When Mercy Rains (49 page)

He inched up the lane, taking in the monstrous barn and the half-dozen dried-up flower beds laid out on the lawn. Wire frames shaped like notes filled
the center of the beds. During the spring and summer, those frames probably held bright-colored blooms. Now empty of color, they looked stark and lonely. Tuneless. He shook his head. This place was making him whimsical, and he was
never
whimsical. He parked the car in a graveled spot next to the barn and killed the engine. His radio, which he’d tuned to a classic-rock station and cranked up full blast, ended midsong.

The quiet struck like a blow. Even with the windows rolled up tight, the wind’s whisper and a bird’s cheerful song crept though. He knew what wind sounded like—where he lived, it sometimes swayed the highest floors of buildings—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a bird sing. Reminded him of summer evenings on Aunt Myrt’s sleeping porch. At least it raised pleasant memories even if he didn’t have time to be skipping down memory lane.

He popped open the door, swung his legs out, and unfolded himself from the seat. He stretched, arching backward to work out the kinks in his lower spine. When he’d bought the sports car, Len had told him it was a foolish expenditure. Why not just walk or take the buses like every other downtown Chicago dweller? Then he’d teased him about needing a pry bar to get in and out of it.
“A man close to six foot three with shoulders broad enough to give Atlas some stiff competition has no business cramming himself into a sardine can,”
he’d said. But Briley was used to close quarters. All his growing-up years, he’d had little more than a bed and a couple of dresser drawers to claim as his own. The Camaro’s sleek frame made up for the compact space. He’d keep the car no matter what Len said.

He left his luggage and laptop in the backseat and didn’t even bother hitting the lock on his fob. Who would disturb anything? Then he ambled along a series of steppingstones that led to the porch. Len had made the lodging arrangements for him. Briley had wanted to stay in Wichita, the closest large city, where he’d be able to enjoy a bit of the night life, but Len said if he was going to write an accurate depiction of living the Plain lifestyle, he needed to be in the middle of it. Briley paused at the base of the porch steps and turned a slow circle. He was definitely in the middle of “plain,” that was for sure.

A soft squeak caught his attention, and he turned to see the front door open. Briley removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. A girl with her dark hair pulled back in a simple tail, wearing a straight denim skirt and a pumpkin-colored, long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, stood framed behind the old-fashioned screen door. Despite her humble wrappings, he recognized beauty when he saw it. Mennonite or not, the girl was a knockout.

He mounted the four steps in two bounds. Two long-legged strides brought him to the opposite side of the door. He settled his weight on one hip, slipped his fingertips into the slanted pockets of his jeans, and grinned at the girl. “Hi, darlin’. I’m Briley Forrester, and I have reservations for a long-term stay.” Three months would probably seem like forever, but at least the scenery was nice. He peeked beyond her shoulder. The screen distorted his view, but he didn’t think anyone else was inside. “Is the owner here so I can check in?” He half hoped she’d say no so he’d have a little more time to flirt. He liked flirting almost as much as he liked writing exposés.

She pushed the screen door open, forcing him to take a sideways step, and moved onto the porch although she remained just over the doorjamb with the screen door braced against her shoulder. Her chin tipped back when she looked into his face, giving him a glimpse of a few light-colored freckles strategically placed on her forehead, her cheek, and the left side of her upper lip. All perfect locations to land a kiss. Maybe he’d find a little nightlife here in Arborville after all.

“I’m Alexa Zimmerman. I manage Grace Notes B and B.”

“Really?” He gave her a bold up-and-down look. “You’re too young and pretty to be running a hotel.”

“It’s a bed-and-breakfast inn, Mr. Forrester, and—”

“Call me Briley.”

“—my age and appearance have nothing to do with my ability to run it well.” Looking across the yard, she pointed. “Is that your vehicle?”

He nodded, anticipating a compliment.

“Since you’re long-term, feel free to pull it into the barn at night. It will need to stay on the side yard there during the day, though, so my uncle can access his equipment. Do you have luggage?”

He automatically formed a smart-alecky reply. “Well, I’m here for a long-term stay, so …”

“If you’d like to get it, I’ll show you to the cottage.”

He placed his hand on his chest, feigning surprise. “What? No bellhop to assist me?”

She let the screen door flop into place. Without a word she stepped past him and trotted down the steps.

He followed her. “Where are you going?”

She moved along the steppingstones, her gleaming ponytail swaying between her shoulder blades. “You asked for a bellhop. That would be me.”

He might be a flirt, even a rogue by some people’s definition, but he wouldn’t let this slip of a girl carry his luggage. He bounded past her and stopped in her pathway. She came to a halt and looked upward. She didn’t even crack a smile. She sure was a serious thing. Too bad, too. He’d like to have a little fun with her. What would it take to strip away her cloak of indifference?

He quirked his lips into a grin that usually raised a self-conscious giggle from members of the female population. “Where’s your sense of humor? I was only teasing, Alexa.”

“You may call me Miss Zimmerman.”

