Hometown Healing Page 7

  Mrs. Fowler? Her fourth-grade Sunday-school teacher?

  The woman’s gaze shifted past Paige’s shoulder. Crease lines on Mrs. Fowler’s forehead replaced the crinkles around her eyes. “Marilyn, how are you?”

  “Hanging in there.” Paige moved aside as her mom ushered everyone in.

  Ava shuffled forward and tugged on Paige’s leg. She picked her up and situated her on her hip. The child was still in pajamas, which were decorated with juice stains and remnants from her breakfast, but at least her face and hands were jelly free.

  “Like I said before, let us know how we can help.” Mrs. Fowler sat on the far end of the couch. “With meals, housecleaning...” Her gaze swept the cluttered room, and Paige’s face heated.

  “We appreciate your thoughtfulness and concern.” She tossed Ava’s tattered blanket into her diaper bag. “But I’ve got everything managed for now.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do, dear.” The lady with the bassinet squeezed Paige’s free hand. “But we want to help, don’t we, ladies?

  “Absolutely.” Mrs. Fowler nodded so emphatically, her short bangs bounced against her forehead. “We always got to look out for own.”

  “I love that about you ladies.” Mom sat in her recliner and tucked an afghan around her legs. “What’s in the basket?”

  “This is for Paige.” Mrs. Fowler’s friend handed it over with a grin. “Some diapers...” She eyed Ava. “Though it looks like she’s a might too grown for that, aren’t you, little one? Lotion, shampoo, what have you, and cocoa and a magazine for her mama. Oh, and a gift card. We know how expensive kiddos can be.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” She’d never enjoyed receiving charity, no matter how well-intentioned. It made her feel incapable. Less than. She’d felt that enough growing up, when her dad had left her mom with a mortgage and enough debt to swallow her every dime for decades to come. The church had overwhelmed them with gifts, baked goods and other food items, which had carried them through a really tough time.

  But it’d also led to snarky comments from her classmates, once the popular girls got wind of it all.

  As an adult, Paige had vowed never to put herself in a position of dependency again. Yet here she was.

  “We do this for all Sage Creek mamas.” Mrs. Fowler rummaged through her purse, and then pulled out and applied what looked to be lip balm. “We’re just a bit late with your welcome-to-the-world basket, is all.”

  “Through no fault of your own.” Mom took a slow sip of tea. “Your kind gesture is much appreciated, isn’t it, Paige?”

  “Absolutely.” She wasn’t sure whether to feel touched or embarrassed. Nor did she quite know how to respond. But thankfully her social awkwardness was soon swallowed up in small talk about everything from how the Owens’ ranch was getting along—apparently they were transforming the place into a bed-and-breakfast—to plans for the next community bake sale.

  By the time they left, Paige had begun to remember some of the things she loved about living in a small town. Not enough to entice her to stay, mind you. But she was grateful Mom had developed such caring relationships.

  She cradled a very sleepy Ava in her arms. “Seems someone’s past due for her nap. I’ll be back.” She headed toward the bedroom.

  “Let me do that.” Mom hurried after her. “Grandma could use some Ava snuggles.”

  Spending time with her granddaughter certainly did seem to cheer her. “If you’re sure...” Paige handed Ava over.

  Mom nodded. “Absolutely. I’ve got to snatch every moment with this sweet girl while I can.” And with a contented smile that Paige was beginning to see more and more often, Mom disappeared into the guest bedroom with Ava.

  The door clicked shut, and Paige glanced out the window once again. Jed was still gone. She tamped down the unexpected burst of disappointment and reminded herself of all of the reasons she couldn’t and wouldn’t become emotionally entangled with that man. And as long as she kept their encounters brief, she could manage to avoid that very thing.

  In the meantime, she planned to pop over and spend some time with that sweet grandmother of his.

  She grabbed her purse and hurried across the narrow stretch of grass separating Mom’s house from Mrs. Tappen’s.

  Standing on a sunflower welcome mat, Paige rang the doorbell.

  Mrs. Tappen answered, wearing a yellow dress patterned with flowers, and her long gray hair was tied in its usual braid. “Paige, dear, come in!” Her eyes lit up, and she wrapped Paige in a tight hug. “Let me guess, your sweet tooth brought you over.”

  Paige laughed. “Something like that.”

  “It just so happens I got me a mound of dough rising in the kitchen. Was just about to take my roller to it.” She led the way past the formal dining room with its pink curtains, floral wingback chairs and old family portraits, to her kitchen. “Where’s that little one of yours?” Roasting beef and garlic filled the air, and old-time country music played on a small radio standing on the tile counter.

  “Napping with her grandmother.”

  “How precious.” She held a hand to her chest, then straightened and glanced about. “Soon as you wash up, I’ll put you to work.” She motioned to the sink.

  Paige smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Want some cocoa?” She placed a cast-iron pot on the stove. “I could whip some up right quick with marshmallows, just like you like it.”

  “I’d hate to be a bother.” She lathered her hands, breathing in the lilac scented soap.

