Men to Trust. Diana Palmer
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more vulnerable than a man who plays the field. And everybody knows he’s not a marrying man, at least not visibly. You just step carefully, okay?”
“I will. Thanks for the advice, Curt.”
He shrugged. “Story of my life. I’m always someone’s big brother.”
She grinned. “One day some lucky girl will carry you off,” she promised.
He smiled back. “I hope it’s a few years coming. I’m no more ready to settle down than your friend Kemp is. At least he’s got a profession. I’m still drifting.”
“Libby said you wanted to open a feed store.”
He nodded. “It’s the dream of my life.”
“I hope you get to do it, Curt. I mean that.”
He opened the door for her. “So do I. You’re a nice girl, Violet.”
“You’re a nice man.”
He chuckled. “Well, I’m accommodating, at least. Calhoun had quite a crowd today,” he added when he’d climbed in under the wheel of his and Libby’s old pickup truck.
“A big one. And some big money, too. I think he just may beat Senator Merrill for the Democratic nomination.”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised myself.”
Violet told her mother about Kemp’s invitation, and Mrs. Hardy grinned from ear to ear. “And how long have I been telling you that Mr. Kemp had more interest in you than a boss in his secretary?” she asked.
“It’s only to eat a trout,” Violet replied.
“He can eat trout by himself,” her mother said sagely. “It’s also interesting that Mr. Kemp, who never advertises his political affiliations, suddenly turned up at a campaign meeting.”
“He likes Mr. Ballenger.”
Mrs. Hardy pursed her lips. “I think somebody told him you were going to the meeting with Curt Collins.”
She gasped. “Really?”
“Sometimes a man doesn’t appreciate what he’s got until some other man wants it. Or he thinks another man wants it.” Mrs. Hardy’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll see, won’t we, dear?”
Violet colored prettily and suggested a television program.
She didn’t sleep. All night long, she saw Blake Kemp’s eyes drilling into her own, she heard his voice, felt the touch of his fingers on her face. She tried on everything in her closet the next morning before she finally decided on a nice ankle-length sky-blue knit jumper with a white blouse under it and her embroidered denim jacket over it. She left her hair long.
“You look fine,” Mrs. Hardy said from her bed when Violet went in to say goodbye.
“Are you sure you feel all right?” Violet worried.
“I’m just going to have a lazy Sunday,” the older woman replied, smiling. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“All right. But if you need me…”
“The phone’s right here, darling.” Mrs. Hardy indicated it on the bedside table. “Now go and have a good time. I won’t expect my trout anytime soon, by the way, and I’ve already had my breakfast.”
“I’ll bring you back something nice,” Violet promised.
“Drive carefully.”
Violet kissed her. “Always!”
She stopped on the front porch and looked down at her black loafers, worn with knee-high hose. She grimaced, because one of them was scuffed. But, she reasoned, Kemp was going to be more interested in the rest of her than in her shoes. She straightened her purse’s shoulder strap over her shoulder and walked resolutely to her old but reliable car.
Kemp was on the front porch of his house when she drove up. It was a Victorian, with gingerbread patterned woodwork and a real turret room. The whole thing was painted white, brilliant and new-looking, and there was a porch swing and rocking chairs on the long, wide front porch. There were bird feeders everywhere. In the flower gardens flanking the porch, seeds were sprouting and rosebushes were putting out buds.
Violet took her purse and locked the car involuntarily before she pocketed her car key and walked up the steps.
“You like birds!” she exclaimed.
He laughed. He was dressed casually, as she was, in khaki slacks and a blue knit designer shirt darker than the shade of his eyes behind the metal rims of his glasses.
“Yes, I like birds. But so do Mee and Yow, so I have to make sure they’re both inside before I fill the feeders,” he said on a chuckle.
“I have bird feeders at our place, too,” Violet replied shyly. “I especially like the little birds, like the wrens and titmice.”
“I prefer cardinals and blue jays.”
“They’re still birds,” Violet said on a laugh.
He felt as if his feet were off the floor as he looked at her. Smiles transformed her oval face, made it bright and radiant—almost beautiful.
“Do you hire a gardener, or do you work in the yard yourself?” she asked, enthusiastic about the mass of flowering shrubs around the front yard.
“I do it,” he replied. “I need to unwind from time to time.”
“Yes, gardening is good for stress,” she admitted. “I go through a lot of it myself. But I plant vegetables in our little garden, and I can or freeze them for the winter.” She stopped suddenly, embarrassed, because the garden was a necessity for Violet and her mother, who had to budget furiously just to make ends meet. She doubted seriously if Kemp had ever budgeted in his life.
“I don’t grow vegetables,” he confessed. “Unless you count catnip, for the cats, and some herbs. I enjoy cooking.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Mama can do it, but I don’t like to let her. She favors cast iron cookware, and it’s heavy.”
“She shouldn’t be lifting it,” he agreed. “I hope you’re hungry.”
She smiled. “I didn’t even eat breakfast.”
He smiled back. “Come in, then. It’s all ready.”
He opened the front door and let her walk in. There was a long hall with an elephant umbrella stand and a coatrack, with rooms opening off it on either side.
“Down the hall, to the left,” he directed as he closed the front door.
The hall was painted a pale blue, with a chair rail in a darker shade, and wallpaper up to the crown. There was a pale blue carpet as well.
“You’re probably thinking that it’s hard to keep clean,” Kemp remarked as he followed behind her. “And you’re right. I have a cleaning crew come in to steam it frequently.”
“I love the color,” she remarked. “It reminds me of the ocean.”
He laughed out loud. “It’s the color of Yow’s eyes,” he added. “And she knows it. She loves to sprawl on the carpet. Mee prefers the couch or my bed.”
Violet caught her breath as she walked into the formal dining room. There was a cherry wood table, already set with linen and crystal and china, and beyond it was a kitchen that would have been any cook’s dream. There was a tile floor, modern appliances, a huge combination sink, and a counter big enough to use for dressing half a steer. Over the sink was a large window overlooking the pasture and forest behind the house.
“I’ll bet you enjoy working in here,” she remarked.
“I do. I like enough space to move in. Cramped kitchens are the very devil.”
“Indeed