Be Careful, It's My Heart: A Small Town Southern Romance

Book 3: Wishful Romance

by Kait Nolan

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Small-town Romance; forced proximity; first love; second chance; get the band back together

Synopsis

The best things happen while you're acting...

The historic Madrigal theater, in the heart of downtown Wishful, is about to close its doors forever. A last ditch fund-raising effort, a production of White Christmas, is probably the only thing that could bring Tyler Edison out of retirement. She fell in love on that stage, but when Brody Jensen abandoned her, she lost the heart to sing and dance for the crowd. Maybe it's time to take that back...


It seems like pure chance when Brody's job, which has taken him all over the world, brings him back to his little hometown to oversee his boss's latest secret project. Brody's looking for closure, planning to sell the house his parents left him and finally put his past, and his memories of Tyler, behind him. What better way than to be a part of this last show? Even though his leading lady is surely long gone...


Put on your dancing shoes, auditions start at six o'clock.

Release date: November 19, 2013

Publisher: Take The Leap Publishing

Print pages: 157

Sample

Chapter One

“I REALLY APPRECIATE YOUR help with this, Tyler.”  Norah Burke passed over the caramel macchiato she’d brought as bribery.  “It’s so last minute, and I’m going to need all the hands I can get to pull it off.” 

“It’s a whole month away,” said Tyler, setting down the coffee and cutting open a box of new cabinet hardware.  “We’ve got time.” 

“A month in city event planning language is, like, tomorrow.  But it’s so rare Halloween falls on a weekend, and I can’t pass up the opportunity to do something.”

Sipping the coffee and slipping the knobs and drawer pulls into bins, Tyler listened as her friend laid out the concept she’d developed for a new fall festival.

“It’ll be an all-day event.  A 5k run/walk in the morning to kick things off—I’ll need to come up with some catchy name that will look good on T-shirts, and get sponsors.”  She made another note.  “Then maybe a combination harvest and arts festival on the green.  Something that’ll bring out the local artisans and farmers.  We’ll get the businesses around the square to host trick or treating for the kids—which will make the parents happy since it’ll be well lit and centralized.”

“You should have a station set up for fall pictures,” Tyler said.  “Something with hay bales and pumpkins so the parents can plunk down their kiddos and get quick pictures.  Zach Warren can set up a booth.  You could call it Pumpkinpalooza.”

“Oh, that’s good!”  Norah made more notes.  “It’ll appeal to everybody, even those super religious folks who have some conscientious objection to Halloween.”

“I’ll be getting in my stock of hay bales and pumpkins next week.  I’ll talk to Logan to make sure there’s plenty fresh for that weekend.”  Tyler scribbled a reminder for herself as the bell above the door jangled and Lorna Van Buren walked in.  “Afternoon, Mrs. Van Buren.  Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

The older woman waved and headed for the paint section.  

“Now here’s the part I’m really going to need help with,” Norah said.  “The old department store is empty.  On the market, of course, but it’s a huge space and nobody’s biting yet.  I got the owner to let us use the first floor to make a haunted house.  We’ll charge a cover to get in, and I’m planning to talk each of the main businesses in town into sponsoring a room, so to speak.  Then we’ll have the people vote for whichever room is scariest.  They’ll be responsible for their own costs and materials, but we’ll still need to build something to divide up the space.”

“The most economical way to do it would be to set up giant fabric partitions.  It’d be pretty cheap to do it with PVC.  You don’t want to create anything permanent, unless you’ve got some future uses in mind.”

“Good point.  See, this is why I needed another brain to bounce ideas off of.”

Mrs. Van Buren stepped up, several paint brushes in hand.  “Oh, I love a good haunted house!  Camilla Dixon at The Calico Cottage can order you the fabric.  Something black, I’d think.  And I bet the Quilting Queens would volunteer to sew them up.”

“The Quilting Queens?” Norah asked.

“It’s this big inter-church group of ladies who quilt.  Nobody has room in their house to host that big a group, so they rotate through the fellowship halls of all the churches in town.  They meet once a week and make quilts to donate to folks.  You should talk to Nancy McAlpin.  She’s their current president.”

