One More Kiss (5 page)

Betty wanted to scoff, but instead she just shook her head. She could still see Randall’s back, rail-straight and rigid, as he marched up Main Street, away from her. “I’m not sure he’s too keen to help.”

“That’s a load of moose poop,” Pauline said. “I bet you could make a deal with him. Get him to shop there and show everyone that your store isn’t the devil’s lair and you’re not connected to any of this other mischief.”

“To what end? Why would he get caught up in all this?”

Pauline thought about this. “A discount?”

Betty reached out and patted her friend’s hand. “I appreciate your help, but I’m not sure a discount to a fabric store is what he’s looking for. Now, for a cut of the profits, I wonder if…”

She trailed off, her years of business experience suddenly forming an idea in her head. Pauline slapped the table.

“Now
that’s
the look I like to see on your face,” Pauline said. She stood and straightened her apron. “I think my work here is done. Eat that sandwich, girl, and go get ’em.”

When Pauline left, Betty pulled the sandwich closer and took a bite. Chewing, she tried to connect the skeleton of the plan together in her head, to make an actual shape out of it.

It wasn’t a crazy plan. It wasn’t even half-cocked. It was pretty decent, when she thought about it.

The only problem was that she was going to need Randall Sondheim’s help to pull it off. And she wasn’t sure, after the way he’d left her that morning, that she wanted to face him again anytime soon.

But if it meant the security of her business, she’d do just about anything.

She swallowed down the last of her sandwich and left Pauline an extra-big tip.

She had a full stomach, a decent idea, and just enough courage to make it over to the Lutheran church without faltering. Her nerves were knotted to the point of fraying, but she told herself it was because of her plan, not because she was going to see Randall again.

As she left the diner, she almost believed it.

Chapter Three

R
andall Sondheim ground his jaw, barely holding back a curse. He wasn’t usually a swearing man, especially not in the house of God, but the young couple in front of him was going to try every last ounce of patience he had.

Not that it was their fault exactly.

He took a deep breath, trying hard to wipe that morning’s encounter with Betty Lindholm clean from his mind. He could hardly blink without seeing her face, without remembering the puzzled way she’d stared at him while he folded up her banner. Heaven help him, he’d acted like a first-rate jerk to her. He hated the confusion he’d seen darkening her face that morning. Confusion
he’d
caused.

And now he had to sit across from a pair of doe-eyed kids who wanted to get married because they hadn’t screwed up things the way he had. Because they’d figured it out. Even though they were young and didn’t know anything.

But clearly they knew more than him.

Irritation simmered just under his skin. But he would not take out his frustration on this young couple.

“When were you thinking for the ceremony?” he asked, pulling out a large spiral-bound paper calendar. Old school, just the way he liked it.

Timothy, a young man with a flop of brown hair, beamed at his bride-to-be, Alicia. “We were thinking just before Christmas,” Timothy said.

“A winter wedding,” Alicia breathed, squeezing Timothy’s hand.

A stab of envy sliced through Randall, and he blinked at the sensation. It wasn’t one he was used to. Couples came to him all the time to be married, and he joined them in matrimony as part of his pastoral duties. But he’d certainly never felt jealous of anyone’s love.

Until now. Until he realized that just such a relationship might be out of his reach. He was young enough for it, sure—still in his mid-thirties yet—but there was so much more to it than that.

His chest tightened with hurt. Betty’s face was right there, all over again, and he had to shake his head to clear his mind.

“December fifteenth is a Saturday,” he said, trying to focus on the calendar, “and it’s available.” He tapped his eraser against the calendar’s spirals. “How does that sound?”

The couple grinned. Their eyes shimmered under his office lights. He pretended to inspect a specific date on the calendar so he wouldn’t have to see them radiating adoration at each other.

“That’s perfect,” Alicia said, “thank you.”

They set a three o’clock time and talked about the tone and message of the ceremony. “You can work out the logistics of flowers and decorations with Celia, the church secretary,” Randall said. He stood up and shook the couple’s hands. “I’ll be in touch in a few weeks to check in and make sure we’re still on the same page.”

