Charlotte's Homecoming. Janice Kay Johnson
the roof. A swallow flitted from one beam to another. Perhaps she’d raised a spring brood up there. The doors on the far side of the barn were wide open, letting sunlight stream in and leading to the outside nursery. To Gray’s right, half of the barn was devoted to gardening implements, seeds, bagged manure and garden art. To his left, the other half held an organic produce section, and beyond that the antiques. In the center of it all stood a broad counter where homemade jams and jellies were displayed, as well as an old-fashioned cash register.
The only two people in here, besides Gray, were the woman behind the counter and the guy who’d planted himself in front of it, legs apart and his thumbs hooked in his jeans’ pockets.
“What in the hell have you done with yourself?” he asked explosively.
The woman—Faith … no, not Faith, Gray realized in surprise—gave the guy a look, a flash of vivid blue eyes.
“Had a makeover,” she said, not smiling.
“You look like a whore,” the jackass sneered. “What’re you trying to prove, punchin’ holes in yourself?”
“My reasons had nothing to do with you.” She leaned forward, her voice low, almost a hiss. “Rory, wife beaters aren’t welcome on our land. Consider this a warning. I’ll call the cops if you trespass again. Clear?”
From the shadows near the entrance, Gray saw the shoulders bunch and heard a string of obscenities, followed by single name, spat out with venom. “Char.” A shrug. “Figures. You’ll be gone soon enough. That’s what you do, isn’t it?” He leaned forward. “This is between Faith and me. Stay out of it.”
“Nope.” She reached for the telephone that lay on the counter. “Get out of here, Rory. I mean it.”
The jackass started forward, not back. Gray cleared his throat. Aware he was imposing enough to give the SOB pause, he strolled farther into the barn. Rory spun around, glared at him, snarled, “I’ll be back,” and strode toward the open door, his shoulder, not so accidentally, bumping Gray’s on the way.
“Last warning,” she called after him.
He flipped her off without looking back, then disappeared. The angry roar of the big engine was followed by a swirl of dust that wafted even inside the barn.
“Nice guy,” Gray remarked.
She gave a short, sharp laugh and took her hand away from the phone. “Oh, yeah. And getting nicer all the time.”
He raised his brows. Wife beater? Had Faith been married to that bastard?
She ignored his open curiosity and said conventionally, “May I help you?”
“Faith mentioned she had a sister.”
She hadn’t said how startlingly similar that sister looked. Both women were taller than average—perhaps five foot seven or eight—and willowy. This sister was thinner yet, though, as if she lived on coffee and nerves but very little food. Her skin was very white, her cheekbones prominent, her nose long and her eyes the blue of a Siamese cat’s. Bluer than Faith’s, he thought, but perhaps the color was more vivid because of the fire in these eyes. Faith’s were the blue of a placid pond rather than the startling blue of the twilight sky above the pyrotechnics of the setting sun.
“Should she have mentioned you?” Faith’s sister asked.
He smiled. “Nothing to mention. We’re acquainted.” He held out his hand. “Gray Van Dusen.”
She shook, even as she seemed to be sampling his name. “Gray … Not Graham?”
“Graham,” he conceded, letting her hand go with some reluctance, “although I answer to Gray.” Did she have any idea how much tension and vitality she’d conveyed, just with that simple grip of her hand?
“The new mayor of West Fork.”
“That would be me. Also a partner in Van Dusen and Cullen, Architects.”
“Part-time mayor, part-time architect.” She sounded amused.
“More like full-time mayor, full-time architect,” Gray admitted ruefully. “There’s not enough of me to go around.”
“And yet you’re here to shop for a new shrub or a hundred-year-old dining-room table or, hmm, some blackberry jam?” With the same slender, pale hand he’d enfolded earlier in his own, she lifted a jar from the display and held it out in offering.
Faith’s hands did not look like that. They were just as slender and graceful, but also tanned, calloused and nicked.
“Thank you, but no. I actually stopped by to tell Faith that I’m sorry to hear about the accident. And, ah, to talk about traffic.”
Her eyes widened. “Traffic? In West Fork?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Maybe not. Faith did say that West Fork is becoming a bedroom community for the east side.” She set down the jam jar. “I’m Charlotte. As you can tell, Faith’s sister.”
He wondered at the wryness in her tone. Had she, once upon a time, played second fiddle to Faith? He simply couldn’t imagine, even if Charlotte was the younger.
“He called you Char. Do you go by that?”
“Mostly with family. Rory is Faith’s ex, in case you hadn’t gathered as much.”
“Seems like a real son of a bitch,” Gray murmured.
Her voice hardened. “That’s how I think of him. Um … this conversation about traffic. Faith’s up at the house. Shall I call her?”
He shook his head. “We can have it another time. I stopped on impulse.” Following another impulse, he grabbed a different jar of jam. “I prefer blueberry.”
Charlotte Russell smiled at him, and he was jolted down to the soles of his feet. “My first chance to use the cash register.”
This woman was a mass of contradictions. That smile, a little sassy but essentially sweet, didn’t go with the ice-cold anger she’d used to deal with Rory, the wife beater. If he hadn’t been intrigued before, she had him now.
Almost at random, Gray asked, “Do you know how?”
“I’m an expert. I worked at Tastee’s while I was in high school.”
Like everyone in West Fork, he drove up to the outside window of Tastee’s for a burger and fries now and again, or went in for an ice-cream cone. Now amused, he said, “You wore that striped top and the stupid little white hat?”
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t tell you how much I hated that hat. Still, it was a job. Faith,” she told him, “picked strawberries summers. I wouldn’t have been caught dead doing that.”
He took out his wallet and paid for the jam, then nodded toward the bright outline of the door. “Walk me out?”
“Why not.” She came around the counter, and he saw that below a filmy white, short-sleeved blouse, she wore an aqua-colored, airy, linen skirt that flowed over her hips and thighs and stopped midcalf. Below that, flip-flops bared red-painted toenails. Seeing his gaze, she waved vaguely at her clothes and said, “I flew up here this morning. Haven’t had time to change into jeans.”
“From where?”
“San Francisco.”
“Are you younger, or older?”
The blue eyes flared. “You can’t tell?”
He stopped just outside and faced her. “Tell what?”
“We’re twins.” She was trying to wipe all expression out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed. “Identical twins.”
“Are you?” Assessing her again, Gray automatically put aside the pang he felt whenever he heard the word twin.