Sweet Home Carolina (20 page)

“Sounds like good money to me,” Jo said sensibly. She
scribbled in her rhyme notebook, then returned to spinning her stool and
watching the rain come down. “What has your panties in a twist?”

“It means he knows he’ll get the bid!” One ear aimed toward
the baby monitor to listen for Louisa waking from her nap in Flint’s office,
the other waiting for the phone to ring, Amy tried not to split in two. “He’s
planning on staying to dispose of the mill assets.”

“That’s a pessimistic way to look at it. It could mean he
was planning on helping with hiring and starting up the mill.” Spinning to face
the counter, Jo removed the last chocolate doughnut from the case.

Amy snatched the coffeepot from the burner and refilled the
cups at the mayor’s table. “I heard Mary Jean and Eddie took jobs over in
Charlotte and are moving out,” she called over her shoulder at Jo. “That will
break up your band.”

Jo shrugged. “Music seldom pays. It’s all about sales these
days.”

“Eddie will be selling cars,” Dave attested. “Young people
like that need a future, and the town just plain can’t offer it. I heard Mary
Jean found a place at the mall. My wife’s going to miss her babysitting.”

“We all are.” Too keyed up to be polite, Amy returned the
pot to the burner and continued pacing. “There won’t be anyone left around
here. We can board up the town and post a For Sale sign. Maybe some rich
tourist will buy it.”

Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a low rumble
of thunder.

“Any ducks swimming down the street yet?” Jo called,
shutting out the discussion.

“Nope, but Myrtle might shortly.” Amy checked the purple
concrete pig at the corner of the café, but sturdy Myrtle didn’t seem in any danger
of floating off.

The phone rang, and everyone jumped. Despite the desultory
conversation, nerves had stretched to their last raw edge waiting to hear the
fate of the town.

“That’ll be Flint. Hand it over.” Jo stretched out her hand
so Amy could place the cordless in it.

Except for the roll of thunder and the pounding of rain, the
café fell silent, its occupants hanging on every word. Flint had volunteered to
wait at the courthouse in Asheville for the judge’s decision and call as soon
as he heard.

“Yeah, he said that?” Jo nibbled her pen tip. “Well,
creditors rule, I guess. Yeah, yeah. You want to talk to Amy?”

Amy tensed. Jo’s tone was not jubilant. She hovered close,
just in case.

“Yeah, you’re right about that. Love you, too. Check to see
if I’m alive when you get here. Right.” She hung up.

Every eye in the café was on Jo.

“It’s all over but the death knell.” Clicking off the phone,
Jo heaved her mug at the stainless steel stove. The sturdy pottery crashed and
bounced — the only sound in the room. Everyone knew what it meant when Jo flung
dishes. “The judge sold the mill to the most cash, and that wasn’t us.”

In the gloomy silence following her announcement, the lights
flickered, then went out, flooding the café in darkness.

“I didn’t do that,” Amy said automatically. But she might as
well have, for all anyone listened. A burglar alarm screamed somewhere up the
street, and every window on Main Street went dark.

“Why must you return to such a tedious place?” Cat protested
as they rode in the Hummer from the courthouse to the resort. “Send someone to
pack up the patterns and let us go home. You have what you want.”

No, he didn’t, but Jacques didn’t bother responding to Cat’s
whine. Leaning his head against the front headrest, he tried to luxuriate in
the usual adrenaline rush of winning.

The old ego boost wasn’t there.

Amy and the town had fought so bravely. All he’d done was
flash cash and impressive credentials. It had never been a contest at all.

“Champagne buffet at the spa?” Brigitte suggested from the
seat behind him.

Jacques knew she had her BlackBerry out and was already
hunting up the appropriate contacts to set up a celebratory dinner. She’d done
it for him on numerous occasions. Bright lights, music, champagne — that’s how
he’d lived his life these last years — surrounding himself with illusions of
happiness.

He had a wonderful life. He had accomplished everything he
had ever set out to do. He was sitting on top of the world.

