My One and Only (19 page)

Suddenly desperate for something to do, I turned the key—the battery still worked, even if the engine didn’t—and switched on the defrost. The windows cleared. The rain tapered off, and a golden bar of sunlight sliced through the clouds. Coco raised her head and yawned. “Guess I should check the car,” Nick said.

“Guess you should,” I said, my voice normal once more. “Not that you know anything.”

Nick flashed me a grin and got out, and I followed.

The air was pure and sweet after the thunderstorm, and if there’d been any antelope gore stuck to the side of the car, it had mercifully been washed away. I walked over to Nick’s side, where he was now lying on the ground, looking under the car. Coco licked his knee.

“See anything?” I asked.”

“Metal. Tires. A hose dripping stuff. Oh, and here. A souvenir.” He worked something loose and stuck out his arm, and I leaped back and shrieked.

“Nick! That’s nasty!” It was the poor dead antelope’s horn.

“You don’t want it?” he asked, standing up with a grin.

“No! And Coco, you can’t have it, either. Yuck.” Nick tossed it to the side of the road. “Here,” I said, rummaging in my purse. “Purell. Use a lot.” He obeyed, looking at me steadily. Making me nervous.

“So,” I said, “Car death by goring?”

“Looks like it. Too bad you failed to see the large mammal lying in the road, horns up.”

“Nope. I was too busy being shocked over your little bombshell. Your adorable stepchild.”

“Jealous?”

I faked a smile. “Not really. Dennis and I plan to have kids. Strapping, brave, black-haired children, six or eight of them.”

“Name one after me.” He grinned, knowing I was lying on some front. Jerk. Couldn’t he act jealous, just a little bit? Huh? I narrowed my eyes and didn’t respond. What was the point? Nick and I bugged each other. We bickered, scrapped, fought, resented and blamed. Mad skills, all, especially where the two of us were concerned. Whatever moment had happened back in the car a few minutes ago, whatever I’d hoped to hear, what he might’ve said…it was best left alone.

That being said, I didn’t fail to recognize that we were in East Bumfuck, Nowheresville. No cars, no trucks, no living antelope to ride to civilization. Nick reached into the backseat of the car, rummaged in the cooler and emerged with two Snapples. He handed one to me.

“Should we ration these?” I asked, only half kidding.

“Nah. Someone will come.”

“Really, Nick? Because I haven’t seen a car in an eon or two.”

At that very moment, we heard a motor. Nick gave me a smug look, then stood in the middle of the road, ready to flag down our rescuer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“S
URE, WE GOT A MECHANIC
, you betcha. Lars Fredricksen. He’ll get you set up, don’tcha worry ’bout a thing.”

Coco and I were sitting in the truck between Nick and Deacon McCabe, our rescuer. His words were balm to my battered soul. With a sigh of relief, I felt my shoulders relax. Deacon seemed about as nice as a guy could be, full of folksy phrases and the rounded vowels of the region. The truck was old and smelled pleasantly of oil. A crucifix swung gently from the rearview mirror, and Deacon himself smelled like hay and tobacco, a very pleasant combination.

The fact that I was squished against Nick…well, that felt pretty damn good, too. He had his arm around me—well, not technically. Technically, his arm was resting on the back of the seat, but it was…cozy. The air had turned quite chilly. Unfortunately, my sweater was packed in my little red suitcase, which currently resided in the back of the pickup. Nick, however, was nice and warm. And he smelled good. And he seemed irritatingly unaffected by my presence for a man who loved and hated me.

The plan was for us to go into town (Harold, North Dakota, population 627) and get a tow for the poor Mustang, then have the mechanic assess the trouble.

“You folks’ll stay with us tonight,” Deacon said. “Our town doesn’t have a motel, don’tcha know, but you’re real welcome with me and the missus. We don’t get many folks coming through, no sir. And tonight just happens to be our very own Harvest Festival, so you’ll have to do us the honor. Real Americana. Where’d you say you folks were from again?”

“Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts,” I answered. “We’re headed to the airport in Bismarck. Is that far?”

“Oh, gosh no, not at all. Couple hours, three tops.”

“Great!” I said. If Nick’s car wasn’t fixed by then, maybe I could pay someone to drive me to the capital. By this time tomorrow, the odds were excellent that I’d be in the air, headed for home, back where I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t wait.

“So what’s it like in Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts?” Deacon asked, and I happily told him about Menemsha and the fishing fleet, the wind and the pines, the rain, the ocean, the cheerful pastel Victorians of Oak Bluffs, the tidy streets of Edgartown.

“Sounds like you folks have a real nice life out there,” Deacon commented.

Nick said nothing, just looked at me, his eyes unreadable.

“Yes,” I finally said after a minute. “Coco likes it, don’t you, honey?” She wagged her tail agreeably, then resumed trying to hypnotize Deacon into becoming her love slave.

Thinking about home reminded me that I needed to call Dad. Should check in on Tommy. See what I could do for BeverLee. Make sure Willa had enough money. Court next Tuesday. My bimonthly lunch with Father Bruce. It was different from here, where the endless fields were punctuated with huge spools of hay, the flatness of the landscape nearly unbroken by trees. My home seemed so safe by comparison, the ragged coastline and snug little towns, the solid stone walls and whispering pines. No exposure, no relentless sun. No Nick.

A
COUPLE OF HOURS
later, I was the queen of the Harvest Ball. Well, maybe not queen. But I was holding court, at least in the judicial sense of the word. Six women had me cornered at a picnic table as we ate a tasty yet unidentifiable casserole called “hot dish” by my hosts. Coco, well fed on the same, snoozed at my feet, her leash tied to one leg of the picnic table.

“So if I move out, he could get the house? Gosh, that doesn’t seem right,” Darlene said. She was twenty-six, married for seven years, two kids. Husband was a trucker who enjoyed a side of hooker with his rest stop all-you-can-eat buffet, apparently.

“It’d be better if you stayed put, especially with the kids,” I answered, taking a sip of my Coke—strike that. A sip of my soda pop. Sounded much nicer that way.

“Okeydokey,” she said. “Stay put, you betcha. Think I should change the locks?”

“Well, that would certainly send a message,” I concurred.

Darlene nodded, and my next consultation approached. “Hi, there, Harper hon, didja see that rain before? I’m Nancy Michaelson, so nice to meetcha.”

“Hi, Nancy,” I said, taking another bite of hot dish. One could only imagine the cholesterol count, as the primary ingredient seemed to be mayonnaise, but man, it was good! “What can I help you with?”

She sat. “You’re a regular doll, answering all our questions, don’tcha know. So, okay, my mother, bless her heart, she just married some old geezer from the nursing home over in Beulah. At first, we thought he was, y’ know, not so bad, but turns out, he’s taking money out of her savings account! What can we do? I think she should divorce his scrawny old carcass, but Mom, well, she’s saying she’s in love! At her age, can you imagine!”

I squashed a smile. “Well, if you’ve got power of attorney, you can stop that. But if she’s competent—”

“Whatja mean, competent?”

“In her right mind? You know…sane?”

Nancy sighed. “Well, I think she’s crazy, having a romance at her age and all, but I guess I don’t get a vote. Thanks, hon.”

“Okay, okay, let’s give our guest a little breathing room, what do you say, girls?” Margie Schultz bustled over, my new best friend/bodyguard. She seemed to be in charge of the event; after Deacon had introduced Nick and me to her, she’d towed us around, introducing us to dozens of people, all of whom had seemed ridiculously happy that misfortune had led us here. Midwestern hospitality at its finest, putting us Yankees to shame.

The Harvest Festival was pretty much what you’d expect—the lot behind the Lutheran church strung with lights, a few booths and mouthwatering smells as hot dogs, hamburgers and bratwurst cooked on a grill. A giant table held dozens of casseroles, Jell-O molds and plates of cake and cookies. Soda pop and milk…no beer. A small band was setting up…just a guitarist, a bass player and a fiddler. This year’s real Harvest Queen, a sturdy and beautiful lass decked out in a pink prom gown, work boots and a John Deere cap, collected money for the school’s football program. Kids ran around with sparklers in the fading light, and the whole scene could’ve been taken from a Ron Howard movie.

