Till I Kissed You (21 page)

“Regan, baby.” He touched her knee, but she jerked it back, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around her legs. She was close to shattering and no amount of superglue would put her together again.

“I called and called. When no one answered, I left before dawn and drove down. You found something else pretty quick.” She wanted to rise up and scream like a pressure cooker releasing steam.

“There's something I tried to tell you so many times, but you wouldn't, couldn't hear me. That morning you found me…”

His words stalled on a sigh, and in the expectant silence came a hard knock and three quick pushes of her doorbell. The yip of dogs carried all the way into her bedroom.

She muttered a curse that would have half the ladies of Cottonbloom Church of Christ gasping and the other half hiding giggles. She swung off the bed, knowing ignoring her mother was futile. Another thirty seconds would have her coming around the back and peering into her windows.

She stalked into the entry, turned the locks, and flung the door open. “What?”

After the walk down memory lane with Sawyer, the sight of her mother, makeup and hair perfect, in kitten heels and struggling to keep the two Pomeranians from wrapping their leashes around her ankles reared up a suppressed resentment.

Her mother craned her neck, the sagging skin the only concession to her age. “What is that truck doing out front?”

Regan made a show of looking over her mother's shoulder. “Looks like it's just sitting there.”

“You know very well what I meant. Where is he?”

Regan propped a hand on the doorjamb and forced a smile, although it felt barbed. “I left him in the bedroom.”

The dogs applied themselves to getting inside her house. She liked dogs in general, but her mother's spoiled, yippy purse dogs were more than she could handle. Marie set up a continuous bark while Donny stared at Regan, hiked a leg, and peed down her front door. She wouldn't be at all surprised to find out her mother had a telepathic bond with the little terrors.

“Nice manners, you little—”

“Regan. It was an accident. You must understand the situation has them overwrought.”

“Why would your dogs care, Mother? Let's not pussyfoot around. You're the one who is overwrought, but might I remind you I'm a grown woman who can invite the entire Cottonbloom Barbershop Quartet for a sleepover if I want.”

“That sort of crass talk is never appropriate, young lady.” Her mother's reprimand still had the power to jab through her adult façade to the insecure child beneath.

Sawyer chose that moment to saunter up in his pajama bottoms and T-shirt. Regan almost wished he'd stayed shirtless for the shock value alone. “I'd best be going. I need to shower before work. Thanks for the toothbrush.”

When she went to take the toothbrush he held out, he grabbed her hand and pulled her close, laying a mint-scented, close-mouthed kiss on her lips. It was gentle and sweet and left her heart pounding.

He brushed a kiss along her cheek to her ear. “We're going to finish that talk later.”

He let her go. The smile he bestowed on her mother was all Dixie Crystals sweet. “Mrs. Lovell. Nice to see you. If you'll excuse me.” He inclined his head and headed to his truck with as much dignity and aplomb as a barefoot man in pajama pants could muster.

She and her mother were silent as he disappeared into his truck. The loud rumble of his engine prompted another round of yips and Marie to poop on her entry rug.

“Mother, go home and take your ill-mannered dogs with you.”

“I want to know what's going on.”

“Too bad.” She tried to close the door, but her mother wedged a kitten heel in the door with surprising strength.

“Sawyer Fournette broke your heart. Don't you remember? You were a wreck. Almost flunked out of school.”

“I remember,” she said softly. “I also remember how I let you talk me into breaking up with him in the first place. The truth is I have no idea what's going on between Sawyer and me, but whatever is happening will happen without your influence. Is that understood?”

Her mother huffed, but Regan didn't allow what was sure to be a negative answer. She shut the door in her mother's face.
When one door closes, another opens.
The old saying popped into her head.

She gathered cleaning supplies and put her entryway back to rights, tossing the rug into the washer. Sawyer wanted to talk later. Well, she'd let him. She'd hear him out and let her heart do the answering. Right now though, she had more immediate problems than Sawyer or her mother. A mental list scrolled. She had to deal with the police, her insurance company, and all the gawkers downtown who were sure to ask questions. Plus, she needed to call a security company and finally get the system hooked up.

