Heath's Hope (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 5) (4 page)

It was the small amount that sent up the first red flag. Generally, if a business owner couldn’t come up with an amount like that, they didn’t have any business borrowing it.

“I see. Is there some kind of emergency?”

“Yes!” Sticky said.

“No,” Julia said.

Hope smiled. “Which is it?”

“It’s not an emergency in that the roof needs replacing or the plumbing blew up,” Julia said, “but we do have the chance to buy some very special yarn.”

Sticky nodded enthusiastically. “Qiviut!”

“What?” Hope said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It comes from the Arctic musk ox,” Miss Julia said.

Was she in a Dr. Seuss book? “And that’s an animal?”

“Yes,” Sticky said. “It’s bovine but looks like a sheep. Its undercoat is the most sought after fiber in the world—soft and warm, but very light. Also, it’s not scratchy at all, so those who can’t typically wear wool, can usually wear it.” Miss Sticky folded her hands against her heart and sighed.

“Qiviut is hard to come by,” Julia said. “We feel like if we can stock a decent amount, we can bring in business from all over.”

Hope had her doubts, but she wanted to say yes. “Let me see what you’ve brought.” She reached for the files Julia held.

She was not mentally prepared for the handwriting on the folder tabs. Neat, concise, printed in all uppercase letters. She would have known that penmanship anywhere. Heath had set up these files.

No matter. Hope flipped through. They’d brought all the right things—bank statements, tax returns, credit reports, records of debts with other creditors. They were making a profit, but not a lot. They had plenty of inventory, though they owed for a lot of it. They had an excellent credit record, but were stretched thin. She wanted to give them the money for this string that they wanted so much, but there was no room for emotion in banking.

Hope closed the folders and stacked them neatly. “Miss Julia, Miss Sticky.” Her tone must have told the story because they looked crestfallen. “You can go ahead and fill out the paperwork if you like and I’ll take a closer look. But I’m going to be honest. Even if I find that the bank can give you the loan, I don’t advise it at this time. It would be a bad business decision. Maybe after the first of the year, once you clear some of your present inventory.”

The more she talked the sadder they looked.

“Well, Sticky, it’s for the best,” Julia said. “You know Heath said exactly what Hope did. But we had to try.”

Sticky looked like she might cry. “Heath doesn’t understand.”

Hope fought to make her tone neutral. “Heath is a good businessman.”

“And a master artisan,” Sticky said. “But he doesn’t understand about fiber. See some materials—glass, metals, jewels—have no life until the artist breathes it into to them. But natural fiber—even plant based fiber—comes from life. Certain fibers are meant for certain artists because they become partners to make a beautiful thing.”

On another day, Hope might have scoffed at this, but she could not make light of the bliss on Sticky’s face. Even the more practical Julia had a glow about her as she nodded in agreement with Sticky.

“But understand,” Julia said, “we adore Heath. Even if we don’t see things the same way about everything.”

Sticky nodded. “Glass is glass. He can get it any time and make it into magic. We have to capture the magic when we can.” Sticky laughed affectionately. “Heath almost never makes a joke, but when we tried to explain our philosophy, he asked, ‘Did you use a Ouija board to figure all this out?’”

All of a sudden, rage flared in Hope. It didn’t make sense. Why should she be angry that he said that to Miss Sticky and Miss Julia, when they weren’t? Maybe she just wanted to be angry. Yes. She needed to be angry. All these years, she’d felt nothing but guilt for dumping him when he needed her, so guilty that there had been no room for anger. Guilt and love. That’s all she’d ever felt because, God help her, she’d never stopped loving him.

But that was ending today—now. Anger was an excellent antidote to love, and he had it coming.

He
had married someone else six weeks after they broke up.
He
had moved to her hometown.
He
had cruelly taunted her Halloween night when all she’d wanted was to walk away. And he had mocked these two dear women who just wanted to knit a little magic.

Miss Julia stood up and reached for the files. “Thank you for seeing us, Hope. I’m sure we’ll get an opportunity to obtain some qiviut at a another time.”

Her voice was full of pride, but it didn’t hide the belief that this was a chance that wasn’t going to come around again any time soon.

