Return to Oak Valley (9 page)

Working at Heather-Mary-Marie's had been fun, and she remembered her pleasure that last summer when Cleopatra, the owner, had allowed her to tag along to one of the trade shows and help select gift items for the store. But more than gifts were to be found in Heather-Mary-Marie's. A few books occupied the shelves; boots, socks, jeans, T-shirts and frilly dresses for little girls hung from the freestanding racks and the long rack against the far wall. Copies could be made on the Xerox. If you needed a new blouse or scarf, or a last-minute baby or wedding gift, there was just one place to go: Heather-Mary-Marie's. Coloring books, crayons, toys, kitchen and bath towels, clocks, glassware, signs, plastic-flowered funeral wreaths, cards, and a small selection of candy was always at hand. As a child, Shelly had thought it one of the most enthralling places in the world—better than Disneyland on a budget.

Ever since Shelly could remember, the store had taken up one entire end of a big, long, log building in the center of town. If you wanted the latest news and hoped for a fair amount of accuracy, Heather-Mary-Marie's was where you headed. Funeral notices were still posted on its doors, with the post office, Joe's Market at the south end of town, and MacGuire's, the biggest grocery store in the valley, being most of the other posting sites. If you went to town looking for someone, Heather-Mary-Marie's had to be one of your stops. Nearly everyone, it seemed, at one time or another, passed in and out of its swinging glass doors.

And if you wanted to announce your presence back in town, Shelly thought dryly, as she parked the Bronco in front of the log building, this was where you went. She sat there a minute after she had turned off the ignition, looking at the place. Nope, the building hadn't changed at all: green metal roof and gleaming windows and doors posted with various notices of coming events—bake sales, firehouse raffle, the FFA Mother's Day Parade and Rodeo, broke up the darkness of the logs.

She sat there glancing around, knowing she was wasting time, dragging her feet, putting off the awful moment. She sighed and, after pushing back a heavy fall of tawny-colored hair, forced herself out of the Bronco. Shoulders squared, she marched up to the front doors and walked inside, the old-fashioned bell over the door clanging to announce her presence.

A flood of memories washed over her. Racks piled high with goods, the same gray cement floor, and to her left, the glass counter crammed with jewelry—silver belt buckles, Black Hills gold earrings, bolo ties, and colognes, and, overhead, fluttery gleaming wind chimes hanging from the ceiling met her gaze. Delight speared through her.
Some things
, she thought,
just don't change.

The woman behind the low, wooden counter near the front of the store looked up. She was tall, nearly six feet and buxom; her hair was an improbable shade of red, and she'd probably never see sixty-five again, although if the brilliant slash of crimson lipstick, penciled brows, and dangling silver earrings were anything to go by, she was fighting hard.

She stared at Shelly for a long minute. Then a smile, huge, warm, embracing, lit her face. “Well, I'll be damned,” she said in a voice like the clang of a tire iron on the bottom of a whiskey barrel. “It's little Shelly Granger, all grown-up! Come here, girl, and give us a hug.”

Shelly fought back a sudden surge of tears, memories almost swamping her at the sound of Cleo's voice. Cleopatra Hale was the original Heather-Mary-Marie, until the age of eighteen, when she decided that her name was old-fashioned and legally changed it to Cleopatra. She claimed that Cleopatra sounded more glamorous and fitted her image better. Five husbands had all added their mite, with the last one about fifteen years ago being named Hale. Josh said that Cleo maintained she hadn't remarried since then because she'd decided that Hale went just fine with Cleopatra.

Arms outstretched, that huge smile on her plain face, Cleo came around the end of the counter and swept Shelly into an embrace. Shelly was overwhelmed, engulfed in a bear hug, the remembered scent of Charlie cologne and Kool cigarettes surrounding her.

They hugged each other a long time before Cleo finally pushed her away, and said briskly, “Guess that's enough sentiment for now. How in the hell could you have stayed away for so long? Without even a telephone call—let alone a visit?”

Misty-eyed, Shelly grinned at her. “Just happened. Can't tell you how. One day I was here and the next it was seventeen years later.”

Cleo snorted. “Yeah. Right. Tell me another story.” Her face softened, and she gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder. “I'm sorry about Josh. It must have been hard on you.”

