. . . she did not intend to look as if she were interested.
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
THE NEXT morning, Tamra followed her instincts and did what she felt was best. Rather than put on a pair of work shorts, she dressed in one of her long, flowing skirts, a coordinating top, and sandals. Then she got in her SUV and drove to the jobsite, where Jeremy was already at work, digging the first hole for the plants and bushes they’d laid out yesterday. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut out and sweat glistened on the muscles in his arms beneath the sun, even though it wasn’t yet nine A.M.
Instead of parking, she pulled to the curb along Coral Street beside where he worked. As she put down her window, he stopped, perching his hands atop his shovel’s handle.
“Morning,” he said. Just that. But she almost thought she heard something sexual in the word. Or maybe it’s just your crazy body, responding to anything. And after yesterday, it was impossible not to see him in a sexual light, even more than she had before.
“Um, hey,” she began. “Would you mind doing the planting alone? I know it’s a lot, but there’s no rush as long as you keep the roots watered. I need to work on some other things.”
“That’s the reason you’re giving me?” he asked evenly.
She kept it simple. “Yes.”
“Seriously?” Now his eyebrows rose just slightly beneath the bandanna stretched across his forehead.
And she let out a sigh. Why was he always so difficult? “Okay, no,” she admitted. “I just think it would be a good idea to put a little distance between us, okay?”
He tilted his head, clearly weighing her words. “Well, at least that’s being honest.”
She decided to change the subject, get back to a more practical matter. “The company installing the artificial turf on the greens is due to arrive this morning to start laying the material. They have my number if any questions come up, but you can monitor the situation.” She motioned vaguely around the work site. “Just plant all this stuff and . . . supervise.”
“All right, Mary,” he replied. “Whatever you say.”
This time it was she who raised her eyebrows. “I’m Mary now?”
He shrugged. “I can call you princess if you’d prefer.”
“Um, no.” Then she let out a sigh, informing him, “And just so you know, I’m really not that contrary.”
A slow smile transformed his face. “That might an eye-of-the-beholder kinda thing.” Then he winked, before letting the grin fade. “It’s okay, though—I get it more now.”
“You get what?”
“It’s just . . . what you do to keep people at arm’s length. It’s your way of protecting yourself. I’ll try not to take it personally anymore.”
She had no idea what to say to that—she was too stunned. Until something hit her, something that would perhaps make him see that her whole life wasn’t about keeping people away. “I don’t know if you know this,” she said, “but I’m an artist. I make pottery and stained glass.”
“I might’ve heard that somewhere,” he said.
“I sell my work at the Sunset Celebration. If you wanted to come over some night. It’s a nice way to pass an evening. And there are people there you already know, like . . . me.”
And, all things considered, it surprised the hell out of her when he said, “Thanks for the invitation, but . . . probably not my thing.”
“Oh.” Great. Embarrassment. Not what she’d been looking for here—not at all. She’d been trying to be nice, trying to show him she wasn’t a total shut-in and that he shouldn’t be, either. So much for that.
“Have a nice day, Mary,” he said.
“You, too,” she answered quickly, and then she drove away. Though this shored up for her that she was right to be wary of him. It reminded her that her reasons for stopping last night were good ones. When all was said and done, she still had no idea who he really was inside, what he was about, or what he really wanted—other than maybe sex. Being kissed by him might have been the most exciting thing to happen to her in a very long time—but not exciting enough to make her lose her head. She’d already spent too much time getting it screwed on straight in the first place.
FLETCHER stood atop his tightrope on Coral Cove Beach, taking careful steps across. It was second nature to him now—funny how you could get so good at something that once seemed so impossible. Concentration, balance—they were still required, but those were the parts that came effortlessly now.
It was never lost on him that the tightrope provided a unique vantage point. A golden orange sunset tinged with thin slashes of vibrant purple burned on the horizon in the distance, and he counted it as a perk of the job that he’d gotten to take in hundreds of sunsets, night after night, and that such beauty never got old.