“So is the Harvest Festival always on a Monday night?” I asked. Hard to believe it was only Monday—I felt as though I’d been in the car with Nick for years, but Monday evening it was.

“Oh, gosh no,” Margie said. “It was supposed to be Saturday, but oh, we had quite a storm blow through! And here there was that cloudburst today, I nearly wet myself, Harper, I did, thinking we were gonna have to reschedule again! But the Lord must’ve heard my prayers, because it just turned out fine, didn’t it?”

“It did. And the weather couldn’t be prettier,” I agreed.

“Well, it’s a little nippy, that’s for sure. I’ll have to bring my plants in tonight. Might be a frost, can you believe it?”

I smiled. I found myself a little in love with Harold, North Dakota, to be honest. Granted, I’d only had Nick to talk to these past couple of days, but these people had to be the friendliest, nicest people ever. Martha’s Vineyard wasn’t exactly a simmering hotbed of evil and malice, of course…but it was an extremely wealthy area, and with great gobs of money came a lot of…well, let’s be honest. Snootiness. Here, life seemed a bit more even, more clearly defined, which was, I admitted, ridiculously condescending and naive of me. Wishful thinking. Then again, I was only here for the night, and if I wanted to cling to some stereotypes, there was probably no harm in that.

“Can I take your dog for a walk around the church?” a girl asked. She was about twelve, tall and slender, hair in French braids. My mom had braided my hair that way when I was small. “I’m very responsible,” she added.

“Well, in that case, sure,” I said. The girl thanked me and roused Coco, who leaped up with joy at the sight of another fan.

“Your fella’s quite a looker, isn’t he?” Margie commented.

Oh. Right. One more thing about Harold, N.D. Everyone here was under the impression that Nick and I were married, despite the fact that neither of us wore a ring. I hadn’t corrected that impression, and though Nick and I hadn’t talked much since Deacon picked us up, I was pretty sure he was letting it ride, too.

I glanced over now at Nick. He was a looker, all right, standing there with his hands in his pockets, an easy half smile on his face as he talked to the mechanic and Deacon. Dennis was undeniably gorgeous, but Nick… Nick
did
things to me.

“How long have you two been together?” Margie asked.

“We got married when I was twenty-one,” I said. “\ There. Not a lie. Let them think we were married. Introducing the facts…that would diminish the glow of this sweet night.

“Any kids?” another lady asked.

For a second, the image of a dark-haired, brown-eyed boy appeared in front of me. He’d be skinny. Impish, irresistible smile. The kid would get away with murder and I’d let him, because he’d look just like his daddy…“Nope. No kids.”

“There’s still time,” an older lady said.

“You betcha,” I answered.

“But you better get on that, don’tcha know,” she added. “No time to waste.”

As if aware that I was lying about him, Nick turned his head and met my eyes. Boom. There it was, that locked-in feeling, like two magnets that had been quivering around each other before the forces of nature finally smacked them together. For a long moment, we just looked at each other. Then I smiled, reluctantly, maybe, and Nick started over to our corner of the lot.

“Breaking up marriages again, darling?” he asked.

“Your wife has been so patient there, Nick!” Margie exclaimed. “Oh, Harper, you’re a good sport, aren’tcha? Now, I have to run over there and get those boys up on stage. If they don’t start playing soon, people’ll go home. See you later, kids!”

The remaining two ladies wandered off as well, leaving Nick and me and my hot dish alone together.

“Care for some soda pop?” I asked.

“Wife, huh?” He cocked an eyebrow.

I shrugged. May have blushed. Then the microphone squeaked, and a man’s voice came over the PA. “Folks, let’s get things started off, how’d that be? Here’s a classic—Patsy Cline’s ‘Crazy.’”

