What the Heart Wants (18 page)

When she and Sarah contemplated their future families—they both considered being only children a tragedy of monumental proportions that they'd never impose on their own children—Sarah limited herself to one boy and one girl, while she'd decided on three boys and three girls, enough to fill the third-floor bedrooms.

She caressed the top of the old-fashioned hitching post at the curb and glanced back at the house. Well, she'd inherited it, all right, but now the house would pass into the hands of someone else. If it would ever sell, that is.

Feeling the darkness gathering again, she went back inside. Maybe music would cheer her up. She sat down at the piano and tried to play some Schubert, then crashed the keyboard, stood up, and closed the lid like a coffin. The dissonances were more than she could bear.

A peanut butter sandwich served for lunch, after which she armed herself with a duster, polish, and vacuum cleaner, and climbed up to the third floor again.

Good thing Kel hadn't rung the doorbell today. She didn't want him to see her with a dish-towel apron, her hair bound up in a kerchief, toting cleaning supplies around.

The rooms went fast, and, in less than two hours, she'd closed the windows again and hauled the vacuum down to the second floor.

By late afternoon, the whole house was clean, but she herself was filthy. After a quick shower, she gave herself an iced tea break and retreated to the cool den.

Exhaustion felt good—she'd earned it. Leaning back in the overstuffed leather chair, she took a long, slow swallow from her glass, then jerked to attention as the phone beside her rang.

It was Jase.

“I won't be back till later, hon, but plan on leaving by about six thirty. Okay?”

“Six thirty? I'll be ready.”

What should she wear? The way she saw it, she could either dress for her funeral or dress to conquer, and she wasn't planning to die anytime soon.

She sorted through her evening dresses. The pale pink was pretty, but far too subtle, and the black looked more stately than sinful. The fuchsia strapless—yes!

She hauled the dress out of her closet and held it up to herself in front of the mirror. The deep pinky-purple matte satin looked great on her. The Bosque Club would never know what hit it.

Jase came through the door at full speed, vaulted up the stairs, burst into her room, and rapped on her bathroom door. “Sorry to be late. I'll dress in the room across the hall and meet you downstairs.”

He'd finished up on the real estate deal early but then had a devil of a time finding a decent place to get his car washed. He wanted the Caddie to look great, to be worthy of Laurel. In fact, he wanted everything about the evening to be perfect, because he was planning to ask her to marry him. Sure, it was too soon, but it wasn't as if they'd just met. She'd been his dream girl since he was sixteen, and now that he had a chance with her, he was going to take it.

He removed his suit from its vinyl bag and hung it on the closet rod, then showered and shaved. It was an Armani, his armor, his proof of success. He had a whole wardrobe of them at home, and sometimes he'd slide open the closet door and count them just to be sure they were all still there.

After carefully knotting his deep maroon silk tie, he ran a comb through his wet hair. The cut cost big bucks, but it was worth it. Grabbing his jacket, he went downstairs to wait for Laurel.

Was the ring still in his pocket? He felt for the velvet box. It might be the wrong size, but they could always get that fixed.

Of course, she might reject him. A lot of women preferred to remain single these days, especially after a divorce. Look at Maxie. She'd been married for six years, caught her husband cheating on her, divorced his sorry ass, and never looked back.

He glanced up at the landing again. When the hell would Laurel be ready? He checked his watch, jiggled the ring box, and felt for his mobile, then remembered that he'd decided to leave it at the house this evening.

“Jase?”

He swung around and looked up at her as she came down the stairs step-by-step.

God, she was gorgeous.

It wasn't just the dress, although that was spectacular—a purplish sort of thing which left her shoulders bare and looked like a waterfall from the waist down to her knees. It wasn't just the sparkles at her ears and throat. It wasn't just her face or her hair, which was pinned up in some kind of twist. It was Laurel herself—her grace, the slow curve of her smile, the glow in her eyes.

“You are so beautiful,” he intoned huskily.

He would make this the most wonderful night of her life, and before it was over, she'd have a three-carat diamond ring to match her necklace and earrings. They might not be real, judging by the obvious state of her finances, but the ring was.

