The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club (7 page)

Her cell phone rang. It was her friend Shannon Keane from back in Beantown.

“Are you OK, Lacy?” she asked, concern making her Boston accent even thicker than usual. There was no trace of the
r
sound in her “are” at all. “There really is a place called Coldwater Cove?”

“Yeah, and it's really in Oklahoma. You know. One of those
I
and
O
states. I haven't fallen into some giant mid-continental sinkhole,” Lacy said with a laugh. A soft one. She didn't want Wanda popping out of her office like a deranged jack-in-the-box again.

They talked about everything and nothing for a few minutes, and then Shannon got to the meat of her call.

“Deputy DA Hopkins came by today asking if I knew how to get in touch with you.”

Lacy had changed her cell number and carrier before she'd left Boston in case someone decided to trace her with the old one. Only Shannon had her new number. “Hopkins? Doesn't ring a bell. Why did he want to talk to me?”

“He wouldn't say. I hope it means Belize is shipping back that waste-of-skin Bradford Endicott.”

“I won't hold my breath.”

“You better, girlfriend. Even though you did what you could to make restitution, there are still people around here who are mad enough to want someone convicted—deal or no deal. I hear Bradford's family is putting pressure on the DA to take the heat off their precious little scoundrel so he can come home without a warrant hanging over his head.”

Lacy glanced out her window in time to see Jake entering Secondhand Junk-shun, bearing a taped-up cardboard box. Her conscience pricked her. He'd been nice enough to bring her supper and she'd practically thrown him out on his ear. It didn't matter how stressed-out she was—she was better than that.

“Did you hear me, Lacy?”

Shannon's voice made her jerk the phone back to her ear. “Yeah. No one named Hopkins was assigned to my case. Or Bradford's.”

“Well, anyway, I told him I didn't know how to reach you,” Shannon said. “Hey, you should be proud of me. I'm not even using my own phone to call you now.”

“Good.” Her dad's suggestion that Bradford might have fallen afoul of the Irish mob had stuck with her. “I'll wire you the first payment later this week. Be careful when you deliver it.”

“No worries here. I'll be in and out before they know I'm there. Besides, nobody's gonna mess with me,” Shannon assured her. “I know how to use a pair of shears.”

That made Lacy laugh out loud.

Wanda's door swung open.

“Gotta go,” Lacy said. “I'll call you soon.”

She hit the button to end the conversation and stood before Wanda got up another full head of steam. “I'm heading out to visit some merchants to get ideas for that design column.”

Wanda swallowed the reprimand she'd obviously planned and beamed her approval instead. “I knew you'd catch on quick. Let Tiffany know which shops you're going to mention in your article and she can hit them up for some ads to run alongside the piece.”

Lacy nodded and headed out the door. She seriously doubted she'd find anything in the Junk-shun worth a single line. Even a line in a paper as fluffy as the
Gazette
.

But she seriously hoped she'd find Jake still there.

 

—Phyllis Wannamaker, owner of Secondhand Junk-shun

 

 

 

J
acob carried the box of Fiestaware to the booth his mother rented in the back corner of Secondhand Junk-shun. He'd offered to put up a few shelves in the Green Apple for her more than once. If she sold her items there, she'd be able to save the rent, but his mom was determined to keep her booth in the junk shop.

Since his dad passed last year, his mom had been adamant about pulling her own weight and not leaning on her kids. Selling stuff in the Junk-shun was a relatively painless way to do it. His mother had inherited the household goods of both his grandmothers and three great-aunts to boot. Her supply of vintage glassware, derelict appliances, and aging furniture was nearly endless.

As he unpacked the box, the soft click of boot heels on the old hardwood and a familiar voice came from behind him.

“Hey, Jake.”

Jake turned to see Lacy Evans smiling up at him as if she hadn't smacked him down big time last night. She was looking mighty hot in a flirty skirt, a sweater that hugged her curves, and a pair of bright pink cowboy boots. He grinned down at her feet. “Nice to see you can't take the country out of the girl.”

