Danger, Sweetheart (20 page)

“You, um, okay?” Natalie was trying, and failing, to suppress a grin.

“Oh, of course, never better, my shattered ribs are mere flesh wounds. Stop that!” he snapped as she collapsed into giggles.

“Sorry. I am, I promise— Look, I've had that happen to me. Rookie mistake, letting her get you between her and the wall, and I warned you, Blake; you know I did. I know exactly how it feels, and it's not funny, it isn't; it's just— Your expression—you're usually so cool and collected—”

“Usually my breathing is unimpeded by several hundred pounds of smelly equine!”

At that, the lady lost it and reached for him, clutching his arms to steady herself, and Blake instantly recovered from his snit. Even at 7:00
A.M.
she looked wonderful, the rising sun bathing her in golden light as she berated him for not putting the tractor away. But she also looked wonderful at 7:00
P.M.
, when she was dusty from eyebrows to heels and berating him for hiding Margaret of Anjou's salt lick.

Once he could breathe without bursting into tears, he asked Natalie to lunch again, she accepted between giggles (to his astonished pleasure), and the morning flew. He was in such good humor he only peripherally noticed his throbbing hands. They were the last part of him to acclimate to his new work schedule, the only part, he thought, left of the old Blake, lonely single Anglophile (though only Anglos from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries) and history nerd. Pre-Heartbreak, his greatest physical exertion had been using the hotel's treadmill at 2:30
A.M.
, often with a copy of
Lancaster and York: The Wars of the Roses and the Foundation of Modern Britain
on the display screen in front of him.

In what was objectively three hours and twenty-seven minutes, and subjectively eight seconds, they'd left Heartbreak and were seated on the B and B's south-facing porch. There were several small tables set with crisp linen and spotless pale blue china, and frosty pitchers of booze-ade (according to their hostess) beading with condensation were kept brimming.

“Careful,” Natalie counseled. “You can't taste the booze, which is problematic because it's basically all booze. Easy to end up on your ass.”

“Noted.” Blake shrugged off the warning. He was a large man and had excellent tolerance. Las Vegas practically had bars in church, and he'd been holding his liquor since he was nineteen.

“Not sure if you knew; this is the only B and B in town now,” Natalie explained, refilling both their glasses, “but the good news is, it's excellent.”

“I haven't been back since I started at Heartbreak.” He thought of the Blake of nearly a month ago with a combination of fondness and contempt.
Poor idiot never had a chance. His fate was sealed the moment he didn't die in a train crash.
“It's charming.” He sipped his booze-ade and managed to not smack his lips. It was delightful, lemon juice, sugar syrup that had been steeped in rosemary sprigs, sparkling water, something else he couldn't identify. Thirst quenching and so refreshing! “My mother likes it here quite a lot.” And Nonna had better, since her only other lodging option was the Sleep Inn just out of town on Highway 19. The good news was, he had prevaricated about his arrival time, wanting some time alone with Natalie before they were nuked.

“Back in the day, it won awards. And somebody wrote to
Bon Appétit
for one of their recipes. Their muesli, I think.”

Blake grimaced. “I never cultivated a taste for cold, raw oatmeal.”

“Savage.” She snickered. “Have something else, then. Last call isn't for a few hours.”

“That's amazing.”

Natalie stared at him. She'd taken a quick shower back at the farmhouse and her hair was a damp helmet that clung to her finely shaped skull, tendrils curling here and there.
“
The weirdest things impress you. What's amazing about last call?”

“Las Vegas, remember? New York is not the only city that never sleeps. I was twenty-three before I ever heard the phrase ‘last call' in a bar. My brother and I always assumed it was one of those things people say in movies that no one says in real life.”

She shook her head, smiling. “You're so easy to impress sometimes.”

“In fact, I'm not. It's just…”
You
. “… this place.”
And you, in this place
.