Yet, even with the other things churning through her head, she paused and ran a finger over her lips. The very fact his good-bye kiss hadn't been sexual made a crater-sized impact in her chest. What did it mean? Would he have planted a kiss on her if her mother hadn't been standing there? Yes, she rather thought he would. That kiss had been a declaration to her and her mother. Sawyer Fournette had been out to make a statement.

 

Chapter Sixteen

Besides the broken front window, most of the damage to her shop was superficial. She bought paint to cover the red slash of the vandal's message in her office. She filled three garbage bags, but the down feathers and stuffing seemed to reproduce. She would no doubt be finding remnants for weeks to come. A few decorative knickknacks were broken, but nothing of value had been stolen. It seemed to be the work of someone who meant to intimidate and scare her, not to steal from her. She honestly wasn't sure which scenario was more worrisome.

Monroe stuck her head in, shaking a takeout bag and cradling two drinks. “Could you use a lunch break? I have forty-five minutes until my next client.”

“Yes, please.”

They retreated to her office where the spray-painted message loomed over them. They ate chicken salad sandwiches and sipped on sweet tea in silence.

“Ironic, don't you think?” Regan gestured at the wall with her drink.

“On purpose irony or accidental irony?”

“It's common knowledge I painted Sawyer's wall. It was there for all to see a good twenty-four hours before I repainted it.”

“Someone who doesn't like you picking on Sawyer? Someone who wants his festival to go and not yours?”

“If we assume it's the same person who cut the baskets as did this”—she waved a hand around and took a sip of tea—“then it seems like whoever it is doesn't want either festival to be a success.”

Another knock sounded on the front door. Regan wiped her mouth with a napkin and went to the front. Ms. Martha stood on the sidewalk, looking at the broken window. At least she could be assured Ms. Martha hadn't been the vandal. Regan flipped the lock and forced a smile. The last thing she wanted to discuss was property assessments, but the break-in would worry other business owners and it was her job to reassure them.

“Hello, Ms. Martha. You can come on in, if you want.”

The lady stepped over the threshold, her eyes wide and darting. “Goodness me. Was there considerable damage?”

“Nothing too costly, besides the window, of course. It was mostly a pillow massacre.” Her laugh seemed to surprise Ms. Martha.

“I expected you to be more upset. I don't know what I'd do if my place were vandalized.”

Regan shoved another handful of stuffing into one of the trash bags. “I don't think you have anything to worry about, unless you run for mayor next term.”

Ms. Martha fiddled with the fabric she held. “What do you mean?”

“This seemed to be a personal attack.” She led Ms. Martha back to her office and presented the defaced wall with a flourish.

“Oh my.” Ms. Martha stared at the threatening message. Her face had paled and she swayed on her feet.

Monroe hopped up. “Here, why don't you sit, Ms. Martha? You're looking a tad peaked.”

Ms. Martha aimed a wan smile toward Monroe and patted her hand. “Thank you, dear.”

Regan sank into the chair behind her desk.

Ms. Martha had returned her attention to the wall. “Are you scared?” she finally asked.

Considering she'd taken refuge in her car until Sawyer could check her house for boogeymen, she'd qualify, yet she sure as tooting wasn't going to admit that to Ms. Martha—or Monroe for that matter. She still felt at odds with Ms. Martha over the tax assessment, and something about her attitude put her even further on guard.

“Not really. I'm taking precautions, and whoever is behind the incidents will be caught soon enough. The police were all over the shop, dusting for fingerprints and searching for hair they can analyze.” The half-lie came from watching too many crime dramas, and Regan tensed, waiting for Ms. Martha's reaction.

“I hope none of the rest of us become targets because of your festival.”

Regan relaxed back in the chair. Ms. Martha was only interested in how this would affect the Quilting Bee. Selfish but understandable. “Again, I don't think you should be worried, but if it settles your mind, both Sheriff Berry and Chief Thomason will be mounting extra patrols.”

