Treasure Me (4 page)

While he tried to get a handle on what had sent up his antennae, Delia approached the cook. “Finney, she was here first. This isn’t right.”

The angel hopped off her barstool. “Not right at all!” She softened her tone as she cornered Finney. “Here’s my rent—and an extra fifty dollars. No. Make it a hundred.” She thrust the wad of bills into the cook’s eager fist.

Hugh began perspiring when Finney stared at the money in a sort of rapture. Hell, if they got into a bidding war, he’d be broke when he did move in upstairs.

“I’ll pay two hundred over the asking price,” he said.

“Then I’ll pay three hundred.”

Finney whistled. “Oh, my. Now I’m in a real quandary.”

Delia tugged on her sleeve. “Uh, Finney… ”

“Not now! I’m working through my quandary.”

The waitress tugged harder. “We’ve been running the ‘Help Wanted’ ad for three weeks now, haven’t we? The only applicants have been teenagers. You’ve turned them all away.” She winked at the flustered commando. “Her references are good as gold. She’s an old friend of the family. I’ve known her forever.”

The cook ran her fingers through her brassy blonde hair. “It’s true I can’t afford another hormonal teenager. All they do is break dishes and flirt with the customers.” Finney sized up the angel. “I suppose you’re old enough to be responsible, miss. I’ll let you share the apartment with Hugh if you promise there’ll be no misbehaving… and if you’ll wait tables.”

Hugh shouldered his way between the cook and Delia. “Hold on. I didn’t agree to share the apartment.” Until he was reinstated at the
Akron Register
, he was done with women. The commando angel was beautiful and hostile, a perverse combination sure to test his self control. “You can’t do this. I need the apartment.”

“And I have a business to run. I need a waitress to help Delia and that fool Ethel Lynn.” Finney planted her hands on her hips and regarded the woman. “Well, miss? Do we have a deal?”

The angel shrank back as if she’d seen a rat scuttle past. “You mean I’d be waiting on people. Taking orders and stuff?”

Delia nodded eagerly. “We could sure use the help.”

Hugh almost pitied her when she opened her mouth then closed it again. Finney, who also seemed to sense her distress, said, “We’ve been shorthanded for months. And Hugh’s a big reporter so he gets first dibs on the apartment. He made our town famous, didn’t he? Now, I can make him share the place with you. It’s unorthodox, but seeing the two of you don’t particularly get along I’m sure there won’t be any shenanigans. Even so, if you can’t wait tables you’ll have to find somewhere else to stay.”

The woman chewed on her lower lip. “I guess I can help you out,” she finally said.

“How many hours a week do you want?”

“How many do I have to take? I don’t have to work fulltime, do I?”

Delia plunked her elbows on the counter. “Not if you don’t want to! Part-time is great.”

After they discussed hours, Finney returned to the kitchen with a load of cash—inspired by her negotiating skills, she’d hit up Hugh too. She was whistling off-key as the door swung shut behind her, leaving an uneasy silence in her wake.

Delia poured coffee and Hugh murmured his thanks. The angel glared at him with enough ire to melt sand into glass. Her fury was amusing—and damn enjoyable. Worming your way into a woman’s good graces was an interesting challenge when she wanted you dead. Maybe he’d luck out and get some angry sex before she unpacked the kitchen knives.

Basking in her growing hatred, he slid onto the barstool next to hers. “Since we’re stuck together, what’s your name?” he said, thrilled when her gorgeous eyes flashed a deepening violet. If he brought her to full rage she’d probably resemble Helen of Troy. “We don’t have to split the rent fifty-fifty. I’ll talk Finney into giving some of your money back. I’ll pay sixty percent, you’ll pay forty.”

She gave him a look that implied she was thinking about knocking him off his barstool. Then she surprised him by saying, “Let’s try this—seventy-thirty. You’re a hotshot reporter. You probably earn six figures. I’m a part-time waitress who only makes—” Digging into her breakfast, she looked at Delia. “What’s my hourly wage?”

The waitress told her in a quick, grateful voice. Nodding with satisfaction, she threw her attention back on Hugh.

There was a whole forest fire in those violet eyes, the sort of feminine hostility a man could wrap around himself like a warm blanket of succor.
Hello, Helen.

He dragged his attention back to his coffee.
You’ve sworn off women, remember?

