1
Present Day
AS SHE PULLED UP in front of the Rose Café on Magnolia Avenue, Kate Jones took a deep breath and looked around at the heart of Pleasantville. Heart. Probably the wrong word. The town hadn’t possessed that particular organ when she’d left ten years ago. Judging by what her mother had told her in their last phone call, she feared it hadn’t grown one in the intervening decade.
The street appeared the same on the surface, though was perhaps dirtier, its buildings grayer than she remembered. Warped, mildew-speckled boards covered some of the windows of the once-thriving storefronts. Very few people strolled along the brick sidewalks. The cheerful, emerald paint on the benches lining the fountain in the town square had faded to a faint pea-green. A reluctant grin crossed her lips as she heard Cassie’s voice in her head. Welcome back to Pea-Ville.
Hers wouldn’t be an extended stay. She had a job to do, then she’d drive away forever. Reaching for the door handle of her SUV, she paused when she heard her cell phone ring. “Yes?”
“Kate, I’m going crazy. Tell me you’re on your way home.”
“Armand, I’ve only been gone one day,” Kate said with a laugh, recognizing the voice of her high-strung, creative business partner. “Besides, you were crazy before you met me.”
“Crazy and poor. Now I’m crazy and rich and I can’t take this kind of pressure. You are going to pay for leaving me in charge. Nothing that happens at Bare Essentials while you’re gone is my fault. Understood?”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong in two or three days. Tell me what happened so we can fix it.”
“The shipment didn’t arrive from California. We’re down to one Bucky Beaver. And he was featured in the ad this weekend.”
Oh, yes, the world would indeed stop revolving without their bestselling special toy. “I don’t think it’s a problem of catastrophic proportions. We sell lots of other products.”
“None that were featured in the ad. I can see an entire girl’s college softball team coming in to stock up for an out-of-town game, and finding the shelves bare.” She heard Armand groan. “I see riots. Stampedes. Ten-inch rubber dildoes lobbed at my head until I am knocked unconscious. Imagine having to explain that to the handsome young police officer in his tight blue suit with his jaunty black cap when he comes in response to my frantic call.” He paused. “Hmm…maybe this isn’t such a crisis after all.”
“Definitely not, but just call the supplier anyway.”
“Maybe I should ask your cousin to use her connections…”
“Cassie’s still in Europe. I think.” Kate wasn’t quite sure where her famous model cousin was working this week. She’d tried to track her down after getting her mother’s news and had left messages with Cassie’s agent and publicist. So far, no word. Cassie almost seemed to be in hiding. Another worry.
“So how’s business today?” she asked.
“As thriving as ever,” he replied. “Two different bridal parties came in this morning, hence the shortage of Buckys.”
“I do love those wedding showers.”
“Dewy brides and do-me bridesmaids. A delightful, money-spending combination.”
“Absolutely. Now, have there been any calls for me?” She wondered if Edie had tried to reach her again from her new home in Florida. Their last conversation had ended somewhat abruptly.
Edie hadn’t told her all the details of what some people in this town had put her through during her last weeks of residence. What she did say had made Kate wince. She gave her full opinion on the matter, though never revealing she knew the truth of Edie’s relationship with Mayor Winfield.
“None that matter. But I warn you, if Phillip Sayre calls again, I’m stealing him for myself. So you better hurry your pretty fanny back here to Chicago.”
“You’re welcome to him. One date was quite enough for me. The man has a huge ego.”
“You know what they say, big ego, big…”
“I think you mean big hands. Or big feet. In any case, I don’t have any interest in finding out when it comes to Phillip. Who needs a big, sloppy real one attached to an arrogant, untrustworthy man, when a small, clean vibrating one with no strings attached is sufficient?”
Armand tsked, though she knew he wasn’t shocked. After all, he was one of the few people with whom Kate felt comfortable enough to reveal her occasional less-than-nice-girl qualities.
“Playing with the merchandise?” he asked.
“Ah, you caught me. How can I sell it if I can’t attest to its effectiveness?”
“As long as you paid for it first and weren’t sampling the wares then putting them right back on the shelves.”