“Come to think of it, they have a lot of PVC frames for their annual show.  They might be willing to loan them out,” Tyler said.

Norah grinned as she scribbled.  “God, I love this town.”

Lorna shifted her attention to Tyler.  “I wanted to pick your brain.  See I have this dresser I want to refinish.  Hank already stripped it for me, and I’ve picked out the color stain I want, but I don’t know what kind of brushes I need or what supplies I might be forgetting.”

“Let me help you with that.”  Tyler rose and led her back to the paint supplies.  

Ten minutes later she was ringing up Lorna’s purchases. 

The bell rang again as a brunette whirlwind bounced through the door, singing, “Dust off your dancing shoes, we have a mission.”

Tyler barely spared her best friend a glance as she continued to bag up Lorna’s varnish, stain, lint-free cloths, and new paint brushes.  “Now remember, the natural bristle brushes are for oil-based paint only.  These synthetic ones you bought can go for oil or water-based, but for the varnish you’re going to use on that dresser, the natural bristles will give you a smoother finish.”

The older woman grinned.  “This is going to look so good!  I’ll be sure to take pictures.”

“You do that.  Be sure to tag us on Facebook!” Tyler called.

“I will!”  Lorna waved and pushed her way out the front door of the shop with a jingle.

Piper hopped up on the counter and swung her legs.  “Did you hear what I said?” she demanded.

With a bland stare, Tyler passed right by her and continued to stock the new selection of cabinet hardware.  “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who remembers I ever wore dancing shoes.”

“Not the truth and so not the point,” Piper insisted.

“And what is the point?  You know I don’t dance anymore.”  In public, anyway.

“You will for this.  The Madrigal is in danger.”

Tyler paused, a drawer pull in her hand as her heart twisted.  The historic Madrigal Theater was an institution in downtown Wishful.  It was a central feature of the best memories from her past.  Though “past” was the operative term.  “That’s terrible!  But what does it have to do with me?”

“They’ve agreed to let us make one last effort to raise the money to save it.  To prove that it can be a sound investment.  Nate is directing a production of White Christmas.  And you’re going to unearth your dancing shoes from whatever graveyard you left them in to audition for it with me.”

“You used to dance?” asked Norah with interest.

“I haven’t danced or sung since college.”

Piper hopped down from the counter and pointed an accusatory finger.  “You lie.  You’ve sung and danced with me as recently as last month.”

“What we do in the privacy of my living room under the influence of a pitcher of margaritas is between you and me and no one else.  And wipe that considering smirk off your face, Norah.”  

“What smirk?”

“The one that says you’re trying to figure out how you can use that in your next community development scheme.”  She shoved plastic wrapped hardware into the Plexiglas bins with more force than necessary.

“Oh, come on, Tyler,” Piper said.  “It’s not like you’ve lost your chops.  You’d be a shoe-in for Judy.  And I would make the perfect Betty.”

“Give me one good reason why I should come out of retirement,” Tyler said.

“Let’s just say, we’re doing it for a pal in the Army.”

Tyler fisted a hand on her hip and leveled a Look at Piper.

“What?  It was appropriate,” Piper said, unabashed. “We’re doing it in the name of the good old days.  Think of how many great memories we have of the Madrigal.  Our first show.  Our first lead roles.  My first kiss, with Robert Hudson in Meet Me In St. Louis.  Where you first fell in love with—”  Piper cut herself off.  “Okay, so maybe that one’s not good to remind you about, but you can’t hold his asshatishness against the Madrigal.”

“Whose asshatishness?” Norah inquired.

“He who will not be named,” Piper informed her, in a tone that suggested she’d be happy to name and tell Norah all at the first opportunity.  As long as it was away from Tyler.  Fine.  It would save Tyler the trouble.

“I’m not holding anything against the Madrigal,” she said.  As soon as it was out of her mouth, she knew she’d have to put her dance shoes where her mouth was.  She sighed.  “When are auditions?”

“Tonight at six.”

