Promise Canyon (17 page)

“There is only your car in the drive,” Clay said. “Is it safe to assume the boyfriend is still down with the flu?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at him. “I imagine so,” she said.

“Can I come to you?”

She turned her head right and left, back and forth. “Where
are
you?”

“Down the block, being circumspect. Giving you time and space. But I just couldn’t stay away. Will you be on your own tonight or should I drive away?”

She got out of her car, looked over its roof and spied his big truck down the block. She waved and then she wiggled her finger at him, inviting him to come to her house, to park in the place he probably assumed her boyfriend usually parked.

All that mattered was that he parked and walked toward her. Time stood still while she took in the sight of him. It was dusk, but he seemed to walk in a beam of light.

Oh, God,
she thought.
I’m already in love. In love and so done for.

Every night for three long nights, Lilly slept in Clay’s arms, whatever little sleep they actually got. Before sleep, he’d work her out in a way she had never experienced before, then hold her trembling, satisfied body close until she calmed, until she dozed. Invariably, she would reach for him, her hands begging him for more. With a groan of helplessness, he’d make love to her again and again. And again.

When his hands were on her, when he was inside her, she went to a place she could never remember being before. The man had a way with her body that defied reality. And from the sounds he made and the sheen of perspiration that covered him, she was not disappointing him.

She fought his hair during sex; he bound or braided it to keep it under control and she pulled it free, letting it flow. When he was above her, it fell like a curtain around her; when he was on his back, she found herself lying on it as if it were a soft mat, sometimes tugging it. It was a constant battle, but she wanted that thick black hair that marked his ancestry all around her, beneath her, over her, beside her. She caressed it as if it were a pet.

While he held her close on that third night he whispered, “I haven’t wanted to ask…”

“You’d better. I can’t read your mind.”

He paused a moment to form his words. “Is your… Is what’s-his-name still under the weather?”

Lilly chuckled. “I’ve spoken to him a couple of times. He’s getting better. He’ll be fine.”

“I want to know about him,” Clay said. “I want to know how you met him, what you like about him, if
you’re going to tell him that you’ve been having days of endless, mind-bending sex with me?”

“I wasn’t planning to tell anyone,” she said. “That would be indiscreet.”

“I tried not to ask about him,” Clay said. “I lasted as long as I could. Tell me some things. Like—is he Native? Did your grandfather pick him out for you?”

She burst out laughing. “No!” she said. “He might be German—I can’t remember. Listen, I gave you the wrong idea. He’s not a boyfriend, not technically. He’s my
best
friend. His name is Dane, he owns a coffee shop near my yoga studio. I’ve known him for a few years, since he opened the place. We go to movies, sometimes we hike, we have long talks, political arguments, discuss books we like. When there’s live music around here, we try to go. He has a sister, niece and nephew I love. I can talk to him about anything. We have the same kind of education and—”

“What kind of education?” Clay asked.

“We enjoy the arts. Music, literature, theater, art. My degree is in classical studies.”

“But you’re the accountant for your grandfather’s store!”

“Well, not exactly,” she said. “I’m the bookkeeper. My grandfather taught me and I’ve been doing it for a long time, since before college. I didn’t exactly need to study it in college. I already knew what I needed to know.”

“Do you love him?” Clay asked.

“My
grandfather?
” she asked, confused.

“The
boyfriend,
” Clay said impatiently.

“I do, as my closest friend,” she said with a smile. She brushed his hair back from his brow. “I adore and
admire him—he’s such a good person. But please don’t think of it as… I know I called him my boyfriend, but we’re not a couple. We’ve never been and never will be lovers. He’s gay.”

“Gay?” Clay asked.

“Totally. I tried to get him to switch—we’re so compatible and neither of us was attached. But switching—not an option.”

“Good. I can deal with you loving the guy as a friend. You having another man in your bed is what I can’t deal with.”

“Believe me, that’s something you don’t have to worry about,” she assured him.

“I should meet him,” Clay said. He turned toward her, pushing her dark hair over her ear. “Even though you’re not lovers, I invaded his territory. I should meet him and talk with him. I could let him hit me or something.”

A burst of laughter shot out of her. She gave him a slug in the arm. “Could you be any more old-fashioned?” Then she planted a kiss on his beautiful mouth. “Besides, I would never put you in that position.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “Put me in that position. You’ve had me in every other position imaginable.” He smiled lazily. “I’m not complaining, just making a statement.”