Yuck! Kate snorted a laugh. “Okay, you win, you nasty thing.” Armand always won in games of sexual one-upmanship.
“Besides, small vibrating ones don’t have hands or mouths.”
“Some have tongues,” Kate pointed out with a grin, remembering one of their more popular models of vibrator…a wagging tongue. Cassie had seen it during her last visit to the store in Chicago and had declared it the most disgusting thing she’d ever seen. When Kate had turned it on to show her what it could do, Cassie had bought two of them.
“I’m hanging up now. Be good,” Kate said.
“Impossible. Don’t you be good, either. It’s bad for you.”
Kate smiled at Armand’s kissy sounds as she cut the connection. She remained in the driver’s seat, missing Armand. He was the only man in her life she had ever completely trusted.
A shrink might surmise that it was because Armand was gay, and therefore not a romantic possibility, which allowed Kate to open up and trust him.
The shrink would probably be right. Trusting men had never been her strong suit. One more thing to thank Mayor Winfield for, she supposed. Not to mention the few men she’d dated over the years, who had never inspired thoughts of true love and Prince Charming. More like true greed and Sir Fast Track.
“So, do I get out or restart the car and drive away?” she asked herself, already missing more than just her friend and partner. She also missed her apartment overlooking the water. She really missed her beautiful, stylish shop with its brightly lit, tasteful decor, such a contrast to some of the more frankly startling products they sold.
Two stories high, with huge front glass windows, soft lemony-yellow carpet and delicately intricate display cases, Bare Essentials had done what everyone had sworn couldn’t be done. They’d taken sex and made it classy and elegant enough for Michigan Avenue.
Yes, she wanted to be home. Actually, she wanted to be anywhere but here.
Could she really go through with it? Could she walk along these streets, enter her mother’s house and go through her childhood things so her mother could list the place for sale?
Well, that was the one good thing. At least Edie had finally gotten out, too. Though Edie had taken frequent trips to the city, she’d resisted moving away from Pleasantville for good. No, it had taken Mayor Winfield’s death, his subsequent will and some vicious gossip to accomplish that feat.
Kate thought she’d outgrown the vulnerability this place created in her. She wasn’t the same girl who used to hide in the tree house to cry after school when she’d been teased about her secondhand clothes. She was no longer a trashy Tremaine kid from the wrong side of town. She and her cousin had bolted from Pleasantville one week after high school graduation, moving to big cities—Kate to Chicago, Cassie to New York’s modeling scene—and working to make something of themselves.
Kate had long ago learned the only way to get what you wanted was to work hard for it. Being smart helped, but she knew her limitations. She wasn’t brilliant. And as much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t talented enough to pursue her teenage dream of a career in theater, though she’d probably always fantasize about it.
No, common sense and pure determination had been the keys to achieving her goals. So she’d worked retail jobs by day and gone to school by night, taking business and accounting courses, sneaking in a few acting or performing credits when she could.
Then the fates had been kind. She’d met Armand, a brilliantly creative lingerie designer, at exactly the time when Cassie’s career had taken off and she’d had the means to loan Kate the start-up money for a business.
An outrageous, somewhat dramatic business.
Combining her need to succeed, her innate business sense and her secret love for the flamboyantly theatrical, she’d dreamed up Bare Essentials. Though originally just designed to be an upscale lingerie boutique to feature Armand’s creations, bringing in other seductive items—sexy toys, games for couples, seductive videos and erotic literature—had really made Bare Essentials take off like a rocket when it opened.
The fabulously decorated, exotic shop had taken Chicago by storm. With the right props, location and set design, what could have been a seedy, backroom store was instead a hot, trendy spot for Chicago’s well-to-do singles and adventurous couples.
Coming back to Pleasantville should have been absolutely no problem for the woman who’d been featured in Chicago’s Business Journal last month as one of the most innovative businesswomen in the city. Still, sitting in the parked SUV, she felt oppression settle on her like two giant hands pushing down on her shoulders. The long-buried part of her that had once been so vulnerable, made to feel so small and helpless and sad, came roaring back to life with one realization.
