Beautiful March Page 4

  My face scrunches. “Okay, I’m sorry. You’re right. It is your big day—tea sounds lovely.”

  “I don’t want to have a liquid lunch and show up drunk to my rehearsal, it’s completely irresponsible.”

  “But you are getting married in a barn. Showing up drunk could be acceptable.”

  “A barn, a beautiful rustic barn. It’s going to be amazing. Cranberry Ridge is beautiful.”

  “This place, it better live up to the pictures that you sent.”

  “Oh, it will.”

  “Okay, so tell me more about this tea thing.”

  “Well, it’s tomorrow at one-thirty,” she says, lifting a brow in my direction. “And the venue is Rosemary Hill.”

  “What?” My eyes go wide.

  “Maybelle convinced your dad to add a smaller café over at Rosemary Hill. It’s gorgeous. The Tea Room has different hours than the main restaurant. It serves mostly desserts, drinks and lighter items likes salads and soups.”

  “When did this happen?”

  She taps her finger to her chin. “You really don’t pay attention to your family’s business, do you?”

  The shock on my face is more than obvious. “Nope, and I can’t wait to get back to Los Angeles. No offense.”

  “None taken,” she replies, setting her wine glass onto the table. “I can’t wait to go on my honeymoon. A month away with my new husband. I am pumped.”

  From the corner of my eye, I spy Oliver, Sage’s cat stalking around the hutch. He flops down on the floor rubbing his face against the rug.

  “Who’s taking care of Oliver while you’re away?”

  “Anna,” Sage answers, eyeing her manicure.

  Anna is one of Sage’s friends from work. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her, but tomorrow I’ll get the chance.

  Sage swings her gaze in my direction. “Are you sure that you’re okay?”

  I smile. “I must be, because I barely cried. That tells me something. Humiliated, blindsided and a little sad, but otherwise I’m good.”

  Single once again. My best friend’s getting married and I’m nowhere close to the altar. Not that I’ve ever been a girl that dreamed of getting married. I’ll get through this weekend by drowning myself in wine and some of my great-grandad’s famous bourbon. Then I’ll go back to Los Angeles, throw myself into my work and embrace the single life once more. Fuck. Dating in Los Angeles is the absolute worst.

  “You want one of my dessert jars?” She waggles her brows.

  My mouth practically waters at the thought. Sage makes these amazing desserts in mason jars. Layers of cookies, chocolate mousse, whipped cream and chocolate chips.

  “I’ve been perfecting a few more recipes with lemon and raspberries. I need to figure out something with bourbon though. I’ve even got a table at the farmer’s market this summer. I’ll finally be able to get my creations out to the world.”

  “That’s awesome, Sage. I’m stuffed from dinner, but I expect that you made me a few to take home after the weekend. Or that you’ll give me the recipe?”

  She laughs. “Not a chance, can’t risk you stealing my ideas.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m hardly a baker and I would never betray you—ever. Remember our motto—Desserts Before Dicks. Pies and Fries Before Guys. That’s binding forever.”

  She laughs. “This weekend will be great. Did I mention Reed has lots of single friends?”

  I groan. “Do not fix me up. This is your wedding weekend. No time for match-making.”

  I don’t have the energy to tell her that I’ve already met one of Reed’s friends. Tyler, the best man. The hot best man who fed me food, poured me wine and stared at me with the most expressive blue eyes I’ve ever seen. An hour later I wasn’t thinking about him at all. Nope. Not at all.

  “Fine, maybe we’ll just have to get you laid instead. Get you some good dick before you leave.”

  “That’s sweet of you, but I’m not that hard up for dick. I do just fine on my own.”

  “If you say so.” Sage stands and swallows the rest of her wine. “Well, I’m going to bed, but you’re welcome to stay up. There are a few dessert jars in the fridge if you change your mind. I’m sure that you’re still wired on West Coast time.”

