Redemption's Kiss. Ann Christopher
flash of movement caught her eye. A big black dog—a standard poodle, maybe—rounded the Foster place, barking with excitement. Oh, and was that the tail end of some sort of SUV in the driveway?
Maybe, but who really cared?
Jillian let the curtain drop and attacked her dough again. They didn’t have time for gossip when there was bread to be made and meals to be cooked for ten hungry guests.
Blanche, meanwhile, set the bags on the wooden counter and surveyed Jillian’s progress with pursed bubblegum-pink lips.
Oh, Lord. What now? Jillian tried to concentrate on her task, but there was no ignoring Blanche—not the blue-beaded chain of her cat’s-eye glasses, her white-blond teased beehive circa 1962 or her plump frame squeezed into electric-blue stretch pants and a matching jacket—especially when she got in a mood.
Finally Jillian looked up, exasperated. “What?”
“You need to ease up on that dough, honey,” Blanche drawled, her lilting Louisiana tones thick with disapproval. “You trying to make shoe leather or dinner rolls?”
“This may surprise you, Blanche, but I’ve made a decent batch of rolls once or twice in my life.”
“That does surprise me,” Blanche muttered, now eyeing Jillian’s work with raised brows. Clicking her tongue, she moved along the counter.
Jillian glared after her, irritated.
Sometime soon she’d have to break the sad news to Blanche—that she was not, in fact, Queen of the Universe here at the historic Twin Oaks Bed & Breakfast outside Atlanta—but for now she’d let this latest insubordination pass.
Though she hadn’t been listed on the contract for sale Jillian signed three years ago when she moved here from Virginia, Blanche had come with the B & B, just like the dormer windows, railed porch with rockers and twelve bedrooms.
Jillian was new to running the B & B and Blanche was…well, old. Since Jillian needed Blanche’s experience and expertise, Jillian spent a lot of time swallowing her retorts.
Jillian floured the counter and reached for the rolling pin. “So who bought the house?”
“No one over at the grocery knows.” Blanche rummaged in one bag and produced several dozen eggs and a couple pounds of butter. “Must be someone with a lot of money, though, ’cause that place needs some W-O-R-K. Maybe it’s a nice man for you. Now that you’re dating and all.”
Jillian rolled her eyes. She’d wondered how long it’d take Blanche to raise this topic and was surprised it had required—what?—fifty whole seconds.
“I am not dating,” she said, now using a floured glass to cut dough rounds and place them on the baking sheet. “I had one dinner with a man—”
“And coffee with him last week. Coffee plus dinner equals dating.”
“I don’t date,” Jillian said flatly. “I meet the occasional nice man and have dinner.”
“Very occasional.” Blanche’s backside poked in all its considerable glory from the depths of the refrigerator, where she was now arranging food. “Since this is the first man I’ve seen you have dinner with in three years.”
Affronted because there was no need for such an unvarnished recitation of the sorry state of Jillian’s love life this early in the day, she put the glass down and frowned at Blanche.
“You just focus on baking that chicken for lunch, okay?”
“No sex.” Blanche emerged from the fridge and pulled a tragic face on Jillian’s behalf. “No fried chicken. All work, no fun. No wonder you’re so uptight all the time. You haven’t got much to live for, far as I can tell.”
Jillian laughed, but it was as hollow as most of her laughter these days. Something inside her had broken and, three years later, she still hadn’t found a way to fix it. Maybe it was time to face the fact that the old Jillian, the happy one, was damaged beyond repair.
The funny thing was, she didn’t really care. Here at the B & B, which she’d bought with her divorce settlement because she didn’t want to return to practicing law and she needed something to do now that she was no longer the first lady of Virginia, she’d built something more lasting than happiness: peace, personal satisfaction and self-sufficiency. Even better, she’d found a mother’s pleasure in seeing her child discover the world.
Wasn’t that good enough?
She knew how to meet a payroll and balance the books, manage several employees, feed up to thirty people in the dining room, unclog a toilet, install storm doors and bandage scraped knees. Best of all, Allegra was happy and healthy.
Those were the important things. As long as they were on track, it didn’t matter that Jillian felt dead inside—when she felt anything at all.
A clatter in the hall jarred Jillian out of her thoughts and she looked around in time to see Barbara Jean, Blanche’s granddaughter, appear in the doorway.
Twenty-one and heading back to Vanderbilt in the fall, Barbara Jean spent most of her time marching to the beat of her own drum. Witness the orange and red hair, the multiple piercings and the iPod, which was always strapped to her arm. On the other hand, Barbara Jean was a straight-A student, levelheaded and responsible. She was, therefore, Allegra’s well-paid and much-appreciated nanny.
Barbara Jean threw her arms wide in a flourish and bowed. “Make way for Princess Allegra!”
Jillian and Blanche, who went through this drill on a daily basis, snapped to attention and bowed as two-year-old Allegra sidled into the room, teetering on purple plastic prostitute-in-training slides with pink ostrich feathers across the open toes. Today’s ensemble also included a pink leotard and tutu combination, a sparkling rhinestone crown and a blue magic wand with pink streamers.
“All hail Princess Allegra,” the adults intoned.
Allegra blessed them with a serene nod. “You may rise.”
Jillian crooked her finger at the girl, who came over. “Come here, Princess Allegra. Mommy’s got something for you.”
“What?”
“This.”
Sweeping her daughter up, Jillian kissed her fat little honey-with-cream-colored cheeks and swung her in a circle. Allegra screamed with laughter, revealing one Shirley Temple dimple on the left side of her mouth and tiny white teeth. After a few seconds of this silliness, Jillian set the girl back on her wobbly legs and ruffled her sandy curls.
“Don’t forget you’ve got a swimming lesson soon. Barbara Jean will take you.”
“Nooo-ooo.” Allegra backed away as though she expected to be dragged off in chains and tortured in a dungeon. “I don’t want to go swimming. I want a tea party.”
“Yeah, well, there’s plenty of time for a tea party after you swim.”
Allegra prepared for a rant by opening her mouth so wide you’d think it had a hinge, but a new distraction arrived before she could get started: someone knocked on the kitchen door.
They all looked around to see a man standing on the other side of the screen with a bouquet of red roses slung over one arm.
Jillian’s pulse quickened and a hot flush crept over her cheeks. She hastily washed her hands while Blanche shot her a smirk and then sauntered to the door and swung it open.
“Adam Marshall,” Blanche cried, laying the charm on so thick she’d need a putty knife in a minute. “You come right on in here and have some coffee and a muffin. How’s our favorite accountant?”
“I’m pretty good now that I know there’s a muffin in my future.” He came inside while everyone said hello and Blanche fixed his snack. His gaze went straight to Jillian and held. “How are you, Jillian?”
“I’m