Liz Talley - A Taste of Texas

Henry shrugged and tugged open the door of the bed-and-breakfast. “I don’t see how a book about mice can win awards. Everyone knows mice can’t really talk. It’s absurd.”

He disappeared into the house before she could say anything else. And he’d left his glove again. He kept forgetting they were not at home. They were at an inn and he couldn’t leave his things lying about.

Rayne placed her hands over her face and blew out her breath. Then she picked up the glove and sank onto the old wooden pew. Round one for the day. She could only guess what round two held.

She’d give her life for her son. She loved him with a passion that rivaled all others, but the boy was as alien to her as a Moroccan desert. Foreign. Exotic. And she didn’t speak the language.

He’d been that way since he’d turned nine months old and said his first word. Had it been mama or dada? No. It had been ball.

And thus it had begun.

The boy’s obsession with sports was epic.

And ever since he’d learned to throw, run, hit and kick, he’d reminded her of the boy who’d grown up next door to her aunt. The boy who’d climbed trees with her, studied stars with her, shared his dreams with her. He was near about the spitting image of Brent.

But Brent was not his father.

Rayne hadn’t even seen her childhood crush in over fifteen years. Not since the day she’d shaken the dust of Oak Stand from her sandals and headed for a new life and a new dream in New York. She’d locked up the memory of Brent and told herself not to think of him. But her heart hadn’t been good at following her head’s directive. She still thought about him at the oddest times. Such as when a baby bird fell out of its nest at the house in Austin. Or when Henry had hit his first grand slam. Or when she lay lonely in her bed staring out at a harvest moon.

She’d always been drawn to Brent Hamilton.

Even on the day she’d kissed Phillip Albright in front of the preacher and all their friends, she’d been half in love with the boy who had once sung Elvis songs to her while twisting her hair around his forefinger. She supposed it had been horribly unfair to Phillip to harbor tender feelings for a boy who’d never been hers to begin with, but she suspected Phillip didn’t mind. Their marriage had never been a head-over-heels, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-of-each-other kind of thing. More of a mutual respect, burning desire to succeed, quiet love and amiable friendship kind of thing.

Maybe that had been wrong, but she’d been happy with Phillip. He’d been the right man at the right time for her. And she’d tried to be the same for him.

God, why is life so complicated?

The only answer was the banging of the screen door. It jarred her into the present.

“Reckon it’s going to get warm today.” Aunt Frances said, stepping onto the porch and shading her eyes as she perused the tangle of her yard. Rayne followed her gaze. The lawn boy had been let go in the fall and spring had taken advantage of the free rein.

Rayne shrugged. “It’s Texas. It’s always hot.”

“When it’s not cold.” Her aunt laughed and sank onto the pew beside her. Aunt Frances had faded brown hair that fell just to her shoulders and always smelled of roses. Rayne caught the scent on the April breeze and it calmed her.

“I don’t want to forget about the loaves of honey oat bread. They can’t bake too long,” Rayne said, wondering why she constantly “remembered” out loud. Bad habit left over from her childhood.

“Mmm.”

“Avery Long’s oldest boy is going to help me clear the area for the vegetable garden tomorrow. But I need to get those weeds pulled. Can you keep an eye on Henry?”

“Oh, you mean Hank?” Aunt Frances said.

Rayne sighed. “Guess I’ve got something new to fight, huh?”

Aunt Frances nodded. “He’s a stubborn mule, that boy. Good trait to have, though. Get him far in life.”

“Maybe so,” Rayne said. “We’ve got Brent Hamilton to thank for that little gem.”

Her aunt smiled. “Brent, huh? You two were thick as thieves when you were younger. Always made me smile to see you two together. Come to think of it, that man might be what the doctor ordered, Rayne. He’s got medicine that’s cured a lot of gals round here.”

Rayne flinched. “You’re talking about the man whore of Oak Stand? No, thanks.”

Aunt Frances smiled. “Always been partial to man whores myself. Know what you get.”

Rayne shook her head. No way in hell was she going there. “I’d rather chew glass than mess with him. He’s overrated.”

Her aunt cocked her head. “You know this from experience?”

She wished. Kind of. But she and Brent had never had a chance to explore anything other than sweet kisses paired with unbridled teenage lust. “Not really. But that ship sailed long ago. Disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle. Sunk by pirates. Chopped up for firewood.”

Aunt Frances gave her that look. The one that said, baloney. “Okay. But I wouldn’t mind running my flag up his mast and I’m sixty-eight.”

“And a very sick woman.”

They both laughed. And it felt good to laugh. Rayne felt as though she’d nearly lost the ability. The past few months she’d been faltering, taking a step in one direction only to doubt herself and backtrack. It wasn’t like her to doubt herself. To not have a clear vision. And that flip-flopping was something she didn’t want to dwell upon for the moment.

“Okay, I’ve got to get to work. This yard won’t clear itself, and we’re already behind on getting things planted.” Rayne stood, slipped the apron over her head and tucked it beneath her arm. “Have the painters called? We need them on the job tomorrow if we’re going to have the inn ready by the middle of May.”

Her aunt pursed her lips. “About the painters. Well, they went to Houston for some kind of dirt track race. I’m not sure we can rely on them.”

Rayne closed her eyes and counted to ten. Her aunt moved at a different speed. The whole town moved at a different speed. She had to remember she wasn’t in Austin. She was in Oak Stand. “Well, I can’t paint the house, Aunt Fran. Tell Meg to call in professionals. She has a list, I’m sure. We can’t allow Susan Lear to waltz through the door to substandard accommodations. Her article is the key to a successful launch. I pulled strings to get this feature in Oprah magazine.”

The Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast, her aunt’s well-established but slightly faded business was being transformed into Serendipity Inn, a Rayne Rose exclusive getaway, part of Serendipity Enterprises. But there was much work to do before they could open the doors. Rayne had brought her assistant, Meg Lang, with her, but Meg had been bogged down with traveling back and forth from Austin overseeing the restaurant and the new project. No one else was assisting. Serendipity Inn was a family project and very much on the down-low.

Still, her aunt had insisted on using locals to spiff up the inn. The economy had been hard all over, but especially in small town America. Aunt Frances wanted to help the people of Oak Stand. Only problem was some of the people of Oak Stand didn’t want to help them.

Her aunt nodded. “No problem. I’ll take care of getting new painters. Someone will be here tomorrow morning. You take care of the garden, the kitchen and the menu. Meg will help me with the rest.”

Her aunt disappeared, entering the house the same way she’d emerged. With a bang.

Rayne slumped onto the bench. Why had she agreed to this?

Of course, re-creating the bed-and-breakfast had seemed like a brilliant idea months ago. After twelve years of slaving like a dog to build her career, the thought of reworking the bed-and-breakfast seemed exciting and restful at the same time. A sort of sabbatical with purpose. Something about her aunt’s calming touch and sitting on the front porch swing while viewing paint and fabric samples had sounded right. Rayne needed the comfort of her loving aunt, some privacy and a change for Henry.