A Town Called Valentine

chapter Eleven



Nate scrubbed his hands far longer than he needed to, trying to get control of himself. What the hell am I doing? He put his hands on her jeans like he was allowed to touch her. And every conversation they had seemed to lead back to that night at Tony’s, even if it was only in his thoughts.

She’d made it clear that she was leaving town. Was that some kind of challenge to him, one he couldn’t control? After all, he didn’t want a relationship with her either—of course that made her the perfect woman to date, no strings attached. Couldn’t he just be friends with a woman? he thought with disgust.

Yet here he was, teaching her about drywall, taking her to lunch—touching her. He hadn’t felt so out of control in a long time, and he knew what happened when he started to care too much. He’d screw up her life, and she’d hate him for it. And he’d hate himself.

But the alternative was to cut her out of his life, and he just couldn’t do that. Or he could treat her like one of the women he occasionally dated—even though he wasn’t dating her. He’d keep it light on the surface, no deep talks, no intimacy.

And he was hardly manipulating her life—he was lending her the tools she needed, showing her how to use them. That wasn’t forcing himself or his ideas on her.

Taking a deep breath, he turned around, only to find her missing. He walked through the swinging door into the kitchen, but she wasn’t there either. He heard the tapping of her feet down the steps, and she came in the back door a moment later. She’d changed into a flowered top that flattered her without being too revealing.

She blushed. “I needed my purse,” she said, a bit defensively.

He arched a brow.

“And that shirt was dirty and sweaty. I wasn’t going to wear it to lunch. I happen to like the people in this town, and they don’t need to see me at my worst.”

“You’ve certainly met enough of them,” he said over his shoulder as he walked into the front of the building.

“Through no fault of my own, believe me. I thought I was going to clean, sell, and be out of here, but life had other plans.”

“Don’t you know a lot of people in San Francisco?” he asked, as they left the building, and he waited for her to lock up.

“Well, of course, but I’d built a life there. We did a lot of entertaining.”

Scout bounded out through the open window of the pickup.

Emily gaped. “That was impressive.”

Nate whistled, and Scout came to heel.

“He’s very well trained,” she said.

“He has to be. He’s a cattle dog, with a lot of responsibility. He’s good at getting animals to do what he wants.”

“And humans, too?” she asked, smiling. “He has you wrapped around his paw, going everywhere with you.” She looked at the people they passed on the street. “But then again, lots of people have dogs around here. Hal didn’t even mind Scout inside the hardware store.”

“And he’s coming into Halftime with us, too.”

“Oh.” She gave the dog a surprised look.

The Halftime Sports Bar was just a block down Main Street, and unimpressive from the outside, with neon signs the only decoration in the two windows that flanked the glass door. But inside, there were comfortable chairs and tables, flat screen TVs with perfect views from anyplace you sat, a huge old wooden bar that had to be there from the nineteenth century, and sports memorabilia hanging all over the darkly paneled walls. There was always something to look at.

Julie, the daytime hostess, was a redheaded college student who always had a teasing wink for him and a pat on the head for Scout. She was too young for him but took the rejection good-naturedly. As she led them to a table, Nate nodded one by one to the people he knew and didn’t respond to Julie’s curious gesture toward Emily. Sometimes he could see why Emily’s mom had wanted to leave.

As she sat down, Emily smiled at Julie, who handed her a menu.

“You won’t be needing that,” Nate said.

“So I’m supposed to order the BLT,” she said dryly.

Julie walked away, saying over her shoulder, “It’s delicious.”

“I think I’ll look through the menu anyway,” Emily said to him pointedly.

He raised both hands. “I’ve eaten here a lot, but you don’t have to take my recommendation.” He let her scan the menu in silence, and when she at last put it down, he said, “So about the entertaining you used to do. You just liked throwing parties for no reason?”

“I love to throw parties, but there was often a reason. We entertained my husband’s partners.”

The mysterious husband. Nate felt uncomfortable about his own curiosity. “What kind of partners?”

“Greg’s a corporate lawyer at an important firm. He liked to make a good impression, and I liked entertaining.” She gave him a wry smile. “By all outward appearances, we complemented each other well.”

Their waitress, Linda, approached, setting down a glass of ice water for Emily and a Dale’s for Nate.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he said, taking a swig.

Linda, a working mom of school-age kids, gave a laugh. “We all know what you like to drink, Nate. Have you been out on the bike much yet?”

“Up at Mushroom Rock. It’s not too wet up there.”

Emily looked between them, amused and wide-eyed.

“You must be Emily,” Linda said, looking her over with open friendliness. “I’m Linda.”

“Nice to meet you,” Emily said.

“What can I get you?”

Emily sighed and smiled. “A BLT and a small salad, please. Ranch dressing on the side. And a Diet Coke.”

