Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) (7 page)

“No mistake,” Remy said gently, giving the dreadlocked woman a quick glance, which sobered her up. “It’s just that you were looking for the wrong thing. You needed to keep going on Main Street for about two miles out of town, then turn right past Jenny Quigley’s big red barn.”

Oh for god’s sake. “An actual
barn,
” she stated baldly.

“Yup,” Remy said.

Where the heck
was
she? This was rather rural, even for northern California.

“You planning to introduce us, Remy?” the dreadlocked woman asked as she pulled a tray of muffins out of a nearby oven.

A warm, luscious scent filled the air, and Trudy’s mouth watered. Oh, god, the scent alone had to be at least five hundred calories. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d avoided breakfast yet again. Sure, she’d told Milla she didn’t restrict what she ate, but that was more to make Milla feel better about the baby weight she’d gained.

“Trudy, I’d like you to meet Delilah, owner of this diner and queen of anything to do with bacon,” Remy said warmly.

The woman—Delilah—set the tray of muffins aside and called out over her shoulder, “Remy Toussaint, you know what I mean. Introduce the girl properly.”

Puzzled, Trudy hugged her arms in tight to her side. Wasn’t that what the sheriff had just done? Introduced her properly? Was this woman his mom or something? No, she figured, that wasn’t it—the woman was too young to be the sheriff’s mother.

Remy cleared his throat, then held out his arm and gestured to the rest of the patrons in the diner, pointing first to the woman in tie-dye. “In addition, we have Chessie Gibson, owner of Sierra Meadow Scents, and her fiancé Theo Courant, CEO of the Courant Foundation and richest dude in town.”

Trudy felt a blush creep up her neck.

Oh, god, he wasn’t going to introduce her to
everyone
in the diner, was he? And add context to all the people?

He next pointed to the redheaded woman and her companion, who gave Trudy a knowing smile. “Liz and Hunter Thorne. High school sweethearts, then enemies, now sweethearts once again, and as it should be.”

Yep, apparently he was sticking with the context thing. Did she really need to know this much detail about a roomful of strangers? This could
not
be normal, right?

One by one he introduced each person in the diner—including the busboy who was apparently the sheriff’s third cousin once removed—and gave her a brief summary of their history, job, and sometimes even political affiliation. Ned and Jim in the corner belonged to the Elks Club. Miss Clara and Miss Ethel at the table near the window led a synchronized swimming class at the local pool. The little girl in the lumberjack plaid dress was Fifi, but as the girl emphatically stated, she was
not
named after a poodle.

Each person greeted her with a smile and a warm welcome. Trudy’s throat went bone-dry. All she’d wanted were directions.

The redheaded woman, Liz, stared intently at Trudy, scanning her up and down. “Now why do you seem so familiar? Have we met before?”

A surge of tension twisted Trudy’s spine. If the woman recognized her, it was probably from the Tubster Trudy internet meme. Even in her high fashion modeling days she’d rarely been in catalogues and had stuck mainly to the catwalks. She hoped to high heaven Liz didn’t make the connection.

“No, I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, working to keep her tone calm. And to keep Foster Mom Number Five’s etiquette lessons front and center. “This is my first time in Meadowview.”

“And you’re looking for Gregor Johansson’s place?” Delilah asked.

Thank god
, Trudy thought, relieved the attention was off her name and onto her destination. She swiveled and focused on the diner owner. “I have a meeting with him this morning, and I’m a bit lost. Now that I know to turn past an actual barn, I’ll be on my way—”

“You’re meeting with
Gregor
? Are you sure?” Delilah’s brow had furrowed as she frowned at Trudy.

What did she mean? The instructions had clearly stated Trudy was to be at his estate this morning to start the modeling job. But she didn’t share that—since the redheaded woman seemed to recognize her, the less information she gave, the better. No need to remind anyone of the Tubster Trudy event. Ever.

Delilah and Remy exchanged an odd look—one Trudy couldn’t quite figure out—as if they shared a secret. What was it with this small town?

“Isn’t Gregor in Europe?” Delilah asked Remy, who shrugged.

“That doesn’t seem possible,” Trudy said, “because I’m due to meet him in about ten minutes. I hope I’m not being rude, but I really do need to get going.” She smiled, showing she didn’t mean to be rude. Foster Mom Number Two used to tell her and Milla that a smile—fake or real—could fix any problem.

