In This Moment

Chapter Two

Inside a popular tavern in the tourist district, Graham Roberts stared at his beer from a corner table. The Tipsy Turtle. No lie, that was the name of the joint. It was sandwiched between What A Pickle Deli and Guac On Mexican Restaurant in what passed as historic downtown. Or Main Square, as the townsfolk called it, which was shaped like an ‘I’.

An old library, beaten down and falling to shambles, was at the tip of said I, flanked by park grounds and a cemetery. Down a ways was a giant one hundred and fifty year old peach tree that no longer produced fruit. Locals called it ‘Miss Katie,’ after the town founder’s wife. She and the tree were pretty legend in these parts. There was a wrought-iron fence around the trunk’s base and benches to sit and bask in its glory. First time he’d heard that tidbit, his eyeballs thunked the back of his skull, he’d rolled them so hard. The library had once been owned by the Vallantine descendants, but someone else had possession of the place now. In the two months he’d been here, they’d done nothing with it. Apparently, the building was haunted by the same woman the tree was named after, but not in a boo sort of way. Another eye roll.

The center of the I, all the way to the end and down both directions, had independent shops and restaurants with colorful awnings. Cobblestone streets, cast-iron old-world lampposts, and even flower boxes at the curb. Cherry blossom trees were finishing their spring blooms and drifting pink petals everywhere. Idealistic small town. He’d give Vallantine this, it was pretty, and the patrons were friendly. Hell of a lot better weather than Minnesota, for sure.

“You’re not drinking.”

He glanced at Forest, sitting beside him, then back at his untouched ale. They’d gone to college together and stayed close after Forest had moved back here and Graham had stayed in Minneapolis. If not for Forest, in fact, Graham would’ve been shit out of luck after the scandal.

“Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.” He took a sip, glancing around.

Polished dark wood floors, tables, and bar. The walls were a rich navy color, but the ceiling was aqua with white swirls, bubbles, and a giant sea turtle painted in a mural. Metal lanterns on the tables and blue neon overhead lighting. It was a neat place. More like what he was used to in the city than the bars on the outskirts catered to locals.

The clientele was mostly not from around here, best he could tell and judging by the t-shirts.

“You okay, buddy?”

Glancing at Forest, Graham took in his friend’s short, wavy brown hair and overgrowth on his wide jaw. Concern radiated in his deep brown, almost black, eyes, causing remorse to shift yet again in Graham’s gut. He was trying to start his life over and a good chunk of his career, and Forest was coming fresh off a nasty divorce to the Wicked Bitch of the West. What a sad pair they made.

“Yeah, man. Sorry again.” He was always sorry, and a sorry excuse for a human. “How’s work treating you?”

Forest had gone to his father’s alma mater for college on his dad’s request, all so he could take over the bank one day. He currently was in charge of the loan department until his father retired. He rarely, if ever, talked about it, giving Graham the impression he wasn’t all that happy.

“Eh.” Forest shrugged. “Same ole, same ole. Nothing exciting. I’ll be going over the library renovations for the historical society, though. Looking forward to that.”

“Renovations?” Graham had heard whispering around town, but nothing he could connect the dots on. The building had been closed since he’d moved. “What are they doing?”

“Not sure yet. I have a meeting with the Belles on Monday.”

The Belles? Was that some kind of garden club for debutants?

Forest took a sip of beer and did a double-take at Graham’s expression. “I forget sometimes you don’t know all the inner workings of Vallantine.” He chuckled, shifting in his seat, and leaned back. “So, the Vallantine Library was built by the original town founder, William Vallantine, for his wife, Katherine, who loved books. It was on the estate until a hurricane took out the mansion in 1898 and killed some of the family. That’s where the park is now. The library survived. About six months ago, the last living descendant, Sheldon Brown, decided he couldn’t handle it anymore. He and his wife, Rosemary, bequeathed it to the Bookish Belles.”

Part of that Graham knew from chatter around town or his employees, but… “Bookish Belles?” Only in the south. It was like another country sometimes, he was learning.

“Yep. Rosemary Fillmore, or Brown now, was our eighth grade teacher. The Belles were her favorite students, and in my graduating class. They love all things literature. In fact, their mothers started a bookclub way back. Don’t know if it’s still running. I’d have to ask Mama.”

Ah, okay. Probably the right people to leave a historical library to, then, if that was the case.

