Blue Moon Bride

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Roth turned away from Hannah’s door, muttering, “Prickly witch.”

He went down the stairs into the front lobby. At a loose end, he didn’t know what to do. Restless, he strode into the dining room and grabbed a mug off the sideboard where a coffee urn sat. He filled his cup with the strong, steaming brew and stood there thinking. How did he go about doing what he’d come here to do?

As a youth, he’d wanted to be a builder, a creator. His oil company came about as a fluke, his natural abilities setting him on a course so successful he lost sight of earlier, creative aspirations. His inner struggle ate at him, his disillusion with the conflict between his youthful dreams and what became the reality of his life.

Last night’s meeting in the garden with Hannah only made matters worse, with her reference to arm candy. Roth knew full well what arm candy was. Even closed down emotionally, in his bloodless way, since his divorce he’d enjoyed plenty of it. And before that, his wife, Janice, had been a striking woman, but never, ever in his mind “arm candy.”

He’d been the envy of any man who saw her on his arm, and he’d felt like the luckiest guy in the world. He’d loved her absolutely, blindly, as it turned out. After the tragedy of their infant son’s crib death, Roth suggested they try again for another child, but Janice refused. Roth could still feel the blow of her rejection, even all these years later.

The birth of their child, Colin, made her realize she didn’t like being pregnant, didn’t want her body “distorted” again. The worst shock of all was when she said the death of their baby was a blessing in disguise.

A blessing in disguise?

Every time he thought about her twisted intellectualizing that any child’s death could be a blessing, he felt sick. Suddenly unsteady, he grasped the sideboard for support. Janice was so nonchalant, so cold and analytical, while he grieved intensely. Her decision left him feeling not only grief of loss, but betrayed.

That was when he finally saw her for what she was, all appearance and no substance. At that moment he knew their marriage was over. He was the only one mourning, the only one who wanted a traditional home, with children. Disillusioned and embittered by Janice’s rejection and the fallibility of his own insights where personal relationships were concerned, he shut himself down, became obsessed with work, determined to feel nothing. Women to him became diversions, nothing more.

He heard sounds, rousing him from his morbid mental detour. He lifted his head, alert. What was that?

“Mona, don’t fret,” a voice said. “I won’t start requiring you to pay for your stays. Don’t be absurd.”

That was obviously Joan’s voice, growing nearer.

“But this letter,” Mona said.

“Oh, dear, where did you get that?”

“I needed a scrap to make a list of paints I want to order, and I found it in the trash.”

“That’s where it belongs.”

“But, it says you’re broke and you could lose the inn.” Mona sounded worried.

“My banker is an old worrywart.” Joan paused. “Besides, Mr. Johnson is a paying guest.”

Roth lifted his mug in a mock salute. “It’s Jerric, Roth Jerric,” he wisecracked, under his breath. “But feel free to call me Ross.”

“What about the other one? The girl?”

“Hannah? Oh, I sent her one of my coupons for a free, two-week stay.” After a second, she added bleakly, “I had such plans for her. She’s a lovely women and she has no job. I certainly wouldn’t ask her to pay. Just as I would never ask you.”

“But if the bank takes your inn—”

“Pish tosh! Think no more about it.”

He heard a dog yap.

“Hush, Missy Mis. Now, see what you made me do? Missy Mis hates it when I raise my voice. Let’s speak of more pleasant things.”

“Changing the subject won’t erase the problem, Joan.”

“It’s not a problem, Mona, merely a banker’s preoccupation with minutia.”

“This letter is not minutia. It’s serious. Perhaps you could sell some of the paintings I’ve given you over the years.”

“Mona, I love your work. They’re marvelous. Genius. But sadly, guests and locals fail to understand your gift as I do. Now don’t get moody. You know your muse can’t ascend when you’re moody.” Her sigh was audible. They were right around the corner. Roth didn’t want to embarrass his hostess by having her discover he had overheard about her financial trouble.