“No worries, hon,” Delilah said. “But don’t forget your coffee and muffin. It’s bacon and maple.” She picked up the muffin, and before Trudy could protest, had slid it into a small paper bag and placed it on the countertop next to the to-go cup.

“I’m afraid I’m not carrying any cash,” Trudy said, staring at the bag containing the source of deliciousness, then mentally counted calories. The muffin had looked like it contained enough fat grams to add an additional inch to her tushie. But god, it smelled
soooo
good.

Delilah laughed. “This is Meadowview, sweetheart. If you’re working for one of the Johanssons, you’re a guest in this town. It’s on the house.”

Trudy frowned, but Remy stepped closer and whispered in her ear, “You should take it—Delilah will be offended if you don’t. Besides, it’s the best damned muffin you’ll ever eat.”

The heck with it. Muffins like this didn’t come along every day. Plus, she might need fortification if she was to trek about the wilderness, looking for some big red barn in order to locate her new boss.

She mentally berated herself for being a little bit pissy. She should get to know the locals—after all, she had a three-year job waiting for her.

And apparently all the muffins she could eat. How nice.

Nice, that is, until as she exited the building and the entirety of Delilah’s Diner waved goodbye and wished her well. Loudly. So loudly that she could hear a little kid (was that Fifi?) call out, “Bye-bye, Miss Trudy!” as she stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk. She’d heard small towns were friendly, but this one had to be taking it to a new level. So overwhelming.

Starting the car (and hoping no one was back in Delilah’s Diner with their smartphone out, Googling her), she checked the rear view mirror for traffic (absolutely none, unless one counted the golden retriever trotting down the street, happily headed who knew where), and wondered what Delilah had meant when she said “one of the Johanssons.” There were obviously more than just the artist. Did that mean Gregor was married? Would she meet his wife today? That would be nice, although she was a bit on social overload, having met what she figured had to be half of Meadowview—and all before eight in the morning.

Ten minutes later, muffin completely gone (except for where it would become a permanent part of her hips), she parked her car on the circular driveway of Gregor’s estate, already entranced with the beautiful setting. Perched on the top of a round hill, surrounded by a wide field and dotted oak trees, the Victorian home exuded warmth and comfort. A long covered porch ran the length of the house, and lavender and petunias lined the garden walkway.

She downed the rest of her coffee, then opened the car door and stepped out onto the graveled drive. Nerves fluttered in her stomach. Not an unusual occurrence the first time she met with an artist, but today her nerves were heightened because this contract meant so much for her future. Artists could be a temperamental bunch, even more so than the photographers, directors, and stylists she’d worked with when she was in high fashion. But what she’d seen of Gregor the other night when he gave his speech, he seemed nice. Surely he’d like her work and would grant her the full three-year extension to the contract.

A white picket fence surrounded the house, covered in parts by what appeared to be grape vines. Trudy located the front gate and swung it open.

And then immediately stopped and gaped.

A goat stood on the pathway, chewing God knows what and looking at her with a baleful eye. What the heck? When it wouldn’t budge from its spot, Trudy faced a more pressing question: how on earth was she supposed to get around the hairy thing?

The goat bleated and stepped forward.

Trudy stepped back.

The goat lowered its head, horns at the ready. Not quite the greeting Trudy had anticipated. Her nerves revved up, clashing about in her stomach. Butterflies on crack.

The creak of the front door had Trudy sighing in relief. Her exhale of relief turned quickly into an inhale of tension as a figure wearing tight black jeans, a ripped Ramones T-shirt, knee-high black Doc Martens, and a broad grin came tripping out.

Doe, Gregor’s assistant—and Mac’s sister.

Trudy crossed her fingers that Doe wouldn’t bring up her brother.

“Oh good, the nudist.” Doe grabbed the goat’s leather collar with one hand and gripped a notebook and white waffle-weave robe with the other.

Trudy’s jaw clenched, sending a sharp shooting pain up along her hairline. Posing nude was part of her job—and part of the contract—but she hated it when the issue was made front and center. “Doe. I didn’t realize I’d be working directly with you.”

“Yeah, I’m the one who’ll show you around, get you into position. You know, nudie modeling stuff.”

