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“No. Not now,” replied Shelby.
“I’ll call one of my men and get this truck upright,” he said. “Then I’ll see what we can do about getting you wherever you’re headed.”
“Wildwood,” she said.
“Vacationing?” he asked.
Shelby nodded, and glanced at the Good Samaritan who was walking away. Sign Man noticed, and called after him, “Thanks, man.”
The man waved and drove away in his pickup truck.
It wasn’t long until a second sign truck pulled into the lot in answer to Sign Man’s phone call. With the help of the crane, the truck was soon upright and the boom off Shelby’s car.
Sign Man retrieved Shelby’s purse from the curb on his way by. “Here you go,” he said. Faint creases tugged at the corners of his morning glory eyes. “I’m Jake Jackson.”
“Shelby Taylor,” she returned.
Jake started to offer his hand, then checked the impulse. He turned up a grease-smudged palm and asked, “So how upset are you?”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Lamely, Shelby offered, “It happened so fast.”
“Kind of caught me off guard, too.” He spared her further apology and glanced back at her car. “I’ll call my insurance company, see if they can get you something to drive,” he offered.
Jake called on his cell phone and returned with word that his insurer would send an adjuster out. “He’ll see about a loaner car once he has taken some pictures and squared away the paperwork. Like I said, I’d be happy to give you a lift if you don’t want to wait on him.”
At a loss as to how else she was to reach the cabin at Wildwood, Shelby accepted.
“Need anything from the car?” he asked.
“My laptop and suitcase from the front seat. Grab my cell phone, too, would you? Oh! And my book bag, please. It’s in the trunk,” she said, and gave him her car keys.
Jake jerked a thumb in the direction of the bank lobby. “May as well wait inside where it’s cool,” he said.
Thoughtful, as saboteurs went, noted Shelby as she retreated to the lobby. He wasn’t long. Her suitcase swung from one hand, her laptop from the other. He retrieved her cell phone from his shirt pocket. Their fingers brushed as it changed hands.
“Can you get along without the book bag? I didn’t have any luck popping the trunk lid,” he said.
Reluctant to leave unpublished works behind, Shelby wondered aloud, “Could we pry it open?”
“I thought of that. But the adjuster may want to snap his pictures before we tear into it,” he said.
Conceding his point, Shelby followed him to his truck. He checked the oil, then wiped his hands on a towel that lay in the seat. Except for some scraped paint and a broken side view mirror, the truck appeared sound. The engine coughed a time or two en route to the sign shop. But they covered the short distance without incident.
Shelby’s gaze swept twin steel buildings, a hodgepodge of equipment emblazoned with the Jackson name, and a graveyard of old signs.
“It’s a family business,” Jake explained. “We have a shop south of here at Liberty Flats. Wildwood’s just a few miles farther on. Hope I haven’t fouled up your vacation too badly.”
“It’s a working one, anyway.” Shelby accepted his help out of the truck. He had a steady hand. Durable fingers, a callused palm and a measured grip. She turned to collect her things.
“Let me.” Jake reached for her suitcase and laptop.
Shelby followed him to a sporty four-wheel drive vehicle and stowed her things behind the seat while she climbed in.
“There’s a bookstore nearby. You want to pick up something to read?” he asked as they got underway.
Realizing he had misunderstood about the book bag, she said, “Thanks, but it isn’t leisure reading. The bag contains manuscripts.”
“You’re a writer?” Jake winced as she conceded as much. “Can’t say I’d want to leave my life’s work in the trunk of a wrecked car.”
“It isn’t mine.” Seeing his confusion, Shelby explained, “I work full-time for Parnell Publishing, and write part-time. What will they do with the car?”
“Have it towed, I suppose. I’ll phone the insurance company again and explain about the manuscripts. They could take it to my shop. It’d be easier for you to access than at a salvage yard.”
