More Than a Memory. Roz Denny Fox

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СКАЧАТЬ be friends with Kendra Rowan. Then Jo remembered the stir she’d caused at Logan’s Pub. That put a damper on any thoughts of staying.

      Jim Rowan wheeled onto the porch through a sliding door Jo hadn’t noticed when she sat down. “Kendra didn’t ask if you preferred roast beef or a tuna sandwich,” he said. “So I made you a half of each.”

      “I like both. Thank you so much,” Jo said, watching him unload the metal tray neatly clamped over the arms of his wheelchair. “It’s a lovely place you have here.”

      “Yeah. There were times I didn’t think it would ever come to pass. I’m happy to break in easy with one guest to start. Don’t know how you feel about being my guinea pig.” He grinned and his white teeth flashed in his freckled face. His sandy hair was still cut military short, giving him a boyish look. In reality he was probably a few years older than Jo’s twenty-five, she thought as she joined in his laughter.

      “If this is homemade bread, I’ll gladly be your guinea pig,” she said, taking her first bite.

      He appeared more than satisfied with her response, and whistled as he motored off, leaving Jo to eat in solitude. She lingered over a refill of tea, watching fireflies dance above a gurgling creek that flowed past the side of the cottage. When mosquitoes found her, she carried her empty plate and glass into the kitchen. She retreated to her room, where the unfamiliar silence threatened to overwhelm her. Taking Kendra at her word, Jo pulled out her violin and tuned the strings. Her mother said this well-used instrument had been Joe Drake’s sixteenth-birthday gift to his daughter. It bothered Jo that she had no recollection of that birthday or any other. No holidays or special events before coming to in the hospital. She’d missed celebrating her nineteenth birthday because she’d been in the coma.

      Settling the violin under her chin, Jo tested the bow, tightened it, then plunged into Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings.”When life got too complicated, she tended to lose herself in the mellow, flowing sounds. Still, she was shocked to see the bedside clock showing midnight when she stopped playing because of aching wrists. Jo couldn’t have named all of the pieces she played after Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade.” One had blurred into another. However, she felt calmer and knew she would sleep.

      The next morning, Kendra glanced up shyly when Jo peered into the kitchen as instructed.

      “You play like an angel,” Kendra said with awe. “I’m not well versed in chamber music, but I cried listening to you play. You make your violin weep.”

      She ushered Jo to a table in the dining room set for one. Gleaming white china and polished silver graced snowy linens. A single red rose in a slender bud vase added formality to the setting.

      “You should have said you were famous,” Kendra went on. “After we heard you play, Jim searched your name on the Internet. Mercy, you let me go on and on about Jim’s injury, when you had your own recent tragedy…losing your mother so suddenly.”

      Jo’s stomach tumbled. “Where did you read about me?”

      “An article in yesterday’s Boston Globe had an interview with a patron of the philharmonic orchestra, Jerrold somebody, who called you the best violinist of this decade. He said you’re touring with a prestigious European orchestra this summer, but you’ve taken time off from performing in Boston to grieve for your mother. Shut me up, but why White Oak Valley? We’re so the back of beyond.” Kendra dropped her voice. “Is it a man? Has to be, to make you play such heartstopping songs. Your music last night sounded sadder than sad.”

      Her host’s fluttering about made Jo nervous. “My coming to Tennessee is nothing so cloak-and-dagger. And I’m not that famous,” she added dryly.

      Jim Rowan motored out of the kitchen. He slid two delicious-looking strawberry crêpes onto Jo’s plate. From his tray, he unloaded a small bowl of whipped cream and a steaming pot of tea. “Pay Kendra no mind. My wife has a vivid imagination. She’s hooked on romantic suspense novels, so she’s always looking for love and intrigue. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” he said, pointedly grabbing his wife’s hand to drag her away.

      Jo let them go before she tucked into the rich breakfast. She could strangle Jerrold. She’d dumped dozens of his calls from her cell last night. Her story was newsworthy and might make a good book, she conceded, but he had no right to speak about her without permission. Kendra would be disappointed that there was no romance involved. Jo’d never had time to cultivate a man’s friendship, let alone think of romance.

      The front door opened as she sipped her tea. Her seat gave her an unobstructed view of the woman who entered the foyer. She was of medium height and her light brown hair curved artfully around her narrow face. Jo noticed the dour expression, because the woman’s hazel eyes narrowed on her. Feeling a bit as if she’d been caught with food on her face, Jo reached for the napkin she’d had draped across the knees of her oldest jeans. Another reason to feel uneasy. The woman studying her like a bug under a microscope was impeccably dressed in heels and a flowery spring dress.

      Gripping an envelope purse, the newcomer hurried across the floor until she stood in front of Jo. “So the rumor’s true. You are back. There’s a lot of speculation as to why, Colleen. I’m happy to see you didn’t die, but if you’ve had second thoughts about dumping Garret, forget it. You had your chance with him, and you screwed up. Now it’s my turn. In fact—” she wiggled her left hand “—I intend to be wearing Garret’s ring by the end of the arts and crafts fair. We’ll be on our honeymoon by the start of the Mountain Music Festival—if that’s what’s brought you back to the valley.”

      “What…who…?” Jo was too stunned to do more than croak. A tiny window in her brain cracked open long enough for her to know this wasn’t the first time she’d met the brunette. Then the window closed with a snap, leaving Jo gaping after a total stranger. A stranger who departed as quickly as she’d come.

      Jo half rose, but the screen door shut before she could get to her feet. She sat again and heard an expulsion of breath that she knew hadn’t come from her. Glancing up, Jo saw Kendra and Jim hovering in the kitchen doorway.

      “Who…was that?” Jo asked.

      “Jaclyn Richmond,” Kendra said. “A local artist. She came by the day Jim’s dad put up our outdoor sign, asking if we’d display some of her paintings in our rooms. I guess she wanted us to sell them. But her work was too modern for our Victorian decor. Mrs. Applegate at the corner grocery store said Jaclyn used to be married to a football player, but the marriage fell apart. Now I hear she’s running after Garret Logan.”

      “She seemed to know you,” Jim said, interrupting Kendra’s prattle.

      Kendra wasn’t done, however. “Why did she call you Colleen? You signed our register as Jo Carroll, and that’s the name we used to find you on the Internet.”

      Sighing, Jo folded her napkin, and decided it was time to trust them. “It’s a long story, or a short one, depending on how you view it. I can’t answer your question, Kendra.” Jo stood up. “I was in an auto accident seven years ago and have holes in my memory. Jaclyn Richmond and others in town may know more about me than I do. I came here hoping to learn about my past. It seems not everyone seems happy to see me.”

      Kendra slid a hand onto her husband’s shoulder and studied their guest with troubled eyes. “If you need friends you can count on Jim and me. This is a very tight community and it can be hard to break in. There are somewho consider us outsiders even though Jim’s grandparents lived here a long time and his dadwas born here.”

      “Thanks. СКАЧАТЬ