“Speak of the devils.” Forest bumped his chin toward the bar. “That’s them.”

There were quite a few patrons at the bar, but only three females together. And wearing pajamas, no less. “A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

Forest huffed a laugh. “The redhead is Dorothy, named from The Wizard of Oz. She’s an accountant. The brunette who looks like she’s photoshopped? That’s Scarlett, Gone With the Wind, obviously, and funny enough, she owns a plantation where she has an event business. The blonde’s Rebecca from—”

“Huckleberry Finn. Tom Sawyer’s feisty girl.” It was Graham’s favorite book. He couldn’t see her face, she had her back to him, but it looked an awful lot like Mavis’s granddaughter from next door. He’d been a jerk to her this afternoon. Not on purpose, but nonetheless, a jerk.

“That’s the one. She just moved back home after her grandmother died.” An ah-ha expression lit Forest’s features. “Your old neighbor.”

Graham grunted. Guess it was her. “I owe her an apology. I stuck my foot in it earlier.”

“Oh yeah? What did you do?”

“Nothing I can’t fix.” He did need to fix it, though. He’d made assumptions and said crap while in a pissed off mood instead of biting his tongue. And after she’d tried to give him advice. Word got out about that, and the town would have another reason to shun him, besides being a new guy from up north.

Finally, she turned from the bar, passing to-go bags of food to her companions. She looked like a different woman than the one by the curb outside their homes. Gone was the coifed champagne-colored hairstyle, perfect cosmetics, and elegant black dress. Instead, she wore a pair of gray sweats, a pink tee, no war paint, and her hair was up in a messy knot. Most notable was the dull etchings of grief her in features from before had been replaced with a carefree smile. The kind that lit her eyes.

Amazing eyes. Baby blues, and too big for her face. They were a focal point and had stolen the wind from his sails this afternoon.

But her, like this? Damn. Nothing sexier than a natural woman, minus the polish.

She spotted him from across the room, their gazes locking. For a moment, time sucked through a vacuum as his gut heated. Stirrings of attraction nudged from behind his ribcage.

Her smile flatlined, indicating she hadn’t felt the same magnetic pull. Bummer. She tilted her head to say something to her friends, then began making her way over. The two others followed in her wake. It reminded him of a high school drama clique.

Her walk bordered on sauntering. Hip sway, hip sway. Great body. Full breasts playing cat and mouse with the V of her shirt. Legs that went into the next zip code. She was slender to the point of breakable, but instinct told him her backbone was pure titanium and she wouldn’t easily snap.

Strong women were sexy.

She set her hand on the table—no ring, he noted—and leaned into it. “Forest, good to see you. It’s been a hot minute.” Her gaze shifted to Graham. “You should be mindful of the company you keep.”

“Wheeeew-weee.” A chuckle, and Forest leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Done made her mad, my friend.”

Mercy, she was hot as hell. Fiery, indeed, proving her namesake correct. She’d had a slight twang to her accent in their first encounter, barely detectable, but it was currently sliding toward a drawl as if preparing for battle. The heat in his gut shifted south.

The last thing he needed was to get tangled in a woman or relationship, but she was fascinating. Not that she appeared interested in him or anything.

“That I did.” Graham studied her a moment. Fair complexion. Thin, angular face. High cheekbones that were flushed. He suddenly wanted to make her blush everywhere, and vaguely realized he was in trouble. Somehow, he didn’t give a damn. “I deserve whatever punishment is deemed fit.”

Well, look at him. He hadn’t been a part of the human race or interested in rejoining for going on six months. Also, lust at first sight could be a dangerous game that he rarely won. Yet, here he was, flirting with a gorgeous blonde in a bar.

The brunette—Scarlett?—waved her hand in front of her face. “Y’all be hotter than blue blazes.”

Southerners and their expressions. Sometime in the realm of never, he’d get used to it.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” He leaned his elbows on the table, still eyeing Rebecca. “Graham Roberts. And you are?”

“Fit to be tied,” Forest mumbled under his breath.

Her eyes narrowed to slits, ignoring everyone else. “Rebecca Moore. What are you doing out in our hillbilly backwater? Aren’t you worried stupidity is contagious?”

The redhead’s brows shot to her hairline as she gazed heavenward, shaking her head.

“I deserve that, too.” He nodded. “I apologize for what I said when angry.”

