A Coulter's Christmas Proposal. Lois Dyer FayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
house area’s boundaries, and the pasture that stretched toward the buttes rising not far away.
Once again, he felt the tug of familiarity and a sense of homecoming.
Maybe what he’d felt last night hadn’t been only the result of a lack of sleep and the late hour, he thought.
The coffeemaker beeped, and he washed his hands, returned the chicken container to the fridge, then opened the cabinet over the coffeemaker. As he’d hoped, the cupboard held a variety of cups and mugs. He filled a thermal mug with strong black coffee and left the house.
It was just after 9:30 a.m. when he reached Indian Springs, and his meeting with the attorney lasted less than an hour. He left Ned Anderson’s office with an envelope filled with copies of legal documents and paused on the sidewalk outside.
He glanced at his watch and realized that it was too early for lunch, but despite the chicken he’d eaten earlier, his stomach felt empty. He was considering crossing the street to the Indian Springs Café when a small car pulled into an empty parking slot just in front of the eatery. Amanda Blake stepped out, a file tucked under her arm and a purse slung over her shoulder. She disappeared inside the café.
I wonder where she’s been and who she interrogated this morning.
With sudden decisiveness, he crossed the street and pulled open the door to the café.
The bells hanging on the inside of the glass panel chimed as the door swung closed behind him. He paused, scanning the room with its center tables ringed by booths lining the outer walls. Amanda was seated in a booth toward the back, her head bent as she studied the menu.
He wound his way around the tables and slid onto the seat opposite her.
Amanda looked up from the menu when someone sat down across from her, the list of pies immediately forgotten as she realized the man was Eli Coulter. “Good morning, Eli.” She hesitated only a second before continuing. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, clearly amused. “Here in Indian Springs—or here in your booth?”
“Both, actually.” Her fingers curled tighter on the edges of the vinyl-covered menu, reacting to his charm.
“I had to check in with the estate attorney this morning. His office is just across the street and when I left there, I saw you park and come in here.” He glanced around the half-full café, then back at her. “Since I was hungry, I thought I’d come over and join you.”
“You did?” Her voice rose in disbelief. She stared at him but his expression was innocently friendly. “Why would you …” She paused as the waitress arrived. Amanda placed her order for rhubarb-strawberry pie and coffee, waiting impatiently while Eli did the same and the woman left before she continued. “I had the distinct impression last night that you didn’t want to talk to me again. In fact, I assumed after our conversation that you’d be avoiding me like the plague. So why are you sitting at my booth?”
“Maybe I realized this morning that I might have been a little cranky last night and might need to apologize for being rude.”
An apology was the last thing she’d expected. She studied his face before slowly shaking her head. “While it’s nice to hear, I don’t believe for a minute that you didn’t mean what you said. Because your brothers clearly don’t want me writing about your mother either. Only they were a little more polite when they refused to help me,” she added. “So tell me the real reason you’re here.”
Amanda thought she saw surprise and brief admiration flash across his features before he answered.
“It’s not my practice to be rude to guests in my family’s company, and the apology for that is sincere. But that’s not what brought me in here. I saw you across the street and wondered who you’d been interrogating this morning.” He shrugged. “Chalk it up to curiosity.”
She rolled her eyes, annoyed with his reasons but pleased he’d been honest.
“I wasn’t interviewing anyone—I was at the library reading newspaper archives. Why do you and your brothers dislike reporters so much?” she asked bluntly.
“Because our experience with them hasn’t been good,” he told her.
She tilted her head, clearly puzzled, but didn’t demand he elaborate. Because she didn’t push, he decided to tell her.
“We were kids when Mom died, but for several weeks, reporters swarmed us every time we went into town. Dad made a rule that we had to stay together but it was hard to do. Eventually, each of us was confronted—none of us were safe. Three reporters for a celebrity gossip magazine caught me alone outside the drugstore and grilled me about the details of Mom’s death. By the time they were done, I was so confused that I had no idea what I’d told them.” Eli heard Amanda’s gasp of outrage but continued. “I was nine years old. What did I know about fielding reporters’ questions?” He shrugged. “They concocted a bunch of lies, wrote the story as if it were truth, and gossip columns in the arts sections of city newspapers picked up the story and spread it everywhere. Dad grounded me for the entire summer.”
“But that wasn’t fair,” Amanda exclaimed. “You were just a child.”
“He’d told us never to get separated when we were in town. I broke a rule.”
She frowned at him and opened her mouth to speak but he continued before she could argue further.
“The fallout from that story never really went away. When I followed my mother into the same field, her art and life inevitably came up. And just as inevitably, I kept being asked questions about that same damned story.” His smile was cynical. “Reporters’ articles never go away. They live forever on the internet. And that,” he told her with conviction, “is why I don’t trust reporters.” Or just about anyone else who seems interested in Mom’s life, he thought grimly.
Amanda was appalled. She could only imagine how being hounded while grieving his mother’s death had scarred the little boy Eli had been.
“No wonder you have a negative view of reporters,” she said. “I doubt it will change your mind but for the record, I’ve never pursued children to get a story. Nor would I,” she added firmly. “It’s unethical—not to mention immoral.”
A faint smile lit his eyes. “I’m glad to hear you say that. It’s good to know someone in the press has ethics.”
“I looked you up on the internet last night,” she told him. “I found a brief bio on your agent’s website, but beyond that, there wasn’t a lot of information.”
He nodded just as their waitress returned with their drinks and pie. He waited until she’d left before continuing. “I’m happy to let my agent field any requests for publicity. I gave a few interviews in the beginning but after being misquoted more than once, I avoid talking to the press.” He picked up his fork, pointing it at her. “For the record, this is not going to show up in your book, right?”
Amanda laughed. “You look so ferocious, threatening me with your fork.”
He glanced at the fork, then back at her, and shrugged. His green eyes lit with warmth and self-deprecation. “Not a very effective weapon, is it?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
And with that, the last of the wary animosity between them seemed to evaporate. In tacit acceptance of the truce between them, they chatted for the next hour over coffee, although each carefully kept their comments general.
Nonetheless, when they left the restaurant, Amanda found herself wishing he was an ordinary guy and not part of her research. She liked him, she thought as she slid into her car and watched him jog across the street to climb into a pickup truck. She had no illusions that their sharing a booth and chatting had permanently changed his view of her. It felt more as if he’d called a temporary truce, and she suspected that the next time they met, he would likely still be suspicious