His and Hers (2 page)

He dug into his pocket, and offered a coin. “Want a wish?”

The girl stared at the gleaming bit of copper in his palm, and flicked a glance back to his. “I d-don’t think so.”

Shoulders back, she blew out a long breath and continued. “Wishing hasn’t helped me much today.”

“Take it.” His hand remained outstretched. Her tone revealed worry he hadn’t sensed. Now, making her smile became priority one. “When someone gives you a wish, it’s bound to come true.”

She screwed her lips, then took and observed the penny. Her eyebrows jogged up as she tossed it over her shoulder.

Together, they turned, watched the sploosh and hollow plunk as it hit the water.

“I haven’t done that since I was a kid.” Solemn no more, her lips radiated a full smile. “Think it’ll work?”

“Absolutely.” His grin erupted from a forgotten place in his heart. Butterflies of notion swirled in his belly—this girl might be his dream, come true.

“They don’t do any good unless there’s action behind them, don’t you think?” Her matter-of-fact tone broke the spell.

He did his best to keep her gaze through those dark lenses. The town square clock chimed its hollow tune.

She looked at her watch and sighed. “I’ve got to go. Thanks, again.” She stood, and gathered up her packages.

He stepped to help, grabbing the biggest box and whooshed out a breath with the unexpected weight. He secured his grip a bit tighter.

“Thanks.” She took a step toward the antique Buick, pointing an elbow. “My car’s over there.”

“Calling that Roadmaster a car is like calling the Titanic a boat.” He huffed.

“Thing for classic cars?”

“Let’s just say…” He adjusted the weight, pulse pounding as he watched her walk. “My folks taught me how to appreciate fine craftsmanship.”

She grinned, angled her attention up, and away to the scattering of clouds.

What a great smile. He stood a little straighter, proud that he was the reason for it. A guy could go his whole life and never make a girl smile like that.

He followed her to the trunk and stood dumbly as she fumbled her keys from an insanely enormous purse. In his mind, he fumbled for a way to ask for her number. Every opening line seemed trite and trivial. The breeze tugged at her red dress. The fabric danced around her shapely, suntanned calves, and left him mute.

Cain settled the large box among her smaller ones. The car sagged under the weight of it. He tapped the label. “San Francisco, huh? You buy Ghirardelli out of chocolate, or something?”

“I wish.” She slammed the heavy steel shut with an elbow, juggling the bakery box. “They’re just my life, in a nutshell.”

His mind flashed with an obscure 90s tune, he sang a riff of the same name, then hummed another bar. When he finished, he shot a smile.

Head cocked at his impromptu performance, she stood silent, brows wrinkled in question.

“Bare Naked Ladies…” he said.

“Um.” She stepped toward the driver’s door. “I’ve gotta go.”

“You know—the Canadian band.” He named a few tunes that had been more popular, talking faster as he went. “They thought that name would draw in a bigger crowd. Worked, too.”

She hugged the strap of her purse a little tighter, glanced over each shoulder, and then back to him.

By the worried look on her face, he’d sailed past going nowhere with her, and headed straight into disasterville. He raked a hand through his hair. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Not really, no.” She kept her gaze trained on him and reached into her bag again.

He cringed with the thought of her reaching for mace, or a Tazer-gun, or some other weapon. At this point, he wouldn’t blame her if she did. “Never mind.” He held up both hands in defeat. “I’ll just quit while I’m ahead.”

“You think you’re ahead?” she asked, taking off the glasses and slipping them into the case she’d unearthed.

Sans Audrey Hepburn frames, she revealed an angel’s face. Soft, green eyes widened in good humor. He noticed a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her rosebud lips repeated that heavenly smile.

The breeze tugged and blew her sandy-blonde curls, danced them into her eyes and away again. “Thanks for the help.”

“My pleasure.” He meant it, and leaned to reach inside the driver’s door. The handle jiggled, but the door didn’t budge. Locked.
Smooth move, buddy.