“We do so appreciate your time, Hope.” Miss Sticky stood, dejected.

“Wait.” Almost without thinking, Hope reached into her desk drawer and pulled out her checkbook. “The bank cannot lend you the money. But I can.”

Heath stumbled out of String and leaned on the building to catch his breath.

He’d come by, as he did every Tuesday at five o’clock, to help Julia go over the books, and what had he found? That they had just dug themselves into a hole to the tune of five thousand dollars, thanks to Hope.

Hope.
Her name ought to be
Despair.

And to think he’d felt bad about how he’d treated her Halloween night, and then even worse after he’d found out about her father’s accident and surgery that day. He’d spent three days working on a small jack-o’-lantern for her—no stars in its eyes, no top hat, but still a jack-o’-lantern—which he’d intended to take by the bank when it was finished along with an apology. Not that he was looking for reconciliation or even friendship—just peace, if there was such a thing anymore.

Well. She’d never see it now. He wouldn’t even finish it.

Why couldn’t she have gotten fat or shaved her head? Like that would have mattered. He’d still want her, not in his life—never that—but in his bed, her mouth on his neck, her legs wrapped around him … him deep inside her.

He hadn’t gone over the String books tonight. He should go back in there and do it, but he didn’t have it in him right now. Maybe tomorrow. Might as well go back to Spectrum and work on the chandelier.

But when he came to his shop, he kept walking. Hope would be home from the bank by now. Yes. There was her Volvo parked in front of Piece by Piece. The quilt shop was closed, but he suspected Noel or Neyland would be in there closing out the register and tidying up. Yes. Noel was doing just that, and Nickolai was sitting on the counter eating an ice cream cone and talking to her.

They’d let him in. He rapped on the glass.

They looked up, smiled, and waved. Weren’t they just a damned walking billboard for going to the chapel? Happy. In love. Most days, Heath didn’t begrudge others that, but today wasn’t most days. Over the years, he’d dated some—mostly women who were impressed with his work and were willing to ask—but nothing had ever come from any of it. Either he would get distracted, or they would lose patience when they realized how dense he could be. Come to think of it, the first thing probably caused the second. At any rate, there hadn’t been anyone in over a year.

Nickolai hopped down off the counter and opened the door. “Heath! Do come in. I’ve been telling my Noel that she should make a quilt that has the look of stained glass. What do you think?” And he licked that damned ice cream cone. Heath wanted to take it from him and fling it against the wall. Except it would probably hit one of Noel’s quilts, and Nickolai would kill him. Really. Literally. Heath had seen him beat the hell out of people on the ice, and they hadn’t even done anything to “his Noel.” He licked that ice cream again. “You and Noel should collaborate.”

Right. Because he was so good at working with other people. “Maybe.” He nodded in Noel’s direction. “Noel. How are you?”

“Good. You?”

He nodded again and pointed to the ceiling. “Is Hope upstairs?”

Nickolai and Noel exchanged puzzled looks.

“Yes. She came in a few minutes ago,” Noel said.

“How do I get up there?”

Nickolai and Noel looked at each other again and hesitated.

“She’s expecting me.” At least she ought to be, after what she’d done.

Noel pointed him through the workroom to the stairs, which he took two at a time.

• • •

Hope had just hung up her suit and deposited her silk blouse in the bag for the dry cleaners when the pounding on the door resonated throughout the apartment. It had to be Noel. Anyone else would have had to ring the bell outside the back door of Piece by Piece. Clearly something had happened—something bad if you were judging by the volume and persistence of the knocking. She ran barefoot, trying her robe belt as she went.

“Noel! What’s wrong? Is—” But she stopped short. Not Noel, not by a long shot.

Heath stood there, calm and cool as ever—though he did look pointedly at her robe and raise an eyebrow. You’d never know that seconds earlier he’d been summoning her like a devil calling for his best demons—and scaring the hell out of her in the process.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

He held up a Nike clad foot. “Walked.” Then he used that same foot to walk himself into her apartment.

“Oh, do come in.” She pulled her robe tighter. If he picked up on the sarcasm, he didn’t betray it. But when did he ever betray anything? Except the promises they’d made each other?