So why didn’t he feel like celebrating? He’d just bought a
lost piece of history, a challenging project that would create a dream
collection of design patterns he could sell to every museum and historic home
in America, opening entirely new doors for his company.

Perhaps he was ill. He would have Amy take his temperature
and fix him chicken soup. Just the thought of Amy leaning over to caress his
brow made him feel better. Maybe she would wear a loose shirt and he could
admire.…

Amy was more likely to beat him with a raw chicken carcass
than take his temperature. He’d stolen her future.

Not entirely, his inner voice reminded him. He’d told the
judge he didn’t want the cottage. Actually, he wanted it very much. It would
make a wonderful mountain escape once he’d sent a crew in to bring it up to
date. He’d love making design decisions for his own home. He could return here
every summer, terrorize the turkey shoot, hang out at the café with Amy and
friends, drop out of the fast lane for a few weeks a year.

He had a terrace apartment in London, a penthouse in Paris,
and a villa in Nice. Who was he fooling? He’d never return here. He had no
reason to.

“Arrange the buffet,” he agreed, but it wasn’t champagne
that he wanted.

Perhaps he would feel better if he told Amy in person that
the judge had accepted her bid on the cottage.

“I’ll join you after a while,” he said once the Hummer
pulled up to the resort and everyone else had climbed out. Before Cat could
complain, Jacques shut his door and signaled Luigi to drive on.

Without being told, his driver took the road to Northfork.

* * *

“What in bloody hell?” Sitting straight up, Jacques peered
out the Hummer windshield as they drove around the bend and descended the hill
into a lightless town of wet shadows. If he looked closely, he could see a
flicker through a window here and there, but for all intents and purposes, the
usually well-lit town blended into the darkness of the tree-studded hillside.

The thunderstorm had retreated to flashes on the far side of
the mountain. The rain had stopped, but clouds still hid the stars.

Above the town, in the upper parking lot, flames leaped and
blazed against the black sky, flickering pink and orange beneath the
cloudbanks.

“Bonfire?” Luigi suggested, slowing down to traverse an
empty Main Street. Even the fake Victorian streetlights were out.

“There are no lights! Are we in the right place? I know they
roll up the sidewalks after dark.…”

Luigi slowed so the Hummer’s headlights cut across dark
storefronts and illuminated the street that wound up the mountain to the
residential area. “Electricity must be out.”

“Amy.” Jacques slammed his head back against the headrest
and winced. She had even him believing their silly superstition. He could
imagine her furious enough at losing the mill to blow the electric grid across
half the state.

Luigi chuckled as the headlights struck a line of trucks and
cars pulled off the side of the road. Across the parking lot where the vehicles
should have been was a banner stretched from one telephone pole to the next,
framing the bonfire behind it. “This place sure knows how to throw a party,” Luigi
said in admiration.

Jacques read the banner in horror and disbelief. WELCOME,
ZACK, HONORARY CITIZEN. “‘Zack’? Me? For what?”

But already the athlete’s hum of adrenaline lifted his
spirits at the sight of the crowd rallying around the bonfire. Competition was
pointless without the recognition of accomplishment at the end. For the first
time this day, triumph surged. They didn’t hate him!

Or — did the town believe it was their victory, too? Did
they think he meant to reopen the mill and put them to work?

Damn
.

The tantalizing aromas of barbecuing food seeped through the
Hummer’s open window, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He was
suddenly starving.

Luigi maneuvered the massive vehicle off the road to the
accompaniment of a sunburst of red and orange sparks igniting overhead. The
traditional
oooohs
and
ahhhhs
followed, and then someone
distinctly yelled, “Zack! He’s here!” and a chorus of cheers rang over the
noise of the exploding fireworks.

“If this is Northfork
losing
the mill bid,” he muttered to his driver, “what would they have done if they
won?”

“Rode you around town on their shoulders, given you a
ticker-tape parade, and the key to the city. Jeez Louise, they’re setting those
things off in the parking lot. They’ll blow us all up.”

Luigi’s Brooklyn origins occasionally penetrated his
European sophistication when startled. Jacques flung open the car door before
his driver could decide fireworks were too dangerous for his health.

