Sweet Tibby Mack. Roz Fox Denny
He gazed critically around the room. Quilting frames stood in one corner, ablaze with color. Dusty golf clubs in another. On the far wall a dry sink overflowed with sweetpeas. Surprisingly the effect was warm and inviting. Cole’s stomach tightened. A crazed stranger could destroy this trusting woman.
“Crime is no longer exclusive to big cities,” he said.
“You’re right, of course. It’s a habit I picked up from Grandmother Mack that I should try to break. But I’m sure you didn’t drop by to discuss my bad habits. What brings you here, O’Donnell? Forget something at the store? Or dare I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve decided against raping our land?”
“Raping? Now see here. Golf courses are considered greenbelts. And greenbelts are pleasing to the eye. They enhance a residential community.”
“Tell that to the birds, the snakes, the ground squirrels, coyotes and other desert animals your pleasing-to-the-eye greenbelt will deprive of homes. To say nothing of destroying plant life and marsh grasses so vital to the lake. I assume you plan to use a section of the lake?” Tibby’s nose itched. She rubbed it and knew at once she’d left a black mark.
“Eventually. But I’ll have to comply with the state’s environmental policies. As a matter of fact, I faxed them my proposal this afternoon. I should hear something soon.”
“Busy boy. You drove to Brawley and back just to send a fax?”
“No. I have a fax machine in my car.”
Tibby arched a brow. “I should have known. The ultimate yuppie. Look, I’m busy. Why don’t you speak your piece, then leave?” She didn’t want him accidentally picking up one of the papers she’d already run off, as she’d written a pretty inflammatory article accusing him of wrecking the ecological and social balance of Yaqui Springs. Tibby would rather he received the news in the morning, along with everyone else.
He spread his feet and crossed his arms. “All right I’ll get to the point. There are always normal delays in construction projects of this size. The people who petitioned to get this golf course off the ground are anxious. I’m willing to offer some monetary support in relocating the post office you’ve erroneously built on my land.”
“No part of that building is erroneous. Gram had a permit, and the plans passed all inspections. Do you mind showing me this almighty petition?”
“Gladly.” Cole dug a folded piece of ruled notebook paper from his wallet.
Tibby accepted it without a word. Signatures covered both sides of the paper. Good heavens, every resident in Yaqui Springs—except her—had signed the thing. They’d skipped her on purpose. Her friends? Surrogate parents, practically. Wounded, Tibby refolded the damning evidence and thrust it back at him.
“Well?” He stuffed the smudged paper in his pocket and waited.
“It changes nothing. You probably dangled the idea before them like a carrot in front of a horse. We’ll see how they feel tomorrow after they read my article. Here.” Perversely Tibby pressed a drying newsletter into Cole’s hands and urged him toward the door. “It’ll make good bedtime reading. I hope it keeps you awake.”
Cole found himself standing on her porch almost before he realized what had happened. At least she’d locked the door, he thought as he heard the dead bolt slide home. Holding the paper up to the porch light, he skimmed the front page. The smile that had formed when he heard the lock engage died the moment he read headlines accusing him of hoodwinking the town. “She wants war.” He crushed the page. “Well, then, that’s what she’ll get,” he muttered to himself. “If Gramps gave land away—and that’s a damned big if—there’s got to be a record. I’ll check every scrap of paper in the house even if I have to stay up all night.”
Why was he hanging around out there? Tibby peered between the sunny yellow café curtains she’d stitched up last week. A sigh slipped out as Cole finally stomped down her back steps. With the moonlight dancing off his broad shoulders, he threw a long shadow across her herb garden and onto a big old apple tree. The tree where she’d spent many a summer spying on him—where she’d once foolishly carved their twined initials in a heart.
Tibby dropped the curtain after Cole had disappeared from sight. Lord, but his muscular legs and narrow hips still had the power to stir her blood. Stir her blood, and make her yearn for…for nonsensical things she didn’t have time to dream about. Impossible things…
Brushing at a tear, Tibby went back to working on her press. She wanted to run all the copies tonight and deliver them before daylight. The residents ought to have time to digest her article before they invested in Cole’s folly. They must have known she’d object to their forking over their savings to the whiz kid’s venture. Why else would they have gone behind her back? Cole must have persuaded them by playing on their esteem for Yale. The injustice had her inking rollers with a vengeance.
COLE STOOD in his grandfather’s study and popped the top on a can of beer. Where to begin? There must be thirty file cabinets. The first drawer he slid open seemed well organized, but it started the year Gramps had moved to Yaqui Springs. “Mm.” He tried to gauge the age of the post office. Definitely newer than the store. Roughly five years, he guessed. Otherwise he’d have to start with the most recent date and work backward—which really could take all night.
It was slow work, but interesting. In a way, the receipts gave a history of his grandfather’s life. The old man had bought stock low and sold high. He’d dabbled profitably in bonds and money markets. He’d bought, sold and traded a lot of land in the Imperial Valley, underscoring Cole’s belief that his grandfather wouldn’t give property away.
Cole tensed and downed a slug of beer. Gramps had spoken highly of Lara Mack—but come to think of it, he’d mentioned Tibby more often in their later correspondence.
Hadn’t Tibby admitted spending time here doing his filing? Cole fought a queasy feeling in his stomach. Was bilking people Tibby’s game? A lonely old man was a prime target:
Cole laced his fingers behind his head and tried to imagine Tibby Mack in action. That thick braid of sunstreaked hair swishing across her hips as she talked animatedly. Green eyes filling a heart-shaped face. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with Gramps’s eyesight. Tibby possessed a willowy frame and small firm breasts that moved seductively when she walked. A swift surge to his loins jackknifed Cole into a sitting position. Now why would he have those kinds of thoughts about a woman who accused him of fraud?
Hurrying to the oak rolltop desk, he yanked up the telephone. Eleven o’clock. It wasn’t too late to call Cicely. Thrusting aside thoughts of Tibby, he went through his billfold until he found Cicely’s number. Then it struck him. This was a woman he thought he was serious about, and he didn’t have her phone number committed to memory. He knew the numbers of ten places that would ship sod anywhere in the world, and the numbers of twenty or so subcontractors. What did that say for his love life?
That he spent too damned much time involved in business, Cole decided as he punched in the sequence of numbers.
The phone rang repeatedly. He was ready to hang up when a sleepy voice answered. “Cicely?” he said. “Sorry, did I wake you? Who? Cole. Come on, it hasn’t been that long since we talked. No, I’m not calling from Italy. I’m in the States. Right here in California, to be exact. At my grandfather’s place out near the Salton Sea. He passed away.” Swallowing hard, Cole listened to her conventional murmurs of sympathy.
Between yawns she asked when he’d be back in Hollywood.
“I’m building a golf course in Yaqui Springs. I called to see if you’ll drive out for the weekend…Oh, you have plans for Saturday? An audition? Well, come afterward,” he said. “We have blue sky and clean air. I’ll cook all the meals,” he promised. Cicely hated to cook. Cole sensed the moment she began to weaken. “Good. Good. Try to get here before dark, or you may miss the road.” He gave directions, then listened to her grumble.