Love Songs (45 page)

Then, of course, there were the Strickland ghosts. In her mind Tom would always be the villain of that debacle. She would forever doubt his actions, perhaps even his motivations. And the weekly Sunday evening call she made to her mother was a further complication. How could she ever,
ever
explain a relationship with Tom to that sad-hearted woman?

Riding on the tail of an uncomfortable sixteen-hour stretch of soul-searching, Serena was wary of what she was doing when Tom entered
Sweet Serenity
Monday promptly at one. She looked sharply up from the customer she was helping, sent him a smile that held its share of tension, and tried to ignore the conflicting thrill of excitement that shot through her at the sight of him.

Tom sensed her tension as though he had expected it. He stood waiting patiently, much as he had done that very first afternoon, until the customer had been satisfied and Serena was free.

“Nancy, I’d like you to meet Tom Reynolds. Tom, this is Nancy Wadsworth.” Having made the proper introduction she escaped to the back room to claim her purse, assuming that Nancy would keep Tom entertained for the moment.

Her heart beat quickly, working double-time to integrate doubt and delight. Breathing deeply, she looked down at the hands that clutched the soft leather of her bag. What was she doing? Where was she headed?

“Serena?”

Twirling, she looked shamefacedly up at Tom. “I’m–I’m coming.”

The sadness in his eyes spoke of his complete understanding of her plight. “Oh, Serena,” he sighed, drawing her gently against the strength of his chest. “I knew this would happen as soon as I left you alone. I bet you didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“I did. Finally. After all, exhaustion has to take over
some
time.”

“Ever the witty one, aren’t you?” He stroked her hair for a moment, then held her back to search her face. “You’ve been agonizing over it all, haven’t you?” After a long, regretful pause she nodded. “I’m sorry, Serena. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

“I’m all right.”

The pad of his thumb caressed her cheek, magnetized by the curve of her lips. “You will be. You’re a survivor.”

“I try.” She spoke softly.

He studied her vulnerable expression and breathed in unsteadily. “I should never have taken you home with me Saturday night. It was wrong of me. I knew what would happen. It’s only caused you grief.”

Serena smiled her love, aware of Tom’s own uncertainty. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he needed further reassurance. “Should I stay away? Is our seeing each other just stupid?”

“No!” No matter what doubts she had, the thought of not seeing him was excruciating.

“Then”—he grinned half-jokingly—“I ought to keep you with me all the time. Maybe we should marry—”

“No!” She stumbled at his surprise. “You’re no more … no more ready for that than I am.” It was much too soon for any such thought.

He smiled knowingly, ruefully. “Then what
do
you suggest?”

“Lunch?”

Tom acknowledged her coup with a glance of admiration, then captured her chin with his fingers. “First, a kiss.” It was warm and moist, reawakening worlds of pleasure with its simplicity. His lips worshiped hers, moving soulfully against, then with, them. She opened herself to his opiate, let his heady nectar chase away those nagging doubts. When Tom finally and reluctantly released her she was his once more. He sensed his triumph and smiled in victory, but it was a victory they shared. Serena happily took the hand he held out to her and they headed for the plaza.

Having passed that initial hurdle, Serena was as relaxed with Tom as she had been on the day before in the never-never land of his cottage. He charmed her to the exclusion of all hesitancy; she held nothing back. Over huge deli sandwiches in a tiny restaurant in Cedar-Riverside, where they were afforded the privacy they sought, she regaled him with tales of the occasional business blunders she’d made, most notably the day an irate wife appeared to complain about the order of passion-fruit-flavored jelly beans that had been inadvertently delivered to her house rather than to that of her husband’s mistress.

“It was a simple mix-up in addresses,” Serena explained with a guilty grin, “but you can be sure I’ve been more careful since. The husband, my customer, thought he was being terribly clever. He insisted I write the name of the flavor in bold letters on the package. Unfortunately, his wife didn’t appreciate it.”