That seemed to stump her. She straightened, expression dialed to contemplative.

“You said what, now?” Forest darted his gaze between them.

“I insulted Vallantine and its residents.” Before his buddy could lay into him, Graham held up his hand, gaze still on Rebecca. “And I apologized. It was wrong of me.” If he wanted to make it here and truly start over, he needed to acclimate.

“I do declare. A man who can admit when he’s wrong. I thought they were a dyin’ breed.” The brunette held out her hand. “I’m Scarlett.”

“Pleasure,” he returned, shaking her hand. It took effort, but he glanced away from Rebecca to her friend. She was a looker, but didn’t do it for him. High-maintenance radiated from her in waves.

“Dorothy.” The redhead nodded politely, not offering a handshake. “Welcome to Vallantine.”

“Thank you.” She was pretty, also, but tongue-in-cheek quiet. Not his thing, either.

And why, exactly, that mattered, he hadn’t a clue. He wasn’t hunting for a relationship.

Undeterred, Rebecca pointed a finger at him. “You might look like a tall drink of water, but—”

He quickly glanced at Forest. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yessir.”

Graham grinned at her. “Thank you, then.”

No such luck, however. She wasn’t done.

“But you’re lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.”

Again, he turned to Forest. “Was that an insult?”

“Yessir.”

“Damn.” Graham swiped his phone off the table and swiftly activated a search engine. “I think you’re fine as frog hair split four ways,” he read from the screen. He lifted his head, frowning. “That doesn’t sound much like a compliment. Alas, Google says it is.”

Forest dropped his head in his hand, laughing.

“Thank you.” Her expression indicated that had been difficult to say, but manners bred deep required the acknowledgement. “We best be getting home before the food gets cold.”

About that. “Didn’t you have an abundance of offerings at your front door?” He’d thought about putting the dishes in his fridge so they wouldn’t go bad until someone claimed them, but she’d shown up minutes after him. There had been enough to feed an army.

“Yes, but when a girl has a day like the one I did, then comfort food is in order. There’s nothing better than Tipsy Turtle’s onion stacks.”

Shredded onion rings. He’d seen ‘em on the menu and thought about getting some. “Enjoy.”

“We will.” She turned back around while her friends continued toward the door. “You should order them. They go well with beer.”

She got two steps before he called her name.

“I really am sorry about Mavis. She talked about you all the time.”

Guilt and grief twisted her expression, similar to how he’d first encountered her outside their homes, and he almost regretted the endearment until a ghost of a smile curved her lips.

“Thank you.”

Once they were gone, Forest sighed. “Made quite the first impression on her, didn’t you?”

Graham nodded. Yeah, he had, but hopefully she’d accept his apology and he’d try to do better. He’d always been a bit of a hothead and sullen with his moods. She was right. Their ways might be different than what he was used to, but it didn’t mean they were bad. Taking his sour attitude out on the town wasn’t going to help him adjust or fix his past.

“Got a favor, since we’re on the subject.” Forest wiped the condensation from his glass with his thumb. “I’m not for certain, but if she comes into the Gazette looking for a job, I’d appreciate it if you could find her one.”

The Vallantine Gazette was the town’s small newspaper, owned by the mayor, Gunner Davis. He’d hired Graham as editor in chief, leaving him responsible for staff and content. Didn’t mean he’d hire just anyone. Odd that Forest would ask Graham for this particular favor.

“She have any experience?”

Forest nodded. “She went to college somewhere in the northeast. New York or Jersey or Boston. I forget, but she was on staff at a paper up there when her grandmother died. I assumed she was back to get affairs in order until Dorothy told me the other day that Rebecca was staying.”

Okay, that already gave her more education and experience than his current employees. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Like I said, I don’t know if she will or not, but thanks.”

They ordered an onion stack, finished off their beers while munching, and parted ways.

Since he’d met Forest for drinks right after his encounter with Rebecca, Graham had walked to the tavern because it wasn’t far, and he’d wanted to clear his head. Breathing in the scents of spring, he headed down Main Street, passing the office storefront where the Gazette was located, several other shops, and turned for his street, lampposts dimly lighting the way. Crickets chirped and leaves crackled, but other than that, it was quiet. No horns. No sirens. Stars unmasked by smog or buildings.

