A Promise at Bluebell Hill (14 page)

“Oh, we can make these,” Theresa insisted. “Right, Matt?”

He was pulling apart the jute and strips of material, dyed all shades of browns and greens, and looking at how they were sewn on.

“Oh, see, they're just attached to this webbing. We could just tie them on pretty easily. It's a matter of cutting jute the right length to tie in place—­we don't need the strips of material. And we want to make sure and not tie them too close together.”

“Kind of reminds me of the yarn rugs and hangings I used to make as a kid,” Monica said, glancing at her mom. “Remember those?”

Janet brightened. “There's one still hanging on the wall in your old bedroom. You remember, the daisies in a vase? I thought that was pretty.”

Monica rolled her eyes as everyone chuckled. “You could take the shrine down now. I'm thirty years old.”

“I have another guest bedroom. Yours is my craft room.” Janet winced and looked a little sad. “All my children are in their thirties—­how did that happen?”

“Much quicker than you ever think possible,” Mrs. Ludlow said. “And then they get married.”

“To the son of the president,” Mrs. Palmer said with relish.

“Okay, okay, enough with the memory lane,” Brenda said shortly. “We've all got things to do. I already examined the suits and purchased some supplies, every bit of jute and twine I could find at the feed store, along with some fishing net, and canvas to attach it to. This is enough to get started. We're running out of time. And we still have the Mammoth Party details to finalize.”

They spent about fifteen minutes deciding how long to make the jute, then Monica went into the kitchen to use the table since they were running out of space. The widows followed her, ostensibly to find more scissors and bring out the salsa and chips, but Monica noticed they were hovering.

“Something I can do for you ladies?” she asked, head bent over the yardstick she was using to measure.

“How is Agent Beaumont?” Mrs. Palmer asked. “Adam tells me he was at Tony's last night.”

Holding the jute tight to cut it evenly, she eyed the old lady. “Did he call just to tell you that?”

“Of course not. But we chat most every day for a few minutes. He said Agent Beaumont is a fellow Marine.”

“Was,” Monica corrected.

“Adam says you're always a Marine.”

“Then I won't dispute him.” She put both hands on the table and leaned toward the widows, who'd given up pretending to do other things. “Look, I haven't told him a thing about the protest although he's very suspicious that one might be happening, probably because of the background checks and our concern over the archaeology dig.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Ludlow murmured. “Perhaps Ashley mentioned something to someone . . .”

“Does she know?” Monica asked sharply.

“No, of course not, but she knows us, doesn't she? I think she suspects something. But surely she understands we would never ruin her wedding.”

“Brides get awfully suspicious when their big day approaches,” Monica warned. “You should have seen Whitney, convinced some of Josh's teenage fans would break into the church right at the part where the priest says ‘if anyone knows any reason these two shouldn't be joined together . . .' We stationed lookouts, and no one spotted anything, but you could practically hear her sigh of relief when the priest said they were married.”

“So you've said we aren't protestin'?” Mrs. Palmer asked.

“No, I haven't lied. I said what we did was none of his business. I'm on top of this, don't worry. Now go on and feed your guests. And remember, you wait to sew until we're with you. No point in getting exhausted with the manual labor when we need you ladies to be the brains of this outfit!”

An hour later, Monica's back was aching from leaning over the table to cut jute, so she took a break and went into the parlor for some salsa and chips. She didn't see her mom right away and thought she must be in the bathroom, until she spied Janet and Mrs. Thalberg through the French doors that separated the parlor from the library. Her mom seemed all . . . hunched over. Was she crying? She wanted to burst inside and demand to know what was wrong, but moms shielded their kids, and Janet would probably lie rather than admit anything.

They hadn't closed the door all the way, though, so Monica pretended to be stretching while looking out the big bay window at Silver Creek. She had to listen hard, but at last she could hear a ­couple sentences.

“He's gone every weekend,” Janet murmured, then blew her nose. “Oh, Rosemary, should I just keep ignoring it? What if he's having . . . having—­”

“An affair? Don't be silly!”

