Hold Me (Promise Me Book 1) Page 7

  “You didn’t have to get me anything.” I accepted the bundle, surprised at its heft. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing extravagant.” His tone was assuring. August ducked his head in a parody of shyness while I tore into the brightly colored paper. “I felt bad asserting my place as King Macho of Heartwood, getting you in trouble. You shouldn’t have been put in that position and I apologize.”

  “I can tell how you feel,” I said dryly.

  The gaudy wrapping fell away to reveal a stunning wooden instrument the soft color of sunlight, with a fretted neck and deeply curved back. The lute boasted four strings threaded through hand-hewn curlicues with the base polished to a sheen so each touch felt like satin. I couldn’t stop staring at the workmanship evident in every groove and swirl.

  August regarded me with a hesitant smile. “Do you like it?”

  I had no words for the beauty I held. It captured my attention like a hook through the chest. My first thought? I didn’t deserve it. Instead I said, “I don’t play.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t have to play. It’s a gift from me to you. I thought of you while I created this, imagined your face as I whittled, so it was yours from the start.” He stepped forward, crowding me against the doorframe.

  “Do you see this?” August turned the lute over and indicated an intricate whirl. “I used a silver maple burl from my property. Even though they aren’t usually used for this kind of thing, I wanted a challenge. I’ve made bowls from them in the past but never an instrument. This lute is the first of its kind. Unique, like you.”

  I hugged the instrument to my heart, touched by his earnestness. August created as a profession, but to possess some part of his work felt like I possessed a piece of his heart. “This means a lot. Thank you.”

  Now I’d be forced to learn how to play and see how drawing my fingers over those strings made it come alive.

  August inclined his head. “You’re welcome. Like I said, I feel horrible about the other day.”

  “I do too,” I admitted. “I didn’t expect Duncan’s reaction although I feel like I should have.”

  “He’s never physically assaulted your friends before?” August smirked.

  I laughed, forgetting about my towel chic for a moment. “I plead the fifth.”

  “If that’s the case then I’m touched. Out of all your friends he chose me to pound into the dirt.” August raised a brow. “And text afterward with an apology. I feel like a girl asked to her first dance and showered in spotlights.”

  “As long as you pick the right dress.” I laughed, using my big toe to make patterns in the carpet tread. “How are you feeling, by the way? I meant to call you myself and time got away from me.”

  “What a horrible excuse, Izzy. I’m fine. A little sore in some places,” he indicated his ribs, “but otherwise I’ll live. I may be lanky but I know my way around a brawl.”

  The description didn’t sound like him. “If you say so. Come on in.” It took some maneuvering for me to stand aside and let him pass. “I’d rather not stay in the doorway and have a conversation. We’ve lingered long enough to give the people down the hall a great show.”

  “You’ve always had nice legs.”

  “Shut up and come in. We’ll talk.”

  August cocked his head. “You want to have a conversation? I haven’t heard those words from you since tenth grade when you needed help on your philosophy homework for college credit. What tenth grader takes college credits? I remember distinctly you coming to my house wanting to talk,” he used air quotations, “and me ending up doing your essay for you.”

  The moment he stepped inside, I closed the door behind him, barricading us together.

  “Well, yeah. Because Mrs. Simpson wanted the report on Monday and I hadn’t read any of the required material. But I knew you had a copy of Sophie’s World on your dresser and could help me with the finer points.”

  “I wrote the damn essay for you. That’s why you came over and you know it.” August blew out a breath.

  “I never asked you to write it for me. I just needed help from someone who knew the ropes, not a freebie. If you remember correctly, I was incensed to the point where I broke your ukulele and ripped up the report. I ended up getting a B on the drivel I concocted at the last moment.”

  “And that,” August pointed at me, “was the beginning of the end for us.” He plopped down on the bed and crossed his ankles.

  “How do you figure? Beyond having nothing to end.”