“Here.” She reached in and pulled up the lock through the open window, a slight snort to her chuckle. “Let me help you.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward, and joined her with a solid roll of laughter. Their elbows bumped, and arms brushed. The lightning shock of her soft, warm skin sizzled humor into a jolt of heat. He met her gaze, dead on. “Any time.”

She stood tall and willowy, about five foot nine—he calculated—to his five foot ten. Sometimes being shorter was a good thing, especially when you could stand eye to eye with such a beauty.

“It’s been fun, but I’d better go.” She chewed her lip and shrugged. “It’s getting late.”

He nodded, but waited her out.

The thin strap of the red dress slipped off her shoulder. She pushed it up into place, and shrugged. “It’s Tuesday.”

His thoughts shot from the curve of her neck to what she was saying.
Tuesday Martin? What?
“You know Tuesday?” Cain blinked.

She slid behind the wheel and angled her gaze to his, keeping one brow arched. “Tuesday comes after Monday? And before Wednesday?”

It’s official. She thinks I’m nuts.

“Right. Happens every week.” His stuttering laugh caught in his throat. “Sorry. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer today.”

The car door was a lead weight in his hand as he shut it. In jeans and his work shirt, he couldn’t have felt less like a gentleman.

“See you around.” She twisted the key into the ignition. The antique Buick roared to life then sputtered to rumbling. “Maybe on a Wednesday next time?”

“That’s a date.” He laughed aloud, relief flooding his veins, his gaze trained on the beauty and her classic car, as she drove out of sight.

Chapter Two

Driving back to Grandma’s house, Misty’s mind turned around the scene at the fountain from moments before. What kind of guy stops to help a girl move heavy boxes? Or works so hard to make her laugh? His goofy antics brought a giggle as she flicked a glance to the rearview. He remained where she’d left him, gaze trained on the Buick’s fins. She signaled, turned, and left him behind.

She’d almost dove into that deep blue funk of depression. He’d kept her on the edge, and pushed her back. Only, she couldn’t explain the packages without discussing the reasons that had sent her away from her home, her job, her ex-fiancé. Like a bad movie, she relived the moment at the shipping depot.

The three boxes sat waiting at the counter. A quick check showed box one, two, three of three, emblazoned on the labels. The fourth one, the one Todd knew she wanted—needed—was nowhere. Its absence, by default, became the ransom for her ultimate freedom. After all her planning, she’d have to talk to him again.

She’d seen the parcels waiting at the pack mail, and known instantly the contents of each. By keeping the fourth, small box—filled with mementos from her grandmother’s past—she knew Todd had won another round of their six-month battle. Retrieving her final belongings should have been her freeing moment! When she finally could immerse herself in her new life in Long Valley.

Silence deafened along with the wind. Radio off, she cruised out of town toward the house on the hill, her thoughts drifting to the man who’d shattered her heart, and ruined her career. Hip deep in trouble, she had dragged her grandmother right along with her.

She pulled into the garage with a slight brake-squeal, cut the engine, and went inside. Grandma wasn’t downstairs in the kitchen. The sound of the bath running upstairs showed she had some time left—a glance at the wall clock showed Grandma’s guests wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. She set the bakery box on the kitchen counter and returned to drag her belongings upstairs and stash them in her room along the wall. Misty plopped on her bed, observing them with a sigh.

The majority of her things—furniture, dishes, collected knickknacks both from college and her production career—were safely in storage, waiting for her to decide what to do with her life. When she’d called Todd the week before with news that she’d forgotten to clear out the hall closet, she realized her grievous error in an instant.

He’d gotten curious.

Should have just sucked it up and driven up to retrieve them for the knock-down, face to face confrontation, she knew. Instead, she’d chickened out in favor of a phone call to the tabloid journalist she’d once shared her heart with. She’d begged her request long-distance. He’d reviewed her words and found the seed of untruth hidden there.

