A Town Called Valentine: A Valentine Valley Novel (10 page)

A landscaped rose garden made up a city block, complete with a fountain and a stone bridge over a fishpond. Four bed-and-breakfasts presided, one at each corner. Monica had called them the Four Sisters, and with the cupolas, gingerbread trim, and wraparound porches, they were elegant reminders of another era. A van was parked in the driveway of one of them, unloading tables and chairs, and Emily imagined an outdoor engagement party or wedding reception.

And everywhere, even at midmorning, were the lovers. She spotted them kissing under vine-covered trellises or biking side by side. At the rose garden, she was asked to take a couple’s picture on the bridge, and they confided he’d asked her to marry him on that same spot fifty years ago.

As far as love was concerned, Emily felt even more ancient than they were. How did a relationship last so long?

She was feeling a little down by the time she approached her building, turning into the alley. She came up short on seeing Nate’s pickup, dismayed to find herself feeling a jolt of interest. Oh, this wasn’t good.

And then Brooke came out of Monica’s Flowers and Gifts, keys dangling from her hand, and noticed her arrival. “Hey, Em, you’re just in time. Give me a hand with this mattress.”

Em?
Even her mother hadn’t been so casual with her, so . . . familiar. She kind of liked it.

Brooke pulled down the rear door of the pickup, and Emily saw a plastic-draped mattress.

“It’s the one Monica mentioned. Mrs. Shaw was thrilled to get rid of it without a fuss. I borrowed Nate’s pickup.”

“But—what do I owe her?”

“I asked, and she said it was twenty years old, and she hoped you wouldn’t ask for money to take it.”

They smiled at each other.

“Let me unlock the doors and set down my backpack,” Emily said, suddenly eager.

Between the two of them, they dragged the mattress upstairs and plopped it into the frame. Emily was breathing a little hard, but Brooke only wiggled her eyebrows and made a muscle with one arm to emphasize her strength.

After hearing someone come through the door, they left the bedroom to see Monica.

“Hey, this is just like my place,” Monica said, smiling.

Emily looked around her, trying to see the apartment as others did, now that the garbage had been removed. It still needed a good cleaning, of course, and scuffmarks and nail holes decorated the white walls. The two bedrooms—one larger than the other—and bathroom were in the rear of the apartment, overlooking the alley. The main living area was open, with a view of Main Street. The galley kitchen had a small window set in the wall between it and the living room, and a table and two chairs sat nearby. But the big front window let in a lot of light. The place had promise, and hopefully whoever purchased the building would agree.

The only other piece of furniture was a couch with torn cushions, sitting forlornly in the middle of the dull wood floor.

“You don’t plan to use
that,
” Monica began doubtfully.

Emily shook her head. “No, but I needed another person to help move it.”

“Then let’s go,” Brooke said.

After it had been removed to the Dumpster, Emily led the way into the restaurant kitchen, saying, “Come on in for a soda.”

As they drank, Brooke walked around the place, peering into the dining room. “Hey, what’s this?” she called, walking to the front entrance. She bent down and picked up something that had been slipped under the door. “Guess this is for you.”

Emily’s name was scrawled across a Deering Family Real Estate envelope.

“I was wondering when Howie Junior would get to you,” Brooke said, shaking her head.

“ ‘Get to’ me?”

“Brooke, that’s not fair,” Monica said. “It’s his business to discuss property that’s for sale.”

“Shouldn’t I be talking to him?” Emily asked.

Brooke sighed. “I dated him in high school. He liked to kiss and tell.”

“He’s grown up since then.” Monica shook her head. “Brooke just doesn’t like her private life discussed.”

Emily almost said
Just like her brother,
but she stopped herself in time.

“And I’m certain she kisses better now,” Monica added solemnly.

“You people all know each other!” Emily said with a laugh. “Is there anyone in town who doesn’t have a story to tell about someone else?”

Brooke and Monica shrugged at each other, then said in unison, “Nope.”

“I took a walk around town this morning, and although people were all friendly, sometimes I felt like everyone was staring at me, just waiting for me to do something worth talking about.”

Monica bit her lip. “Girl, I think you already did. It seems the plumbers—”

“Ned and Ted Ferguson,” Emily interrupted.

“Well, they told Bill Chernoff at the post office, who told Sally Gillroy from the mayor’s office—”

“The mayor!” Emily cried.

“No, she’s the clerk, but she told my mom, who’s a receptionist for Doc Ericson, who told me.”

“Told you what?” Emily asked with a sigh. Rumors could transform into ugly things.

“That you and Nate got a little drunk the first night you were in town.”

Brooke gaped at her. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“So I’m supposed to tell you about your brother?” Emily threw her hands wide. “Anything else?”

“That you went into the back room to play pool, and a half hour later, you came hurrying out red-faced, and Nate looked angry.”

Well, at least the whole town didn’t know how far things had gone. “This is embarrassing.”

“You don’t need to tell us if you don’t want to,” Monica said soothingly.

“There’s nothing to really tell,” Emily insisted. “We bet a kiss on the pool game, and in the middle of the kiss, I stopped it. I’ve never drunkenly kissed a stranger before, and I was just mortified.”

“That’s all?” Brooke said, obviously a little disappointed.

“Well . . . there might have been some groping.” She closed her eyes with a groan when the two women glanced at each other and chuckled. “I don’t want to talk about my horrible behavior that night. We’ve since apologized to each other, and we’re friends.”

“Groping friends,” Monica mused thoughtfully. “Maybe I should try that.”

“We’re not groping anymore,” Emily shot back.

“Sorry if we’re too nosy,” Monica soothed. “Neither of us is dating anyone, so even hearing about drunken groping sounds more exciting than our lives have been lately.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Emily said wearily. “It’s just that . . . I’ve recently come away from a terrible marriage, and I’ll be leaving in a few weeks, and dating would just be too complicated. Nate’s been a friend.”

