Trouble was, it was turning out different than he’d expected. He was falling in love with her, spiky hair, tattoo, and all.
It’s not like he was a problem-free perfect catch; he had history, too. Sure, he wasn’t married, and he hadn’t stolen a car, but he had baggage. Like Lynnette.
“Kelly, are you upset about this Lynnette thing?” Sam asked quietly.
“No, I’m just worn out. Sam, you’ve worn me out: picnics, bicycles, horses. Geez, I better start working out at…where do people work out in Paradise?”
“I have a lap pool in my apartment. Want to come up and see my pool?”
“Get real, Grayson. You live on the seventh floor of your building.”
“Steel-beam construction with special reinforcements.”
“This I will have to see…but not tonight. Besides, you know we could never stop if we were alone in your apartment.
And
we have more than three date weeks to go. No welshing on our deal.”
“The Welsh are a proud and noble people who have been much maligned. Take Dylan Thomas.”
“Dylan Thomas was an alcoholic poet who died of liver disease. Okay, he was really good when he sobered up. See, I went to college, too.”
“You did? You never talked about it.”
“Oh, sure, Mr. Degrees-Up-His-Ying-Yang, I went to night school at a community college, and got my A.A. in business. Big deal.”
“Yin-Yang.” Sam grinned.
“Quiet in the Ivy League peanut gallery, please.”
“In many ways you’re much smarter than I am, Kelly,” Sam said.
That minute they pulled up in front of Myrtle’s. The drive home had gone by so quickly.
“And don’t you forget it, cowboy.” Kelly put her hat on and gave it a tip back. Sam got out and came around, opened her door. He escorted her to the front porch, carrying her teapot and the chicken picture. Setting them all down on the steps, he leaned her up against the doorpost.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He kissed her like he wanted to take her right there against the Hen House’s porch.
“Thank you for a wonderful day, Sam.”
“My…pleasure.” He let her go. She could feel his
pleasure
pressing through his cowboy pants.
“You know, these outfits could come in handy later. After we do our getting-to-know-each-other deal.”
“I’ll take that image home with me. Good night, Kelly.” Sam backed off toward his truck.
Kelly slipped inside the door. She was really exhausted. Her boots seemed to weigh her down as she climbed the stairs to her bed.
She wondered how long it would be before Sam lost interest in her with all her history. No man wants to deal with a woman loaded with problems, and he didn’t even know half of them. Sure, he was attracted to her, but she didn’t have
what it took to be Mrs. Grayson, that was for sure.
Her idea to date for a while and get to know each other had more to do with seeing if he’d stick around once he knew all about her than being concerned about the small town they both now lived in. She’d let him make love to her tomorrow if she thought he’d be around for her the day after. It was about time she wised up before she got hurt again.
Sam Grayson was going to find himself some cultured girl who would fit with the rest of his cultured family.
Well, hell, the other thing was she was sick of even thinking about the fact she was married. How long would it take to get her marriage to Raymond annulled, a month? She’d better get the ball rolling and get Sam some information.
She managed to fold things across a chair, slip into a nightgown, and brush her teeth. Then she fell into bed and let sleep overtake her. “Tomorrow,” she whispered to herself.
Deep in the shadows, Lynnette watched Sam’s truck fade out into the distance. Good, he dropped her off. No nookie for Kelly-girl tonight, she thought. Lynnette crammed her black Trans Am into gear and turned toward home.
She’d go see Tom Blackwell just to keep her from thinking about it. He always stayed up to watch Jay Leno. Every night. Tom wasn’t a bad guy, he just wasn’t Sam. And Sam was her objective.
“Caroline Prosser, please.”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Kelly Ap—Atwood.” She stumbled over her new and old name. The receptionist put her on hold with Mozart, which did nothing to calm her nerves.
“Kelly? Where have you been? I’ve tried to reach you for weeks.” Caroline talked in low, intense tones as if someone were listening.