  “Pshaw. I’d be happy to do it.” Mrs. Tappen turned on the heat and then went to the fridge. Her movements seemed slower than Paige remembered; her back was more hunched. A reminder that she might not be around for much longer.

  Though her reasons for returning to Sage Creek still stung, she was beginning to count her blessings. Like spending time with Mrs. Tappen while the woman still had life to live.

  Paige swallowed past a lump in her throat and dried her hands on a crocheted hand towel beside the sink. “So, what can I do?”

  “Rolling pin’s in that drawer.” Mrs. Tappen pointed. “Table’s clean. Make sure to cover it with plenty of flour. Don’t neither of us want to be scraping goo off it all evening.” She propped a hand on her hip. “You and your mama coming for supper tonight? Got plenty of pot roast and red potatoes to spare.”

  “I’m not sure.” She carried the bag of flour to the table and sprinkled a generous amount on the surface. “Mom’s not feeling so hot.”

  Mrs. Tappen faced her and crossed her arms. “That’s not the why-not, and you know it.”

  Paige looked away. She grabbed the sweet dough and began to press it flat.

  Footsteps shuffled closer, and a gentle hand landed on her arm. “Have you thought about why you’re here? Not just in my kitchen, but back in Sage Creek. At your mama’s.”

  Because she lost her job and couldn’t afford to support herself? In truth, she knew that wasn’t the answer Mrs. Tappen was poking at.

  “Look at me, child.” She turned Paige toward her and searched her eyes. “What if you’re here to heal once and for all? To break free from all that pain and bitterness you keep locked inside.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek, and Mrs. Tappen thumbed it away. “If you want to move forward, you’re going to have to let go of the past.”

  Paige sniffed as more tears fell.

  The front door clicked open, and she stiffened, swiping at her damp cheeks with floury hands. Probably smearing mascara everywhere.

  “Near searched the entire store—couldn’t find any fresh basil.” Jed’s footfalls drew closer. “Got everything else...” His voice trailed. Then stalled. “Paige.”

  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, enough to acknowledge him without allowing him time to notice that she’d been crying. “Hey.”

  “You staying for suppe
r?”

  “I invited her.” Mrs. Tappen wrapped an arm around her waist. “She wants to check with her mama first.”

  “Makes sense.”

  She could feel him watching her, and then he was at her side, sitting at the breakfast bar. His citrus cologne invaded her senses, and his patient presence tugged at the walls she’d so carefully erected around her heart.

  Being around Jed was harder than she’d anticipated.

  The last time she’d followed her heart and allowed a man in, she’d ended up emotionally and financially broken.

  Her ex-husband had left her in near the exact state her dad had left her mom.

  And after all of the times back in high school, while listening to her mom cry herself to sleep, Paige had vowed her life and marriage would be different.

  Seemed she’d broken a lot of promises to herself.

  Chapter Eight

  Jed cringed inwardly as the young man on the stage fumbled through his lines. It wasn’t just that he mumbled, or that he seemed to have an aversion to maintaining eye contact. Wasn’t even his strange attire, though his trench-coat-over-skinny-jeans look didn’t help any. What got him instantly crossed off Jed’s callback list was the high-pitched snort he made every time he messed up. Every. Single. Time.

  He and Shannon, the friend helping him screen potential talent, exchanged glances. Her quivering mouth indicated she struggled to maintain a straight face. That made it all the harder for him to do the same.

  He coughed a few times to cover a laugh. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “Can I try it one more time?”

  “Sorry, but we’ve got a lot of folks waiting in the lobby.” True enough. “We wish you luck with your acting career.” One of his cast members was leaving at the end of her contract terms, which was soon, and he needed to find a replacement.

  Hopefully the next applicant—he glanced at her sheet—Amber, would do better. At least she had some experience, though mostly from high school productions.

  “Um, Jed?”

  He looked up. Paige stood a few feet away; her posture was rigid, and her chin jutted forward, as if she were bracing for a fight. The vulnerability peeking beneath her hard exterior drew him. She clutched a leather portfolio under her arm.

  “Hey.” He stood and tipped his hat with a nod.

  Had she come to audition? Did this mean she didn’t want the script-writing gig? How’d she hear about the casting call?

  He’d never thought of her as an actress. Matter of fact, he couldn’t picture her standing on a stage, in front of anyone, let alone a room full of watching eyes.

  He crossed the room to meet her. “Did you...uh...fill out an information sheet?”

  She frowned. “An application, you mean?”

  “You could call it that. It gives us an overview, lets us know your experience, availability, that sort of thing. We can’t make a decision till we see you in action.” He hated sounding so formal, especially when he’d been so quick to offer her a job. But this was different. He needed to know she could act before they talked terms.

  “You mean read some of my writing samples?” She opened her leather binder and pulled out a few sheets of paper. “I haven’t created much fiction since high school, but I wrote a short story, a romance, over the weekend.” Her gaze dropped, and the most endearing pink blossomed on her cheeks. “I hope that’s okay.”

  He studied the typed pages with a furrowed brow. “So...you’re not here for the auditions?”

  Her eyes widened, and the color in her face deepened. “What? No! I’m here about the script-writing job. That is, if you still want me.”

