The True Love Quilting Club (4 page)

It was only as she ran, pushing her way through the cluster of humanity thronging Forty-second Street, that the enormity of what she’d done hit her.

She’d just clocked renowned Broadway producer Scott Miller squarely in the gonads.

It was official. Her long-cherished dream of stardom was over.

The Rottweiler was a licker.

Every time Dr. Sam Cheek bent to place the stethoscope on Satan’s chest, the drooly black dog lavishly bathed his face with a thick pink tongue.

“He’s giving you kisses,” explained Satan’s owner, a woman in her mid-forties who was dressed like an escapee from Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” video. She wore her hair—streaked with various colors, the primary one being pink—pulled up into a high ponytail on the side of her head and pink leggings underneath a pink and black polka dot miniskirt. If Sam’s older sister Jenny were here, she’d whisper, “What not to wear” into his ear.

But Sam didn’t care about things like that. Clothes were clothes. Sam cared about three things—his family, his town, and animals, and not necessarily in
that order. “Could you lean over here and let him kiss
you
so I can listen to his heart?”

“Oh sure, sure.” The Cyndi Lauper wannabe puckered up and cooed, “How’s my little Satan? Who’s my good boy? Is it you? Is it you?”

The Rottweiler transferred his sloppy kisses to his owner’s face, leaving Sam free to finish his examination. Ten minutes later, he straightened, shook his head. “Tell me about Satan’s symptoms again,” he said. “I’m not finding anything out of the ordinary and all his lab work is negative. I could do a CAT scan, but that’s expensive and I don’t like putting animals through unnecessary procedures.”

The woman cocked a hand on her hip and her cheeks tinged pink. “Okay, I guess this is where I come clean.”

Sam took a step backward, twisted up the stethoscope, and tucked it into the pocket of his lab jacket. A sheaf of hair fell over the right side of his face, but he didn’t brush it aside. He let it hide the scar that made him feel self-conscious. He didn’t say anything, just waited for her to confess whatever secret was making her blush.

“There’s nothing wrong with Satan,” she admitted.

Other than that hellacious name you gave him.
Still, Sam did not speak. He was the fourth child out of six and he’d learned a long time ago that the best way to get to the truth was by keeping your mouth shut. Ninety percent of the time the other person would trip himself up if you just gave him a chance.

“I’m new in town.” She batted her eyelashes. “And newly single.”

Aw crap, not another one.
Satan flicked out his tongue and licked Sam’s hand. He scratched the dog
behind the ears. It wasn’t the pooch’s fault he had a lovelorn owner.

“I heard you liked older women and—”

“Who told you that?”

She looked shamefaced. “Belinda Murphey.”

Sam’s mother’s younger sister, Belinda, ran a local matchmaking service called the Sweetest Match. She’d been trying for months to get Sam to sign up, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in dating again. It was too soon. Valerie had been gone just over a year, and between being the only small animal vet in Twilight and raising his son, Charlie, he had no time for distraction. His aunt Belinda had been surreptitiously sending women his way, and if it wasn’t for keeping peace in the family, he’d have confronted her before now.

“I don’t appreciate you using your dog as a matchmaking tool,” he admonished.

“So you
don’t
like older women? Belinda said your late wife was six years older than you and I—”

“I’m not ready to date again,” he said curtly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to see.”

“Yes, okay, sure. I didn’t mean to offend you, Dr. Cheek.”

He wasn’t offended. He was just irritated. “No harm done,” he eased his tone. The problem wasn’t this woman, but rather his matchmaking Aunt Belinda.

“I’ll pay for the exam,” she offered.

“Never mind that,” he said. “Just stop using your dog to pick up guys and we’ll call it even.”

“It’s a deal.” Her smile shone falsely bright and her perky pink ponytail seemed to sag a little.

She left the clinic with Satan through the side exit, and Sam went to the reception desk. “Don’t charge the Rottweiler’s owner for the visit—”

“Not another freebie,” his receptionist, Delia, groaned. “You can’t make a living if you keep giving away your services, Sam.”

“I don’t need a lecture,” he said. “I’ve got a mother, two sisters, and a very nosy aunt for that. Just letting you know that I’m leaving the building for a few minutes.”

