The Millionaire Comes Home

“Use to work on ’em, especially these.” The man nodded toward the sleek black vehicle.

Somehow Denton believed him, even though it seemed unlikely anyone who knew how to work on BMWs would be stuck running a one-man station. But stranger things had happened, he reminded himself ruefully.

“Maybe it’s just something minor, and I can have you on your way real soon,” the attendant pointed out. “If not, you can call the dealer and nothing will be lost.”

Except my valuable time, Denton thought, irritated beyond measure. Curbing his impatience, he made a gesture and said, “Be my guest. See what you can do.”

“By the way, my name’s Raymond.”

“Denton Hardesty.”

Raymond stuck out his grimy hand. Then, as if seeing the look on Denton’s face, jerked it back and gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry, it’s still a bit greasy.”

“No problem,” Denton muttered, clearly distracted.

“You just passing through?” Raymond asked, his head cocked to one side.

Denton wasn’t about to indulge in small talk, not when he had much bigger fish to fry. Besides, for a spring day it was hotter than hell, and he didn’t want to be wet with sweat when he met with his client. “Yeah, you might say that.”

For once Raymond didn’t comment.

“Is there someplace cool where I can get a cup of coffee while I wait?” Denton asked.

Raymond nodded toward a bed-and-breakfast. “Across the street.”

“Thanks,” Denton said, turning and heading in that direction. The first thing about the two-story colonial style mansion that caught his attention was the lovely grounds: manicured lawns, landscaped flower beds, lilacs and big oak trees, and annual beds that flanked the walkway and proudly lined the front of the porch.

The colors of the mixed annuals were so vivid they were almost blinding. Even though he hadn’t set foot on the property, he could smell the lilacs. They offered their ethereal scent and exquisite blossoms to all the passersby. Lucky souls, he thought, remembering the lilacs in his own front yard when he was a youngster.

As he approached the sidewalk, his gaze settled on the porch. Country calm, he reminded himself, a gentle breeze acting as a coolant to his damp skin. Great if you could stand it…. He could tolerate this setting maybe a day, two max, then he’d be climbing the walls. He preferred the sound of horns and car doors slamming. Also, it was imperative he hear the sound of human voices as opposed to the chirp of birds.

Yet, he might have felt differently if he and Grace had…

Ah, to hell with those thoughts. While his memories of living here were for the most part good, Denton couldn’t imagine ever doing so again under any circumstances.

When his dad had been transferred out of state the summer of his junior year in college, he hadn’t been happy. He’d admit that. He hadn’t wanted to leave Grace even though what had happened between them had scared the hell out of him. However, his parents were not about to leave him behind. Once they moved, the unthinkable had happened. His dad had fallen victim to a stroke, something else that had torn him in two.

Suddenly forcing his mind off that dark period and back on more pleasant thoughts, Denton’s gaze swept his surroundings. Up close he could see the house needed some repairs, especially the porch, though the state of disrepair didn’t dilute any of its charm. What a perfect place for guests to gather for nonsensical conversation and summer breezes.

A wicker swing and settee, along with several creaky rockers, provided a Norman Rockwell type setting familiar to porches across the South. The only things missing from the ideal picture were platters of watermelon and pitchers of lemonade that would provide wholesome refreshments for the guests. It was a safe bet both would most likely appear later on in the day.

Thinking of lemonade made him thirsty. But the thought didn’t last long, knowing what he really needed was another stiff cup of coffee which never failed to give him the extra push he needed to get through his hectic days and nights. He still had a long way to go before this day was over. And the way it had started out didn’t bode well.

Maybe the owner would be obliging this late, sunny morning and provide him with that much-needed kick. After slapping at a bee buzzing around his head, Denton lifted the old-fashioned door knocker and let it go.

Grace Simmons hummed to herself as she finished putting away the last of the clean breakfast dishes. She paused in her actions and peered out the back window at the grounds of Grace House. As always, her breath instantly caught and held.

Tulips, her favorite sign of spring, blended together to form a tapestry of natural beauty nothing could ever surpass.

Hers.

This was all hers. And the bank’s, she corrected mentally. But such wouldn’t always be the case, she reaffirmed with conviction. One day she’d get it paid off, then she’d be the proud owner of this graceful old house. She’d bought it for a song, but in order to make it habitable, then fulfill her dream of turning it into a profitable bed-and-breakfast, she’d had to borrow an additional healthy sum of money.

Still, she paid her banker each month with a cheerful heart, knowing what she wanted to do would work and eventually pay its own way. And while the profit margin remained ever so slim, she was able to keep herself and the home afloat and pay the bank. For the time being that was all that was important.

