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Maybe that had been wrong, but she’d been happy with Phillip. He’d been the right man at the right time for her. And she’d tried to be the same for him.
God, why is life so complicated?
The only answer was the banging of the screen door. It jarred her into the present.
“Reckon it’s going to get warm today.” Aunt Frances said, stepping onto the porch and shading her eyes as she perused the tangle of her yard. Rayne followed her gaze. The lawn boy had been let go in the fall and spring had taken advantage of the free rein.
Rayne shrugged. “It’s Texas. It’s always hot.”
“When it’s not cold.” Her aunt laughed and sank onto the pew beside her. Aunt Frances had faded brown hair that fell just to her shoulders and always smelled of roses. Rayne caught the scent on the April breeze and it calmed her.
“I don’t want to forget about the loaves of honey oat bread. They can’t bake too long,” Rayne said, wondering why she constantly “remembered” out loud. Bad habit left over from her childhood.
“Mmm.”
“Avery Long’s oldest boy is going to help me clear the area for the vegetable garden tomorrow. But I need to get those weeds pulled. Can you keep an eye on Henry?”
“Oh, you mean Hank?” Aunt Frances said.
Rayne sighed. “Guess I’ve got something new to fight, huh?”
Aunt Frances nodded. “He’s a stubborn mule, that boy. Good trait to have, though. Get him far in life.”
“Maybe so,” Rayne said. “We’ve got Brent Hamilton to thank for that little gem.”
Her aunt smiled. “Brent, huh? You two were thick as thieves when you were younger. Always made me smile to see you two together. Come to think of it, that man might be what the doctor ordered, Rayne. He’s got medicine that’s cured a lot of gals round here.”
Rayne flinched. “You’re talking about the man whore of Oak Stand? No, thanks.”
Aunt Frances smiled. “Always been partial to man whores myself. Know what you get.”
Rayne shook her head. No way in hell was she going there. “I’d rather chew glass than mess with him. He’s overrated.”
Her aunt cocked her head. “You know this from experience?”
She wished. Kind of. But she and Brent had never had a chance to explore anything other than sweet kisses paired with unbridled teenage lust. “Not really. But that ship sailed long ago. Disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle. Sunk by pirates. Chopped up for firewood.”
Aunt Frances gave her that look. The one that said, baloney. “Okay. But I wouldn’t mind running my flag up his mast and I’m sixty-eight.”
“And a very sick woman.”
They both laughed. And it felt good to laugh. Rayne felt as though she’d nearly lost the ability. The past few months she’d been faltering, taking a step in one direction only to doubt herself and backtrack. It wasn’t like her to doubt herself. To not have a clear vision. And that flip-flopping was something she didn’t want to dwell upon for the moment.
“Okay, I’ve got to get to work. This yard won’t clear itself, and we’re already behind on getting things planted.” Rayne stood, slipped the apron over her head and tucked it beneath her arm. “Have the painters called? We need them on the job tomorrow if we’re going to have the inn ready by the middle of May.”
Her aunt pursed her lips. “About the painters. Well, they went to Houston for some kind of dirt track race. I’m not sure we can rely on them.”
Rayne closed her eyes and counted to ten. Her aunt moved at a different speed. The whole town moved at a different speed. She had to remember she wasn’t in Austin. She was in Oak Stand. “Well, I can’t paint the house, Aunt Fran. Tell Meg to call in professionals. She has a list, I’m sure. We can’t allow Susan Lear to waltz through the door to substandard accommodations. Her article is the key to a successful launch. I pulled strings to get this feature in Oprah magazine.”
The Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast, her aunt’s well-established but slightly faded business was being transformed into Serendipity Inn, a Rayne Rose exclusive getaway, part of Serendipity Enterprises. But there was much work to do before they could open the doors. Rayne had brought her assistant, Meg Lang, with her, but Meg had been bogged down with traveling back and forth from Austin overseeing the restaurant and the new project. No one else was assisting. Serendipity Inn was a family project and very much on the down-low.
