Rekindled Dreams (8 page)

“Nope. Just an uncaring, egotistical ex-fiancé.” She shook her head, setting her curls to bouncing. “But that’s not it.”

Tension he hadn’t acknowledged eased from his chest. “This isn’t about a man?”

“Exactly.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I can’t come up with the right approach for a museum presentation. I’ve got an idea of how to increase attendance, and I figured—”

He didn’t think he’d made a disbelieving sound, but her expression told him otherwise.

“See for yourself.” She threw open her bedroom door and waved a hand at the inside of the room. “My creativity is in crisis, or maybe it’s dried to dust.”

Finn star
ed at the workspace she’d created on the dresser and small table. “This ‘big trouble’ is only about your job?”

“Only?” Her voice squeaked. “This project is crucial to my career.”

The realization she truly wasn’t in danger settled near his heart. Instead, she was struggling with a work issue. He couldn’t take time to identify this emotion filling him with warmth. Now, she was still talking, and he had to catch up.

“Wait a second.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the mound of brightly colored clothes mixed with plain calico dresses. “Your job requires you to dress up in those old clothes?”

“There’s no requirement. I must be leaving out details because you’re not understanding this.” She held up her hands and drew a deep breath. “Let me start at the beginning. I’m competing for a promotion. I thought skits with storylines in addition to the facts about the clothes would be more interesting to patrons. When I couldn’t get in the right spirit in Los Angeles, Moira suggested I take my vacation and come up here. I thought about the idea and agreed the historic surroundings would help.”

“Moira suggested this, did she?” He sat on the edge of the bed and scratched his chin. “So, your actions and all this are related to your job?”

“Exactly. That’s why I insisted on staying at The Shamrocks.” She sat close and grabbed his hand. “Dry Creek’s small-town atmosphere and being in this historic house are just what I need to create this story. I’m sure of it. In fact, look.”

She jumped up and walked to the
tablet on the desk. “Oh, I forgot the electricity’s out. And my battery’s almost dead. Well, I started off okay with the description but got tripped up on the dialogue. That’s when I decided to give Anita’s idea a try.”

Finn shook his head. “Who’s Anita?”

“A writer friend from California. She dresses in period clothes so she can feel her characters from the inside. Don’t stare like that.” Vena’s face relaxed into a grin. “I thought she was nuts, too, but it works. Or at least, the process was working until the lights went out.”

“So you’re dressing up in those flashy clothes to help you create Old West characters?” He fought to keep the disbelief from his voice. “And that’s all?”

She sat at the head of the bed and pulled one leg up to her chest, arranging the skirt hem to cover her feet. “Yes, but…”

The uncertainty in her voice put him on alert. Now she’d reveal the real problem, he could sense it. “What?”

“The pressure to produce a great project is incredible. I’m the one who chose this way of doing it.” She waved her hand at the clothing. “But so much rides on a great script. Believe me, of all my other ideas, this is the most logical.”

The situation wasn’t going to get worse. Relief seeped over his thoughts. “Why didn’t you tell me this when you first arrived?”

Her gaze dropped to the quilt. “I was afraid.”

“Of me?” With those three words, protectiveness pinched his chest. He tried to classify the emotion as the same way he’d acted on behalf of his younger siblings. Like when
he’d cleaned up Logan’s bloody nose after his first schoolyard fight. Or when he made sure one of his buddies asked Moira to dance at the Freshman Hop.

Unfortunately, this felt different. Stronger.

“Of failing. If no one knew about the project, I wouldn’t have to admit my failure. My vacation would end, and I’d return to LA after two weeks.” She pulled up the other leg and hugged them both, resting her chin on her knees. “Please don’t make me leave. I think I can write this story. But only from The Shamrocks, from right here in Moira’s old bedroom.”

Relief loosened his shoulders. A misunderstanding about their relationship was the last thing he needed broadcasted to the public. At least, not until the time was right. Ironic, because normally he hated subterfuge. She was already becoming too much of a distraction.

