Getting Lucky Page 3

  Ben glanced over his shoulder to see a pink-cheeked, white-haired woman approaching, arms around two girls—Alanna and her friend. His heart rate increased a few beats, and the tightness in his stomach spread to his chest.

  “I’m Bud Grayson.”

  “Ben.” He tore his gaze from Alanna, dried his palm on his jeans, and shook hands with the man. “Ben Foster.”

  “And these lovely ladies are among the lights of my life. Miss Alanna Dalton, Miss Susan Walker, and Miss Agatha Winchester, may I present Ben Foster, a visitor to our fair town.”

  “Welcome to Bethlehem, Ben,” Agatha said, releasing the girls to take his hand in both of hers. “Foster … Are you related to Horace Foster over at the city engineer’s office?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m afraid not.”

  “Say hello to Mr. Foster, girls,” she directed as she let go of his hand.

  “Hello,” they said dutifully.

  Acutely aware of Alanna in his peripheral vision, Ben focused on Susan first—shorter than Alanna, sturdier, darker, with brown hair and eyes, and the air of a tomboy. She looked strong and resilient. He could easily see her climbing trees, sliding into home plate, and holding her own with any boy around.

  He spoke her name with a nod, then slowly let his gaze slide across to Alanna. The resemblance that was so noticeable in their baby pictures had been diluted by the years. She still had his hair, his jaw, his nose, but he could see hints of Berry in her, too, as well as features that were purely her own. He wanted to touch her, to offer his hand and wrap his fingers around hers and wait for it to sink in that this was his daughter. This child shared his blood, his genes. He had helped create her.

  But he didn’t reach out. He didn’t even speak her name. He simply nodded.

  “Hi,” she said politely, then turned her attention to the older man. “Grandpa Bud, where’s Dr. J.D. and the kids?”

  Her voice was sweet, feminine, and flat-out stunned him. There wasn’t so much as a hint of the South in it—not surprising when her mother had dragged her all over the eastern half of the country—but it was pleasing anyway. Soft. Rich with promise.

  Then his thoughts turned regretful. The first words most fathers heard their daughters speak were usually Mama or Daddy. He got Hi, spoken one stranger to another. And there was no one to blame but himself.

  “I believe you’ll find them over by Harry’s.”

  Ben watched the girls exchange looks and giggles, then take off. Once they’d been swallowed up by the crowd, he asked, “Your granddaughter?”

  “Oh, no. Though maybe someday.” With a grin, Bud explained. “Alanna’s got a bit of a crush on my grandson Caleb, and the feelings are reciprocated. Maybe they’ll outgrow it—after all, they’re still young. Or maybe they won’t. Either way, any grandfather in the world would be proud to claim Alanna for his own.”

  Any except her own. His father would care no more about a granddaughter than he had about his son, and Berry’s father had abandoned her and Emilie after their mother’s death. He wasn’t likely to feel any more paternal toward their kids than he had toward them.

  “Do you have any children, Ben?” Agatha asked.

  Through sheer will, he kept himself from taking a telltale look toward Harry’s. “I’ve never been married.”

  She didn’t point out that one had nothing to do with the other. Instead, she smiled a sly woman-with-an-idea sort of smile. “Stick around Bethlehem long enough, dear, and we just might change that.”

  Her words brought a great laugh from Bud. “Watch out, Ben. Agatha and her sister, Corinna, fancy themselves matchmakers. If they set their sights on you, you’ll never have a moment’s peace until there’s a ring on your finger.”

  “Oh, you,” Agatha scolded. “I didn’t notice you complaining when I set my sights on you.”

  Taking her in his arms, Bud twirled her around in time to the music, then kissed her flushed cheek. “That’s because I was a goner the first time I laid eyes on you. Agatha’s the reason, Ben, that my visit to Bethlehem became permanent. She’s going to become my bride next month.”

  “Congratulations. Bud, Miss Agatha, it’s nice to meet you. I’m going to wander back that way and see if I can find someone.” Ben gestured in the general direction of Harry’s, then took a few backward steps before turning.