  “Our first argument. You didn’t agree with my ideas on Plato and we almost came to blows before the paper-shredding.” August shot me a purposeful sad face. “You hated my writing.”

  “You told me Plato and Socrates were getting it on.” I set the lute down carefully on the dresser and flung a robe over my shoulders before crossing to him. “Said they played with each other beneath their chitons and that’s why skirts were better.”

  August leaned against the pillows with a leer. “Well, what else was I going to say? I was a horny teenager with a pretty girl in my room so I had to think of something fast.”

  My stomach tightened. “Don’t go there. Everyone knows I was a gawky teen.” I shuffled from foot to foot, unaccustomed to compliments. “You knew I needed an A and you wanted to get my goat up so you started a fake argument to take my mind off of it.”

  “Something like that,” he relented.

  This was my friend, I reminded myself. No need to sit across the room holding his childish behavior against him. Determined not to act as awkward as I felt, I crossed to the bed and sat near the headboard, tugging the robe down to cover my thighs.

  “You’re wrong about one thing,” I said with a forced chuckle. “You never acted like a horny teenager. Not in the years I knew you. I can still picture you with those braces and the freckles just there.” I pointed to his temple as August shifted to look at me.

  “I hid it well from you, then. From the minute I turned thirteen I only had one thing in mind. Maybe I tried to defend your feminine sensibilities from my wild man nature. It’s no lie when people say raging hormones.”

  “Sure, wild man,” I joked. Yes, this was Augie, as close to the boy I knew as the sharp-boned man could be. We sat side by side, two chums reminiscing without a care.

  There was an edge to him despite the calm former band geek he tried to show me. “Hey, your feelings were important to me,” he said. “They still are. Why do you think I gave away my best piece?” He used his chin to nod toward the dresser.

  “Now you want me to feel guilty.” I linked my hands over my stomach and sighed.

  “No. It’s called a sense of humor. Apparently women love it.”

  “As I always say, lead with a laugh.”

  “I’ve missed this,” August admitted.

  “Sneaking in on women in a towel and robe?”

  “No, I’m sad to say that’s never happened before. I mean this.” He gestured to the space between us on the bed. “Having you around. You were gone too long.”

  I groaned. “Not long enough. It was only five years, August, not a lifetime.”

  August settled back, his elegant artist’s fingers tapping out a rhythm on his upper thigh. “It was to me.”

  “I know I should have called you,” I said, brow furrowed. “It was poor form on my part to ignore you for that long.”

  “And the letters? I suppose you tore those up and said ‘to hell with him.’” He affected a higher pitched tone to mock me.

  “I got your letters, yes, although I don’t sound like a pixie on crack, and I never tore them up. I got the phone calls and I admit to hanging up on you. No excuses for poor behavior.”

  My face reddened at the thought of this discussion. I’d known it would come eventually and dreaded the day. I blush easier than most and dislike my body giving away feelings I’d rather hide. “The point is, I apologize. I acted like a little girl and it wasn’t fair.”

  He nudged me with his shoulder. “I
f I hadn’t forgiven you already then I wouldn’t be here wasting a perfectly good evening.”

  I eyed him with mock haughty consideration. “Time with me is never a waste.”

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled. I meant it as praise. A testament to your character.”

  “I think you mean your character. You’ve done all the work repairing our friendship, while I sit here—”

  “In a robe,” August finished for me. “Yes, I see that.”

  I nodded my head. “In a robe. Story of my life.”

  An easy pause descended on the room in the sort of patient country rhythm I’d forgotten. “I hope we can continue to be friends,” August said slowly. “I don’t want anything from the past to color how we act and feel now.”

  I agreed one hundred percent, though I said nothing for a moment or two. “I’ll do my best not to let it.”

  “I would appreciate the effort. Since we’re both living in the same county now, it seems best to maintain good relations, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  It took longer for the light to slide back into his eyes. He drew a careful breath and rose from the bed. “I need to go. And you need to get back to your bath.”

  Somehow, August saying it brought renewed consciousness of my semi-naked condition.

