Secrets Of The Tulip Sisters

Well, hell. No wonder she didn’t want to trust him now.

* * *

It was rare for anything to keep Kelly from a good night’s sleep, but her conversation with Griffith had done that and more. The man had made it clear he wanted to sleep with her. In a way more troubling, he wanted her to be his girlfriend.

Who talked like that? She’d never had a guy come up and baldly state his intentions. Not that she had huge experience with men. She wasn’t exactly a guy magnet. She’d had the requisite college boyfriend where she’d lost her virginity and had doodled Mrs. Elijah Mellon in her notes, but by her senior year, she’d realized she was more excited about returning to the farm than getting married.

A couple of years after graduation, she and Sven had started seeing each other. Their relationship had started slowly. They’d been friends for nearly a year before they’d taken things “to the next level.” After becoming lovers, they’d settled into a comfortable, albeit not very exciting, relationship. She’d never pushed for more, nor had he. Still, she’d been surprised when he’d ended things six months ago. Not heartbroken but surprised. Which was too bad because on paper, she and Sven were well suited. She grew tulips, he grew plants for nurseries up and down the West Coast.

So that was her romantic past—Elijah and Sven. Did she want Griffith as her third? And what did it say about her that Griffith thought she would be okay as only a girlfriend with no promise of more? Which she was, but why did he know that?

She finished making her bed, then walked back into the Jack and Jill bathroom she’d shared with her sister growing up. After brushing her wavy hair into submission, she pulled it back in her usual ponytail, then studied herself in the mirror.

Why her? She wasn’t pretty or glamorous. Now if she were her sister, Olivia, she could understand Griffith’s interest. Of course if she were Olivia, Griffith would have to get in line because there were always men interested in her younger sister.

Not that Kelly was interested in that kind of attention. She didn’t want passion or the drama that came with it. She’d seen what uncontrolled passion did in the form of her mother’s destruction of their family. Kelly wanted something different. Not quiet and not sensible, just...safe. She wanted to feel safe. In her mind that was way more important than some fleeting hormone-induced excuse to destroy and abandon.

She left her bedroom and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. The Murphy house was nearly a hundred years old, built when the land was originally homesteaded. All remnants of the classic farmhouse had been remodeled away until what remained was a U-shaped rambler.

The front of the house had a big family room, a large kitchen and formal dining room. To the left was the study her dad used, and beyond that were the master bedroom and an en suite guest room. To the right of the main living quarters was another, shorter hallway, leading to two good-sized bedrooms with the Jack and Jill bathroom at the end of the hall.

Funny how she and her sister had never fought over that shared bathroom, or much of anything else. At least not when they’d been younger. Despite their parents’ troubled marriage, the constant fighting and the way each parent had claimed one child as his or her favorite, Kelly and Olivia had been buddies. They’d played together, hung out together and had been close. That had changed. Kelly wasn’t sure when exactly, but by the time their mother had left, Olivia was different. Or maybe Marilee’s departure had caused the shift—which meant Kelly had even more responsibility for what had happened.

She could tell herself she’d been a kid and it wasn’t her fault, but she knew the truth. Her fight with her mother had pushed Marilee into leaving and Kelly was the reason Olivia had been sent away.

“Deep thoughts for a weekday morning,” she murmured as she crossed to the coffeepot.

The coffee was already brewed—her father would have started it before he left for the diner. She poured a mug and inhaled the delicious scent before taking her first sip. In a matter of minutes caffeine would flow through her veins and her world would slowly right itself.

She took another swallow before starting her breakfast. While the instant oatmeal heated in the microwave, she made a protein shake with frozen berries. When her cereal was ready, she stirred in a few walnuts and a spoonful of brown sugar and carried everything to the kitchen table. She got her tablet from the shelf by the window and checked her email while she ate.

By the time she’d finished, she’d scanned the digital headlines, browsed two farm equipment ads, and had chuckled at a kitten playing with a laser dot on a Facebook video.

She rinsed her dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then poured a second mug of coffee. She had to figure out what she was going to cook on her days this week. She and her father alternated that particular chore.

They’d come to terms with their unusual living arrangement fairly easily. They each had a wing in the house. He went out for breakfast at Helen’s diner five days a week, they had someone in to clean the house, and they traded off cooking the evening meal. Their schedules were posted on a large wall calendar in the oversize pantry, so each would know when the other wasn’t going to be around for dinner. Every now and then Kelly thought that maybe she should move out and get her own place, but each time she mentioned it, her father told her he liked having her around. As for her, well, she didn’t seem to be in a big hurry to go anywhere.

The back door opened and Jeff Murphy walked in.