“I know, I’m sorry, I should’ve called you sooner. I just needed a break. Marrying Raymond was a big, big mistake. So listen. I want to get my marriage to Raymond annulled very quietly. We were only together for three hours after the ceremony, and I don’t think that counts, but
you tell me. Do I have to get the whole big divorce? Can I do this without ticking Raymond off any more than necessary? Do you know where he is?”
Kelly took a breath for the first time since she’d launched into her story. As soon as she did, Caroline broke in.
“Where in the hell are you?”
“In a town you’ve never heard of. I really just need to know where he. Have you seen him?” Kelly continued.
“You are not going to need an annulment, Kelly. Or a divorce.”
“Caroline, listen to me! I don’t want to be married to Raymond.”
“Listen to
me
. You’re not married to Raymond. Raymond is dead.”
A cold-blooded chill ran from the bottom of Kelly’s stomach all the way up to her head. She sat down on the side of the bed and tried not to be ill.
“Kelly? Are you okay? He was murdered on the day you left town. You need a good criminal lawyer, hon, and I can testify on your behalf that you called asking for information about a divorce, which means you really didn’t know, right? Kelly?”
“What happened? He
can’t
have been murdered. Did he OD? When I ran out he had a suit
case full of coke. I found out he was into drugs, Caroline.”
“Try not to say anything more, Kelly. Just write down everything you remember and turn yourself in.”
“What for?” Kelly’s chill took over her entire body.
“They think
you
killed him. Now, listen, I can get you lined up with a good criminal attorney. Craig Templeton is in our firm.”
“I’ll call you back, Caroline.”
“It will look better if you turn yourself in, Kelly. Just talk to Craig first.”
“I’ll call back.” Kelly hung up the phone and ran to the bathroom. She got violently ill until there was nothing left to be ill with, then steadied herself, splashed her face with cold water, and brushed her teeth.
The chill took over again, so she went back in her room and slipped into bed, wrapping herself into a cocoon of blankets.
A black, dark feeling crawled over her. The kind she used to get as a kid listening to her mom’s drunken fights with whatever man she was with that week. She shook uncontrollably. Her perfect town, her lovely romance, her calm, no-pressure job and life, her…Sam. It was all over.
She closed her eyes and cried a sad, quiet cry.
She even cried for Raymond, whom she had liked enough at one time to live with and marry. Raymond had been so very alive and charming in his expensive, lying way. Poor Raymond.
Who would want to kill him anyway? As she calmed down, Kelly began to go over the memories of that day.
Pictures of the men in the hallway flashed in her mind: Raymond out cold in the apartment with a suitcase full of drugs, and how they had dumped out her bags like completely crazy people.
And she had their money. They were going to want that money. And she could identify them. They were going to want
her
.
Myrtle Crabtree was teasing Alice Hutchinson’s gray hair into a bouffant for Alice’s church choir rehearsal. Alice was a widow, and there was a tenor she had her eye on. Every Monday Alice felt compelled to have a set and comb-out. She was the only person Myrtle let in on Mondays besides Opal; her right-hand cleanup, sterilize, and answer phones, in-training-on-hair gal.
Myrtle took one look at Kelly and laid down her rattail comb. “Opal, take over for me, hon, Mrs. H., I have a little emergency to take care of. Don’t overdo that back comb, she’s about ready
for shaping.” Mrs. H. smiled amiably, and Opal popped her gum as she took up the comb.
Myrtle got up real close to Kelly and took her hand.
“Mercy, those nails of yours are a mess. Howz about we see if we can’t pretty you up a bit.” She winked and kept hold of Kelly’s hand, guiding her to the back room nail station. Kelly sat down and laid her hands out on the table. They were shaking so badly, Myrtle got a steamy towel out of the warmer and set it over them.
“We’ll soak ’em for a while. What’s up, darlin’? You look like roadkill. Let’s do your hair while you’re here, too.”
“Raymond is dead, and they think I killed him. They are looking for me. I have a huge amount of money in a briefcase upstairs that I found in Raymond’s car.” A tear rolled down Kelly’s cheek, and her mouth quivered. “Everything I wished for is gone, Myrtle.”