Randall watched as Timothy steered Alicia out of the room, his hand on the small of her back—barely touching her but still reminding her he was there.

He turned away, not letting himself think about how much he’d like to touch Betty Lindholm that way. And a few other ways, if he was honest.

Not that he was going to get the chance.

He was glad the couple was leaving. He wanted no more of this young love in his office. Not today. Not after what had happened with Betty that morning.

He sighed and sank into his worn office chair. The frayed arms and faded cloth were another reminder of Betty—that he’d tried to pick out fabric to have the thing reupholstered, but had simply wound up stalling and using it as an excuse to talk to her time and time again.

Fresh frustration pummeled his heart, and he wondered that it didn’t stop beating altogether. It was an entirely useless organ. Either it felt too much, or it didn’t feel enough. Why couldn’t it just work like everyone else’s for once?

He glanced up to the photos on his bookshelf, and the answer stared him in the face. The black-and-white picture of him and his twin brother, Shawn, arms looped around each other’s shoulders, a mess of perch on a line in each of their hands, was like a living, breathing thing whispering the truth.

Your emotions can’t be trusted. They’ll take you too far. And it will end in tragedy.

He shifted in his threadbare seat. That fundamental fact was why he had become a pastor. He needed guidance from a higher power. He needed to surrender daily to the reality that he was not a good person. Only with God’s help could he be anything besides a reckless, lying, mur—

His thoughts were cut off as Celia tapped on his door.

“Do you have time for another visitor?” she asked, her eyes raking over his slumped form in the worn-out chair. He stood, running his hands quickly through his dark hair.

“Of course,” he said. “Send them in.”

The next thing he knew, Betty was standing with her feet planted on his carpeted office floor, hands on her hips, staring up at him. Her gaze had a jolt of feeling going though him like an electric current. Every single muscle in his body tensed with the thrill of seeing her, in spite of knowing better. He couldn’t afford to get worked up about this woman.

God but she was a blazing pillar of energy that he was completely drawn to. Her magnetic presence was downright stupefying. Not that he was about to sit here and gape, much as he wanted to.

“Hello,” he said, “sign trouble again?”

He meant it lightly, but it came out all wrong. He sounded like a prick.

“Same sign,” she said, “different version of trouble.”

“Oh?” His curiosity was piqued.

She squared her shoulders as if readying for battle—as if he were some kind of enemy she had to face. It made his gut twist. “The deal is,” she said, “some of the people in town got the wrong idea about that banner and the window. The gossip mill is running wild, connecting me and that banner with some of the recent pranks around town. Which means that even though I took down the
Satan is here
sign and changed my display to suit the likes of Valerie Lofgren, there’s still some…
speculation
about me and Beelzebub.”

As she spoke, he found himself staring at her small nose and lovely, round cheeks. He was getting distracted. He needed to focus. “Beelzebub is a demon,” he said. It was the first thing that popped into his mind. Now he was a prick
and
an asshole.

“My point is,” she said, tapping her foot on the carpet, “that if I don’t cut this thing off at the pass, I fear it’s only going to get worse. I was wondering if I could get your help.”

She needed him. The thought had his nerves searing with feeling. It shouldn’t matter so much, but suddenly it did. In spite of how he’d acted this morning, she was back in his office and she was asking for his assistance.

The question was, could he get it right this time? Was there a way to be around Betty and not be either a giant jerk or so overcome with feeling that his actions could harm them both? He glanced at the picture of his twin on the shelf and swallowed.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“Your support. For the store. I’d like ten percent of all the sales for the next two weeks to benefit the church, and I’d like you to put your weight behind the arrangement.”

He stared at Betty’s determined expression. “Ten percent of all your sales for the next two weeks go to the Lutheran church?” he asked, wondering if he heard her correctly. This time of year, it would be a massive sum.

She nodded. “It’s tax deductible, and it’s for a good cause. Plus, if I can show the town that I’m partnering with the church, they might feel better about shopping at my store during Halloween. They might not think it’s such a den of sin. Or that I’m single-handedly leading the charge to destroy White Pine.”

