Little Matchmakers. Jennifer Greene

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      “Nonsense. You don’t want to trail blood into your car. And I think we should get some ice on your head. Just hold up. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

      He’d barely taken three strides before Pete charged out of the boy’s bathroom, saw her and sprinted over. He seemed to recognize Tucker as an afterthought, and immediately frowned. “Mr. MacKinnon. Did you hurt my mom?”

      “No, Pete. Well, yes. I mean, I did, but it wasn’t intentional—”

      “Pete, I’m totally okay.”

      Pete, even if he was built on the small side, could turn more protective than a marine. He pushed his round glasses higher on his nose and faced Tucker. “Why would you hurt my mom? What happened?”

      The commotion must have been heard from a distance, because from the office hall, Tucker’s tall son suddenly charged into view. “Dad. Hey. What’s going on. Mrs. Cattrell, how come you’re bleeding?”

      “Your dad hurt my mom,” Petie informed him.

      Will’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

      “Just look at my mom if you don’t believe me. She’s bleeding all over the place.”

      “But my dad would never do anything like that. That’s dumb.”

      Tucker had to raise his voice to be heard. “Boys. Both of you. Go to the office. Ask for a first-aid kit and an ice pack.”

      Both boys laid out an “okay” and galloped together down the side hall, looking a lot like Mutt and Jeff. Garnet wanted to echo again that she was fine, and just wanted to go home, but it was like arguing with a freight train.

      Tucker hunkered down again. “I know. You’re going to live. But it won’t kill you to have those two places disinfected and covered up.”

      “I know. I just hate—”

      His tone changed, turned quieter. “Garnet. I heard what Mrs. Riddle said about your Petie. And this is obviously a poor time to pursue the subject. But I think we might both benefit from talking together.”

      “Talk about …?”

      “My Will. Your Pete.” He hesitated. “It’s probably easier for me to get away than you. I could steal an hour around seven tonight. You free then?”

      Free was a relative word. Like the song said, freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose, and looking at Tucker, Garnet knew perfectly well that she had a ton to lose by spending any time with him. Her dignity … although she’d already lost most of that, by bleeding all over the school hall. Her pride … though, she still had her pride. Something she’d guarded tighter than gold for the last few years.

      “I just want to talk about the boys,” he said. “A half hour? Your place?”

      The boys. Truth was, she wouldn’t mind talking about Petie. If there was an alpha male in a three-state radius, it was Tucker. After Mrs. Riddle’s comments, Garnet really wouldn’t mind hearing his opinion.

      “A half hour,” she conceded uneasily.

      He smiled. A smile that knocked her common sense to its knees.

      And then the boys descended on them, carrying a pan of water, most of which sloshed onto the floor, an ice pack, a brown bottle of betaine and a giant first-aid box. The principal and school secretary trailed right behind the boys.

      Garnet closed her eyes and wished she could click her heels together three times and land in Kansas. How much worse could a bad day get?

      Chapter Two

      Apparently the day could get much, much worse—but Garnet couldn’t guess that. Initially the drive home from school lifted her spirits.

      On the third turn, she saw the sign for Plain Vanilla. A quarter mile later, blacktop turned to gravel, and the hot, brilliant sun disappeared, turned into the fragrant shade of pine forest. One more turn in the road, and her pride and joy came into view.

      Petie scrabbled from the old van in a flash. Once he’d seen his report card—all As except for a C in gym—he never asked another thing about her meeting with Mrs. Riddle. School, schedules and the Mrs. Riddles in his life were now completely forgotten. All those academic As had earned him the right to download the latest game he wanted.

      Garnet climbed from the van more slowly. Her right foot was still smarting, her head doing an annoying little throb—but she didn’t really care. She took a long, lazy moment to cherish the view.

      Her five acres had been scrap-scrub when she bought them six years before. No one thought she could make anything of it—especially not her parents, and heaven knew, she had a long, long history of disappointing her family.

      Plain Vanilla had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

      It had almost broken hers.

      Four customers were parked below the shop—not bad, for midday on a Thursday. Nothing about Plain Vanilla was fancy. The building had shake-shingle siding, with a long overhang for a traditional country-style porch. Unless a serious storm threatened, the double screen doors were kept open and welcoming. Pots of herbs and flowers added color.

      The parking lot was known to get a little weedy, but she could already inhale the scents emanating from the shop. Basil and chives. Lavender and vanilla. Scents hung low in this tuck of valley. So, of course, did the heat.

      Her bungalow was invisible from here, behind the shop, but to the right stretched open ground—the hodgepodge of raised beds and climate-controlled greenhouses where she grew her own herbs and spices. Two years ago, she—and the bank—had added horizontal blinds that could be opened or closed, to protect the plants from too much sun.

      Except for the fancy blinds, she’d made everything herself. There’d never been money for professionals … but she’d had two staff from the start, primarily because she couldn’t work 24-hour days and handle Petie, especially when he’d been little.

      And from inside the shop, she suddenly heard two women’s voices … and suspected her son had tattled about her being hurt, because two bodies hightailed down the porch steps faster than she could run for cover.

      Mary Lou was somewhere between fifty-five and ninety-five, tougher than beef jerky, and looked it. Her health was precarious, not that she’d admit it. Garnet had “discovered her” five years ago, when Mary Lou had shown up at the back door, fixed her with a scissor-sharp scowl, said her husband was dead, she was bored out of her skull, and she needed to work, no wages needed, just a job.

      Garnet had hired her and never looked back. If a thief ever came around, Mary Lou would probably scare him to death, and heaven knew she was a worker.

      “Garnet! Peter said you were hurt! Who did what to you, you tell me right now!”

      “It was just a couple of bumps, absolutely nothing.”

      Mary Lou frowned, but then immediately went off on her own bumps that day. “Well, this morning was a blinger. First off, the postman forgot to leave СКАЧАТЬ