Present Day. Peach Orchard Inn
Grayson thought he heard music—piano music.
Curious as to who played the haunting melody when he hadn’t noticed a piano anywhere in the mansion, he closed his laptop, pocketed his reading glasses, and followed the sound down the stairs and into the guest parlor.
After hours of fiddling with Devlin’s designs and running through spreadsheets, he needed a break anyway.
Still, the music played, lilting, sad, and lovely.
There wasn’t a soul in the parlor unless he counted the pair in the photo overlooking the fireplace. He stood still, listening hard, trying to ascertain location or at least a direction.
Valery appeared in the archway. The music stopped.
“You look puzzled.” After flashing him a smile, she went to the fireplace where she stretched up on ballet flats, giving him a pleasant view of her lithe, curvy profile as she set a bouquet of fresh pink and purple tulips on the mantel.
“I thought I heard someone playing the piano, but I don’t remember seeing one.”
She scooted the fluted vase—a porcelain Edwardian, unless he missed his guess—an inch to one side before turning toward him. “There’s a baby grand in the family parlor.”
“So I wasn’t hearing things?”
Eyebrows lifted above dancing eyes, Valery tilted her head in a charmer’s pose. “Then again, maybe you were.”
He huffed softly, ruffled to find himself more attracted to her every time they met. “You sound like the old man I met this morning at the mill.”
He told her about Lem Tolly and their odd conversation, a conversation that left him wondering if Lem knew something about the bones buried beneath the mill.
“I know who you mean. I’ve seen him around. He’s...different.”
Grayson laughed. “You can say that again.”
“He’s different.”
Then they both laughed, each holding the other’s gaze until Grayson’s neck grew warm, and he glanced away.
He wasn’t without female companionship, especially on his own time schedule, but there was something about this particular woman... He knew for a fact, a free spirit like Valery would never adhere to his regimented, organized lifestyle. Maybe that was why she rattled him. She was outside his comfort zone.
He’d have to think about that. About her. As if he didn’t already.
While he pondered, she looped an arm through his elbow.
“Come on, Gray,” she said, surprising him with the shortened, familiar form of his name. “I’ll show you the piano. It’s in the family living quarters on the other end of the house.”
Through his long sleeves, he felt the heat of her skin and smelled the lush, musky scent she wore. No fruity peach for this siren, she was all heat and exotic mystery.
He definitely felt her heat.
Before he could remind her that he had things to do—even though he didn’t—she led him out of the parlor, down the hall and into the foyer. “I want to show you something else first. I think you’ll be interested.”
“What is it?”
Valery laughed, a throaty music that stirred his blood. The sound gave him thoughts he couldn’t fit into his schedule.
“You’ll see.”
He didn’t object to the gentle tug of her arm on his. In fact, he liked it. Though there was nothing sensual about her intent; her sensuality was as much a part of her as breathing. He liked touching her, having her touch him as long as he remembered that Valery was an accomplished charmer, and flirting with any man—not only him—was as natural to her as breathing.
A skinny, sickly Grayson had fallen hard for her at fifteen. The adult Grayson might not be skinny or sickly, but he was still a geek who loved spreadsheets and the perfect order of predictable numbers.
Valery was not predictable.
She drew him into the foyer to the credenza and the display case of artifacts. She inched closer until her side brushed his, barely, but he felt every place they connected.
“Have you looked at these?” She tilted that pretty face up toward his.
He cleared his throat.
The display of antique artifacts had interested him from the moment he’d first walked in the house. “My crews have found artifacts during construction, too—especially Civil War era buttons and coins and mine balls. I never thought of displaying them.”
“You have an office, don’t you?”
“In Nashville.”
“There you go, then.”
She was right. A shadow box filled with history would please him as well as his clients. He wondered what had become of the items they’d discovered over the years.
She turned back to the display and tapped a finger against the glass-framed sheet music. “Have you noticed the sheet music?”
He’d expected her fingernails to be long and vampish. Instead, they were short and serviceable but every bit as cardinal-red as her lipstick.
“I have. Each time I walk through the front door. There’s something about it...”
Her head whipped toward him. “You feel it, too? I’ve never told anyone because, Lord knows, they already think I’m loony.”