The headache, which had been fading, flared back like a sunspot. Gregor’s assistant should learn more professional language. At least the girl hadn’t mentioned Mac.

“You have fun with my brother the other night?” Doe asked.

Aaaaaaand
there it was. The very topic she’d hoped to avoid. “Where’s your baby?” she asked, purposefully deflecting Doe’s question.

“Aaron’s taking a nap. Be down for about an hour. Gives me a chance to do the dishes, put the laundry out on the line, and get on my hands and knees and scrub the floor. After that I’ll find some birds and a couple of rats to help me sew a dress for the ball.”

Trudy frowned. “Mice. Cinderella’s helpers were mice, not rats.”

Doe rolled her eyes. “What
ever
. Rats, mice—they’re all vermin. Here, follow me. He’s got you posing on some Greek pedestal-thingy in the weeds out back.”

“Will he meet us out there? Will he talk to me before I pose?”

“Dunno… I need to read his instructions. I do know you’ll be changing in the former servant’s quarters out back. We have to slog through the grass—just don’t step on any nanny berries.”

“What are ‘nanny’ berries?”

“Nanny leaves little presents about.”

The goat bleated.

Trudy groaned. “That’s Nanny?”

“Yup.”

She’d been envisioning a professional art studio. She certainly hadn’t anticipated posing naked in a barnyard. Or tromping through rain-soaked, goat-berry-dropping-filled grass in high heels.

In her Louboutins, she hobbled to keep up with fast-paced Doe as the girl trotted down what had transitioned into a bucolic pathway. At the sight, Trudy caught her breath. Low-growing trees lined the pathway, light green leaves and tight buds on every branch, a promise of spring blossoms. She recognized lavender and sage intermingled with batches of low-growing vicuna and moss. Beautiful. Not what she’d call weeds, either.

Around a corner, positioned under a wide oak tree, sat a single-story house: the servant’s quarters, she assumed. Pretty. Inviting. Welcoming.

Doe handed Trudy the robe and motioned in the direction of the doorway. “That’s where you’ll get naked. I’ll get you settled, then I gotta check on Aaron. I’ll meet you back here in five minutes and figure out if I’m supposed to help get you in your first nudie position. Kinky stuff, that.”

It took everything Trudy had not to roll her eyes and respond Doe-style by saying, “What
ever
.”

O
utside Mac’s office
, robins twittered as loudly as his client, who wouldn’t stop talking on the other end of the line. Mac figured if Bob Keenley of Keenley’s Automotive & Bicycle Repair didn’t stop yammering on and on about his pampered poodle—aka: Mac’s new client—he’d strangle himself with the telephone cord. This conversation had to end, and now: He’d heard a car come up the drive and park so Trudy must have arrived. Couldn’t be anyone else since not many people came out to the house—at seven miles outside Meadowview, the place was considered rather rustic.

He needed to get off the phone and meet with her before the photography session—make sure she really was okay with the contract. Not that he’d let his warrior woman go if she wanted to, but maybe he’d need to sweeten the pot.

She’d signed the contract, which meant she had to have read the letter he’d sent along with the contract and knew he wasn’t his father—and it had to mean she was cool with modeling for a guy who’d given her the worst lay in the history of lays, but still…he wanted to be certain.

He leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on his battered roll-top desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and anchoring the telephone against his ear and shoulder. Bob, oblivious to Mac’s mounting tension, continued on with how Fluffy hated flash photography, would only eat vegan doggie treats, and required bottled water, not tap. Mac squeezed a hand-sized orange foam football in his hand.

His office, in the spacious former servant’s quarters out behind his father’s house, was small but comfortable, its whitewashed wooden planked walls covered with miscellaneous photographs Mac had taken—and one large basketball hoop. Stressed, Mac shot the foam ball at a basketless hoop screwed into the plaster wall facing him

He missed.

Bob kept on talking.

Mac spread his fingers wide and massaged his temples, mentally berating himself for taking on this job. A few months ago, while on a photo shoot of four-month-old twins out at a swimming hole along the Maidu River, a man with an elaborately groomed Standard Poodle had approached Mac and asked him if he photographed pets as well as children. Mac had been about to say no when the dog looked at him with an expression of what Mac thought was either desperation or disgust, and it had intrigued him.

