The Return Of Rafe MacKade. Nora RobertsЧитать онлайн книгу.
was so much the same. Those could be the same stools at the counter that he’d warmed his seat on as a child, anticipating a sundae or a fountain drink. Surely those were the same smells—grease, frying onions, the haze from Ed’s constant cigarettes, an undertone of pine cleaner.
He was sure Ed would be back in the kitchen, flipping burgers or stirring pots. And sure as hell that was old man Tidas snoring in the back booth while his coffee went cold. Just as he’d always done.
His eyes, cool, assessing, skimmed over the painfully white counter, with its clear-plastic-topped plates of pies and cakes, over the walls, with their black-and-white photos of Civil War battles, to a booth where two women sat over coffee.
He saw a stranger. An impressive one. Honey brown hair cut in a smooth chin-length swing that framed a face of soft curves and creamy skin. Long lashes over dark and coolly curious blue eyes. And a sassy little mole right at the corner of a full and unsmiling mouth.
Picture-perfect, he thought. Just like something cut out of a glossy magazine.
They studied each other, assessed each other as a man or woman might assess a particularly attractive trinket in a shop window. Then his gaze shifted to land on the fragile little blonde with the haunted eyes and the hesitant smile.
“Son of a bitch.” His grin flashed and upped the temperature by twenty degrees. “Little Cassie Connor.”
“Rafe. I heard you were back.” The sound of her giggle as Rafe plucked her from the booth had Regan’s brow lifting. It was rare to hear Cassie laugh so freely.
“Pretty as ever,” he said, and kissed her full on the lips. “Tell me you kicked that idiot out and left the path clear for me.”
She eased back, always fearful of wagging tongues. “I’ve got two kids now.”
“A boy and a girl. I heard.” He tugged the strap of her bib apron, and thought with some concern that she’d lost too much weight. “You’re still working here?”
“Yeah. Ed’s in the back.”
“I’ll go see her in a minute.” Resting a hand casually on Cassie’s shoulder, he looked back at Regan. “Who’s your pal?”
“Oh, sorry. This is Regan Bishop. She owns Past Times, an antique and decorating store a couple doors down. Regan, this is Rafe MacKade.”
“Of the MacKade brothers.” She offered a hand. “Word’s already traveled.”
“I’m sure it has.” He took her hand, held it, as his eyes held hers. “Antiques? That’s a coincidence. I’m in the market.”
“Are you?” She’d risk her dignity if she tugged her hand from his. From the gleam in his eye, she was sure he knew it. “Any particular era?”
“Mid-to-late-1800s—everything from soup to nuts. I’ve got a three-story house, about twelve hundred square feet to furnish. Think you can handle it?”
It took a lot of willpower for her to keep her jaw from dropping. She did well enough with tourists and townspeople, but a commission like this would easily triple her usual income.
“I’m sure I can.”
“You bought a house?” Cassie said interrupting them. “I thought you’d be staying out at the farm.”
“For now. The house isn’t for living in, not for me. After some remodeling, restoring, I’ll be opening it up as a bed-and-breakfast. I bought the old Barlow place.”
Stunned, Cassie bobbled the coffeepot she’d fetched. “The Barlow place? But it’s—”
“Haunted?” A reckless light glinted in his eyes. “Damn right it is. How about a piece of that pie to go with the coffee, Cassie? I’ve worked up an appetite.”
Regan had left but Rafe had loitered for an hour, entertained when Cassie’s kids burst in out of the snow. He watched her fuss over them, scold the boy for forgetting to put on his gloves, listened to the big-eyed little girl solemnly relate the adventures of the day.
There was something sad, and somehow soothing, about watching the girl he remembered settling her two children at a booth with crayons and books.
A lot had stayed the same over a decade. But a lot had changed. He was well aware that news of his arrival was even now singing over telephone wires. It pleased him. He wanted the town to know he was back—and not with his tail between his legs, as many had predicted.
He had money in his pocket now, and plans for the future.
The Barlow place was the heart of his plans. He didn’t subscribe to ghosts, under most circumstances, but the house had certainly haunted him. Now it belonged to him, every old stone and bramble—and whatever else it held. He was going to rebuild it, as he had rebuilt himself.
One day he would stand at the top window and look down on the town. He would prove to everyone—even to Rafe MacKade—that he was somebody.
He tucked a generous tip under his cup, careful to keep the amount just shy of one that would embarrass Cassie. She was too thin, he thought, and her eyes were too guarded. That weary fragility had been thrown into sharp relief when she sat with Regan.
Now there was a woman, he mused, who knew how to handle herself. Steady eyes, stubborn chin, soft hands. She hadn’t so much as blinked when he offered her a shot at furnishing an entire inn. Oh, he imagined her insides had jolted, but she hadn’t blinked.
As a man who’d earned his keep on the wheel and deal, he had to admire her for it. Time would tell if she’d hold up to the challenge.
And there was no time like the present.
“That antique place, two doors down?”
“That’s right.” Cassie kept one eye on her children as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee. “On the left. I don’t think she’s open, though.”
Rafe shrugged into his jacket and grinned. “Oh, I bet she is.”
He strolled out, hatless, jacket open, his footsteps muffled by the cushioning snow. As he’d expected, the lights were on inside Past Times. Instead of seeking shelter inside, he studied her window display and found it clever and effective.
A sweep of blue brocade like a pool of shimmering water flowed over varying levels. A bright-eyed porcelain doll sat on a child-size ladder-back rocker, an artful tumble of antique toys at her feet. A snarling jade dragon curled on a pedestal. A glossy mahogany jewelry box stood open, glittery baubles spilling out of its drawers as though a woman’s hands had slid through them in search of just the right piece.
Perfume bottles were arranged in pretty sunbursts of color on an enameled shelf.
Put the sparkles up front, he thought with a nod, and rope the customers in.
Sleigh bells hung on the door tinkled musically when he opened it. The air inside was spiced with cinnamon and cloves and apples. And, he realized after a deep breath of it, of Regan Bishop. The subtle and sultry perfume he’d noted in the café just teased the air.
He took his time wandering. Furniture was meticulously arranged for traffic patterns. A settee here, an occasional table there. Lamps, bowls, vases, all doing double duty as display and decoration. A dining room table was gracefully set with china and glassware, candles and flowers, as if guests were expected any moment. An old Victrola stood open beside a cabinet filled with 78s.
There were three rooms, each as polished and organized as the last. Nowhere in her inventory did he notice a single speck of dust. He paused by a kitchen hutch filled with white stoneware dishes and blue-tinted mason jars.
“It’s a nice piece,” Regan said from behind him.
“We have one like this in the kitchen at the farm.” He didn’t turn. He’d known she was there. “My mother kept the everyday dishes in it. White ones, like these. And glasses. Thick ones that didn’t break easy.