Monica swallowed against the lump in her throat. She'd known things weren't so good between her parents, but she thought they would work it out. But if her dad's car racing was becoming an obsession, and her mother suspected an affair . . .

That couldn't be true. Her parents loved each other! All through her childhood, friends' parents divorced, and she had to see how the breakups hurt everyone involved. Some girls let themselves be treated badly by boys, all because their own dads weren't so close to them anymore. At the same time, she'd felt happy and relieved and guilty that her own parents still held hands when they walked together.

But at least now she knew why her mom hadn't confided in her. What could she do to help?

 

Chapter Thirteen

W
hen Monica pulled her minivan into the alley behind her shop, she was surprised to see Travis leaning against her back door, reading his cell phone as he waited for her. She was worried he might have followed her to the boardinghouse and was going to grill her, but his expression was relaxed and easy. More and more he was letting down his guard—­at least around her.

Smiling, she got out of her van. “Long time no see.”

He shrugged. “I had a break and thought I'd take a walk.”

“And I wasn't here right at the moment you need­ed me.”

He gave her his sexy faint smile. “I didn't mind the wait.”

“I'm surprised you don't have your own key already.”

“You're a private citizen.”

She grinned. “You know you could have waited in the showroom. Mrs. Wilcox would have loved to keep you amused. And there are peanut butter cookies today.”

He patted his stomach. “Can only take so much temptation.”

Their gazes met and lingered. “Don't tell me you're here because you're avoiding the job?” she asked as she walked up the stairs.

He held up the phone. “The job follows me.”

He didn't make any attempt to move away as she fumbled the key in the lock clumsily. She was never clumsy. But it would help if she could tear her gaze away from his handsome, square-­jawed face. She kept picturing him in a Marine uniform and mentally swooning. So much for just wanting him to relax. She was getting all caught up in him.

Inside the workroom, she set down her purse and refilled her bottle of water. She offered him one, but he declined, only started perusing the framed photos of the weddings she'd worked on. She wasn't sure what he wanted, but she didn't mind working while she waited. After telling Mrs. Wilcox she was back, she sat down on a stool and got out her list.

“We always seem to meet here,” she said. “When are you going to invite me over to the command center? I hear you're slowly taking over the top two floors. And considering there are only three . . .”

He glanced over his shoulder at her but didn't leave the photos. “Yes, it's been difficult. There's a regular guest who doesn't want to move even though we'll pay for his accommodations somewhere else for the weekend. And if he doesn't move, the president won't stay there.”

“Really?” she asked in amazement. “No presidential orders insisting he leave?”

“No, not at all. Most ­people leave, though, and I think I have him almost persuaded. Mrs. Sweet is saving a good room for him, and since the president will be there as well, this guy's curiosity will get the better of him. We're also dealing with a convention of drunken dentists, which is supposed to be gone by Wednesday, the day the president arrives.”

“I bet you weren't supposed to tell me that. Not that it was a surprise to me, considering the wedding rehearsal is on Friday.”
And so is our protest.
At least the president would be in town to see it.

“I trust you not to tell anyone.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You are my fake girlfriend, after all.”

He was giving her a slow, sexy smile that about made her heart flip over just to beat faster. She hadn't seen that before, and now she knew it was a secret weapon that he must only bring out for . . . whom? Fake girlfriends? She was starting to think their relationship wasn't simply friendly anymore. Not that she knew
what
it was. But here he was being positively relaxed and chatty, for a guy. She liked it—­she liked him. It had taken a while for him to warm up to her, but he was worth the wait. His kisses were, too.

“Have you been doing this advance work for a while?”

“A year now. It means I'm on the road much of the time. No two-­day weekends for me.”

“That's got to be tough. I may have the responsibilities of owning my own business, but at least I can choose my days off. But still, you must see the world.”

He nodded. “Last month I was in Moscow and Hong Kong.”

“And now you're in Valentine,” she said, smiling. “Things just get better and better for you.”

“I don't mind Valentine.” He leaned against a worktable, crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded her. “It has its perks. And we don't have to worry quite as much about foreign operatives spying.”

