A Weaver Wedding. Allison Leigh
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was hoping to pick up something for my nieces.”
Tara kept her practiced smile in place. She’d already seen more than one of Hope’s nieces. “Leandra was by with Lucas on her hip as soon as the doors opened.”
Hope laughed, looking younger than the fifty Tara knew her to be, because half the town had been invited to celebrate the milestone. “That little boy may be only two, but he has plenty of Clay blood running in his veins. Tristan and I sat for him and Hannah a few weeks ago. I was exhausted by the time Leandra and Evan picked them up.” She shook her head, still grinning. “Not that Lucas is different than any of the other babies in our family.”
Hope’s gaze caught on a bracelet and she leaned closer to the glass-topped display. “Oh, that one’s lovely. Is it amethyst?”
Tara drew out the woven strands of the bracelet and handed it to Hope. “Yes. In fact, Sarah—” yet another one of Hope Clay’s nieces “—bought one for Megan about an hour ago. In peridot, though.”
Hope glanced at the small price tag hanging from the white-gold clasp. “I wonder what it says when an old lady like me has the same taste as a twelve-year-old girl?”
“Hardly old.” Tara’s protest was sincere. “And considering the bracelets are my own design,” she said as she smiled wryly, “I’d like to think that it says you both have excellent taste.”
“Very well said.” Hope’s husband, Tristan, stopped behind his wife, closing his hand around her nape in a simple gesture that managed to eloquently display years of devotion.
Hope smiled up at her tall husband. “I thought you were going to be tied up with meetings all afternoon. Everything go all right?”
“Unexpectedly so.” The man finally slid his attention from his wife’s face toward Tara. His brilliant blue gaze crinkled with a timeless appeal. “So, Tara, how much is my wife’s excellent taste going to cost me this time?”
Tara told him and he slid the cash out of his wallet. He waved off the receipt she began to write out. Not that she was surprised considering his video-gaming company, CeeVid, had already funded the brunt of the school expansion. The Clays in general were a generous lot when it came to supporting their community.
And then there were some Clays who were more like a hit and run.
She pushed aside the thought and finished wrapping up the bracelet in her traditional Classic Charms ivory and silver striped packaging before passing it over to Hope. “There you go. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
“Here’s my can a’ food.” The teenager was back, looking breathless as she handed over an enormous can and a wad of cash. “You didn’t sell the earrings, did you?”
Tara pulled them out and handed them to the girl. “I promised I wouldn’t.”
“I knew this festival would be a good idea,” Hope said as she took the can of peaches and set it in the nearly full bin beside Tara’s booth. “We’ll see you later at the dance. I now have the perfect bracelet to wear with my dress.” Waving the pretty box, she moved off on her husband’s arm.
Biting back the pinch of envy she felt watching the couple, Tara focused on her young customer. She picked up the wad of cash and began unfolding it. “These earrings are for pierced ears, you know.”
“I know. I got my ears pierced last month.” The girl held up the dangling earrings that she’d chosen, eyeing them with fervent delight. “These are going to be my first real pair when I can take out the studs. Finally.” She rolled her eyes. “I thought my dad was never gonna let me pierce my ears.”
Tara could identify. Despite his frequent absences, her father had still managed to implacably rule his roost with an iron fist. “Dads can be like that.” She gave the girl her change, deftly wrapped the earrings in tissue and popped them into a small box. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” Holding the box like a treasure, the girl turned on her heel and fairly floated across the gymnasium floor. She didn’t even stop at any of the other booths.
Tara sat back down on her stool, glancing at her watch. An hour longer, she told herself, and she could reasonably begin packing up.
Unfortunately, the hour seemed to drag by as customer traffic began to slow.
Her water bottle was long empty, her bladder was long full, and the only thing of interest to watch was the line of eager customers at Courtney Clay’s Kissing Booth sitting smackdab in the center of the gymnasium. Considering the young nurse was strikingly beautiful—and eligible—the line wasn’t that surprising.
After a while, Tara turned away, hiding a yawn behind her palm, and reached beneath her table for one of the boxes she’d used to bring in her load that morning. Not quite an hour had passed, but it was close enough for her.
She set the box on her stool and began taking down the unsold garments hanging on the display rack. Slipping them off their hangers, she folded them neatly between tissue paper before placing them in the box. The more careful she was, the less steaming she’d have to do when she hung the clothing back up in her shop.
She filled the first box and put it on the floor, then bent below the table again to hunt down the next box.
“Did you bury a bone down there?” The voice was low. Husky. Amused.
Painfully familiar.
Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest as she warily peered above the table.
She would have welcomed a nonstop procession of Clays, if this one would just disappear.
It was, after all, what he was good at.
Looking away from Axel, she dragged another box out.
Don’t look at the guy. That’s what got you into trouble last time.
Trouble.
It was almost laughable, if it weren’t so clichéd.
“What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound welcoming and wished she didn’t care. She would have far preferred to sound breezily unconcerned about his unexpected presence.
“We need to talk.”
“After four months of silence? I don’t think so.” Darnit. That didn’t sound breezy, either. She grabbed the rest of the hangers from the rack, clothing and all, and shoved the bundle into the box.
If she had to steam out wrinkles until the cows came home, she suddenly didn’t care. She just wanted to get out of there. She slapped the lid onto the box and dropped it atop the first.
“Tara—”
But she’d already crouched down to fish out another box. Beneath the cover of the table, she exhaled shakily.
He’s just a guy, she told herself for about the millionth time since that night in Braden that had turned into an entire weekend. More than forty-eight hours spent with each other in that little motel room, during which time she’d stupidly started thinking things she’d had no business thinking. Crazy things. Forever things.
All of which had come to a screeching halt when he’d been gone from their bed before she’d woken up that last morning.
The only thing he’d left behind was a note that he’d “call.” He’d scrawled the message on the flattened pink bakery box that had held the small chocolate cake he’d managed to track down after searching three different stores.
The cake that—after she’d made a wish and blown out the candles, all of which he’d insisted upon—they’d managed to share over those two days in shockingly creative ways that still haunted her dreams.
But call?
Right.
Not only had he been gone from her bed, but he hadn’t shown his face in Weaver afterward. Not the next day. Not the