And his love was real too.

J
ase escorted Laurel to his car as gallantly, he hoped, as any of her forebears ever walked their ladies to a waiting carriage, although it was hard to live up to dead people. Opening the car door, he watched as she slid across the leather seat in one fluid motion.

She looked up at him through her lashes. Her “thank you” was soft and sweet-voiced.

“You're welcome,” he returned, tucking her ruffly skirt in and shutting the door like a proper gentleman should, when what he really wanted to do was push her down on the car seat, shove up that bubbly skirt, and bury himself in her in her sweet, welcoming body.

Later, Redlander, later.

Circling around the car, he caught his foot on the kickplate as he got in.

Shit! She was still the princess and he was still a frog. Couldn't he even get into his own car without tripping?

After turning around in the parking area, he guided the car down the driveway and out onto the street. The ring was burning a hole in his pocket. When exactly should he pop the question? He was usually good at strategizing, but he didn't have any experience asking a woman to marry him.

He'd thought about doing it while they were at the club, but that was too public. Some idiot might interrupt them at the wrong moment, or he might spill a drink on her. Or, worse yet, she might turn him down, which would pretty much kill the evening.

At the house afterward would be better. Should he go the old bended-knee routine? It was all over television. Seemed to be the style right now. But she might be tired from the evening out. Maybe after lovemaking? That was it—catch her when she was mellow.

Laurel motioned with her hand. “Make a left turn here.”

He swung the wheel toward the setting sun and yanked the visor down when he was momentarily blinded. What if he'd had an accident? He could see Art Sawyer's headlines now:
Redlander son kills Harlow daughter in car wreck.

Pulling the Cadillac to a stop at the valet stand in front of the club, he walked around the car to open the door for his lady fair. Her dress edged up as she angled onto the sidewalk, giving him a good view of the curve of her legs in those nosebleed heels.

Down, big boy!

“This is something new,” Laurel said, looking around. “We used to park our cars ourselves. Daddy always tried to get a space under a streetlight.”

Jase handed his key over to a teenager in a black T-shirt with “Bosque Club” printed on it in silver curlicues, then offered Laurel his arm. “Big-city ways, sweetheart. Bosque Bend is growing up.”

To his surprise, she clung to him like she was on the
Titanic
and the deck was beginning to tilt. Searching her face for clues, he noticed her jaw was set for battle. Did she expect them to get tossed out? Craig Freiberg's ass would fry in a pan if that happened.

He glanced up at the front of the two-story building as they neared the front door and noted that, unlike First National, the Bosque Club hadn't changed in the least. Fluted bas relief columns still rose on either side of the entrance, and two hitching posts were permanently embedded in the sidewalk next to the curb. As a kid, he used to imagine he was a cowboy tying his horse to one of the wrought iron rings before sauntering off to the nearest saloon for a sarsaparilla, which sounded a lot more interesting to a nine-year-old than the beer Growler stocked in the fridge.

Maxie had told him the shotgun-style building started out as a bank and later housed a dry goods store, but stood vacant for several years until the Bosque Club, which had been meeting in its members' homes, moved in and got it a state historical medallion.

His eyes swept the brass plaque at the entrance. “The Rev. Edward Harlow” was listed as one of the club's founders, but someone had drawn a line through his name with what looked like red lipstick. Jase frowned in confusion and disapproval.

A tall, thickset black man, dressed in a uniform that reminded Jase of a naval captain's, stood under the short canopy, guarding the door. Knowing hired muscle when he saw it, Jase produced his guest card. The doorman examined it for several long seconds before looking up at Jase and handing the card back.

“Welcome to the Bosque Club, Mr. Redlander,” he intoned. His face was deadpan. “We hope you enjoy your evening with us. If you have a cell phone, please turn it off it at this time.”

Jase patted his pockets. “No phone. It's a social evening.”

As he opened the door for them to enter, the doorman's eyes registered Laurel's identity and flicked wide for a split second. “Miss Harlow!”

He should have bowed, Jase thought, walking the princess of Bosque Bend through the town's most sacred secular portals.