She was really here.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. “Home lousy home,” she whispered. Then she stepped into Pleasantville.
* * *
AS HE SAT gingerly on the edge of a plastic-covered sofa in the parlor of his childhood home, Jack Winfield considered committing hari-kari with the fireplace poker. Or at least stuffing two of the cow-faced ceramic miniatures his mother collected into his ears to block out the sound of her chewing out the new housekeeper in the next room. Sophie, the luncheon salad was unacceptably warm and the pasta unforgivably cold.
As if anyone cared about the food’s temperature when its texture was the equivalency of wet cardboard.
“She’d never forgive me if I got blood on the carpet.”
He eyed the poker again. Maybe just a whack in the head for a peaceful hour of unconsciousness? At least then he could sleep, uninterrupted by the prancing snuffle of his mother’s perpetually horny bulldog, Leonardo, who seemed to have mistaken Jack’s pant leg for the hind end of a shapely retriever.
“Sophie,” he heard from the hall, “be sure Mr. Winfield’s drink is freshened before you start clearing away the dishes.”
“Sophie, be sure to drop a tranquilizer in his glass, too, so Mr. Winfield can get through another day in this bloody mausoleum,” he muttered.
He rubbed a weary hand over his brow and sank deeper into the uncomfortable sofa. The plastic crinkled beneath his ass. Sick of it, he finally slid off to sit on the plushly carpeted floor. Grabbing a pillow, he put it behind his head and leaned back, wondering how long it had been since he’d relaxed.
“Three days. Five hours. Twenty-seven minutes.” Not since he’d returned home to Pleasantville for this long weekend.
Jack didn’t like feeling so caged-in. He needed to be home, in his own Chicago apartment, away from grief and the smell of old dead roses and talcum powder. Away from his mother’s tears and his sister’s complaints.
Actually, when he thought about it, what he really needed to bring about sleep and a good mood was a seriously intense blow job. Followed by some equally intense reciprocal oral sex. And finally good old, blissful, hot, headboard-slamming copulation.
He hadn’t been laid in four months and was feeling the stress. It almost seemed worth it to call his ex and ask her to meet him at his place the next day for some we’re-not-getting-back-together-but-we-sure-had-fun-in-the-sack sex.
Home. Chicago. Late tonight. And not a moment too soon.
Jack supposed there were worse places to visit than his old hometown of Pleasantville, Ohio. Siberia came to mind. Or Afghanistan. The fiery pits of hell. Then again…
“You’re sure you have to leave tonight?” his mother asked as she entered the room. “I thought you were going to stay longer than three days. There’s so much to do.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, you know I can’t.”
Tears came to her eyes. If he hadn’t seen them every hour or so since his birth, they might have actually done what she wanted them to do—make him change his mind.
Sadly enough, his mother simply knew no other way to communicate. Honest conversation hadn’t worked with Jack’s father, so she’d relied on tears and emotional blackmail for as long as Jack could remember. His father had responded with prolonged absences from the house.
Dysfunctional did not begin to describe his parents’ relationship. It—and his sister’s three miserably failed walks down the aisle—had certainly been enough to sour Jack on the entire institution of marriage.
Relationships? Sure. He was all for romance. Dating. Companionship. From shared beer at a ball game, to candlelight dinners or walks along the shores of Lake Michigan on a windy afternoon, he thoroughly enjoyed spending time with women.
Not to mention good, frantic sex with someone who blew his mind but didn’t expect to pick out curtains together the next morning. Someone like his ex, or any number of other females he knew who would happily satisfy any of those requirements with a single phone call. Not calling any of them lately had nothing to do with his certainty that he wasn’t cut out for commitment or happily-ever-after. It had everything to do with his father’s death. Work and his obligation to his family had been all he’d thought about for several months.
“Why can’t you?” his mother prodded.
“I’ve got to wrap up the mall project I’m working on. You know I’ve planned some extended vacation time in July. I’ll come back and help you get things settled then.” Unless I get hit by a train or kidnapped by aliens…one can hope, after all.