Jake made the call while waiting for a light to change. Traffic flowed once more. He resumed their conversation. “What is it you do at Parnell?”
“I’m an editor.”
“Really! Can’t say I’ve ever met an editor.” Jake threaded his way along busy streets. “What kind of books does your company publish?”
“We do a variety of nonfiction titles—self-help, how-tos, food and cooking titles, home and family, travel and guidebooks. That sort of thing,” said Shelby.
“And your part-time writing—is that for Parnell?”
“No. I write romance mysteries for young adults.”
“Is that right?” His smile deepened, his eyes reflecting a sunny twinkle. “Thomasina’s a real fan of romance novels. Out at Wildwood,” he added. “She and her husband Trace have transformed that old farm into a real cozy vacation retreat.”
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about their business,” said Shelby as Jake took the interstate south out of town. “I look forward to meeting them.”
“You’ll have to stick around a couple of weeks, then. They left for the southwest two days ago for their third wedding anniversary.
“Oh.”
“How about you? Are you married?” he asked with a glance from those vivid blue eyes.
“No.”
“Seeing someone?”
“No.” The word to Shelby’s own ears, clanged like a metal gate. She twisted the strap of her pocket book, and fell silent.
They passed the next dozen miles in silence. Jake flipped the air off as they exited the interstate, trucked past the Voyager billboard, and rolled down the window as they skirted Liberty Flats.
“Too much wind? I can roll it up,” offered Jake, as the breeze riffled Shelby’s short curls.
“No, don’t. It’s fine,” she said and lowered her window, too.
Jake stole a sidelong glance, admiring the wind in her hair and sunlight dancing on flawless skin. But he couldn’t remember when he had seen such a soft round face look so long and weary. His carelessness had complicated her vacation plans, big time, that went without saying. He thought about apologizing again. But then, what good did that do? They hurtled along the country road a few miles, then Jake slowed for Wildwood Lane.
Shelby draped her arm out the window, letting the air blow through her fingers. In the air there was a fragrance of green growing things and of sun-warmed earth. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with clean country air, willing the stone to roll off her heart. Time, that’s what she needed. Anonymity in which to lick her wounds until she had ceased to flinch at words like marriage and anniversary.
The lane ended in front of a two-story farmhouse. The house, freshly painted, gleamed like a pearl amidst blooming gardens and barn-red outbuildings. Reprieve was so close, she could almost taste it.
“Go on and get squared away. I’ll bring your things,” Jake offered.
The path to the front office was bordered by a bright tangle of nodding flowers. Inside, flowerpots filled the office windowsills. Trailing plants spilled from the pots onto a battered drop-leaf table. There was a coffee urn and cups and glasses and iced lemonade beading a carnival glass pitcher. Shelby pushed the bell. Chimes rang through the house. She helped herself to a glass of lemonade. A young woman came in response to the bell. “May I help you?” she asked, her hoop earrings jangling.
“Yes, I have reservations.” Shelby gave her her name.
The woman sat down at the computer and hit a few keys. When she lifted her yes again, her smile had faded. “I’m sorry. But I don’t seem to have any record of it,” she said.
Shelby set down the half-drained glass of lemonade to retrieve the confirmation number from her checkbook register where she had written it on the day she and Patrick finalized their honeymoon plans.
The young woman typed in the number. Frown lines creased her forehead. “You’re marked out.”
Startled, Shelby protested, “There must be some mistake.”
“Forgive me, you’re right, it wasn’t you.” The young woman turned from the screen to a lined tablet. “It was a man who called to cancel. I wrote it here somewhere.” She ran a finger down to the middle of the page and looked up again. “Patrick Delaney.”
The name washed over Shelby in a bone-skinning tide. Tears threatened. She batted them back, struggling to make mental adjustments. “If the cottage has been rented, a room will do.”
“I’m sorry, but we’re booked here at the house, too.”
