In the Mood for Love (4 page)

Sam cracked his neck, gathered his thoughts. He wanted to break the news before they broke out the cupcakes. He hadn’t anticipated feeling this awkward. Former military or not, deserting his colleagues wasn’t his style. Then again neither was being in the spotlight and, thanks to Harper, several interviews and book signings were in the club’s immediate future.

“So much going on,” Rocky said, while sipping tea. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“I’ll start,” Sam said.

“Where’s Harper?” Daisy asked. “We texted earlier and she told me she was definitely coming.”

“She must be running late,” Casey said.

“I vote to delay any important discussions until she shows,” Daisy said. “As our publicist she needs to know what’s what.”

“The Cupcake Lovers have been thriving since the forties,” Ethel, another senior member, said. “We’ve never needed a publicist to monitor meetings.”

“That was then, this is now.” Daisy sniffed and pushed her neon-green bifocals up her nose. “Get with the times, Ethel.”

“Come down to earth, Daisy.”

“Ladies,” Rocky cautioned.

Daisy waved off her granddaughter and pulled her phone from her rainbow-colored purse. “I’ll send Harper a quick text, ask for an estimated time of arrival.”

“Just type
EST
with a question mark,” Sam said. Daisy, who’d been addicted to texting ever since Chloe had exposed her to the process, insisted on typing out every word, which made for some long-ass texts. They’d all been subjected to them, all except Ethel who didn’t own a smartphone.

“I spoke to Harper on the phone yesterday. Briefly,” Rae said as she passed around plates and napkins. “She doesn’t seem like herself.”

“She’s been back at the farm for almost a week,” Rocky said. “We’ve spoken on the phone, too, texted about décor, but I haven’t seen her once. I meant to stop by, but I’ve been jammed with another job.”

“She hasn’t responded yet,” Daisy said while staring at her phone. “That’s just wonky.”

“Maybe she’s driving,” Joey said.

“So?” Daisy said.

Right,
Sam thought. Like that had stopped Harper before. In fact, their first encounter had been via an accident caused by Harper’s reckless texting while driving.

“I’ll be back with the cupcakes,” Rae said as she zipped toward the kitchen. “Carry on!”

“I’ll help,” Joey said. Even though she looked out of place, she was doing her damnedest to fit in. To the club’s credit, no one commented on her radical goth girl vibe when she disappeared into the kitchen behind the sweetly sophisticated heiress.

Sam shifted on his stool, anxious to blurt out his news. Once those Kick-in-the-Pants Kupcakes were served, he’d be forced to stay. He wasn’t about to add
rude
to
quitter
.

“Harper usually drops by Moose-a-lotta for cupcakes and bean juice,” Chloe said, “but so far she’s a no-show.”

“I’m sure Harper’s fine,” Sam said. “Listen—”

“Not that I’m prone to gossip,” Ethel said, “but I heard Harper’s had everything from laundry to food delivered to her house daily. Who does that?”

“People who are used to being catered to,” Sam said. “Probably a West Coast thing. Listen—”

“I don’t think so,” Chloe said. “I think something’s wrong.”

“I agree,” Rae said, back in the room and already doling out cupcakes alongside Joey.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sam said. Even so, he texted Harper. A racy text. A text she wouldn’t be able to resist. He waited a beat. Two beats.

“Maybe she’s finally falling prey to the Rothwell curse,” Helen said.

“A curse?” Joey grinned. “Cool.”

“Not an actual curse,” Monica said for the record. “More like an urban legend connected to a home once owned by one of the first Cupcake Lovers, Mary Rothwell.”

“Mary’s husband went missing in World War II,” Daisy said, “but she was certain he’d return.”

“She became a recluse,” Ethel said, “determined to be at home when he walked through the door.”

“Only he never did,” Daisy said. “Mary died of a broken heart.”

“According to residents over the years,” Monica said, “the longer you live in that house, the deeper your anxiety and depression.”

“Maybe Harper’s too depressed to leave,” Ethel said, “and that’s why she’s ordering everything in.”

“Have you met Harper?” Sam asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone. “She’s a control freak. Focused and determined.”

“That doesn’t make her impervious to depression,” Chloe said.

In Sam’s mind it did. If depression welled, Harper would pound it into the ground. She didn’t have time for anything that would take away from her bulldog mentality and needy clients.