She extended one cute little booted foot. “Mom brought these over this morning. I'd left them here when I moved east. Looks like they still fit. Besides, what else would I wear in Coldwater? Prada?”

When he was in Helmand province, all he could think about was getting back home to Coldwater Cove. Why did she have to give the town a back-handed slap every chance she got?

“Well, shucks, ma'am.” Jake exaggerated his accent for effect. “What would a country boy like me know about shoes? You're lucky I'm wearin' any at all. We don't as a rule here in the sticks less'n we're going to meetin' on Sundays.”

“Funny.” She smirked and stuck out her tongue. “You know what I mean. I didn't want to look out of place when I was in Boston. I want to blend in here just as much.”

“Never figured you for the blending type,” he said as he unwrapped another soup bowl. “You lit out of Coldwater so quick the fall after graduation, it was like you couldn't wait to stand out.”

“Yeah, I did, but what can I say? I've learned life's easier when you fit in.”

Jake shrugged. With his stump and metal leg, in some ways he'd never fit in again.

“I didn't expect to bump into you away from the Green Apple like this,” she said.

“I'm not chained to the grill, and anyway, Arthur still comes in to cook on Thursdays.”

When Jake had bought the Green Apple from Arthur Quackenbush, part of the deal was that the wiry old fellow could come in and man the grill once a week for as long as he felt like doing it. Arthur had been cooking at the Green Apple since he'd opened it back in 1958. He wanted to keep his hand in the business and, Jake suspected, make sure the new owner knew his butt from a hole in the ground.

Even after Jake passed muster, Arthur continued to come in. If he burned a few things now and again, old timers and regulars still loved to see him there. Jake had added a number of new dishes to the list of options that were a mystery to Arthur. So the grill had a special, limited “Quackenbush Menu” on Thursdays.

“Oh. Well, it's good you have some time off,” Lacy said. “You need a day of rest.”

“Is that what you think this is?” he said as he continued to unload his mother's latest offerings. “Thursday usually turns into my day to finish all the things I didn't get done the week before. I didn't expect to run into . . .” He stopped himself before he said “a fancy-ass designer.” If she didn't like being compared to a windup monkey, she'd really be insulted if he called her that. “. . . Into someone like you in a place called ‘the Junk-shun' either.”

“What do you mean by someone like me?”

“Don't get all touchy.” So what was she doing there? Had she come into the Secondhand Junk-shun looking for him? If so, that meant he hadn't completely lost his touch where women were concerned. Something in his chest swelled a bit at the possibility. “I just meant I didn't think you were into antiques.”

“You're right. I'm usually not unless they're European and a good deal older than anything here,” Lacy admitted. She picked up one of the soup bowls he'd set out on the shelves he'd built for his mom. Lacy inspected the piece, turning it this way and that. “Very mid-century modern.”

“Hmm. I'm sure that impresses the heck out of folks in Boston. Around here we just call them old bowls.”

She rolled her eyes at him. He'd forgotten how blue they were. Then she turned her gaze to the red soup bowl in her hands again. The piece had little ceramic handles and what appeared to be a hand-turned foot on the bottom. “This Fiestaware is in terrific shape. Great color and near mint condition.”

He nodded. “I like the blue one.”

“You mean cobalt.”

“Uh?”

“That's the name of the color. I'm partial to the chartreuse myself.”

Jake frowned at the bowls. “I'm not color-blind, so I must be color-ignorant. Which one is that?”

“The green one, of course.”

“Oh. Cobalt. Chartreuse. What do you call that one?” He pointed to the one she had in her hands.

She blinked slowly at him. “Red. What do you call it?”

He decided not to chance asking what she'd call the yellow bowl. It could act as camouflage for French's mustard. The only thing he evidently knew about colors was which ones he liked. The blue of Lacy's eyes sprang to mind, but he figured he'd better change the subject. He was hopelessly behind when it came to colors.

“Blame the bowls' good condition on my memaw Tyler. She didn't believe in dishwashers.”

“How much are you asking for this set?”