“That’s my brother,” Brooke drawled. “Nooo self-interest there.”

“We’re not dating!” Emily insisted. The merest thought of trusting a man again, especially now that she’d put her own future first . . . no, she had new priorities, things to accomplish on her own. “Now can I see the envelope addressed to me?” she asked sweetly.

Brooke handed it over. Emily scanned the contents, written in a cheerful manner by Howard Deering—though she could only think of him as Howie Junior, thanks to Brooke.

“Someone is interested in my building!” Emily said, grinning at her two friends.

Monica smiled. “Good for you. Do we know the person?”

“Howie—Mr. Deering—didn’t say.”

“It’s kind of strange that he wouldn’t mention the buyer,” Brooke mused.

“I’ll call.” Emily dialed the real-estate office and reached a receptionist, who gave her Howie’s cell phone. To her surprise, he hesitated about revealing the interested party, and when at last he did, she understood his reluctance. After hanging up, she put on an innocent air and took another sip of her Diet Coke.

“Well?” Brooke demanded.

Emily laughed. “You’re going to love this. The name of the company is Leather and Lace. They have another store in San Francisco, and they’re beginning to branch out. Take a guess what they sell.”

“Leather and Lace . . .” Brooke mused. “Decorated saddles?”

“You would go there.” Monica rolled her eyes. “S & M?”

“Close,” Emily said. “Naughty lingerie.”

“Ooh.” Monica looked thoughtful. “However will I concentrate on work with
that
next store?”

“They’re very sexy, and apparently run the gamut from
really
naughty to tasteful. And who says I’ll accept their offer?” she added. “They’re not making one until they see the building. And I’m not letting anyone see
this
disaster for a while.”

“You think they’ll fit in here?” Brooke asked. “This can be a conservative town.”

“
Valentine Valley,
” Emily emphasized the name. “Isn’t it all about romance? And what says romance better than honeymoon clothes?”

“I like it,” Monica said firmly.

“We’ll see if anyone else does.” Brooke looked doubtful.

“Don’t be pessimistic,” Emily said. “Someone has an actual interest in the building, and in this economy, I’ll take what I can get. Now if someone else is interested, and they start a bidding war . . . maybe I’ll have my college tuition paid for with lots to spare for a baby.” She hugged herself, pushing back her doubts and worries. “Back to work. I have to get to the hardware store.”

“And Mrs. Wilcox is probably panicking without me,” Monica said glumly.

“And Nate threatened to whip me if I didn’t help take care of some fences in the horse pasture.”

When Emily was alone, she let the peaceful happiness of friendship wash over her. Already, she felt like she could tell Brooke and Monica anything, and they’d understand and sympathize, or even tell her she was making a mistake. She realized, to her delight, that girlfriends were family, too.

Emily walked the one block to the hardware store, feeling cheerful and positive. She browsed in the windows of the Vista Gallery of Art, admiring its beautiful mountain landscapes, then inhaled the aroma from the coffee shop Espresso Yourself. She didn’t like coffee, but she loved the scent that drifted out the door when someone went inside. Several people sat outside at little wrought-iron two-person tables, even though the day was overcast. Emily nodded and smiled as people did the same to her. It still surprised her how friendly everyone was.

Hal’s Hardware, a clapboard structure built on a corner lot, rose three stories, a rarity in Valentine. Inside, she stopped in amazement at how much was crammed in each aisle, floor to ceiling. The first thing she saw was the paint department, where a large table was placed near a coffeemaker. Three men sat around the table, and turned to stare when she closed the door behind her. They were in their sixties and older, but it was hard to tell with men who spent their working lives outdoors.

Feeling as on display as a butterfly pinned to a board, Emily forced a smile. “Good morning.”

They all smiled back, to one degree or another, but the interest was obvious.

“Hey there, girl,” one grizzled old man called, taking off his cowboy hat as if to see her better with steel blue eyes. He wore a well-used tan Carhartt jacket, open over his overalls. “You lost?”

“Not if this is the hardware store,” she said pleasantly.

She glanced at the clerk behind the cash register, an older man who wore glasses above a beard laced with white like his sandy hair. His pleated denim shirt was monogrammed with the name “Hal.” Not a clerk then.

Hal smiled. “You’ve come to the right place, Miss . . .” He trailed off.

All the men seemed to wait in fascination for her identity, but before she could say it, another man at the table, balding, wearing the blue shirt of the US Postal Service, spoke up. “Emily Murphy.”

One of the men nodded as if his suspicions were confirmed, and the other seemed to cock his head to study her.

“Bill Chernoff,” she responded to the postal clerk, remembering what Monica had told her about rumors spreading.

He reddened, and the man in the Carhartt jacket guffawed. “How do you know my name?”

She put one hand on her hip. “Rumors fly, but I guess you already know that.”

Behind the counter, Hal snorted. “She’s got ya there, Bill. I’m Hal Abrams, Mrs. Murphy.”

So he knew she’d been married—but of course, that made sense, since everyone in town knew she didn’t have her mother’s last name.

“Your grandparents were good people,” said the third man, wearing a down vest over his flannel shirt. His gray mustache was twirled up at the ends, and he had bushy eyebrows to match. “And we’re doin’ nothing but confrontin’ you. I’m more polite than these cowpokes. Name’s Francis Osborne, of the Circle F Ranch, and this here’s”—he gestured toward the man in the Carhartt jacket, who nodded, even as he briefly said something into a cell phone before hanging up—“Deke Hutcheson of Paradise Mountain Ranch.”

“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” Emily said politely. She glanced at Hal. “I guess your coffee’s better than the brew at Espresso Yourself next door.”