Still, her aunt had insisted on using locals to spiff up the inn. The economy had been hard all over, but especially in small town America. Aunt Frances wanted to help the people of Oak Stand. Only problem was some of the people of Oak Stand didn’t want to help them.
Her aunt nodded. “No problem. I’ll take care of getting new painters. Someone will be here tomorrow morning. You take care of the garden, the kitchen and the menu. Meg will help me with the rest.”
Her aunt disappeared, entering the house the same way she’d emerged. With a bang.
Rayne slumped onto the bench. Why had she agreed to this?
Of course, re-creating the bed-and-breakfast had seemed like a brilliant idea months ago. After twelve years of slaving like a dog to build her career, the thought of reworking the bed-and-breakfast seemed exciting and restful at the same time. A sort of sabbatical with purpose. Something about her aunt’s calming touch and sitting on the front porch swing while viewing paint and fabric samples had sounded right. Rayne needed the comfort of her loving aunt, some privacy and a change for Henry.
But now she wasn’t so sure.
Maybe it was being in a place bathed in memories. Or maybe it was seeing Brent. Or perhaps it was the fact she felt so not herself sitting on a pew in her aunt’s backyard. So not like the woman she’d become.
Rayne Rose Albright was successful beyond all expectation with a New York Times bestselling cookbook, a restaurant that repeatedly made top ten lists and a possible deal on the bubble at the Food Network. She even had her own line of ruffled aprons under production with an Austin designer.
A lot of good it did her. Not when she could barely crawl out of bed some mornings. Not when her child chewed holes in his shirts for fear of being lost or left behind. Not when crazed fans penned weird letters and showed up on her front doorstep. What good was money, fame, success?
Not much if you were miserable.
Rayne opened the door and stepped into the old Victorian house. The smell of fresh bread wrapped around her, soothing her, reminding her why she was there—to recapture the simplicity of life. She took a deep breath. Then released it.
The house exuded charm from every nook and cranny. It would make a fine inn, a retreat for wealthy cosmopolitans who wished to experience a trip to trouble-free times. Most of the work they’d do over the next month was cosmetic in nature. Aunt Frances had always run a tight ship. The antiques were well-polished, the decor was country without being cliché and the house was in fairly good repair. They needed to shore up the front and back porches, repaint windows and doors, replace fabrics and purchase some new furniture. And get the backyard tamed and productive with a veggie garden, pretty herbs and edible flowers.
The highlight would not be in the surroundings, but in the smells, sensations, tastes of the bounty of the earth.
And that was Rayne’s job. To create a menu of simplicity and sophistication.
She entered the kitchen and quickly set about tucking away ingredients before pulling the golden loaves of bread from the Viking ovens. They looked perfect. She set them on a cooling rack just as something brushed against her ankle.
“Ack!”
A streak of ginger raced by her. She trotted backward, banging into the baker’s rack.
What the heck?
She scurried after the animal, hoping it was merely a cat and not something more menacing.
It was just a cat.
A fat ginger cat that paced at the front door.
“Rumple,” Henry called from the stairway.
She looked up at her child as he ran down the stairs. “Careful, Henry.”
Henry paid no heed. Simply tumbled down, tossing the book he’d been clasping onto the bench. He dropped to his knees and started stroking the fur of the now-purring cat. “This is Rumpelstiltskin ’cause he sleeps all day. Aunt Fran calls him Rumple. He lives next door. At that guy’s house.”
The Hamiltons’ cat. They’d always had one. She remembered Sweettart, the gray tabby that followed Brent around like a dog for years. He’d stroked that ragged-eared tabby the way Henry stroked the one now curling about her ankles. The purring cat rumbled as he arched against Henry’s strokes.
“Well, he doesn’t need to be in the house.” She swung the door open and toed the cat with her bare foot. “Out, Rumple.”
“Stop,” Henry cried. “I like to pet her. She loves me.”
“Keep it on the porch. And take your book,” she called out to the boy as he followed the cat through the oval-paned door.