And below him stood the patrons, the people who kept him up here, walking, juggling, smiling, joking—the people who made this life possible for him. And now that he’d built a real home for himself in Coral Cove, the crowd—albeit a slightly thinning one this time of year—held the added gift of often being dotted with friends, people he’d come to know.
It was habit, though, to also look for Kim—as second nature to him now, sadly, as the rest of it. No, not sadly; sadness got you nowhere in life. And as he scanned the gathering below, their faces all turned upward like flowers toward the sun, he remembered to do it with joy. Because one day she’d be there, too. Smiling up at him. Making everything in his world right again.
He envisioned her in the crowd now; he felt the vision in his soul so deep that it sent a pure joy bursting forth in him—it was that real. And as he let a smile unfurl upon his face, he moved on with the next part of the show, saying to the crowd at large, “Could someone be so kind as to toss those three pins to me please,” pointing to where he knew his juggling pins lay without even looking.
He did look, however, when a young woman stepped forward, gathering the pins, then peering up to toss him the first—and he found himself gazing down into the dark, arresting eyes of Bethany Willis, Christy’s friend from Cincinnati.
The smile he wore instantly widened on her as their eyes met, and he kept his gaze on hers as he softly said, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she returned just as warmly, pitching the pins up into his waiting hands.
He found it strangely unpleasant to draw his focus away from her and onto the act of juggling. She was easy to look at. Although not in a way everyone might see. She wasn’t classically pretty and didn’t try to be. She was her own animal; she embraced her differences and understood her strengths and played to them. He knew all that instinctively.
And his heart welled with an unexpected pride as he continued the show. Because he knew it was impressive to someone who’d never seen it before, and it felt good to know he was impressing her.
He mostly didn’t look directly at her again—because after he juggled the pins he moved on to juggling lit torches and, second nature or not, he had to pay attention to what he was doing. Yet he still stayed aware of her—he almost felt her presence, some invisible energy emanating from her direction in the crowd. And he thought he probably performed better because of it.
Toward the end of the act, he asked again for someone in the crowd to pass him an item from the sand, this time an old top hat. And once more Bethany was quick to step forth, stoop down to retrieve the hat, and toss it up. They exchanged another smile he felt in his solar plexus.
Though necessity required him to turn his attention back to the entire crowd once more, putting on a little showmanship. Placing the hat on his shoulder, he rolled it artfully end over end into his hand, then twirled it on his fingertip a moment before ceremoniously placing it on his head. “And this, kind spectators,” he announced, “concludes my little balancing act for your amusement.”
And even as the crowd began to applaud, he quickly whipped he hat back off and, speaking more loudly added, “This hat is not only for wearing, but for sharing! I’ll be passing it amongst you now, and if you enjoyed my show, I’ll appreciate any kind thanks you care to drop in.” Then he winked. “Make my living doing this, folks, so thanks for helping me keep a roof over my head and a tightrope under my feet.”
And then he did a well-practiced forward flip off the rope to land upright in the sand, as he did each and every night—one last little feat of daring for the vacationers. After which he spied dads reaching for their wallets or the occasional mom digging in a purse and passing a bill to a small child to bring his way. He mingled among them, accepting their tips graciously and gratefully, thanking them each, chatting and patting awed little boys on their heads.
And then, at last came Bethany and Christy—and Bethany’s beguiling eyes as she prepared to drop a ten-dollar bill in his hat. Only he grabbed her wrist and said, “As I always tell my friends, your money’s no good here.”
A pretty laugh trilled from her throat. “That’s no way to make a living at this, you know.”
He smiled at her. “But for my friends—and that extends to their friends—coming to my shows is uplifting enough to me.” Then he glanced toward Christy, who had already faded out of the conversation to talk to John and Nancy Romo, who appeared to be out for an evening stroll. “After all, if I accepted Christy and Jack’s tips every time they were kind enough to come to a show, they’d be going to a Justice of the Peace instead of having a nice wedding.”