Nate grinned. “I’ll take the same, Linda, but hold the Diet Coke and the salad and give me fries instead.”

When Linda had gone, Emily said wryly, “Must be nice to have a job that burns lots of calories.”

“You bet.” He took another sip of beer. “You’ve spent so much time alone here that it kind of surprises me you like being with a bunch of people at parties.”

“I didn’t think I came off as shy,” she said wryly.

He chuckled, and again the memory of standing between her thighs bent over a pool table rose between them.

She cleared her throat. “I’m focused on a single purpose here, but in my real life, it really makes me happy to entertain. I love to cook and decorate, all those girly things that must make a cowboy like you squirm.”

“I don’t just squat on my haunches eating steak grilled over a campfire.”

She laughed. “Glad to hear it.”

“Although I enjoy that, too.”

“You’re the outdoor type?” she said, hand pressed to her chest, batting those sky blue eyes at him.

“And you’re the elegant hostess. What else did you do with yourself?”

Some of the humor left her eyes. “I volunteered a lot of my time. I didn’t have a job.”

Surprised, he said, “That’s rare nowadays.”

“It is. My mom was pretty disappointed. But . . . I thought I knew what I wanted—and what Greg wanted. I was happy for a while there.”

She looked wistful and sad, and there was a part of him that wanted to know how she’d been hurt, what her ex had done to her. Had Greg wanted some other woman? That seemed hard to understand. But more focused questions would only increase the hurt in her eyes—and make him know her too well. Not good.

Emily sighed, regretting how easily Nate made her pour out things that were none of his business. Had he been disappointed she hadn’t been ambitious enough to work these last nine years? Many men expected a woman to share equally in paying the bills. But he didn’t seem to judge her, and she was grateful. Or else he was hiding his thoughts well. He was good at that, she suspected.

Was he good at keeping secrets, too? So far, she didn’t think he’d said one word about what they’d done together—even though the whole town knew something had happened. But he’d been a gentleman so far and forgiven her for leading him on. And she’d forgiven him for taking advantage.

He looked over her shoulder and briefly frowned.

She turned and saw that an older man had just come through the door and removed his cowboy hat. He had graying brown hair that matched his mustache, and the lean ranginess of a man who worked the land, dressed in tan work pants and a denim jacket. When the stranger spotted them, he gave a faint smile and approached their table.

Nate stood up, and whatever reservations he’d first had faded into an affectionate smile. “Hi, Dad.”

Emily straightened with eagerness but tried not to show it. Nate had kept his private life off the table, including info about his family. She imagined he even regretted that she’d befriended his sister. He was being far smarter than she was. But still . . .

Nate towered over his father, gesturing to Emily. “Dad, this is Emily Murphy. Emily, Doug Thalberg.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Murphy,” Mr. Thalberg said, his voice gruff and worn.

They exchanged a firm grip, and she liked the way he regarded her steadily, pleasantly. She couldn’t even read curiosity in his expression—and that would make him as unreadable as his son, which would make sense.

“You here for lunch, Dad? You could join us.”

“Thanks, but no, Deke Hutcheson is meetin’ me. But I’m early, so I’ll be glad to join you for a beer”—he crinkled his eyes at Emily—“if I’m not intrudin’.”

“Not at all,” Emily said.

Linda was already on her way carrying another Dale’s, along with Emily’s salad, and Mr. Thalberg took a seat.

“No offense, Ms. Murphy,” he said, “but I don’t recognize you. Did Nate meet you in Aspen?”

This was just another confirmation that Nate didn’t tell anyone—even his family—about her. But why wouldn’t Grandma Thalberg have mentioned her? Was the old widow trying to keep Emily hidden so that Nate would feel less family pressure? Before she could explain who she was, Nate answered for her. Biting her tongue at his presumption, she poured some of the dressing over her salad.

“Emily is only visiting Valentine, Dad. She’s Agatha Riley’s granddaughter, come to sell the building.”

Mr. Thalberg’s eyes focused on her. “Dot’s daughter.”

“Dot?” Emily echoed, smiling with bemusement before taking the first bite of her salad.

“A nickname. She hated it. Changed her name to Delilah, I know, but I couldn’t break the habit. We’d been friends too long. I was sorry to hear about her passin’.”

“Thank you. I know you must have remained friends through the years since Nate told me about the money you lent her. I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as the property sells.”

Mr. Thalberg glanced at Nate so quickly that Emily almost missed it, but it gave her a strange feeling. Yet how could she say, Why that unreadable look at your son?

“No problem,” Mr. Thalberg said. He and Nate took matching drinks of beer.

“My mother left Valentine right out of high school.” She hesitated, uncertain how to phrase her question. “It seems . . . strange that you would lend her money years later.”

