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That was too bad. “I’m here to get away from—from everything that reminds me of—of…” She shrugged, arms outstretched. “You know.”
“Not really,” he repeated.
“Oh, please.” She spun away. “You know why I had to leave Jerric Oil.”
“I assume you got a better offer.”
“That’s what you assume?” she asked, sarcasm edging her tone. “Well, you assume wrong.”
He said nothing for a moment. The warm, June breeze ruffled the flowers. They rustled in the darkness, seeming to gossip in whispers. “Then why—”
“Don’t you dare ask me why I left!” she cut in. Talk about nerve! She plunked down on the stone bench, grimacing at the pain in her backside.
“But you seem upset, and I—”
“You think?” she demanded. “If you don’t mind, I’m not in the mood to chat.”
The night breeze rustled the flowers again. They bobbed and nodded, giving rise to more stage whispers. After a stressful few seconds, Roth Jerric cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me then?”
She clamped her fingers over the edge of the bench and stared straight ahead, looking at nothing. If she didn’t respond, he’d get the idea, even if he was as dense as the granite she sat on.
“It was fascinating visiting with you, Miss Hudson,” he said, his remark clearly cynical. She wanted to smart-off but managed to keep her mouth shut. It didn’t give her any satisfaction, but she wanted him to leave, and that wouldn’t happen if she kept their exchange going.
She began a calming count to ten. One…two…three…“Okay!” She spun around. “Just so you get it, I am no man’s arm candy, and hearing Milo smirking around the office, objectifying me that way, and knowing—others— agreed…” She wanted to say, You for instance. So unstrung with doubt about her ability, she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the rest. She went on with what she could admit. “Naturally I couldn’t stay at Jerric Oil after that.” Too late, she wished she hadn’t revealed that much. She bit her tongue for its betrayal.
Roth had begun to move toward the inn, but stopped with her outburst. For an instant he appeared startled, then he chuckled deep in his throat.
Laughing?
At her!
Again!
Okay, if he wanted war, he could have war. “You have a warped sense of humor, Mr. Jerric!”
He shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Had she heard him right? “Kidding?”
“Yes, kidding.” He looked dubious, and vaguely amused.
Amused! She burned with resentment. “Not at all!” She knew her cheeks blazed bright red and was grateful for the darkness. Feeling feisty, she shot to her feet. “Obviously you find my humiliation a total hoot.”
He started to speak, but she threw up a halting hand. “Don’t. Your judgments don’t interest me. Just go.”
She could tell by the play of shadow and light across his jaw he clenched his teeth. After a drawn-out silence, he nodded curtly, broke eye contact and strode off along the stone path.
She watched his exodus until she realized what she was doing, then she turned away. After a few minutes, she managed to calm down. She lifted her gaze toward the vaulted window in the old, stone wall. The moon no longer hung dead center in the space, but was set off-kilter in a corner. She felt as askew as it looked.
Unbidden, her attention slid back to the inn. In the distance she could see the ghostly image of Roth Jerric disappearing around the corner toward the front porch. She closed her eyes. Struggling to compose herself she sucked in a breath of fresh, night air.
“Okay, Hannah,” she whispered. “For the sake of your healing, keep your distance from…” She faltered on the words, so she went on silently…from that smug, disturbing SOB, Roth Jerric.
Roth walked away from Hannah feeling like crap. Of course, he already felt that way when he began his walk, but his brief encounter with the woman on the bench left him not only annoyed but confused. He didn’t need a fortune teller to see that she hated him, but he couldn’t imagine why. He’d spoken to her at meetings on occasion, or nodded a casual hello in the elevator from time to time. But he’d never said anything to upset her, let alone cause her to resign.
And he certainly hadn’t been laughing at her out there. He’d simply been incredulous that she would quit her job over anything Milo had said. The man was a competent lawyer, but on a personal level Roth found him to be a blowhard and a braggart. Had Miss Hudson given him half a chance he would have said so. Clearly his opinion was as unwelcome as his presence.
