If Harry hadn’t been shamed into doing those things in the past thirty years, it was a cinch he wasn’t responsible for the improvements-and neither were the two part-time waitresses who’d worked there forever. So Daisy was transforming the place. The mystery was how a woman who presented herself as willful and spoiled and used to the good life could be such a worker.
Too many customers talking for him to hear everything Daisy said, but as he walked a few feet closer, he picked up some of her comments.
“You’re so right, Ted. I
“I’ll bet you lived in some really fancy places.”
“Oh, yes. Aix-en-Provence was one of my favorites. It’s a town for artists, with cobblestone streets and fountains all over the place and enchanting little squares. And then there was Bonnieux. There’s a hotel there that has the best food I’ve ever eaten, not just gourmet or gourmand but beyond anything you could dream of…
She spotted him, took in a breath and then lifted five fingers in the air. Five minutes? He nodded a no-sweat. He could see that, as lazy as she was talking, she was dishing out confections and swooping away empty plates.
“And then there’s the fabulous area around Fragonard and Molinard-that’s flower country, and in the spring and summer, they grow lavender, roses, carnations, violets, jasmine… You wanted another slice of cheesecake, didn’t you, Moore?”
A foolish question, Teague thought. Moore wanted anything she dished out in any form.
“Boats, too?”
“Ah, yes. We spent months on different yachts around the Riviera. Jean-Luc was always getting an invitation from…” She sashayed over to him and whispered, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to be late. But Harry had to pick up something, said he’d be back five minutes ago. I can leave the instant he returns, okay?”
“Totally okay.”
He never asked, but she brought him a cookie and mug of fresh almond coffee without ever breaking stride, still keeping up with the guys and their questions and orders at the same time. Teague wondered if any of them remotely realized that she was working. Her slow, lazy voice created pictures of nude beaches and the Riviera and women decked-out in jewels, long yachts and buttery mornings and sun-soaked skin and nothing to do but be rich and indulge oneself.
Ten minutes later she’d hooked a jacket and they escaped. “That was a terrific cookie,” he said.
“Nah. Not terrific, but a pretty good recipe. It was the lavender idea that Harry bought into. He was suspicious, but he said he’d try anything to see if he could bring in some customers this time of year. And my sister ran the herb haven for years, so I had an inside to the best lavender source anywhere on the planet.”
He stopped her mid street, pulled on her sleeve. Immediately she turned her face up to him-her normal face, her normal voice. Fresh skin, honest eyes, the soft, soft mouth. Striking, yes, even disconcertingly beautiful, but that whole exotic spoiled-woman look had completely disappeared.
He kissed her, just to get a taste. To make sure he was with Daisy and not that confusing woman who’d been weaving those stories in the cafe.
“Hey,” she murmured, when he lifted his head and frowned at her. “What was that about?”
“I didn’t want to kiss you,” he assured her. “I was just trying to practice being a pickpocket.”
“Huh?” She plunged her hands into her jacket pockets. Her right one emerged with a small square box. Inside was a perfect four-leaf clover immersed in clear resin. Her lips parted and then she looked up at him again, this time with more vulnerability in her eyes than he’d seen even when they’d been naked.
“This is for me? You bought this for me?”
“Nope. I didn’t buy it.” The look on her face was damn near close to his downfall. He knew-from all the evidence-that she was used to all kinds of expensive stuff, so there’d been no point in trying to outbuy what she already had or was used to. In fact, it’d been damn scary trying to think up something to give her at all…but he’d wanted to.
“But then how-hey, you’re rushing me along!”
“I know, but we’re really getting late now, because first we have to go to my house. Get you familiar with the car. Then you can drive to the Shillings’ behind me-”
“Teague. It’s beautiful. More than beautiful. It’s fresh and different and personal and…perfect.”
“Yeah, I liked it, too.” He tried to keep up a galloping pace, so she had a hard time keeping up with him, but somehow she still managed to cavort ahead for a second to get a good look at his face.
“You really didn’t buy it?”
“Nope.”
“Then you
“Are you kidding? No one can make four-leaf clovers.”
“I meant the resin. You sealed it in the perfect resin.”
“I might have.” That was the most he was willing to admit to-at least until he saw how she drove.
The Shillings were expecting him around two, and their house was only a hop-skip from his. But as his white pickup took the curves, she held the four-leaf clover, kept looking at it. And then at him. And then at the road. Hell, had no one ever given her anything that didn’t have a price tag attached to it?
“I haven’t been on these roads in years,” she said quietly. Down Cooper Street, across the creek, came a section everyone called Firefly Hollow. “Does every teenager in the country make out here in the summer like they used to?”
“That was the in spot for kids, huh?”
Obviously, there were no fireflies now, but in the summer the leaves formed a cool, fragrant canopy overhead. In fall the colors were brilliant; in summer fireflies danced in the shady arch. Now it was just a dip in shade and memories. Past the hollow, his white pickup climbed the hill and curved around Swisher’s land-Old Man Swisher had a pond.
“Most of the farmers around here have ponds, but his was our swimming spot, because there’s a big old cottonwood tree with a limb that was just perfect for swinging into the water.”
“So…every single one of your memories of White Hills was bad?”
She lifted her brows. “Good grief, no. It was a great place to grow up. It’s just…”
She never got around to finishing that thought. They passed red barns and white fences, hillsides that would be taken over by clover and buttercups in the summer. Patches of elms and big old sugar maples dotted the landscape, but they were naked now, revealing the underside of their character. Past the red covered bridge, he turned in the first drive.
“Car’s in the garage. I’ve already got the key.”
She balked. “What? You mean we’re not going to go in?”
“In? Now? We have to be at the Shillings’ in a few minutes.”
“But you haven’t shown me your house.” She looked with interest at the white-shuttered stone bungalow.
“We can do that another time.” If he didn’t get this car thing over with soon, he was too likely to have a heart attack. “You know how to drive a stick shift, don’t you?”
“Teague, I grew up on a farm. Of course I can drive a stick. Oooh.” When he popped the button on the garage door, she saw his baby. Actually, he figured all she saw was an old car. Someone who didn’t know about old Volkswagen Golf GTi’s was hardly going to be impressed. But she was a nice shiny black. Waxed to within an inch of her life.
“Isn’t she pretty,” Daisy raved. “No wonder you’re in love with her. What a darling.”
He relaxed. A little. “You like her.”
“What’s not to love. And not a scratch on her.”
“Not one,” he agreed. Carefully. “You
Daisy laughed-right in his face, even if it was a kindly kind of chuckle. And then she motioned to the keys by waggling her fingers in the universal gimme gesture. “We’d better get a test drive over with, Larson, before you have a stroke. Try and stop worrying, okay? If you can’t handle it, you can take back the offer to use your car, no problem.”
