Blue Moon Bride

Joan reminded Hannah of her favorite grandmother, so willing to sacrifice for others. She managed a smile of encouragement. “You’re not responsible at all. Besides, I can’t recall you doing any complaining. Please, eat your breakfast.”

“Well…” Joan lowered herself to her chair, clearly reluctant.

Hannah belatedly noticed Roth had stood up. What was he doing? She glanced at him, at his face, his eyes, breaking her vow to smithereens. He not only smelled intoxicating but he looked it, in that torso-hugging, sky-blue knit shirt and those formfitting jeans. She’d never seen him in jeans before, not even on casual Fridays. He looked scrumptious—and very serious. She wondered what went on behind that frown. Did he doubt her headache story? “Sit down,” she said, upset with herself for her smashed vow, and worse, thinking of him as scrumptious. “Eat my pancakes.”

He said nothing, merely watched her. She was positive he felt her alleged headache was open to question. So what if he was right? It was none of his business if she wanted to lie about having a headache. It’s a free country, Mr. Jerric, she threw out silently. Believe me or don’t believe me. I couldn’t care less. “Excuse me, everybody.” She dashed out of the dining room, into the foyer and up the stairs.

An hour later, Hannah considered leaving her room. Maybe it was safe. Surely by now breakfast was over and Roth was busy doing whatever he came to the inn to do—fishing, boating, making other people feel inferior. She pushed off the bed and walked to her balcony door, overlooking a quiet cove some one hundred feet down a gentle, tree-lined slope. She couldn’t hear the lapping of the water from this distance, but somewhere out on the lake she heard the drone of an approaching motorboat.

Through branches she thought she could see a sailboat. Yes, there it was, its white sail billowing in the wind. She opened the multipaned door, feeling a little better, and took a deep breath of fresh air. The day would be warm. June had been un-seasonably cool, but July in Oklahoma could see temperatures soaring to three digits. Soon the weather would be too hot for open windows and enjoying fresh breezes off the lake.

A knock at her door exploded her positive mood. She recognized the force of that knock. It had to be Roth Jerric. Closing her eyes, she took in another breath of fresh, country air. “What now?”

“How are you feeling?”

She wanted to tell him the truth, that she felt depressed, and a great deal of her depression had to do with him. “If you mean the headache, I’m fine.”

“Can I come in?”

She didn’t want a one-on-one with him, especially not in her bedroom, so she decided to lie. “I’m not decent.” She winced, the off-the-cuff statement echoing the bathroom disaster. Couldn’t she come up with something else? Like the truth, I’ve been crying, a direct result of how insecure your low opinion of me has made me.

She’d had great respect and admiration for Roth when she worked at Jerric Oil. Knowing he, in particular, thought her mediocre had become a huge roadblock to her self-confidence. Running head-on into the man at the Blue Moon Inn had been far from therapeutic.

“Could we possibly do this on the same side of the door?” he shouted.

“What do you want?”

“To speak to you.”

“Must you?”

A full half minute of silence ticked by, then, “I’ll only take a second. Please, open the door.”

She felt foolish and a little childish. Did strong, independent women cower behind locked doors? Not on your life! She straightened her shoulders. She was no coward. It was one thing to be upset, but quite another to wallow in self-pity. “Oh—just a second.”

She hurried to the old oak dresser, grabbed a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Stuffing the tissue in her jeans pocket, she pulled her face powder from the top drawer and patted the puff across her nose and cheeks. “I’m slipping something on.” She closed the drawer and gave herself a once-over in the mirror. Her red nose camouflaged by face powder, she looked composed. She ran her fingers through her curls, fluffing them. Roth was only an ex-boss, just a man. Why get all caught up in his opinion? “Coming.”

She opened the door, determined to remain formal and solemn. Neither he nor his estimation of her were important. Unfortunately, seeing him sent a rush of ambivalence through her. He was quite a sight standing there all tall, intensely serious and excruciatingly handsome. His features carried a startling lack of information. A slight sideways movement of his jaw indicated impatience, perhaps. Or possibly some internal burden he carried that had nothing to do with her. Cheek muscles stood out, telegraphing the fact that he clenched his jaw. “Thanks,” he said, at last.

She shored up her indignation with the lift of her chin. “What is it?”

“Joan has your breakfast warming in the oven.”

“I told you to eat my breakfast since I ruined yours.”

“I ate my own. The coffee didn’t hurt it.”

She refused to feel guilty. He was a big boy. He made his own decisions. “Whatever.” She turned away and walked to her open balcony door. Up close he smelled too good. She needed the fortification of neutral country air. “Thanks for the bulletin,” she said lightly. “My curiosity was killing me.”