“You have a poodle that got pecked in the eye by a rooster on the way in.” Delia stamped “no charge” on Satan’s bill.

“I’ll be right back.” He turned and went out the rear door.

The alley of the clinic ran parallel to the town square that was one block over. To get to the square he had to walk past the Twilight Playhouse, built in 1886. In the summers, the theater hosted touring companies performing Broadway musicals. In the winters, the town put on its own productions, including everything from cowboy poetry readings, to musical groups, to Christmas pageants.

Now that it was September and the kids had gone back to school, the playhouse would be gearing up for a new round of homespun programs. The sound of someone banging out a ragtime tune drifted through the open window of the sandstone building as he rounded the corner to the town square. The first time he’d ever kissed a girl, it had been in the upstairs stage loft.

He couldn’t help thinking of Trixie Lynn. Even now, he could still remember her impish green eyes surrounded by a riot of burnished orange curls. He’d had a thing for redheads ever since. Valerie had been a redhead as well, although her hair had been darker, more brownish. Trixie Lynn had possessed corkscrew tresses as vibrant as oak leaves in autumn.

After the kiss he’d filched from her in that loft, he’d fallen madly in love with Trixie Lynn the way a guy only falls once. Never mind that he’d been only fifteen, he’d yearned for her completely and without reservation. He was embarrassed about it now, the way he’d been so overcome. Not just that, but he was embarrassed at how often he still remembered it. Almost every time he passed the Twilight Playhouse, he thought of her and wondered where she was. Had she married? Did she have kids? Had she ever achieved her dreams of being a star?

It was so long ago. So dumb to keep thinking about her, but if he closed his eyes, the memory came back sharp and fully in focus. He remembered all the little details: the way she’d smelled like watermelon shampoo and Ivory soap, the way her soft curls felt slipping between his fingers. The way the storage loft had been hot and airless, how sweat had trickled down his back, how no one knew they were up there together in the dark.

“I feel like I’ve cheated you,” Valerie had said to him on their honeymoon. They’d gone to San Antonio and were strolling the river walk hand in hand. Cumin from a nearby Mexican restaurant had scented the air. In the distance, a mariachi band sang “El Paso” in Spanish. They’d just shared a kiss, and he could taste her mild milky flavor on his tongue. Her comment surprised him.

“Cheated me? How’s that?”

“I had my one great love with Jeff. He was my soul mate. But you…” She’d stopped walking, dropped her hand, looked him in the eyes. “You’ll never have that as long as you’re married to me.”

What Valerie hadn’t known was that he’d already
had his one great love and lost her as surely as she’d lost Jeff. “What we’ve got,” he’d told her and meant it, “is better than soul-mate love. It’s safe and solid and secure.”

She’d look at him so sadly that a cold shiver had shot down his spine in spite of the sultry July heat. She reached up, traced his chin with her finger, and whispered the name he knew everyone in town called him behind his back. “Oh my sweet Steady Sam.”

His aunt’s business, the Sweetest Match, sat on the opposite side of the courthouse. A pair of mockingbirds trilled from the wide-limbed mimosa across from the Funny Farm restaurant on the corner. The scent of sautéing onions and garlic wafted in the air. Sam’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d forgotten to eat lunch. Again. He often got so absorbed in his work he forgot to eat.

He cut across the courthouse lawn thick with heavily watered zoysia grass. At this hour on a Wednesday afternoon the streets were fairly empty. Not late enough to pick the kids up from school, but past the lunch hour. His boots made a scraping noise when he hit the pavement on the other side of the lawn, and he rehearsed in his head what he was going to say to his aunt to put a stop to her infernal matchmaking without hurting her feelings.

The cowbell over her door tinkled gaily when he opened it. All things romantic dominated his aunt Belinda’s world. The walls were painted pastel pink and lined with framed pictures of all the couples she’d successfully matched. The lush pink carpet led to a private area where she ushered clients to fill out forms, be interviewed on camera, and pay their fees. Belinda specialized in hooking up people with their long-lost
loves, and she seemed to have a real knack for knowing how to go about igniting those old embers into fresh flames. She made a nice living at it. Enough to support a family of seven after her husband, Harvey, got laid off when Delta Airlines pulled most of its flights out of DFW airport in 2005. Now Harvey worked for the local country club as a greenskeeper, and he kept Belinda supplied with a string of upper-crust gossip.