Nah. Trains were messy. And after watching the “X-Files” for years, the alien thing didn’t sound so great, either. He really couldn’t get into the whole probing of body orifices gig.
So, a summer in Pleasantville it would be.
Thinking of how he’d originally intended to spend his long summer vacation—on a photographic big-game safari in Kenya—could almost make a grown man cry. Pampered poodles instead of elephants. Square dances instead of native tribal rituals. The chatter of blue-haired ladies sitting under hair-drying hoods instead of the roar of lions and the crackle of a raging bonfire. Small town, pouting blond princesses with teased up hair instead of worldly beauties with dark, mysterious eyes.
He sighed. “I think I’ll take a walk downtown. To walk off that great lunch.” What he really needed was to escape the stifling, decades-old, musty-rose-tinged air in the house.
“Just be careful, J.J.”
Jack cringed at the nickname that his mother refused to give up. No one but his parents had called him J.J.—or John Junior—in twenty years. Still, he supposed he could put up with it if it made her happy. She could probably use some happiness right about now; she’d taken his father’s death very hard.
“And it looks like it’s going to rain. Take your rubbers.”
He almost snorted. If she knew how badly he wanted to use a few rubbers—though, not the kind she imagined—she’d faint.
Kissing her on the forehead, he shrugged away a pang of guilt. He needed a brief break from her sadness to deal with his own. Besides, he wanted to get out of the house before his sister got back. With the three of them together, the absence of the fourth became all the more obvious.
His mother would sob quietly. His sister would wail loudly. And Jack would remain strong and quiet. He grieved for his father, too. But always alone, always in silence.
No, they hadn’t been on very good terms lately. His father had never forgiven Jack for accepting a scholarship and moving to California fifteen years before. Even after grad school, when he’d gotten a job with an architecture firm in Chicago, he’d managed to avoid all but a handful of visits. The most recent, four months before, had been to attend his father’s funeral.
He’d always figured there would be time to mend that fence, to try to make his father understand why he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t continue the family tradition and become king of Nowhereville. He’d never said that, of course, knowing the old man would have been cut to the quick at an insult to his town. He’d reminded Jack at least once a week growing up about his ancestors, who’d lived here since before the Civil War.
His mother’s roots ran even deeper, a fact she enjoyed bringing up whenever his father had started pontificating.
Funny. Walking past his father’s study, eyeing the brandy decanter and the old man’s favorite glass, he realized he’d have gladly listened to his father pontificate if it meant seeing him once more. Amazing how there always seemed to be time for one more conversation right up until time ran out. That realization had helped a lot lately in dealing with his emotional mother.
He considered it a new life’s lesson. Tomorrow might not ever come, so don’t put off what you want to do today. Grab it now or risk losing the chance forever. John Winfield, Junior…Jack to his friends…planned to stick to that mantra.
Starting today.
* * *
THE FIRST THING Kate noticed during her walk downtown was the absence of the pungent odors of the Ohio General Paper Mill. The unpleasant aroma used to hang over the town, which had once seemed appropriate to Kate and Cassie. The mill had closed three years ago, according to her mother. That had caused the town’s bad economic situation. Kate couldn’t even conjure up any satisfaction about it. She felt only a sharp tinge of sadness, particularly when she saw the sorry condition of the town square and the courthouse. Pleasantville might not have been pleasant for the Tremaines, but it had actually once been pretty.
As she walked, she got a couple of curious looks. No one recognized her, not that she’d expected anyone to. She was no longer the pretty-in-a-quiet-way, nice girl she’d once been. That was one good thing about her move away from Pleasantville. She no longer felt the need to always be the good girl. Without Cassie around to be so flamboyantly bad, Kate had become free to speak her mind. She sometimes went out of her way to shock people, even if it was really only a defense mechanism to keep others from trying to get too close, as Armand claimed.
There were one or two people she wouldn’t mind seeing. Some of her mother’s friends had been kind. And Kate’s high school drama teacher, Mr. Otis, had been one of the smartest people she’d ever met. She imagined he was long retired by now.
