The Sweetheart Bargain (A Sweetheart Sisters Novel) (29 page)

Esther’s eyes widened and her face paled. “No . . . no quilting?”

“Esther, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Maybe not in your world,” Esther said, “because you don’t have a grandchild waiting for a powder-blue-and-white quilt for his twin bed.”

Greta shot Esther her death-ray eyes. It didn’t work. Esther stayed upright and breathing. “If you help me, then I’ll have great-grandchildren, and then I will
happily
quilt with you.”

After she spouted that lie, Greta had to take not one, but two sips from the coffee cup. Thank God for Maker’s Mark.

Pauline snorted. “I’d pay good money to see you happily quilting, Greta.”

“Hush up, Pauline,” Greta whispered. Then she forced a work-with-me smile to her face. “Ladies, this is serious. We have an emergency.”

Esther leaned in close. “Greta, if you’re having trouble getting to the ladies’ room, they make these special panties that—”

“For Pete’s sake, Esther, that’s not what I’m talking about. And for your information, my bladder is just fine.” She took a third sip. A fourth. Lord almighty, if she’d known it would be this tough to keep them on track, she’d have brought along a thermos of bourbon. “It’s a romantic emergency.”

“Speaking of romantic, Greta, is that Harold Twohig I see waving at you through the window?” Pauline said, gesturing toward the easterly wall. “Oh my. I think he just winked too.”

Greta kept her gaze averted from that testosterone-loaded offense to humanity. “I am still trying to digest that cardboard they served for breakfast, Pauline. Do not mention that man or I might throw up in Esther’s purse.”

Esther nudged her pocketbook farther under her chair and shifted away from Greta.

“I’m talking about Luke and Olivia,” Greta said. “Things are heading south, fast, between them.”

“Maybe they aren’t meant to be,” Esther said. “I once dated a man for two years, only to realize that he wasn’t the one. But if I hadn’t dated Mr. Wrong, I never would have met my Mr. Right.” She sighed. “I so miss my Gerald. He was a sweetheart.”

“Well, I am sure that Luke and Olivia are right for each other. They just need some help to see that.”

“I thought you said that they were talking and spending time together,” Pauline said. “What happened?”

Life
, Greta wanted to say, but no, that wasn’t quite it. Something far more complex had come between her grandson and the pretty blond therapist. Luke, she suspected, kept putting up walls, and Olivia kept turning away instead of trying to climb them. Greta could hardly blame them, after all Luke had been through, and after Olivia had gone through that terrible divorce, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t about to give them a little push in the right direction.

“I’m not sure. Olivia was at Luke’s house for a barbecue last night, it didn’t go so well, and they haven’t talked since. When I ask Luke, he won’t tell me anything. When I ask Olivia, she brushes me off. So I think we need to intervene.”

“Please don’t say we’re going to skip lunch to do it,” Esther said. “Today is chicken and dumplings. You know how I look forward to chicken and dumplings.”

“We don’t even have to leave this building,” Greta said. She leaned toward Pauline. “Doesn’t your son work for Home Depot?”

“Yes, he got promoted to manager of the drill department the other day.” Pauline beamed. “Anyone who needs a drill knows my son is the one to ask.”

“Well, I need a favor, and it doesn’t involve a drill.” Greta looked around, didn’t see Olivia anywhere, then told Pauline her plan.

Esther tsk-tsked, but Pauline sat with the idea for a while before she leaned forward in her chair. “Okay. I’ll see what he can do—if you help me with this week’s column.”

Greta smiled. Thank God. Some sense in this group. “What’s the question?”

Pauline rifled in her purse and came up with a typed letter. “This is the one I picked. I’m trying to jazz up the column, but it seems all I ever get are lonely-hearts letters. What I wouldn’t give for a good meddlesome mother-in-law or prodigal son problem.”

Greta waved that off. “Make up your own. Heck, with the amount of drama in this town, it’d be like writing for
The Young and the Restless
.”

“We can’t do that.” Esther blanched. “It would be . . . lying.”

“And your point is?” Greta asked.

“Well, it’s wrong. Plain and simple.”

“Lying is only wrong if it’s done for nefarious purposes,” Greta said. “There are lies that help people and lies that hurt people. Like, when I told you that dress you wore the other day was pretty. I was lying. I knew if I told you the truth, it would hurt your feelings and that would be mean.”

Esther’s face fell. Whoops. Damn Maker’s Mark. Greta had just told the truth—by accident.

“You didn’t like my dress?” Esther said.

Greta glanced at Pauline. The other woman nodded. “Go ahead and tell her. She might as well hear it from us.”

“Hear what?”

Greta laid a hand on Esther’s. “Neon isn’t your color, dear. It washes you out and frankly makes you look like death warmed over. Not to mention, it hurts my eyes. I need a visor just to say hello in the morning.”

“Oh.” Esther pouted. “What about my patterns? The plaids? The florals?”

Greta grimaced. Pauline kneed her under the table.

“Because I have this fabulous new lilac plaid dress that I want to wear with my floral scarf. You know, the dark purple one? No neon in that.” Esther smiled.

“Sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to see it,” Greta said. With a straight face.

“Me either.” Pauline ruffled the letter. “Okay, back to the question at hand. I’ll read it: Dear Common Sense Carla, I am a single man in his late fifties who likes long walks on the beach and margaritas by the pool. I think I have a lot to offer, but I have yet to find the right match. Should I try an online dating site? Or resign myself to being alone? Signed, Single Stud.”