Shelly nodded. “Thanks. It was—is—I still don't really believe it.” She took a deep breath. “And I'm back for good. I won't be returning to New Orleans.”

“Well, at least one good thing is coming out of Josh's suicide.” Cleo shot her a considering glance. “You know that nothing else was talked about for days. In fact, it's only been the last week or so that talk has died down. Lots of speculation about you though—what you're going to do, when you'll show your face in town, how long you're going to stay, if you've gotten fat and hagged-looking after all these years—that sort of thing.”

Shelly grinned. “And having seen me, what are you going to tell everyone?”

“Why, that you've changed…but not much.” Cleo studied her, the bright blue eyes moving over her face and up and down her slender body. “And that all the changes are for the good.” Cleo smiled. “My, my but Mrs.-Thinks-She's-High-and-Mighty Reba Stanton is going to be green with envy when she hears that you're just as pretty as ever…and staying. Believe me, it'll be my pleasure to tell her.”

For a minute Shelly couldn't place the name. “Do you mean Reba Collier?” she asked.

“The very same. She married that nice happy-go-lucky Stanton boy, Bob, about eleven, twelve years ago. He ain't been so happy since.”

The clang of the bell over the door made both women glance in that direction. Shelly braced herself to meet someone else from the past, someone that might not be as welcoming as Cleo. She relaxed when she realized that the slim older man who walked up to the counter was a stranger. He wore a red baseball cap, a white chef's apron over his jeans and Western shirt, and carried a small brown paper bag in one hand that he laid on the counter with a mocking half bow in Cleo's direction. Shelly studied him for a moment longer. He had a kind face, a comfortable lived-in sort of face, with bushy graying eyebrows and neat little gray goatee, and she was certain she had never met him before—

unless seventeen years had changed him all out of recognition. Intending to leave Cleo to her customer, Shelly turned away and began to edge toward the back of the store.

“Oh, no, you don't,” Cleo said firmly. Grasping her by the arm, she led her back to where the newcomer stood. “Hank, let me introduce Shelly Granger. Shelly, this is Hank O'Hara, he and his sister, Megan, run the Blue Goose—it's new, not the building, just the restaurant, since you've been gone. They moved here about seven years ago and fixed up the old Stone Inn across the street.” A gleam entered Cleo's eyes. “It's a fair enough place to eat.”

Hank clutched his chest, his brown eyes dancing. “Ah, me darlin', you've fair wounded me mortal. ‘A fair enough place to eat.’ Oh the injustice of it.” He grinned at Shelly and put out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. And let me invite you to try out one of our fine meals and see for yourself how this hornet-tongued witch maligns the Blue Goose.”

“I'd rather be a hornet-tongued witch than a Blarney-Stone-kissing Irishman!” Cleo retorted with relish.

Hank grinned. “Oh, that's very good me darlin'. Very good, indeed. And here I am bringing you your lunch.” He winked at Shelly. “Don't believe everything she says about me—or my cooking. The woman's in love with me and just can't help herself.”

With amusement, Shelly noticed that Cleo's cheeks flushed pink. But the light of battle was in her eyes, as Cleo said, “And you can just march back across the street if you're going to start with that sort of nonsense.” She fiddled with some papers lying on the counter. “Go on. Get. I'm busy.” Adding under her breath, “In love with you, my ass. Now get!”

Hank chuckled and murmured to Shelly, “Isn't she just the loveliest sight when she's angry?” Cleo snorted, and he grinned. “Having completed my mission of mercy, 'tis back to the slave mines for me,” he said. He looked at Shelly, and added, “If you give us a try, first meal's on me, Miss Granger.” Shelly knew the moment he made the connection. His face fell ludicrously, and he muttered, “Granger. Granger. You're the sister who lives in New Orleans! Josh was your brother, wasn't he?” At Shelly's nod, he went on. “Oh, hey, listen. I'm sorry, real sorry about Josh's passing. He used to come into the Blue Goose three or four times a week for coffee and pie sometimes. We looked forward to seeing him—he was such a character—and kind, too. When Meggie and I first came to the valley, he was a one-man welcoming committee. Helped introduce us around and made us feel part of the community. He was a great guy. We'll miss him. Lots of people will.”

“Thank you,” Shelly said, a lump forming in her throat. Josh
had
been a great guy. Even, her conscience pricked her, if he hadn't always done the right thing.