“Well, you didn’t kill him, did you?” Myrtle stated more than asked. She ignored the money bit. She filed that away for later.
“No. I knocked him out, but I swear he was still alive when I left the apartment. They want me to turn myself in.” Kelly sat at the edge of the seat nervously.
“Who the heck is
they
?” Myrtle took Kelly’s
hand and started gently working back the cuticles on her nails with a soft cloth. “Your nails look like you’ve been shucking oysters.”
“I spoke to a paralegal friend of mine in L.A.”
“Did you tell her where you were?”
“No.”
“In my opinion, if no one knows where you are, and you didn’t kill him, then I would say sit tight. They are bound to find the real killers.
“Did I ever tell you about my second husband Edgar? He was always mixed up with the wrong sort. But what a sax player. He could make that thing wail so good you’d think you were doin’ the nasty with it.” Myrtle started buffing like crazy at Kelly’s ridges.
“One time he disappeared for a week, and the cops came to see if I had done him in and, you know, buried his body in the cellar or something?”
“Lieutenant Michael Reilly. Lord, what a looker. He and I hit it off right away, and they stopped snooping around after that. Turned out Edgar was playing for a jazz band in St. Louis. He gave me the St. Louis blues.” Myrtle cackled and started singing, “
Oooooh I got the St. Louie Blues
…”
“What if Caroline has caller ID? They could trace me back here through the phone number.”
“You said this gal was your friend. Maybe she
will put a lid on it for you. That’s the risk you’re gonna take if you do it this way.
“Who the hell is looking for Kelly Atwood-Applebee in this little truck stop of a town? Nobody. Besides, you are missing one important fact, missy. You are no longer a married woman.
“If you keep on with your quiet life, I say you could be Mrs. Grayson by next spring, and nobody is looking for her! It’ll all blow over, anyway. One less drug dealer in L.A., ya know. Those cops aren’t going to waste much time on that.
“So let’s put some shine on these nails and get you all pretty for Sam. Time to take a different tack.”
“And what about the money, Myrtle?”
“We’ll let that stew for a while. We’ll think about it tomorrow. Find it a good home or something. It’s been up there this long, it’ll keep.” Myrtle held up a bottle of nail polish. “How about Get My Man Red?”
“How about I’m Screwed Pink?” Kelly flopped back against the chair.
“You are not screwed. You are a free woman, and you ain’t done nothin’ anyway! Let’s do a foil thing on your hair and pick up the highlights. Whadda ya say, sweetie?”
Kelly sighed. There were flaws in Myrtle’s plan, but the idea of continuing on her present
course, staying in Paradise, using her new name, and putting the past behind her…well, that tugged on her like a lifeline.
“Okay, Myrtle, you talked me into it. For at least the rest of today. Do the foil, and let’s put some red on my nails. Here. Panic Red. That’s perfect.”
Sam flipped over the desk calendar page. It was Monday. He sat back, slowly sipped his Cora coffee out of his stainless-steel and black rubber travel cup, and started reading through the details of Red’s brother Herschel Miller’s property dispute. Looked like the boundary lines had been defined by a row of Gravenstein apple trees in 1902.
Herschel wasn’t going to be too happy about the fact that Mabel Thompson found the corner post under an old tomato can in the northwest section. Heck, maybe he could go over there and get the two of them to agree to share the cut-through road like civilized people.
What a weekend it had been. Eight days ago all he had on his mind was work and finding a wife. Now he was about to put in a call to Peter Brody in L.A. so he could pull Kelly Atwood out of a can of worms. She’d mixed up all his well-laid plans.
Life probably was so much easier in the old days. You’d meet some girl in high school or college. Get married by twenty-one, have three kids, coach Little League on Saturday, go to church on Sunday, and have a roasted chicken for dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy.
Couldn’t life just be that way? Sam took the pencil from behind his ear, set down Herschel’s papers, and drew a square on his legal pad. It was his future vegetable garden so he could pick fresh beans for supper. He’d planned out tiny rows of cabbages and potatoes. Very orderly.