  Yep, I’m really surprised that I somehow manage to get my second wind. I stand to give her a tight squeeze.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Sage says, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Oh now, stop that,” I instruct, gripping her shoulders. “I wouldn’t miss your wedding for anything. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  The sound of a rumbling engine has me upright and bolting out of bed. I toss on a pair of black shorts and my sports bra. My feet shuffle over the thick rug in Sage’s living room and toward the front porch as I pull my grey t-shirt over my head.

  “I hate Kentucky.” I blow out a breath.

  It’s hard to say that given the view spread before me. It’s just so green. I gaze past the garden toward the pond. The morning sunlight bounces off the gentle ripples and the cattails sway in the breeze. Hay fields and green pastures for miles. Sage has an amazing piece of property.

  “Now, how can you say that you hate Kentucky?”

  Sage climbs up the steps holding a basket filled with fresh flowers. Her dark hair is neatly tucked under a wide-brimmed hat.

  I turn to face her. “Well, you weren’t supposed to hear me say that.”

  She dusts the dirt from her slouchy jean overalls and then hikes the basket higher on her hip. “Come on, let’s have some breakfast. I’m making chocolate chip pancakes.”

  “How domestic of you,” I joke, holding the screen door open for her. “Chocolate chip pancakes are generally reserved for children. Are you brushing up on your skills because you’re planning to have a family ASAP?”

  Sage sets the basket on the counter and then goes to work cutting the stems. “Not quite yet, but we do want a big family. Would you be a dear and press start on the coffee maker?”

  “Sure thing,” I say, hitting the button. I pull two mugs from her cabinet. “So, where will you be housing this big family?”

  Snip. Snip.

  “Reed’s moving in after the honeymoon.” She lays her shears on the counter. “My mother went nuts when she caught him leaving one morning and made him move out. She said to me, ‘You will not live together until you are married. Now, I have to go see Father Cain—Sage Victoria Maxwell. Thank you very much.’”

  I can’t contain my laughter, her head bops from side to side as she impersonates her mom. “Sounds like Doris.”

  Sage pulls a vase from the hutch. “Doris clutched her pearls the entire time Reed packed up his things. It was humiliating.”

  “And yet, crazy mom and all, he’s still going to marry you,” I point out.

  “I can hardly believe it myself.” When she finishes arranging the flowers, she places them neatly in the center of her table. Sage’s place is cool, it has a rustic vibe with some shabby chicness—like the mosaic tiles that splash across her kitchen walls and the collection of blue glass jars above the stove. Ah, the stove. Straight out of the 1950s. Her house is what you’d expect to find in Kentucky. I love the hardwood floors that span from wall to wall and the classic farmhouse sink.

  “Poor Reed, he’s been going to mass just to say hello to Mom,” she laughs. “Daddy finds it amusing. He didn’t even care that we were shacking up. Well, we weren’t entirely living in ‘sin.’” Her hands frame air quotes around the word. “Most of his stuff was in his apartment.”

  Watching her fly around the kitchen grabbing all the ingredients to make the pancakes amuses me. The coffee maker stops, and I pour myself a generous cup adding in a little bit of Splenda.

  “You know, Reed’s managing partner, Tyler, owns the restaurant where you were last night.” She eyes me while mixing in the flour, sugar and salt. Like she knows something.

  “Yeah, I know. I met him.”

  “Can you set the oven to tw
o hundred degrees and put that plate inside?” Sage instructs adding baking powder and baking soda into the bowl. “You had dinner with Tyler and you didn’t mention that little tidbit of information?”

  I lift a shoulder. “It was no big deal. The guy just felt sorry for me since Scott was his friend and dumped me in his restaurant.”

  “Oh, come on,” she says, whisking the contents together. “He’s one of the most eligible men in all of central Kentucky. He’s handsome, charming and has this bad boy thing going on too. He’s gotta motorcycle. You like guys with an edge . . . bikes and tattoos. I remember you having a thing for Jax Teller if memory serves. Wasn’t the gal that played his girlfriend on the show your client?” She takes a breath. “But back to Tyler. You wouldn’t think a guy who spends most of his day in a fine pressed suit would have a bike.”

