Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings) (5 page)

“And I suppose my true love is somewhere hidden in this
Leave
It
to
Beaver
town,” Keith drawled.

A slight fissure of alarm crept its way up Bertie’s spine at his silky tone. She glanced down at her hands fisted in her lap.

Francesca nodded. “Harmony has some lovely young ladies. I suggest you get out there and meet them.”

“What if I’ve already found one?” Keith’s thigh brushed against Bertie’s.

Francesca looked at both of them, lifting a skeptical brow. “Really?”

Keith’s hard thigh deliberately pressed into hers as he leaned closer. “Yeah, she’s talented…on many levels. I don’t know about her mothering skills, but I’d bet she’d catch on real quick.”

Bertie sat rigid on the settee. Heat flushed her face, and her heart slowed to a low thud. Keith’s voice had become silkier, and the idea of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was the only thing that kept her from jumping up and running from the room.

Francesca’s lips thinned into a tight line. “If she’s from Harmony, I have no doubt she’s a nice young lady.”

Bertie sneaked a sideways glance at Keith. His dark eyes burned with fury, and anger lines bracketed his firm lips.

“I wouldn’t know about nice, but she’s pretty hot.” His gaze locked with hers.

Bertie jumped up as if she’d been poked with a cattle prod. “Aunt Franny, I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow. I’m…um…going to go now. The food’s in the kit—”

“I don’t approve of you fooling around and breaking her heart simply to make a point with me.”

Francesca and Keith both rose from their seats, boxing Bertie in between them. Francesca had interrupted Bertie as if she hadn’t been speaking, never breaking eye contact with Keith, who stood too close to her back. Proprietarily close. Like boyfriend/girlfriend close.

“Are you saying she’s off-limits or just fooling around is off-limits?” Keith’s sexy voice rumbled above her head. Afraid to move, Bertie kept her eyes trained on the lustrous sheen of Francesca’s gray pearl necklace.

“I’m saying, tread carefully. I will not have the people I know and love hurt because you’re angry and want to get back at me.” Francesca’s voice crackled with anger.

“If I agree to your form of blackmail, then anyone is fair game. You’re not exactly giving me tons of time for this miraculous courtship.”

Francesca gave a regal toss of her head. “Oh, I don’t know. You always seem to do your best work under pressure. I recall you being the prince of tiebreakers and winning tennis matches under pressure. Three months is more than enough time.”

“Especially if she’s right under my nose.”

Oh
my
mama
pajama.
Bertie suspected a diabolical grin crossed Keith’s face, like a pirate forcing his victim to walk the plank.

She pushed back with her elbow into Keith Morgan’s rock-hard abs and sidestepped away from the dueling blackmailers. “Okay, here’s the thing…I’m not really sure what or who you’re talking about and”—she held her hand up like a stop sign—“I don’t want to know. But I’m also not a fuzzy yellow tennis ball to be volleyed back and forth.”

Bertie bent down for her handbag she’d dropped on the carpet. “Aunt Franny, I need some time to think. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned to bolt from the room when Keith snagged her elbow, pulling her to a halt.

“Hold up. I’m coming with you.” He pierced Francesca with a harsh stare. “What do you want, boss…daily or weekly reports?”

“I forbid you to date her,” Francesca commanded loud and clear.

“I can’t make that promise,” Keith said, shaking his head. He hustled Bertie from the room, and neither one looked back to see the faint smile curling Francesca’s lips.

Keith pulled Bertie toward his black Porsche Cayenne. She tried stopping him, but the wedge shoes she wore didn’t give good traction.

“We need to talk,” he growled as he yanked open the passenger door and tried shoving her inside.

“Hold on a minute. Where do you think you’re taking me? I haven’t agreed to work for you. I’m not about to get in your car and head for parts unknown.” Bertie crossed her arms over her impressive chest and glared up at him. Keith barely knew her, but he recognized the mulish tilt of her chin, and he figured he’d better start talking if he wanted answers.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the crisp evening air. It was mid-March, the sun had gone down and the temperatures had dropped into the fifties. The cold pierced the gray henley sweater he wore over his long-sleeve cotton T-shirt and he fought the urge to shiver. He still hadn’t acclimated to the cooler climate, even though most considered the Carolinas mild. Keith had lived among the palm trees and salty breezes of the Atlantic Ocean for years. Anything in the fifties was considered freakin’ cold in Miami.

