Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings) (26 page)

For at least the fifth time, Bertie adjusted the gray linen pillow shams that covered the king-size bed in the master bedroom she and Keith had shared for the past amazing fifteen months.

Keith burst through the door. “Bertie, let’s go. The bed looks fine. Stop worrying.”

Bertie’s sharp gaze darted around the room to make sure all the lamps were dimmed and every accessory was in its proper place. “It needs to be perfect, not simply fine.” She ran a hand down her new burnt-orange cropped jacket and short, brown skirt. “Do I look okay?”

Keith crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You look perfect.” He kissed her and then said, “And the whole house looks perfect. You ready?” Keith pulled on her hand.

“Wait.” Bertie tugged and Keith stopped. “What about my shoes? Do they say successful designer or stumpy woman trying to look tall?”

Keith’s gaze flicked to the chunky suede Prada wedges on Bertie’s feet. “They say successful designer who drives her husband crazy. Now, either you move on your own accord or I’m carrying you out over my shoulder.”

“Okay. Okay.” Bertie patted her hair as she glanced in the mirror one last time and followed Keith from the room.

“Maddie! Shake a leg. The photographer is here,” Keith bellowed up the stairwell. Bertie’s heart stuttered. She still couldn’t believe this day had finally come. Bertie Anderson Morgan, Interior Designer, was getting her very own spread in
Veranda
magazine. It had been three weeks since she’d gotten the call and she hadn’t been able to sleep or eat since. Not eating hadn’t been such a bad thing, since she still had a few baby pounds to lose.

“Where’s Harry?” Maddie asked, clattering down the stairs in a green-and-blue plaid taffeta dress. “Has he been fed? It’s my turn to give him a bottle,” Maddie stated with all the importance of a big sister.

“Gary has him and has fed and burped him like a real pro. You’ll get the next feeding. Right now, we have to look perfect for the picture.”

Keith appeared in the foyer holding his son, Harrison Camden Morgan, named after his dad, with a big smile of pride tugging at his lips. Bertie’s breath caught like it always did when she contemplated her husband and her beautiful baby. Love flooded her heart until she was sure it would burst. Somehow Bertie, a no-name, small-town designer, had it all: a beautiful home, a budding career, a family to hold and cherish, and a gorgeous husband who loved her more and more every day.

Keith kissed the baby, murmuring silly words, and Maddie bounced in her black ballet flats, peering at the bundle in her dad’s arms. Bertie blinked as tears of joy sprang to her eyes.

“What’s the holdup, people? Chop, chop.” Liza appeared at the front door threshold, clapping her hands. “This natural light is not going to hold. Even for the perfect family.”

Keith reached for Bertie’s hand and squeezed as they arranged themselves on the wraparound porch.

Maddie glanced up at Bertie. “Are you crying?”

Bertie swiped at her eye. “No, honey.”

“Good Lord.” Liza brushed Bertie’s hand away and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Can’t you stop blubbering for one second to get your picture taken?” Liza cupped Bertie’s chin. “Looks good. Now smile, Bertha.”

The photographer adjusted their poses with Keith resting his hand on Bertie’s shoulder and Maddie standing at her side and baby Harry in Bertie’s arms. “Hold it right there,” he said as he fiddled with his filters.

“Mom, why does Aunt Liza always call you Bertha?” Maddie asked.

“Because she’s the spawn of the devil,” Bertie said between her smiling teeth.

“Do you think the baby in her belly will be a devil too?”

“Most definitely,” Keith said.

“Poor Uncle Cal,” Maddie said.

“Hey, I heard that,” Liza called out from the front lawn. And with that, Keith, Bertie, and Maddie burst out laughing just as the camera flashed.

Watch for the next in

Michele Summers’

Harmony Homecomings series:

Not So New in Town

Available February 2015

From Sourcebooks Casablanca

Lucy Doolan hated being called Loco Lucy. But as she kicked the flat tire on old Rockin’ Rhonda, her beat-up Toyota Camry, she thought she might be a little nuts. She stared down at the toe of her scuffed cowboy boot and dug her heel into the gravel on the side of the narrow two-lane highway.