Entwining his hand with hers, Laurel guided Jase down the hall toward the collection of rooms beyond.

So far, so good. Jasper had recognized her as they came in, of course, but at least he hadn't barred the door. Maybe Bosque Bend was too engrossed in whatever new scandal had erupted to pay attention to her anymore.

She could feel herself relaxing as they moved into the first room. It was all so familiar—the piano music coming from the dining room beyond, the gold-toned bamboo wallpaper above the dark wainscoting, the squat, deep-cushioned couches and chairs upholstered in bold persimmon and saffron prints, the collection of original oils on the walls—mostly by members of the Bosque Bend Art Guild—all depicting bluebonnets, live oaks, broken-down windmills, or picturesque outhouses.

But if the decor was relaxing, the family throng occupying most of the room rang all her alarm bells—Dave's two sisters-in-law and their families.

Laurel tugged at Jase's hand. “It's so crowded here. Let's try the next room.”

Persevere, Laurel Elizabeth.

Four middle-aged black men who looked only vaguely familiar were the only people in the next room. Hunched around a coffee table and talking in low, intense voices, they didn't even look up as she and Jase came in. Probably working out some kind of business deal. A lot of deals went down over drinks and appetizers in the Bosque Club.

Jase sat them down on a comfortable plush couch with a garish hill country landscape of prickly pears and mountain laurels on the wall behind it. A white-haired waiter approached for their drink order. Laurel shook her head in negation.

“Cutty and water for me,” Jase said, producing his guest card. “The lady won't be having anything.”

The old man's eyes twinkled. “No ginger ale, Miss Laurel?”

She couldn't help but respond to the warmth in his voice. “Thank you, Grover. Ginger ale would be fine.”

Jase took a handful of popcorn from the wooden bowl on the low table in front of him and glanced at the huddle of men across the room. One of them looked familiar, but he couldn't place him. Maybe he was an old schoolmate, maybe someone he'd talked to earlier this week.

The drinks arrived. He tasted his whiskey, set it down on the side table, and smiled at Laurel. “As I said, I'm not much of a drinker.”

Laurel nodded and sipped at her ginger ale. “Neither am I. I used to have a Vodka Collins now and then when I was in college, but I'm afraid Grover would have been scandalized if I'd ordered one. Everyone around here thinks I'm still eight years old.”

Jase leaned back into the comfort of the couch and moved his arm around her shoulders, enjoying the touch of her magnolia-soft skin all along the way. “Not everyone, sweetheart, and certainly not when you're wearing this dress.” He snuggled closer and touched her cheek with his lips.

Watch it, Redlander. You'll get yourself thrown out of the joint if you keep this up.
He removed his arm and, picking up his drink again, took a calming swallow.

What the hell—was that Ray Espinoza coming out of the dining room with the pregnant woman in the red dress on his arm?

Jase stood up. “Hey, Ray! Over here.”

“Jase, dude! Good to see you again, bud!”

The men across the room looked around for a brief moment as Jase and Ray greeted each other with a smacking high five. Jase gave Ray's date a slight bow. Snapping black eyes and curly black hair—he was pretty sure he recognized her, even though he couldn't call her by name. “And this must be your wife, Ray.”

Ray laughed. “Damn tootin'. You remember Rebecca Diaz.” He drew her forward.

“Of course. Bosque Bend's football queen.” Jase gave her a big smile. “Ray's a lucky man.”

Rebecca was even prettier now than she'd been in high school, but he'd always heard pregnancy gave women a special glow. “You know Ray threatened us all with fire ants in our jock straps if we didn't vote for you.”

She laughed. “And then he told me I had to date him because he was the one who rounded up the votes.” Her gaze moved behind Jase to Laurel, still seated on the couch, and she turned to her husband with a shocked expression on her face.

Ray jerked her arm slightly, and she started smiling again, somewhat unevenly, but only at Jase.

Jase frowned. What was going on? Rebecca and Laurel used to run in the same crowd.

A strong hand grabbed his arm from behind, and he heard a familiar voice. “Jason Redlander! Just the man I wanted to see!”