Not fair,
a little voice whispered inside her.

Don’t care,
she answered.

“I have just come from String,” he said evenly.

Uh-oh. Well, none of his business. None at all.

“Really? Are you going to knit me a sweater for Christmas?” Why had she said that?

“No. I went in to go over the books. But if I had set my mind to knit a sweater, it seems I’ll soon be able to do it with some yarn that comes from some kind of unicorn and costs more than gold per ounce.”

“Not a unicorn. An Arctic musk ox.” Hope lifted her chin defiantly. “It’s real. You can look it up on the Internet.”

“I might if I knew how to spell it.”

“It’s m-u-s—”

Heath waved her silent. “I know only too well how to spell it. D-e-b-t and d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r. Tell me, Hope, had you ever heard of this thing before?”

“No. But I’m not a knitter. And I don’t live in the Arctic.”

“Did you check it out before or after you gave them money to sink into fur that might or might not be real? Sold to them by a scam artist?”

“They seemed to know what they were talking about.”

“They did, huh? Yet, you checked it out after the fact?”

Hope fought to make her face neutral. There was some truth to what he said, and she should have investigated before writing that check. But she never had to admit it.

“Heath, Miss Sticky and Miss Julia are not stupid, nor are they children. I realize I have no artistry in my boring soul, but they probably know as much about knitting as you do about making stained glass.”

“No. They do not.”

She’d forgotten that about him. Inasmuch as he seemed humble and unassuming, he refused to participate in false modesty. By damn, he knew stained glass, and no one was taking that away from him. In spite of everything, she felt proud of him for it—and how demented was that?

“But that’s beside the point,” Heath went on. “And they damned sure don’t know as much about running a business as I do. I have done my best to teach them some basic lessons, and they’ve been doing better. And what do you do? Go and give them a personal loan.
Personal.
You knew it wasn’t the thing to do. You wouldn’t even risk the bank’s money.”

Hope shrugged. “So what? I love those ladies. If they never pay me back—”

“If they never pay you back!”
Heath exploded like a powder keg that had been sitting way too long. “Hope, you might love them. Hard to know. You give that out and jerk it away at will.”

The words went straight to her gut, angled up, and cut her heart out. She fought for breath.

“But love them or not, you haven’t been slugging it out in the trenches with them for five years like I have. And if you think they would even entertain the notion of not paying you back, you don’t know anything about them. They would eat cat food and live on the street before they’d miss a payment to you. And believe me, Hope, I know their finances. They can’t afford another monthly bill, not if they’re going to have any kind of quality of life.”

“We didn’t exactly set up a payment plan,” Hope admitted. “I told them to just pay me when they could. We shook hands on it.”

Heath closed his eyes tight and ran his hands through his hair. She’d forgotten that gesture, had forgotten so much. She wished she could forget the rest.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked into hers—albeit briefly—instead of focusing on her cheekbones. “A handshake? Really? Is that what they do at Bank of America?”

So he knew where she worked.

“You know what I think, Hope? You knew this wasn’t good for them. And I know they told you I had advised against it, because they told me so. And you gave them the money anyway because you’re mad at me. You didn’t give a single thought to the effect it would have on them.”

What he said was true. She’d only told herself that she didn’t care if they paid it back. She’d never stopped to think how it would make them feel if they couldn’t.

“You had no right to do this.” To her surprise, Heath stepped forwarded and grasped her forearms, though not in an aggressive way. It was exactly what he used to do before he pulled her in for a kiss. But there was no danger of him kissing her now. “I had finally gotten them to a place where they were able to pay themselves a salary and start replacing their retirement funds.”

Hope gasped. “They spent their retirement? To open the shop?”

Heath nodded. “Every cent. And they mortgaged the house they grew up in.”

“Still.” Hope was on shaky ground, but she had to defend herself. “Five thousand dollars—”

“Won’t break them.” Heath finished her thought. “But it’s a slippery slope. That’s why I’ve never lent them money. And I’ve wanted to. But if they’re going to be true artisans and not hobbyists, they have to earn a living.”