The Sweetheart Secret (29 page)

“I am, too. Maybe now my grandma will stop trying to hook me up with the neighbors.” He grinned.

She swatted at his arm. “It was only one neighbor and it turned out mighty well, if you ask me.”

“It did indeed.” Luke pressed a tender kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, Grandma.”

“You can thank me with some great-grandkids. And quick, too, because I'm not getting any younger.”

Luke shook his head and laughed. “I'll see what I can do. In the meantime”—he stopped dancing and put out a hand—“it seems there's someone else who wants to take you for a spin on the dance floor.”

Before Greta could run away, Harold Twohig stepped into Luke's place and fitted his hands on her waist, as if he owned the space. He had on a tuxedo, and she wasn't sure if it was because he liked to overdress for a beach wedding or he thought she was serious when she mentioned the tux the other day. Either way, Greta figured Harold had a couple screws loose. Even if he did look uncharacteristically handsome today.

“Don't stomp on my feet or claw out my eyes, Greta dear,” he said. “This is just a dance, not a lifetime commitment.”

“More like a life sentence,” she mumbled.

“Well, if you're that unhappy about it, I can always go dance with Patty Simon.” He lifted his hands and made like he was going to walk toward that troll of a Welcome Wagon president standing on the sidelines.

“You'll do no such thing,” Greta said, cementing Harold's hands back on her waist. “That woman will have you hog-tied and branded by the end of the day.”

He laughed. “That could be fun.”

“Play your cards right and I'll do it to you myself.”

“Promises, promises, Greta dear.” He turned her to the right, then waved at the entrance to the patio. “Speaking of things you do and do well, check out our latest project.”

Daisy and Doc Harper stepped onto the floor, hand in hand. The torches surrounding the patio lit them with a golden glow, but even from a thousand miles away, Greta could have seen the smiles on their faces and the gold bands on their hands. It warmed her heart, from the inside out.

Harold wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You and I could be that happy, too.”

“Only with the help of a lot of pharmaceuticals.”

He chuckled. “Is that all you got, Greta dear? No backhand to my head, nothing meaner?”

“It's a wedding. I'm in a good mood for once.” A good mood helped along by seeing Pauline dancing with Earl, and Diana dancing with Mike, Emma with Roger, and Edward with Lydia. Good Lord, one would think it was Valentine's Day, what with all these couples. Which was just the way Greta liked things. With the people in her life happy and settled. Kept her from worrying all night, and if there was one thing Greta Winslow liked more than bourbon in her coffee, it was a good night's sleep.

“Maybe I should take advantage of that good mood,” Harold said, then quickly, before she could stop him, he cupped her face with his hands and gave her a good long kiss.

Greta sputtered and jerked away from him. “What the hell was that, Harold Twohig?”

“A token of my affection.”

She wagged a finger at him. “Don't you ever do that again. Or you'll be gumming your food for the rest of your life.” Then she straightened her spine and raised her chin. “Now that Colt and Daisy are happily married again, our alliance is done. We go back to the way things were. Neighbors with very big boundaries. Barbed wire and electric fences, if necessary.”

“What if I want more? What if I want lasagna on Friday nights and cookies on Sunday mornings?”

“Then hire yourself a live-in chef.” Greta spun on her heel and walked off the dance floor. Where did Harold Twohig get these crazy ideas? Have one dinner with the man and he considered it an invitation to be her new best friend.

Doc Harper stopped her as she passed. “Mrs. Winslow. Where are you going so fast?”

“To find some Listerine. I just tasted something horrible.”

Daisy and Doc Harper laughed. “Remember what you told me a few weeks ago?” he said. “Eat more broccoli, drink less bourbon, and most of all, don't be afraid of love. Because in the end, it's sure as hell better than the alternative.”

Greta glanced back at the dance floor. Harold was still standing there, the old fool, waving at her. She shuddered. “I've tasted the alternative. Frankly, I'd rather have the broccoli.”

Doc Harper reached in his pocket and pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. He scribbled on it, then handed the slip to Greta. “Here. That prescription you wanted.”

Greta glanced down and read the few lines. “One dose of true love, taken daily. For a healthy heart.” She crumpled the paper up and tossed it at his chest. “I swear, sometimes I think you got your medical degree off the back of a Cracker Jack box.”