“Want to dance, wife?” Nick said.

“Not really,” I said.

“Great.” He took my hand and towed me to the dance area, which was outlined with hay bales.

“Typical of you, ignoring my opinion and doing what you want anyway,” I muttered as he put his hand on my waist.

“Shush, woman, you’re ruining the moment,” he said, pulling me a little closer.

There were a few other couples out there. The little girl who’d taken Coco was now dancing with my dog, and Coco was apparently all for it, since she had her head on the girl’s shoulder, braid in her mouth. The white steeple of the Lutheran church glowed against the cobalt sky. And despite the fact that Nick wore my last nerve down to a nub, my heart was nonetheless fluttering away like it was 1950 and this was the prom.

Nick was smiling that faint, wry smile that turned his eyes from tragic to mischievous, as if we had a secret that only we knew. He wasn’t much taller than I was, and I had a disconcerting view of his face, those too-seeing eyes. I moved a little closer so I wouldn’t have to look right at him…mistake. Now I could feel his heat, and he held me a little tighter. His neck was right there, next to my cheek, and the urge to bury my face there, kiss the hot, velvety skin—damn. My eyes closed. No one had ever felt this good. No one had ever felt this right.

“Hey there, Harper and Nick. Didja meet my husband, Al? Al, this is that nice couple who broke down out on Route 2.”

“Hello,” I said.

“How are ya?” Al said.

Nick released my hand to shake Al’s. “We’re great,” he said. “Lovely town you live in.”

They smiled in unison. “Oh, we couldn’t agree with you more, there, Nick,” Margie beamed. “It’s so nice to have you kids join us.”

“That it is,” Al agreed, winking.

They swayed away, and Nick took my hand once more.

“How’s the car?” I asked briskly and not at all as if I was melting from the bones out.

“Well,” he said softly, and we were now so close that I could feel the vibration in his chest as he spoke, and my knees went weak with longing, “Lars said we—and by we, I mean you, of course—ripped out a hose.” His arm tightened a little—my imagination? “But he thinks he can either replace it or patch it enough to get the car running. We should be good to go.”

“Good to go. Good. That’s good. Great,” I breathed. “Excellent.”

Crazy for crying, crazy for trying, crazy for loving you.

You said it, Patsy. Nick + Harper = Disaster. Been there, done that, had significant emotional scarring from said event. But it was easy to ignore in this moment, Nick’s arm around my waist, his clean, spicy smell, the gentle rasp of his unshaven cheek against mine, the slide of muscle under his warm skin. He held my hand the way he always had. With certainty. With commitment. As if I belonged to him.

I swallowed, then gulped in a quick breath of the cool night air. The band had morphed into another sweetly melancholy song. “I’m Not Supposed to Love You Anymore.” If that wasn’t the voice of God, I didn’t know what was.

I stepped back. “That was nice. Thanks, Nick,” I said, my voice a little loud. “I better find Coco.” And without giving myself the chance to do something stupid, I slipped off to reclaim my dog and some peace of mind.

D
EACON
M
C
C
ABE’S HOUSE
was a tiny little one-story house in the middle of a lot of land. There were a few trees clustered around the house, and the earlier storm appeared to have stripped them of their leaves. Margie had been right—it had turned quite cold, and the wind gusted around the house, swaying the squat little bushes that crouched outside the door. I picked up Coco and kissed her head. Wondered what she thought of our strange little trip.

Inside the house, the living room was decorated with knotty pine paneling and mounted elk heads, which made Coco growl most adorably. Orange shag carpeting, a woodstove that, judging from the chilly temperature, had gone out some time ago. A pug came trotting in to greet its master, and Deacon bent down. “Lilly, this here is Coco and her mommy and daddy,” he said, scooping up the chubby little package of dog. Lilly made wheezing, snuffling noises at my dog. Coco gave me a quick Chihuahua look…
Seriously? I have to let this thing slobber on me?
…but then decided to allow Lilly a few ecstatic licks, which delighted the pug no end.