“Tonight!  Piper, I’ve got to close.  I’ve got nothing to wear here and no time to go home and get my shoes, not to mention I’ve got nothing prepared for an audition.”

“So tell me where your shoes are and what you want, and I’ll go by and pick everything up for you.”

“I still don’t have anything prepared.”

“Oh come on.  As if you can’t sing every single number from the show in your sleep.”

Given that the two of them had been having sing-a-long viewings of the movie for the last twenty years, this was not deniable.

“It’s not the singing part that has me worried.”

“Tyler,” Piper drew out the plea to five syllables and folded her hands in prayer, complete with the puppy dog eyes that had, over the years, successfully convinced Tyler to go skydiving, be in a bachelorette auction for a hospital fundraiser, and add a set of very purple, very unfortunate highlights to her blonde hair.

Tyler scowled.  “You don’t fight fair.”

“It’s the Madrigal,” Piper insisted.

“Fine.  I’ll be there, but I’ll be a little late.  We don’t close until six.”

“Fabulous!  I’ll meet you there with your shoes and your outfit.  Where are they?”

Tyler sighed.  “Top shelf of my closet, in the blue box.”

Piper squealed in delight and wrapped Tyler in a rib-cracking hug.  “I’ll meet you there!  Bye, Norah.”  Without another word, she whirled and bounced out the door.  

Tyler stared after her, shaking her head.  

“I need to get on too,” Norah said.  “I’ve got a meeting with Sandra in half an hour.”

“Would that be a meeting with her as mayor or as your future mother-in-law for wedding planning?”

“Some of both.  We’ve taken to planning at the office.  When we do it at home, Cam starts looking like he wants to bolt.  As if we actually expect him to have some opinion on napkins and invitation designs.”

Tyler laughed.  “As long as he’s learned the valuable lesson of ‘Yes dear,’ he’ll be fine.”

Norah grinned.  “Exactly.”

“If you’ll get me a number of how many businesses you expect to volunteer, I’ll swing by the site later this week, take some measurements and figure out what you’ll need to make the partitions if the Quilting Queens don’t have frames you can use.”  

“I’ll let you know as soon as I do.  And don’t forget, dress shopping this weekend!” 

“I’ll be there, if only to make sure you don’t put me in robin’s egg blue.”

Norah waved and headed out.

Finished with the display, Tyler hauled the box to the dumpster out back.  In the storeroom, she shot a wary look around before executing an experimental series of alsicones.  If only they could see me now, she thought.  Solid, dependable, Tyler Edison, pillar of the community.  Only Piper could get me to do this again in public.  

It wasn’t that she had stage fright.  There was something glorious about being on stage, under the lights. Putting on someone else’s life for a few hours a week during the run of a show.  Singing music from bygone days and soaking in the adulation of the crowd.  She used to live for it.  She used to live for a lot of things.  But the days since she felt like arbitrarily bursting into song and dance were long past, put away like childish things.  Her life was a good one.  And if she felt, from time to time, as if something was missing, it was fleeting.  

Still, as the front bell jangled again, Tyler decided it couldn’t hurt to take a walk down memory lane in the name of a good cause.  

* * *

“We’re on a schedule here, guys.  Now, I’m not talking about cutting any kind of corners.  Quality and safety come first, but I have it on good authority that, if we can pick up the pace and knock this out before Christmas, there’s a bonus in it for all of you.”

A pleased murmur ran through the crowd.  

There, thought Brody, that got their attention.

Not that he hadn’t had their attention.  But for the past two days, he’d been ignoring the curious looks, the low-voiced murmurs, the unasked questions lingering in the eyes of the locals who remembered him.  He was eager to distract them.  Those unasked questions weren’t ones he wanted—or even knew how—to answer.

“If you’ve got any questions or concerns,” he continued, “or even better, suggestions for how to make this run smoother, I’m in this for the long haul until we’re through.”