Then she walked away, but slowly. Harold Twohig was trailing along behind her, like a little lost puppy, and she didn't want to make him think that capturing her heart was as easy as that. The man could make an amazing lasagna, after all, and maybe it would do her diet some good to keep him around awhile.

Read on for a special preview of the next romance from Shirley Jump

When Somebody Loves You

Coming Fall 2015 from Berkley Sensation!

When Elizabeth Palmer's mother died in 1992, she left her only daughter three things: a fake ruby ring she'd bought at a garage sale, a tattered apron with a plastic nametag hanging askew from the corner, and one piece of advice—
Never bet on a losing horse.

The trouble with that advice was figuring out ahead of time which horse was going to lose, and which one was going to have a final kick at the end. Something Winnie Palmer had never quite gotten the knack of doing. She had, however, wasted nearly every dime of her diner paychecks at the track, betting on everything from dogs to ponies, searching for that elusive ticket that would drag her out of a life of poverty and set her down smack-dab in one of the mansions she cut out of the Sunday real estate section and tacked onto the fridge with little horseshoe shaped magnets.

Elizabeth's mother had been like Delta Dawn, that helpless romantic in the song immortalized by Bette Midler. Standing there in her Sunday best every spare minute of the day, hoping for some miracle to bring her to the castle in the sky. In the end, all it had taken was a few thousand Marlboros to give Winnie the gift of emphysema and a one-way ticket to a castle-less plot in Whitelawn Cemetery.

Whenever Elizabeth hit a crossroads, she would think.
What would Mom do?
And then she did the exact opposite.

Until yesterday, when she'd quit her job, giving up medical insurance and a bi-weekly paycheck for a chance at pursuing the only dream she'd ever allowed herself to have. Now she was stuck in the middle of Nowhere, USA, and trying not to hyperventilate.

She needed something to eat. And a bathroom. Maybe then she could take a few deep breaths and convince herself that throwing away job security was a smart move for a thirty-year-old with bills to pay.

What had she been thinking?

That she needed a way out of a dead-end administrative job that was heading down a hellish road of bad fluorescent lighting and endless reams of computer entries and a boyfriend who told her via text that, whoops, sorry we wasted two years together, but he was in love with the fifty-year-old cougar on the second floor.

Elizabeth glanced again at the assignment sheet from the horse breeding magazine that had given her a chance with her first-ever freelance job. A “quick, easy assignment,” the editor had promised, about a topic Elizabeth knew nothing about—breeding and training quarter horses. But after three hundred and seven query letters and two years of trying to break into a national magazine, Elizabeth wasn't about to say no. So early that morning, she'd stowed an overnight bag in the trunk of her Honda, then headed out of New Jersey and down to Georgia. She had called the Silver Spur Ranch yesterday afternoon, talked to some woman named Barbara Jean, and made an appointment to meet Hunter McCoy at seven that night. An initial meeting, she thought, gather a little background information, do the formal interview the next day, and be back on the road by lunchtime.

Then she'd hit Atlanta at rush hour and spent an ungodly amount of time trying to get through the city center. By the time she got to Chatham Ridge, she was ravenous. She hadn't spied anything resembling a drive-through in at least a half an hour. Damn. She should have stopped when she was on an actual highway instead of these rural roads that ran through Georgia like veins in a bodybuilder.

Even though it was close to seven, the temperature outside had gone from hot to holy hell in a matter of hours, and the sunny day she had welcomed when she'd stepped outside this morning had become a torturous descent into the depths of Dante's inferno.

Otherwise known as Chatham Ridge, Georgia. Population: Not Nearly Big Enough.

The sun was just starting to wane when there was a low, menacing rumble from above and the skies opened up. Rain began to fall in thick, heavy sheets that pummeled her windshield and taunted her wipers. Elizabeth drove slowly down Main Street, peering through the veil of water, looking for something—anything—that would sell food and have a clean bathroom. The lights were off at the little white building with a hand-painted sign that read Bob and Mary's Sundries. There'd been a single gas pump out front, a pile of cordwood stacked and bundled with a handpainted sign that read
THREE BUCK BUNDLE
. But they were closed, as was the hardware store, the art studio, and the bank.