“Just nosy neighbors. So when you're at home, what do you do?”

“Do?”

“For fun? You seem to like relaxing with a beer at Tony's Tavern.”

“It's not the same in D.C., certainly not as relaxing. There are a lot of ­people who make it their business to know what you do for a living. My buddies on the Presidential Protective Detail? Women have been known to slip their hotel keycard in their pockets because they saw them with the president on TV.”

“The Secret Ser­vice has groupies?”

“Just about.”

“None of that here, I hope.” Although she was tempted . . .

“Jealous?”

And then she was blushing. “Just didn't want you to lump me in with the groupies.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

They stared at each other again, needing no words to communicate. She gave up any pretense of cutting ribbon.

He was the one who finally spoke first, after clearing his throat. ­“People have been pretty relaxed with my agents, open with their curiosity, not underhanded.”

“It's good to know we have some manners,” she said. “But really, what do you do for fun besides have a beer in a bar and dance with your groupies?”

Gosh, she liked the faint smile, probably because she felt special that she was able to bring it out in him. He didn't readily show emotions—­the Marines and the Secret Ser­vice had buried any easy rapport with ­people he might have had.

“I run, which you know about. I've been known to watch football and basketball, I read a lot of nonfiction and military stuff, but I don't really have time for anything much beyond that. What about you?”

She felt a little guilty at all she had to choose from. “You know I run, of course. And I read.”

“Romances. Saw them upstairs.”

“I love a happy ending—­don't we all?”

“Keep going. I spilled about myself. Your turn.”

“I ski in the winter, but you get funny looks in the Rockies if you don't do something outside.”

“Same in Montana although it's been a few years for me.”

“I keep a vegetable patch at my mom's since I don't have a yard. Bet that's a fascinating detail about me.”

“Everything's fascinating about you,” he said quietly.

“Even my activist past?” Maybe she shouldn't have brought that up.

But he nodded, a half smile playing about his mouth. Did he . . . like that about her? Was he challenged by what he thought she might be doing right now?

And they lapsed into another silent stare. He took a ­couple steps toward her, and she stiffened with excitement and tension and possibilities.

Then he spoke abruptly. “So Mayor Galimi ambushed me again at the True Grits Diner.”

“Her brother's place,” Monica admitted, unable to choose between disappointment or relief that he'd decided to keep talking. “Sylvester's probably under orders to call her when you're there. You weren't able to give her an answer about meeting the president?”

“Not yet. It's a private weekend for President Torres, so the schedule isn't set.”

“Can she do anything spur of the moment?”

“We frown on that, but like you and me, she runs, and she doesn't mind doing it in public. SS agents are with her, and you'd be surprised how many ­people walk or drive right by, thinking she's just another middle-­aged woman out for a run. But we
know
she'll be running, so the agents prepare in advance. But when she wants to stop at a bookstore or something we haven't approved, well, things get dicey. The president can do a lot of what she wants—­we just have to know about it in advance. Unless it's dangerous, then forget about it. We've made a president or two see the error of his ways, but it's hard to dissuade the leader of the free world.”

“I can imagine,” she said, wide-­eyed. “Oh, I forgot to ask—­did you see the article in the newspaper? I hope you're not too upset.”

He shook his head and came to lean on the table beside her. “The reporter tried to interview me, too, and I didn't make a comment.”

“Yeah, but when you're doing the flowers for a presidential wedding, you kind of want potential customers to know. Hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all. You did good.”

He looked at his phone, whether to check the time or a message, Monica didn't know.

“I've got to go. But I wanted to tell you that the widows asked me over tomorrow. They want to reassure me that nothing will go wrong with the shower they're hosting for Ashley even though the president isn't attending. And since Mrs. Ludlow is such a hell-­raiser, I thought I'd better drop by and checks things out. So do you want to go? You know them better than I do—­I wouldn't want to screw up. They might never talk to me again.”

She snorted. “As if
that
would ever happen.” Her head tilted to the side, she eyed him. “Is this a fake date?”