  “You know a lot about him. Does your fiancé know that you spend your time objectifying Tyler like this?” I sip my coffee.

  “Don’t change the subject, Haven. I’m just statin’ the obvious.”

  She isn’t wrong in her observation. Tyler is very good looking—his hotness isn’t lost on me. And the fact that he has a motorcycle . . . yeah, can’t say that I don’t want to ask him for a ride.

  Do I want to know more? No.

  It doesn’t matter anyway because I’m going back to Los Angeles on Sunday night.

  “Well, do you mind telling me how you found out about my dinner last night?”

  Sage sets aside the mixing bowl and then drops in half a stick of butter. “News travels fast in this town.” Her fingers soar over the numbers on the microwave.

  Small towns. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Your past carries its weight in gold. And that gold is knowing things no one has any right to. Lies. Rumors. Hearsay. People are in your business everywhere you go, and no one ever cares to find out the actual truth. They gossip. They pass judgement. Coming back to Mayfield makes me feel like I’m pinned under a microscope. Small towns. You learn things about the people in your community that you can never un-see or un-hear.

  I’m a snob because my parents sent me to private school.

  I’m a bitch because I grew up with money.

  I’m a slut because I fucked Sawyer Collins in the hayloft when I was fifteen.

  For the record, I didn’t touch Sawyer. I politely told him to take his hand off my ass and he didn’t like that—not one bit. So, he started a rumor about me that summer and how much I liked sucking his dick.

  “She begs for it . . . can’t get enough of my fingers in her sweet pussy either.”

  All the guys in town thought that I was an easy lay—a lot of them tried to fuck me every summer. I didn’t even have my first real kiss until I was seventeen. That entire summer comes rushing back and my chest tightens. All of Sawyer Collins lies about me. I can’t stand people whispering about me when I walk into the local drugstore.

  “Haven Cardwell, they say she went to private school, but I heard she was in a convent having a baby.”

  Oliver enters the kitchen making his presence known with a loud meow. He stretches out and sinks to a sunny spot on the floor.

  “Yeah, I remember. This town is practically founded on gossip.”

  “Stop, I thought we laid those pesky Cardwell family rumors to rest. And if Sawyer Collins opens his big mouth while you’re here, I’ll personally kick the shit out of him.”

  It doesn’t matter how many years pass. No matter how many joyous Christmases or Fourth of July parties I’d spent here, it’s all muddied by the rumors.

  She levels her gaze at me. “Is that what keeps you from comin’ home?”

  Shaking my head, I look Sage in her hazel eyes and lie. “Nope. I prefer a place where I’m just another face in a sea of millions. And I like my bars without tobacco and peanut shells lining the floors.”

  Okay, so not a total lie. Days like today and trips back here remind me why I prefer city life to country life. When I’m not putting in countless hours at the firm, I’m dining with friends or attending the latest movie premiere. There’s a certain charm to Mayfield, but here I’m Haven Cardwell, bourbon heiress. Out there I have a purpose—something of my own. I want to become a partner by the time I’m thirty-five. That’s my five-year plan. Actually, it’s been my plan since I landed at MCA.

  She laughs ripping off a piece of foil. “You know Smyrna Hills has some pretty swanky hangouts. And Mayfield has its charm.”

  “Swanky, huh? Are we using that word these days?’

  “Yep,” she answers shoving the first batch of pancakes into the oven.

  “Why are you putting the pancakes in the oven?”

  “So that they stay warm while I finish making the rest. Then I can garnish them with powdered sugar, chocolate sprinkles and fresh raspberries.”

  “I’m going to gain ten pounds before your wedding.”

  “Nah, we’ll walk it off. After breakfast, you can help me feed the ducks.”

  My hip rests against the butcher’s block. “Great, just how I wanted to spend my Friday morning—feeding the ducks.”

  “It’ll be painless, I swear,” Sage says, leaning over the stove. “And who knows, you might even have some fun. We need to wash some of that Hollywood grime off you.”

  I laugh. “Hey now, I like my Hollywood . . . glitz.”