“She had the buildin’ as collateral, and I knew where I could reach her. I was lookin’ for an investment at the time, and her store expansion looked promisin’. Why not help her?”

“Did she say why she didn’t just sell the building here?”

“No. Perhaps she wanted to give you a reason to return someday.”

Emily laughed with faint bitterness. “She didn’t speak well of her time here, but you probably know that.”

“Maybe she wished things had been different.” Mr. Thalberg sighed. “But she never told me. Sorry.”

Deke Hutcheson came limping through the door, and Mr. Thalberg stood up, taking his beer.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Murphy.”

“It’s Emily, please, especially for an old friend of my mother’s.”

Mr. Thalberg nodded and glanced pointedly at Nate. “See you at home.”

Deke waved at them both but followed Mr. Thalberg to a table. Linda brought over their BLTs at that moment, leaving Emily’s to the side so she could finish her salad.

“Those are huge,” Emily said. “I’ll be taking half home for another meal.”

“Not me.” Nate took a big bite and closed his eyes in bliss.

She studied him for a moment, eating the last of her salad, then taking the first delicious bite of her BLT, thinking about his ability to keep quiet, and the way even the town elders regarded him with respect. His sister loved him, so that counted for something, too. Emily liked the easy camaraderie between him and his father. He understood families.

“Nate, I have something personal to tell you. Could you keep it between the two of us?”

He paused then swallowed his food. “Of course.”

“I . . . misled you about how I knew Cal Carpenter.” She told him about the letter from her grandmother and the old woman’s bombshell about Emily’s paternity.

He blew out a breath and sat back to study her. “I’m so sorry.”

“I tried to ignore it at first, figuring—what could I do? I loved my father and—” She broke off, the lump in her throat suddenly making speech difficult. Swallowing several times, she finally continued. “But ignoring it just makes it haunt me more.”

“You questioned my dad about her,” he said, his eyes widening. “Did you think he and your mom—”

“I never even considered it. I knew my mother. There’s no way she would have gone to your dad about a loan if she was keeping his baby a secret. She was a private person in many ways, and that would have been inviting trouble.”

“So you’re positive we’re not related,” he said with faint amusement.

“And why would it be a problem if we were?” she asked innocently.

He didn’t say anything at first, only looked at her with doubt and intensity, enough to make her squirm.

“As for my father,” Nate finally said, “he’s not the kind of man to let a woman leave town right after he’s slept with her. He’s too honorable. Once he cares about you, he never stops.”

“And that would have meant he had an affair,” she said quietly.

“No, it wouldn’t have.”

She frowned. “But you’re older than I am. Your parents weren’t married?”

“My father is the kind of man who would fall in love with a woman even though she had MS and a five-year-old kid. He adopted me. My biological father left us right after my mom’s diagnosis.”

Emily’s heart gave a lurch as she watched Nate continue to eat. Was he trying to pretend it didn’t still hurt? “Oh Nate,” she said softly.

He glanced up at her. “No puppy-dog eyes. It was the best thing to happen to both of us. He was . . . scum.”

“And Doug Thalberg adopted you.” She sat forward, intrigued. “I’m considering adoption myself. I would love to talk more with your parents.”

He frowned. “Maybe.” He gestured to Linda for another beer.

She studied him in surprise. Most men would express some curiosity that an unmarried woman her age was considering adoption. She wouldn’t have answered with personal details of heartbreak that would only make him pity her, but she’d learned not to repress the memories of her baby’s death. But it was as if the discussion of his parents’ personal situation had made him . . . shut down. Was that why he’d winced when his father walked in? He didn’t want Emily talking to him?

She should be offended, but instead, she was intrigued. His new coolness was like a blazing warning sign, but she’d started this conversation, and she was going to finish it.

“I could use your advice,” she said, after taking a sip of her Diet Coke.

Another frown. “About adoption?”

Not likely. “No, about my grandmother’s letter. Every older man I see, I find myself wondering. I need to know the man’s name.”

They were interrupted by Linda, who brought another round of drinks.

With her elbow on the table, Emily rested her chin in her palm. “What makes this difficult is how much my father loved my mother.”

“And that’s part of the reason this hurts so much,” Nate said.

She eyed him. “Wow, cowboy, that was insightful.”

He took a big bite of his sandwich and chewed, not agreeing or disagreeing.

“My mother,” she began, then paused for a moment. “ ‘Mother’ isn’t the best word for her. After my father died, she was wrapped up in her store, then in her succession of men. I was third in line.”

She was waking up all the twisted emotions she thought she’d put behind her—the hurt, the anger, the despair. And love? Could she still have a spark of love for a woman who had kept the truth from her all these years? Emily thought of her own mistakes, and knew she was just as flawed as anyone else. But a lie like this . . .