“I should think not,” Tom chided gently. “That could be very embarrassing for a fellow.”

Serena reacted too quickly to catch the humor in his eyes. “It would serve him right! Any husband who blatantly cheats on his wife deserves to be caught. I’d just rather not be the one who’s responsible for spilling the beans—no pun intended.”

Tom steered the talk toward something that had evidently been on his mind. “Which reminds me, tell me about the men in your life. I got the impression there were quite a few.”

Her laughter was light and generous. “You’re thinking of that hostess’s comment about having to ‘wait in line’?” At his look of surprise, she teased him. “I caught it, all right I may have been distracted that day, but I’m not
totally
thick.”

He squirmed in an almost boyish way. “Well?”

“What?”

“Your dates.
Is
there a string of them?”

She lowered her voice. “Jealous?”

“You bet.”

“Well, you needn’t be.”

“Elaborate.”

When she feigned distraction and glanced lazily off toward another table Tom reacted with a quick growl. “Serena, tell me about them.”

Turning back, she wore a pert smile. “Let me see. First off, there’s Greg. He’s a lawyer. Kind of like Chocolate Sesame Crunch.”

Tom raised both brows speculatively. “Chocolate Sesame Crunch?”

“Uh-huh. Smooth outside, crunchy inside. Pleasant to be with as long as nothing pricks the surface. His inner self is weird.”

“That’s nice.” He smirked.

“Then there’s Rod. He teaches psychology at the university.” Her hazel eyes hit the ceiling in thought. “He’s like gummy bears. Fun and chewy. Too much, though, sticks to the teeth.” She looked directly at Tom again. “I’m not wild about gummy bears.”

“Thank heaven for that,” he muttered under his breath. Serena went on undaunted, thoroughly enjoying her analyses.

“Kenny works at the racquetball club. You may even have met him. I like to compare him to very pretty mint lentils. They’re great to pop for quick enjoyment,” she informed him in a conspiratorial tone. “Don’t look for anything deep in them, though.”

“I won’t,” he drawled, relaxing further. Then he hesitated. “What about me? Have you made a snap comparison?”

Serena stared thoughtfully. “Apricot Brandy Cordials,” she announced at last. “Initial judgment, of course. Rich. Sophisticated. With a tang of liquor that can be slightly intoxicating. And sweet. Pleasantly sweet.”

“And André? Where does he fit in?”

Though she had never stopped to categorize André before her response was instantaneous. “He’s a lo-cal piña colada sucker. He’s smooth and cool and tasty. But,” she said, seeming almost puzzled, “you get nothing for nothing. He leaves you with a very strange aftertaste.”

“You may be right,” was all Tom said before changing the subject again, apparently satisfied that his competition was no competition at all. And though the matter of André Phillips and the role he played in Serena’s life was on both their minds, Tom didn’t refer to it again until the next day, when they caught a quick dinner before he dropped her off for her cooking class. Even then, they spent the bulk of the discussion on other, more agreeable topics.

“You never did tell me about your everyday work, Tom,” she said, buoyed by the warmth of the embrace he’d given her in the privacy of the small Mercedes before entering the restaurant.

“You’re up to it?”

To her own surprise she felt that she was. “I think so. I have to face the reality of what you do sooner or later. And I
am
curious. You don’t seem harried like the stereotypical newspaperman.”

“I’m not. I
own
the paper. I may write editorials and set policy, but I pay others to meet the deadlines. I make sure they’ve got the necessary tools and provide them with overall direction, but as for the everyday sweat, it’s theirs.”

Something melancholy caught her ear. “Do you miss it?”

“The running around—no. I spent over twelve years running. To be blunt, I’m tired. I want to catch my breath, to think, to begin to enjoy the fruits of my labors, so to speak. I paid my dues in the city room; now I’ve moved on.”

“Up,” she corrected gently.