Then his trusty antenna went back on alert. He immediately understood why. The angel, still nameless, couldn’t keep her eyes from straying to the walls of the restaurant. A reporter’s inbred curiosity shivered through his veins.

She was searching for something.

* * *

“Blossom! What did you do to my dog?”

Flinging off the blankets, Meade Williams stormed to the door and yanked it open in the hopes of finding her quarry on the other side. In the corner of the guest bedroom her miniature poodle, Melbourne, yipped wildly.

The red plaid bows behind his ears were gone, no doubt snatched by the devilish thirteen-year-old she’d agreed to patrol for several days. Worse still, a gooey substance dripped from his toothpick-sized legs. Beneath the goo, his white fur was covered in an art fiend’s metallic… sparkles. And Blossom Perini was nowhere to be seen.

Mad with rage, Meade scooped up Melbourne and stalked down the second floor hallway of the Perini house. Why, why,
why
had she agreed to watch Blossom while the kid’s father and new stepmother were on their honeymoon?

Not long ago she’d wanted Blossom’s father, Anthony, for herself. She’d foolishly underestimated what it would be like to raise his daughter in the bargain, especially after the media coverage launched Blossom’s story onto the national news. The teen’s successful battle against cancer was heartwarming, to be sure, but no one who knew her personally would describe her as a saint. Of course, folks across America thought Blossom deserved a halo—as did Dr. Mary Chance, Liberty’s only town doctor and the unlikely owner of The Second Chance Grill. Mary connected with the girl in a way no one else did. Perhaps she even enjoyed the more devilish aspects of Blossom’s personality.

Meade flew down the stairwell with Melbourne bouncing beneath her arm and yipping all the way. It was truly unbelievable how she and Mary had gone from being rivals for Anthony to the best of friends. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t surprising. They were two professional women who had discovered a mutual love of tennis and a nearly frenzied devotion to Royal Doulton china. They’d been on a shopping expedition in search of porcelain figurines to add to their respective collections when Mary made the request: watch Blossom during the honeymoon.

Meade stormed into the kitchen. She should have said
no.

At the stove, Blossom serenely flipped pancakes. By the back door her golden retriever, Sweetcakes, sat at attention. The rotten dog sized up Melbourne then ran her tongue across her snout.

“Oh, no you don’t, Sweetcakes.” Meade opened the door to shoo the dog out. “If you frighten my baby he’ll piddle all over the floor.”

Blossom gave an elaborate sigh. “Your dog doesn’t piddle—he’s marking his territory. Only this isn’t his territory. You should have his thingies removed.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” Meade spun around to face the teen. “You’re in hot water, young lady. Why do you keep terrorizing me? And what did you put on Melbourne?”

Shrugging, the girl flipped another pancake. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve had it—”

“Seriously, Meade. Chill. Want some coffee?”

The aroma wafting from the sweetly percolating pot
was
enticing. “Did you lace it with arsenic?”

Blossom slid a stack of pancakes onto a plate. “What’s arsenic?”

The kid knows how to Google. Don’t give her any ideas.
“Never mind.” She sat and lowered Melbourne to the ground. He trotted toward his food bowl shedding sparkles in a happy trail. “You’re giving my dog a bath after we finish breakfast. Are you listening? You need to be punished.”

“I get to bathe the gerbil?” Grinning, Blossom set the pancakes before Meade. “No problem, muchacha. I’ll take care of your dog.”

“Forget it. I’ll bathe him.”

“No, really, I’d like to.”

“Cut the crap. You’d like to feed him to Sweetcakes.”

“Okay—you got me.” Blossom set a cup of coffee before her. “Drink. Grownups never make sense until they’ve been dosed with caffeine.”

Meade grudgingly brought the cup to her lips.
Heavenly.
How did a thirteen year old make coffee so divine? But then, Blossom Perini was full of surprises. She’d managed to beat leukemia, hadn’t she? Looking at the girl’s corkscrew curls and rosy cheeks, it was hard to imagine she’d ever been ill. Yet she’d nearly died of leukemia before the bone marrow transplant saved her life. And that was the real miracle, wasn’t it? Blossom’s new stepmother, the valiant Dr. Mary Chance, had only been in town for a few months when she found out about the girl’s struggles. When it became clear there wasn’t money enough to pay for the bone marrow transplant, Mary placed all of the antiques in The Second Chance Grill on the auction block. The restaurant, which first opened in the mid-1800s, was the city’s oldest historical treasure and much of the furniture, artwork and other decorations were worth thousands. People arrived from all over Ohio to put in bids.