Jake was a dozen steps from the house when the front door spit Shelby out onto the garden path. Her cream-colored silk blouse and a fitted skirt molded nicely to feminine curves.
She was almost upon him before she saw him and skidded to a stop. Clouds darkened her eyes. She pressed her full lips together. A pulse hammered at her smooth, white temples.
“There’s been a mix-up. I hate to ask, but could I please have a ride back to town?” she said, and reached for her laptop.
Her effort to keep it together as the morning went from bad to worse put a commiserating knot in Jake’s gut. But her guarded facade warned him against a barrage of questions. He passed her the laptop. Fumbling to take the suitcase, too, she shifted her pocketbook and reached for the suitcase handle.
“Go on, I’ll bring it,” said Jake quickly.
She nodded and turned toward the drive. Jake watched the hem of her skirt trail over tall flowers that sweetened the path. She crossed crushed rock, climbed into the Jeep and settled there, hugging her laptop. Jake rubbed an uncomfortable sensation in his chest, then set her suitcase down and went inside.
“’Morning, Annie.”
Antoinette Penn smiled a welcome from behind the desk. “Hello, Jake. If you’re looking for Trace, he’s not here.”
“I’d heard they’d taken off,” he said and took off his cap. “What happened with Shelby Taylor’s reservations?”
“A guy called this morning and canceled the reservations,” explained Antoinette.
“But if she made the reservations…” began Jake.
“For all I know, they made them together,” Antoinette interjected. “Honeymoons are usually planned that way.”
Startled, Jake blurted, “Honeymoon? She’s getting married?”
“Not anymore. He called it off. That’s the reason he gave for canceling.”
Shelby’s fragile state fell in place like a key fitting tumblers. “So what’s she doing here?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Jake. All I know is the honeymoon cottage is taken.”
Jake swung around and looked out the window. Shelby’s slim arms were still wrapped around her laptop. He had done all he could. And yet…Jake shifted his feet. “How about a room here in the house?”
“Sorry. It’s like I told her, we’re booked.”
“What about Trace and Thomasina’s room? They won’t be needing it,” he reasoned.
“It’s full of their stuff!”
“Under the circumstances, she may not mind.”
“I wasn’t talking about her.” Antoinette drew herself up. “What’re you trying to do—get me fired?”
“Oh, come on,” Jake cajoled. “What’s the point in being in charge if you can’t make an executive decision?”
“Save your breath, Jake. I am not booking Trace and Thomasina’s bedroom. And you can quit looking at me like that, it’s not my fault,” huffed Antoinette.
“She’s shell-shocked,” Jake said. “Jilted, canceled and I dropped the crane on her car.”
“You what?”
“Never mind. Guess I better drive her back to town.”
“I wish you would,” said Antoinette, rubbing her temples. “She’s making my head throb.”
“Mine, too,” Jake said. Though on closer accounting, it was more of a burn than a throb and it wasn’t confined to his head. He rubbed his chest again, reached into his pocket for an antacid tablet and left Antoinette muttering.
Chapter Two
Jake was gone so long, Shelby grew restless. She climbed out of the Jeep and was almost to the farmhouse screen door when she overheard his parting exchange with the desk clerk. He swung out onto the path before she could patch her expression.
Jake blinked finding her there and tipped his cap back, a gesture Shelby was beginning to recognize as habitual.
“No vacancies,” she filled the sudden caught-breath silence.
“Antoinette told me. I said I’d get that,” he said and reached for her suitcase on the walk where he had left it.
“I had a thought while I was waiting…perhaps a room in Liberty Flats,” said Shelby, following him toward the Jeep.
“There’s no motel. It’s a pretty small town,” he said.
Shelby raked her fingers through her curls. Anxious to find herself a place before he began to regard her as a pup he had orphaned and could not leave to fend for herself, she asked, “What about Bloomington?”
“Sure. There are plenty of rooms there if that’s what you want to do,” he said, and opened the Jeep door for her.