“Moose muffins. This is not how I pictured the end of my day.” Lucy looked at the dead cell phone in her hand. So uncool for someone who made her living with the phone. Dead cell phone. Dead back-up cell phone in trunk of car. Flat tire on side of road with no spare. Not that she’d know what to do with a spare if she had one.

And she was just outside of Harmony, North Carolina—her hometown, where everyone remembered her as Loco Lucy. Where she never wanted to live again.

Ever.

Lucy plucked at the tie-dyed T-shirt sticking to her chest and belly. It had to be ninety-nine freakin’ degrees, at least. She scrubbed at her neck where sweat snaked down over her skin, making her itch in the late July heat. She had all August to swelter, and it would most likely be well into October before any cool weather would come her way.

“Looks like I’m gonna have to hoof it.” She peered down the empty road, squinting behind her red-framed sunglasses. No cars had been by since she’d bumped and limped old Rhonda off to the side. Forced to walk the last ten miles in blistering heat was not how she had pictured her homecoming. Entering Main Street on foot would give everybody one more reason to call her Loco. Lucy gave the dead tire one more vicious kick for good measure.

“Ow!” She hopped on one foot. “Broken-down old bucket of bolts.” She glared at the rusted-out tin can. “I’ve a good mind not to send a tow truck, but with my crappy luck, you’ll get towed into town anyhow and I’ll get a fat ticket as a welcome home gift.” Lucy stopped hopping and wiggled her injured toes inside her boot. “Fine. Whatever. I could use the exercise.” She bent inside the car and grabbed her purse, along with her bag of Cheetos, Red Hots, and Little Debbies, slammed the door with her hip, and headed in the direction of Harmony.

***

“What the hell?” Brogan Reese rounded the curve in his convertible. Even in the ninety-degree heat, he’d been riding with the top down. He squinted against the late afternoon sun. Up the road a ways, some crazy gal was kicking a tire that appeared to be very, very flat. Brogan chuckled, watching her hop on one foot after venting her frustration on the dead tire. She bent for something in the car’s interior, exposing a lot of leg as her short jean skirt crept up the backs of her thighs. Nice. Brogan pushed his aviator sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose as he slowed his car.

Snap out of it, dumbass.

Probably some mother trying to get back to her double-wide trailer, home to three sets of wailing twins. He eased off the road onto the shoulder, coming to a complete stop. His new car, an XK Jaguar, aptly named after the lethal cat, purred low. He sat for a moment as crazy Tire-Kicker shoved some purple python-patterned bag over her shoulder and started down the highway in the opposite direction. As much as he enjoyed the sway of her hips marching toward town, he couldn’t let her go without offering to change the tire. Besides, he needed the distraction. The lively, one-sided conversation he’d been having with himself for the past few hours had gotten boring. Along with raising more questions than answers, he’d given himself a mother of a headache. He pushed open his door and stepped out.

“Hey, there. Need some help?” he called to her retreating back.

The swaying hips stopped as Tire-Kicker turned on her cowboy-booted heels. She didn’t look old and tired from multiple births, but Brogan couldn’t be too sure. Huge red-speckled Wayfarer sunglasses swallowed the upper half of her face. She didn’t speak but clutched her funky bag closer to her body.

“With your flat tire?” He motioned to the rusted piece of shit posing as a car on the side of the road.

“You got a spare? Because I sure don’t,” she said.

Why should that surprise him? Maybe the floorboards were rusted out, too. They could pull a Fred and Barney and Flintstone it back to town. Gravel crunched beneath her boots as she inched closer, gripping the straps of her bag. He still couldn’t see her eyes, but he detected wariness as lines of tension bracketed her full mouth.

“I’d offer you a ride into town, but since you don’t know me, I figured you wouldn’t accept. How about I call for roadside assistance?” Brogan pulled his cell phone from his jeans pocket. “You can wait in your car and I’ll wait in mine until they come. Would that help?”

Streaks of purple ran through the blond hair that flopped on her shoulder as she tilted her head, studying him.