Everything sold quickly, only to be returned once word got out as to
why
Mary was raising the money. Then the story exploded on the Internet. Websites sprang up, donations flowed in, and Blossom was soon on her way to recovery.

The phone rang, pulling Meade from her musings. Blossom sprinted across the kitchen. She exchanged pleasantries with the caller then handed over the receiver. “For you.”

Not a call from a client, surely. Business colleagues wishing to reach her cosmetics importing company knew to call the office in Beachwood. Worry clenched her stomach. She’d only given the Perinis’ number to one person.

Rising, she moved from the table for privacy. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

For several minutes, she listened to his latest tale of woe. She’d hired a gardener to winterize the landscape surrounding her father’s estate, a move that had seemed sensible—until now. “Dad, the gardener isn’t peering in the windows. You’re being paranoid.” The anxiety in her voice brought Blossom near. “Yes, I’m sure the gardener isn’t spying on you…”

Ten minutes and much cajoling later, she finally hung up. Unsettled, she set her plate in the sink. There wasn’t time this morning to drive out to the estate. She had to get Blossom off to school and leave for work.

From behind, Blossom asked, “Is everything okay? You look sad all of a sudden.”

Her voice held sudden compassion, and Meade managed a smile. “I’m fine,” she lied.

“What’s wrong with your dad?”

“Nothing.” Another lie, but there wasn’t an easy way to describe chronic depression to a child. “He likes to worry.”

“Can’t your mom calm him down?”

“My mother died a long time ago.”

“It’s tough to be without a mom. Even for someone as old as you.”

Meade crossed her arms. “I’m forty-one—not exactly ancient.”

“Yeah, but it’s hard anyway.”

The girl’s voice wavered, and guilt washed through Meade. It was common knowledge that Blossom’s mother had run off when she was a toddler. Which might explain why the kid got into so much trouble. Not that Meade wanted to find patches of Melbourne’s fur on Sweetcakes’s snout, but still.

She flicked Blossom’s chin. When the girl brightened, she said, “Can we call a truce until your dad and Mary get back from their honeymoon? I’ll stop making comments about your table manners if you’ll take my dog off death row.”

“Can I think about it? I’ve been working on the other tricks up my sleeve.” Then Blossom surprised her when she added, “But hey, if you need to talk, I’ll listen. I know what it’s like to worry about a parent. Before Mary snuck into my dad’s heart, I worried about him all the time.”

Sorrow engulfed her. Mental illness wasn’t simple, and it encompassed more than worry. Guilt, for one. A feeling of helplessness. And loss—certainly loss, of the man who’d once fathered her with gentle grace and rapt attention.

“Blossom, my situation is different.” It was the most simplistic explanation she could muster. “My dad has… problems.”

Concern puckered Blossom’s brows. “He sounded confused on the phone. He must be pretty old, right?” She slipped her hand beneath the curly mass of her hair and tapped her temple with charming concern. “Is it his head?”

More like his heart, but there was no way to explain. “He’s not senile, if that’s what you mean.”

She stared at the girl who liked to torment her, a teenager who suddenly looked older, more compassionate. Then Meade’s vision began to blur and anguish filled her soul.

She looked out over the years and saw the lake. How she’d stood on the pier with desperation churning her blood and her throat hoarse from arguing. The waters were frighteningly calm beneath a sky thick with clouds. The wind rose up. The air pressure sucked the wind into a fulcrum and Meade, with a mariner’s eye, looked north. Canada lay on the other side of this, the shallowest of the five Great Lakes. The waters of Lake Erie were warm, too warm, and autumn’s first blast was barreling down from the north.

Please don’t go out on the lake. There’s a small craft advisory, a storm coming.

But her mother wouldn’t listen
.
Cat pressed the envelope into Meade’s palm, the photographs that held proof of their ruined lives, and climbed into the skiff. Two boxes lay astern. No doubt Cat, always dramatic, planned to dump their contents into the waters. It never occurred to Meade that her beautiful, self-absorbed mother might also send herself to the bottom of the lake.

“Meade?” Blossom placed tentative fingers on her arm, drawing her from the shore. “What are you thinking about?”