For a moment he didn’t say anything. She hoped he was gone, but had a nagging suspicion he wasn’t. “I thought we might work on that schedule,” he said.

She clenched her teeth on a curse. Schedule? What was he…suddenly it came back to her. Not only must she face him again, but they had to discuss the bathroom schedule, which would be a terrific way to relive the plastic fiasco. For her own sanity, she continued to stare at the placid lake. “Let’s say—” she thought fast “—from the top of the hour to the half hour the bathroom is yours. From the half hour to the top of the next hour, it’s mine. I stay out the first half of every hour and you stay out the second half. That way, any time of the day or night, we know when the bathroom is ours and we can avoid each other at our leisure. How’s that?” She had to admit, it wasn’t a bad suggestion, considering it was off the top of her head. She clamped her hands together, waiting.

“Sounds good,” he said.

She swallowed, more relieved than she wanted to admit. A surge of satisfaction dashed through her at the small but satisfying success. “Fine. Now, go away.”

After a beat, he said, “Look, Miss Hudson, I don’t know what problem you have with me, but if you don’t mind a little frankness, I’m no more interested in being around you than you are in being around me.”

He grew quiet, and she wondered if that was her cue to speak. She stared at nothing, all her senses focused on the man standing behind her on her threshold. “Great,” she said. “I’m thrilled neither of us wants anything to do with the other.”

“Now that that’s out in the open,” he said, “have a nice stay.”

“Have a nice life,” she shot back, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Arrogant ass.”

Roth turned away from Hannah’s door, muttering, “Prickly witch.”

He went down the stairs into the front lobby. At a loose end, he didn’t know what to do. Restless, he strode into the dining room and grabbed a mug off the sideboard where a coffee urn sat. He filled his cup with the strong, steaming brew and stood there thinking. How did he go about doing what he’d come here to do?

As a youth, he’d wanted to be a builder, a creator. His oil company came about as a fluke, his natural abilities setting him on a course so successful he lost sight of earlier, creative aspirations. His inner struggle ate at him, his disillusion with the conflict between his youthful dreams and what became the reality of his life.

Last night’s meeting in the garden with Hannah only made matters worse, with her reference to arm candy. Roth knew full well what arm candy was. Even closed down emotionally, in his bloodless way, since his divorce he’d enjoyed plenty of it. And before that, his wife, Janice, had been a striking woman, but never, ever in his mind “arm candy.”

He’d been the envy of any man who saw her on his arm, and he’d felt like the luckiest guy in the world. He’d loved her absolutely, blindly, as it turned out. After the tragedy of their infant son’s crib death, Roth suggested they try again for another child, but Janice refused. Roth could still feel the blow of her rejection, even all these years later.

The birth of their child, Colin, made her realize she didn’t like being pregnant, didn’t want her body “distorted” again. The worst shock of all was when she said the death of their baby was a blessing in disguise.

A blessing in disguise?

Every time he thought about her twisted intellectualizing that any child’s death could be a blessing, he felt sick. Suddenly unsteady, he grasped the sideboard for support. Janice was so nonchalant, so cold and analytical, while he grieved intensely. Her decision left him feeling not only grief of loss, but betrayed.

That was when he finally saw her for what she was, all appearance and no substance. At that moment he knew their marriage was over. He was the only one mourning, the only one who wanted a traditional home, with children. Disillusioned and embittered by Janice’s rejection and the fallibility of his own insights where personal relationships were concerned, he shut himself down, became obsessed with work, determined to feel nothing. Women to him became diversions, nothing more.

He heard sounds, rousing him from his morbid mental detour. He lifted his head, alert. What was that?

“Mona, don’t fret,” a voice said. “I won’t start requiring you to pay for your stays. Don’t be absurd.”

That was obviously Joan’s voice, growing nearer.

“But this letter,” Mona said.

“Oh, dear, where did you get that?”

“I needed a scrap to make a list of paints I want to order, and I found it in the trash.”

“That’s where it belongs.”

“But, it says you’re broke and you could lose the inn.” Mona sounded worried.

“My banker is an old worrywart.” Joan paused. “Besides, Mr. Johnson is a paying guest.”

Roth lifted his mug in a mock salute. “It’s Jerric, Roth Jerric,” he wisecracked, under his breath. “But feel free to call me Ross.”

“What about the other one? The girl?”

“Hannah? Oh, I sent her one of my coupons for a free, two-week stay.” After a second, she added bleakly, “I had such plans for her. She’s a lovely women and she has no job. I certainly wouldn’t ask her to pay. Just as I would never ask you.”

“But if the bank takes your inn—”

“Pish tosh! Think no more about it.”

