Authors: Hope Ramsay
She chugged down her second margarita. The tequila was starting to make her face feel a little numb. “He’s a writer. Well, he’s an unpublished writer who doesn’t seem to do much writing. But, anyway, he just sort of volunteered to help. For free. But he’s good at sorting books and color-coding price tags. Plus, he’s widely read.”
“He
volunteered?
” Arwen said this in a voice loud enough so that half a dozen other Jaybird patrons turned and stared.
Courtney leaned forward with real concern on her face. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t you realize this guy could be a serial murderer, or a rapist, or something? You don’t know anything about this guy.”
Melissa didn’t know if Jeff was a serial murderer, but he sure wasn’t a rapist. That was good, wasn’t it?
Arwen pulled her iPhone from her purse. “Let’s just Google his name and see what comes up, okay?” Her thumbs got busy in an impressive way.
“Hmm, interesting. There are at least three Jeffrey Talberts who are professors, but they’re—”
“No way. That’s totally awesome.” Melissa got all warm and gooey inside as she grabbed Arwen’s phone. “Lemme see.”
The letdown was kind of momentous when the first photo—of Professor Jeffrey Talbert—was a balding guy in his late fifties. The next photo wasn’t much better. Melissa’s pulse kicked up as she continued to scroll through half a dozen Jeffrey Talberts, none of whom was younger than forty-five.
And then, finally, there he was. Only she almost didn’t recognize him. The photo was a professional studio head shot, and Jeff was wearing a dark, conservative suit jacket and a red tie. His face was clean-shaven, and his hair was a whole lot shorter.
“That’s him,” she said with a wistful sigh as she pointed to his photo.
Arwen snatched her phone away. Her thumbs got busy again, and then suddenly she said, “Oh my God, I can’t believe it.”
“What? Is he really a professor, because he dresses like—”
“No, honey, unfortunately not.” She tilted her phone so both Melissa and Courtney could see the screen. This time it was a photo of Jeff wearing a tuxedo with a blond bombshell on his arm. Jealousy pricked Melissa from the inside. Oh boy, she was an idiot.
“His full legal name is Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon. That should strike a familiar chord since the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
, the
Wall Street Journal
, and every cable news network known to man have been dragging him through the mud for the last three weeks. Honey, he’s a journalist. And he’s also Nina Talbert’s sole heir. When she kicks the bucket, he gets her billions.”
“What? Did you say Lyndon?” Melissa was confused. The margaritas had fogged her brain.
“Lemme see that,” Courtney said, grabbing the phone out of Arwen’s hand. “Oh my God. Melissa, he
is
a Lyndon.”
“What?” Melissa’s brain was having trouble processing her friends’ words.
“He’s that guy on the news. You know, the one who wrote that article that everyone is screaming about. About the Supreme Court.”
Melissa shook her head. She had no idea what Courtney was talking about. She’d been hiding out in the store these last few weeks, reading genre fiction and letting the world pass her by. She wasn’t up on current events.
“Honey, the Lyndon family is in a snit about him,” Arwen said. “He’s Pam Lyndon’s nephew, and my boss at Lyndon, Lyndon & Kopp is his uncle. You didn’t know this? He didn’t tell you?”
“Well, at least he’s not a serial killer,” Courtney said brightly. “We can be thankful for that, even if he is a lying douche bag.”
“A filthy rich and unbelievably cute douche bag,” Arwen added.
How could this be? The duchess had been in the store yesterday and hadn’t acknowledged Jeff at all. Why? Surely she’d recognized him, even if he hadn’t been wearing pants.
And why hadn’t he been honest about Pam? She’d told him everything. Trusted him. And he’d been lying from the start.
Melissa sank her head to the table and
thunk
ed it a couple of times before the swearing started. The profanity didn’t last all that long, because her vocabulary of bad words was limited, and also by the time she started to repeat herself, her throat had closed up, her eyes had overflowed, and talking had become impossible.
S
econdhand Prose wasn’t open on Mondays, but Jeff found himself standing on the sidewalk staring through the windows. Dickens was keeping watch on his cat tree as always, but the place was dark.
He pounded on the door because he desperately needed to talk to Melissa and she’d been ignoring his phone messages and texts. He was just about to channel Stanley Kowalski, the character in
A Streetcar Named Desire
who stood outside the window and yelled his wife’s name for all to hear, when a diminutive, fiftysomething woman wearing a big, brown tweed sweater tapped him on the shoulder and said, “You know, if you would just read the sign on the door, you’d realize the store isn’t open today.”
“I know that,” he said as civilly as he could manage, considering his current state of mind. Why the hell was Melissa avoiding him? Yesterday had been amazing. Had he screwed up somehow?
Damn
.
“Good. I’m glad you can read,” the woman said with a nod. “And since the store is closed, it doesn’t make any sense to be pounding on the door. You’re disturbing my beginning knitters class.” She waved in the direction of the adjacent storefront with the sign over the door that said
EWE
AND
ME
FINE
YARNS
AND
KNITTING
SUPPLIES
. The women of the aforementioned knitting class were gathered around the yarn shop’s window, trying to watch their instructor do battle with him.
“Do you know where I can find Melissa Portman?” he asked.
“I know who you are,” the woman said. “And so does Melissa.”
It was like the woman had just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. “What?”
“You’re Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon. And I heard at the Merchants Association meeting this morning that you lied to Melissa about your name and background. And everyone wants to know why.”
The woman shook her finger in his direction as she continued. “Shame on you, lying to a nice girl like Melissa. What were you up to? Softening her up so that Pam Lyndon could buy her out on the cheap?”