He craned his neck to watch red and blue rockets shoot
across the clouds, leaving streamers of gold and orange that whistled and
swirled in sparkles and smoke, and a thrill coursed through him. He’d always
watched fireworks from penthouses from a distance. He’d never stood in the
camaraderie of the mob directly beneath such a joyous display.

“Zack, Zack, Zack!” The crowd began chanting as he stupidly
stood there, hands in pockets, watching the sky, feeling as if he were ten
years old.

Startled by the shouts, he returned his attention to the
throng filling the parking lot. Lawn chairs and blankets inhabited by young and
old took the place of the vehicles that usually occupied the blacktop lot. A
gazebo housing a few benches for tourists had been turned into a makeshift
stage. A local band plucked on acoustic guitars while teenagers gathered in the
shadows behind an enormous bonfire. Younger children dashed through the crowd,
their elders occasionally hauling them from their feet when they became too
rambunctious.

It looked like what he’d always imagined a Fourth of July
picnic would be. All they needed was ice cream and hot dog stands. He’d never
been a participant in community activities. He’d never belonged to any one
community. How had he lived all his life without realizing that?

The mayor and some of his cronies shoved their way through
to pound Jacques on the back.

“Welcome, son!” the avuncular mayor cried.

Jacques didn’t think the mayor was any older than he was,
but the politician was of no interest to him. His gaze had finally locked on
Amy, who was basting delicious-smelling delicacies on an enormous black grill
shaped like a barrel. She didn’t look his way, but he had no intention of
letting her ignore him.

She knew what he meant to do with the mill. Why had she not
informed the rest of the town of his plans? If these people had so much as an
inkling of his intentions, they’d take him apart with pickaxes.

What the hell was he doing here anyway? He could scarcely
enjoy being the town hero when he was really the villain.

He shook hands, smiled politely over handshakes, endured
slaps on the back. He never diverted his attention from the woman in a beige
halter top dousing chicken and hot dogs with barbecue sauce. She was wearing a
red apron to protect her from the leaping flames, but her bare back was turned
toward him. Brown, smooth, with a little mole on her right side, he noticed as
he approached.

He wanted nothing more than to kiss that little mole. He
would wrap his hands around her bare waist, lift her off the ground, and nuzzle
until she squealed. And then they would see what happened next. He still had
the keys to her house.

That she had every right to murder him there gave some pause
for thought.

Someone shoved a plastic-coated paper cup into his hand.
More fireworks exploded, accompanied by the shrieks of children burning
marshmallows over the bonfire. He checked for but didn’t see Josh and Louisa
playing by the fire, thank goodness. They were much too young.

He located Amy’s children playing near their grandmother
near a line of smaller grills, where their Uncle Flint was flipping hamburgers
and his sons were shoveling the meat onto buns.

An amplifier sputtered into life, and a screech split the
air.

“Got it hooked up to Dave’s generator,” the mayor said
proudly. “Amy thought of everything.”

Jacques recognized Jo’s clear soprano breaking into a chorus
of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” He thought maybe he ought to just crawl
under a rock and stay there.

Amy turned and caught his eye then, and from the look of
angelic innocence in her expression, Jacques knew he’d been set up. She damned
well knew he meant to let the mill rot, and she was deliberately twisting a
knife in his gullet.

He’d suffered a lifetime of manipulation, caught between his
parents and their eternal battles. He’d learned how to walk away. Walking away
might be one of his best Olympic sports. He damned well ought to turn his back
on the conniving, adorable little witch.

And still he kept striding toward the rebellious flower with
pink cheeks and defiant green eyes across the lot. The mayor followed, slowing
him down. Jacques pounded the mayor’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over, and
escaped while the other man stumbled.

He never turned down a challenge, and she damned well knew
she had thrown down a bloody huge gauntlet.

Amy returned to basting shish kebabs but glanced over her
shoulder the instant Jacques reached her. She was wearing those sexy hoops
again, the ones that beckoned with their sway against the vulnerable curve of
her throat. He would love to have Amy alone and wearing nothing but those
provocative earrings.