He smiled down at her, lightly teasing, eager to prolong the moments in her quicksilver company. “And why is that, Miss Carter? What insane thing have you done to set the tongues wagging?”
Her smile faltered and she broke eye contact. “Oh, honey child, you don’t even want to go there.”
Then she gave a brittle laugh and gently slapped at his forearm. “Do you want to play this music for me or not? I’ve been dying for a pianist to come along so I can hear it.”
“You don’t play?” There was something very musical about the way she moved.
“Regretfully, no. None of us do, though Mama took lessons as a girl, and she made Julia and I do the same. When it became obvious I had no talent for piano, she enrolled me in... Well, that’s not important. How did you become a piano man?”
Memories of that time flashed in his head. “I got sick. My parents were afraid for me to play sports, so they forced me into piano to keep me occupied.”
“You must have been very sick. What happened?”
He rarely discussed the terrifying time, but for some reason he told her. “I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma.”
“Hodgkin’s as in cancer?” Her lips rounded in sympathy and surprise. “When?”
“I was thirteen. Right before school was out for summer vacation. Devlin and I were eager to come here for a few weeks with Grandma and Pappy.” His gaze drifted to the Victorian credenza, but his mind was far away. “Devlin came that summer and the next. I stayed in Nashville.”
“And had treatments.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. Your parents must have been terrified.”
“They were. So was I. Teenage boys aren’t supposed to get cancer and die.” He glanced at his watch. He’d been running out of time.
“How incredibly brave.”
“I never thought of myself as brave, Valery. A person does what he has to do, even if he’s only thirteen. We don’t always have choices.”
“Nor do we always make the right ones.” She studied him in quiet sympathy. “Are you okay now?”
“The docs run tests every year, but so far, I’m good.” He didn’t like thinking of the alternative, but the danger was always there on the edge of his mind.
“Thank God. I’m so glad. The world would be a worse place without Grayson Blake.”
The sweet sentiment caught him off guard. “I could return the compliment.”
“Don’t. It wouldn’t be true.”
Where had that come from? “You’re a beautiful, kind woman. It’s a shame you don’t realize that.”
Her expression was stricken. “You don’t know me that well.”
No, but he wanted to. “Maybe we should remedy that problem.”
Something flickered in her expression, and her lips curved, not a lot but enough. “Maybe we should.”
A little hum of interest and energy stirred the peach air around them. Grayson shifted but not due to discomfort. He was sorely tempted to kiss her, but this was not the time or place, and as she said, he didn’t even know her that well.
But he would. Yes, he would.
“Now you know why I learned piano instead of football.”
“A forced activity.”
“And one I’m thankful for. I would have gone crazy without music as a focus. Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me do anything vigorous for a long time. And to tell the truth, I didn’t feel like doing anything else. Chemo knocked me out. Music became my hobby, my solace, everything for a while.”
“Well, then, Piano Man, will you play for me? Show me your stuff?”
Suddenly Grayson very much wanted to get his hands on a piano and figure out what it was about the sheet music that prickled the hair on the back of his neck.
“The paper must be very fragile. I’m not sure it could survive much handling.”
“Fear not, oh wise and sensible one, we made copies when we first discovered Patience Portland’s portfolio.” She was making gentle fun of his perfectionist tendency, but he was accustomed to the teasing. Devlin did it all the time.
He blinked down at her. “You have more than this one piece?”
“An entire notebook. Patience was, apparently, a prolific composer and accomplished pianist. Most of the pieces are by other people with her notations on the pages, but a good selection is her own work.”
“Amazing.” He was oddly excited by the news.
“Isn’t it?” Her eyelashes fluttered. “Come on, then. Play. You know you want to.”
He suppressed a grin. “I’m not getting any work done anyway.”
“And the delay is making you very antsy.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” He wiggled his fingers at her. “My skills may be a bit rusty, but I’d like to give it a try.”
“Oh, I bet your skills are top-notch.” She laughed her throaty laugh.
He didn’t miss the innuendo, but dismissed it and joked in kind. “Who knows, if the Gristmill Restaurant project goes down the drain, I’ll be tuned up for a job in a piano bar.”
“I promise to come listen every Friday night and put money in your jar.”
“Will you lean on the piano and give me inspiration?”
She leaned in vamp-like and playfully batted her eyelashes, her voice dropping low. “Maybe. If you’re really, really nice and play all my favorites.”