“Let it go, Jerric,” he muttered. “You have problems of your own.” He bounded up the steps to the inn’s expansive front porch and walked across the wooden planking toward the screen door. It was a different screen door from the one he remembered from his youth, when this house had been his family home. But it had the same rusty screech when pulled open.
The scarred oak door was the same one from all those years ago. He recognized it, even painted white instead of the bright green he remembered. He paused, his hand on the brass doorknob, its oval shape familiar in his grasp. It seemed smaller than it had when he lived there. He supposed it should, since he was ten when his family moved from this house, originally the parsonage for the old church which had burned down in 1919.
The house was a century old, but well-built. It had gone through many incarnations since the demise of the countryside church. When Roth lived there the property was their chicken farm. After his father died, his mother moved him and his older sister, Grace, to Oklahoma’s state capital, where she worked as a secretary. He’d never returned to his childhood home until today, when he made the sudden decision to get away from the rat race, seek out his roots. He could no longer avoid dealing with an inner struggle growing inside him, gnawing, eating away at his soul.
He was disillusioned with the conflict between his aspirations and the reality of his life. However successful he appeared on the surface, he was not a happy man. The disillusionment began with his disappointing marriage and the death of his month-old son, Colin. Not long after the infant’s death, his teetering marriage collapsed. That was six years ago. Since then, he had closed off emotionally, throwing himself into work.
He supposed, to his colleagues, he seemed like a golden boy, enviable for his wealth and swank bachelor lifestyle. But in truth, he was in crisis. So, in a moment of nostalgic weakness, he’d sought out his family home, now the Blue Moon Inn. He hoped to recapture a time he remembered fondly, before life became a succession of tough negotiations, 24/7 business stress, bitter disillusionment and gut-wrenching loss.
He leaned against the door, tired all the way to his bones. As far back as he could remember, he got everything he went after. Yet whether his fault or not, he had lost what had been most dear to him—his wife and son. Everything else he had, money, power and success, seemed pale and flat by comparison.
He’d come to the Blue Moon Inn to get back his boyhood exuberance, and that’s what he planned to do. He straightened and sucked in a deep breath. Enough of this maudlin self-pity. He twisted the knob and strode inside.
The inn’s brightly lit foyer brought into sharp focus the worn wood floors and moldings, faded oriental rugs and dark oil paintings in need of cleaning. There were other art pieces tacked to walls. Newer works. Some exhibited talent. Others, in his opinion, ran more to smeared and spattered monstrosities.
The Blue Moon Inn wasn’t the sort of deluxe retreat he was accustomed to, but he hadn’t come for a luxurious vacation or a romantic getaway with a finicky girlfriend. This was the home of his heart, before it had been broken, then put to sleep as a safeguard against pain. He didn’t know if what he hoped for was possible, but he planned to spend these two weeks finding a way to repair his crumbling joie de vivre.
“Why, hello there, Mr., uh,” came a warbly female voice he recognized as that of his hostess.
He turned toward the sound of her shuffling approach. “Jerric,” he helped. “Roth Jerric.”
The pear-shaped, elderly woman crossed the parlor in his direction. Close behind her trailed a wire-haired, gray mongrel the size of a large cat. “Of course,” she said. “I thought you’d gone to bed.” The parlor from which his hostess exited was lit by one lamp, its shade yellowed with age. That lone lamp spilled jaundiced light across outdated, faded furnishings. Plainly the Blue Moon Inn had seen better days.
Out of years of habit, Roth pasted on a casual grin. “Hello, Mrs. Peterson.” He glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly midnight. “You’re up late.”
“Oh, there’s much to be done, Mr. Johnson.”
“Jerric,” he corrected.
“Yes, yes, certainly,” she said, sounding a bit preoccupied. Barely five feet tall, she wore a green shirtdress and crisp, white apron. She wasn’t smiling. “You were outside?”
He nodded. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Did you happen to see a woman out there? In the garden in the church ruins, perhaps?”
“Yes. Were you looking for her?” He felt something brush his leg and looked down to see the mutt, sniffing him. He shifted away. The dog seemed to get the hint, or lost interest, because it returned to stand beside the woman, its feet making light tapping sounds on the scarred oak.