Misty ran grateful hands over her returned possessions, knowing what was in each box by size and feel. One held photo albums from her early days as a production assistant, after college. The other held a few jumbled awards from film school. The biggest one contained snow boots, sweaters, and jackets. She bit back a curse at the one that wasn’t there—the box she needed over all the others.

No chance he’d missed the small box on the top shelf, tucked in among his old yearbooks and stacked sweaters. She imagined him opening it, discovering Grandma Nona’s letters and journals, worth more than their weight in gold, still at their place in the city. No. That wasn’t right. The place was his now. She didn’t have a home anymore, save for what Grandma provided here in Long Valley.

Misty dragged her hands through her hair. Another betrayal from Todd—earlier, she’d intended to stewing over this for days, and perhaps driving out to see him in person. Her belly knotted at the thought, and she kicked her right foot at the bottom box. The top package shifted, teetered, and righted itself, revealing a bright, blue piece of paper. She tugged it free and unfolded the page, a black photocopied image of the guy from the fountain, playing guitar, perched on a stool in front of a microphone.

Long Valley Olive Oil Company presents Cain Trovato…

Cain.
Anger evaporated like water on the warm concrete of that pretty fountain at town square.

He’d had strong looking hands—a musician’s hands—she realized. He’d looked directly at her, talked with such animated, bumbling enthusiasm that brought to mind how her grandmother’s fans must have gazed upon her back in the day. He’d stumbled over his words, helping her move those boxes, trying too hard—a leading man in a comedy of errors. She hadn’t even asked his name. Was this how he planned on introducing himself?

“Cain Trovato plays classical guitar,” she read aloud. Hand to heart, she warmed at the thought of him. Rugged features. Totally approachable. Unlike Todd, with his towering, put-together physique, metro-sexual grooming habits and wardrobe. This Cain Trovato was unlike Todd in every way, a world apart from well-worn jeans and t-shirt, to his long hair and days-past-shave jawline.

Maybe there were still such things as heroes—handsome, strong, and brave. Lord knew she would never again fall for the villain.

****

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Cain replayed the event in his mind, wondering how he could have acted cooler, instead of acting the dopey do-gooder. Had she found the paper he’d tucked inside the box? Would she come to the event? Why hadn’t he even given his name or asked for hers?

Pursing his lips, Cain forced his thoughts from the debacle by the fountain. He tucked the thinning stack of astro-bright flyers under one arm and the staple gun in his hip pocket, an eye to shop windows for good spots to paste his ads in a rather sorry rendition of Gary Cooper in
High Noon
.

By the time he reached Hanks Hardware Store, he had only a few pages left. Have to stop by the copy shop for some more tomorrow, he thought, placing a free hand to the glass door. Maybe he’d catch sight of the beautiful blondie trolling around old town in her classic car. Maybe he’d be brave enough to ask her for a coffee. Dinner and a show. A long weekend drive up the coast.

Yeah,
Cain entered the brightly lit hardware shop.
And maybe he’d sprout wings and fly.
A bell at the door chimed, announcing his arrival. He inhaled the oily scents of building materials, sawdust, and garden soil.

“Afternoon.” Hank tossed up a greeting without looking up. “Give a shout if you can’t find what you’re lookin’ for.”

“Sure thing.” Cain smiled and strolled to the counter. He walked by rows of shelves lined with tidy bins full of silver screws, nuts, bolts, and nails to the orderly racks of rakes, shovels, hammers, and measure tapes along the wall. This place never failed to feel like home.

Unlike at the mega stores off the highway, Hank’s customers were always greeted by the owner. A stick candy jar sat on the counter. All the kids in Long Valley knew they only had to say “please” and “thank you” to get a piece.

He swept his gaze across the aisles to the top shelves against the walls. Bedecked in forties era Rosie Riveter ads, along with antique picks, shovels, and wheelbarrows—the shop displayed memories of days gone by, when Hank’s father ran the business.

No cobwebs dared touch the corners of the room, nor the pendant lamps that hung from the wood ceiling beams. Cain just thanked heaven that it wasn’t his job any longer to dust, polish, or make them gleam.