Before she shut the door, she caught sight of Brent heading toward his truck. His brown hair curled over his ice-blue polo shirt collar and his jeans hugged a pretty spectacular butt. He drummed a beat against his thigh with his right hand as he’d always done. The phrase “Idle hands are the Devil’s tools” popped into her mind. Yes, that man knew how to create sin with those hands. She remembered the mischief they’d stirred in her… and how much she’d liked those new feelings. But then again, lots of girls had cause to remember those hands. That thought was cold water down her back.
She stepped away from the door.
Brent had cultivated a reputation he’d been content to keep all these years. Who could blame the girls of Howard County? It would be hard for most women to resist the potent combination of Brent’s charm and physical hotness. He was the kind of guy a gal would be content to watch mow a yard or unclog a toilet. He was beauty in motion. Always had been.
Hunger struck her out of nowhere.
And it wasn’t for the bread she’d set out to cool. It was the same old hunger she’d first felt long ago, stirring that summer night she’d pulled on her new pink-striped nightgown, a parting gift from her parents. She’d be staying with Aunt Frances in Oak Stand for high school while her parents and sister headed north to New York State to live in a commune for artists. Rayne had tied the satin ribbons on the shoulders and moved to the window to draw the shade. Brent’s shades weren’t drawn and she caught sight of him across the empty darkness between the two houses. She tucked herself behind the curtain as Brent dropped his towel and ran a comb through his hair. At fifteen, his bare backside had been as intriguing a sight as she’d ever seen. A strange warmth had curled round her midsection and taken up residence in her tummy. It was the first stirring of desire, the first step she’d taken down the path of obsession with Brent.
And it was a path that had gotten her nowhere because fifteen years ago Rayne Rose had been oatmeal to Brent’s French crepe with chocolate-raspberry sauce. He’d sampled her when he had nothing better to do. She’d never been important enough to acknowledge as she sat in the stands watching him play or at the dances where he hung out with the cool kids. But still, she’d loved the boy he was when he was with her. When no one else was around and he became hers alone.
She’d been such a fool.
Yet despite what she’d told Aunt Frances moments before, she still wanted a taste of Brent.
CHAPTER THREE
BRENT EYED THE BOARDS above the wide porch of the Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast. “These are going to need replacing before we paint. I know they don’t appear to be rotten, but they are. Won’t take much time though.”
Frances Wallace peered up assessingly. “How much time? Rayne’s already riding me, wanting to hire people from the city to get this finished.”
Something inside him started at her name. Rayne Rose. He’d always loved her name, loved the way everyone said her first and last name together. The vision of an orangey-pink rose like the ones his mother grew appeared in his mind. Those dew-kissed flowers were almost the color of her hair. So pure and fresh, just like Rayne. He dashed the image aside to focus on the flaking paint above his head. “Two or three days at most. Then I’ll finish sanding and apply fresh paint. Two weeks on the total project.”
“Okay.” Frances nodded. “It’ll take that long for Meg to arrange hiring someone from Dallas anyway. I’d be obliged to you, Brent. I know you’re busy this time of year.”
“Not too busy for a neighbor, Mrs. Frances.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the half-sanded porch. Frances had given him gingersnaps when he was a kid and let him catch ladybugs in her garden. How could he not help her when she needed someone to do exactly what he did—restore and renovate? At that moment, he wondered what the cause of all this upheaval was. What was Rayne doing back in Oak Stand? And why had she pulled her son away from school and baseball to refurbish her aunt’s bed-and-breakfast? He had questions, but no right to ask them. So he asked what he could. “So who’s this Meg?”
Frances was about to answer when a huge rattling truck roared into the tree-lined drive. The red truck belched as the engine died. Big Bubba Malone.
The mountainous Bubba climbed from his monstrosity of a truck and doffed his cap as a tiny woman appeared at his elbow.
Everything about the woman looked severe. Straight, blunt-cut dark hair, black shirt, long gray skirt, culminating with polished combat boots. A small diamond winked in a nose that balanced Elvis Costello glasses. Her chin jutted out as Bubba graciously took her elbow.
“Hands off, Jethro,” she said, pulling her arm away and stalking up the drive.
“That’s Meg. She’s Rayne’s assistant,” Frances commented from behind him.