Who was he kidding? Life just didn’t
do
that anymore. There were complications. There were problems. Tomatoes sometimes were ruined with the blight. People were unpredictable. His whole job was straightening out the messes people got into when their emotions ran high.
Why did people make such bad decisions? Seemed like it was his fate to fix things up after the decisions were made. Look at Kelly. She’d probably had it in her head Raymond was an okay guy. From what she’d told him he ran his showroom well, made good money, treated her decently—at least before the marriage ceremony. Why wouldn’t she go ahead and marry him after two years?
Some decisions looked good, but turned out
bad. Sam drew in a house beside the garden, and an orchard of pear and apple trees dotting the south portion of his imaginary property.
The real problem was what he was going to do with his feeling for Kelly. She was beautiful, sexy, and desirable. But could she hoe a row of corn? Even more important, would she stay in Paradise long enough to get through a single season, or would she blow out with the first frost?
Hell, she probably had a suitcase packed and ready under the bed. She was a runaway.
He picked up the phone and dialed. He’d waited long enough. Surely Peter had rolled into his office by now. Peter was a late-in type, what with getting his kids off to school. Sam really wanted to get this over with.
“Sam, you old country boy, what’s new in Paradise?” Peter Brody’s familiar booming voice was on the phone.
Sam put his feet up on his desk and leaned back in his office chair. “Paradise is good, Pete. How’s your family? How’s Fran?”
“We’re going nuts in this apartment while our house is being finished. The kids are climbing the walls. But work is good, life is good. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a client up here that needs to divorce her badass husband. It’s in your county, and I
thought I’d do the paperwork for her and send it down to you. I need some particulars.”
“I can fax you the statutes. Long and complicated. California, you know. What’s the story?”
Sam hesitated.
“So you’re sleeping with her?”
“Worse. I’m not. We’re dating.” Damn Peter. He’d known Sam too long.
“Damn. Well, fax me her file. I’ll get right on it.”
“That’d be very good, Pete. It’s possible she can file for an annulment, but there’s two years of cohabitation to factor in. You read it over and we’ll talk.” Sam hit the call button for Faith as he wrapped up his call with Peter. She came in just as he hung up.
“Faith, can you please fax this down to Peter Brody at this number?” He thumbed through his Rolodex, pulled out Peter’s card, and handed it to her, along with Kelly’s file.
Faith flipped the card between her fingers nonchalantly and held the file under her arm. “Did you have a nice weekend? Wasn’t that Presbyterian social something?”
“Oh, it was something, all right. ‘I’m in the Mood for Love’?”
“Cora’s idea.”
“Is there no way to call off the troops?”
“I have no idea to what you are referring, Mr. Grayson. We all just want to see you happy in Paradise.”
“Thank you, Faith, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Faith smiled and marched out to her desk.
He set down his pencil, took up his coffee and Herschel’s case again. He’d just have to find out exactly what Kelly Atwood wanted out of life. Cautiously, with as much wisdom as possible, he’d slowly get to know her. This whole goofy courtship deal would give him plenty of time to do that. The next few weeks would tell him a lot. If she was still around at the end of that time, he’d be surprised.
She wanted to see him. She’d tell him what she found out. She had to tell him, she just had to. He deserved to know the truth. But it might sound better if she wore her black dress. Kelly shimmied into the spandex tank dress she had brought with her from L.A. The highlights Myrtle had foiled into her hair lightened up her face considerably.
Too bad all her best high heels were still in Raymond’s apartment. She settled for a one-inch heel on a pair of black strappy sandals she’d picked up at Yeackle’s Shoes.
Once again Stan Yeackle had great taste. They were also comfortable enough to take a good
walk in. See, Myrtle? Right shoes for the occasion. She was learning.
The October weather was doing Indian summer. She’d put on her black cashmere cardigan over the dress and was almost feeling too hot as she walked toward town.
Mrs. Palmer had given her Sunday and Mondays off until November, when the holiday rush would force them all to work longer hours. Kelly felt a laugh bubble up inside her. Paradise had no idea what a rat race holiday retail could be. Until you worked in a big department store in a city like L.A., you just didn’t get it.