Dismissing the crew back to their labors, Brody decided he could do with an early lunch.  He’d missed breakfast, and the coffee he’d grabbed on the way to the job site had long since worn off.  After work today, he really had to make time to go by the grocery and get actual food to stock the kitchen.  His forty-eight hours in Wishful had been full of meetings and reports, familiarizing himself with the job, the crew, and all the variables that he needed to tweak to make sure this project was completed on time.  It was a strange choice of location for one of Gerald Peyton’s projects, but Brody wasn’t in the habit of questioning his boss.  Project management was what he did best, why Peyton sent him all over the country to pick up the reins on jobs that weren’t meeting the company standard.  The itinerant lifestyle suited his wanderlust, giving him a new skyline, new faces, new places every few months.  It was downright irony that this time the job had brought him home.  

And that just made him feel itchy.  He’d made a great deal of effort to avoid Wishful, to cut all ties.  

He told himself that the fact that he hadn’t sold his parents’ house wasn’t a mark of any lingering attachment.  After they’d died, it was easy to let the management company take care of things.  The house was paid for, and the monthly income from rent had provided a tidy little boost to his bank account during those lean, first years.  He hadn’t needed that boost in quite some time, but he was a busy man, and there’d been no opportunity to deal with the house from long distance.  He hadn’t made an opportunity, he admitted.  That the house had been empty for the last six months was convenient, really.  He could save up some more money and, at the end of the job, he’d list it with a local Realtor, get the show on the road.  The job would only last until the end of the year.  Then he’d be off somewhere new for good this time.

He started to head for his truck, to drive out to the highway and the fast food chains that would get him in and out in a hurry, to avoid the million and one things sparking bittersweet memories of his old life here.  Disliking the taste of cowardice, he shoved his keys in his pocket and cut across the town green to see what had changed in the last eight years.  

The fountain in the center of the green had been dry as a bone when he’d left.  Fed somehow or other from Hope Springs on the outskirts of town, the assumption was that the pipes had been damaged.  They were near to a hundred and fifty years old, so that wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. A trickle of water dribbled out of the stone nymph’s flute, dripping steadily down into a shallow pool in the basin.  It wasn’t a flood, but it was something.   Maybe they’d finally sussed out where the blockage was and started the repairs.  Brody found himself oddly nostalgic as he took in the coins that winked beneath the water.  Wishes.  Hundreds of them cast into the water symbolizing hope itself.  He’d thrown in his own the day he left town.  Maybe the poor saps who’d bought into the legend since then had had better luck.  

One hand jingled the change in his pocket.  Tugging out a quarter, Brody rolled it along his knuckles, wondering if he should make a new wish.  

What would be the point? he thought.  It didn’t do me any good the first time. 

He slipped the quarter back into his pocket and strode off the other side of the green.  

They’d upgraded Main Street.  Brody approved of the stamped concrete now marching the three-block stretch of road in front of a newly refaced City Hall.  Charm and function over the formerly crumbling brick that had been in residence when he’d left.  Decorative wrought iron street lights provided elegant accents, boasting signs proclaiming Wishful to be Where Hope Springs Eternal.  Interspersed between them were Bradford pear trees just getting tall enough to dapple the late morning sunlight on the sidewalk.  Most of the businesses had been given face lifts.  New awnings, shiny new signs, and fresh paint made each shop front stand out like an eager kid on the first day of school.  Planters spilled over with bright-faced pansies and petunias.  A few seasonally-minded souls had created autumnal displays with hay bales and scarecrows, despite the temperatures that hovered near eighty.  September in Mississippi was, after all, still the tail end of summer.  Whoever was heading up the community restoration project down here had great taste.  The overall effect was charming.

Dinner Belles had a crisp coat of new white paint over the repointed bricks, but as soon as Brody stepped through the glass door to the jingle of a bell, he was back in the past.  The black and white checkerboard tiles were worn, but they still shone with a mirrored gleam.  The booths were green vinyl now instead of maroon, but they still marched along the outside walls in matching L’s that flanked the front door.  A smattering of Formica tables dotted the middle.  A few of them were occupied—some old timers still camped out with their omnipresent cup of coffee, newspaper, and crossword, and a trio of middle-aged women with shopping bags tucked neatly around their feet.  Everybody glanced up as he bypassed the central seating and headed straight for the wide counter in front of the kitchen, but none of them were familiar faces.  