Finally, she spied lights and a tiny neon
OPEN
sign outside a brick front building on the corner of Main and Pecan. She pulled in, then parked and made a break for it. She'd left her umbrella at home and the storm lashed at her white dress shirt and dark blue pants with fat, soaking slaps. Too late, she realized she hadn't run into a restaurant but rather a bookstore/coffee shop. She stood in the entryway, dripping a puddle onto the hardwood floors and trying to catch her breath. Outside, the storm raged, whipping against the windows and door.

A buxom woman with a pile of gray hair swirled onto her head in a loose bun came bustling forward, her arms outstretched, her face bright with greeting. Before Elizabeth could react, the woman had wrapped one arm around Elizabeth's shoulders and was tugging her into the store and over to a small café in the corner.

“Darlin', you look about half drowned. Come on in. Let's get something in you and dry you off before you catch your death.” She swung a bar stool away from the counter and pressed Elizabeth into it. “You sit tight and I'll be right back with a towel.”

Then she hurried away, disappearing behind a swinging door. Elizabeth swiped the damp hair out of her eyes and looked around the bookstore, really a converted Colonial Revival home. She could still see the home in the décor, much more so than the store. It just had that feeling of walking into somebody's house, the kind of house where you'd stay a while and not be worried about putting your feet on the coffeetable or dropping a crumb. The hardwood floors gleamed, their darkened planks worn and dented from years of tread. A dozen bowl-shaped chandeliers hung over the space, casting a warm bright light into the nooks and crannies. The walls were a pale straw color, with thick wood molding that had the occasional hiccup flaw marking it as handhewn. A sign above the café counter read
HAPPY ENDING BOOKSTORE
, in a bright pink curlicue script. The shop was large but cozy, with rows and rows of bookcases stuffed with books that formed a rainbow of straight lines. At the back of the store, a six-pack of wingback chairs ringed a small circular table set before a fireplace with a tiny flickering flame teasing at a pile of logs. Was that what you got with a Three Buck Bundle?

“Here you are, sweetie.” The woman draped a fluffy white towel over Elizabeth's shoulders, gave her a firm squeeze to cement it in place, then went back to the other side of the counter. “I'm Noralee Butler, no relation to Rhett.”

Elizabeth couldn't help but smile. “Nice to meet you. I'm Elizabeth Palmer.”

Noralee cocked her head and studied her. “Let me guess . . . New York?”

“New Jersey. Born and raised in the lovely city of Trenton.”

“Can't say I've ever been there. I hardly ever leave my little corner of paradise. I figure the Lord planted me here so I could bloom, and that's what I been trying to do for near on sixty-two years now.”

Elizabeth had exhausted her repertoire of small talk. “Do you serve food? I stopped in just to grab something to eat. I'm supposed to be out at the Silver Spur Ranch by seven and it's already past that.”

“Hunter McCoy's place?” Noralee waved a hand. “Oh, I know Hunter. I'll give him a call. He'll understand.”

Before Elizabeth could stop her, the woman was dialing, talking to Hunter, saying something about giving this poor creature a sandwich and a sweet tea, then she covered the phone and looked at Elizabeth. “You got a place to stay, honey?”

“I was planning on finding a motel.” Yet another reason why spontaneity wasn't Elizabeth's strong suit. She hadn't even thought to go on Expedia and book a stay before she left. Damn.

Noralee's brows wrinkled. “Motel? In this town? You won't find one, not for another twenty miles, and believe me when I tell you their idea of a
sleeping establishment
is pretty light on the sleeping and the establishment. In this storm, you'd be lucky not to get washed off the road, straight into a ditch. Don't you worry, honey. We'll get you something to eat and then you can head over to Hunter's. He's got a house big enough to hold a Boy Scout Jamboree, so I'm sure he can put you up for a day or two.”

“I can't stay—”

“Hunter?” Noralee said into the phone. “This girl needs a place to spend the night, too. Oh, she's no trouble at all. You got that big old house. . . .” A pause. “Okay, good. I'll let her know.”

This had already gotten out of hand. A journalist didn't spend the night at the house of the person she was supposed to be interviewing. “Mrs. Butler—”

“Oh, I'm not a Mrs., and nobody 'round here calls me anything other than Noralee. ‘Cept for Cooter Whitman. That man's full-time job is giving people nicknames. Now, don't you worry about Hunter. He's as fine a gentleman as they come. I'm not even sure they make gentlemen like him anymore. So, honey, if you want to catch him—”

“Oh, no, not at all. I'm here to interview him, for a magazine. Nothing more.”