Greta waved her hand. “That’s an easy one. Tell him to get a personality. That’ll turn that dud into a stud.”

“Greta! How do you know he has no personality? He could be a perfectly charming man.”

“Esther, the man doesn’t do anything but walk on the beach and sit by the pool. That is a dud in my book. Get him to take some salsa lessons or join a fishing club or something. My Lord, just his letter about put me to sleep.”

“Me too,” Pauline said, and gave Esther a somber nod. “Greta has a point, Esther. He does sound like a dud.”

“My Gerald was the kind of man who would take long walks around the neighborhood every night, as soon as his plate was cleared. Why, sometimes he’d be gone two hours, and I’d fall asleep waiting for him. And I thought he was quite the stud.”

“Sounds like he was that indeed,” Greta said. She put on a nice smile. It never hurt to be polite, even to the dead. She glanced at Pauline. “So, our plan’s a go?”

“Yes, indeedy,” Pauline said. “I’ll make the call right now.”

“You mean you will after we finish our quilting today,” Esther said. “We still have the morning room to ourselves for thirty minutes. Plenty of time to tack some squares or trim some edges.”

Between Esther’s insufferable passion for quilting and Harold Twohig’s constant epileptic waving, Greta thought it was little wonder she needed some Maker’s Mark to keep her from becoming homicidal in her old age. She hoisted her mug, thanked the stars in heaven she’d brought the big cup today, and took a long, long sip.

Eighteen

Luke stood on Olivia’s porch, with the dog plopped down beside him, and wondered what the hell he was doing. He didn’t need to deliver this message in person. He could have just sent the driver over here and stayed out of the whole thing. So why had he offered to do it?

Because he’d told himself he could kill two birds with one stone and give her an update on how the dog was doing at the same time. Yeah, right. That was why he was here, knocking on her door. As if she couldn’t see that answer for herself. The damned dog lived with him now, but still spent half his days in Olivia’s yard, visiting with the puppies and Olivia.

He wasn’t here to deliver a message or a canine update and he knew it. No, he was here because he regretted running her out of his house after the barbecue a few days ago like a door-to-door salesman trying to hawk overpriced cleaning products. Because that night they’d almost made love had stayed in his mind. Long after the sun went down and the heat of the day began to abate, he had thought about the taste of Olivia’s lips, the way she had curved into him, how soft and silky and tempting she had been beneath him. The fire she had awakened in him, a fire he both welcomed and spurned.

He didn’t need a woman in his life, or a relationship. Hell, yes, he wanted and needed sex, but sex often came with strings and Luke was not a strings kind of guy, not anymore. If there was one thing he’d figured out about Olivia Linscott, it was that she was the kind of woman who put down roots, planted herself, and made connections. She got involved—

And he didn’t.

Well, he kind of had with the dog. And with the letter he’d mailed.

He shifted from foot to foot. Hell, this was a mistake. He didn’t need to get any closer to Olivia, or anyone, for that matter. If he did, she’d want to know the truth about Luke. The story behind the scar.

And that was the one thing he never intended to share. He’d keep it buried deep inside and maybe someday the pain would ease enough and allow him to breathe again.

“Come on, Chance. Guess she’s not home.” Luke started to turn away when he heard the door open. He paused, then started forward, down the stairs, remembering to avoid the broken step.

“Hi, Chance,” she said. “And Luke.”

Greeting the dog before him stung a little, but he deserved it. He’d been an ass. He just hadn’t found a way to change out of the jerk suit. Even Mike had been spending most of his days away from Luke’s company. Finding reasons to be in town, or maybe just finding reasons to get close to Diana Tuttle, Luke wasn’t sure. He was driving everyone away, and he just couldn’t seem to stop.

He cleared his throat, turned back. “I just came by to tell you that there’s a delivery guy in my driveway. He says he’s got cabinets on the truck that you ordered. For some reason he had my address instead of yours.”

“Hmm. Really?” She leaned against the jamb and ran a hand through her hair, displacing the blond waves. They resettled around her shoulders, enticing, pretty. “I thought I canceled that order. And I definitely didn’t have them delivered to your house.”

At his feet, Chance and Miss Sadie greeted each other, tails wagging and dancing around and under each other. Clearly, two lost friends getting reacquainted, even if they saw each other every day. “Either way, there are cabinets in that truck for you.” He thumbed toward his driveway, telling himself to get out of here, that he was just here to deliver a message, nothing more. “Since I’m not planning on redecorating, do you want me to send him over here?”

She sighed. “I think it would be a waste of time. I’ll go tell him to take them back.”

“Waste of time? Why? After all the work you’ve done?”

“Mike took a look at the house and called it a lost cause.” Resignation laced her words together. “He thinks I should just sell it for the land and let it go.”

Mike had the experience to back up his advice. He probably took one look at the house, then at Olivia, and figured one inexperienced woman on a limited budget should be smart and move on. Mike, however, didn’t know Olivia the way Luke did. She had a hell of a lot of gumption and determination, and Luke had no doubt she could also pull off a miracle inside these walls.

“Do
you
want to do that?” he asked.

“It’s not a question of want, Luke, it’s a question of being practical.”

He climbed the stairs and stopped in front of her. The scent of her perfume danced in the air. “Have you always been this practical?”

She let out a laugh. “Too practical. Until I up and decided to move here. New job, new place to live, new life. And so far, the only thing that’s working out is the paycheck every two weeks, and even that has its challenges. So I’m not sure being impractical has had any upside.”