Chapter Eighteen
Afterward, as they lay entwined, Josh thought he sensed a pensiveness about Whitney’s mood. He didn’t know whether to question her or wait until she was ready to speak. He just continued to stroke her and kiss her hair and think to himself that he could do this for the rest of his life.
“You know,” she said quietly, “it can sometimes be hard to live up to being the Leather and Lace lady.”
He leaned his head against hers as both looked up through the skylight at the stars overhead. “Why?”
“Men expect certain things of me—and I expect certain things of myself,” she amended with faint amusement. “With my Whitney Wild past, it just seemed… natural to be the one in charge during sex, to make my partner very happy.”
“It sounds like sex could easily become a competition between you,” he murmured against her hair.
She shrugged. “It was fun. But it was never tender.” She paused. “Before you.”
His occasional concern about how he might compare to the men in her past faded completely away. And then he realized that she almost sounded troubled, not exactly happy with the revelation.
He wanted her to be happy, to share in his feelings. In that moment, he realized that he’d fallen in love with her, her confidence and brains, her ability to get through her family’s indifference and come out stronger. But whatever she felt for him didn’t give her the same feeling of peace it did him.
But part of that peace was patience. He would hold back the words, knowing she wasn’t ready. If he told her the truth of his love, asked her to marry him, he might hear an answer he didn’t want, even face her pity. Not that that would stop him. He would find a way to win her love.
After lunch the next afternoon, Whitney stopped at Sugar and Spice for a box of cookies to bring to the renovation crew. Steph waited on her, wearing a bright smile.
“So how’s the job going?” Whitney asked. “Any problems between sisters?”
Steph shook her head. “Not really. Em knows what she’s doing, after all. I know most of the people I wait on, and everyone’s patient. And it’s really fascinating to watch her subtly change a recipe and have it taste so different. I’m learning a lot.”
The swinging door to the kitchen slowly opened to reveal Mrs. Ludlow pushing her walker while also carrying a stack of mail and her sweater. Before Whitney could reach her, she gave another push, the door rebounded on her walker, and she lost control of the envelopes.
As they poured around her feet, she said a crisp, “That was unfortunate.”
“Let me help,” Whitney said, kneeling.
Mrs. Ludlow’s brief look of panic was so fleeting that Whitney almost missed it.
“Oh, no, dear, I can—”
But it was too late. As Whitney straightened with the stack of twenty or so envelopes, she caught sight of a familiar PO Box number in Denver, and the forwarding address to a Valentine box. She raised her surprised gaze to Mrs. Ludlow, who gave a sigh.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” the old woman said in a low voice.
“See what?” Steph called from behind the counter. “Are you okay, Mrs. L?”
“Fine, dear.”
The widows were behind Josh’s fan club? They’d been egging on his fans, risking mail fraud? Whitney felt laughter tickling her insides but held back.
“All set here,” she said, holding on to the letters, although the widow tried to take them from her. “I’ll drive Mrs. Ludlow home.”
“I always call Rosemary—” Mrs. Ludlow began.
“Then isn’t it a good thing you don’t have to disturb her?” she interrupted sweetly. “I was running errands, so my SUV is right here.”
Mrs. Ludlow studied her. “Why are you acting so peculiar?”
Whitney lifted the envelopes, leaned closer, and whispered, “Why do you have letters meant for Josh’s Fan Club?”
Mrs. Ludlow blinked. “Oh dear.”
When Whitney turned around, Steph’s customer was her boyfriend, Tyler Brissette, and they leaned over the counter and spoke in low voices.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t leave them alone,” Mrs. Ludlow said quietly. “Not until Emily returns.”
“Em trusts Steph, so I trust Steph. Now don’t be a coward, ma’am.”
“Name-calling isn’t necessary. But I imagine it’s too late to hush this up.”
“I imagine it is. Shall we go?”
After Whitney ran the box of cookies in to her construction crew, she and Mrs. Ludlow were silent on the short drive to the Widows’ Boardinghouse. All the while, Whitney stifled the amusement that was threatening to bubble into laughter. She held the widow’s arm and the walker as Mrs. Ludlow made her slow way up the back stairs to the porch off the kitchen.
Mrs. Palmer opened the door, her bright dress more neon than pink, and looked with confusion from Mrs. Ludlow to Whitney. “Connie, why didn’t you call us for a ride? Is everythin’ okay?”
“The jig is up, Renee,” Mrs. Ludlow said. “I told you it was only a matter of time.”
They crossed the threshold into the sunny, cow-themed kitchen.
“You tell me that all the time,” Mrs. Palmer said patiently. “Which jig are we discussin’?”
Whitney fanned the letters in her hand, displaying the PO Box address prominently.
Mrs. Palmer put a hand to her chest. “Oh my.”
“Is Mrs. Thalberg here?” Whitney asked. “We might as well discuss this all together since I’m certain none of you did this alone.”
Biting her lip as if hiding a smile, Mrs. Palmer marched down the hall toward the front stairs, and yelled, “Rosemary!”
When she returned, she was no longer even trying to hide her amusement.