  Tyler

  I stop by the restaurant before heading into the office. The smell of hazelnut and chocolate drifts through the air. Jace has to be whipping up one his latest dessert creations.

  “Hey, boss,” Jace greets me. “You want some breakfast? I can make you brioche french toast. We got in some of that blueberry lemon jam that you like so much.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.” I grab my coffee mug and pour myself a cup. “So, listen. I need you to make some pizzas and soup for the Garden of Hope Shelter in Lexington. All that food needs to be delivered Sunday night. I’ll forward you the email with the details including quantities.”

  “Okay, no problem,” he agrees, whisking ground cinnamon and vanilla extract in a shallow bowl along with an egg. “I’ll have Maria take care of everything for the women’s shelter.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I pull the clipboard from the wall next to the prep table, glancing at the menu for lunch and dinner. Jace leaves plenty of space for me to make notes or add dish selections. I sign off on the menu selection and replace the clipboard. “Menu looks great, Jace. I’ll be at the bar. Just holler when that’s ready.”

  He nods and goes back to the task of making breakfast. Jace loves to cook. Hell, anything that has to do with making and preparing food is his passion. I take a seat at the bar and flip through the newspaper. I’m in no hurry to get into the office this morning. All I have to do is check in and make sure that the remodel for the law offices I’ve been working on is underway. As long as there are no issues, I’m home free to enjoy the weekend.

  My eyes drift to the table where Haven and I sat last night. Her green eyes flash bright in my mind. The knot in my gut tells me that I need to put her and her green eyes out of my mind. She’s Scott’s ex and that makes her off-limits to me. The energy between Haven and me is hard to ignore. She’s confident and gorgeous. Probably has a line of men waiting to take her out. They’ll be thrilled to hear she’s single.

  Forgetting about her is going to be a challenge since we’ll be seeing a lot of each other this weekend. My fingers turn the pages and I scan over the headlines.

  Seventeen-years later, how Clinton Park remembers the House of Horrors.

  Shock and pain seep into my chest as I read the words in black and white print.

  House of Horrors. That’s what the house located at 8837 Galena Street in Clinton Park is called by many residents, including myself. October 31st was a day that rocked this small town. No one knows where the two kids who were rescued here all those years ago are now. Thanks to a closed adoption and sealed court records.

  A nightmare of filth. Minor children were
housed here in rooms with boarded up windows. The unforgettable reek lingered despite the gaping hole in one room. The toilets and showers didn’t work thanks to busted pipes. Plastic totes filled with human waste lined two rooms and the basement. This past March, the property was torn down and the person or company responsible remains anonymous by request. Residents of Clinton Park want to know who to thank for making Galena Street beautiful once again.

  My stomach churns and I stop reading, tossing the paper aside. No one can find out it was me who had the damn place bulldozed to the ground. What does it matter anyway? Why can’t people just accept a nice gift and leave it at that. And what’s with the determination to know what happened to the kids who were rescued?

  Not everyone wants to be found.

  I pull my buzzing cellphone from my pocket. It’s my mother calling, no doubt she’s read the article.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, before taking a long drink of coffee.

  “Morning, honey, have you seen the paper?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, your dad and I don’t want you to worry. We called Edward first thing this morning. No one will find out about the details of your adoption.”

  Edward is Edward Hollis, our family lawyer. The best that old southern money can buy or keep on permanent retainer.

  “I appreciate that,” I say. “I’m not worried.”

  Letting my mom know that I have some worry, well, there’s just no need to do that to her. There’s always worry. Once people find out who I really am, they’ll treat me differently. They’ll see me in an entirely new light and I don’t want that to happen. As far as I’m concerned, the past needs to stay buried.

  “Did you know that someone had the place torn down?”

  “No, ma’am,” I lie.

  I hate lying to my mom, but if she knows how much I needed to have that place demolished it will tear her up inside.

  “Looks pretty nice though.” I state, switching gears.

  “Oh yes, the garden is beautiful and that kitty playground with the tiny house for stray cats and neighborhood cats is so darling. What a lovely touch.”