Feeling hot, Kate went into the deli for a drink. She didn’t know the couple who ran the place, and they were friendlier than she’d expected. She began to relax. Maybe ten years of dislike had created an unrealistic anxiety about her trip back here.
After the deli, she continued her stroll. Heavy gray clouds blocked all but a few watery rays of sunlight and kept the unusual spring heat close to the ground. The soda helped cool her off, but her sleeveless silk blouse still clung to her body, and her ivory linen skirt hung limply in the thick humidity.
A few buildings down, in what used to be a record shop, she noticed a new business. A nail salon, judging by the neon hand in the window, which beckoned customers inside. From an angle, the middle finger on the hand appeared abnormally long, almost as though it was flipping the bird to everyone on the street. Then she saw the name—Nail Me. “Well, now I’ve got to go in.”
“Pull up a chair, angel face,” she heard. “You want your fingers, your toes or both? I’m runnin’ a special.”
Kate had to grin in response to the welcoming smile of a skinny girl, who looked no more than eighteen, sitting on a stool in the empty shop. “Uh, I don’t actually need a manicure.”
The young woman, who had bright orange hair and at least a half-dozen pierced earrings in one ear, sighed. “You sure?”
Kate nodded and held out her hands, knowing her regular manicurist would throw a fit if she ever went to someone else.
The girl whistled. “Nice.” She then pointed to some chairs in a makeshift waiting area. “Have a seat anyway. You’re a stranger, I can give you directions to anyplace you need to go.”
“I’m familiar with this town. I’ve been here before.”
“And you came back voluntarily?”
Kate chuckled. “You’re not a fan of Pleasantville?”
“It’s all right,” the girl said, shrugging. “Could be a decent place, if it would move out of the 1940s and into the new millennium. Just needs something to shake things up.”
The return of a trashy Tremaine could do the trick…not that Kate would be here long enough to renew any acquaintances.
“I wanted to see how the place has changed. I really should go now, though.” She’d seen enough of downtown. Time to stop putting off the inevitable and to go out to her mom’s house.
Bidding the girl goodbye, she exited, crossing Magnolia Avenue to walk back to her parked SUV. She’d only gone a few yards when someone across the street caught her eye.
A man. Oh, without question, a man. A tiny wolf whistle escaped her lips before Kate could stop it. Mister, you are definitely in the wrong place.
No way did this blond god belong here. He should be in Hollywood among the beautiful people. Not in this Ohio town where some men considered changing from crap-covered work boots into non-crap-covered work boots dressing up for a night out.
She sighed as she realized even her thoughts had regressed. Kate Jones, successful business owner, did not generally think about crap-covered anything.
Unable to help herself, she looked across the street at the man again. He appeared tall. Of course, to Kate, most people appeared tall since she stood five foot four. The stranger’s dark blond hair caught the few remnants of sunlight peeking through the gray clouds. It shone like twenty-four-carat gold. Though she wasn’t close enough to determine the color of his eyes, she certainly noted the strength of his jawline, the curve of his lips. And a body that would moisten the underwear of any female under ninety.
Knock it off, Kate. He’s going to catch you staring.
She couldn’t stop herself. She had to look some more, noting the tightness of his navy shirt against those broad shoulders and thick arms. Not to mention the tailored khaki slacks hugging narrow hips and long legs.
They hadn’t grown them like this when she’d lived here.
From behind her, she heard a man shout, “Hey, Jack!”
The blond man looked over, probably searching for the person who’d shouted. But his stare found Kate first.
She froze as he spotted her. So did he. Though several yards of black paved street separated them, she could see the expression on his face. Interest. Definite interest. A slow smile. A brief nod.
The person who’d called to him was a man, so she figured Mr. Gorgeous—Jack—was smiling and nodding at her. And staring just as she had at him. An appreciative stare. An I’d-really-like-to-meet-you stare. A totally unexpected stare, considering her frame of mind since she’d pulled into this place a half hour ago.
She smiled back, simply unable to help it. Damn, the man had dimples. Someone needed to come along with a big street sweeper and clean her up, because, unless she was mistaken, she was melting into a puddle of mush from one heartbreakingly sexy grin.
