Judy Christenberry - Patchwork Family

She’d seemed nearly hysterical, but at least she didn’t seem dangerous at the moment.

And he was considerably larger than she. His solid six feet weren’t exceptional in Tyler, but he had a good seven or eight inches on her. And in spite of the bulky coat, he suspected she’d have trouble weighing more than one-hundrd-and-ten pounds.

She was still standing, her face tight, her body tense.

“Sit down, Mrs. Blake. Take off your coat. It’s too warm in here to be all bundled up.” He could do the manners thing. A lot of times it helped ease the situation, whatever it might be.

“Please! You don’t understand!” She waited until he circled his desk. Then she began pacing his spacious but pleasantly cluttered office as if she were in a psych ward unit. Wringing her hands. Frowning fiercely. Well, as fierce as a five-foot-four blonde with big blue eyes could seem.

“No, but I will if you’ll stop pacing and explain it to me.”

He didn’t win any brownie points for his calm demeanor.

“I’m going to lose everything! I can’t— I’ve budgeted very carefully! It’s— I can’t! I won’t let that woman—”

There it was again. That raw emotion, the pain, the anger. Not the first time he’d heard those things, but there was no question she was feeling them all.

He softened his voice. After all, he’d dealt with distraught women before. Sometimes the emotional reaction had even been caused by him. This time he was sure he was innocent.

“So your difficulty stems from your budget?” After all, that was the only clue she’d given him.

“No!” she said, whirling around to face him. Anger became the dominant emotion. “No! My difficulty stems from that damned Ursula Wilson!” Then she looked stricken, a guilty expression on her lovely lips.

Uh, not lovely, he stuttered in his mind. He hadn’t meant to notice that. He turned his attention to whatever had changed her expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

He blinked twice before he asked cautiously, “You mean it’s not true? Mrs. Wilson isn’t—”

“Yes, it’s true! She’s trying to get revenge for—Anyway, it’s true, but I shouldn’t have cursed her.”

He almost laughed out loud. In all her ranting, the woman was castigating herself because she’d said “damn?” He couldn’t believe it. Wisconsin was known for its wide-eyed milkmaids, but this was ridiculous.

Covering his hand with his mouth and pretending to cough, he suggested again, “Why don’t you sit down and give me the details of Mrs. Wilson’s activities? I’m slightly acquainted with her and have some knowledge of local law, so…” Inside he was smirking. Some knowledge of the local law. Yeah. Local, state, national and international.

Suddenly, as if he’d discovered the key to unlock all the information stored inside, she did as he asked, almost falling into one of the leather wing chairs in front of his desk and spewing out information.

“She’s trying to block me from getting my business license. She’s also filed a zoning protest! I’ve done everything exactly as is required. I’ve met every deadline, paid every fee. I talked to the Chamber of Commerce. I even talked to Joe and Susannah Santori and the Kelseys. I’ve done everything I could possibly do! But she won’t—”

“Whoa!” Quinn said, even holding up a hand, the universal symbol of stop, afraid his voice wouldn’t penetrate her spate of words. “Let me be sure I’ve followed everything so far. Uh, just for the record, what kind of business are we talking about?”

“My bed-and-breakfast. Breakfast Inn Bed on Ivy Lane.” The tiniest measure of pride appeared in her words, along with all those other emotions.

Well, that information cleared up some of his questions. Ursula Wilson lived on Ivy Lane. A neighbor. Joe and Susannah ran the only bed-and-breakfast in town. Mrs. Blake’s competition. And the Kelseys had a boardinghouse.

“Okay, you’re starting up a business. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, and you feel Mrs. Wilson is trying to shut you down?”

“Yes!”

“She’s filed something at Town Hall?”

Hesitation had her blinking those big blue eyes. “I—I’m not sure. Lydia said—”

“Lydia?”

“Lydia Perry. She said Mrs. Wilson is circling a petition among my neighbors. And—and she said she was going to prevent the zoning change.”

He made a couple of notes. Lydia Perry was a member, albeit a fairly new one, of the beloved Quilting Circle that operated out of Worthington House. Quinn’s favorite people.

“When did she tell you this?”

“This morning! I was in the grocery picking up a couple of things and she stopped me. Said she’d been meaning to call me. I—I tried to remain calm, but my heart started beating fast and I couldn’t breathe and—and I left her standing there and ran over here. You see, I need to— It has to succeed. I’ve got enough to make it for a year. New businesses need that much cushion. I know that. I’ve planned for it. I’ve been fixing up the house, buying furniture. I’ve even bought some quilts, so I can— Never mind, you don’t need to know that. But I have to succeed! And I will not allow that woman to destroy everything I’ve worked for just because she’s jealous!”

“Take a deep breath,” he counseled in his most charming, soothing, masculine, I-know-best manner, hoping to relieve some of her stress.

Instead, it appeared he’d pressed the wrong button. She leaped to her feet and leaned over his desk. “Weren’t you listening? Remaining calm isn’t going to get me anywhere. I’ve got to do something! I need to know what I can— I need to see Amanda!” she exclaimed, and turned to charge the door.

He stayed in his chair. “She’s out of town and won’t be back until next week. There’s an emergency case that requires—”

“I’m an emergency case!” she reminded him.

“Yes, you are, and that’s why I’m talking to you. I understand the urgency, Mrs. Blake. But if you’ve given yourself a cushion of a year, as you’ve said, then another half hour for me to understand the problem, whereby I will be able to plan our moves, doesn’t seem too much to ask.”

SHE HATED HIM.

The calm, rational man, making her sound like an overemotional woman. Okay, so she couldn’t deny either of those assessments. But he didn’t understand how difficult the past two years had been. How much she had resting on the hope of the bed-and-breakfast.

He didn’t understand about Sara, her beloved daughter. She couldn’t fail Sara. Not when Christopher had already abjectly failed his daughter. Not when Sara had no one else to depend on.

Drawing a deep breath, she tried to bring her emotions under control. After all, Mr. Spencer had at least listened to her so far. And if she lost everything—she gulped back a sob—then she’d find a way. She’d move back to Chicago, get a regular job again.

She and Sara would survive, no matter what.

A calm centered in her and she took her seat again. Looking up from the clenched hands in her lap, she said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Spencer, for my rudeness. You’re quite right, of course.”

He stared at her as if she were an alien creature. She couldn’t blame him. She had a feeling she hadn’t made the man’s day with all her weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

He smiled, another of those I-can-charm-your-socks-off smiles that made her want to slap him. Christopher had practiced those—on a lot of women. Except her, of course. He hadn’t needed to charm her.

“Thank you for—for calming down, Mrs. Blake.”

He’d been about to say for coming to her senses. She knew it. She hated him.