He heard a dog yap.

“Hush, Missy Mis. Now, see what you made me do? Missy Mis hates it when I raise my voice. Let’s speak of more pleasant things.”

“Changing the subject won’t erase the problem, Joan.”

“It’s not a problem, Mona, merely a banker’s preoccupation with minutia.”

“This letter is not minutia. It’s serious. Perhaps you could sell some of the paintings I’ve given you over the years.”

“Mona, I love your work. They’re marvelous. Genius. But sadly, guests and locals fail to understand your gift as I do. Now don’t get moody. You know your muse can’t ascend when you’re moody.” Her sigh was audible. They were right around the corner. Roth didn’t want to embarrass his hostess by having her discover he had overheard about her financial trouble.

Quietly he carried his mug through the lobby into the parlor. His footfalls were muted by the Oriental rug as he crossed the room to take a seat on a fusty, rose-colored sofa. He focused on the placid lake outside the picture window, aware when the women came into the foyer. Without noticing him, they continued their hushed conversation down the center hallway toward the rear of the house.

He sat back, contemplating Joan’s money troubles. He felt a pang of sympathy for her. It must be terrible to be elderly and financially insecure. He’d seen and heard enough to know that Joan was a kindhearted philanthropist, but without the financial wherewithal to be so openhanded.

If her income rested solely on the meager amount she asked of her guests, she was no businesswoman. The place was far from palatial, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d quoted him double what she did, even for such drab accommodations. The lake access and view, alone, were worth twice what she charged.

He thought about this morning and his brush with Hannah Hudson’s nudity and found himself almost smiling. Bad boy, he told himself. You must not enjoy that memory—it was a terrible moment for her. Yet, it certainly made the accommodations—sharing a bathroom—far less aggravating. If he were to be totally honest, it made sharing her bathroom worth every half hour he would be barred from its entry.

He experienced an uncomfortable upsurge of lust and shifted in his seat. How had his thoughts skipped so radically from impoverished Joan Peterson to lovely, if explosive, Hannah Hudson? Enough of that. Besides, he had not come here for the sport of conquest, which was moot anyway, since Miss Hudson exhibited as much delight in discovering he was there as she might show a poisonous snake found coiled in her bed.

He forced his mind to the less inflammatory subject—Joan Peterson’s money troubles. He supposed it was none of his business, but the conversation between the two women nagged.

He thought of Joan as a nice, if eccentric woman, and though he tried to numb his emotions, especially soft ones like pity, empathy or love, he felt sorry for her. He even experienced an urge to help. He sensed she would be too proud to accept charity. She couldn’t even accept that she had financial trouble. So, how might he be of assistance?

He stood, lifted his mug from the doilied end table, ambled aimlessly into the lobby and out the front door onto the wide porch. After a few minutes, he found himself on the lakeside of the inn, strolling along a gravel path through towering walnut, oak and pecan trees on his way toward the shoreline. He recalled so well, as a child, times he had dashed, barefoot, to the water’s edge. On the run, he’d thrown himself into a racing dive, skimming the shallows to gain deeper water beyond the cove. Today Grand Lake teamed with speedboats, large and small, plus sailboats and little wave-runners, buzzing all over the lake like water-bound motorcycles. The cove wasn’t buoyed to warn boaters away. Swimmers venturing too far out onto the lake these days would be foolhardy.

Yet, with the buffering cove, a sense of privacy and sanctuary endured, just as it had in his boyhood. Around the bend, Roth knew where the water deepened enough for docks. His family never owned a motorboat, just a rowboat. So they had no use for a fancy dock. Wondering if anyone had put in a dock, he veered off the lawn into the woods, deciding to see for himself. He had a feeling no one had, or there would be a clearing through the heavy underbrush.

When he reached the spot and came out of the trees, he picked his way down a rocky slope toward the lake. The sunshine felt good; the air smelled fresh with the cool breeze coming off the water. He experienced a spark of exhilaration, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What if…” He reached a rocky ledge and leaned against a huge old oak. He remembered this tree, and this ledge. As a youth he had dived into the deep water a thousand times from this very spot. He smiled at the recollection. After a time of quiet contemplation, his mind began to teem with hints, sketches of the potential for what might be a promising adventure. An adventure that would not only benefit him, but would put Joan Peterson’s financial troubles to rest for good and all.

His enthusiasm grew as his vision became more and more solid in his mind. This was exactly what he needed, the creative redemption of his soul. The very reason he came back to his childhood home.

He caught sight of a crane, its snowy wings spread wide as it circled above the calm, blue water. With a laugh, he shouted out, “Who says you can’t go home again?”

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