Quietly he carried his mug through the lobby into the parlor. His footfalls were muted by the Oriental rug as he crossed the room to take a seat on a fusty, rose-colored sofa. He focused on the placid lake outside the picture window, aware when the women came into the foyer. Without noticing him, they continued their hushed conversation down the center hallway toward the rear of the house.

He sat back, contemplating Joan’s money troubles. He felt a pang of sympathy for her. It must be terrible to be elderly and financially insecure. He’d seen and heard enough to know that Joan was a kindhearted philanthropist, but without the financial wherewithal to be so openhanded.

If her income rested solely on the meager amount she asked of her guests, she was no businesswoman. The place was far from palatial, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d quoted him double what she did, even for such drab accommodations. The lake access and view, alone, were worth twice what she charged.

He thought about this morning and his brush with Hannah Hudson’s nudity and found himself almost smiling. Bad boy, he told himself. You must not enjoy that memory—it was a terrible moment for her. Yet, it certainly made the accommodations—sharing a bathroom—far less aggravating. If he were to be totally honest, it made sharing her bathroom worth every half hour he would be barred from its entry.

He experienced an uncomfortable upsurge of lust and shifted in his seat. How had his thoughts skipped so radically from impoverished Joan Peterson to lovely, if explosive, Hannah Hudson? Enough of that. Besides, he had not come here for the sport of conquest, which was moot anyway, since Miss Hudson exhibited as much delight in discovering he was there as she might show a poisonous snake found coiled in her bed.

He forced his mind to the less inflammatory subject—Joan Peterson’s money troubles. He supposed it was none of his business, but the conversation between the two women nagged.

He thought of Joan as a nice, if eccentric woman, and though he tried to numb his emotions, especially soft ones like pity, empathy or love, he felt sorry for her. He even experienced an urge to help. He sensed she would be too proud to accept charity. She couldn’t even accept that she had financial trouble. So, how might he be of assistance?

He stood, lifted his mug from the doilied end table, ambled aimlessly into the lobby and out the front door onto the wide porch. After a few minutes, he found himself on the lakeside of the inn, strolling along a gravel path through towering walnut, oak and pecan trees on his way toward the shoreline. He recalled so well, as a child, times he had dashed, barefoot, to the water’s edge. On the run, he’d thrown himself into a racing dive, skimming the shallows to gain deeper water beyond the cove. Today Grand Lake teamed with speedboats, large and small, plus sailboats and little wave-runners, buzzing all over the lake like water-bound motorcycles. The cove wasn’t buoyed to warn boaters away. Swimmers venturing too far out onto the lake these days would be foolhardy.

Yet, with the buffering cove, a sense of privacy and sanctuary endured, just as it had in his boyhood. Around the bend, Roth knew where the water deepened enough for docks. His family never owned a motorboat, just a rowboat. So they had no use for a fancy dock. Wondering if anyone had put in a dock, he veered off the lawn into the woods, deciding to see for himself. He had a feeling no one had, or there would be a clearing through the heavy underbrush.

When he reached the spot and came out of the trees, he picked his way down a rocky slope toward the lake. The sunshine felt good; the air smelled fresh with the cool breeze coming off the water. He experienced a spark of exhilaration, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What if…” He reached a rocky ledge and leaned against a huge old oak. He remembered this tree, and this ledge. As a youth he had dived into the deep water a thousand times from this very spot. He smiled at the recollection. After a time of quiet contemplation, his mind began to teem with hints, sketches of the potential for what might be a promising adventure. An adventure that would not only benefit him, but would put Joan Peterson’s financial troubles to rest for good and all.

His enthusiasm grew as his vision became more and more solid in his mind. This was exactly what he needed, the creative redemption of his soul. The very reason he came back to his childhood home.

He caught sight of a crane, its snowy wings spread wide as it circled above the calm, blue water. With a laugh, he shouted out, “Who says you can’t go home again?”