There wasn’t much in Vallantine he couldn’t visit on foot, unless he went the other direction toward the plantations, beyond the park and cemetery, or toward the riverfront. It was such a change of pace from the big city life, and he found he liked it. More laid back, friendly faces, and milder climate. Back in Minnesota, there might still be snow on the ground and a bitter nip to the air. Grass would be dormant, trees bare, and nothing in bloom yet. Here, the temperature was hovering near the mid-sixties with a warm, humid breeze.

Every day, sometimes more than once, he’d acknowledge the little things, pleasantries, as he spotted them or as they arose because he found he was less grouchy. Glass half full. He’d made the choice to apply for the position at the Gazette on Forest’s suggestion, accepted Gunner Davis’s offer of employment, and moved a thousand miles away from where he’d grown up, all to begin anew. Part of that hadn’t been choice, but he’d owned up to his mistakes. They’d landed him here. He either rolled with it or wound up miserable.

Damn, but he was trying. The fish out of water scenario was proving true more times than not.

He passed Rebecca’s house and stopped outside his own before realizing he’d walked the four blocks home. Lights were on inside her place, but the curtains were closed over the front bay window.

He wondered what had drawn her back besides her grandmother’s funeral. If she had been a transplanted southerner in the north, had she not liked it? Missed home? There were a few people he’d met who’d moved to Vallantine due to jobs or family, but the majority had been from here, spanning many generations.

She seemed like neither, actually. There were traces of an accent when she spoke, at least when she wasn’t angry, but that had appeared more for show than breeding. Her dialect was a mix of upper east coast and deep south. Heck, had he met her anywhere else, he’d have no clue where she was from. Urban polish and sophistication warred with chill pleasantries and down-home mannerisms. Such an interesting contradiction.

Letting himself in the house, he called for his dog, Twain, and thought about how he’d like to know more about what made Rebecca tick. Attraction aside, she was…interesting. She had the same regret in her eyes that he’d been living with for too long.

Pitter-patter of nails hit the wooden floors, and his rescued mutt came around the corner to greet him. Part hound, part shepherd, parts unknown, Twain had found Graham his first night in the house by creating a ruckus with the garbage cans out back. He’d offered the dog his other half of a cheeseburger, which had been readily accepted, and they’d been buddies since. After a vet visit and flea bath.

Graham adored the doofus to no end. He rubbed the soft, longish brown, black, and white fur, telling his excited companion how he, in fact, did miss him while away. Soul mates. Twain behaved as if he’d been born to be Graham’s dog, sticking close on walks or snuggling beside him on the couch when he was in a crappy mood, gaze adoring. It had ebbed the loneliness that had taken up residence in Graham’s chest.

The house wasn’t half bad, especially compared to his old shoebox apartment in Minneapolis. A small two-bedroom, but he didn’t need much. It had been flipped by the previous owners and move-in ready, which had been a bonus. Light gray birch hardwood throughout, except the bedrooms, which were carpeted. Navy blue drapes matched his two couches. The white walls were bare. He should hang pictures or something. There weren’t any personal touches on the gray tables to make the place homey, either. Every time he walked in, he thought the same thing. He needed to make the place his, but a needling niggling sensation in the back of his head had kept him from doing so.

He sighed. Chances were, he wouldn’t get comfy in the house until he was settled in town or his job. Everything felt fluid or temporary. Like it could all be taken away from him.

Just like it had in Minnesota.

He headed to the kitchen, also remodeled with black cabinets and gray speckled granite countertops, and fed the dog while talking about his day. Habit. The mutt seemed to understand, too, tilting his head, barking to add his two cents.

“Met the new neighbor. She’s pretty. I think you’ll like her. She’s quick on the take with a smart mouth.”

Bark.

“You’re probably right. She’ll like you better than me. I apologized, but I don’t think I’ve won her over yet. Too soon to tell.”

Bark.

“Correct. I’ll keep at it.”

A laugh, and Graham threw the ball out back for Twain, then changed out of his work clothes and into sweats. Remote in hand, he parked his butt on the sofa and turned on the Braves game in time to catch the ninth inning, dog beside him, head in his lap.

He couldn’t focus on the TV, however. Rebecca kept playing through his mind in a loop, their banter, the interactions.

“Hey.” He glanced at the dog. “You don’t know how to make chocolate chip cookies, do you?”

Bark.

“Yeah, me either.”