Wasn’t she something? Maybe living among people who avoided modern technology made her a throwback to an earlier century. He swallowed a chortle and bowed, affecting a highbrow look. “I beg your humble pardon. Miss Zimmerman it is.” The hours spent watching black-and-white classic movies with Aunt Myrt weren’t for naught. He could be a throwback, too.

Her brows pinched together, reminding him of his third-grade teacher. She’d never appreciated his shenanigans, either. The same deviltry that had led
him to torment Mrs. Burton reared its head and aimed its attack at Miss Alexa Zimmerman.

“I shall retrieve my luggage forthwith and carry it with all due haste to your establishment. Furthermore, I—”

“Furthermore,” she said, folding her arms over her chest in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Burton, “you’ll behave yourself. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. I might be only a young woman, but I am the manager of Grace Notes B and B, and I would appreciate being treated with respect.”

His amusement fled. Irritation replaced it. She didn’t need to be so high and mighty. Didn’t she know how to have fun? But what did he care? Would he let some unsmiling Mennonite girl make him feel small and insignificant? Absolutely not. He shrugged in well-practiced nonchalance. “Whatever you want, Miss Zimmerman. I’ve had a long drive and I’m tired, so if you’d point me to my room and tell me where I can grab some supper, I’d appreciate it.”

She finally smiled. Not a flirtatious smile. Not even a friendly smile. More a smile of success that brought a greater stab of aggravation. “Of course, Mr. Forrester. The cottage is ready for you, and as your boss requested, I stocked the minifridge with sodas, sandwich fixings, and fruit so you can prepare your own simple supper. Please grab your luggage and follow me.”

With a little snort he slung his laptop case over his shoulder and then retrieved his leather rolling suitcase. The case’s wheels bumped across the steppingstones, hindering his progress, but he followed her past the house and then along a narrow gravel path to a small square building painted in similar colors as the Victorian farmhouse.

She opened the door and held out her hand in invitation. “Here you are. Your own little home away from home.”

He crossed the cracked square of concrete that served as a stoop and entered what Alexa—oops, Miss Zimmerman—had called the cottage. The space reminded him of a project from one of the do-it-yourself home-improvement channels Aunt Myrt liked to watch. Quite a change from his masculine,
streamlined glass-and-black decor at home. A designer would probably define the cottage as “charmingly eclectic,” and no doubt some would rave about the scattered throw rugs, mismatched furnishings, and high tin ceiling. He felt as though he’d stepped into a time machine and landed somewhere near the turn of the twentieth century. His sense of zipping backward in time increased when his gaze fell on the massive wood-burning stove lurking in the far corner.

He pointed at the big black hunk of iron. “I’m not expected to cook on that thing, am I?”

She laughed lightly. If he hadn’t been annoyed with her, he might have enjoyed the trickling sound. “There’s a microwave behind the roll-up door in that green-painted cupboard.”

He crossed to the cupboard and slid the door upward. A shiny stainless-steel microwave greeted his eyes. He blew out a relieved breath.

“You should find everything you need,” she went on, “but if you discover you’re lacking something, please just knock on the back door. I’ll do what I can to make your stay comfortable.”

He considered voicing a suggestive request but decided against it. Aunt Myrt wouldn’t approve, and Len had warned him about trying to fit in with these people. He made a mental note.
Rule One: No flirting
. Besides, she was being pleasant, so he’d respond in kind. “Okay, thanks.” He placed his laptop case on the scarred table, which held a square red-and-white-checked scarf and a chunky crock overflowing with artificial daisies. How sweet … “Any other regulations besides leaving my car outside the barn during daytime hours?”

“Grace Notes B and B is a no-smoking, alcohol-free inn. Even though you’re in the cottage rather than the house, we’d appreciate your honoring our preference.”

Our?
Maybe she was married and that’s why she resisted his flirtations. Then he’d definitely curb it. He might be a lot of things, but a wife stealer wasn’t one of them. “No problem. Anything else?”

“On Sunday we attend worship service, so I serve breakfast only at eight
o’clock. Every other day you’re free to choose an earlier or later time that suits your schedule.”

“Eight every day is fine for me.”

“All right. Since you’ll be staying for a while, you’re welcome to attend service with us on Sundays.”

Eventually he’d want to sit in on their worship. Len said he ought to. But tomorrow he intended to kick back and relax and work out the stiffness in his muscles from his long drive from Illinois. “Thanks. I might do that.”

“All right then.” She’d remained on the stoop. She withdrew a gold-toned key chain shaped like a music note from her pocket and held it across the threshold as if her arm were a bridge. “Here’s the key for the cottage. I unlock the back door of the house by seven if you’d like a cup of coffee before breakfast.” She backed up slowly, her hands clasped loosely against her skirt front.

He glanced down, but the way she cupped her right hand over her left, he couldn’t tell if she wore a ring or not.

A smile, this one more genuine and definitely more appealing, curved her lips. “Welcome to Grace Notes B and B, Mr. Forrester. I hope you enjoy your stay.” She turned and scurried off before he could say anything else.