Brent stepped back when Meg reached the steps. He didn’t want to stand in her way. She looked as mad as a cat dunked in a creek.
Frances stepped forward. “Meg, what in the world happened?”
Meg cocked her head and crossed her arms. “Oh, you mean besides having a flat outside this godforsaken town and then having to walk almost two miles before someone stopped? I don’t know…maybe it was that man slapping me on my ass and calling me little filly!”
Brent tried not to laugh. He really did, but the sound got past his lips before he could stop it.
She whirled, her dark eyes flashing behind her glasses. “What?”
He straightened. “Nothing.”
Bubba stuck his cap on his balding head and sallied toward the porch. “Mornin’, Mrs. Frances. Brent.”
“Don’t you even step one foot near me,” Meg said, flinging out a small, white hand and pointing at Bubba. “I don’t want any of your primordial ooze to get on me.”
Bubba Malone, the slightly dim, good ol’ boy of Howard County, looked down at his shirt. “I ain’t got nothing on me.”
Meg shivered. “Dear God, he’s got the brain of a flea.”
Brent could tolerate a lot. Hell, he ribbed Bubba himself upon occasion, but he wasn’t about to let a snooty slip of a feminist insult a good man. “But he has manners. After all, he picked you up.”
The termagant turned her dark eyes on him. She took him in from his work boots all the way up to his faded ball cap. He saw appreciation glint in her eyes just like almost every other woman. Then she arched an eyebrow. “So swatting a stranger on the backside is good manners around here? Really? Can’t wait to find out what the ill-mannered folk do.”
Bubba kicked a brick lining the walk. “Heck, it was a compliment. You got a sweet a—” he glanced at Frances “—uh, behind.”
Meg snapped her mouth closed as color flooded her cheeks. She stared at Bubba for a full minute before muttering, “I need to go make a call.”
She rushed through the front door, nearly bowling over Rayne in the process.
“Ow,” Rayne said, lifting a slender foot and rubbing her pinky toe. “You gotta ditch those combat boots, Megs. They’re killing me.”
Her assistant must not have answered, because Rayne shrugged and stepped onto the porch, barefoot and beautiful. Brent couldn’t stop himself from taking her in. Her unruly red hair lay tamed in a braid that fell over one shoulder. The dress she wore looked as though it had been purchased in Mexico. It had looping bright thread in whimsical patterns on the hem. A bright pink apron depicting a mixer reading Whip it Good on the front pocket nipped her trim waist and hugged her breasts. The only thing marring the perfection of Rayne was the frown she wore.
“What are you doing here?” she said, looking directly at Brent. Her eyes looked puffy, slightly red, as if she’d cried recently. Or had an allergy attack. But her gaze was flinty and accusing.
He shrugged. “I’m going to replace some boards and paint the porch.”
“No, you aren’t.” Rayne jerked her eyes to her aunt and gave her a look. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he thought it had something to do with the fact she hated him. She’d changed so much. Her words were direct and authoritarian. He could see her commanding a kitchen staff. Do this. Sauté that. Move.
“He’s the only person I can find, Rayne. And he’s my friend and neighbor. Besides, I take exception to your trying to micromanage every aspect of this venture. I’m perfectly capable of handling this.”
Bubba clomped up the stairs. “Hey, Rayne Rose.”
Rayne stopped frowning at Brent and her aunt and swiveled her head toward the large man lumbering toward her. “Oh, hey.”
Bubba wiped his hand on his shirt and offered it to Rayne. Rayne ignored his hand and rose up on her toes to give Bubba a hug. “Sorry about your momma, Bubba. She was a fine lady.”
Bubba nodded. He’d lost his mom a few years ago to cancer. “That she was. Everybody sure misses her.”
“Especially her Seven-Up cake. She taught me how to bake my first cake, you know,” Rayne said, her smile incredibly gentle. It was as if her irritation had melted away, leaving the old Rayne in its place. Brent loved her smile, the softness of it. He wanted to taste that smile against his lips.
Bubba stroked his scruffy red beard. “Yeah, she was good around the kitchen. Even taught me how to cook. Good to have you home, Rayne.”
