Sam sat across from Wade Latimer in the same
chair where the charade had begun three months earlier.

“I was expecting you, Sam. After Tara's sudden decisions yesterday I figured you'd want to make a full disclosure.”

Sam's shoulders slumped. “So, she told you?”

Latimer removed his glasses, folded them carefully and laid them on the desk parallel with his ink blotter.

“Actually, I knew all along. Miriam did, too.”

Sam sat ramrod-straight and narrowed his eyes to focus his full attention on the lawyer. “Knew what?”

“About your dealership, your home, your investments, your business associates. We did a full background check on you over a year ago when Miriam decided to update her will.”

“Then why did you let me come in here and lie and take advantage of the situation?” Sam struggled to control his temper.

“It was what Miriam wanted. She didn't care how it played out as long as it brought you and her granddaughter together in the end.”

Sam stood and paced the room. “I don't understand. Why would she change her mind all these years later after she let Tara talk her into running me off?”

“That's not how it happened at all.” Latimer steepled his fingers and peered over them at Sam. “Yes,
Tara confided her feelings for you to her grandmother, but it was
Miriam
who made the decision to pull the funding for your scholarship. Tara begged her not to do it, but since Miriam had paid the bills all along she felt it was her decision to make.”

“What do you mean ‘paid the bills?'” Sam asked.

“I mean, Miriam Elliott funded your scholarship.”

“Miss Miriam
personally
paid for my education?” Sam stood rooted to the spot letting the fact sink in. “But I applied for those scholarships and went through the interview process with the Board of Regents. There was no mention of a private benefactor.”

“Because she didn't want you to feel beholden to her. She knew you and your mother would never accept charity so Miriam offered it in a way you couldn't refuse.”

Sam shoved a lock of hair off his forehead and rested his jaw on his hand while he pondered the incredible news. The girl he'd blamed for upsetting his plans was never at fault. In fact, she'd fought for him to the detriment of her relationship with her only family member.

And the old woman he was so certain owed him restitution had secretly funded the education that had ultimately made him a financial success. As Ward Carlton would say, Sam felt as low as a snake's belly in a wagon-wheel rut.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and ran his palms over his face. “Why didn't you stop me?” he mumbled through his fingers.

“I couldn't. I gave my word that I would let things take a natural course. You'd either find each other on your own or you'd go your separate ways. Miriam orchestrated the reason to get you young people together, but she left working out the details to God.”

“As much as I'd like to be patient and wait to see what God has in mind now, I've got to do something. I love Tara, Mr. Latimer. This is her home and we have to find a way to bring her back.” Sam's heart clutched with fear. Time was running out. “Will you help me?”

The older man smiled and rubbed his palms together. “What have you got in mind?”

“Hand me the phone directory.” Sam pointed to the fat yellow book behind Latimer's desk. “While I call some heavy equipment operators, you get on the horn to that moving company at Sycamore House and order them to throw it into reverse.”

 

The caller ID display on the portable handset read
Lacey Rogers.
Tara steadied herself with one hand on the dinette table in her New York apartment and punched the talk button.

“Lacey?” Tara knew in her gut this was bad news. “Tell me what happened.”

“Oh, I wanted you to hear it from me. I guess one of your grandmother's nosy neighbors already called you.”

Tara dropped into a chair, exhausted from the week's emotion and not certain she could take any more grief.

“Called me about what?”

“Honey, bulldozers went to work on the Elliott Building today. There won't be anything left but an empty lot by the end of the week.”

Tara relaxed against the back of the chair. “That's sad, I know, but there was too much damage to do it any other way. The building has to be torn down and completely rebuilt. Is that all?”

“No, it's not. There's also a flatbed of heavy equipment parked in front of Sycamore House.” The sound of Lacey's sigh resonated across the phone line. “Sam intends to level the old place and build a modern house on the property.”

Tara shot to her feet. “He can't do that. I filled out the forms to have it declared an historic landmark.”

“What did you do with the forms?”

“They were in my desk drawer…” Tara hung her head while another wave of injustice crashed over her. “…with the insurance papers.”

“I tried talking to him but he's made up his mind. I'm sorry. There's nothing anyone can do.”

“Oh, yes there is!” Tara was already in the bath
room throwing her toothbrush into a travel kit. “I'll be on the first flight to Dallas.” She pulled an overnight bag from the closet, tossed it onto the bed and began stuffing it full.