Belinda peeked her head in from the back room. “Hiya, Sam,” she greeted him with a warmth that went around him as snuggly as a hug.

His aunt was an ebullient woman in her early forties. Everything about her screamed, “Mom.” Just like his mother, she was helpful, kind, generous, loving, and more than a little meddlesome. Belinda wore her hair in a short, practical style and she favored blouses ubiquitously appliquéd with bunnies or ducks or puppies. She smelled like chocolate chip cookies. She had a round cheerful face and a full motherly bosom just right for little heads to rest against. She was the “fun” mom, full of games, laughter, stories, and art projects. Kids congregated at her house.

“Do you need someone to babysit Charlie?” Looking hopeful, she moved from the back room into the main shop, knitting needles and a half-knitted scarf in her hands.

“No.”

“Are your folks leaving later than expected?”

“They left yesterday.” Sam’s father had recently retired at age sixty from Bell Helicopter with a pleasant pension, and he’d bought a recreational vehicle to celebrate. His parents had embarked on a two-month sightseeing odyssey from Labor Day to Halloween.

“Oh.” Belinda sounded disappointed. “So no upcoming dates?”

“We need to talk,” he said flatly.

Belinda set her knitting down on the counter. “Sure, sure. Would you like some iced tea? It’s peach-flavored.”

“No thanks.”

“I’m getting the feeling this isn’t a social call.”

He cleared his throat. “Aunt Belinda—”

“Yes?” She smiled like she had the power of the sun behind her.

“You gotta stop sending women over to the clinic. It’s my place of business.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “Who interrupted you at work? Was it Misty or JoAnna or Caroline? I clearly told them not to bother you—”

“Three of them?” He groaned. “You sicced three of them on me?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure what type you liked. Misty is petite and dark-haired, about your age, and—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “I know you’re just trying to help, but I can get my own dates, thank you.”

Belinda pursed her lips. “No you can’t.”

“What?” Startled, he stared at her.

“Okay, maybe you can, but you won’t. You haven’t been on a single date since Valerie died. You’re thirty years old, Sam, but you act like you’re sixty. When was the last time you went out and had a good time?”

“That’s my business, Belinda.”

“This isn’t all about you, you know,” she said softly.

Sam’s spine stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Belinda pressed her lips together and shifted her
eyes as if casting about for a gentle way to say what was on her mind. “You weren’t the only one affected by Valerie’s death.”

He lowered his voice. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“Charlie has lost so much. To be in the car with his father when they got T-boned and then just a scant eighteen months later to see his mother get on that army plane and fly away, only to come home in a casket. That’s a lot for a six-year-old to absorb.”

Sam clenched his jaw and bit down on the tip of his tongue to stay his anger. None of this was his aunt’s concern. She had five kids of her own to fret over. He wanted to lash out at her, but he knew she really was worried about Charlie, so he said nothing, just stood there feeling the muscle at his temple jump.

“That boy needs a mother. Whenever he comes over for playdates with my kids he…” Aunt Belinda trailed off. “Well, as you say, it’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s not.”

“But it’s not right, him not speaking a single word since Valerie died.”

“I know,” Sam said hoarsely. The pain he tried to keep at bay every time he looked at the boy he’d swiftly grown to love, as surely as if he’d been his biological child, squeezed his heart. “I’ve taken him to doctors, therapists. I’ve been patient. My folks help in every way they know how. I’ve tried everything I know.”

“You haven’t tried
everything
,” Belinda braved.

He fisted his hands at his side, took a deep breath, and responded with as much measured control as he could muster. “He’s not ready for someone to replace his mother.”

She folded her arms over her chest and held his gaze. “Are you sure it’s Charlie who’s not ready?”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but please stop sending women over to meet me. When and if I decide to remarry it will be under my own power. I don’t want or need a matchmaker mucking around in my love life. Got it?”

Belinda swallowed visibly. “I never meant any harm and I don’t want to overstep my bounds, but Sam, have you thought about what it means for your boy if he never speaks again? What kind of future is he going to have?”

Sam had thought about it far more often than Belinda could imagine, but he’d decided that his approach to just give Charlie his space and not pressure him was the best one. The boy would talk eventually.