  He wanted to see this grandson Caleb—wanted to see how he looked at Alanna. He knew how young boys thought, and what they wanted. Hell, he’d been one himself. From the time he’d turned thirteen, any father who had let him near his daughter had been asking for trouble. No matter how nice Caleb’s grandfather appeared to be, that said nothing for the boy’s character. One lifelong troublemaker could easily recognize a younger version in the making.

  And, if necessary, he could deal with him, too.

  Chapter Two

  As the sun moved lower in the western sky, the temperatures cooled. Many of the younger children started settling down, curling up on blankets and in laps. The streetlights buzzed softly, audible only when the music paused, and the sweet scent of pipe smoke drifted on the air. It was a relaxing scene, but Lynda knew another relaxing scene she preferred—in her house high on the hill. The house was old, isolated, and in need of substantial repairs—once she was able to lure a competent workman away from Bethlehem’s booming construction business—but it was her sanctuary. Her safe place.

  A few feet away, Ross stood with his wife, Maggie, and Tom and Holly Flynn. The five of them—six, counting the baby—had come to the concert from dinner at Holly’s inn. The food had been wonderful, as usual, and the setting—the terrace outside the dining room—had been lovely, but Lynda had found the experience awkward. Maybe it was because there was bad history between her and Maggie, or because she didn’t really know Holly at all. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that the evening had been unbearably romantic, and she’d been the odd one out.

  With the old Ross and Tom, the wives would have entertained themselves while Lynda and the men talked business. That sort of meal she could handle without batting an eye. But one where business was designated off-limits as a topic of discussion … Not her forte.

  She was about to interrupt the conversation to tell them she was going home, when a figure across the street caught her attention. Ben, the waitress had called him in the café that afternoon. Who was good with his hands and had amazing green eyes, a body to die for, and a lazy, graceful way of using it. Who could look at an infant and say, “Pretty baby,” and make a full-grown woman think he might be referring to her—or wish he was.

  He stood near the corner, leaning against the stone facade of an antiques store below, an insurance office above. She was surprised to see him. He didn’t seem the type to go in for family-oriented community entertainment. His preferred music, she would guess, was blues—soulful, hot, smoky—and his preferred environment a dimly lit room, with unmade bed, tangled sheets, windows open, and ceiling fan stirring heavy, lazy air, redolent with the scent of jasmine.

  He was alone in the crowd, gazing intently at a scene on her side of the street. She glanced in that direction, but without his vantage point, there was no way she could see what, or who, had caught his attention.

  Just as she wasn’t sure why he had caught hers. Maybe because he was incredibly handsome in a bad-boy sort of way, or because he gave her an achy little tickle deep in the pit of her stomach, something she hadn’t felt for far too long.

  Slowly his gaze shifted in her direction. At six feet without shoes, she was impossible to miss but easy to overlook. She expected him to do just that, but he didn’t. Across the width of the street, under the glow of the street lamps, she felt his steady, warm gaze. It sent a tiny shiver of heat through her and brought color to her face. It made her want to sink into the wall, dissolving into brick and mortar, at the same time she considered walking across the street to him.

  And say what? How about that stock market? D’ya think the interest rates will go up or slide down? Wh
at’s your take on the trade agreement before Congress? It had been so long since she’d talked about anything but business with a man that she wasn’t sure she remembered how.

  Besides, she knew better than to approach someone like him. Her type was steady, career-oriented, an MBA; wore suits and ties, carried a briefcase everywhere, and considered his cell phone an extension of his hand. Ben looked as if he didn’t even own any of the above.

  She knew without looking when the man turned his gaze elsewhere—felt the heat cool, the tingle fade. He was once more looking at whatever had caught his attention before, and that was as good a cue as any for her to leave.