Just as Hank left, a couple of customers wandered into the store, and while Cleo was busy with them, Shelly walked over to the wall of T-shirts. The bell rang a few more times, and as more people entered, she decided that she might as well forget about visiting with Cleo for now. Her hand riffled through the T-shirts and Western-style blouses one last time when she spotted a gold T-shirt with a snarling tiger on it that screamed “buy me.” A T-shirt was the last thing she needed, since most of her wardrobe consisted of T-shirts and jeans, but smiling ruefully she took it down from the rack. Holding it against her body, she looked in the full-length mirror tacked on the wall outside the two miniscule dressing rooms crowded into one corner of the store. Not bad. And since there were days that she felt like a snarling tiger, the shirt would complement her mood. Still smiling, she swung around and found herself face-to-face with Sloan Ballinger.

He was leaning not six feet away against a counter of jeans and socks, his gold eyes locked on her. Her throat closed off, and her heart seemed to have taken up bungee jumping. Oh, Jesus. She wasn't ready for this. And, oh, damn, did he have to look quite so handsome? Quite so male? And, dammit to hell, why did she have to feel like melting into a puddle of warm honey, just because he was looking at her?

She stiffened as traitorous emotions tore through her. Oh, no. Not again. She wouldn't go through all that pain and disillusionment again—no matter how tempting the package. Her chin held high, with a smile that damned near killed her, she put out her hand. “Hello, Sloan. It's been a long time.” She was quite proud of her voice. Not a quiver in it. Just a nice, pleasant,
polite
tone.

He pushed away from the counter, straightening to his full height, making her feel at once both threatened and fragile and very, very feminine. “Yeah, it has been,” he said in that well-remembered whiskey-deep voice of his. And oh, hell, it still sent a warm, delicious tremor down her spine.

“You're looking well,” he muttered.

The smile on her face felt as if it would splinter at any moment, but she kept it in place. “And I'll say the same to you.”

Sloan ran a big hand through his black hair. “Uh, look,” he said, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“But not,” she replied evenly, “that Josh is dead.”

He shook his head. “You know how I felt about him. And I haven't changed my mind. I never wished him dead, but just because he's dead, doesn't mean he's become a saint.”

“I never said he was a saint. He was simply a man—a man with as many faults and virtues as the next person. You only saw his faults, never his virtues.”

Sloan's face tightened. “I didn't come in here to start an argument with you—not about Josh, anyway.”

“Well, then, I think this about covers our conversation, don't you? See you around.”

His hand closed around her upper arm, and he jerked her around to face him when she would have pushed past him. Brought up next to his hard body, she was assaulted by memories of other times, other times when they had stood this close together, passion and need shimmering between them. Her knees grew weak as the memories swamped her, memories of passionate interludes, of nights spent in his arms, of afternoon trysts when they had made love under the hot summer sun. To her horror she discovered that her treacherous, treacherous body still responded to him…and his to her, if that blunt pressure growing against her stomach was what she thought it was.

He didn't try to hide his reaction, but his expression was rueful as he stared into her eyes. “It would seem that time hasn't changed much between us.”

Shelly pulled her arm free and took a step away from him. “I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,” she said frostily, ignoring the clamoring of her own body. “And there is nothing between us now. Whatever may have been between us ended seventeen years ago. Or have you forgotten?”

“1 haven't forgotten a damned thing! Especially not that you believed that bastard's lies and ran out on me.”

“He wasn't a bastard,” she said from between clenched teeth. “And he didn't lie. I heard what you said that night. I saw you with her that night.” She smiled sweetly. “By the way, where is your darling wife? Does she know that you go around accosting other women?”

His face took on a peculiar cast. “He didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That my wife is dead,” he said flatly. “Nancy died four years ago in a car accident.”

The words slammed into her like a freight train. “Oh, Jesus! I'm sorry, Sloan,” she exclaimed, her green eyes soft and full of pity. “I didn't know. Josh never said a word.”

Sloan could have smashed his fist into the wall. The last thing he wanted from her was pity—especially pity for all the wrong reasons. Bitterly, he said, “I'm surprised he didn't tell you—his version of what happened anyway, but then your dear brother was good at keeping his mouth shut…when it suited him.”