The last person Jase had expected to run into in the Bosque Club was Art Sawyer. The curmudgeonly newshound had antagonized so many people with his journalistic rants that it was a wonder he was still allowed in the door.

Thank God he'd decided against proposing to Laurel on-site. It would have been a headline story.

“Mr. Sawyer, sir,” he acknowledged.

Damn.
The guy's grip was like iron, and he must be in his seventies by now.

Sawyer released him and slapped Ray Espinoza on the back. “And Raymond. Good to see you too. Glad you guys have reconnected. I remember when you two held the line against the Jarrell team in the play-offs.”

“Ahmed Quisenberry was there too,” Jase reminded him. “Greatest middle linebacker ever.” Ahmed was the strategist, Ray the runner, and he the rough-and-stumble.

“You still in touch with him?”

“Ahmed? No sir, not really.”

Ray moved forward. “He's a DC lawyer now.”

“Well, if you ever get wind of him coming back to town, do me a favor and let me know. I'd like to interview him.” He turned to Jase, who was flexing his hand to make sure it wasn't broken.

“From what I hear, young man, you've been causing quite a stir around town the past couple of days yourself.”

“Checking out a little real estate, sir.”

“Like to run a story on you, Jason, if you have the time to talk to me. Local-boy-makes-good sort of thing. Maybe it'll inspire some of these lazy bums we've got around here to get off their rumps and do some honest work for a change.”

“Yessir.” What a turnabout, to be a hometown hero, when sixteen years ago Bosque Bend did everything but tar and feather him.
Take that, Bert Nyquist.

“Tomorrow morning about ten at the Dairy Queen? I'll treat you to some frozen custard.”

“I'll be there.” Jase smiled as he glanced over at Laurel, who seemed be trying to make herself invisible. “I'm planning to stay in town for a while yet.”

Sawyer edged back. “Oh, Miss Harlow! Didn't notice you sitting back there. Nice to see you again. I remember when you would come here with your parents.” He looked at her sternly, as if trying to convey an editorial message. “It's been too long. You ought to get out more often.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jase saw Ray's wife cast a pleading look at her husband and pull at his hand.

Ray spread his face into a big, false smile. “Uh, Jase, Mr. Sawyer, guess we gotta be gettin' along. On a tight schedule, ya know. Rebecca's sister is babysittin', and we promised her we'd be back early.”

Jase gave him a nod. “See ya later, man.”

What was going on? There was more to their hurried departure than babysitting—Rebecca was purposely avoiding eye contact with Laurel. Why?

Sawyer watched Ray leave. “That's another young man on the way up. Ray and his father have done great things for themselves and this community. Wouldn't be surprised to see him mayor one of these days.”

Grover reappeared and approached the tabloid editor. “Sir, you have a phone call in the office upstairs.”

“Thanks. I'll be there in a second.” He shook hands with Jase. “See you tomorrow, boy.” He looked at Laurel and dipped his head formally. “Miss Harlow.”

Jase sat back down with on the couch, a bemused smile on his face. “I think I've just gotten a promotion. From throwing the
Retriever
to being featured in it. How ironic can it get?”

Laurel laughed. “All this and dinner too.”

“Speaking of dinner, do I need to reserve a table?” He looked toward what seemed to be the dining area.

“Not unless there's a crowd.” She glanced around at the half-empty room. “Doesn't look like it will be a problem tonight.”

“Then, are you ready to dine, milady?” He stood up and offered her his arm.

Fluttering her lashes at him, she played along. “I'm looking forward to it, kind sir.”

An impressively impassive maître d'hôtel took charge of them as they entered the dining room, and showed them to a white-clothed table in a secluded corner. Laurel recognized him immediately. Augustus had been with the club ever since she could remember, but not by so much as a blink of an eye did he acknowledge that he knew her now. Apparently it had slipped his mind that Daddy had been the one to recommend him for the job because he was some kind of relative of Mrs. January's.

Before they could open the menus, a slight, bright-haired man waved at Jase from across the room, then left his table to come join them, pulling out a chair for himself.

“Jase, didn't realize you were here!”