He’d looked at the dog more closely. It didn’t take long to realize that, irrespective of the girlish name and fluffy pompoms covering its tush and tail, the dog was in actuality a male. A thoroughly humiliated male, in Mac’s opinion.

Too much money and not enough other extracurricular activities had sent the man a little over the edge about his dog. Taking pity on Fluffy, and impressed with the dollar amount Bob Keenley had offered, Mac agreed to a photo shoot. Perhaps he could arrange the scenes in the photo shoot to give the dog back some of its masculinity—and self-respect, at that.

Bob droned on and Mac zoned out, images of a radiant Trudy filling his mind.

The buzz of the girls’ voices grew louder. Mac caught sight of Trudy outside his window and time seemed to slow. She was tottering down the sodden path on high heels, her head tilted upward, her gaze on the budding branches above, a robe slung over her arm.

A broad grin spread across his face and excitement charged through his veins. She was going to do it! Trudy was going to be his nude model for Warrior Woman. He had his muse—
finally
!

He leaned forward to rap on the window, call their attention to his office, but then Doe said something, making Trudy laugh. Trudy elbowed Doe, who grinned wide. Mac’s heart surged.

After Doe’s (now former) boyfriend Buck found out his teenaged girlfriend was pregnant, he’d run away from Meadowview and all his responsibilities, stranding a devastated Doe, still reeling from the after-effects of her mother’s death a few years before. Mac could rouse her into laughter, but he rarely saw Doe soften around anyone else. And yet, somehow Trudy seemed to bring out his sister’s happier side.

The sun spilled into his office, warming him. Or maybe it had been Trudy who’d warmed him with her effortless way with Doe, he couldn’t be sure.

He could hear bustling on the other side of the wall. Doe had brought Trudy into the changing room, which puzzled him. He thought he’d left instructions to bring Trudy to his office first. Oh well, he could go over the poses with her after she’d changed into her robe. Like a kid counting down the minutes until the school bell rang for summer vacation, he impatiently rapped his pencil against the desk. If Bob didn’t select a photo shoot date soon, he’d just about explode. He needed to get off the damned phone and go meet with Trudy.

He did his best to redirect his new client, but it still took several minutes to pin down a photo shoot date. Fluffy had a full schedule, so the photo shoot had to be worked in between doggie massages, doggie manicures (didn’t Bob mean “pedicures”?), doggie playdates, and the one appointment that Mac almost snorted coffee out of his nose over: doggie therapy. Apparently Fluffy was a bit depressed (with a name like Fluffy and butt pompoms, who wouldn’t be?).

Mac fought back the urge to point out why Fluffy needed a therapist and penciled Fluffy in on his calendar for the following month, thinking the conversation was over. And yet Bob continued on. Mac rolled his head from side to side, working to loosen the tension building in his neck. Although being a wedding and portrait photographer paid exceptionally well, it did nothing for his ego. He needed desperately to reinvent himself as an artistic photographer: he needed the success of Warrior Woman. And for that, he needed Trudy.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep breath. Time to get Bob off the phone and go capture brilliance. And after the photo shoot, he’d see if Trudy would agree to date him after the three month job was complete. He grinned. Might as well go for everything he wanted, right?

But first, he and Trudy would make artistic photography history.

If only Bob would get off the damned phone.

* * *

O
nce inside the
building Doe had referred to as the old servant’s quarters, sun spilled through the glass panes, warming the room and Trudy’s skin. Still, she shuddered as she removed her designer outfit, then slung a white waffle-weave robe over her naked form. Doe had taken off, instructing her on where to go after she disrobed—something about a dais out back that she said she was pretty sure Nanny hadn’t jumped on yet—and had grudgingly told her she looked amazing.

Good, because Trudy’s nerves were kicking up again. She loved working with artists, seeing their visions come alive under their very hands, but not all artists meshed well with their live models.

At least Gregor wanted her to start right off with posing. Some artist insisted on meeting her before they started in on a project, intent on getting to know her. She liked the artists who didn’t engage in chitchat—the ones who only wanted her form, not her personality. Revealing something personal about herself to someone who was sketching her nude form was the only time she ever felt truly naked.

Gregor, apparently, felt the same way as she, wanting to keep a reserved distance between himself and his muse.