“Speaking of anxious,” Casey broke in, “I can’t believe you’re here, Chloe. You’re due to give birth any day.”

“I know. But the baby hasn’t dropped and … never mind.” She glanced at Sam who’d made it clear in the past, simply by holding silent, that he wasn’t comfortable discussing the intimate details of pregnancy. A subject that had become more prevalent over the last several meetings. Natural since Chloe, Monica, and Rae were expecting, but awkward for Sam. In the coming months, techniques for breast-feeding and issues with postnatal care would crop up. He’d been through it all with Paula, twice. He had his own brand of wisdom in these matters. But she’d been his wife. These were his friends. Time to swap cupcakes for bowling.

“I have an announcement,” Sam blurted just as his cell phone pinged. He glanced at the incoming text. A response from Harper.

NEED U. NOW.

Typical Harper—bossy—and a tantalizing response to his racy proposition.

But then she followed with:
PLEASE

“I have to go.” Sam pushed to his feet and rushed to the door. Chloe was right. Something was wrong.

FOUR

The Rothwell Farm was located in a woodsy area northwest of Sugar Creek. Highway 105 to 236, then a ten-minute streak down Swamp Road. A right onto Fox Lane and three minutes later the renovated Victorian with its federal-blue exterior and snow-white trim would come into view.

Sam had been hooked on the late nineteenth-century house ever since he’d been a boy. Owners came and went, claiming—as noted by the Cupcake Lovers—the longer they resided there, the more they experienced periods of irrational depression. Hence, the supposedly haunted house was frequently deserted. As a kid, Sam and his cousins had snuck in dozens of times hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost of Mary Rothwell.

They never did.

Harper had been living in that house on and off for several months. She didn’t believe in ghosts, or so she’d said, but she
was
obsessed with the legend of Mary Rothwell. So much so, she’d instructed Rocky to decorate the master bedroom/office in the colors and style reminiscent of the 1940s—the decade in which Mary had lived here. Rocky thought it was creepy. Sam thought it was odd. Although, once he’d joined the renovation project, the changes that had felt most right to both Sam and Harper had been those that turned back the clock. Returning the home to its World War II-era glory was just about the only subject Sam and Harper agreed on.

NEED U. NOW.

PLEASE

Harper’s troubling text was burned on Sam’s retinas. He called, but she didn’t answer. He texted. No response. What the hell? Had she fallen down the stairway? Been attacked by a burglar?

Sam pictured Harper broken and bleeding, and punched the gas.

Up ahead, the sun dipped below the horizon. Come nightfall, this rural area would turn pitch-black. Sam could find the Rothwell Farm blindfolded. He’d grown up in Sugar Creek. He knew every highway and back road, every mountain trail and logging road. He’d made this particular trek a hundred times over the last few months. Mostly to work on Harper’s house. Sometimes for a text-prompted quickie. With Harper it was always a quickie. They had an agreement. Sex, just sex. And she had rules. No sleeping over. No talking after. Not that Sam was a windbag, but, considering they were well past a one-nighter, banging and running without a shade of intimacy was this side of smarmy. Not that it had prompted him to end their affair. That had been Harper.

A right onto Fox Lane. Two minutes later—because he was fricking
flying
—Sam wheeled his truck into Harper’s long drive and skidded to a stop. He jogged to the porch, snagged the spare key tucked behind the backplate of the wall sconce, and pushed through the door without knocking. “Harper!”

She didn’t answer, but he heard the TV … and a whimper. And
wheezing.

Chest tight, he ducked around the corner, into the living room. The monster plasma screen was alive with the sights and sounds of war. A newscast on CNN. Harper was hunkered on the large vintage sofa Rocky had had delivered last month. She was doubled over, head between her knees, gasping for air.

Asthma attack?

Relief torpedoed his dread. He’d imagined far worse.

Tempering his galloping pulse, he nabbed the remote from the table, muted the volume then crouched in front of Harper. Laying a calming hand to her convulsing back, he asked, “What’s happening, hon?”

“Can’t. Breathe.”

“Asthma? Allergy?”

“Anxiety.”

“What?” Sam reached through the thickness of her long, dark hair, cupped her face and bade her meet his gaze.

