Summertime Dreams. Debbie Macomber
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probably been a childhood pet. He looked well advanced in years.
“Mary doesn’t seem to be around.”
“Mary’s your wife?”
“Housekeeper,” Clay informed her. “I’m not married.”
That small piece of information gladdened Rorie’s heart and she instantly felt foolish. Okay, so she was attracted to this man with eyes as gray as a San Francisco sky, but that didn’t change a thing. If her plans went according to schedule, she’d be in and out of his life within hours.
“Mary’s probably upstairs,” Clay said when the housekeeper didn’t answer. “There’s a phone on the wall.” He pointed to the other side of the kitchen.
While Rorie retrieved her AT&T card from her eelskin wallet, Clay crossed to the refrigerator and took out a brightly colored ceramic pitcher.
“Iced tea?” he asked.
“Please.” Her throat felt parched. She had to swallow several times before she could make her call.
As she spoke on the phone, Clay took two tall glasses from a cupboard and half filled them with ice cubes. He poured in the tea, then added thin slices of lemon.
Rorie finished her conversation and walked over to the table. Sitting opposite Clay, she reached for the drink he’d prepared. “That was my hotel in Seattle. They won’t be able to hold the room past six.”
“I’m sure there’ll be space in another,” he said confidently.
Rorie nodded, although she thought that was unlikely. She was on her way to a writers’ conference, one for which she’d paid a hefty fee, and she hated to miss one minute of it. Every hotel in the city was said to be filled.
“I’ll call the garage in Nightingale for you,” Clay offered.
“Is that close by?”
“About five miles down the road.”
Rorie was relieved. She’d never heard of Nightingale and was grateful to learn it had a garage. After all, the place was barely large enough to rate a mention on the road map.
“Old Joe’s been working on cars most of his life. He’ll do a good job for you.”
Rorie nodded again, not knowing how else to respond.
Clay quickly strode to the phone, punched out the number and talked for a few minutes. He was frowning when he replaced the receiver. Rorie wanted to question him, but before she could, he grabbed an impossibly thin phone book and dialed a second number. His frown was deeper by the time he’d completed the call.
“I’ve got more bad news for you.”
“Oh?” Rorie’s heart had planted itself somewhere between her chest and her throat. She didn’t like the way Clay was frowning, or the concern she heard in his voice. “What’s wrong now?”
“Old Joe’s gone fishing and isn’t expected back this month. The mechanic in Riversdale, which is about sixty miles south of here, says that if it is your pump it’ll take at least four days to ship a replacement.”
“Four days!” Rorie felt the color drain from her face. “But that’s impossible! I can’t possibly wait that long.”
“Seems to me,” Clay said in his smooth drawl, “you don’t have much choice. George tells me he could have the water pump within a day if you weren’t driving a foreign job.”
“Surely there’s someone else I could call.”
Clay seemed to mull that over; then he shrugged. “Go ahead and give it a try if you like, but it isn’t going to do you any good. If the shop in Riversdale can’t get the part until Saturday, what makes you think someone else can do it any faster?”
Clay’s calm acceptance of the situation infuriated Rorie. If she stayed here four days, in the middle of nowhere, she’d completely miss the writers’ conference, which she’d been planning to attend for months. She’d scheduled her entire vacation around it. She’d made arrangements to travel to Victoria on British Columbia’s Vancouver Island after the conference and on the way home take a leisurely trip down the coast.
Clay handed her the phone book, and feeling defeated Rorie thumbed through the brief yellow pages until she came to the section headed Automobile Repair. Only a handful were listed and none of them promised quick service, she noted.
“Yes, well,” she muttered, expelling her breath, “there doesn’t seem to be any other option.” Discouraged, she set the directory back on the counter. “You and your brother have been most helpful and I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done. Now if you could recommend a hotel in...what was the name of the town again?”
“Nightingale.”
“Right,” she said, with a wobbly smile, which was the best she could do at the moment. “Actually, anyplace that’s clean will be fine.”
Clay rubbed the side of his jaw. “I’m afraid that’s going to present another problem.”
“Now what? Has the manager gone fishing with Old Joe?” Rorie did her best to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but it was difficult. Obviously the people in the community of...Nightingale didn’t take their responsibilities too seriously. If they were on the job when someone happened to need them, it was probably by coincidence.
“A fishing trip isn’t the problem this time,” Clay explained, his expression thoughtful. “Nightingale doesn’t have a hotel.”
“What?” Rorie exploded. “No hotel...but there must be.”
“We don’t get much traffic through here. People usually stick to the freeway.”
If he was implying that she should have done so, Rorie couldn’t have agreed with him more. She might have seen some lovely scenery, but look where this little side trip had taken her! Her entire vacation was about to be ruined. She slowly released her breath, trying hard to maintain her composure, which was cracking more with every passing minute.
“What about Riversdale? Surely they have a hotel?”
Clay nodded. “They do. It’s a real nice one, but I suspect it’s full.”
“Full? I thought you just told me people don’t often take this route.”
“Tourists don’t.”
“Then how could the hotel possibly be full?”
“The Jerome family.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Jerome family is having a big reunion. People are coming from all over the country. Jed was telling me the other day that a cousin of his is driving out from Boston. The overflow will more than likely fill up Riversdale’s only hotel.”
One phone call confirmed Clay’s suspicion.
“Terrific,” Rorie murmured, her hand still on the receiver. The way things were beginning to look, she’d end up sleeping on a park bench—if Nightingale even had a park.
The back door opened and Skip wandered in, obviously pleased about something. He poured himself a glass of iced tea and leaned against the counter, glancing from Rorie to Clay and then back again.
“What’s happening?” he asked, when no one volunteered any information.
“Nothing much,” Rorie said. “Getting the water pump for my car is going to take four days and it seems the only hotel within a sixty-mile radius is booked full for the next two weeks and—”
“That’s no problem. You can stay here,” Skip inserted quickly, his blue eyes flashing with eagerness. “We’d