A few days later, Lilly went to the Loving Cup for lunch after her yoga class. She jumped up on her favorite stool at the counter, leaned elbows on the bar and rested her chin on her clasped hands. Dane was standing in front of her in a matter of moments. He’d been away from work with his cold or flu, and although they’d talked, she hadn’t seen him in almost a week.

“Greetings, little sister. The usual?” he asked.

She nodded and he went for the green tea.

“I’m sorry I stood you up Friday night,” he said. “I didn’t think the scourge would ever pass, but I guess it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, given what I’ve heard about the swine flu. Darlene said whatever I had was definitely the whine flu. Frankly I—” He stopped suddenly, looked at Lilly closely. He took in her sparkling blue eyes, her flushed cheeks, her secret smile. Yoga wasn’t singularly responsible for this new look of health and happiness. “Whoa,” he said. “Someone is back in the saddle.”

I
n the early fall, when the pumpkins were still green and the Halloween costumes hadn’t yet been sewn, when the Valley High School football team was practicing for their homecoming performance, when the leaves on the trees that stood dwarfed under sequoias had barely started to color, the biggest item of interest in Virgin River was Hope McCrea’s house.

The Presbyterian Women got the job of sorting, cleaning up and organizing, but half the town wanted in that house out of sheer curiosity. Of course, either Jack, Preacher, Paul or Mike Valenzuela stood like sentries at the door making sure whoever showed up
worked.
Those who wanted to satisfy their curiosity about what Hope left behind had to pitch in. Noah turned out to be a better tour guide than sentry, but he wasn’t afraid of work himself.

Since the town meeting, the friendly neighbors of Virgin River were a lot less cordial toward Jack than they had been before he’d been named Hope’s executor. They were a little surly, in fact, and there was the occasional snide comment. “That a new shirt, Jack?”
“I notice the truck has new tires…you didn’t get a low-interest
loan
for those, did you?”

And Jack, being Jack, responded in his ever-patient way with comebacks like, “Wanna bite me, Lou?” and “Up yours, Hugh.”

It was fair to say that certain relationships were strained these days. As for Jack, the usually helpful, loyal friend was just a mite put out with his neighbors.

This spirit of Open House lasted only a few days before it had to be shut down, and not because of Jack. Hope had been a collector of sorts and no one was sure of the value of some of the things she had rat-holed away. The women found odd and interesting items they just didn’t know how to handle. There was a huge wardrobe stuffed with old china pieces, mismatched, some even cracked and chipped. She had a shoe box full of odd-looking, colorful stones, for example. There was an attic full of paintings, oils and watercolors, protected with cheap grocery store plastic wrap. This was art that Mel and Paige agreed they would have let go in a garage sale but then Preacher looked up the name of one artist on the Internet and informed them his paintings had actual value. It wasn’t a Van Gogh, but it was probably worth a few grand—the artist was a Northern Californian watercolor impressionist from the Depression era. They found an old spiral notebook stuffed with crinkly paper that held odd, illegible signatures. She’d had first editions of popular novels, some of them signed. There were ancient photos, postcards and very retro jewelry. Hope had never worn jewelry that anyone could remember. There was an entire closet full of what appeared to be old teapots. Hope left behind tons of silver flatware and no one could remember a time she’d ever had a
guest to dinner. And that didn’t even include odd pieces of well-built furniture that the women suspected were valuable antiques.

Even though Mel had a nagging feeling that some of this old stuff was valuable, she had no experience with this sort of thing. Mel was good with five-star chefs, designer clothing and posh vacation spots—at least in her past life, before moving to Virgin River and marrying the owner of a bar.

But Muriel St. Claire, a local who had restored her hundred-year-old farmhouse, spent weekends antiquing and scouring the mountain and forest towns for “finds.” In her house she had period paintings, tintype photos, refurbished fixtures, dated needlework and antique furniture. So Mel called her.

“I’ve spent every weekend off I’ve had for forty years going to estate sales,” Muriel said. “Plus, I’m addicted to the
Antiques Roadshow.
I’ll be right over.”

Muriel must have flown around the mountain curves, she arrived so quickly. She wore her usual jeans, boots and hat, but as always she looked stunning. Muriel was a retired, or at least semiretired, Oscar-nominated actress who looked a good ten years younger than she was, and she could look elegant in a sack. On this afternoon, with a flush high on her cheeks, she burst into Hope’s, found Mel and some other women in an upstairs bedroom stacked to the ceiling with miscellaneous stuff, and said, “Show me!”

