“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”
Connor glanced up from the front page of last week’s edition of the newspaper and found himself caught in the crosshairs of his father’s legendary scowl. Knowing he’d fail miserably at appearing wide-eyed and innocent, he tried confused instead. “Up to?”
Robert snorted—proving that even though his heart might be weakening, there was nothing wrong with his head. “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality,” he muttered. “I ought to have Walter’s license for this.”
“I came home for Christmas, Dad. You know. Twinkling lights. The smell of a fresh-cut balsam. Family togetherness. Christmas carols sung by the fire…”
Robert rolled his eyes. “You disappoint me, son. I can’t believe you think I’d fall for that one. Especially considering you chose to stay away all these years.”
“Chose to stay away?” Someone had a faulty memory and it wasn’t him. “Ah…Dad, you kicked me out after graduation. I believe your exact words were, ‘Don’t come back until you make something of yourself.’”
“How did I know it was going to take you so long?” Robert complained.
Connor’s concern overrode his urge to laugh. After silently observing his dad at the newspaper the day before, he assumed Doctor Parish had exaggerated Robert’s condition. Until he got home from Roscoe’s and caught his father leaning against the wall, one hand pressed protectively against his chest. As soon as Robert realized he’d been spotted, he’d straightened and pretended to search for something in his shirt pocket.
Robert was a master at hiding his feelings. Connor shook his head at the irony. A career in journalism wasn’t the only thing passed down from father to son.
“I’m here now—and thanks for putting me to work.” Connor kept his voice casual, wondering if his dad was going to see through that, too. “Not that I’m thrilled with your choice of assignments.”
Liar.
On cue, his memory conjured up an image of lively blue-green eyes and full lips curved into a smile. Well, they had been smiling. Until he’d insulted her. He had a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. Some people could play an instrument or paint portraits, he ticked people off. Connor viewed it as a necessary skill for his career. When people got emotional, their brains had a tendency to shut down and their mouths took over. But he hadn’t had that effect on the woman in the diner. She’d gone all quiet and dignified on him, her eyes flashing just once in reproof before she walked away. For some reason, he’d felt a stab of something that might qualify as guilt. Definitely not a feeling he was used to.
“I’ve got reporters who’d go on strike if I made them cover the Christmas bazaar at the hospital and sent you to city hall for a real story.” A glint of humor flickered in Robert’s eyes. “I hope you can live it down.”
“I’ll survive.” Although Connor knew any story he wrote that didn’t draw blood would end up in his mailbox with personal critiques from his colleagues scrawled in the margins. He drained the contents of his cup and rose to his feet. “Come on. I’ll drive you to work.”
“Not in that contraption you came home in, I hope.”
“No?” Connor’s eyebrow lifted. “I thought you liked living dangerously.”
Robert’s lips twitched. In their verbal fencing match, Connor had just scored a point.
By noon, Connor had a makeshift office in a windowless cubicle and a Reuben sandwich with extra kraut. But no phone messages. He’d seen the wary look in the woman’s eyes when he’d blocked her escape from the diner. He hadn’t exactly won her over with his what’ sin-this-for-you comment but he’d figured once she read his card, she’d be calling as soon as the newspaper opened. People loved to see their names in print. Businesses loved free publicity. He was willing to offer her both.
If she’d call back.
At three o’clock, he fished a local phone book out of the drawer and circled a number. Lakeshore Community Fellowship. Connor talked to a very nice lady and jotted down a name and address before he snapped his cell phone closed. A slow, predatory smile crossed his face.
Sarah Kendle. 314 North Jackson.
Which just happened to be kitty-corner from the newspaper.
Sarah was in the back room, up to her elbows in packing peanuts, when the door bells announced a customer. With Christmas only a few weeks away, she was officially behind schedule. Giving the cup of tea steeping on her desk a longing look, she hopped over a cardboard box on her way to the front of the store.
“What kind of place is this?”
Sarah frowned, trying to place the voice that rumbled from behind a decorative panel. Definitely masculine…definitely familiar…
“Good morning.”
Definitely Connor Lawe.
In her shop. Looking more attractive than he had the night before. Not that she’d paid that much attention. Melting snow glistened in tawny brown hair several shades lighter than his skin. No one had a right to be so tan in December. He wore blue jeans and a black leather jacket, unzipped to reveal a pinstriped Oxford shirt that would have looked stuffy on anyone else. Sarah wasn’t fooled. It took a lot of money to look that casual.
“What are you doing here?” She normally never greeted potential customers so bluntly, but she had a strong hunch Connor Lawe wasn’t looking for anything Memory Lane carried.
There was only one thing a reporter with his reputation would search for like an overzealous bloodhound. A story. Except that didn’t make sense. From what she’d heard about him, his specialty was stirring up controversy, exposing government corruption and ruffling political feathers. So why was he back in town? And why had he bothered to track her to her shop?
“What is all this stuff?” Connor bent down and scooped up a handful of rubber stamps from a wicker bin. “Do people actually buy these things?”
A soft answer turns away wrath. And, hopefully, irritating reporters. “They’re stamps.”
“For what?”
“Scrapbooking. That’s what Memory Lane is. A store that sells scrapbooking supplies.”
“Scrap…” Connor’s voice trailed off as his gaze scoured the room, coming to rest on the colorful baskets hanging from an antique coatrack Sarah had found in the attic after she’d bought the building.