  When an opportunity to break into Ross’s conversation presented itself, she took it. “Holly, I enjoyed the dinner. Maggie, it was nice seeing you and Rachel. Ross, Tom, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Everyone murmured the appropriate responses, including a cooing sound from Rachel, whose infant’s oblivion was more likely the source of her toothless grin than any pleasure at seeing Lynda.

  As she left the crowd behind, she drew in a deep breath, then blew out all the tension. The music faded into the distance, and she slowly became aware of other sounds. A bobwhite’s sweet call. The sputter of a streetlight about to burn out. The flap of a flag in the gentle breeze. And footsteps, heavier, more solid than her own.

  As she reached her car, she glanced over her shoulder and spotted him immediately on the opposite side of the street. Ben. Had he followed her?

  Her fingers tightened around the keyless remote attached to her key ring. One of the buttons was a personal safety alarm. In a town like Bethlehem, it would bring plenty of people running. Of course, if there was no reason for them to come running, wouldn’t she feel like a fool?

  Her thumb hovered above the panic button as he stepped off the curb and started, without looking, across the street. He appeared to be deep in thought … but appearances were often deceiving.

  When she disarmed the car alarm, it chirped twice, and brought his head up. He looked surprised to see her and altered his course so he would pass at an angle away from her—to reach his car, which, she noticed for the first time, was parked one space down from hers. His smile was distant, distracted, his comment polite and nothing more. “Nice night for a concert.”

  There were a dozen intelligent responses to such a comment, but like some easily flustered schoolgirl, she couldn’t think of one, and so, as she unlocked the car door, she simply agreed. “Yes, it is.” Settling in the seat, she watched discreetly as he got into his own car, backed out with that powerful engine rumbling, then headed out of town toward Angels Lodge.

  Within fifteen minutes, she was home, changed into a skinny tank top and pajama bottoms, and curled up in her favorite chair, with the telephone, and vanilla ice cream melting over warm apple pie.

  “ ‘Yes, it is’?” Melina Dimitris echoed. “Jeez, Lyn, such snappy repartee. It’s a wonder some guy hasn’t grabbed you up—and Ross McKinney doesn’t count. He’s only interested in your brain, which seems a bit feeble tonight. You need someone who’s interested in your body.”

  “Have you gotten lucky since we last talked?”

  “Are you kidding? I would have bought commercial time on the networks to tell the world.”

  “Then don’t preach at me.”

  Melina didn’t take offense. She never did. She was the only person in the world Lynda could be totally natural and open with. “So just how good-looking is this guy?”

  Lynda licked the spoon clean before letting it fall into the bowl. “Not ice-cream cute.”

  Melina snorted. “Like any guy is?”

  “Let me think.…” It was their version of a rating system, one developed soon after they’d met their freshman year in college. A man was only as good as whatever they would give up to have him, and Melina was right. No man was ice-cream worthy. “Maybe sushi for six weeks.”

  Another snort. “Down South where he comes from, they call that bait. Besides, since you moved out into the wilds, you don’t get to have it for weeks at a time anyway.”

  “Maybe three-inch heels—but not my Jimmy Choos.”

  “The last guy you were willing to give up three-inch heels for was … Oh, my, I’m impressed. If you can’t get the nerve to approach him, would you please send him my way?”

  “ ‘Get the nerve’?” Lynda repeated, feigning insult. “Do you remember to whom you speak? The woman who has been cursed to the devil in twelve languages? And you think I lack the nerve to talk to a carpenter from Atlanta?”

  “To a gorgeous, three-inch-heel-worthy bad-boy hunk from Hotlanta? Yeah, I think you’re afraid.”

  Lynda waited a moment, two, then just as heatedly said, “You’re absolutely right.”

  They both laughed. “And if you’re chicken to pick him up for yourself, you’re sure not gonna send him to me. It’s just as well,” Melina said philosophically. “If he said yes, I’d have to shave my legs, and you know how I try to avoid that.”

  Lynda rolled her eyes. Since her sixteenth birthday, Melina’s motto had been Be prepared. She could get intimate with some guy two minutes after meeting him and have everything she could possibly need at her fingertips. Whereas Lynda found it damn near impossible to get intimate, no matter how many times she slept with a man. She didn’t have a personal motto, but if she did, it would probably be something like Look, don’t touch. Keep back. Hands off.