“Hardly. I would hope I could do better than that. It's a fake investigation,” he pointed out. “Well, I
am
curious to know them better. The entire town respects and admires them, even though they seem to do . . . crazy things.”

“Not quite everybody is full of admiration, but they don't have any real enemies, anyway.” Then she smiled. “All right, I'll go.”

He smiled back, then glanced at the window that separated the showroom from the workroom. Mrs. Wilcox seemed preoccupied with several customers.

Monica caught her breath as he took her arm and led her toward the far side of the room, out of sight. Then he put her up against the wall and held her there with his body.

With a gasp, she let her hands roam up his arms and just enjoyed the weight of him, the force of him, inhaling his aftershave with the faint scent of citrus.

“I shouldn't do this,” he said with a groan, leaning down over her. “I told myself I wouldn't.” He brushed her lips with his, once, twice. “But I find you irresistible, Monica.”

And then he kissed her, and she came up on her toes to meld their bodies even closer, feeling giddy and aroused. His hand ran down her hip and along the outside of her thigh, until, still kissing her, he pulled her knee up and pressed his hips between her thighs.

She moaned against his mouth, suckled his tongue, then let him do the same. He rubbed himself slowly against her, and she shuddered, feeling her real self fall away until she only existed in the sensual world they spun like a web about themselves.

Travis had never had a problem separating his personal life from his professional life, but whenever he was in the same room with Monica Shaw, he just about lost his head with desire for her. Kissing her was like playing in a sensual pond that surrounded him, bathing him with heat and desire. He loved the taste of her, the feel of her body molding to his, the softness between her thighs he was desperate to explore. He pressed harder there, and her answering gasp told him she was just as affected.

He wanted more of her, all of her, as he explored her waist and ribs, then slid his hand up between them to cup her breast. He could feel the hardness of her nipple against his palm as he rubbed, then used his thumb against it until she writhed in his arms.

With a gasp, she broke free from their kiss, tipping her head back, eyes half-­closed. “Okay, okay,” she said breathlessly. “God, this feels good, but I can't—­we shouldn't—­a customer could—­”

Those last words broke the spell, and he stepped away. This was her place of business, where she had to be professional, and he'd just put her up against a wall like she was his plaything.

“I didn't even think of that,” he said hoarsely. “Can't think of anything around you. I'm sorry. I won't—­”

She put her fingers on his mouth to stop him. “There's nothing to forgive. I don't remember the last time I enjoyed myself as much as I have since you've come to town. I had to stop you before you said something stupid, like this'll never happen again.” She let her hand drop.

He searched her eyes, and she held his gaze proudly, honestly.

“I'll only be here another week,” he said softly.

“I know. Let's enjoy it without thinking too much. I'm even getting good at avoiding accidentally touching the gun at your waist.”

He tilted his head. “You're a very different woman, Monica.”

“Good. I hope to be memorable. You know, like the widows.”

He winced, and she cracked up at his expression.

“I have to go,” he said, shaking his head. “I'll pick you up around two?”

She nodded, then pointed to the back door because she couldn't stop laughing. Bemused, he sort of waved, then left while she tried to get herself under control.

Mrs. Wilcox ducked through the swinging door. “Is everything all right?”

Monica settled her laughter down with a snort. “Sorry. Yeah, everything's fine. The shop good?”

“More than good. I've called Karista in, we're so busy. Whoops, there she is.”

Karista came bopping through the back door, all smiles at the chance to earn extra money for the mountain bike she managed to mention every day. And Monica thought of what the teenager had almost witnessed and started to laugh again. This was going to be a crazy week.

A
fter church Sunday morning, Monica found her dad at the True Grits Diner, in his usual booth. All the booths were upholstered in red, with sleek chrome outlining everything, including the counter. The place was as crowded as ever, and she ducked around tables to reach him. As a kid, she'd come here every Sunday with him, Dom, and Missy, their Daddy-­and-­kids time, while her mom sometimes had brunch with her friends or Aunt Gloria. Monica and Missy would color their place mats, while Dom and their dad pretended a paper clip was a hockey puck and flicked it with their fingertips through the salt-­and-­pepper goal.