“Not me. My mom. This is her booth. I'm just the gofer on Thursdays,” Jake said as he wadded up the newspaper the crockery had been wrapped in and stuffed it back in the box. “She wants ten dollars a bowl.”

“Ten dollars a bowl!”

“I imagine she'll take less for each if someone buys the lot.”

Lacy's brows drew together as she studied the bowls. “I'll have to do some research, but I'm pretty sure she's underpricing her stuff. By quite a bit.”

“Maybe if we were in Boston,” Jake allowed. “In Coldwater, I bet everybody and his brother has this sort of thing in their attic.”

“I won't take that bet.” She chuckled and put the red bowl down next to the green one.

“But since you brought up betting,” she said, “have you heard that Danny Scott lost his house in a poker game?”

She was only after the straight skinny on Scott. Jake had started to feel more like his old self when he'd thought she might have come looking for him. That puffed-up something inside him deflated like a popped balloon. “Yeah, I heard about it.”

“Is it true?”

He nodded. “It's why Anne left him.”

“I don't understand. Daniel never had a gambling problem.”

“Maybe he never used to,” Jake said, “and I know you don't want to hear it, but a lot of things have changed since you left.”

“You're right,” she said. “You were right last night, too. I guess I've changed as well. Otherwise, I never would have been so rude to you. I'm sorry, Jake.”

“No need to apologize.” But he was glad she had. “You've been dealing with some pretty serious shi—”

He stopped himself short. He wasn't talking to a bunch of foul-mouthed jarheads. He was talking to the girl he hoped to impress with how much he'd changed for the better, titanium leg and all.

“Some serious stuff,” he amended. “Just moving across country is enough to put most folks on edge.”

Then the latent player in Jake recognized that if she felt the need to apologize, he had an advantage, if for only a moment. “But if you're really sorry, there is a way you can make it up to me.”

“How?” She arched a suspicious brow.

“I'm supposed to open up the family lake house this afternoon. It's easier to do with two pairs of hands. There'll be time to do some fishing once we're done. And if we don't catch anything, I'll grill us some steaks.” He flashed his best smile. It had rarely failed him. “Wanna come?”

“I can't.” She glanced at her watch. “The cable guy is coming to my place in a bit and I have to be on hand to protect him from Effie.”

Jake chuckled. “Poor misunderstood cat.”

“You want her?”

He shook his head. “I'm really more of a dog person.”

“Effie has that effect on people.”

Jake prided himself on never hearing the first no when he asked a woman out. This was only strike one. “How about next Thursday? I can push opening up the house till then. My family doesn't really like to use the place until the weather heats up.”

Spring-fed Lake Jewel lived up to the town's name. Until the air temperature hit the 90s and stayed there, swimming in the cold lake was only for the stout of heart.

And numb of backside.

“I don't know if I'll be off next Thursday,” Lacy said. “I've got a job now.”

When she told him she'd taken the position at the
Gazette,
he bit back a grin. Then he restrained himself from reminding her that he'd suggested that very thing on her first day home. He didn't think she'd appreciate either reaction.

Anyway, that was strike two as far as asking out Lacy went.

“Well, let me know when your day off is and I'll see if I can get Arthur to switch and cover for me at the grill then.”

“OK. I'll find out tomorrow and let you know. I haven't been to the lake in ages. It'll be fun,” Lacy said. “I'll check on that Fiestaware, too. I'd hate to see your mom get cheated on it.”

Home run!
He'd scored on asking her out. Whether he'd actually make if to first base with her while they were at the lake was another at bat completely.

“I'll pack my spare tackle box and rod,” he promised. As she walked away, he imagined what she'd look like in a swimsuit. Too bad the lake was still far too cold to think about taking a dip, skinny or otherwise, yet. If he was lucky, maybe she'd wear a pair of shorts....

“Oh, and Jake, just so you know”—Lacy stopped and turned back to him—“the women in my family may catch fish. We've even been known to whip up some beer batter and fry them on occasion, but we do
not
clean them. Not ever. It's a rule.”

Jake smiled as he watched her walk away. He could live with rules like that.