He shrugged, as though it didn’t matter. “Whatever. I have to admit”—he eyed her with a hint of regret—“that I do miss the excitement of investigation. That’s why I—”

When he broke off at mid-sentence Serena prodded. “You what?”

“I like to supervise what the
Bulletin
reporters are doing.” He went quickly on. “It’s like putting together a puzzle. You fit the border pieces together first, then move carefully and deliberately in toward the heart.”

“You sound as much like a detective as a reporter,” she said with a shiver as she studied his engrossing hazel eyes and the sense of commitment etched into his features. “I’ve always wondered at the similarities. Why, for example,” she heard herself blurt out, “did you get the story about my father before the police did?”

As though afraid of losing her, he took her hand and held it firmly. “There are several reasons, Serena. One is political. Traditionally the authorities have been more hesitant in searching out the white-collar criminal, who may very well have contributed to the campaign chest of the favorite son.” He sighed. “Another is practical. The police are bound much more stringently by rules regarding what is admissible in court. If they’re doubtful whether they have sufficient evidence to prosecute they may drop the whole investigation, even though they’re convinced of a subject’s guilt. And then, of course, there’s the economic reason. Money. Police departments work within very tight budgets. Newspapers can splurge more often.” He held her gaze with an intensity that dared her to turn away from him. “If they hit it big, what they gain in prestige or sales more than compensates for the outlay. Besides”—a grin split his features—“the average investigative reporter doesn’t charge time and a half for overtime. Let me tell you, there’s plenty of
that
involved. Over the years I came to know intimately the insides of many a library, city hall, and records department.”

Serena nodded silently. Why was it that, on Tom’s tongue, it all sounded so fair and upright? How could he so easily rationalize what often resulted in such pain for others?

Reading her mind, he answered her question softly. “You have to look at the other side, Serena. The victim. Regardless of what the crime is, there is always a victim. In your father’s case the victim was a corporation. In other cases the victims are individuals. In every case someone is hurt, either directly or indirectly.” When she still seemed skeptical he ventured further.

“How would you feel, Serena, if you were the victim? Supposing, for the sake of argument, that you were ordered to donate $10,000 in cash to the office of a senator or risk losing
Sweet Serenity?
”

“That wouldn’t happen.”

“It shouldn’t, but it could. Schemes like that have been known to take place. If someone threatened to hike your rent so that you couldn’t possibly afford to keep the store—unless you made the contribution—how would you feel?”

“Furious!”

“You bet you would. And you’d be justified. Then how would you feel if you went to the police with your story and they refused to do anything? What if they were looking out for their
own
hides? How would you feel then?”

“Furious. Frustrated. Helpless.”

“What if
I
then came to you and offered to expose the corruption in my paper. Would you go along with it?”

He’d made his point quite cleverly. It didn’t take her long to agree. “Yes, I would.”

Tom sensed that he’d given Serena something to consider, but that he’d said enough on that topic for the moment. Not wishing to dwell on it, yet having good reason, he broached the subject of André. “You’re meeting Phillips Wednesday?”

She took a breath to relax. “Yes.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

She looked at him askance, nervously mooring her hair behind her ear. “Why not?”

“He may still be angry.”

“André? No, he’ll have calmed down. If I were to walk into the restaurant with you he’d be furious. But by myself I don’t threaten him.” Tom seemed to contemplate her every word with care. “And anyway, I have to speak to him.”

“About the branch store?”

“Yes. If I’m going to go ahead with it I’ll need money.”

“
Are
you going ahead with it?”

Serena turned the tables, answering a question with a question. “What do you think I should do? You never did give me a definite opinion the other day. We seemed to have gotten sidetracked.” The flush that accompanied her shy smile brought the memory vividly back into Tom’s mind. Beneath the table his hand slid upward on her thigh. Serena felt the instant pounding of blood through her veins. Her only solace was that, if the smoldering fire of Tom’s gaze was any indication, her effect on his senses was no less.