“…booking,” Sarah finished, realizing she was going to have to clarify. “It’s a hobby.”
“A hobby?”
Sarah fought a sudden urge to smile. Obviously she was witnessing a rare occurrence. Connor Lawe at a loss for words. The befuddled look in his eyes made him seem more…human.
“Scrapbooking is very popular. It’s creative—and personal. People can keep it as simple or as detailed as they want it to be, but the result is a keepsake photo album. An heirloom. And it’s better for your pictures than shoving them into a shoebox.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that.” Now he was studying her. As though Memory Lane were a petri dish and she the strange, unidentifiable organism swimming around inside of it. Just when she was tempted to squirm under the scrutiny of those intense gray eyes, she remembered that he was on her turf. Maybe it was time to start asking him some questions.
She took a deep breath. “So, if you aren’t looking for some cute background papers for your vacation photos, why are you here?”
“You’re kidding me, right? Cute kids dressed like angels who deliver sentimental messages and then top them off with a Christmas carol? If I were a major stockholder in a tissue company, I couldn’t have come up with a better angle than this for the Christmas issue.”
“No.” It was the only word Sarah managed to squeak out around the knot that suddenly formed in her throat.
Connor frowned. “What do you mean no?”
Sarah took a deep breath, reminding herself the word no probably wasn’t familiar to Connor. “There is no angle. The girls came up with this idea and I’m not about to let you put your slant on it.”
“What exactly is my slant?” He picked up a heart-shaped paper punch and tested it.
“You know. That we have some kind of ulterior motive. Like hoping people will make a special donation to the church. Or using the Good News-grams to increase attendance at the Christmas Eve service…”
“Actually, those things hadn’t crossed my mind.” He pulled a palm-sized notebook out of his pocket and scribbled something down.
Ack. That backfired. Somehow, she had to persuade him to give up the idea of writing a story about the girls. Roscoe’s reaction to his Good News-gram proved that beneath a gruff exterior, a squishy marshmallow heart might be beating. Maybe all she needed to do was appeal to Connor’s soft side…
“The girls were nervous last night and to tell you the truth, their parents are a little concerned about them doing this in the first place. I don’t think an interview would be a good idea.” Everything she said was the truth. Hopefully it would be enough to change his mind.
Connor looked thoughtful. “I don’t plan to interview them—”
The relief Sarah felt was cut off as the doorbells jingled cheerfully, announcing another customer. Mrs. Owens. Shrouded from head to toe in a faux leopard-print coat and matching hat, with a large envelope tucked under one arm. The elderly woman was one of the pillars of the community. She was also one of Sarah’s best customers, even though she’d never risk her French manicure by picking up a pair of decorative-edged scissors. She hired Sarah to do that for her.
“Sarah. I found 1960 to 1975. Oh my goodness. The hairstyles.” Mrs. Owens shuddered delicately. “Atrocious. It’s a good thing Jackie made hats fashionable. Saved us all from complete embarrassment.”
Connor watched their exchange in fascination. Sarah wouldn’t have been surprised to find out he had a miniature tape recorder in his pocket. All the better to hear you with, my dear.
“I’ll start working on them right away,” Sarah promised. “I’m just finishing up your wedding photos—”
“Mrs. Owens.” Connor’s husky voice suddenly invaded their conversation. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Mrs. Owens turned and gasped his name in delight. “Connor. Dear boy. Your father mentioned you were coming home for Christmas. From what he tells us at the club, it sounds like you’ve worn a path around the world. I see you’ve met our Sarah. Sweet girl. Moved to town a few years ago, during the downtown renovation. She’s been organizing all the Owens family photos.”
I’m standing right here, Mrs. Owens. Sarah bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. Her gaze briefly tangled with Connor’s and she was stunned to see an answering spark of humor in his eyes. The moment of connection between them left Sarah unexpectedly breathless.
“I’m sure you have things to do, Mr. Lawe.” She had to get rid of him. Her peace of mind depended on it.
“So formal, you two!” Mrs. Owens scolded. “I have to meet Harold for dinner at five, so I’ll look at the photos later, Sarah.” She patted Sarah’s arm and then lifted her chin and blew Connor air kisses—one for each sunwashed cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back. Your father misses you, you know. It’s about time you took over the business so he can retire.”
Mrs. Owens swept out of the shop but Connor stood frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the artificial Christmas tree near the window overlooking The Avenue.
“You’re taking over The Jackson Lake News?” Sarah finally broke the silence. She tried not to think about what it would mean to see him at the monthly chamber of commerce meetings.
“I don’t know where she got that idea.” His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t come back to take over the newspaper. I came back to convince my father to sell it.”
He strode toward the door but just before he reached it, he turned and looked at her.
“I’ll see you tonight, Miss Kendle.” His tone gently mocked the formal way she’d addressed him in front of Mrs. Owens. “624 Bonnie Lane. Number 12, right?”
He’d just recited the address of their next Good News-gram delivery.
Sarah’s mouth went dry. “How did you know that?”
“Your pastor told me the address when I called him this afternoon. That would have been right after he gave me permission to accompany you and the girls when they deliver the messages.” He slipped the notebook into his pocket and had the audacity to wink at her. “Not everyone shuns free publicity, you know.”