“Just this once.” She rose from behind her desk. “Want one, Fleming?”
With brandy, for goodness’ sake. “Yes, please.”
“I’ll bring it in.”
Jason went into his office and Fleming followed.
“Where do we start?” he asked.
No need to beat around the bush. “I’m going to save the store.”
“Are you sure?” He took a stack of papers from his desk and then came to the sofa, where she’d already taken the same seat she’d occupied the other day.
“Maybe I can help you, too.” He lifted the first page and glanced toward the doorway. “Like with Fred,” he said.
It seemed clear that he was trying to tell her he didn’t care more for her than he should. She was just another victim of the bank’s bad loan officer.
She knew Jason’s plans. He was leaving town as soon as he finished this unwelcome favor.
“I’m happy to take advice,” Fleming said, purposefully rejecting the idea that it would come straight from him.
“I have a few suggestions.”
“But you won’t be here.” She closed her eyes briefly, determined to fight her own inner demons. Since the day her father had walked out of her life, she’d mistrusted men in authority. And yet let a guy go out of his way to help someone, and she couldn’t restrain herself from being attracted. “And I can’t entirely trust a bank that agrees I can afford their loan.”
“I’m not pretending it will be easy, but maybe we can streamline your processes in the shop to save some overhead. Spend more wisely.”
She lifted her chin. “The shop is still mine. I make the decisions.”
“You have three days to change your mind, Fleming. Don’t let the deadline pass.”
AFTER ENDURING FRED’S shouting and Fleming’s prickly mood, Jason ducked past the registration desk in the hotel that night. It usually took a few weeks for him to get this anxious to leave a work site.
He’d made a mistake. He should have stayed downstairs and asked if he had unexpected company, because a tall, thin woman in a worn dress was waiting beside his door. She blushed and smiled at him, but tears welled in her eyes.
“Mr. Macland?”
“Jason,” he said automatically.
“I’m Rachel Limber.”
“Fred’s wife?” Should he brace for a fight or help her down the stairs?
She held out a Santa-decorated tin. “I make homemade fudge,” she said. “It’s really good, and right now it’s pretty much all we have to offer as a thank-you.”
“Oh.” He took the metal container and shook her hand at the same time. “You didn’t have to go to the trouble.”
“I wanted to. Fred came home hopeful, and for that, I owe you. That old shop of his is mud and oil and nasty smells, but only to me. To him, it’s his favorite place in the whole world. I don’t know what he’d do if he lost it.”
That sounded familiar. Fleming had said the same thing—how many times? “I guess some walls and a place with memories can matter that much, Mrs. Limber.”
“It does to Fred. I was ready to give up and move to Knoxville, but our family’s here.”
Jason smiled. “Remind Fred he can call me or email anytime.”
“Thanks.” She looked at him closely. “I knew your grandmother.”
His grandparents had sold their home and moved to New York to help with Jason. Their support had become ever more vital to his father, who’d managed to retain custody of Jason’s younger sisters and brother as he divorced their mothers.
Robert Macland’s parents had given the family stability. Safety.
“I don’t think she ever came back here. She or my grandfather.” Jason had taken his grandparents so much for granted that he’d never thought to ask if they missed the place.
Why hadn’t he asked? Self-absorption must be a genetic trait.
“I wish she had. She was good friends with my mom. I know she would have been welcome.” Rachel Limber hooked her purse more securely over her arm and turned toward the stairs. “People shouldn’t disappear from each other’s lives. That’s what I hate most about this bank thing. You’re helping Fred, but you were too late for some.”
He nodded. “My grandfather asked me to come and to move quickly.”
“Good people, your grandparents, but we all knew your father. This little world was never going to be big enough for him. Merry Christmas, Jason. I hope I’ll see you around town.”
He stared after her, listening to the clack of her heels on the wooden stairs. Hadn’t he said almost the same thing about his father to Fleming? The small town of Bliss seemed to be closing in on him.
In his suite, Jason tossed the big key that weighed down his jacket pocket onto a table in front of the fireplace. He set the tin of fudge beside it.
Aromas from downstairs drifted up. His stomach growled as he glanced at the mail. He considered phoning down for dinner, but then rejected the idea, striking a long match to the logs and kindling waiting on the hearth.
He turned back to the stack of letters that he’d collected from his temporary post office box. Even in an age where a man did most of his correspondence via email, he still received a bundle of mail most days.
A long, lavender envelope caught his eye. Not the envelope, but the penmanship. Fat, round writing that was familiar because he’d read every line in every one of the day planners his mother had left behind when she’d abandoned him and his father. He stared at the name on the return address: Teresa Macland Brown.
It left him feeling as dazed as if he’d stormed headfirst into a wall.
His mother had written to him?
She’d hardly ever bothered. No cards, no emails, though he’d written to her almost the first moment he’d set up his own email address. He’d searched for her contact information on his father’s computer.
Secretly. Because Robert had been so angry at his wife’s disappearance that he had discouraged Jason from trying to get in touch with her. He’d reminded Jason regularly that she would only hurt him again.
Jason had never forgotten that last morning with her.
After an earsplitting argument between his parents, Jason’s mother had called a porter to take her luggage down to the street, and then she’d left. Jason sneaked into the elevator of their Manhattan loft to follow her, but she didn’t even wait for her bags. She was running out of the building’s other elevator as the doors opened on Jason’s.
He hurried after her, but when he reached the glass doors in the lobby, someone tall grabbed his shoulders and jerked him back.
“Careful, son, that’s a busy street out there.” It was the doorman.
Jason’s mother had run, sobbing, into the arms of a pale-haired man. He’d tipped up her face and wiped at her cheekbones with his thumbs. Then he’d kissed her with a tenderness that made Jason feel sick, because the man wasn’t his dad.
The runaway couple had scrambled into a waiting cab as if they couldn’t escape fast enough. With a jolt, the vehicle had started forward, and his mother and the stranger had disappeared into the flow of traffic.
She’d