It took Muriel two full days of plowing through pots, dishes, documents, little rocks, art, furniture and weird things—like ball caps from every professional ball team in the country—before she said, “I don’t think this stuff
is going to Christie’s, but there’s definitely money here. Not in everything, but generally speaking.”

“How do you know?” Mel asked her.

“I can
smell
it.”

“Like the colorful rocks?” Mel said expectantly. “Are they
gems?
”

“I wouldn’t know,” Muriel said. “But that wardrobe full of china? Antique Belleek. Very expensive Irish china. And the teapots? I recognize a couple of English sterling pieces, which tells me there’s lots of hidden value there.”

“Hundreds?” Mel asked hopefully.

“Thousands,” Muriel said. “If I know my antiques at all.”

One of the advantages of going to garage sales, estate sales and auctions as a hobby, Muriel was armed with business cards from consultants and appraisers from all over the place. The experts in this particular area seemed a reasonable place to start, but there was no evidence that Hope, who’d been computer savvy and obviously liked eBay, had been committed to Northern California.

And nothing could bring appraisers and consultants for estate sales and auctions running like the name Muriel St. Claire.

“We’re going to start getting company right away,” she informed Mel and some of the other ladies. “The thing to do is let them appraise the value of this stuff, run up the numbers, and then negotiate fees. It’s possible much of this stuff—the art, for example, china and small antique pieces—will have to be moved to San Francisco for the best price. Or some of this could be purchased outright by an auction company that chooses to make
it part of a moving sale or auction. Advertising will be necessary. Oh, this is very exciting! Benedict Compton of the San Francisco Pavilion Auction company—the president, thank you very much—is coming himself.” Muriel rubbed her hands together and laughed.

Mel was stunned. “Did you just cackle?” she asked Muriel.

“I have to admit, this could be way more fun than actually attending an estate sale or auction.”

“We could have a problem here,” Mel said. “In this whole town I can’t think of one person besides you who might know anything about this sort of thing. No matter how many appraisers come to look the stuff over, I wouldn’t know how to negotiate a contract with them—I called you because I have a feeling there’s valuable stuff here, but I don’t know anything about it. Plus, I have patients. And these other ladies have work and families. And—”

“Well, I’m not an expert, but I do have a clue,” Muriel said. “Want me to manage the appraisals?”

“Would you? Do you have the time?”

“As long as I get the horses fed, I can be here. For that matter, I’m sure Walt would take care of the horses for me. In fact, he might jump at an alternative to going antiquing with me,” she added with a laugh.

While Muriel managed experts and appraisers, Preacher was studying Hope’s computer records. It turned out that the local church wasn’t the only thing she bought on eBay—the old woman had made a hobby and pastime of buying and selling, and her purchases and sales reached as far as China. And as for china, the Belleek was worth tens of thousands. A couple of the teapots were old English sterling worth a couple of
thousand each, and a couple were ancient Chinese teapots that were also very valuable. She didn’t actually have a Ming vase, but she’d bid on many.

“And gems?” Mel asked hopefully.

“Pretty rocks,” Muriel said, shaking her head. “But that notebook full of scrawls on crinkly paper? Famous signatures. U. S. Grant among them. They should’ve been framed and preserved but were instead stuffed in a spiral notebook.” She tsked. “I’m sorry to say that Hope’s treasures will be better cared for out of her hands.”

“I think she must have been just entertaining herself,” Mel said. “She always acted like a woman with a million things to do, but she looked like a vagrant. Well,” she said with a laugh, “there was never a question in my mind that Hope was happy. Cynical and cranky and self-indulgent and totally happy.”

“By the way,” Muriel asked. “Where
is
Hope?”

“She wasn’t specific about her wishes, except that she be cremated. So far no one has even picked up a hint of what she’d like to have done with her ashes, so the funeral home in Fortuna is keeping them for us. Jack is trying to think of something that would do her justice, that would honor her, but he hasn’t come up with anything yet. And although the town is all pissy about not being able get their hands on her money, no one has asked if there will be a funeral.”

Muriel looked very sad for a moment and just shook her head. “Don’t people disappoint you sometimes?” she asked Mel.

“Sure,” she said. “But fortunately not as often as they surprise and impress me. This whole thing isn’t over yet. The town will come around—come through.”

