From Texas, With Love

Impressed by her composure in the wake of his goading, Will opened his center desk drawer and pulled out a thin file folder. He pushed it across his desk. “Here it is.”

She snapped it up, then tapped the end of her pen against her lower lip. “I also need current data on your business. Number of planes, pilots, safety record, locations where you fly.”

He struggled to keep his mind on business. He should not be thinking about kissing her. “It’s all in there, too,” he said. “Look on the last page.”

For the next few minutes she perused the file, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You are efficient,” she said at last.

Maybe it was ego, but he wanted her to appreciate his accomplishments. “Surprised?” he taunted.

She closed the file with a sigh and looked at him. “Only by the pedestrian nature of this newspaper ad you’ve been running for your company to date. Who designed it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

It was hard to be so cocky now. “Me.”

She winced slightly, then sat back and recrossed her legs at the knee.

“You don’t like it,” Will stated, disappointed yet aware she had a point. The latest advertisement hadn’t proved very effective in drumming up new business.

Samantha made a seesawing motion with her hand. “Let’s just say I think it could be a little more inspired. Not to worry. We’ll get there.”

Will was sure they would, if Samantha was in the driver’s seat. “I like the sound of that.” Liked even better the notion that before the day was over he was going to find a way to get her in his arms and kiss her, at least once.

As if noticing the way he was staring at her, Samantha frowned. Before she could ask about it, however, footsteps sounded on the concrete floor outside Will’s office.

Oscar Gentry, one of Will’s favorite high school teachers, walked in. At age sixty-five, the silver-haired retiree with the kind eyes remained physically fit and well-groomed. But there was an air of desolation about him that Will had never seen before.

Concerned at what could have happened since the last time they’d talked, and hoping he could help the older man the way he’d once helped him, Will pushed himself to his feet and Will came around the desk. “Hi, Mr. Gentry.”

“Hello, Will.” The man’s handshake lacked its usual vigor.

Will touched Samantha’s shoulder. “This is Samantha Holmes, Howard’s sister.”

The distressed look never completely leaving his eyes, Mr. Gentry took Samantha’s hand, too. “Here for the wedding?” he asked politely.

She nodded.

“She’s also going to devise a new ad campaign for my company,” Will added.

Mr. Gentry frowned. “I guess I should have called first. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay.” Will gestured for them all to sit down, then settled behind his desk. “What’s up?”

Mr. Gentry adjusted his glasses on his nose. “I took your advice, Will. It didn’t work.”

Samantha started to rise, sensing that this was a personal matter. “Perhaps I should go.”

“Actually—” Mr. Gentry waved his hand, indicating she should stay right where she was “—I could use a woman’s perspective.” He pressed his lips together ruefully. “Not that what’s going on in my life right now is a big secret, anyway.”

Figuring it would be easier for him to explain, Will stated, “Mr. Gentry’s wife kicked him out.”

The older man ran his hands over his knees. “Yvonne changed the locks on me and everything.”

Samantha blinked. “Why?” she asked.

“It’s the darnedest thing.” He heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. I went fishing, just like I do every Saturday morning, and came home to find all the locks were changed, my suitcases packed and on the front porch.”

“Had you been fishing a lot?” she asked.

Mr. Gentry shook his head. “No more than usual. Once a week.”

“And she never minded before?”

He sighed again. “She said she liked having the time to herself.”

Will tapped his pen on the arm of his chair. He looked at Samantha, noting her compassionate expression. “Mr. and Mrs. Gentry’s fortieth wedding anniversary is next Sunday. They had a big party planned. Mr. Gentry wants to make up with his wife before then.”

The man nodded. “Will told me to get her an apology card from the stationery store and take it to her.”

“Along with flowers and candy and her favorite perfume,” Will added. When Samantha frowned at him, as if that had been the wrong thing to do, he said defensively, “I figured he should cover all the bases.”

“Only it didn’t work,” Mr. Gentry continued, looking even more miserable. “Yvonne got mad when she read the card, and refused to accept any of my gifts.”

Behavior that made no sense at all, Will thought.

Samantha, however, seemed to think it was more a puzzle to be figured out than an unreasonable response. “And you have no idea why she behaved that way?”

“Yvonne said she needed a specific apology,” the former physics teacher revealed in an exasperated tone. “And I told her I can’t give her one because I don’t know what I’ve done to tick her off. And then she said that if I didn’t know what I’d done, she wasn’t going to tell me!’”

Will put his pen down. “I feel for you, pardner.”

“The question is—” Mr. Gentry took off his silver-rimmed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose in dismay “—what next?”

“You’ve got to convince her you still love her,” Will replied.

“How, when she won’t even let me in the door?” he muttered.

Both men turned their gazes to Samantha, in want of feminine perspective.

She lifted her hands. “If you want your wife back, you’re going to have to wage an effective campaign to win her heart.”

Spoken like a true advertising executive, Will thought. Aware of how flawed her suggestion was, he chided, “Surely you’re not suggesting Mr. Gentry advertise to get his wife back!”

Samantha gave Will a censoring look. “There is nothing wrong with that. Advertising is nothing more than communicating sentiments and feelings—as well as facts.”

“Which is exactly what I need,” Mr. Gentry exclaimed, ready to grab any lifeline thrown his way. “So, would you help me figure out how to do that where Mrs. Gentry is concerned?” the older gentleman asked Samantha.

She dipped her head. “Sure, in an informal kind of way. But I’m going to need a little time to think about the best approach.”

Mr. Gentry thanked Samantha, told her where she could get in touch with him—at his fishing cabin on Lake Laramie, which unfortunately did not have a telephone—and left.