She tapped a finger against her top lip. Full, red and tilted at the corners in a perpetual smile. He was male. She was beautiful. If his mind wandered off to kissing, he couldn’t help it. He, who was usually so controlled and focused, was losing focus today.
“Must be the delays,” he mumbled.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Thinking out loud. Show me the piano and let’s see if I still have it.”
She laughed again, and feeling both attractive and attracted, he followed her toward the back of house.
* * *
He still had it, all right.
All of it. Most of which had nothing to do with his musical abilities.
Valery stood at the corner of the piano facing Grayson as his skilled fingers trickled over the keys of the baby grand to find a rhythm. He smiled up at her, his hands moving as if they didn’t need his brain. But with a brain as big as his, he could probably do ten things at once and never break a sweat.
Such, she was learning, was his charisma. His was not the exuberant extroverted flare of his brother, but a quieter, solid confidence that said he knew exactly what he was doing and where he was going.
Valery had never met anyone quite like Grayson Blake. He didn’t fit her perception of men in general. The difference fascinated her.
She’d done something out of the ordinary by bringing him into a part of the house few guests ever saw. Here, the family relaxed, invited friends. Guests remained in the public sections of the inn.
But here they were, in the family parlor.
The cozy room, dominated by ornate floral patterns in the muted pinks and greens favored by the early nineteenth century, looked out upon the south side of the house toward the old cemetery and the woods. A white marble fireplace added character to one wall, and an Aubusson-style rug Mama had found in Chattanooga covered the reclaimed heart pine floor. With the heavy Victorian drapes tied back over lace sheers, a weak sun penetrated the room. She was glad they’d gone to the trouble of restoring rather than modernizing the space.
“Name that tune.” Grayson’s music drew her focus as he played a few bars.
“Easy.” She waved a dismissing hand. “‘Walking in Memphis.’ If you don’t know that one, you can’t live in Tennessee.”
“Dev says the same thing.”
“The two of you are really close, aren’t you?”
“Like you and Julia, I suppose.”
Too close, then. So close that if one bled, the other suffered. And the main reason Julia could never, ever learn what her sister had done.
A tricky line of thinking she should not follow.
She tossed her hair back, feeling a little wild and wishing she were free the way she’d been before bad choices had stolen too much and left her guilt-ridden and yearning for do-overs.
But life didn’t work that way. There were no second chances. Only regret and penitence. The only time she felt wild and free was when she’d had enough booze to numb the memories.
“Hey. Earth to Valery.”
“Sorry.” She tossed her hair back again and laughed to prove she was still a fun girl, both to herself and him. “Play. I’m all ears.”
Grayson modulated into a feisty rhythm she recognized immediately. “Brown Eyed Girl.” She’d played the Van Morrison CD until some guy borrowed it and never returned it. Guys. Who sang the song in her ear and made promises they never kept.
She wondered if Grayson was that kind. Instinct said he wasn’t. If he made a promise, he’d probably write it in his planner, type it into an app with an alarm, and make it happen. He was anchored, sure, and dependable, all the things she wasn’t.
She was a wind sock in a hurricane.
But the thought of Grayson singing in her ear tickled her fancy, made her sassy.
She flicked her fingers through the air and teased. “Sorry. Don’t know that one.”
“Yes, you do. Even a blue-eyed woman would recognize ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”
“You prefer blue?”
He gazed at her, serious for a moment, and she suffered a pleasant flutter. “Brown eyes are beautiful, like warm, sweet caramel.”
“Why, Mr. Blake. I do declare.” She batted her eyelashes again, one hand to her chest in imitation of every Southern belle the movies ever offered, and was rewarded by his laugh.
The first day he’d arrived, he’d seemed driven and professional and uptight, but today she saw a different side of him. Relaxed, he was witty and warm. The combination was killer attractive.
He stopped playing and spun his knees toward the end of the bench. “You didn’t come to hear me play oldies. The portfolio?”
“Oh.” She’d been enjoying him so much she didn’t give a rip about Patience Portland’s antique music. Men were a weakness she couldn’t seem to resist, no matter how many times she swore to stay away. “In the bench.”
He retrieved the book and opened the pages on the piano.