CHAPTER THREE

ROTH returned to the inn well into his mental blueprints. He knew this idea was right for him, because of the way it fell so readily into place. He would buy the inn and develop the lake property into a resort with a marina, dock rentals and a gated, lakeside community that included a high-rise condo. The lower floors with less grand views would provide midrange housing for families unable to afford the offered lakeshore lots. Upper floor plans would provide high-dollar dwellings for affluent couples not wanting the hassle of a yard, opting to pay a premium for lofty lake vistas.

Joan Peterson would never again have to worry about money. Though her home would have to be razed, he would provide her with a sleek, new condominium as part of the deal.

He found his hostess in the kitchen, tying on an apron, about to begin the preparations for their midday meal. He checked his watch. Only ten o’clock and already she had to begin the drudgery of meal preparation. Poor woman. How fortunate for her that his plan would put an end to the ceaseless grind of running the aging inn. She was getting too old to maintain the sort of pace it took to keep the place clean and put food on the table. He felt extremely benevolent about his plan. He hadn’t felt so at one with the universe in years. Joan Peterson had a wonderful surprise coming.

Thirty minutes later, Roth’s harmonious mood had darkened considerably.

“No, no, no, no!” Joan cried, though Roth had just explained, for the third time, how much his plans for her property benefited her. Miss Mischief, curled on an oval rag-rug in a corner, sat up and began to yap. Joan made a quelling motion toward the mutt, and it magically ceased its racket. “I will never sell my inn,” she said less piercingly, more to keep her dog quiet than a decline in her agitation. “It’s my home. How many times must I tell you, Mr. Johnson, I would never feel comfortable living in some highfalutin condominium.” She turned away and began to chop an onion, her gnarled hands amazingly adroit as she severed it on a wooden board so worn by years its center was a rough-hewn valley.

Roth was accustomed to Joan referring to him as Ross Johnson, and let it go. The important thing was to make her face facts. “Don’t you understand? If you lose the inn to the bank, it will go on the market. I could buy it then, at a bargain price. Why shouldn’t you benefit—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Her knife whacked the onion to bits. “The bank isn’t going to take my inn. Where did you get such an idea?”

He hadn’t eavesdropped on purpose, but he felt guilty anyway. He shook it off. “I overhead your conversation with Mona.”

Joan continued to chop the onion for another few seconds without comment. Finally she lay the knife aside and peered at him, her eyes magnified behind her spectacles. He saw pain glittering there. “I’m ashamed of you.”

He felt like he was being reprimanded by his own grandmother, long dead, but a kinder person he’d never known. He experienced another stab of guilt at his misconduct. “I apologize, but if you look at it another way, the incident was providential. Don’t you understand? I can help. By purchasing your property, I can take away your financial troubles forever.”

She blinked then shook her head. He watched moisture gather in her eyes and he feared she was near tears. “What you want to do is take away my home.”

“Only this old house. You’ll have a home. A wonderful, modern home without peeling paint and rusty pipes.”

She sniffed. Her lips lifted at the corners, the expression pitying. “This is my home, and it will be until I die. I’m sorry you find it so—so unpalatable.”

“That’s not what I meant to imply—”

She held up a halting hand. “No, hear me out,” she cut in. “I want you to understand.”

He didn’t like the turn of this conversation, but he nodded, knowing he had no choice. The best arguments could only be made when you knew the opposition inside out. “All right,” he said, but silently added, It doesn’t matter how poignant your life story is, the facts remain the same. Your inn is about to be taken away from you, no matter what you want or how many tears you shed.

“You see, I met my husband here.” She indicated the direction of the church ruins. “In that garden. I was twenty-one and quite the independent lass.” Her expression softened as she recalled the story. “I had been hiking and got so caught up in the beauty of the countryside, I got lost. It was long after dark by then, but a lovely, warm June night. Fifty years ago, northeastern Oklahoma wasn’t nearly as built-up as it is now. The Grand River dam was so new, I could have wandered for days without finding a human being.”