Though the lunch hour had barely started, the scents of grease and onions perfumed the air.  The smell had Brody salivating as he slid onto a stool and grabbed a menu.  The edges were worn and curling, exactly as they should be after generations of patrons’ hands.  He skimmed the list, idly wondering if the fried pickles would put him in a post lunch coma.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Brody looked up at the waitress who balanced a tray of dishes on her shoulder.  She was looking at him with that expectant air that said she knew him.  Scrambling to identify her, he said the only thing he could think of.  “Hi.”

“Let me just get these on out.  I’ll be right back to take your order and you can tell me everything you’ve been up to the last few years.”  She sashayed away to the shopping ladies.

Her hair was bleached an ashy blonde, with at least an inch of dark roots showing.  Her face was angular, only a couple steps up from flat out gaunt, and Brody had the impression she’d been somehow winnowed down.  Jeans hugged narrow, almost bony hips.  A pack of cigarettes peeked out from her back pocket.  Her long nails were painted a bright, bubble gum pink that nearly matched the V-necked shirt she wore.  

And he didn’t have the first clue who she was.

Maybe she had him confused for somebody else?

Tucking the now empty tray under her arm, she leaned against the counter beside him and laid a hand on his arm.  “So tell me, Brody Jensen, where in the world have you been the last eight years?”

The gesture, the invasion of his personal space, solved the mystery.

“Well, Corinne, I’ve been working, like everybody else, I expect.”

She laughed, as if he’d said something brilliantly witty.  The scratchy, awkward bray put him in mind of a donkey with strep throat.  That hadn’t changed much.  Neither had her shameless flirtation.  

“Silly man, I want details.” She drew the word out, as if inviting him to share a particularly juicy secret.  Her gaze slid, none too subtly, to his left hand.  At the lack of a ring, she eased in a little bit closer and his gut wound a little bit tighter with discomfort.

Brody reached to put the menu back, hoping to dislodge her hand.  “It’s nothing much interesting, I’m afraid.”  The hand didn’t budge.  Okay, yeah—lunch was definitely gonna be to go.  “Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but I really just popped in to grab a sandwich to go.  Gotta get back to work.  Think you could put it on back to the kitchen?”

“For you, cutie pie, anything.  What’ll it be?”  Corinne whipped out a pen and order pad.

He refrained from sighing in relief as he got his arm back.  Rather than the cheeseburger he really wanted, he wracked his brain for something that wouldn’t have to be cooked.   Sandwich.  Cold.  “How ’bout a turkey club with chips.”  His gaze skipped down the counter.  A rack with the day’s selection of pies took up one corner beside the old-fashioned cash register.  Nobody, but nobody, did pie like Mama Pearl.  “And a slice of coconut cream pie.”

“Comin’ right up.”   

As she circled around to the other side of the counter, Brody eased out a breath.  He was nearly thirty.  Her behavior should not make him just as uncomfortable now as it had in high school.  But fact was, Corinne didn’t understand about boundaries or didn’t respect them, anyway.    She’d never been able to accept he just wasn’t interested, and in the years through college, that he wasn’t available.  More often than not, she’d embarrassed them both with her outrageous attempts to get his attention. 

As Corinne leaned comfortably on the counter in front of him, angled deliberately to give him a chance to ogle her cleavage, the kitchen door swung open and the Goddess of Pie herself ambled out.  “You finish on up here and get on the road,” said Mama Pearl.  “You gots a long drive to get that youngin’ of yours from his daddy.”

Well that just wiped the flirtatious smile off Corinne’s face.  She straightened.  “I’ve got another forty-five minutes left on my shift.”

Mama Pearl’s placid face didn’t shift a bit at her display of conscientiousness.  “Won’t hurt you none to scoot out a little early.  We’ll clock you out at your regular time.  Nasty storm’s comin’ in from across the river.  You leave a little bit early so you can beat it back.  Safer that way.”

Corinne started to say something else, but Mama Pearl just rolled right over her.  “You go on back, have some lunch before you go.  You’s too skinny.”  She pounded a hand on the pass-through.  “Omar!  You see this girl gets some meat on her.”