“I sent her out there. I mean…” Mrs. Peterson’s worry-creased expression didn’t ease. “You didn’t go near her, did you?”
What an odd query. “Actually, yes. We spoke for a moment.”
“Oh, gracious!” The woman clasped both hands to her breast. “Are you saying you stood by that bench in the—the moonlight? With her?”
He nodded, bewildered by the alarm in the woman’s question.
“Oh, no!” she cried, startling the dog. It barked, the sound high-pitched and curiously reminiscent of its elderly owner. “Hush, Miss Mischief,” she admonished, not looking at the animal. She ran both hands through short-cropped, iron-colored hair. “All my work, my planning, ruined.”
He clenched his teeth. What in Hades was going on? He’d been at the inn for less than two hours, done nothing but unpack and take a blasted walk, and already two women were upset with him. “Your friend in the garden wasn’t thrilled about my being there, either,” he said. “Would you mind explaining what was so wrong with my speaking to her?”
“Wrong?” the woman echoed, her tone forlorn. “Everything!” Her plump cheeks pinkened with indignation. “Now you…” She glanced in the direction of the garden. “And she…oh, it’s all gone so badly.” She pulled a rumpled handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it to her lips.
“What’s gone badly?” he asked.
She swiped at her nose then pushed the kerchief back into her apron pocket. As she lifted her gaze to meet his, she looked as though she was trying to recapture her poise. “I’m sorry for my behavior, Mr. Johnson.”
“It’s Jerric,” he said, beginning to wonder if the woman would ever get his name right. “Roth Jerric.”
“Yes, yes.” She nodded. Looking distracted, she patted her hair, still not quite reclaiming her “hostess” aplomb. “Forgive me. I’m an old lady who had a lovely flight of fancy—a hope you might say—to enhance two deserving young people’s lives. And—well—because of you, all my effort has been smashed on the rocks of mischance.” She attempted a smile. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” he asked. Good Lord, he’d somehow smashed this woman’s hopes for something important enough to drive her to the brink of tears. How was that possible simply by speaking with Hannah Hudson? The experience hadn’t been any great thrill for him, that was certain.
“You didn’t know—about the blue moon, and about…” She shook her head. Her eyes, a faded dust-brown behind wire-rimmed spectacles, expressed a mournfulness she couldn’t mask with apologetic murmurings. “I trust you found her delightful,” she said.
That remark surprised him. He thought about saying, though he found her attractive, her disposition left a great deal to be desired. Instead he asked, “Why?”
“Because you must,” she said sadly. “Fate has spoken, dear boy.”
He had no idea what she meant and started to ask, but she wasn’t through speaking.
“When the sheriff comes, would you mind telling him he’s too late?”
“Sheriff?” He felt like he’d stepped into the twilight zone. Fate? Sheriff? “Too late for what?”
“For them.” She made a weak effort at a pleasant expression. “He should have been here an hour ago. When he comes, ask him why he was late. Deacon Vance is his name. A darling man. Widower, you know, and only thirty-five.” She turned away, heaving a ragged sigh. “So sad. But who am I to question Madam Fate?” Her back to Roth, she shuffled off down a dimly lit hallway toward the back of the house. “Come along, Missy Mis,” she said unnecessarily, since the dog trailed close behind her. “Good night, Mr. Johnson.”
He started to correct her mistake but decided it didn’t matter. Other problems loomed larger. Had he heard her right? She’d spoken more to herself than to him. What had she said about questioning Madam Fate? And the sheriff was too late? For what? And what had he ruined by simply speaking to the stormy Miss Hudson?
“What in Hades just happened here?” he muttered.
After a moment a distant door slammed. Apparently his hostess was now ensconced in her quarters.
A bell pealed nearby, jarring him. He shook his head at himself. It was only a damn phone. Clearly his nerves were shot, and so far his stay at the inn hadn’t helped his mental state. Facing the fact that he’d been put in charge, he walked to the reservation desk, outfitted in what was once a hallway closet. He grabbed the receiver. “Jerric here.”
“What?” the male voice on the other end of the line asked.
Roth felt like an idiot. “I mean, Blue Moon Inn.”