Extra money for more repairs to the old home would come. She didn’t know when or from what source, but she wasn’t worried about it. In fact, she didn’t worry period. Not anymore. She had learned long ago what worrying did to her, and she could no longer allow herself that indulgence, especially since she ran a business in which other people depended on her.

And she thrived on the never-ending challenge of providing her guests with the cleanest rooms, the loveliest ambiance and the best breakfast she could, at an affordable cost.

As a result her house stayed at full occupancy year-round. However, at present she had one room not booked—a rare occurrence. Yet she wasn’t concerned. The right person would show up, and the room would be waiting.

A smile brightened Grace’s face as her eyes fastened on a bluebird perched on a limb, grooming himself. Spying on a wild creature was such a small thing, but she had learned, the hard way, it was the small things that made life worth living.

So what if she was a woman alone in a couples’ world? So what if she was often lonely, especially in her big bed at night? So what if she wished for what was apparently not going to happen—a happy marriage and children?

So what?

After all she’d been through, she could accept that and be glad for the peace and tranquility that now shaped and dominated her life. Besides, her life was too full to dwell on past mistakes and future longings. At thirty-two she had wasted enough time on something that had brought her heartache rather than joy. At present she was only concentrating on the joy.

Living and working in Ruby, Texas, did just that.

Thinking of work made Grace realize she had too much to do to stand and gaze outdoors, even if it was candy for the soul. She would put her grounds up against anyone else’s in town, though she could only take credit for the flowers. Those she did plant and maintain, a full-time job in itself. Because of her part-time helper, Connie Foley, Grace was able to create her miracles outdoors, which she knew brought pleasure to her guests.

Maybe later she would cut some of the tulips for the sunroom, definitely before afternoon snack time, a fun ritual that only two of her present occupants would take advantage of—the elderly couple who were honeymooning. A wider smile forced her dimple deeper in her right cheek as she thought about Ed and Zelma Brenner. In their seventies, and giddily in love, they were a hoot. After both had married someone else, borne children, then widowed, they met on a cruise and married five days later.

On their way to a planned honeymoon at a cottage on Lake Austin, the couple had driven through Ruby. They never made it any farther. According to Ed, the minute they saw Grace House, they had been enchanted and chose to stay there. Hence, Grace had been honored with their presence for over two weeks now. Each day she grew more fond of them. If her parents hadn’t died in a freak auto accident when she was in college, she wondered if they would have turned out like Ed and Zelma. She liked to think so, since the thought was somehow comforting.

Her other guest, however, was cut from a far different bolt of cloth. Ralph Kennedy was a well-known children’s author who sought complete solitude for the purpose of penning his stories. Here he had apparently found his niche because he’d been a guest for more than four weeks. His brief appearance at breakfast was about all she ever saw of him except on rare occasions when she’d catch him strolling through the grounds. She suspected he was trying to work through a story problem. Despite the fact that he wasn’t her usual outgoing boarder, rather weird to be exact, she had no complaints. He paid his weekly bill and seemed content. That was all that mattered.

Deciding it was time to get back to her chores, Grace grabbed a dust cloth out of the cabinet. Opting to keep on her apron, which she loved to wear in spite of its being out of vogue, she made her way out of the large, bright kitchen and headed toward the garden room. It was her favorite room in the entire house, a hard choice to make as the rest of the old dwelling had other bragging rights. The polished hardwood floors, which made no attempt to soak up the sounds of hard-soled shoes, were magnificent. Another favorite was the exquisitely gorgeous Waterford chandelier that hung in the foyer.

She gave a cursory glance to the arched doorways and beveled glass of the front door, to the antique furnishings as she went into the garden room that was a prime environment for lush plants. Grace had seen to it that the room was much more than that since the living room flowed into it, providing an informal but lush setting in which to relax over breakfast with a newspaper or good book or to sip afternoon tea.

Grace had wanted the room to seem drenched in light. So she had painted the walls a pearly white, keeping the furniture to a minimum and dispensing with drapes altogether. She had achieved her goal, the space becoming a charming blend of yellows and greens, mixed with seasoned wicker, plump cushions and pillows and a myriad of flowering bushes and plants.

On one wall she’d painted an ivy-covered trellis. Even in the dead of winter the garden room gave one the feeling of being constantly bathed in greenery and light.

She had just begun dusting the glass-topped coffee table when the doorbell chimed. Stuffing her cloth into her apron pocket, she hurried to open the door, only to cling to the doorknob for support.

Grace would have recognized him anywhere, regardless of the fourteen years since she’d seen him. Denton Hardesty, a ghost from the past.

It was obvious from the stunned look on his face that he hadn’t expected to see her, either, as his mouth was slightly open while his green eyes narrowed.

“Grace,” he finally muttered, his tone hoarse as if he had a sore throat.

“Hello, Denton,” she responded, staring at the man who, one starlit night, took her virginity and her heart with him.

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