Blake ordered the special; Natalie had the gazpacho, which came with a small loaf of the potato bread the B and B was famous for. Natalie made him try the heel and it was excellent, with a crisp crust and pillowy texture. He asked to try her soup and was surprised and pleased when she scooped some into her spoon and fed it to him. He made a determined effort

Her mouth was on this! And now the thing that was in her mouth is in my mouth!
The thing that was in her mouth is in my mouth! Which should not be arousing but is! Oh my God oh my God ohmyGod!

and the first sip of ripe tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers and garlic tasted like summer. He blurted, “Sweetheart might not be the doomed enterprise you fear,” and returned to trying not to wolf his entrée, aware that his table manners had deteriorated due to near-constant hunger.

“Okay, that came out of nowhere.”

“It did not, because it's the main issue of contention in this town. It's why I'm here; it's why you're
still
here. Everyone talks about Garrett's dreadful golf course like it's a fait accompli, but that's inaccurate.”

“Okay, I'm listening.” She was giving him most of her attention, which, given that he knew how delicious the soup was, was terribly flattering. “You've got a point; if it really was a lost cause, what's any of it for?”

“Sweetheart can come back from this.”

Her eyebrows arched in skepticism as she helped herself to more bread, which she would dunk in the soup and slurp down, soup sometimes dribbling down her chin. On anyone else, it would not have been enchanting.

“It can be done,” Blake insisted as if she'd argued. “There are historical accounts of abandoned towns—ghost towns, places in much worse shape than Sweetheart—reviving and even flourishing.”

“Okaaaay…”

“Alexandria!”

“The one in Minnesota?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, I'm gonna need more than that.”

He lowered his voice, realizing he'd shouted. It was getting warm on the porch, and he needed more booze-ade to rehydrate. “Once, it was the second-largest city in Egypt. It hit a sizeable decline during the Middle Ages but surged back in the eighteen-hundreds and millions live there now.”

“Okay, first off, Heartbreak being stone dead for centuries before surging back doesn't help the people here now. And I don't want millions of people. None of us do; fifteen thousand or so would be plenty. Ten, even.”

“And in a perfect world? If nine thousand people showed up tomorrow? Is it enough?”

She was nodding again even before he'd finished speaking; she had considered this more than once. “If Garrett's deal bit the big one and the Nazis at Putt N'Go sold the farms back, if once we got them back we could hang on to them, we just need one good growing season.
One
. It wouldn't be an instant fix—there's no instant fix—but the cash from the crops would be a major foot in the door; if we can get that much done we've got a chance to bring it all the way back.”

He nodded. “Yes, I remember the spreadsheets.” They were many and varied, and there were nights he fell asleep on them (he only had time to read them in bed).

“Right, we don't need a balance sheet—not for this part, anyway—because that only indicates one moment in time. We've got to think in terms of a P and L statement, since that covers a period of time—months, quarters, years, whatever.”

“You know quite a lot about finance.” Was there anything Natalie couldn't do? When she wasn't giving the tractor an oil change she was holed up in the house crunching numbers. When she wasn't showing him the quickest, easiest way to muck out a stall she was shooing deer out of the kitchen garden. (Deer, he had discovered, were plentiful and stupid in this part of the world. He was beginning to suspect God wanted them all to die, as they had no protective instincts Blake could discern. He practically had to elbow them out of his way some mornings.) “You could teach a course in such things.”

“Yeah, uh, sure, what, you're surprised?” Rattled for some reason, Natalie had quit drinking the booze-ade and switched to water, which she now guzzled. She put the glass down and panted, “All farmhands know that stuff. Practically a job requirement up here.”

“I was unaware.”

She let out an inelegant, lovely snort. “I'll bet.”

He held up his hands as if being arrested. “I'm not belittling you. I think you're wonderful.”
Idiot!
“Um. The spreadsheets, the proposals. Those are the things that are wonderful. Which is what I meant when I said they were wonderful. The spreadsheets. Not you.”
Christ. Why not just pull her pigtail and run away, you jackass?

Luck was with him and she was distracted, because she gasped and grabbed his wrists, then yanked them toward her. His chest socked against the edge of the table and he stifled a grunt as she glared at his palms. “Jesus, Blake! What have you been doing?”