He rubbed his hands together and said, “Look, can we go somewhere and maybe grab a cup of coffee? I want to sort this whole thing out. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Bertie’s sea-green eyes narrowed. Keith fought the urge to grin. She may look like Betty Boop, but he had a feeling she was no dummy. “No more cheap shots. What do you say?”

“Well…”

“Come on. I’m freezing my ass off out here.” He held the passenger door open. Bertie hesitated, peering up at him as if he bullied small children and stole their lunch money. She gave a curt nod before hiking herself up into the leather bucket seat. He caught a brief glimpse of a very fine ass encased in a pair of tight jeans. He was in hell.

Keith drove the short distance from Aunt Francesca’s neighborhood, where statelier, wealthier homes graced acre lots in Harmony, to the corner of Main and Oakwood, near the center of town. He parked in the side lot to what looked to be the local watering hole. The Dogwood Bar & Grill had small-town charm, with its gabled roof and covered porch entrance. Hunter-green shutters and window boxes with blooming yellow flowers decorated the front. He strolled with Bertie up the paved walkway lined with several dogwood trees waiting for their blooms. His hand pushed the bronze handle on the wavy-glass front door, which obscured the interior, and ushered Bertie through. Once Keith stepped over the threshold, he stopped dead in his tracks.

His head snapped back in stunned surprise. The “quaint” bar was bursting with a kaleidoscope of color. Straight ahead, aqua blue and green bell jar lamps hung over the dark brown wooden bar with chrome barstools covered in zebra-striped vinyl. Diners sat at old, plank pine tables on painted, ladder-back chairs in bright orange, pink, and lavender. And people jammed the booths, sitting on green and yellow Dalmatian-spotted vinyl, drinking out of aqua-colored mason jars. Chicken wire pendant lights illuminated each booth with colorful crystals and old-timey lightbulbs. The floor created a wave-like pattern in speckled orange, green, and blue terrazzo that led to a point directly in front of a wooden stage. A small local country band played in front of a pink and silver hexagon-patterned backdrop.

“Goddamn. What blind person decorated this place? It looks like someone tripping on drugs opened a bunch of paint cans and went spider-monkey crazy,” Keith said.

“Ummph,” he grunted as Bertie’s elbow connected hard with his ribs in a swift jab.

“I did, you big, stupid oaf!” She glared up at him then stormed off, leaving him standing in the small, purple-painted entrance all alone.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Aunt Francesca wanted this color-blind, acid-dropping decorator working on his house?

Like bloody hell.

He watched Bertie and her fine ass weave her way toward the bar like she owned the place. Customers called out her name and she waved, stopping to speak with a few. Her thick, shiny hair bounced around her shoulders, and her tight jeans caught the attention of some of the guys. Keith witnessed more than a few heads swiveling in her direction. His mouth tightened into a grim line.

When she reached the end of the bar, Keith recognized her brother, the one he’d met earlier, handing her a martini with lots of olives as if he’d been expecting her. It figured everyone knew her since her brother obviously worked as a bartender. A waitress approached wearing a neon-pink, V-neck T-shirt with
The
Dog
written across her chest in sequins. He refrained from rolling his eyes, figuring Bertie designed the blinding T-shirts as well.

“Table for one? Or would you like to sit at the bar?” she asked, smiling, her lips covered with matching hot-pink lipstick. A silly pink bow flopped around her blond ponytail.

“Uh, I’m with Bertie Anderson.” Keith motioned in Bertie’s direction. “We’ll need a table for two.”

The waitress’s smile grew even wider. “Certainly. Bertie always sits at the owner’s table toward the back. Follow me.” The waitress grabbed a menu from a lime-green painted basket tacked to the wall. Keith followed her around the noisy diners to a booth tucked into an alcove that was not completely hidden but hidden enough for a little privacy.