  “I’ve enjoyed this,” Melina said, “but my ice-cream bowl is empty, my cordless phone is nearly dead, and I have to pee. Take my advice—find some courage and go after this Southern James Dean. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Have you ever steered me wrong? Let me count the ways.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sheesh, I set you up with one blind date from hell—”

  “How many?”

  “Okay, two. Well, maybe four.”

  “Try seven. Every date you ever sent me on.”

  “—and I get treated like a junkyard dog at a poodle convention. At least I tried to do something about your abysmal social life, which is more than you can say.”

  “But when I handle my social life, it’s merely abysmal. When you get involved, it becomes ghastly.”

  “You say that like ghastly is so much worse. At least for a while it was different.”

  “I don’t like different. Not changing is good. Now … you’d better head to the bathroom—and recharge your phone. I’ll talk to you later.” Lynda hung up, then sighed heavily. Moving to Bethlehem and leaving behind all Buffalo had to offer had meant some serious adjustments, which she’d made. But she hadn’t yet adjusted to not having Melina nearby. They visited each other often and talked more often, but it wasn’t the same. It was as if she’d left the better part of herself behind in Buffalo.

  And that was as sentimental as she allowed herself to get. With an encouraging breath, she took her dishes in the kitchen, then settled at her desk in the room that served as her home office. So her best friend—her only friend, a devious voice inside her head amended—lived five hours away, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed, and every time she spoke to her parents they found five thousand ways to let her know that this was not the life they’d envisioned for her. She had her work, and that was all she needed to be successful, fulfilled, and happy.

  She was. She really was.

  Ben had lain awake late into the night, but every time he’d made a decision, he’d found some compelling argument against it. He wanted to meet Alanna, but after neglecting her all her life, did he even have the right? He wanted to go back to Georgia and forget her again … but what kind of man was capable of that? One like his own father, and he damn sure didn’t want to be like him. Besides, what were the odds that he could forget her now that he’d seen her, heard her voice, gotten close enough to touch her?

  And what were the odds that he had anything of value to offer her? That appearing in her life after all these years would do more harm than good? That she r
easonably, realistically, had no use for a father who couldn’t begin to compete on any level with the uncle who was raising her?

  He got up Tuesday morning, showered, shaved, and dressed, then nuked a cup of coffee in the microwave to drink while staring out the window. Distant sounds of construction came from the other end of the building, along with the occasional rumble of a truck passing by on the highway. The sky was bright and sunny over Bethlehem, but on the mountainside above the motel, gray clouds were moving in, drifting lazily, as if in no hurry to get where they were going.

  He would pack his bags, Ben decided, and head back home to Atlanta. Alanna had gotten along just fine without him. No doubt, she was a hell of a lot better off than she would have been if he’d always been around. He knew nothing about raising a kid, had taken too many whippings as a kid himself to care about disciplining anyone, and had no wisdom to impart and no character to pass on. Nathan Bishop was a good man, where the word most consistently applied to Ben was bad.

  Alanna couldn’t do better than Nathan … or much worse than Ben.

  As he looked over his shoulder at the unmade bed and last night’s clothes dumped on a chair, his stomach growled. He would get some breakfast first, then deliver the cedar chest to Emilie Bishop. Then he would come back and pack, and be well on his way home by noon.

  Breakfast was doughnuts from a little place downtown, where he also got directions to McBride Inn. He started to walk away, then, on impulse, turned back. “What about the schools? The junior high or middle school?”

  “They’re all together,” the woman behind the counter replied. “Turn right at the corner out here and go straight until you run into them.”

  “Thanks.” As he left the shop and walked to his car, he warned himself to forget about the school, to stick to his original plan. He concentrated on the directions to the inn and tried to shove the others out of his mind, and five minutes later he found himself parked in front of the school complex.