She tugged the sash tight around her waist, then stepped back outside. The bright sun caused her to squint, and the buzz and hum of insects filled the air, along with a light floral scent. She carefully picked her way through the almost knee-high grass and nodding purple flowers to where Doe stood squinting at the notebook she’d been holding earlier.

The girl flipped through the pages, pointing out scribbled notes. “He has the images he’d like to capture written down. Warrior…something. I can’t for the life of me read his handwriting. That man should have paid more attention in school to his teachers and less time wondering how he was going to get a peek under Ms. Livery’s skirts. Who knew a fourth-grade teacher could be considered that sexy? Here, can you read this?”

Doe’s rather irreverent tone surprised Trudy. The relationship between Doe and her employer seemed rather informal. “How long have you worked for Mr. Johansson?” she asked.

“Mr.
Johansson
?” Doe wrinkled her forehead.

“Do you call him Gregor?” Trudy asked, wanting to call the world-renown sculptor by his preferred method of address. No sense in starting off on the wrong foot with her new boss.

Doe stood in silence for a moment, staring at her. “You mean you still don’t know?”

“Know what?” Trudy asked, growing puzzled.

“That a certain person is a complete and utter idiot. Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough. Not my job.” A loud squawk, coming from the vicinity of Doe’s hip, filled the air. “Baby monitor,” she explained, then sighed heavily. “Thought he’d sleep longer, he was up all night. Sorry, I only have another minute or two before he begins yodeling my name.”

“If you need to leave…”

“Soon,” Doe said. “Just let me know if you can read the idiot’s handwriting.” She thrust the notebook at Trudy, who took it and puzzled through the text.

“These are all nude poses, that’s clear. Hmm…Warrior in Victory, Warrior in Repose, Warrior in Anguish…there are a few more poses written here, but I can’t read them, either.” Trudy handed the notebook out to Doe, rather incredulous that Doe had referred to her award-winning, world-famous boss as “the idiot.”

Doe bit the pencil between her teeth and muttered, “That little minx Ms. Livery. Did quite a number on our boy. I didn’t see anything that said he wants to meet with you first, so go ahead and drop the robe, hop up onto the dais, and Madonna the hell out of this thing.”

“Um…
Madonna
?”

“It appears eighties humor is lost on you.”

Frowning, Trudy noted, “Doe, you weren’t even born in the eighties. So could you please simply clarify what you mean by ‘Madonna the hell out of this thing?’”

Doe huffed a gigantic sigh. “What
ever
. I mean, strike a pose. I’ll tell him you’re ready.” She took off down the pathway, leaving Trudy alone.

And this was who Trudy would have to work with, day in and day out, for the next three years? She’d better remember to load up on ibuprophen. She glanced around the open space surrounding her, and confident she was alone, she dropped the robe onto a small table near where she and Doe had stood, then stepped up onto the dais, fully in the nude.

As the sun hit her form, she saw the now-familiar shimmers of silvery-pink that crisscrossed her abdomen, and winced. Four years after the series of surgeries that had fundamentally altered her life, and still her scars were visibly noticeable. Hypertrophic scarring, her doctor had called it. Not life-threatening or even bothersome, the scars were, however, a constant reminder of who she’d once been. The dreams she’d once had. A flashing sign telling her she’d never be a mother.

But this artistic series Gregor Johansson was creating had been titled Warrior Woman, and the artist’s concepts of the poses all spoke of a strong woman. She could be that woman.

She
was
that woman, right?

Wasn’t that why he’d contracted her instead of the other artist’s models?

There had been several poses to choose from, and Trudy could have started off with a simpler and less taxing pose, such as
Warrior Woman in Repose
, but she wanted to hit Gregor with what she could do the minute he showed up. Nervous but determined, she began to prepare for Warrior in Victory—head back, arms upraised into fists, feet spread apart. She flexed her muscles, channeling her inner warrior woman. She elongated her spine, raising the notch in her collarbone up toward the sky and pressed her heels firmly into the whitewashed wood of the dais, already warmed from the sun.

She was ready.

She’d channeled her inner Warrior Woman.

The breeze floated over her, its slight chill invigorating. The creak and slam of a door told her the artist had arrived. Nerves twisted under her skin, but she held the pose. Strong. Firm. A warrior.

“Oh,
wow
. That’s absolutely beautiful. Keep it there—we’ll talk after I capture this image.” A man’s voice sounded loud over the drone of the insects.