“Well, won't that put a feather in the town's cap? I'm just sayin' Hunter is the most eligible bachelor in Chatham Ridge right now and I haven't met a woman yet who hasn't fallen half in love with him from the minute he said
ma'am
.” She waved toward the corner of the room. “Now you go get yourself freshened up and by the time you come back, I'll have something warm waiting for you.”

Elizabeth ducked into the tiny one-stall ladies' room at the back of the store. She washed up and tried to do her best to clean up the raccoon eyes of her mascara and the wet tangle of her dark hair, loosening it from its usual clip and letting it hang around her shoulders to dry. She peered into a reflection that screamed
needs a good night of sleep
. That hadn't happened in a long time and she doubted it would happen today. Elizabeth sighed, washed her hands, then headed back to the counter.

Noralee stood there, as proud as a peacock, beaming at Elizabeth. “Glad you had a chance to get the drowned rat off you. Now you sit right down and enjoy yourself.” She patted the chair.

Elizabeth wanted to say she'd get the food to go, but then she looked down at the plate and saw a muffin as big as a grapefruit sitting there, warm and welcoming. The scent of blueberries wafted up to tempt her. Butter pooled in the crannies of the halved baked treat, and before she could think twice, she'd eaten the whole muffin and washed it down with a full glass of sweet tea. “That was delicious.”

“Why, thank you. It's my grandmama's recipe. Lordy, that woman could cook a porcupine and make it taste like something from a fancy French restaurant. You come by here on a Tuesday and I'll have her praline cookies. They're usually gone within an hour. My most popular treat, next to the books of course.”

“It's a very nice bookstore.”

“It was my mama's. Course, it was a dress shop when she owned it. She was always saying to me,
Noralee, you get your head out of that book and live your life.
Now I'm living my life, with my head always in a book. Funny how things work out like that.” Noralee leaned in, curiosity sparking in her green eyes. “Tell me what you're reading now.”

“Oh, I don't read much.”

“Well, that is just a crime. I will make it my mission to find the right book for you. In fact, I'm going to talk to the Southern Belle Bookclub tonight and see what they think. That's why you caught me here after hours. It's about time for those ladies to come on in and fill this place with chatter.”

As if on cue, the door to the shop jingled and a quartet of women came inside, laughing and talking as they doffed their umbrellas and shook the water off. For a second, Elizabeth felt a stab of envy at the easy roll of conversation between them, the kind that marked lifelong friendships. They seemed happy, at ease in their place in the world, and at that moment, Elizabeth wanted to stay.

She shook her head and cleared her throat. “I, uh, should get going.” Elizabeth slipped out of the bar stool and reached for her purse. “How much was the muffin?”

“Oh, honey, you don't owe me a dime,” Noralee said. “You just promise to come on back sometime soon. I guarantee I can find you something to read that'll change your life.” She drew out the middle syllable of
guarantee
, as if the word was running away.

Elizabeth had no intentions of returning. She was here long enough to get the story, then get back to Trenton. With one last thank you to Noralee—who insisted on giving Elizabeth directions to the Silver Spur Ranch—and one last glance at the bookclub, already settling into those wingback chairs by the disappearing Three Buck Bundle, Elizabeth headed out into the rain again and down the road toward the Silver Spur Ranch.

She found it twenty minutes later, tucked at the end of a long, dark road. The rain seemed to have increased since she left, attacking her car with fat droplets that hammered a one-two punch at her windshield. The wind had kicked up and buffeted her little car. Elizabeth flicked on the high beams, and concentrated on the road between quick swipes of the wipers. The ranch itself was dark, but the main house at the end of the drive was ablaze with lights that flanked the front door and either end of the wraparound porch. Twin rockers swayed back and forth on the porch, as if beckoning someone to sit and stay awhile.

No matter what Noralee had said, Elizabeth wasn't staying here tonight. It wasn't professional for one, and for another, one woman's word that Hunter McCoy was a gentleman didn't make it a fact. She'd get the initial meeting out of the way, then find someplace else to stay the night. Her phone had lost its signal a while ago—apparently Chatham Ridge, Georgia, wasn't big enough to be in the all-coverage-all-over plan she had—but once she got back to a main road she could pull over and find something.