  He did, and that worried him. How much of his job offer had been based on emotion? On feelings he had no business entertaining? Then again, it was Grandma’s idea, not his. “I...uh...” As much as he wanted to see her involved, he needed to watch how he phrased things until he had a chance to check out her writing. He turned to Shannon. “I hate to keep our potential talent waiting.”

  “I can handle the auditions for a bit.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” He shifted toward Paige. “How ’bout we head back to my office to talk.”

  She studied him for a moment before giving a quick nod, and then she followed him down a side hall to the tiny dark room that housed his desk and files. Entering, he flicked on a light, set his hat on the rack and opened a metal folding chair that was propped against the wall.

  “Have a seat.”

  She did. He rounded his desk to do the same and set her document in front of him. He sensed her eyes on him as he read.

  Her first sample, a short story, was a romantic comedy about a girl who introduced herself to the wrong man while on a blind date, only to discover the truth during supper. The next few pieces looked like they’d been pulled from various magazines. One explained numerous uses for coconut oil, and the other what to wear with which heel height. A third piece discussed different ways to shape one’s nails.

  He regarded her with a raised brow. Paige Cordell, the girl who once wanted to start a worm farm to sell to local fishermen, interested in glitz and glam? Then again, she had worked as a fashion writer. Apparently she’d changed more than he’d realized. As had he, hopefully for the better. More than anything, he wanted her to know that. To open herself up enough to get to know him again.

  Maybe even...

  He gave himself a firm mental shake. A work relationship and a rebuilt friendship—those he could handle. Trying for anything more would only complicate things.

  He studied her as she sat tall and stiff with her hands folded in her lap. But her large pupils surrounded by her wide blue irises and rapid blinking contradicted her confident demeanor.

  The woman was so beautiful. And smart, talented, determined...

  That ex-husband of hers had been a fool to let her go.

  He tidied her papers into a neat stack. “You’re very gifted. Always have been.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, here’s what I’m looking for.” He explained his theme to her. “Everything needs to be scripted, including my introduction, jokes and all. I’d like help with blogging, too. You comfortable with that?”

  She nodded. “I’ve done humor. My blog alternates between satirical and straight-up comedy.”

  “True.”

  She angled her head. “You’ve read it?”

  “I...uh... A little.” Heat climbed his neck. “What’s your price point?”

  “Depends on how you want to do it—pay for the manuscript or have me on staff. You’d mentioned something about me helping with other stuff, like press releases or whatever.”

  Did that mean she planned to stick around? “How about we start with the script and go from there? We can work together some.” The idea appealed to him more than it should have. “I’ll share my vision, let you know what’s feasible as far as set requests—that sort of thing. Then I’ll read your first draft—I’d need it pretty quick. Like, in ten days. Sooner, if you can swing it.” That way his cast could prepare for the grand reopening.

  “How many words are we talking?”

  “Scripts usually run about fifty pages, depending on choreography.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I’ll probably want revisions.”

  “Of course.”

  “Plus I’d like your help for unexpected, midproduction changes, like if one of our cast members gets sick and I can’t find a backup, or audience response isn’t what we’d hoped.”

  “I’ll need an advance.”

  “A what?”

  “Payment up front.”

  “Oh.” But what happened if he paid her and she didn’t deliver? Or got mad and stormed out halfway through the draft?

  She’d never do that to his grandmother. Even so, this wasn’t something he could jump into blindly.
He’d need some help figuring out the legalities of it all.

  “Send me an email, letting me know how much you’d like to get paid.” He handed her a business card, which she tucked into the flap of her portfolio. “I’ll review your request and write up a formal contract, see if we can come to an agreement.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  He walked her out, feeling much too excited about the prospect of working with her. A man couldn’t allow emotions to get tangled up in business matters. But so long as he kept things professional, he was sure that everything would work out fine.

  * * *

  Early the next afternoon, Paige sat in a booth at Wilma’s Kitchen, a small diner with a working jukebox, red booths and checked linoleum floors. About the only modern thing about the place were the flat-screen televisions mounted in opposite corners. That and the playing cards tacked to the ceiling.

  Two women Paige had gone to school with entered—one with a toddler, and the other a baby carrier. Upon seeing Paige, their faces lit up, and they hurried to her table. Paige stood to greet them.

  “It was so good to see you Sunday!” Rissa, the taller of the two, gave Paige a hug. “I meant to get your phone number so we could do coffee or a playdate.”

  Paige pulled a pen from her purse, wrote down her contact info and handed it over. “How old’s your little guy?”

  “Two and a half.”

  “Not far behind my Ava.”

  “So it is possible to survive the terrible twos, then?” Holding her son by the wrist, she gave the squirming tyke a look of mock exaggeration.

  Paige laughed. “So long as you have plenty of reinforcements.”

  “I do have that.” Rissa hip bumped her friend, a girl two years Paige’s junior. “The three of us should totally get together.”

  Paige smiled. “I’d like that. Mind if I invite my friend Mira to come along?”

  “Of course not.” Rissa’s friend shifted her baby carrier to her other hand. “The more the merrier. You want to join us for lunch?”