A faraway look came into her eyes; a genuine smile curved her lips as she relived a happier time. “Around midnight, I chanced on this private home where we now stand. Being very late, I didn’t want to disturb the family, so I rested on a stone bench among the church ruins. When I looked up to scan the heavens, to my amazement a full moon sat squarely in the center of an arched opening in the church wall. I was so transfixed, I didn’t hear a man approach. When he stood directly behind me, he spoke. I shall never forget what he said.

“‘That happens once in a blue moon,’ he said. His voice was soft and low, almost like an angel’s, if an angel spoke as a human man. I was startled but strangely unfearful. I turned toward him. There and then, I saw the face of my soul mate, Durham Peterson.” She grew still, swallowed several times, as though the memory stirred deep, poignant emotions.

“We were married within weeks,” she went on. “Soon afterward, Dur confessed a desire to travel the world. An adventurer myself, I gladly agreed. Dur had a comfortable inheritance, so for the next forty years we lived a charmed life. Then nine years ago, after Dur was taken from me in a tragic fall while we were mountain climbing in Nepal, I found my way back to the stone bench in that same garden. Being there comforted me. The property had changed hands a number of times in all those years and was abandoned, boarded up. With what remained of our money, I bought it.

“Repairing the house took more capital than I counted on, so in order to make ends meet, I decided to take in boarders, because…” She hesitated and looked away. After a moment, she once again trained her attention on him, her expression determined. “…because, Mr. Johnson, I knew I had come home for good. And since I met my beloved Durham on that magical night of a blue moon, I named my home the Blue Moon Inn.” She scanned her kitchen and ran a loving hand over the scratched, green-tiled countertop. “I would rather die than sell.” She shook her head, adamant. “I won’t allow those magical ruins to be torn down. Not ever.”

“Magical ruins,” he muttered.

“Yes, magical,” she repeated, steel behind her words. “I believe the enchantment of the full moon was the sire of my bliss with Durham, and I feel sure any couple caught in the light of that miraculous phenomenon will be likewise blessed.”

He frowned, the blue moon riddle falling together. Apparently the romantically kooky Mrs. Peterson had intended that the sheriff and Hannah Hudson be caught in the blue moon’s light, and because of some lunar power she conjured in her head, they would poof become a loving couple. Evidently, in her mind, when the sheriff was detained, the blue moon moved out of its witchy window of opportunity. That had to be the reason for her crestfallen remark at breakfast.

He’d never heard such romantic drivel in his life. Obviously the woman lived in her own wacky dream world, where neither the consequences of missing mortgage payments nor basic common sense dared to tread.

“Tearing down my home and those hallowed ruins would be sacrilege, Mr. Johnson. Pure sacrilege.” She scooped up the chopped onion and sidled to the nearby stove where oil sizzled in a pot. She dumped in the onions and the sizzling intensified. Steam poured from the pot. “Please excuse me, but I’m enormously busy. You wouldn’t want dinner to be late. I serve it precisely at noon.” She gave him a pleasant smile that didn’t pretend to reach her eyes, then motioned him off with a shooing gesture. “Go. Enjoy the day,” she said, once again presenting her cheery hostess manners. To her, the subject of the sale of her inn was closed.

“Smile, dear boy.” She patted his jaw; the strong scent of raw onions assailed his nostrils. “I never allow guests at my inn to get dyspepsia from stress or worry. Go, relax. There’s a lovely porch swing out front. Or as you’re a young, strong buck, perhaps you’d rather take a brisk swim. Work off some of that excess energy. There’s plenty of time before dinner.”

He stared at her, nonplussed that anybody could be so blind to such an obvious godsend as his offer. Anyone with a molecule of sense would grab his deal, sob for joy and most likely kiss his shoes while doing it. But this woman acted as though he were trying to buy her firstborn child. Idiotic!