“Better yet…you can call, if that would make you more comfortable.” Brogan extended the cell. She jumped back as if he meant to strike her. “Whoa.” He raised both hands cautiously to show he meant no harm. “Okay then. Maybe not,” he said slowly. Tire-Kicker’s head moved side to side as if hunting for a place to hide. “Look, lady, only trying to help. I’m from Harmony, which is right up the road. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she said in a flat voice, catching him off guard.

“You do?” He stared at her streaky hair and hunched shoulders as she crossed her arms and lowered her head. Who was this chick? He couldn’t place her. And from her Southern accent, he knew she wasn’t from up North, where he’d lived the last ten years.

“Yeah,” she said to the gravel mashed beneath her boots. “Brogan Reese. Harmony High’s football star, homecoming king, and heartbreaker.”

Shit. Here we go again.

***

Not him! Lucy searched for a ditch or some kind of swamp-like hole to hurl herself into. She’d rather be bleeding out in shark-infested waters than standing on the side of the road talking to him. Brogan Reese. Her high school crush. The stud of Harmony High. Who never knew she existed until…

Lucy couldn’t think about that now. She needed to figure a way out of this embarrassing mess. Damn Julia! If she weren’t already seven months pregnant and bedridden, Lucy would come up with more painful ways to punish her.

Julia. The bane of Lucy’s existence. Childhood nemesis. Boyfriend snatcher.

Stepsister.

Inhaling hot, muggy North Carolina air, Lucy wished she were at the beach soaking up rays or in the mountains breathing crisp air. She must’ve been crazy—maybe she ate some bad Cheese Whiz—because how else could she explain allowing Julia to talk her into coming back home?

“Have we met?” Brogan interrupted her mental rant. Lucy’s head snapped up. He didn’t recognize her…at all. No surprise there. She couldn’t blame him. He’d only had eyes for one person in high school, and it wasn’t the gawky, awkward freshman who had skulked in the halls, hoping for a glimpse of her crush. The girl with the wild curls who had volunteered to keep stats for the football team to be near his greatness. She guessed she should consider herself lucky that he didn’t recall the way she’d ruined his homecoming date with Julia, the homecoming queen. His girlfriend. The love of his life.

At one time or other, every girl fantasized about running into an ex-boyfriend or crush—looking marvelous, with flawless skin, coiffed hair, and ample cleavage perfectly displayed for ogling. And the fantasy always included being hugely successful in some philanthropic career, flaunting great success and watching him grovel at her feet, begging for crumbs from her table. Lucy had millions of those fantasies tucked away. All starring Brogan Reese. But none of them included ugly Rockin’ Rhonda, the tin can listing on the side of the road, or Lucy wearing her cut-off jean skirt and a sweaty tie-dyed T-shirt.

Thanks to my wonderful editor, Deb Werksman. I felt connected to you the minute I met you! And to the great team at Sourcebooks for your patience and taking me under your wing.

To my agent, Nicole Resciniti, your support and wealth of information are priceless.

For her friendship, cheerleading, and making me laugh until I cried, thanks to my Yankee fan/friend, Noel Higgins.

And to my special peeps in Miami, especially Elise and Jennifer for that fun girls’ weekend in Naples where Michele Summers was born.

And finally to my beautiful, smart, funny kids––for always understanding when deadlines loomed and mom acted cray cray! I love you so much I can’t even stop!

Debut author Michele Summers writes about small-town life with a Southern flair. She has her own interior design business in Raleigh, North Carolina, and Miami, Florida. Both professions feed her creative appetite and provide a daily dose of humor. When she isn’t writing or creating colorful interiors, she is playing tennis, cooking for family and clients, knitting, reading, and most importantly, raising her two great kids. Michele’s work has won recognition from the Dixie First Chapter, Golden Palm, Fool For Love, Rebecca, and Fabulous Five contests. She is an active member of the Heart of Carolina and Florida Romance Writers chapters of RWA. You can contact Michele at her website,
www.michelesummers.com
, where you will also locate her other social media buttons.