“Why does Bertie always eat at the owner’s table?” he asked as he slid across the booth and took the menu.

The waitress placed two cardboard beer coasters on the sparkly, silver laminate tabletop.

“Because she’s the owner,” she giggled. “With Cal. You didn’t know?”

“Know what?” Bertie appeared at the waitress’s side with half a martini in her hand. She still looked pissed. “Thanks, Sara Jean. I’ll have my usual and get Mr. Morgan whatever he’d like.” She scooted into the booth on the opposite side.

She owned a bar
and
she decorated? What else did she do? Give manicures at Floyd’s barbershop?

Keith ordered a beer, figuring he’d need the extra fortification to deal with the crazier-than-bat-shit situation he currently found himself in. He glanced out over the busy bar at people eating, drinking, and singing along with the band. The bar had a comfortable atmosphere, in a psychedelic, morning-after, hangover kind of way. Fresh bread smells and the sizzling sound of grilling meat seeped from the kitchen, making his stomach growl. He turned back to Bertie and met her gaze. From the way her lips formed a definite frown, Keith knew he had some sucking up to do.

“I’m sorry for insulting your…uh…creative talents,” he said, trying not to grin. Her frown deepened. He cocked his head, thinking how that expression looked all wrong on her animated face. Her plump pink lips were made for hot, wet kisses, not frowning. Keith recalled the exact texture and succulent feel of her perfect mouth pressed against his…

“Oh, forget it,” she said, snapping him out of his kissing fantasy. “These loud colors and funky interiors draw a lot of people here. Cal and I wanted to do something different when we decided to renovate.”

“Looks like you’ve cornered the market on different,” Keith added, noting the crown molding painted in a black and white geometric pattern. “How long have you owned the place?”

Sara Jean appeared with their fresh drinks and took Keith’s order for the house special: marinated grilled chicken breast over spicy black beans and yellow rice. Bertie ordered a salad with grilled mahimahi on top.

“We inherited it from our parents.” She licked the rim of her fresh martini glass, and Keith all but guzzled his beer, trying to forget how her tongue felt tangled with his.

“Are your parents retired?” he asked.

“No. Dead.” She lowered her gaze and fiddled with the drink coaster.

Fuck. He couldn’t catch a break. First he insulted her design talent, and then he mentioned her dead parents. What next? “Sorry. Listen, I didn’t mean—”

“We need to discuss Aunt Franny’s proposal,” she interrupted.

There she went again…
Aunt
Franny?
He leaned forward, trying to repress the anger surging forth over Francesca’s calculated blackmailing.

“How did she become your Aunt Franny? Her only sibling is my mother, and I’m an only child. Her late husband, my uncle, didn’t have any siblings either.” Keith couldn’t hold his testiness in check. Bertie shifted in her seat, glancing up when Sara Jean reappeared with their dinners.

“Here you go,” Sara Jean said in a cheery voice as she placed the red and green Fiestaware plates piled high with food in front of them. “Uh, Mr. Morgan, would you mind signing this picture for my little brother? I didn’t realize who you were until Cal told me. My brother, Danny, is a big tennis fan. He plays over at the Jaycee Park, but their courts are in really bad condition and the nets are always torn—”

“Yeah, sure.” Keith reached for the computer printed picture of himself, serving at some tournament a few years ago. He scribbled his signature with Sara Jean’s purple Sharpie. He tried not to think about the pinnacle of his career, when he trained eight hours a day to prepare for a tournament. He shoved the autograph back to Sara Jean as he went for his beer.

“Gosh, are you going to be training here in Harmony? Imagine having the Prince right in our backyard playing tennis. Maybe you could do something about those awful courts and—”

“Thanks, Sara Jean. I think Cal needs you at the bar,” Bertie said, surprising him as he gripped the Mason jar until he thought the glass would shatter in his hand. Bertie waited until Sara Jean crossed the crowded bar before continuing.

“Francesca has been like a mother to me and Cal. She was a godsend when my mother got sick and died. We’ve always called her Aunt Franny, but I’ll stop if it makes you uncomfortable. I certainly don’t mean to take your place,” she said, sounding defensive as she drizzled a little dressing over her salad, moving her food around with her fork.