“I can’t be surprised she kept this terrible secret,” she said softly. “The night before my wedding, she told me she hadn’t wanted to be a mom so young, and when my dad died, the responsibility was overwhelming, making everything worse. She’d made mistakes. At the time . . . at the time I was furious with her for laying that on me just before my big day, and I didn’t understand how a woman couldn’t want her own child. But I might have misjudged what she was trying to say to me. I think she was apologizing in her way, and giving me a warning that life doesn’t always end up as we want. Maybe I also wasn’t seeing the clue in her words, about her ‘mistakes.’ I need to discover what I can.” Now that time had passed, and she’d carried her own child, it was also far easier to imagine how her mom had felt when eighteen and pregnant—afraid and penniless. But her mom had never gotten past the ambivalence about her pregnancy.

Nate pointed at her with a french fry. “Then tell me how I can help.”

“I talked to Cathy Fletcher, her high-school friend.”

“Ah, so it wasn’t just interest in St. John’s that sent you there.”

She shrugged and smiled. “Cathy assumed Mom got pregnant in San Francisco, so I didn’t correct her on that. No point in letting the whole town know.”

“And you trust that I won’t do the same?”

She studied him, trying to come up with a flippant reply, but couldn’t. “Yes.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat back, his expression unreadable. It was almost as if . . . he didn’t like being trusted. He was probably trying to keep the boundaries intact between them since she was doing such a poor job.

“If you’re asking my opinion,” Nate said, “I’d go to the source, Doc Ericson. He’s been here forever. If your mother consulted him, she might have told him the father’s name in confidence.”

Emily straightened in surprise. “I didn’t even think she might have gone to a doctor. It’s a good lead, thank you.”

“I’ll introduce you.”

She started to protest.

“Of course you can make an appointment yourself,” he interrupted. “But with privacy laws nowadays . . . you might have to bring proof of her death or something, and maybe I could just persuade Doc to help.”

She let out her breath, feeling reluctant. “Okay, good point.”

“I have another lead. You said you were looking for part-time work, right?”

“Just remember, I’m not working for you!”

He looked at her like she was crazy. “Trust me, I’m not asking. But a job has been staring you right in the face—at Monica’s Flowers and Gifts.”

“She has two employees.”

“I’m not talking about Karista.”

“But Mrs. Wilcox has been sick,” Emily protested. “Monica would never fire someone over that.”

He leaned across the table and spoke in a confidential tone. “Did you ever think that Mrs. Wilcox is too kindhearted to leave Monica in a lurch, even though she might be ready to take a break?”

“No!” she whispered, looking around as if someone would overhear them in the bustling sports bar. “How do you know—oh, wait, the Widows’ Boardinghouse and Gossip Mill.”

He grinned. “Good one. But I’m not revealing sources. I could talk to Monica for you.”

Though she should be amused at how easily he tried to take charge, she found herself stiffening. “I’m perfectly capable of speaking to Monica myself.”

His smile grew lazy. “I’m relieved.”

After a glance at the check, he tossed some money on the table. She’d already pulled out her wallet, and they had a momentary staring match. With a sigh, she let him have his way.

As they walked out of the Halftime, Scout at Nate’s heels, she gave Nate a sideways glance, knowing she’d become his project, and she was only encouraging him by asking for his help. If it had been pity, or thinking he had to help the “little people,” she’d have put a stop to it immediately. But it wasn’t. She guessed it was Nate’s very nature to help everyone he could, but that was difficult for someone like her, who wanted—needed—to do things on her own.

She glanced over her shoulder as the door closed behind them, and saw Mr. Thalberg watching them. She gave a wave, and he answered with a pleasant nod. He’d raised a lost boy into a fine man. He hadn’t been a biological father to Nate, and it hadn’t mattered one bit. Love and respect were what mattered.

Nate paused, looking over his shoulder back inside the Halftime. “I forgot about something I need to discuss with my dad. Can I meet you back at your place in fifteen minutes?”

“Nate, you’ve shown me enough to finish out the day, and perhaps several days’ worth. Why don’t you go back to your own work?”

Standing there on the street, he looked down at her, indecision in every line of his tense body. That tension jumped to her like lightning, and she couldn’t help wondering if there was more to his need to help her—and it set off alarm bells in her head.

“Go, Nate,” she said, giving his shoulder a friendly push. “I’ll give you a call when I reach a renovation impasse. Text me about Doc Ericson when you get the chance. And thanks for lunch. Now go on. Daddy’s waiting.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes, and she gave him a grin as she turned and walked back down Main Street. Her purse swung and bumped against her hip as she walked, and she knew with certainty that he was watching her.