He tilted his head. “This is serious, then, if you’re taking a hit to combat some gossip.”

Betty shrugged. “Pauline down at the diner said something about folks boycotting me. Red Updike is telling me suddenly he’s praying for me. I’m trying to avoid any more weirdness. I figure a ten percent payout is better than a fifty percent cut across the board that might never end.”

Behind her, sunlight slanted through his office window, lighting fragments of dust. It looked for all the world like Betty was wearing a halo. He took it as a good sign.

“Of course,” he said. “I’m happy to do whatever it takes. I can put something in the next church bulletin, advertising the arrangement. Feel free to put a sign in your store window.”

The lines around Betty’s eyes relaxed slightly. “Thank you,” she said. “That means a great deal.” Randall wanted suddenly to pull her to him, to tell her it would all be okay. His fingers twitched at his side.

He would do
no such thing
. That would be too much.

Instead, he ran a hand along the back of his neck. “We should meet tomorrow,” he said, “to discuss the logistics of the arrangement after I’ve had a chance to make some calls.”

“Logistics?” Betty asked. “I appreciate your help, but is it that complicated?”

“There are details to work out,” he said, nodding, even though she was seeing right through him. He just wanted another excuse to visit with her again. And soon. “Let’s meet at your store Friday, say four o’clock, and we can determine our next steps.”

“All right,” she said, agreeing even as her eyes were studying him, perhaps wondering why it was necessary to meet at all. Maybe she could see the conflict raging inside him—the push and pull of wanting her but not wanting the falling, out-of-control sensation he feared would go right along with it.

She walked to the door and he eyed the small of her back. His muscles tightened. He wanted to reach out and place his fingertips against the delicate curve, guiding her gently. Betty was a strong woman who didn’t need to be steered, but maybe she wanted to know someone was there right alongside her, going in the same direction.

He set his jaw and kept his hands to himself. “See you tomorrow,” he said, hating the stiffness in his own voice.

He hated even more that it didn’t even seem to faze her. She walked away like she hadn’t heard him at all.

*  *  *

Betty could barely concentrate that Thursday at the recipe exchange. Her apple cinnamon bread was perfectly arranged on the table, the top of it a thick white sheet of icing. Around it were dishes from all her other friends—an apple cider bratwurst casserole from Willa, a fall salad from Anna, cornbread from Stephanie, and lovely, buttery yams from Audrey. It was a feast, but Betty couldn’t focus on any of it. All she could think about was her store—and the fact that Randall Sondheim might be the only person who could help her save it.

She couldn’t decide whether she was delighted…or terrified.

“Was it that bad?” Willa asked, frowning at Betty’s untouched plate. “The bratwurst casserole was a new recipe. I confess I didn’t—well, I didn’t have a ton of time to spend on it.”

Betty smiled at Willa’s flushed cheeks and her shining green eyes. Willa had just become engaged to Burk Olmstead, her former high school flame and her recent house contractor. No doubt Willa hadn’t spent much time on the casserole—Betty was certain Willa and Burk were keeping themselves occupied in other ways.

“I’m sure you and Burk were busy reading cozy mysteries and drinking tea,” Betty said, laughing when Willa blushed more deeply. “Besides, the casserole is fine. I’ve just got my thoughts elsewhere.”

“On that awful banner?” Audrey asked. Her knowing gaze caught Betty’s across the wide red table in the back room of Knots and Bolts. “Valerie Lofgren was at the high school today to volunteer, blathering to anyone who would listen how she was the one who convinced you to take it down and change your display.”

“It’s not that,” Betty said, setting down her fork. “Well, I guess I should say it’s not
only
that. I heard from Pauline down at the Paul Bunyan yesterday that some people think I might be associated with the pranks. You know how people can get whipped up around here. I guess there’s been some talk of a protest. A boycott of my store.”

“What?” Stephanie asked, her freckles disappearing under the enraged flame of her face. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Betty shook her head. “I wish I was. But I have a plan to put a stop to any foolishness before it can get started. And Randall Sondheim is going to help me.”