restaurant, cursing the tables crowding his path, cursing his daughter, cursing the small town he ran his shipping empire from.
"Whew, that was a good one."
Elle propped her chin in her palm, watched Christabel Connery sweep her maroon skirt to the side and plant her ample bottom in the chair her father had vacated.
"A quick-tempered male, I tell you."
"At least he didn't break any crystal this time," Elle said.
Christabel pulled a dented cup from her apron pocket and emptied the rest of the wine in it. "Oh, he's just getting sick of ordering those fancy glasses every month. Sees it's cheaper to flounce outta here spitting curses rather than throwing things. For the love of Pete, at least that's free." She swished wine from cheek to cheek and swallowed. "Have a fit if he saw me drinking this from a tin cup, wouldn't he?"
Elle laughed, or tried to, and dipped her head low. Her father's tantrum hadn't left the sick feeling in her stomach. Oh, no, Noah's love letter had done that.
"Oh, honey."
Startled, she glanced up, taking note of the compassion in her friend's dark brown eyes. Not able to stand anyone's sympathy just then, Elle dropped her gaze to the tangle of blond hair trailing past Christa's shoulder. Her father called Christabel a floozy; Elle called her a friend. "He's never going to sign my money over to me, Christa. Never. He has no right to do this. My mother planned to give it to me for my education. She and Papa discussed the funds before she died. He promised her, promised me. And now, it's been so long. I'm too old to return to university."
"It seems he has every right, fair or no. Didn't your momma leave anything in writing? Anything at all? I don't know much about legal matters, but I do know you have to get it in writing."
Elle shook her head. Her mother's death had been sudden, three weeks after the headaches and dizziness started. There had not been time to sign papers and legalize things her mother had never dreamed would need to be legalized.
"Maybe you should marry—"
Elle's hand shot on, coming close to knocking the bottle to the floor. "Please, don't say it, Christa. Please, anyone but you."
"Honey, what are you going to do? Your school isn't a money-making business. Not enough, anyway. And what if Widow Wynne, bless her heart, passes on? You could open a shop, a millinery or something, like Carol Hudley. Except you can't sew worth a lick. And your cooking isn't good enough for even me to hire you." Christabel raised the cup to her lips, her words a hollow echo against tin. "You could still go back to Magnus."
Elle slammed her elbows to the table. "You must be joking."
Christabel lowered the cup, revealing flushed cheeks and a half grimace.
"Mercy above, you're embarrassed to even suggest it. How could you think...?" The words turned to a growl low in her throat.
"He still loves you, Ellie. Anna Plowman is a blind fool, I guess, not to see. Tell him you love him and didn't realize it before. He'd jump like you lit a firecracker under his tail end."
"I won't do it. Something deep inside tells me not to."
A dreamy smile rounded Christabel's lips as she took a lazy sip.
Elle leaned in and whispered, "Get that look off your face. It's not going to happen." She glanced over her shoulder, but no one appeared to be listening.
"Like your granny always said."
"Yes, yes, Noah's returned. Fat lot of good that will do me. My father just told me a woman is writing him from Chicago. Scented letters, of all things."
"Chicago's a long way, honey. Miles and miles. She's there, and you're here. Seems you have the advantage. Not so hard to make him fall in love with you if you put your mind to it."
A ragged laugh burst from her lips. "Noah Garrett, in love with me? Rich, Christa, really rich."
"Listen, from one woman who loves a Garrett to another who loves a Garrett but won't admit she does, it isn't that hard. You just got to make them see what's already there. Caleb never knew what hit him.
"Whew, that was a good one."
Elle propped her chin in her palm, watched Christabel Connery sweep her maroon skirt to the side and plant her ample bottom in the chair her father had vacated.
"A quick-tempered male, I tell you."
"At least he didn't break any crystal this time," Elle said.
Christabel pulled a dented cup from her apron pocket and emptied the rest of the wine in it. "Oh, he's just getting sick of ordering those fancy glasses every month. Sees it's cheaper to flounce outta here spitting curses rather than throwing things. For the love of Pete, at least that's free." She swished wine from cheek to cheek and swallowed. "Have a fit if he saw me drinking this from a tin cup, wouldn't he?"
Elle laughed, or tried to, and dipped her head low. Her father's tantrum hadn't left the sick feeling in her stomach. Oh, no, Noah's love letter had done that.
"Oh, honey."
Startled, she glanced up, taking note of the compassion in her friend's dark brown eyes. Not able to stand anyone's sympathy just then, Elle dropped her gaze to the tangle of blond hair trailing past Christa's shoulder. Her father called Christabel a floozy; Elle called her a friend. "He's never going to sign my money over to me, Christa. Never. He has no right to do this. My mother planned to give it to me for my education. She and Papa discussed the funds before she died. He promised her, promised me. And now, it's been so long. I'm too old to return to university."
"It seems he has every right, fair or no. Didn't your momma leave anything in writing? Anything at all? I don't know much about legal matters, but I do know you have to get it in writing."
Elle shook her head. Her mother's death had been sudden, three weeks after the headaches and dizziness started. There had not been time to sign papers and legalize things her mother had never dreamed would need to be legalized.
"Maybe you should marry—"
Elle's hand shot on, coming close to knocking the bottle to the floor. "Please, don't say it, Christa. Please, anyone but you."
"Honey, what are you going to do? Your school isn't a money-making business. Not enough, anyway. And what if Widow Wynne, bless her heart, passes on? You could open a shop, a millinery or something, like Carol Hudley. Except you can't sew worth a lick. And your cooking isn't good enough for even me to hire you." Christabel raised the cup to her lips, her words a hollow echo against tin. "You could still go back to Magnus."
Elle slammed her elbows to the table. "You must be joking."
Christabel lowered the cup, revealing flushed cheeks and a half grimace.
"Mercy above, you're embarrassed to even suggest it. How could you think...?" The words turned to a growl low in her throat.
"He still loves you, Ellie. Anna Plowman is a blind fool, I guess, not to see. Tell him you love him and didn't realize it before. He'd jump like you lit a firecracker under his tail end."
"I won't do it. Something deep inside tells me not to."
A dreamy smile rounded Christabel's lips as she took a lazy sip.
Elle leaned in and whispered, "Get that look off your face. It's not going to happen." She glanced over her shoulder, but no one appeared to be listening.
"Like your granny always said."
"Yes, yes, Noah's returned. Fat lot of good that will do me. My father just told me a woman is writing him from Chicago. Scented letters, of all things."
"Chicago's a long way, honey. Miles and miles. She's there, and you're here. Seems you have the advantage. Not so hard to make him fall in love with you if you put your mind to it."
A ragged laugh burst from her lips. "Noah Garrett, in love with me? Rich, Christa, really rich."
"Listen, from one woman who loves a Garrett to another who loves a Garrett but won't admit she does, it isn't that hard. You just got to make them see what's already there. Caleb never knew what hit him.
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