Yet Bethany insisted. “Well, this is the first of your shows I’ve seen, so just let me be another tourist for tonight.” She winked at him. And his chest went a little warm. “Besides, from one artist to another, I know how important it is to have your work supported. Who knows,” she added on a shrug, “perhaps you’ll buy a painting from me someday. Or even a painting by someone else—doesn’t matter, because it all pays forward.”
He still held her thin, delicate wrist—but now he let it go with a simple, “Thank you.” And a small bow. “From one artist to another.” Because he understood what she was saying—artists of all kinds supported each other, knowing that it could be a challenging career path.
“That hat is fantastic, by the way.” She pointed at the old top hat, now filled with a mix of green bills and coins.
She was the first person in a decade to ever really notice or compliment the hat, and the mere gesture reached down inside him and grabbed hold of his soul. She was a kindred spirit. “I bought it from a retired ringmaster who sold and traded circus antiquities at an odd little shop in upstate New York.”
Her big eyes, boldly outlined, widened further. “That sounds incredible! I want to go there!”
“If it even still exists—the hat’s been with me for over ten years. But it was a wonderful and wacky place.”
They traded another smile, this one easier, one of mutual understanding. Not everyone in the world would get how magical a circus antique store is, but they both did.
“Your show was amazing,” she told him. “And what a unique art form!”
“I’ve been called unique a time or two,” he admitted on a light laugh.
Which she returned. “We have that in common then.” After which she added, “I’d love to get to know you better. We should hang out some while I’m here.” And reached out to gently touch his arm.
His eyes dropped there, to the touch. Tamra had occasion to touch him every now and then, in a friendly way. As did Christy, and even Polly. But this felt . . . different. Where he felt it was different. His gut. His groin.
“I’d . . . like that,” he said.
And when he lifted his gaze back to hers, something there looked . . . electric. Magical. Invigorating. “Good. See you soon,” she concluded, then squeezed his arm lightly before letting go and walking away.
He stood there for a minute, rooted in place like a palm tree in the sandy earth. Then he got hold of himself—because he didn’t want anyone to see him looking dumbstruck by the interaction. So he took a deep breath and allowed himself one last glance at her walking away, hips swaying, her long legs dropping from a flirty, flouncy short dress and ending in cowboy boots of all things. And then he forced himself to turn away, toward the business of packing up his props and taking down his tightrope.
What the hell had just happened here?
A vibrant woman had flirted with him. And he’d experienced a connection with her. And she’d suggested sharing more of that connection. And he wanted to see her again.
And she wasn’t Kim.
Not much caught Fletcher off guard. Even less usually scared him. But this did both of those things.
TWO days after Tamra bailed on him at the jobsite, Jeremy finished planting all the shrubbery and grasses. The digging had been backbreaking work—he returned to the Happy Crab dirty, sweaty, and tired. And with a cat attempting to trip him up at every step.
As soon as he slammed the door of his truck, the gray cat was at his feet. “Hey buddy,” he’d said. “Let me get cleaned up and then I’ll go get us some dinner.”
“Meow,” the cat replied, as if he understood.
Jeremy just rolled his eyes—maybe at the cat, maybe at himself; he wasn’t sure. Somehow he’d become responsible for this cat’s supper every night?
Pulling a crab-shaped keychain from his pocket, he shoved the key in the door of his room and pushed it open—to look down and see an envelope near the toe of his workboot that someone had shoved beneath. It was pale yellow.
Huh. What the hell could this be?
As he bent down to pick it up, Captain went trotting past him right into the room.
He’d worry about his trespasser in a minute, but for now was busy checking out the envelope, where he saw his name written in a nice script. He still had no idea what this was, but seeing something addressed to him so officially made him feel . . . human, maybe. And it made him open it more gently than he probably would have any other piece of mail. He guessed he didn’t want to tear up being human.
With dirty fingers, he drew out a matching yellow card that said:
You are invited to a wedding party and shower for
Christy Knight
and
Jack DuVall