“Hey, Kitten.”

“Hi, Dad. How was breakfast?”

“Delja cooks a mean omelet. If I thought I was man enough, I would marry her in a second.”

Kelly laughed. “I don’t think she’s your type.”

“Probably not, but a guy can dream.” He hung his jacket on the hook by the back door and crossed to her for a quick hug. He poured himself coffee, then leaned against the counter.

“We have two more Christmas orders,” he said. “If this keeps up, we’re going to be shipping half a million tulips in December. Plus you know some idiot’s going to call in November and ask if we have any extras.”

“I’m ready. We can go as high as six hundred thousand, then we’re out.”

“I’ll be sure to let our distributors know. Also, that fancy yellow one is selling real well in Los Angeles. Connie wants to know if you can make those in any other colors.”

“Da-ad. Those yellow ones? Is that really what we’re reduced to these days?”

“You go ahead and use their fancy names. I’ll stick with yellow.”

Jeff knew the names better than she did. He’d been growing tulips since he was a teenager. When Kelly had graduated college and joined the farm full-time, they’d talked about how to handle things. Jeff was tired of being responsible for all the growing and Kelly had no interest in dealing with distributors or clients, so they’d split the duties. Like their living arrangements, it was a system that worked for them.

Sometimes she wondered if he’d ever wanted more than life in a small town. He was a relatively young man—not yet fifty—but he hadn’t remarried after his divorce. As far as everyone was concerned, he’d never even dated. Every few months he disappeared to Seattle for a long weekend. Kelly assumed he met someone for a brief affair, but that was it.

As for herself, she had no idea what she was going to do about Griffith. Being someone’s girlfriend again sounded nice, but shouldn’t she want more? Shouldn’t she want to fall in love and have babies and live happily ever after?

She supposed the problem was she didn’t believe in happily ever after anymore. If she ever had.

4 (#u9afa83e2-0e23-5208-bfaa-144c48cf86fa)

Jammin’ Madame Lefeber—named for the tulip, not a person—took up about a third of what had once been a grocery store, long since defunct. The other two-thirds were a bowling alley, with both businesses sharing the ample parking lot. On the upside, neither business cared if the other made noise. On the downside, despite thick layers of insulation and sound-deadening drywall, the crack of bowling balls hitting the pins could still be heard. It was a low and arrhythmic beat and could distract even the most professional of musicians.

Helen walked into the foyer a couple of minutes early. Pictures of former students covered the walls. Some were classic studio poses while others showed bands playing live at a venue. She smiled when she saw Jeff and herself in the background of many of the band shots.

JML was a music school that focused more on guitar and drums than the more classical instruments. As part of the services, students could put together a band. An instructor would help them learn a handful of songs, then arrange for a showcase onstage at Petal Pushers or somewhere else. To help the fledgling bandmates get their sound together, near professional-level musicians played along.

The work didn’t pay much. Helen did it for the fun and to get the chance to play keyboard every now and then. The bands were interesting, although rarely gifted. Still, it was better than playing piano alone in her living room. Adding to the pleasure was the fact that she and Jeff frequently worked as a team. The man played a mean guitar. More than one fourteen-year-old had been left slack-jawed at Jeff’s rendition of “Stairway to Heaven.”

Thinking about Jeff got her chest to fluttering. She reminded herself of the importance of appearing cool, even if she didn’t feel it, despite the fact that her feelings for the man bordered on a rock-star crush.

She knew that he’d played in a rock band in high school, then had quit after he’d gotten married. She wasn’t sure when he’d taken up the guitar again. She’d started working with the students at JML years ago—shortly after her divorce. In fact, that was where she’d first noticed Jeff. She’d fallen for him during an off-key Beatles retrospective—specifically “Hard Day’s Night.”

Before she could dig up more swoon-worthy memories, Jeff appeared in the foyer. Her throat immediately tightened and speech became impossible. What was it about a man in a plaid shirt? Okay—not any man—just this one. Or maybe it was the worn jeans that hugged his narrow hips and long legs. Or the way he held his guitar case with such confidence.

Jeff smiled as he approached. “Heard anything about our latest bandmates?”

“Isaak said they’re fifteen-year-old twins who got guitars for their birthday.”

Jeff winced. “Why do parents do that?”

“Someone has to be the next generation of rock music.”

Isaak, a tall, curly-haired man of mixed heritage, walked into the foyer. “You’re here,” he said, sounding grateful. “Adults. Thank God.”

“How are the new students?”

“You honestly don’t want to know. They’re arguing about whether to play Atreyu or Pop Evil.”

“Are those bands or songs?” Jeff asked.