The first time he’d laid eyes on Harper he’d pegged her as
Sports Illustrated
model gorgeous. He thought no less now. Even though her face was flushed and sweaty. Even though her sky-blue eyes were dazed.

She was gasping for air, massaging her chest. “Can’t feel my fingers. Can’t. Breathe. Heart racing. Too fast. Too. Much.”

So, what? A heart attack? How was that possible? She was a healthy young woman, for crissake. “Harper. Listen. Focus. Do you have a condition I don’t know about? Is there medicine I should get?”

She shook her head, rocked, and gasped.

Her distress was unsettling. “I’ll call 911.”

“No.” She grabbed his hands as he went for his phone. “Talk to me.”

Sam gawked.
Talk?
On top of everything else, she was delirious.

“Talk … talk me down.”

Then he got it.
Anxiety.
As in panic attack.
What the hell?

“Feels … feels like I’m … dying.”

He squeezed her hands. “You’re not dying. You’re hyperventilating. Adrenaline’s spiking.” He’d seen this before in the field. Trained soldiers freezing in the midst of an assault or when faced with an atrocity their mind couldn’t process. Sam had always muscled through similar crises himself. He considered himself lucky and he hadn’t thought twice when a fellow soldier had panicked. He’d simply offered aid—part of the buddy system, solider helping soldier.

“Focus on my voice, Harper. Breathe deep. Slow. Count with me.”

“What?”

“One. Two. Three. Come on.”

“Four. Five.”

Sam nodded for her to continue, watched as she fought to slow her breathing. She had a death grip on his hands. He stroked her white knuckles then gave her something to focus on aside from her distress. “Mina asked about you the other day. More accurately, she babbled about you for fifteen minutes. Something about purple being the new pink. I’m guessing that’s why she insists on wearing her purple snow boots every day even though it’s almost June.”

In between ten and eleven and a deep breath, Harper smiled. The barest crook of those lush lips, but at least it wasn’t a grimace.

“The other night,” Sam went on while holding her troubled gaze, “Ben brought home a note from his teacher regarding a missing homework assignment. Know what he said to me?
‘Don’t worry, Dad. I know how to spin it.’
” Sam raised one brow. “My son spent random afternoons on this property, a few hours around you while I stained cabinets and grouted tile.”

“I … never … thirteen … fourteen … claimed to be … fifteen … a good influence.”

“An influence nonetheless.”

Her expression relaxed, her shoulders slumped. She fell back against the cushions with a ragged sigh. Her brow was damp, but her breathing had evened.

“Better?” Sam asked as she pulled her fingers from his.

She massaged her chest, nodded. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Her cheeks burned red and she averted her gaze.

Sam rose and sat beside her, his thoughts whirling. He’d never known Harper to be embarrassed. He’d never seen her panic. Last winter she’d flipped her car on icy roads and seconds later she’d been texting a client, blasting Sam when he’d chucked her phone before pulling her out of the overturned car. She was always in control, always controlling. Seeing her in a tailspin had shaken Sam in a new and perplexing way.

Looking wiped, Harper pushed her bountiful hair off her flushed face—gorgeous, even when distressed—and twisted the wavy mass into a messy knot. “Sorry I bothered you,” she said, staring at the television and massaging her chest.

“Glad to help.” Sam pulled his phone from a hip holster. “I should call the CLs. Let them know you’re okay. They were worried when you didn’t show and then I ran out.”

She slid him a look. “I don’t suppose you could lie—”

“How’s a plumbing emergency sound?”

She smiled then—a grateful, albeit shaky smile.

Sam’s heart kicked. Yeah, boy, that was—in Daisy’s words—wonky. He focused on his cell, dialed Rocky. “Yeah. Sorry to interrupt. Harper’s fine. Plumbing emergency.”

“Was anything ruined?” Rocky asked.

His cousin ran an interior decorating business. While Sam had been tackling various carpentry and electrical challenges on this old house, Rocky had been purchasing retro furnishings and redecorating every room. She’d been at it for months. Not because she was slow or inept, but because Harper was so damned finicky. “Minimal flooding in the kitchen,” Sam lied. “Nothing that a mop and a new coupler won’t fix.”

“Guess you two won’t be making the meeting.”

He glanced at Harper who was doing her best to look composed. And failing. “No.”

“We’ll fill you in later then,” Rocky said with a secret smile in her voice. “Have a good night, Sam.”