“Hell, I don’t care if you call her Queen Elizabeth. I only wanted to know what your relationship is with her.” Keith forked a bite of chicken with the black beans and rice in his mouth. The flavors surprised him as his taste buds jumped to life. The food had a definite Cuban kick that he loved.

“Look, we both know this has the makings of a huge disaster where neither one of us will be getting what we want. I don’t know what Aunt…uh, Francesca was thinking, but all I have to do is say—”

“Bertie! I love those pillows with the extra row of ruffles. I want you to make a matching one for Sweet Tea’s dog bed.” A terrifying lady dressed in a jean skirt with red and white ruffles on the bottom clipped across the terrazzo floor to their booth wearing red, white, and blue cowboy boots. A closer inspection revealed tiny rows of ruffles outlining her denim vest. Bertie’s pretty, creamy complexion turned as red as the lady’s T-shirt with
Git-R-Done
written across her monstrous chest.

“Hey, Dottie. What brings you to the Dog tonight?” Bertie asked in a faint voice.

Dottie hoisted herself up into the booth forcing Bertie to move over. “I came for the music and the four-dollar pitchers of beer, but I’m staying to meet the Prince here,” she said as she stuck out her right hand featuring long, fire-engine red nails and diamond and gold rings on every finger. Keith almost burst out laughing at her platinum-blond Mae West hairdo and the thick mask of makeup she wore, which probably required a jackhammer to remove every night. He guessed her age to be anywhere from fifty…to death.

He shook her bejeweled hand. “Keith Morgan. It’s a pleasure to meet…”

“Dottie Duncan. She owns the Toot-N-Tell. It’s a chain of drive-through convenience stores,” Bertie said, pushing her plate away. She hadn’t taken more than three bites of her dinner, seeming to have lost her appetite.

“That’s right. I sell everything from milk to cartons of cigarettes. All you gotta do is pull up and toot your horn. Got sixteen stores throughout the state. I understand you’re settin’ down roots right here in Harmony. How come? Not that I’m complaining. You’re mighty fine to look at and you’re gonna give that rascal Cal some competition with the ladies.”

Keith cut a glance at Bertie as a small smile played across his lips.

“Unless you’re already spoken for,” Dottie added as she looked from him to Bertie and back.

“Keith’s Francesca’s nephew,” Bertie said with a little too much enthusiasm.

Dottie leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, causing her breasts to look as if they might spill from the top of her shirt. It had been so long for Keith, he didn’t even consider the sick implications of actually wanting to see it happen.

“So you’re Franny’s nephew? I’d forgotten you belong to her. She used to talk about you all the time. When are we gonna see you play some tennis, hotshot?”

Keith cocked a brow. “I’m retired. I don’t play anymore.”

“That mean you forgot how?” Dottie pressed. “I’ve got two grandkids living in Raleigh and they love to play. Sure would like to impress them by telling them they can see you in action.”

“I’m going to be real busy fixing up my house, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I decide to participate in an exhibition match,” he said, not caring if Dottie Duncan detected the sarcasm in his tone. Bertie started to squirm in her seat, causing Dottie to narrow her gaze at both of them again.

“Umph. I think you two are going to work out fine. Bertie here is a whiz with interiors, among other things. You’re lucky to have her. Don’t you forget it.” She pointed her scary nail at him. “And I’ll talk to you more about that exhibition match. I think that’s just what Harmony needs.” Dottie smiled the smile of someone who knew a great secret. And Keith had a sinking feeling he was the star attraction in that secret.

“Bertie, before I forget…can you take care of Sweet Tea for the next two days? I’ve got to run to Charlotte to check on a couple locations,” Dottie asked as she slid from the booth.

So now Bertie could add dog walker to her list of many talents? No wonder she stunk as a decorator. She over-committed herself and didn’t pay enough attention to her decorating career. Forget dog walking. She needed to take Basic Colors 101.

“Sure. No problem.” Bertie’s smile appeared pained.