As Mrs. Thalberg arrived, dressed in comfortable jeans and a crocheted vest over her blouse, she gave Whitney a big smile. “So wonderful to see you!”
“I hope you still think so after you see this.” Smiling, Whitney held up the letters. “I know the truth.”
“Sit down, dear, sit down,” Mrs. Thalberg said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Thanks, I take it black. But please, can one of you explain why you did this?”
“We aren’t hurtin’ anybody,” Mrs. Palmer protested, setting a coffee mug on the table in the breakfast nook and pointing to a chair.
Amazed, Whitney sank into her seat and spread both hands. “Let’s just try it from the beginning. Whose idea was this?”
Mrs. Ludlow slowly lowered herself into a chair across the table. “It doesn’t matter whose idea it was. We always work together on our projects. We’ve been trying to come up with a new source of income for the Valentine Valley Preservation Fund.”
“Really?” Whitney said in amazement. “You did something illegal for your nonprofit committee?”
Mrs. Thalberg didn’t take coffee and didn’t sit down, only crossed her arms over her chest and studied them all.
“Illegal?” Mrs. Palmer echoed, acting as shocked as a priest hearing his first confession. “Josh’s amazin’ stroke of good luck enabled us to help our community, not do something illegal.” She stirred sugar into her coffee.
“I hate to break it to you, but it’s illegal to charge people for an autograph when you know it’s not the real thing. And you don’t own the rights to the photo.”
“Hollywood assistants sign autographs all the time,” Mrs. Ludlow said with certainty.
“But their clients pay them to do that.”
Mrs. Ludlow ignored that. “As for the photo, Miss Iacuzzi gave us permission in writing to use it. The publicity has been wonderful for her, too.”
Whitney took a sip of her coffee and eyed the three women. “The Fan Club, the Facebook page—it was the three of you?”
Mrs. Palmer’s grin was proud. “I am good with the computer. We always knew Josh would find out eventually, and he’d never press charges, so how is that illegal?”
Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Whitney briefly closed her eyes. “People are following him, even trespassing, all in an attempt to get his picture or even just his notice. Did you consider you might be making him miserable?”
“Miserable?” Mrs. Thalberg spoke for the first time. “I admit, I was reluctant about this idea, but I haven’t seen any evidence of that.”
“All right, ‘miserable’ is too harsh. How about exasperated? And this Facebook page is contributing.”
Primly, Mrs. Ludlow said, “We do not post his whereabouts on the page although his own friends do. That William Sweet, so naughty,” she added, shaking her head.
“But you can’t be surprised.”
Mrs. Thalberg took her own seat, then spoke to Whitney across a potted violet. “Well, we were a little surprised.”
“I taught William in second grade,” Mrs. Ludlow said, “and the things he tried to get away with even then—”
“Connie, it doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Thalberg interrupted. “Whitney, we were all as taken aback as anyone by Josh’s photo going viral.”
“You sound like a jubilant marketing firm,” Whitney said with bemusement.
Mrs. Thalberg ignored the interruption. “He’s bringing more attention to Valentine Valley, and that’s a good thing. We want to keep our town strong yet faithful to its beginnings. And we want to encourage and assist unique businesses to open here, like Leather and Lace, rather than chain stores. That’s what the preservation fund is all about. We help keep historical buildings as they were, encourage, with assistance, the people who might need help doing that. We even offered Leather and Lace a grant.”
“Which I appreciated, but I don’t need.”
“We have another way to help the fund,” Mrs. Palmer said eagerly.
Whitney winced. “Do I want to know?”
“It’s great fun,” Mrs. Palmer continued. “A calendar of the young men of Valentine Valley.”
Whitney almost choked on a laugh as she took a sip of coffee.
“Of course, Josh would be prominent,” insisted Mrs. Palmer. “Our Facebook page will really come in handy then.”
“After all this attention, I don’t know if Josh would want more.”
“But it’s for a good cause,” Mrs. Thalberg said firmly. “Josh always believed in that.” She paused. “Are you going to tell him?”
That must be the question they were all dying to know as they leaned toward her. Whitney stared at each of them one by one, then a chuckle escaped her. Their relief and answering smiles only made her laugh harder.
“Oh, man, this is too much,” Whitney said, pressing fingertips to the corners of her eyes to staunch tears without smearing her mascara. “If you could have seen your faces, all worried I’d turn you in to the police.”
“Not the police, but Josh,” Mrs. Thalberg pointed out.
“I know.” Whitney’s amusement gradually faded. “And this is a dilemma for me since I promised him I’d look into the Facebook thing. I won’t lie to him, but if he doesn’t ask, I won’t volunteer the truth unless I think he needs to know.” Mrs. Thalberg was his own grandma, after all.
Mrs. Ludlow patted her shoulder. “What a dear you are.”
“I don’t know—I’m feeling like a bad girlfriend. Even though this is all very funny, he’s not laughing right now. I don’t think this can go on much longer. If you’re going to keep sending photos, make sure you track the money, so that it’s obvious it’s a donation.”
“We’re very meticulous,” Mrs. Ludlow insisted.
Whitney started to rise.
“No, no, you have to stay,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Let us show you the photo album for the Preservation Fund, all our good works.”