  “You’re right. I have gallons of water going cold in there.”

  August leaned forward and held out a hand to me. Almost a dare. “Friends?”

  I grasped the peace offering, squeezing to assert my strength. “Friends.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Back in high school there was a blue-eyed boy who, everyone claimed, had the soul of a musician. He worked with musical instruments, knew their secrets, and could make brass and wood bend to his creative desires.

  By his side sat a girl with wavy light brown hair on the edge of darkening and a perpetual scowl on an otherwise pretty face. She longed to find her place in the song of life when the music turned away and left only lyrics behind. She’d always been better with words.

  They were best friends, had made it through his parents’ divorce together. The quirky duo did everything together, which led schoolmates and other townsfolk in their small community to wonder at their closeness. Could they be more than the friends they claimed to be, despite their adamancies to the contrary? Perhaps, when night fell and most sought their beds, those two dropped the masks, their blood stirring and bodies waking?

  Chatter and speculation ranged from contemplative to obscene, as teenagers and adults alike pondered the boy and girl. No, no, they’re definitely an item. They’re just too ashamed to admit it because they’ve been friends for so long. Those whispers disappeared when the girl began to date the captain of the debate team and the boy sat back to watch, though he’d never voiced his disappointment in her choice of love interests.

  It’s funny how history repeats itself and we are all caught in the crosshairs.

  I remembered the naysayers and took to heart their rumor about August and me even when he told me to forget it. To stop listening to gossipmongers. Yes, our days trapped inside Heartwood High School were long in the past and I rarely paid them any mind now. I had recognized August’s unexpressed disappointment in my dating habits back then and done the good friend bit of comforting his fears. I knew my own mind and I didn’t need others reminding me, as they did now.

  I wanted the past to stay behind me so I could focus on the future. On the man I chose and not the one my community pushed toward me.

  We were a week into our move. My fiancé Duncan and I had trekked across this great country of ours to land smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Hometown U.S.A, as some liked to call it. Heartwood, Virginia, on the map. For most of my life it had simply been Hell.

  Four days ago, I stepped into the Heartwood’s County Corner General Store for the first time to ask for a job application. But recognizing the woman behind the front desk had me running back to the hotel to sit in a dark room with chocolate bars for company.

  Or at least, I entertained the idea.

  I made the required polite hellos to my old classmate with a forced smile and hated every minute of it. The tight feeling in my gut ratcheted up another notch when a second familiar face peeped around the corner from the kitchen deli and gave me an evil smile.

  The woman at the counter was petite, curvy, with fluttering lashes and a mole beneath her left nostril. Kelly Paterson, second in command of the popular crowd and the girl who made their high school endeavors to rise to the top of the social pyramid come to fruition.

  Those of my ilk considered her the brawn behind the beauty. The muscle ensuring the mean kids’ success as they ruled the roost. Even my fellow cheerleaders gave obeisance when Kelly paraded past. She was too good for our ranks and took pride in heading her own squad of others who shared her mindset.

  I recalled the sneers she perfected and the smug looks she’d shared with her friends as she sent lancing verbal blows down onto the peons below. Now, surrounded by homemade canned goods, hand-knitted blankets, sweet-grass woven baskets, and hand-dipped candles, Kelly was a veritable Martha Stewart in sheep’s clothing. Time would tell if she’d stay a lamb or if the rabid she-wolf still lingered.

  We tolerated each other.

  My first day working at the County Corner General Store, I fumbled through sandwich prep while listening to my coworkers rehash their favorite memories.

  “I remember how you and August used to be. I have fabulous powers of recollection,” Kelly insisted, removing the mini-spatula from her scrunchy. An apron pocket would have been a cleaner place to store cutlery. “How funny! I can’t imagine why he didn’t lose his shit when you started dating that debate guy. What was his name?”

  So much for her fabulous powers. “Adam Finch,” I supplied.