He crossed his arms over his chest and forced sternness into his voice. “Moira will be hearing from me.” Then he made the mistake of looking into her pleading hazel eyes. He was sunk. “You can stay and write your skit or whatever it turns out to be. I have my own work to do. Remember, I’m not even supposed to know you’re here.”

****

Two days later, Vena sat on a bench in Dry Creek’s town square pulling dry petals off a bedraggled daisy. She gazed around the tranquil patch of shaded grass and bedding flowers, and sighed. Her work wasn’t going well, and she’d needed to reconnect with the real world. Writing in Moira’s small room was getting on her nerves. Finn had sounded so determined to put space between them that she’d tried extra hard to stay out of his way.

A mother pushed a stroller past and smiled, and then greeted the two elderly men squared off across a checkerboard at the bench on her right.

Vena tossed away the stem and leaned backward until she gazed at sunbeams filtering through the treetops. How could she make—

“Does he or doesn’t he?” a gruff voice asked.

Vena draped her arms over the top of the bench and swung her legs, enjoying the childlike movement.

“Well, missy, which is it?”

Turning her head toward the gravelly voice, she was surprised by dark shiny eyes shadowed by unruly gray eyebrows staring her way from one of the players. She shot a glance over her other shoulder and then back. “Are you talking to me, sir?”

“Don’t see anyone else massacring a flower, do you? How’d it turn out?”

Surprised at his choice of words, she laughed. “I’m too old for that game. I was just wrestling over a problem.”

“King me, Samuel.” The other man chortled in glee. “That makes three.”

Samuel’s head jerked back to the board. “You cheated, Clyde.”

“Did what?” Clyde cupped a hand to his ear.

“Cheated,” Samuel yelled. “Your piece wasn’t close enough to get kinged.”

“Was too, you old coot. Put on your spectacles, and you might have a chance at winning.”

“Spectacles be dammed,” Samuel grumbled. He squinted at the board, his gaze darting between the remaining pieces.

The second man wore a red golfer’s cap at a jaunty angle on his bald head, and he doffed it in Vena’s direction. “Old buzzard never could resist a pretty face. I’ll take every advantage I can get.” He winked before turning back to his game.

Vena giggled at the compliment and relished this small town scenario. Did old men gather somewhere in Los Angeles and play checkers in the middle of the day? If they did, she’d never heard about it.

How many times had she sat on a park bench near her condo?

Or struck up conversations with strangers?

Never.

All she knew was that she liked the atmosphere. Neighbors sharing an abundance of vegetables and strangers asking about reaching a decision made her feel included. Caring about others transformed a group into a community. Her heart was at peace here, and she could get used to this slower lifestyle.

Back to the problem. Using the costumes helped her create Lola, but the process was one-sided. What she needed was someone to play the part opposite Lola.
She didn’t dare ask Finn to take time away from his renovations.

A sharp, metallic noise caught her attention. Something behind the hardware store had crashed into a trashcan.
She caught a glimpse of a man’s figure dropping to the ground and leaned forward. “Ohmigod. Did you see that? Someone’s hurt.” She jumped up and dashed across the street. Once there, caution set in. She stopped on the sidewalk and peeked around the corner of the building. “Are you okay?” she called out. No response. She walked alongside the store, concern outweighing any worry over trespassing.

About ready to call 9-1-1, she peered into the alley, and almost stepped on a life-size cardboard display of a grinning man holding a power drill. Letting out a deep breath, she sagged against the building and pressed a hand to her chest. Great. She’d come to the rescue of a cardboard handyman. Giggling at the absurdity, she glanced around, hoping no one witnessed her mad dash across the street.

Spinning on her heel to leave, she jerked to a stop and slowly turned, all her attention on the smiling figure at her feet. This guy could be her perfect solution. The storeowners wouldn’t have thrown him out if they still needed him, so she wouldn’t be stealing.

