Forgiving Jackson (11 page)

“Every five minutes, you say you’re going to fire me, like you’re going to throw me out any minute.”

“I’m not going to do that.” He looked up and down the street. “Where is this place?”

“Next to the drugstore on the next block.”

“I know where the drugstore is,” he said defensively.

The crowd was thin today and Jackson pulled into a space right in front of Piece by Piece.

Emory reached for the door handle. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait.” Jackson switched off the motor and turned to her. “I’m a man of my word. I’m not throwing you off of Beauford Bend. I’m going to help you get set up at Firefly Hall just like I said I would.”

“Then you keep threatening me just to remind me that you can fire me at any time?”

“No. I don’t think I need to remind you of that. We both know it. But I won’t. I was kidding you.”

“Forgive me if I don’t think losing my livelihood and home with no notice is funny.”

He nodded. “That’s fair. But keep this in mind: I can’t fire you—not unless I want to run a quilting bee and teach charm school.” He bit his lip and smiled. “Because I have no doubt those people are showing up no matter what.”

She believed him. A weight lifted. “All right. So you’re going to stop threatening me?”

“No, probably not. But I won’t do it.”

“Good enough. I won’t be long.”

He turned his cap around and pulled the bill low. “I’m coming with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I choose to. I might want to commission a quilt with my guitars on it. It would be a good memory for when Sammy lets somebody destroy them all.” He had her door open before she got the chance. “Here.” He took her arm to help her down and she waited for the panic to set in like it usually did when a man touched her. But it didn’t. It hadn’t when he’d helped her into the truck and it hadn’t at first when he’d kissed her.

He retrieved the quilt box and then he touched her again—placed his hand lightly on the small of her back, no doubt just like Amelia had taught him was the correct way for a gentleman to escort a lady. Maybe that’s why she didn’t panic. Amelia had been Jackson’s surrogate mother and Amelia had been her safe place.

Or maybe it was because all of her girlhood crush hadn’t turned to fandom. Maybe there was a little of it left dancing around in a little corner of her heart. She’d do well to remember she wasn’t that girl anymore and that he had told another woman he loved her not an hour ago.

She let him guide her through the door of Noel’s shop.

Walking into Piece By Piece, with its bright fabrics and quilted works of art, was like entering a more innocent time—though she knew there really had never been a more innocent time. There had just been a time when she was more stupid.

Noel had a comfortable little sitting area in front of the fireplace where quilters could come and visit while they worked or get help with a project. Today, the chairs were empty and it would be months before the fireplace would see another fire. Noel was sorting a new order of brightly colored thread.

“Emory!” Noel’s little pixie face lit with a smile and she put aside her task to meet them. “This must be the Gertrude quilt.” It was only then that she looked at Jackson—and froze.

He removed his cap and pulled out a blinding smile. “Jack Beauford. My great-great-grandmother made this quilt. At least that’s what they told me. It was sold during some bad times but I was able to get it back.”

Ha! Like he had driven all over the country himself, seeking the one true quilt, the quilt to rule them all, sleeping in ditches when he had to. And since when had he become a quilt expert? Did he become an expert on whatever the moment called for?
Hello there, Beelzebub. That is a mighty fine grade of brimstone you’ve got there. The better the brimstone, the hotter the fire. Is that a new pitchfork? It looks similar to mine. Is that an inlaid mother-of-pearl handle?
Yeah?
Mine is just like that …

Noel recovered and laughed a little. “I must say I’m surprised to see you, Mr. Beauford.”

“Call me Jack. And I treasure this quilt. I couldn’t trust it to just anyone.” He gave a pointed look to Emory. “Though I know your reputation and I have no problem entrusting it to you. Now, if you’ll just tell me where to put it.”

Noel, usually such a sensible girl, looked smitten. And why not? Here was Jackson Beauford standing in her store pretending to love what she loved.

“I promise you I will take the very best care of it. It’s an honor to work with such a fine piece, not to mention the history it holds. Oh.” Noel gave out a timid little laugh. “Listen to me going on and on. Let me take that.”

“No. No,” Jackson said. “I can’t hand this big old bulky box off to a pretty lady. Just show me where to put it.”