Joan shuffled away from him disappearing into the kitchen pantry. She began to hum, as though her money problems could be dispensed with as adroitly as she carved up that onion. Shaking his head, he walked out of the kitchen. If Joan Peterson thought the discussion was over, she was daffier than he gave her credit for.

Dinner and supper were difficult for Hannah, being near Roth. Though she kept her attention diverted from his face, she could feel the tension crackling between them. As a matter of fact, she felt so much tension it seemed to extend beyond the two of them. But that was crazy. She had no bone to pick with either Joan or Mona. And she had the distinct impression that the two women were longtime friends. The idea that animosity smoldered between them seemed remote. At both meals the two talked enough to prove their affinity was real.

As for tension between Roth and either of the women, well, it seemed implausible. Mona spent much of her time out behind the remaining church wall, flinging paint at artist canvases. That afternoon Hannah found out the hard way when she recklessly rounded the old stone wall without checking for airborne oils, and got slimed with vermilion.

The experience had been no great tragedy. After the initial shock, she managed to laugh, amazing, considering her circumstances. The shorts and tank top she wore were so faded and tired she decided a flourish of crimson gave them the perfect touch of character.

Her hair was a different story. Luckily the bathroom schedule she and Roth had worked out favored her at that moment. After Mona doused her head and exposed skin with linseed oil, she still held legitimate bathroom rights for twenty minutes. Plenty of time to soak in the tub and rid herself of flammable linseed fumes.

Besides dinner and supper, Hannah had managed to avoid Roth. Even so, she couldn’t sleep. Simply knowing he was a room away gave her insomnia. After tossing and turning until midnight, she gave up trying to sleep and decided to raid the refrigerator. Sitting beside the man at the dining table had cut into her appetite. She had barely picked at her food. Slipping into terry scuffs and throwing on her knee-length cotton robe, she tiptoed toward the staircase.

Halfway down the steps she heard a female voice coming from the parlor and recognized it as Joan Peterson. But to whom was she speaking? Hannah couldn’t make out what she said, since she spoke in low murmurings. She eased on down the stairs, her curiosity aroused. When she reached the foyer, she crept to the parlor door, experiencing a surge of guilt. She wasn’t ordinarily a nosy person, but she sensed someone was upset and felt she would be remiss if she could help and didn’t. At the door she was surprised to see Joan sitting alone on the sofa. She’d been speaking, but to whom? Her dog lay curled beside her, its scruffy head in her lap. Apparently she was talking to the animal.

“Such a bothersome man.” She stroked Miss Mischief’s back. “How dare he threaten to steal my home out from under me!”

“Who’s threatening to steal your home?” The question burst out of Hannah before she could stop it.

Joan jerked around. Miss Mischief’s head popped up and she yapped. The older woman’s hands flew to her breast. “Gracious,” she cried. “You frightened the life out of me.”

Hannah felt awful and rushed into the parlor. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Peterson.” She rounded the sofa to perch beside the dog. Leaning across the aging pet, she touched Joan’s knee fondly. “I heard a voice and out of curiosity I checked it out. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. Then, just as I got within earshot, you spoke of somebody threatening you. I reacted—hastily, I’m afraid.” She experienced a burning flush in her cheeks. “It’s a character flaw—reacting on reflex.”

How many times had she wished she could keep a cooler head? Sadly, after so many years of flinging herself onto live emotional grenades—for what, at that instant, seemed right and necessary—she held out little hope of repairing that particular flaw. She released Joan’s knee and clenched her hands in her lap. “Forgive my meddling, but I truly would like to help, if I can.”

Recovering from her shock, Joan smiled and placed her work-roughened hand over Hannah’s fingers. “I have a flaw, too. Talking to myself—or little Missy Mis, here.” She hesitated, then glanced away. “Or to Dur, my beloved. He was so sensible. He could see things clearly. Without him, I—I sometimes feel very lost…” Her words trailed away.