A Small-Town Reunion. Terry Mclaughlin
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climbed the concrete steps and hesitated at the narrow landing. She’d never before knocked on this door; her mother or Julia had always been on the other side.
Julia was still here, Addie knew, well into her sixties and as territorial as ever. It was nearly impossible to imagine the Chandler House kitchen without Julia in command, waving one of her wooden spoons like a baton to emphasize whatever point she was making. Geneva’s cook had seemed ancient to Addie when she’d first seen her that afternoon more than twenty-four years past. Lena had plopped her five-year-old daughter on one of the kitchen stools, handed her a box of worn crayons and a few scraps of paper and warned her to stay out of the cook’s way.
Addie had lowered her head, terrified of the sour-faced, wire-haired woman who shuffled around the room, banging her wicked-looking utensils against her shiny copper pots and muttering in her scratchy, booming voice. Eventually, Addie grabbed her very best pink crayon for security, escaping into a fantasy world of fluffy clouds and ponies and castles. A few minutes later, a plate of sugar-coated cookies slid into view across the wide central island, and Julia had asked her to draw a picture of a fairy princess with a crown of stars. In pink, of course.
Addie checked her star-shaped hair clips and smoothed a hand over her wrinkled shirt. She’d spent a sizeable chunk of thirteen years in Julia’s kitchen, from shortly after her fifth birthday until she was ready for college at eighteen. Would Julia be here this morning? Certainly someone would hear the bell, Addie told herself as she pressed the small button centered in a shiny, ornate brass plate.
A few seconds later, the dark green door swung open to reveal a tall, lean man with long, bare feet, a white shirt hanging unbuttoned over a pair of ragged jeans, shower-dampened black hair, a half-eaten piece of toast slathered with jam and a wicked smile.
A man who had her smothering a startled cry and feeling as though she were missing vital pieces of her wardrobe along with every bit of her composure. A man who’d always been able to make her feel small and out of place. A man who’d also been the subject of most of her preteen daydreams and starred in far too many of her adult fantasies.
Devlin Chandler.
CHAPTER TWO
FOR A MOMENT ADDIE FORGOT why she had come to Chandler House. And why she could never, ever think of something to say to Dev to get past him and over him and forget him and move on with her life. Because he’s Dev Chandler, and he’s simply the most beautiful man you’ve ever met. Look at him, standing there the way he is, acting as if he owns the world—or all the best parts of it, anyway.
And in the next instant Addie reminded herself that she had forgotten him, and that she’d made an excellent start on getting over him. That she was here because his grandmother had asked her to come—because she had talents and abilities and had made a damn good life for herself.
But she still had to get past him.
“Who is it?” boomed a familiar voice from the kitchen.
Dev’s mouth curved at one corner with one of his devil’s spawn half grins. “Good question.”
Julia shoved him aside with a muttered curse, and then her homely face creased in a wide, long-toothed grin when she saw Addie. “If it isn’t Miss Addie. Come in, come in. Just look at you, so neat and trim in your pretty summer things. If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes. And it just so happens I’ve got some of your favorite cookies sitting in my jar, just waiting for you to finish them up.”
She latched on to Addie’s arm with one of her knobby-fingered hands and tugged her inside. The scents of cinnamon and nutmeg rode on the thick, warm kitchen air, but Addie’s skin prickled with the icy awareness of Dev’s stare.
“You settle yourself on that stool, right there,” Julia insisted, “just like old times, and I’ll pour us both a cup of hot tea. And you can tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“Go ahead,” said Dev as he tossed his unfinished toast into the sink. “Don’t mind me. I can get my own tea and cookies.”
“That’s right,” said Julia with a wink for Addie. “We won’t mind you one bit. And you keep your sneaky mitts off those cookies.”
“The cookies sound great,” Addie remarked. “But I’m not here to visit. I have an appointment with Mrs. Chandler.”
Julia turned with a frown, the plate of cookies in her hand. “Did you say ‘Mrs. Chandler’?”
“I’m here on business,” Addie said. “To take a look at the damage to some windows.”
Dev nipped the plate from Julia’s hand. “I’ll take those.”
Julia snatched them back with a scowl. “You’ll take Addie to find Geneva, is what you’ll do. Now get out of my kitchen. You’ve been pestering me all morning, keeping me from getting my work done.”
Dev darted to the side and stole a cookie. “I’ve been keeping you company, you old windbag.”
Julia pulled the towel from her shoulder with a practiced move and snapped it at Dev’s arm.
“Ow.” The cookie fell to the floor.
“Is Geneva in her office?” Addie asked.
Dev began to button his shirt. “I’ll take you.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll just—”
“I said I’d take you.” He unfastened the top snap on his jeans and stuffed his shirt into his waistband. Behind his back, Julia rolled her eyes and muttered something about manners.
“If she’s not in her office,” he said, ignoring the cook, “what are you going to do—hunt all over this place for her?”
Addie crossed her arms. “I thought I’d start by checking out the windows.” She glanced at his bare feet. “I take it the area has been cleared of any broken glass?”
“Nope.” He shot her another crooked grin. “We thought we’d leave that to the expert. Ow,” he said again as he darted out of towel range.
“When you’re finished upstairs,” Julia told Addie, “you come right back here. I want to hear all your news.”
Addie followed Dev through the sunny breakfast nook and cavernous dining room toward the marble-floored foyer. She caught a glimpse of new wall-covering in one room and reupholstered chairs in another, but everything else was as it had always been. The scents in the formal parts of the house were the same, too—citrus polish, lavender water, old books and wool carpets.
And then there was Dev. The same wide shoulders set in a perpetual slouch, the same slightly wavy hair in need of a trim, the same casual gait stuck somewhere between a shuffle and a swagger. The heir apparent of Chandler House; the only son of Geneva’s only son. She wondered why he was here, how long he’d stay, whether he was married—no, he wasn’t married. She was sure she’d have heard the news from Tess, his cousin.
But why hadn’t Tess mentioned he was back in town?
Addie slowed and paused when they reached the grand entry to the front parlor, staring up at the set of stained-glass windows depicting the four seasons. She couldn’t see any damage from this angle; maybe things weren’t as bad as she’d feared.
Dev stopped, too, and when she finally lowered her gaze from the glass, she found him watching her.
“What have you been up to, anyway?” he asked.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“Are you married? Divorced?”
For one second, a ridiculous wave of joy rushed through her at the fact that he seemed interested enough to ask, to make an attempt to start a conversation with her. And in the next instant, her pitiful little thrill whirled down the drain as she realized he didn’t know the most basic facts about her—and that he’d