Outflanked, Corinne stepped back and shot Brody a flirtatious smile. “Looks like I’m out.  But you come on back now, you hear?  We need to catch up good and proper.”  

Brody said nothing, just lifted his hand in a half wave as Corinne stepped through the kitchen door.  Then he let out a sigh of relief.  

Bullet dodged.

Mama Pearl began to wipe the already clean counter in front of him with swift, efficient strokes that telegraphed her irritation.  Her fathomless dark eyes pegged him on the stool, made him feel like a kid called to the principal’s office.  Brody fought the urge to hunch his shoulders.

“Took you long enough,” she said at length.  

“I’m sorry?”

“You got unfinished business here.  ’Bout time you took care of it.”

“Order up!”  The short order cook slapped a bell and slid the takeout box through the window.

Mama Pearl took her time bagging it, fixing Brody’s drink, ringing him up.  The better to let him stew in the juices of her disapproval.  It might have been stupid to be bothered by that, but he was.  As she passed over the bag, Brody wondered how many other folks were going to offer up their opinion about his long absence.

With no particular destination in mind, he started walking again, figuring there’d be a sidewalk bench where he could scarf down his sandwich.  He turned off Main Street, noting the swanky new facade and the attractive patio seating they’d added to The Daily Grind, and made his way down Broad Street, toward his old stomping grounds.  The restoration project hadn’t made it quite this far.  The buildings were less well-kept, dingier with age and use.  This was the street that came to him in dreams on the rare occasions he thought of home.  

Home.

It gave him pause to realize he still thought of Wishful as home, but he’d spent the first two decades and change of his life here, after all.  Shoved by a gust of autumn wind, he found himself propelled in front of the Madrigal Theater.   It was here Brody was struck by nostalgia for the old and familiar.  How many hours, how many nights had he spent here in his youth?  He ran his gaze over the building, drinking it in like the sight of a long ago love.  

The theater was less majestic than he remembered, huddling now with sedate and faded grandeur.  He could see the deep red carpet of the lobby through the front doors, worn in tracks where decades of audiences had trooped through to find their seats.  The interior doors into the theater itself were closed and the windows were coated with a film of grime.  Stepping back, he surveyed the exterior, noting the ticket window and the poster cases displaying shows of bygone days.  The Music Man.  Carousel.  South Pacific.  Oklahoma!  He’d played Curly in that.  And it had been the show that changed everything.

He wondered how many of the old crowd were still here, still acting.  

Well, if he were honest with himself, he really only wondered about one member of the old crowd, something he hadn’t permitted himself to do in years. It was normal, natural that he’d wonder about her.  All his memories of this place were inextricably bound up with Tyler.  His perfect leading lady.  The one who hadn’t wanted to be his lady off stage in the end.

Brody shut down that avenue of thought in a hurry.

What had happened with Tyler was ancient history.  He was a grown man.  He’d moved on and made a damn good life for himself.  And if that life wasn’t quite what he’d imagined, well, he was grateful for the continual string of adventures and surprises he’d gotten instead.

Brody shifted his attention up to the marquee, wondering what play was in the works.

Irving Berlin’s White Christmas.  Auditions Sept. 18, 6 PM.

His mother had loved that movie and all the other musicals of that era.  It had been her influence, and that of Danny Kaye, Fred Astaire, and Gene Kelly that had gotten him interested in dancing.  Brody hummed a few bars of “The Best Things Happen While You’re Dancing” and did a quick step ball change, shuffle, and slide.  It felt great.  God, if his crew could see him now.  Not that he’d ever been one to let a little friendly ribbing keep him from the stage.  His itinerant lifestyle had done that for him for years.  But he still felt the pull of the lights.  The crowds.  The music.  

Brody did the math.  Auditions tonight.  Casting next week.  The show would open in early December and run for two or three weeks.  He’d be in town that long with the hotel job.  He’d audition, he decided.  See if he still had it in him to slip into somebody else’s skin.  And maybe, just maybe, it would make him feel comfortable in his own again.