“Back here in my workroom, then.” Noel parted the curtain behind the counter. “Put it on the table, please.”

Emory inspected a display of quilting paraphernalia. Fancy rulers of all kinds, pins and needles in every size, different kinds of scissors—plus lots of stuff Emory had never seen before. Did you really need all this stuff to quilt?

“I used to sleep under that very quilt when I was young,” Jackson said as he emerged from the back room.

“Really?” Noel raised her eyebrows. “That goes to show that a well-made quilt will give service for years in addition to being beautiful. But as time goes on, you really want to be careful of the delicate fabric.”

“I wouldn’t sleep under it now. My aunt put all the old quilts in cases so people can just look at them. I suppose it gets to that point, but it is kind of sad that they’re not being used as they were meant to.”

Noel nodded enthusiastically. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Jackson moved toward the door. “I sure do appreciate you coming out to the house to teach those classes and know those ladies will, too. If there’s anything we can do to make it easier on you, just let Emory know.”

Emory’d had enough of this. She turned to Noel. “Jackson loves to sleep under a quilt. He was just telling me how he wished he had one.”

Noel smiled. “Really? I have a few in stock, and I do custom work.”

“Custom would be what he wants for sure,” Emory said. “If fact, he would like one with guitars. You could do that, couldn’t you, Noel? And not just generic guitars. Jackson collects guitars and he’d want likenesses of those.”

Noel turned to Jackson. “I could. I’ve never done anything quite like that but that’s the work I love best. Making the same old Dresden plate or log cabin would be kind of like if you had to sing the same songs over and over without ever adding anything new.”

Jackson looked at Emory and back again at Noel.

“Tell her, Jackson,” Emory said. “Weren’t you just saying you’d like a quilt with guitars?”

He laughed and turned his cap in his hand. “I
did
say something like that.”

“I’d need to see the guitars and do some sketches. Do you think you’d want embroidery or appliqué? I can do either. It might even be interesting to do a mixture.” Noel turned away and picked up a sketchpad and pencil.

Jackson met Emory’s eyes and mouthed what she was pretty sure was a threat to her life.

“What, Jackson? I didn’t hear you. And, Noel? Money is no object. Jackson wants—”

And then the shop door opened.

It was him!

All the air went out of the room, her lungs, her world. How could it be? He was supposed to be in New York! But it was. Dark hair, same build, same height. And he had a woman with him! Had he hurt her, too? Would he? She needed to warn the woman but she needed to run, too.

What to do? What to do? She closed her eyes and gripped the counter. She wouldn’t be able to hang on long. Her hands were wet and her legs were rubber. Soon, she would fall down, down, down. She’d be on the floor, like before.

Run. She had to run. Or not run but walk. If she walked people wouldn’t know. She would just open her eyes and tell Noel that since she had customers they’d be on their way and—
Noel.
She couldn’t leave him here with Noel. She blindly felt around on the counter until she found a pair of scissors.

When she opened her eyes, Jackson was at her side staring intently.

“Jack Beauford?” a male voice said and he moved closer to them. She couldn’t look but she began to shake. He’d recognized Jackson and pretty soon he would recognize her, too. Then he’d know where she was.

“Emory?” Jackson said under his breath. Then he put an arm around her and pulled her into his side.

And she let him.

He
was holding a hand out toward Jackson. “Nickolai Glazov. We met when you came to a Sound game with Gabe last year.”

Nickolai Glazov?
And he spoke with an accent—Russian, if she wasn’t mistaken. She forced herself to look.

Not him. Not him at all. This time, it was relief that weakened her. If Jackson hadn’t been holding her, she would have fallen.

Now, Jackson and this Nickolai were carrying on and reminiscing. Nickolai played hockey for the Nashville Sound and was friends with Gabe. Jackson had gone with Gabe to a game and the three of them had gone out after. What was Nickolai doing in Beauford? Well, Tewanda here had wanted to come and look at the crafts. Tewanda gushed over Jackson. At some point Jackson introduced them to Noel and Emory.