On impulse, she grabbed the cardboard man around the waist, straightened, and walked toward the street. The breeze threatened to bend the display in half. Checking for pedestrians in both directions, Vena pulled the figure upright and held him around the chest and at the inner thigh. With brisk strides, she marched through the square toward The Shamrocks, thankful for the town’s small population.

“I see you found your fella, missy,” Samuel called out.

Vena paused. “Gentlemen, meet Mr. Mannequin. We’re in a bit of a hurry. Bye.”

“Nice to meet you, Manny.” Samuel gave a brisk salute.

“Who’d she say that was?” Clyde cupped a hand around his ear. “The fella seems familiar.”

Samuel launched into a loud explanation for his friend.

Vena eased away and started in the opposite direction, chortling over her good luck in finding the display guy.

“Why’s she carrying him?” Clyde questioned.

“
Dunno. She’s the one from California.” Samuel gave a dismissive wave.

“Well, that explains it.”

She shook her head, hoping to avoid anyone she knew while carrying this thing. Drawing attention was not what she needed. Maybe Finn would lend her some clothes to outfit her new friend.

Rounding the corner of Finn’s street, she spotted
Tootie and Ruth walking along the sidewalk. With a gasp, she ducked into some hedges, pulling the display close. Luckily, they were headed in the other direction, and she’d just have to wait a bit. From behind, she heard a car engine and tires rolling slowly closer. Great, she’d been spotted. A knot formed in her stomach while her mind raced for a logical explanation.

“Carrying on with a new friend, Vena?”

Finn. At his amused tone, she sighed in relief. “Don’t gawk. Help me get this into The Shamrocks before anyone else spots it.”

With a jerk of his chin toward the back of the truck, he laughed. “Toss it in the truck bed. I’ll drive around back to the alley. Dare I ask why you have it?”

She did as he’d instructed and climbed into the truck. “Quick, drive on. I was sitting in the town square, contemplating a problem with Brady. Someone tossed Mr. Handyman here in the trash behind the hardware store. Isn’t he great?”

After adjusting his ball cap lower on his forehead, he glanced sideways. “Brady?”

“For my project.”

“Your museum needs a cardboard man?” He steered the truck around the corner and headed down the narrow alley.

“No, Brady’s a character in one of the skits. I’ve been writing by talking and gesturing to thin air, and not having much luck.” Even to her own ears, she wasn’t making any sense.

In the silence that followed, she stole quick glances, refreshing Finn’s image in her memory. Her soul was hungry for every detail—the way the cap pushed his hair over the top of his ear, the piercing blue of his eyes, the smile lines around his lips. Too soon, all she’d have would be memories of this special time together. She wanted them to be good ones.

“I’m trying to listen with an open mind.” He turned off the engine and set the brake. “I haven’t seen you lately. Getting enough rest?”

Was that a wistful tone she heard in his voice? Couldn’t be. He was the one who wanted distance. “I never imagined writing was such hard work. But finding this mannequin is just what I needed. Now I can create a better balance between Lola and Brady.”

Enforced separation under one roof was harder than she imagined. No matter what she worked on, she listened for a clue about what Finn was doing, or what part of the house he was in. She blinked, forcing her stare from his face, and opened the truck door. “Well, back to the ol’ grindstone. What are you up to?”

“Headed to the hardware store then to the lumber company and talk to Jared about a special order.” Yanking the handle, he opened his door and stepped out. “I intended to invite you along for the ride. But, as we’ve established, you’ve already been there.” He reached into the truck bed and tucked the cardboard man under his arm.

She extended her arms to retrieve him. “Thanks.”

“Get the gate, please. I’ll carry this upstairs.”

Grateful for the help, she hurried to open the gate and then the back door. As they walked through the house, she chatted about the two old men playing checkers and how peaceful the square had been. When they reached her room, she pushed open the door. “Prop him up against the far wall.”