His neck crawled at the memory of coming face to face with a massive black widow in the far back corner when he was in middle school. The bite that landed him in the hospital, and nearly killed him. A chill skittered across his neck, rattled his shoulders, but he brushed away the thought with a swift headshake.

The key-copy machine filled the air with its haphazard screech and buzz. Behind the counter, burly, white-haired Hank Huckleberry turned knobs to manufacture a new set.

On the customer side, Cain recognized Hank’s elderly mother, Mrs. H. She stood primly, purse in hand, next to her bookend, Mrs. McMurphy from the bank. They peered at the bump and brush, observing the fine art of copying keys. The two women looked up at his approach.

“Hey, Cain!” Hank nodded, releasing the screws. His wire brush set to reeling, and he dusted them off. “Mom. You remember Cain, don’t you? Still helps out now and again.”

“Of course.” Mrs. H. smiled. “Look, Rose. It’s Cain Trovato.”

Cain looked from Mrs. Huckleberry’s dyed-reddish hair to the Lava soap display at her elbow. Same shade of red.

“I see him every week when he makes his deposit at the bank. Or at least, I used to.” Mrs. McMurphy nodded hello and tucked at her loosening gray hair. “Your sister, Desiree, does most of the deposits these days.”

“That’s right.” He offered his best boyish grin. “Des minds the store in town. I’m in the field more often than not.”

“You still doing handyman work, Cain?” Mrs. H. peered through her eyeglasses.

“Only once in awhile,” he admitted with a shrug, catching Hank’s scowl. He turned to the women, leaned a hip against the counter, took a piece of stick candy for himself, and offered a nod of thanks to Hank. “I’ll still do the odd job now and then. If the client’s cute enough.”

“Hmph.” Hank looped the new gold keys on a ring, handing them over to his mother’s waiting hands. “You’ve worked with me since I gave you a few dollars for sweeping out the store. Who am I supposed to recommend to folks now?”

“That’s a family business for you, Hank.” Mrs. H. patted her son’s hand, making the fifty-year-old Hank’s scowl disappear. “Remember when you took over for Dad?”

“She’s right.” Cain fought back a laugh, handing over a flyer. “Things are really picking up with the olive grove. The whole family’s pitching in to help now.”

“Plus, you have a place to show off your talent.” Hank brushed a hand over his clean-shaven chin and glanced at his mother. “You’ve heard Cain play guitar, haven’t you, Mom?”

“No. I’ve not had the pleasure.” She shot an apologetic smile toward Cain. “Although, Rose and I are enrolled in the art class at the senior center. The instructor mentioned something about Still Life with Music in tomorrow’s session?”

“That’s right!” Rose squeezed his arm. “I believe your name was mentioned…?”

Cain’s ears heated. “Yeah. I told that gal, Diane—from The Flower Field—that I’d help out. She wanted some Spanish guitar music in the background while the students paint.”

“Is Diane your girlfriend?” Mrs. H. prodded, eyebrows rising above the level of her fifties-style glasses.

“Nope.” Cain laughed. “We’re just friends.”

“Pity…” Rose screwed her lips together. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not at present,” Cain admitted. What was it with old ladies wanting to see every single person they knew hooked up? “I’m still waiting for Miss Right to bop along.”

“Now that is a shame. You’re too handsome to be alone. Talented. Mature.” Mrs. H. tilted her head, gaze moving across his features as if selecting a ripe fruit. “Isn’t he a catch, Rosie?”

“He is.” Rose nodded. “Somewhere out there, a lucky girl’s just waiting for a strong, talented man like you.”

“Please, ladies. I’m blushing here.” Cain tugged at his collar as they zeroed in on him.

They tittered a laugh in unison as he backed his way out of the hardware store.

“You know…” Door in hand, he paused, the image of the blonde at the fountain flashing through his mind. “You two matchmakers might save yourselves the trouble.” He shot the two a winning smile. “If you can tell me who drives a late fifties Roadmaster. That’s the gal I’ve got my eye on.”