Mary Sullivan - Because of Audrey

He had.

Dad had sold a piece of their land to Audrey Stone in...Gray checked the date...January, seven months ago, and not a corner plot, or a slice of land from one of the boundaries, but a chunk right in the blasted middle of the land Gray wanted to sell. Correction, needed to sell.

His jaw hurt with the struggle to maintain control, to keep the panic at bay. “How did you get this out of my father? What did you do, threaten him or blackmail him with something?”

“I asked him. Politely. He said yes. It’s legal.”

“We’ll see about that.” He strode away and whipped out his cell. Dad’s lawyer answered on the second ring, none too pleased to be disturbed at breakfast. Too bad. This needed to be handled. Two minutes later, Gray had an appointment to see the man in his office this morning.

He hung up and gestured to the construction crew. “Clear out. Remove the machinery.”

If this sale was legitimate, they were trespassing.

They grumbled but obeyed. Today’s debacle was going to cost Gray a bundle. If the sale of land to Audrey had been fraudulent in any way, Gray would sue for damages.

He turned to the woman unlocking herself from the greenhouse door. If he were a violent man, he’d knock her ridiculous red hat from her head.

“This isn’t over.”

“Yes, Gray, it is.” She’d just won a battle and should have looked triumphant. Her solemn frown, though, didn’t reflect victory.

The few times he’d run into her over the years, he’d gotten the feeling she knew something he didn’t. What? Her knowledge, and his ignorance of it, angered him, made him want to lash out. She was nothing more than a resident in the town he’d grown up in, so why this sense of...drama, of history?

He jumped into his car to drive home, to find out from Dad what kind of whim or idiocy had led him to sell a valuable portion of their land, but not at all sure he’d get an answer that would satisfy him. Dad had always been too softhearted, and was growing worse with age.

When Gray realized he was counting telephone poles, he pulled onto the shoulder, put the car into Park and reached into the glove compartment. Counting, for God’s sake. In the months since he’d returned to Accord, he’d started counting everything, from how many times he chewed his food before he swallowed to the number of steps between his bedroom and the bathroom. Wasn’t that a sign of OCD personality or something? He’d never done it in his life before. Moving back home had screwed him up. He loved Accord. He’d had a good, solid childhood, so why did returning give him the heebie-jeebies?

Granted, he hadn’t been himself since last year’s accident, but he’d been recovering. So, why had coming home left him reeling? Why had it brought all of those bad associations, which had finally been healing, back into play? Moving away from Boston, away from the scene of the accident, should have made him better. So, why had coming here made him worse?

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, cursing when his hands shook. After lighting one, he blew smoke out the open window. Before last year, he’d never smoked.

Times had changed.

He’d changed.

While he smoked, he struggled for equilibrium.

Rather than calming him, the nicotine riled him—and that pissed him off. He had to stay calm. Turner Enterprises needed a strong hand at the helm. Obviously, Dad was no longer up to the task. He’d sold that piece of land. Sheer lunacy. That strong hand would have to be Gray’s, but for the first time in his career, he was afraid he wasn’t up to the job.

The cigarette tasted like crap and was making him nauseous. Not surprising, given that he’d run out the door before having breakfast. He flicked the butt onto the road.

Pull yourself together, Turner.

Before he knew it, he was lighting up a second cancer stick. It tasted as bad as the first. He tossed it out the window, too, and crushed the pack of remaining cigarettes in his fist. He needed to pick up gum or something. Inhaling tobacco was a dumb idea. Weak. Spineless.

He drummed his fingers on the window well. The scent of pine and cedar from the woods lining the road drifted in on a breeze and blew the smoke out of the car.

He started the engine, pulled a U-turn and returned to the greenhouses to have it out with Audrey. Better to push his anger on her than on his aging father.

* * *

AUDREY SHOULD HAVE been reveling in her victory—after all, she had won—but instead she watched Gray drive away and wished she could turn back history to better times. But too many years had passed. Maybe Gray wouldn’t want to go back to those times.

Maybe he was better off not remembering. He’d certainly shown no sign of recalling much about her, let alone how much they’d meant to each other all of those years ago. As much as she’d tried to forget, in many ways it seemed she was still that girl she’d been when she was only seven. And, today, seeing Gray again, all of the sadness of that time—the trauma, the tragic ending, the sad goodbye—still lingered.

When the backhoe leaned too close to the glass roof after pulling in its stabilizers, she shouted, “Careful!” then tracked its laborious journey to a flatbed and waited until every piece of machinery and every last construction worker was gone.

At last, in peace and quiet, she entered the greenhouse.

“Hey, kids, Mama’s here,” she said, aware of how odd she sounded and not caring a whit. Life was made to be grasped with both hands and lived to the fullest. If she happened to live hers strangely, so be it. As soon as she’d graduated from high school, she’d decided to embrace her individuality, and embrace it she had. With gusto.

She’d been different from others back then, but even her punk gear had been a conformation of sorts. She’d decided she hadn’t wanted to belong to any group, despite how rebellious punk might have looked. Then, in college, she’d figured out who she really was—big, bold and generous in body, mind and spirit—and hadn’t looked back.

She cruised the aisles, giving a soft caress here, offering a gentle word there.

She greeted every plant by name.

“You’re strange, you know that?”

At the voice behind her, Audrey spun around.

Gray stood in the open doorway of the greenhouse, and her body betrayed her, tingling with the fire he never failed to ignite in her.

None of that. You are not allowed to let this man affect you.

But he did.

Irritated by her susceptibility to him, she demanded, “Close the door,” her tone implying, preferably with you outside. “The interior is climate-controlled for my plants.”

With a hint of a mocking smile that suggested he knew exactly where she wanted him but didn’t care, he stepped inside before he shut the door.

Darn. Go away. Leave me alone.

This morning was the first time she’d seen him since his return to town. Before that, it had been a number of years.

He looked too good with the morning’s sunlight glinting through the greenhouse roof onto his golden hair. Everything about him was perfect, from his straight nose, to the even tone of his tanned skin, to his strong jaw, to his perfect, dazzling teeth.

She’d forgotten how handsome he was, how with a shot of lightning he awakened latent slumberous juices in her and set them flowing like sap running in springtime. As always, she pulled her unruly attraction under control. Gray didn’t need her love—yes, she had truly loved the fun, exciting and loyal little friend that he’d been—and she didn’t need his not-so-subtle and undeserved derision. Sad that he’d probably never figured out the source of his disdain for her.

She leaned against one of the counters and crossed her arms.