“I thought it was a waste of money,” she said, and when his gaze was quizzical, she clarified. “Buying the piano.”
He ran an appreciative hand over the gleaming black lacquered finish. “Not original, then.”
“No. The original was in the guest parlor. From what we’ve pieced together from letters, old newspapers, and other documents, Patience Portland taught piano in that room.”
“And wrote music.”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, when you know some of the history of this house? Did she play when the Union army occupied the house? Did her music comfort the wounded? Did she write for her true love?”
“Those kinds of questions are why we repurpose old construction. The thought of those who’ve gone before, who built lives and buildings, who loved and hated, who made this country what it is, fascinates me.” Grayson pointed a finger. “Don’t start with the spotted owl thing.”
“I wasn’t going to, but since you brought it up, why don’t you attend a Historical Preservation meeting with me?” She could pretend the invitation was for the project but couldn’t deny a thrill at the idea of showing up on his arm. “The Sweat twins might be able to tell you more about the mill. You’ve met Miss Vida Jean and Miss Willa Dean, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said wryly. “At the mill, at the café, on the street. I even found them standing over the open grave down in the basement, pressed against the police caution tape, debating how poor Mr. Bones met his demise. Those ladies are everywhere and full of advice and stories.”
“I’ll admit they’re eccentric in their matching outfits and daffodil hair, but if anyone knows Honey Ridge, they do. They’ve lived through much of its history or know someone who did.” She tilted toward him. “So, what do you say? There’s a meeting next Wednesday night. Someone always brings home-baked refreshments, so we can linger and argue about the spotted owl.”
She flashed him a smile to let him know she was joking. No one would attack him about the restoration. The town was thrilled that someone of the Blake brothers’ reputation had taken an interest. As he’d reminded her that first day, the gristmill would decay and disappear entirely if not for them.
“Refreshments are always good.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “But everything depends on where we are on the mill project. Hopefully, we’ll be up and going by then, making up for lost time.”
Time. Now that she knew about his teenage brush with death she understood his drive a little better. The clock was ticking for them all. Grayson felt that pressure more than most.
He turned his attention to the sheet music and began to tentatively locate the notes to Patience’s melody.
After a trial run-through, he played in earnest, smoothly, easily, as she’d expected of him. Grayson would do nothing halfway.
The music began with a dreamlike quality as pure and innocent as a spring day.
“Beautiful,” Valery murmured. “She was very gifted.”
So was he.
Grayson nodded and continued to play, his long, powerful fingers flowing effortlessly and a surprising passion in his expression. Given his passion for work, she should have known he’d be passionate about other things.
She closed her eyes and let the music swell over her, warm and sweet and sweeping her away like a current running toward the ocean.
Valery retreated to her dream world, swaying to the music, recalling the pure joy of those times when she was lost in the music and movement. Her body remembered what her mind tried to forget.
Suddenly, the music stopped.
Her eyes flew open. Her pulse beat strangely in her throat. Of joy and beauty and freedom.
“What?” She sounded breathless.
“You’re a dancer.”
Anxiety trickled through her, more acid than sweetly flowing current. “Not anymore.”
Dance had been her whole life, her love, the tool her mother had used to control her. She’d chosen dance and thrown away the best of herself.
Memories of Savannah flashed through her head, a Technicolor movie screen. She mentally slapped at the images as if the consequences of her decision could be that easily eradicated.
“I remember now how dedicated you were and the way you danced to everything. Even at the Dairy Queen.”
And in the parking lot and at bonfires and football games and parades. Anywhere there was space she danced whether formally or for fun. Dance was her life, her love, her everything.
She didn’t dance anymore.
“Teenage stuff.” She forced a smile.
“Come on. I remember a lot more than that. You were a serious student, a real talent. Grandma even predicted you’d end up dancing on Broadway or in the movies.”
“Every girl dreams of becoming a singer or dancer. Every boy is convinced he’ll be a pro athlete. Reality is a whole different ball game.”
“True, Dev and I were going to be rock stars.” His eyes twinkled. “But you were better than most. I can’t believe I didn’t recall until now. You did some music videos up in Nashville, didn’t you? And you were the talk of Honey Ridge that summer.”
Please, don’t remember anything else. Please.
“Didn’t you go to New York one year to train with some big-time dance teacher?”
He remembered.