“Who is this?”
Roth didn’t enjoy this kind of phone call. “Who is this?” he asked.
“This is Sheriff Deacon Vance. I ask again, who is this?”
“Oh, Sheriff. This is Roth Jerric, a guest at the inn. Mrs. Peterson went to bed. She asked me to tell you you’re too late. I’m guessing you don’t need to come out.”
“Too late?”
Roth was relieved to hear the sheriff’s confusion. “That’s what she said, along with other things—something about Madam Fate and hopes crashing on rocks. To tell the truth…” He had a thought that seemed worth exploring. “Does the woman have a drinking problem?”
Hearty laughter exploded on the other end of the line. “What she has is a meddling problem. Tell me, Jerric, is a young, attractive female staying at the inn?”
He thought about Hannah Hudson, her lithe, slender frame and free-falling blond hair. He recalled stunning, gray-green eyes and remembered the first time he noticed them. He and Hannah happened to be on the same elevator when their glances chanced to meet. He was so struck by the rare beauty of those eyes he’d lost his train of thought. That never happened to him, so the moment stuck in his mind. And her smile. He recalled that, too—singularly sweet. Every time he saw it he had the feeling it reached clear to her soul.
Tonight she hadn’t smiled. Quite the contrary. But to answer the sheriff’s question, she was damn attractive, even with the attitude. “Yes, there’s an attractive woman staying here.”
“Ah-ha.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Joan Peterson is up to her matchmaking tricks,” he said. “She called me insisting a prowler was roaming the grounds. Wanted me there pronto. On the way I got sidetracked rescuing a teenage couple from their overturned pickup. When will young lovers learn that French kissing while traveling sixty miles an hour on a country road isn’t very bright? They were lucky they wore their seat belts and the streambed they ended up in wasn’t deep.” There was silence on the line for a few seconds. “Look, apologize to her for me,” he said. “Tell her duty called and I’m sorry about the blue moon.”
“Right.” Roth didn’t quite catch the last thing Deacon said. “What about a blue—”
Too late. The sheriff had hung up. What did he mean he was sorry about the blue moon? “Is everybody crazy around here?” he asked the empty lobby.
Turning away from the registration desk, he stared down the hallway where he had last seen Joan Peterson. At a loss, he began to get angry. He’d come to the blasted inn hoping to conjure up a new burst of optimism and clarity. So far all he’d managed to conjure up was a bucket load of female outrage.
CHAPTER TWO
HANNAH’S vow to keep her distance from the annoying Roth Jerric wasn’t as easy to keep as she hoped, considering they shared a bathroom. That afternoon when she arrived, the idea of sharing it with strangers hadn’t seemed alarming. She’d pictured some sweet elderly couple that would retire early, or newlyweds oblivious to anyone but each other, or some health nut who would hike or canoe all day.
In her worst nightmare she never imagined her bath-mate would be her belittling ex-boss, or so—well, so conspicuously male. Her problems began when she returned from her midnight sojourn in the garden, worn-out and ready for a long soak in the tub. When she started to open the door, she heard the shower running. Darn the man. Why couldn’t he have showered in the hour he had once he left her alone?
Though she preferred to think she and Roth had nothing in common, by the next morning things were shaping up to appear that they shared an identical sleeping, waking and hygiene schedule.
She had just gone into the bathroom when she heard a knock. Being close to the booming sound, she jumped and gasped. Never in her life had the simple act of taking a bath caused her so much anxiety. She stood there naked, her nerves raw, one step away from climbing into the ancient clawfoot tub. “What?” she asked, stress ripe in her tone.
“Are you about done?”
“No,” she said minimally, preferring not to give him a mental picture of her nudity. “It’ll be at least fifteen minutes.”
A pause, then, “Would you mind if I came in and got my electric shaver?”
“I would mind very much. I’m not—decent.”
A moment passed before he responded, then, “Could you get decent? It’ll just take a second.”
Her impatience rose. “We’re going to have to work out a schedule so this doesn’t keep happening,” she shouted.
“Good idea,” he said. “So, is that a yes or a no?”