Color returned to Ms. Martha's cheeks and she stood, murmuring her good-byes. In the doorway of the office, she pivoted back. “I almost forgot. I made you a new pillow. I know it won't replace…” She gestured vaguely.

Regan took the fabric she held out and spread it open on her desk. It was a patchwork of plaids in blues, greens, and reds. Guilt that she suspected Ms. Martha of any wrongdoing warred with the warm feeling of being part of a community that cared about each other.

“It's lovely, Ms. Martha. Thank you so much.” She skirted the desk and gave the woman a hug. It wasn't the warmest or most comfortable hug, but it was a start. “I hope once the festival is over, you'll find that it benefited you and the town.”

Ms. Martha pulled away. “And if it's a disaster?”

“Then we won't waste our resources on another one next year, I promise.”

“I am sorry about all of this. Truly.”

“It's hardly you're fault. We're all in this together.” Regan followed her to the door. Ms. Martha nodded, but didn't meet her eyes on her way out.

She watched until Ms. Martha made the turn onto River Street. Monroe joined her at the door. “That was weird.”

“Was it? I took it like a peace offering of sorts.”

“I read a book one time about serial killers. Did you know that they get a thrill out of revisiting the scene of their crimes? Even better if the police are around.”

Regan retrieved the pillow casing from her desk and used stuffing from one of the garbage bags to bring it to life. “Are you comparing Ms. Martha to a serial killer?” While it wasn't her usual taste, the pillow was very homey and sweet.

“All I know was the vibes she was putting out were odd.”

“She's worried about her shop. The Quilting Bee is her life.”

“Exactly. And you are interfering.”

Regan hugged the pillow to her chest. Monroe was dead serious. Her blue eyes were crinkled. Doubts inserted themselves once again. “She couldn't have broken in here and thrown that chair out the window. It weighs a ton.”

Monroe's face smoothed, but a frown remained. “True. It was definitely a man you saw outside your mother's garden?”

“Definitely.”

More knocks sounded, followed by a wavering voice. “Regan-honey, are you here?”

Ms. Leora and Ms. Effie stood inside the door, looking around. Ms. Effie wrapped an arm around Regan's shoulders. “We're just so sorry about what's happened.”

“It's not your fault.” She repeated the same thing she'd told Ms. Martha.

“No, but it's our town, and it's abominable that something like this should occur. Do the police have any suspects? Did they steal anything?” Ms. Leora asked.

“Not that they've said. You ladies have nothing to worry about. Cottonbloom is entirely safe. This wasn't random. Someone doesn't want the festival to happen.”

“Why do you say that, dear?” Ms. Effie cocked her head, her eyes sharp.

Regan led them into her office where Monroe was finishing the last bite of her sandwich and gestured to the wall. Both the ladies made appropriate sounds of shock and dismay. Debating for a moment, she rounded the desk and pulled out the two letters.

“I also received these.” Regan handed one to each lady, carefully gauging their reactions.

Ms. Leora did a pearl clutch and gasp while Ms. Effie muttered something a bit less ladylike.

“You got a second one?”

Regan ignored Monroe's accusatory tone and said nothing. The two old ladies exchanged a glance and something unspoken passed between them.

“This sort of behavior is unacceptable.” Even with the waver in Ms. Leora's voice, her strength was palpable. She was not a woman to be trifled with.

The two ladies retreated to the door. Ms. Leora stopped with her hand on the knob. “You let me know if I can help with the Tomato Festival in any way, Regan. We'll win that grant.”

Heretofore, the ladies of the quilting circle hadn't thrown their considerable influence behind either festival. Ms. Leora's sudden support gave Regan a shot of much-needed confidence. “I will, thanks so much.”

The ladies made their way to the café across the street, their heads close. Monroe tapped her on the shoulder and waved the two letters in her face. “When did the second letter arrive?”

“Right after the budget meeting.”

“Did you show these to the police last night?”

“I didn't. Sawyer is the only one who knows.”

“What the heck is going on with you two?”

“Nothing.” Regan cleared her throat and focused on a few scraps of stuffing that had worked their way under an antique chest.