  Kelly snapped her fingers. “Yes! Adam Finch. Debater extraordinaire. More like a master debater, if you catch my meaning.”

  I groaned, unable to keep from shaking my head. “That joke has been used to death.”

  “I don’t know how y’all can remember such trivial stuff. Hell, I don’t even recall what I did last week.” The oldest of our crew at fifty-five, Beulah Gordon, who happened to be Leslie the homecoming queen’s mother, scowled at me. I wondered if she realized the monster she’d birthed.

  I put the finishing touches on an egg salad sandwich before adding the lettuce finale. Beulah whipped her laser-like gaze to my workstation and clucked her tongue.

  “Isabel, I offered you a job on the premise of your grasping the basics of food prep, honey. Your sandwich looks like you took it out of the trash.” Beulah fluttered her lashes as she spoke. “I can’t have you serving rubbish to our customers or word will get out we’ve let our standards slip.”

  I rolled my eyes into my head far enough to warrant an ache. Egg salad was egg salad. My concoction looked fine in the grand scheme of things, but in Beulah’s eyes, she and her precious Kelly were the only ones who ever did things right around here.

  “I’ll start over.” My back straightened as a ball of tension migrated down to settle between my shoulders. “It’s no problem.”

  Kelly and Beulah stood together like chickens in a hen house clucking over a single morsel of food. In this case, me. Everything I did, or did not do.

  Both women boasted the same chestnut-brown hair courtesy of the beauty shop down the street. Beulah preferred hers in fluttery waves harkening back to a time when TV ads featured women running on the beach in slow motion. Kelly embraced the modern style of a single side buzzed, while bunching the other side on top of her head.

  I breathed in and out to the count of six and tried not to speak my mind. I hated taking the job despite my desperate need for cash. Talk about the sort of atmosphere to stifle a wild heart! However, in a town of limited prospects, my dwindling finances meant I needed to take what I could get.

  Kelly continued, unabashed, while crafting the perfect turkey club. “I also remember the time Isabel took
her own cousin to the dance and he ditched her for another girl.” She winked. “August had to step in and save the day. I was surprised he walked straight, given he had the weight of saving you on his thin shoulders.”

  “The Fall Social,” I recollected with embarrassment. “Chris needed his inhaler and had to leave early.”

  Kelly smirked. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “Ah, youth.” Beulah gripped the handle of a wooden spoon and attacked a bowl of something resembling pudding.

  I stuck my nose in the air. “In my opinion, I don’t find those stories funny. I lived through them once and that was enough for me.”

  Beulah pointed her pudding-filled spoon at me in warning. “You need to stop being such a sour puss and start enjoying your life. Take my Leslie for example.” She returned to her furious mixing. “Got herself a house, two kids, a damn dog. She figured out her place and stuck with it, by God. Stayed in Heartwood the whole time, too, not an inch of wanderlust. I never hear a foul word out of her mouth.”

  “Only because you didn’t go to school with her,” I muttered from the corner of my mouth.

  Kelly shot me the evil eye, letting me know she’d heard me.

  “Life is about embracing the ups and the downs!” Beulah splattered vanilla on the sheetrock, gesturing passionately. “I’ve been learning how to handle road bumps from my self-help guides.”

  “Read a lot of those, do you?” I asked, retrieving the bread for the redo.

  Kelly moved to the stove, heating the skillet for incoming lunch orders. “You would do well to read a few of them yourself, Miss Cook. As I heard from my second cousin Tommy, who has a friend on Hank’s construction team, your home remodeling project isn’t coming along too well. I bet you are fifty shades of stressed, having to live in a teeny tiny hotel room.”

  Yes, I’d forgotten about small town consciousness, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Gossip and information passed along the collective chain through osmosis.

  From our history together, I recognized the barb. “The hotel is fine, Kelly. It’s rather lovely,” I said. Trying not to alienate my coworkers, I forced a smile large enough to crack my face. “I’ll keep your words in mind though. And yes, the house needs some TLC. Hence, the remodel.”