“Er…”
Not like her to ask questions when she knew the answers.
“Working?”

“Right, dumb question. Listen, you've got to take better care of these. Cripes, you've got blisters on top of blisters.”

“Well. I have a lot to do.”

“You don't want to leave Sweetheart with hooks instead of hands.”

I'm starting to lean toward not leaving at all. Wait. Where had
that
come from?

“You need to wash these out,” she continued, “and then go heavy on the antibacterial cream. Several times a day if necessary, okay? Jeez, why didn't you say anything? Never mind. I know why you didn't.” She hadn't let go of him, just kept scowling at his hands. “I'm sorry; I should have told you.”

“You did.” He hadn't believed her, then.

“More than once, I mean. How were you supposed to know?”

“Thank you, I—”

“Look who it is!”

They both glanced up; Blake had been so enchanted with Natalie's hands in his he hadn't noticed Roger coming up to them. Even better, even more wonderful, Roger had the White Rose of York on a small pink leash. Not just pink, he realized after a closer look. The leash had a pink-and-black background; the foreground was decorated with little pink skulls.

“Hello.” Natalie had let go of him

(sigh)

and he turned to her. “Natalie, this is Roger—” She smiled a little and Blake realized he was introducing people who had likely known each other for years.
Idiot.
“Never mind.”

“Hi, Rog.”

“Natty.”

She sighed. “Not since I was ten, Rog.”

Blake was beaming, delighted. “Natt—”

“Stop now if you want to live to see the sun go down,” she warned, and he cut himself off. “You've got great manners, but I don't need you to introduce me to anyone living in this town, because oh what the hell?” She had, Blake realized, belatedly noticed the White Rose of York. If he had been blessed (cursed?) with Rake's ego, Blake could convince himself Natalie was so interested in him, or his ugly hands, she failed to notice a leashed piglet in the vicinity. But no. Impossible. Perhaps even Rake's ego wasn't that strong.

“Sorry, I was remiss.” Blake again managed not to snicker. “This is Roger's pig, the White Rose of York.”

“Oh come on!” she moaned, covering her eyes. “What is the deal with weird names since you got to town?”

Roger, meanwhile, was beaming while the piglet trotted close to Blake, who reached down and scratched behind her ears. The piglet let loose with a blissful
unf unf unffff
and the small curly tail wiggled in delight.

“Shannah thought it up; she's a smart gal. Shannah, I mean, not the White Rose of York.” Roger paused and scratched his fringe. He was dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved red shirt, running shoes. His hat was in his hand; Roger had snatched it off his head when he'd spotted Natalie. “Though she's not dumb or anything, either.”

“She's almost twice as big as last time!” Blake was amazed. Was the White Rose of York some sort of porcine mutant?

Natalie was smiling at him. “She likes you.”

“They are social creatures. And quite intelligent, and inquisitive as well. Did you know they—” Blake stopped when he realized he was explaining pigs to a farmhand and a pig farmer.

Natalie didn't seemed irked, thank heavens. “They're great; we all thought it was hilarious when they were the trendy pet in Hollywood for a while. Not sure if your research covered this, but pigs convert food to mass faster than almost anything. She'll be huge. Which is fine, because, you know: pig. Just … don't get attached.”

“No?”

“Blake, this isn't a petting zoo.”

“There must be some middle ground between petting zoo and wholesale slaughter.”

Natalie started rubbing her forehead. “Oh, boy.”

“You haven't gone to all this trouble—protecting her from her siblings and teaching her how to use a litter box—simply to kill and devour the White Rose of York, right? Roger? I'm right?”

There was a long pause, which was answer enough. “But this is nonsense. And it's awful to think about.”

“Maybe don't think about it then?” Roger asked.

“Never! That way lies tyranny.” Natalie groaned; Blake ignored her and pressed harder.

“The White Rose of York is very high on the adorability scale, and she's quite intelligent, too. How can you even think of consuming a creature so charming and lively?”