Emory thought she said something acceptable but mostly she was just glad to breathe.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it seemed like hours before Jackson said, “We’d better get going. Noel, we’ll be in touch.”

Jackson didn’t let go of Emory until they were on the street. Then he put his hands on her shoulders.

“What happened to you in there?” he asked softly.

“What do you mean?” She pulled away from him and started walking toward the truck. She had to get home—back to Beauford Bend where it was safe. Nickolai Glazov might not be a threat to her but he had reminded her that there was a threat around every corner.

“What do I mean?” He appeared in front of her. “You practically fainted in there.”

“I did not. I’ve never fainted in my life. I just got hot.”

“That was it, huh? Except it wasn’t hot in there.”

She needed to get him off this subject. “No? Maybe it was all that hot air you were blowing when you were rhapsodizing about quilts. I’m surprised you didn’t buy a bunch of supplies so you can make your own.”

“I was just trying to be nice. You’re the one who started this quilt business.”

She stepped around him and made it a step closer to the truck. “I have stuff to do. Let’s go.”

His eyes stole down the street and settled on Java Heaven. “Let’s get coffee.”

“No. I told you I was hot.”

“Then iced coffee. Don’t tell me you don’t want some kind of marshmallow caramel butterscotch concoction.” He gave her a challenging look. “It won’t take long.”

Damn it all to hell, how did he know that she never came to town without going to Java Heaven, that she loved to try something new every time, the sweeter and more complicated the better?

But not today.

“I just want to go home!” She hadn’t meant for her voice to come out so desperate.

A soft, knowing look crept into his eyes. He didn’t say anything but he ushered her to the truck and unlocked the door. She pulled out her phone and started to surf the web, though all she was looking for was an excuse not to have to talk.

“I need to go to the bank.” He pulled into Beauford Savings and Loan.

“You can drive through. There’s a teller and an ATM.”

“No. I have to go in.” He pulled into a parking place. “I don’t have a debit card or a checkbook.”

“Then how are you going to get money?”

He laughed a little and looked at her through his eyelashes. “Really?”

Good point. She shrugged and went back to her phone.

“Come with me.” There was a challenge in his tone. She felt the panic burst forth from her face like a stripper jumping out of a cake.

“No. I’ll wait here.” She didn’t look at him but she felt his gaze on her.

After what must have been a full minute, he opened his door. “I thought not.”

When he was gone, her hands began to shake. Now she had an additional fear—keeping her secret. Now that Amelia was gone, no one knew what had happened—and even Amelia hadn’t known the real story, the
true
story. But Jackson Beauford was way too perceptive.
Calm down! He can’t make you tell him. There is nothing to be afraid of. He can guess and speculate from now until Christmas, but if you refuse to talk, he won’t know.

All too soon, he returned.

She glanced at him. “Get your money?”

He nodded.

“Did you cause a riot?”

“Hardly. There were a few people glad to see me, but they were glad to see me before I ever set foot on a stage.”

She nodded. “That’s good.” Surely he would start for home soon. If she could just get there, get to her house, she could lie down for a half hour. Then she’d be as good as new and ready to get to work.

But he just placed his hands on the steering wheel and looked at his lap. “Emory. Emory.” He was quiet for a few seconds, long enough for the sick feeling in her stomach to begin to rumble and rage. “Maybe it’s because I was in a bank but I started adding two and two and coming up with four.”

“Congratulations. That’s the correct answer.”

“Yeah.” He turned and met her eyes. “What happened? You were terrified back there at the quilt store.”

“
Nothing
happened.”

“Don’t lie to me. Nickolai Glazov did something to you and I want to know what it was.”

What?
“No … I—uh. No.” She had not seen that coming.

“You’re lying. The minute he walked in you became terrified. Did you, maybe, date him, and things went wrong? Though that doesn’t make sense. That’s no reason for him to pretend he didn’t know you. Did he hurt you physically in some way? Because if he did—”

“No! He
didn’t
know me. And I’ve never seen him before. You’re wrong.”

“No? Well, I don’t know him either. And he and Gabe are only friendly acquaintances. I think they played in some celebrity golf tournament together one time. So if you’re thinking you can’t tell me because we’re friends with him—”