The scorn in the woman’s voice shamed him. “No. You have it all wrong.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The knitting instructor gave him a cold stare that he was all too familiar with. He’d seen that look in his editor’s eyes at the moment when George had lost faith in him, when the tide of public opinion had turned against him.
If the merchants were gossiping like this, then it wouldn’t be long before his father’s family heard all about it. And then things would get much, much worse.
He needed to do something fast if he ever wanted to regain Melissa’s trust.
And not just talk. Talk was cheap, and apologies at this point would fall flat.
And not just writing a check. He’d already done that, and Melissa would be finding out about it soon. But paying her taxes had been easy, too. All it took was money—and not even a lot of it. For him, money might as well grow on trees. He had more than he’d ever be able to spend in several lifetimes. Money could buy a lot, but it couldn’t buy trust and it couldn’t buy love.
If he wanted Melissa in his life—and he did—he would have to earn back her trust. And then he might be lucky enough to earn her love, too.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later a maid ushered Jeff into Charlotte’s Grove and left him waiting in a sitting room right off the main foyer. He’d visited Charlotte’s Grove only once in his life, and his memories of the place were vague—just a sense of formality that left him cold. He’d expected the historic house to be filled with museum-quality Georgian furniture, but the room he was led to seemed surprisingly contemporary, with a couch and two well-used wing chairs.
“Oh my God, Jeff, I’m so glad you turned up.” Aunt Pam entered the room from the hallway dressed for a day in the garden, in a pair of slacks and a long-sleeve cotton T-shirt that was slightly dirty. Her hair was pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, and she wasn’t wearing makeup.
She hurried across the wide-plank wood floor and gave Jeff a fierce, motherly hug. She smelled of the garden. Like roses or lavender or something.
“I’ve called your mother,” she said as she let him go. “She’s so relieved. Honestly, Jeff, you should have called her. Where on earth have you been? And when did you grow a beard?”
Jeff steeled his resolve. He’d seen Aunt Pam in action; she certainly hadn’t been this sweet to Melissa on Saturday. He took a step back. “I’ve been staying at Dad’s fishing cabin, and I grew a beard so you wouldn’t recognize me.”
“But—”
“Look, Aunt Pam, I’m not here to reconnect with the family. I’m here to issue an ultimatum.”
“What on earth…? About what?” A little V of puzzlement formed on her forehead.
“About Melissa Portman and Secondhand Prose.”
The frown morphed into an expression of utter astonishment. “What in the…? Oh my goodness, you’re the man who fell off the ladder.” She chuckled. “I’m afraid I wasn’t looking at your face that day.”
His humiliation was utterly complete. But he wasn’t going to let it get the best of him. It was well past time to go on the offensive.
“Yeah, I admit I managed to get disrobed by a coat hook. But that’s beside the point. I’m here to let you know that I’ve paid Melissa’s taxes. So you won’t be getting your hands on that building.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful news, Jeff. I’m so pleased. I’ve been worried about Melissa. I know it’s hard to let go of that bookstore, but once she realizes she can make money leasing out the space, I know she’ll come around.”
Wait a sec. What the hell was Pam saying? That she didn’t want the building? That she cared about Melissa’s future? “Wait. I’m confused. You don’t want her building?”
“Well, if she wants to sell it, I’m ready to buy it. But I’d rather see her join the rest of the property owners and participate in our downtown restoration project.”
He stood there for a moment trying to figure out which Pam Lyndon was the real one, the woman who had threatened Melissa on Saturday or this sweet Southern lady.
“Sit down, Jeff. Lidia will bring us some tea, and we’ll talk. I can see you’re upset. But, truly, if you’ve paid her taxes, then that’s good news.” Her drawl was suddenly thick as a brick.
“I don’t want any tea or talk, Aunt Pam. What I want is for you to call Melissa Portman and tell her you’re sorry for the way you threatened her. I want you to make it clear that there is no truth to the rumors flying around town that you used me to soften her up so she’d sell out.”
“What? Why are people saying that?”
“I don’t really understand, except that when I introduced myself to her, I dropped the Lyndon from my last name. But now everyone in town thinks I lied because of some nefarious plan you set in motion. Honestly, you need to do some fence mending with some of the Liberty Avenue merchants.”
Pam continued to look at him as if he’d blown in from Mars. “Why on earth did you drop the Lyndon from your last name?”
“Because I don’t want anything to do with any of you, my father most of all. And just so we’re clear, I’ve asked my attorney to begin the process of legally changing my name to Jefferson Talbert.”
“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” she said. “Even if you change your name, you’ll still be family. Don’t let Tom manipulate you, darlin’. We all know your father is a dick.”
“What?” Her words left him breathless.
“You heard me. He’s an idiot and a…Well, I’ve already used language I shouldn’t have used, but in Thomas’s case, it fits the bill. Thomas obviously hasn’t said it recently, or maybe ever, but, Jeff, we’re all so very proud of you.”
Before he could collect himself, Pam stood up. “Wait right there, darlin’. Don’t run away again, please. There’s something you need to hear.”
She left the room, and he started pacing. Had she even heard what he had to say? He didn’t think so. Damn. He came to rest in front of a big window with old glass that gave a slightly wobbly view of the outside.
“Jeff?” an oddly familiar masculine voice said from behind him. Was his father here?
He turned. No. Not Dad. Uncle Mark.
The senator stood beside one of the comfortable easy chairs, wearing a pair of jeans and a golf shirt. The Senate was obviously not in session today.
“I’m so glad you came to find us,” he said, resting his hand on the chair back. “Pam says you’ve been staying up at the fishing cabin. That’s probably the last place any of us would have looked for you.” He chuckled, his brown eyes dancing with some kind of merriment that eluded Jeff.