“Hi,” he said, though she couldn’t hear him. She could tell by the way his lips moved. Those lips…Lord save her, the man had to kiss like a sensual dream with a mouth like that. And those thick arms to wrap around her. The hard chest to explore.
An old, seldom-heard voice of doubt mentally intruded. He must be talking to someone else. Why would he be talking to me?
Once Kate had reached Chicago, it had taken her a while before she’d begun to accept that men might really want to look at her…even when her stunning blond cousin was in the room. She almost couldn’t get used to it, even now. Sure, she knew she had always been pretty. Sweet Kate. Quiet Kate. Smart, dark-haired, petite Kate with the pale, delicate face and the boring chocolate-brown eyes who’d always been too easily wounded by the meanness of others. Nothing like show-stopping bombshell Cassie, who was every 36-24-36 inch a Tremaine, with a mile of attitude and a ton of confidence.
Yet this Mount Olympus-bound hunk had stopped to flirt with her? He tilted his head to the side and raised one eyebrow. When he pointed to her, then to the sidewalk on which he stood, she knew what he was asking. Your side or mine?
Remembering where they were, she stiffened and shook her head. Forget it. No way are you going to even say hello. Do what you have to do and get outta Dodge, Katherine Jones. You’ve got no time to get all drooly over the local Don Juan.
He stepped closer, toward the curb. By the time his feet hit the street, Kate realized he was coming over, though not to talk to the man who’d hailed him. No, his stare had never left Kate’s face. She forced herself to move, hurrying down the sidewalk.
She peeked over her shoulder only once. A mixture of relief and disappointment flooded through her as she realized the man who’d hailed him had planted himself firmly in the path of the blond hunk. He couldn’t follow her even if he wanted to.
Did he want to? Doesn’t matter. She kept on walking.
A plop of rain landed on Kate’s shoulder. She experienced an instant of déjà vu, remembering walking the streets of Pleasantville on a rainy night when the raindrops had warred with her tears to wash away her makeup.
Seeking shelter, she turned toward the nearest doorway. Somehow, without realizing where her steps had carried her, she found herself standing outside McIntyre’s Tea Room. “Oh, no.”
The Tea Room, owned by Darren McIntyre’s mother, had been the worst spot for any Tremaine ten years ago. The old guard of Pleasantville—the Winfields and the other Lilac Hill set, considered this “their” territory. Kate’s mom and her friends had been more comfortable at the beauty parlor in the basement of Eileen Saginaw’s house, so it wasn’t until Kate had gotten friendly with Darren that she’d ever even been in the Tea Room.
“Still the same,” she mused, looking at the small, discreet sign in the window. Next door, though, Mr. McIntyre’s menswear shop was gone, closed, dark and empty.
Don’t, Kate. Just don’t. Casting one more quick look up the street, she saw the handsome stranger watching her from over the shoulder of his companion. He wouldn’t follow her, would he? Well, he certainly wouldn’t follow her into the Tea Room, a notoriously female establishment.
Knowing she must have some liking for self-torture, she walked up the wood steps to the awning-covered porch and reached for the doorknob. Once inside, she had to pause for a moment as sense memory kicked in and her mind identified the smells of her youth. Yeasty bread. Raspberry jam. Spiced teas. Some old lady perfume…White Shoulders? Lots of hair spray. Dried flowers.
She had to stop in the foyer to take it all in.
This place, at least, was hopping, every table full. She recognized some faces, though they’d aged. Physically, nothing had altered. From the white-linen tablecloths to the lilactinted wallpaper, the room looked the same as the last time she’d been in it. All it needed was a glowering, frowning-faced Mrs. McIntyre to flare her nostrils as if she smelled something bad whenever Kate walked in, to make her trip down memory lane complete.
No one paid a bit of attention as she stood watching. They were all, it appeared, engaged in a room-wide debate over some poor soul they kept calling shameless and shocking.
Things hadn’t changed here at all.
Knowing there was absolutely nothing in this place for her, Kate turned to leave. Before she could walk back out the door, however, she heard the only word that could have stopped her.
Tremaine.