“You don’t need to convince me, ladies.”
“But we want to—we’re proud of our little town and how it’s kept the spirit of romance, as well as the historical links to our past.”
Whitney ended up spending an hour looking at photos of their many escapades, from their bra-burning in support of the Equal Rights Amendment in the 1970s, to the time they stole an abused horse and backed up traffic for miles, just to stop the governor’s car and plead for more awareness of animal cruelty. Whitney laughed and was amazed at their daring, and learned even more about the town that had a hold on Josh.
Feeling uneasy about her sister-in-law’s continued silence, Whitney placed a call to her mom before dinner and left a message when she didn’t answer. She began to wonder if everyone in her family would ignore her, but as she was getting ready for bed, her phone rang, and this time, it wasn’t Josh.
She saw the caller ID and answered, “Hi, Mom.”
“Darling, I’m sorry I couldn’t take your call earlier.”
Vanessa Winslow spoke in her usual measured tones, and Whitney pictured her dark-haired mother lying languidly on a lounge on the balcony of their Manhattan penthouse, the lights of the city spread out below, a martini at her side. It might have been two hours later on the East Coast, but her mom was a night owl.
“I don’t mind, Mom. As I said in my message, have you heard from Courtney or Chasz? My brother doesn’t always reply to my messages, but she usually does.”
Vanessa didn’t answer right away, letting the silence lengthen into awkwardness.
“Mom?”
Vanessa sighed heavily. “The news isn’t good, darling.”
Whitney slowly sank onto the bed and stared unseeing into the dark garden behind the B&B. “Are they okay?” she whispered, picturing an accident that landed them both in the hospital. Chasz was a terrible driver in the city, so convinced he could outmaneuver every cab. Fear was suddenly a stimulant in her veins, and she had to jump back up and pace.
“It depends what you mean by okay…”
“Not lying in a hospital bed somewhere or…” She couldn’t go on.
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.”
Whitney found she could finally swallow past the lump in her throat. “Good. Then please just tell me what’s wrong.”
“Your brother has gotten into some minor trouble.”
For a moment, Whitney was tempted to stare at the phone. Legal trouble? That hadn’t happened since Chasz was a teenager and caught smoking pot. Underage, and with a great lawyer provided by their dad, he’d done some community service more than once, but it was all expunged from his record. Now, drinking and driving… that wouldn’t surprise her. Chasz always overestimated his sobriety. Courtney was usually on top of that whenever they went out together.
“Mom, just say it. What has Chasz done?”
“Courtney is leaving him.”
“What? Because of his trouble with the law? I don’t get it.”
“No, not trouble with the law—oh, let me tell you a different way. She caught him cheating on her.”
Whitney groaned. Her brother used to be a player, but he’d seemed mostly content with the beautiful Courtney during their marriage. And Whitney thought “mostly” because she’d seen him eyeing a gorgeous woman on more than one occasion. But looking and touching were two different things.
“So he’s stupid, and might have lost Courtney because of it,” Whitney said. “How is this ‘minor trouble’? It seems pretty major to me. Is he trying to wreck his life?”
“It turns out that the other woman was an employee of a rival corporation.”
“Did he know?” she exclaimed.
“Of course not! She took advantage of him and passed on anything he thought he was saying in private.”
Whitney fell back on the bed with a groan. Well, at least she didn’t have to picture her brother in a jail cell somewhere. “He was telling her company business?” she demanded, aghast. “Is he developing a drinking problem? I can’t imagine him spilling secrets otherwise.”
“It’s nothing like that. He… your brother trusted her. And she betrayed him.”
“Courtney must know just how he feels,” Whitney said bitterly. When her mother blew her nose, Whitney softened her tone. “I imagine Dad and the shareholders are up in arms.”
Her mom sighed. “Yes. Reporters will probably be calling you. Please don’t comment.”
“Like you have to tell me that, Mom?”
“Now don’t be like that, Whitney. Your father just wanted to be certain you understood.”
Whitney often wondered if her dad didn’t think she could even be loyal. Logically, she knew his failings were about women in general, but it still felt very personal each time it happened.
“Mom?”
To her surprise, she heard a stifled sob.
“Oh, Mom,” she whispered. “I’m sorry Chasz did this.”
“I am, too, Whitney. I—I’ll call when I know more.”
“Good night.”
The phone clicked, and Whitney was alone again in the darkness. She understood why the reporters would be bad—Chasz was already a senior vice president at Winslow Enterprises, heir apparent. Now he’d had an affair with a business competitor, and who knew how bad the damage was. Her father had to be scrambling to shield the company.
And then there was Courtney, betrayed by her husband, and Whitney felt sick with sorrow. She placed another call, but Courtney didn’t answer, and Whitney had to wonder if she’d ever want to talk to a Winslow again. She left a “Call me if you need to talk” message on her brother’s phone. She’d never felt so distant, three-quarters of a continent away from her family.
She almost called Josh to share everything and receive his comfort—but she couldn’t do it. She had to stand on her own, like she’d always done before she met him.
The phone rang, and she saw that it was Josh, but she didn’t answer it.
It had been a while since she’d felt so alone.