It took a very dedicated team of people to complete the process of dealing with Hope McCrea’s possessions. Muriel St. Claire and her boyfriend, retired general Walt Booth, along with Mike’s wife, attorney Brie Valenzuela, managed to select and negotiate a contract from a reputable auction company. The most expedient method was recommended by the appraiser and then approved by Jack—the company would pay a flat rate for the most valuable items, which they would remove from the big old Victorian in the country and take to auction in San Francisco. Preacher and Paige Middleton worked as a team to research some of those items that had been identified, looking up a large percentage of them online; they found the prices quoted by the auction company to be very reasonable. Away went the Belleek, paintings, teapots, collectible signatures and several pieces of furniture.

Pastor Noah Kincaid and his wife, Ellie, worked with their good friends, Jo and Nick Fitch, to create advertising fliers for a sale of what was left; the fliers would be scattered around the towns and cities nearby. They also bought ads in the five largest local newspapers, identifying a weekend estate sale. Items left to be sold were priced and tagged with the help of Muriel, the visiting appraiser and Preacher, checking and cross-checking on Hope’s computer.

Then there was the enormous task of separating items that could be sold from items that had to be donated. It took all the Presbyterian Women, the Presbyterian Husbands and many a Presbyterian pickup truck.

And then all was ready. It was a garage sale of grand proportions, most of which took place in the house and
on its front and back porches. Cars started to arrive early on Saturday morning and kept coming through the day. It was like a parade—weekend garage and estate sale shoppers from miles and towns away. The sale would be extended through Sunday if anything remained to be sold. A table was set up with several large coffee thermoses and pastries in the morning, and Preacher, Mike, Jack and a couple of friends set up barbecues in the yard and sold hot dogs, hamburgers and drinks in the afternoon. One of the Anderson sons, a family of local sheep ranchers, brought a couple of ponies for rides and Paul Haggerty had rented a little merry-go-round from an amusement company that leased equipment for parties.

Lawn chairs were pulled out of the backs of trucks, coolers full of soda, water and beer were added to the refreshments Jack and Preacher provided, baseballs and gloves appeared, a football was tossed around, a soccer ball was kicked between a couple of young boys.

It was a circus. A town fair. Most of the people, especially all those from Virgin River, were only there to watch, not to buy.

In and around Hope’s house volunteers were posted to watch over the items for sale—furniture, dishes, flatware, quilts, old linens, that bag of dozens of ball caps, the old purple velour couch.

Mel Sheridan felt her eyes moisten with tears when she saw that old, jacked-up beige Suburban drive away with its new owner. It was still wearing mud on its frame from Hope’s driving around the back mountain roads in the rain. It was hard to watch the memory of her vanish, piece by piece.

Lilly heard about the estate sale from Annie. She knew someone who would love poking around all that old, retro stuff, especially the tables, chairs and accessories. She planned to put off her cleaning and shopping chores to accompany Dane to the sale; not only did Dane love haunting oddball sales, he was always looking for furniture for the Loving Cup. If he could pick up a chair or two or old side table, he’d be like a kid in a candy store.

Dane worked out his schedule with Darlene to take a few hours off and Lilly picked him up. He was almost giddy with excitement and happy they were getting an early start. As they drove up Highway 36 toward Virgin River he yammered about the sorts of things he’d be happy to find—furniture, old pitchers, a pie safe or dry sink as a serving accessory, trays, linens, good flatware at a nice price…. The list went on the more excited he got.

“Hey, you’ve been doing more riding than yoga lately,” he said suddenly. “How’s the new guy working out?”

Lilly kept her eyes on the road, but she smiled and said, “I like him.”

“
Like
…him?”

“I’ve seen a lot of him the last couple of weeks. We work together at the clinic, ride sometimes. I’ve been to his sister’s house for dinner a couple of times. I’m thinking of letting my grandfather have a crack at him over Sunday dinner.”

Dane whistled. “This is progress. When am I going to get the more
interesting
details?”

She just laughed at him and didn’t answer.

“Seriously,” Dane said. “I have stuck by you through everything for years now—why are you so cagey about this guy? Is it just because he’s Native American?”

“Maybe,” she said. Then she turned toward him and she knew her eyes glowed. “We have some traditional stuff in common, but I’ve been trying to avoid that stuff for so long. It’s hard to let myself go. I’m just trying to keep my head. Stay sane.”