Suddenly Home

A second glance at the clock told her it was early enough to call him.

Perched on the edge of the bed, she dialed Alex Van Buren’s number, and counted the rings.

“Alex’s answering machine is broken,” said a deep male voice. “This is his refrigerator. Leave your name and number, and I’ll put the message under one of the magnets he’s got stuck all over me.”

Giggling, Taylor rolled her eyes and waited for the beep. “Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith. It seems there was a mix-up at the airport, and I picked up your suitcase by mistake. Hopefully, you have mine, which, coincidentally, looks an awful lot like yours….”

She cleared her throat. Why was she rattling on this way?

“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade? If you have my suitcase, that is. If not, we can arrange a good time for you to pick up your suitcase.” She recited her phone number and hung up.

Then, stretching, she slid under the covers, remembering his voice. Wholly, soothingly male, it reminded her of someone. Someone she knew.

But who?

The voice continued to echo in her mind until she drifted off to sleep.

“Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith.”

Alex lifted the corners of his pillow and pressed them against his ears. But it was no use. He could still hear her. “I picked up your suitcase by mistake….”

He’d locked up tight and closed the blinds before climbing into bed, intent upon making up for the many nights of sleep he’d lost while in Ireland.

If only he’d remembered to turn off the answering machine.

Groaning, he levered himself up on one elbow and flicked on the light. Eyes shaded by one hand, he squinted across the room. Well, the bag he’d brought home certainly looked like his….

“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade?”

Alex turned the volume on the answering machine down, clicked off the light and flopped back onto his pillow. Rolling onto his side, he took a deep breath, hoping to pick up where he’d left off when Taylor Griffith had interrupted his dream.

He’d been strolling along Ireland’s Dingle Coast, staring out at the great expanse of churning gray sea, when a lovely blue-eyed lass had stepped up beside him and offered to share her home-baked brown bread. But it was no use. Instead of accepting a slice, his thoughts returned to the Griffith woman’s message.

Knuckling his eyes, Alex decided the suitcase news wasn’t nearly as interesting as his dream. Punching his pillow, he tried again to return to Ireland and the lovely blue-eyed lass.

But a question popped into his head, disrupting the dream yet again. Its answer was obvious—this Taylor person had gotten his name and number from his luggage tag.

Jaw set with determination, he forced himself to remember Galway Bay. Bunglass Point. The thatched cottage on The Burren where he’d spent his first night abroad, listening to the gentle lowing of Black Angus cows.

But he couldn’t concentrate on Ireland or anything related to it, thanks to one Taylor Griffith.

Alex sat up, threw his bare legs over the edge of the bed and growled under his breath. There seemed to be a conspiracy these past few days to keep him from getting any shut-eye at all.

At a bed-and-breakfast in Ballydehob, the owner’s short-legged dog—named Bruce, of all things—barked the whole night away. In a small hotel in Killorglin, trains that ran like clockwork woke him every hour on the hour. Last night, the darlin’ woman who owned the house near Shannon Airport couldn’t seem to comfort her colicky baby. And now some girl seemed to think she had his suitcase, and he had hers.

He wouldn’t get any sleep until he got to the root of this, so why try?

Heaving a deep sigh, Alex hit the answering machine’s play button and turned the sound up. As the tape rewound, he opened the nightstand drawer, poked around until he found a pen buried under paperback novels and soda straws. Dig as he might, he couldn’t find anything to write on.

He listened to the first part of her message, and when she began reciting her number, Alex scribbled it on the palm of his hand. He’d call Ms. Griffith first thing in the morning, see about straightening out this mix-up she’d referred to.

After tossing the ballpoint back into the drawer, he turned the answering machine’s sound down. For the last time tonight, he hoped.

Then the red, white and blue ID tag on his bag caught his eye. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He’d lost the original luggage tag soon after buying the suitcase, and had been making do with the paper ones provided by the airlines ever since.

Alex hobbled toward it, rubbing his bad leg and doing his best not to think about how he’d earned the limp. Try as he might, the crash was something he’d never forget, or live down. And why should he be allowed to do either? It wasn’t every day that a test pilot lost a multimillion-dollar aircraft in the middle of the Caribbean.

He grabbed the luggage tag. “Taylor Griffith,” precise black letters spelled out, “142 Old Belle Way, Ellicott City.” Grinning, he thought, She sure didn’t sound like an old belle….

He unfastened the stretchy red-and-yellow band wrapped around the suitcase, then unzipped it. Inside, in neatly folded stacks, lay delicate, feminine articles of clothing in every shade of the rainbow. A tiny, pointy-toed black shoe poked out of a side pocket, and he held it by its long, slender heel. Chuckling, Alex said under his breath, “I guess not all elves live in hollow trees.” Turning it this way and that, he added, “Some of ’em live at 142 Old Belle Way.”

He put the shoe back where he’d found it. At least, he hoped he had. The idea of disturbing the perfection inside bothered him, and he chalked it up to years of rigorous military training.

Training. One more thing to remind him of the man he used to be. It hadn’t been hard, turning deliberately back into the not-so-tidy guy he’d been before enlisting….

Padding barefoot across uncarpeted hardwood, he picked up the telephone receiver. Tucking it between ear and shoulder, Alex punched in the number printed on his palm. Two rings, three, then a melodious “Hello?”

Nope, doesn’t sound a bit like an old belle, he thought again, grinning.

“Hello?” she repeated.

There was something about that melodic voice. Something rich, something vibrant. Where had he heard it before? Clearing his throat, Alex said, “Miss Griffith?”

There was a considerable pause before a soft “Yes?” sighed into his ear.

“This is Alex Van Buren.” She hadn’t corrected his “Miss” to “Mrs.,” and for a reason he couldn’t explain, Alex was relieved. “I, ah, I understand you have my suitcase?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Van Buren. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. I don’t know what possessed me to grab your bag without checking first to make sure it was mine. If you’ll just tell me where you’d like it delivered, I’ll be happy to—”

He had a feeling she was ending every sentence by accenting the last word out of nervousness, or worse, fear. “Hey,” Alex interrupted, giving in to a need to soothe her, “there’s no way of knowing which of us got to baggage claim first. Maybe it was me who picked up the wrong bag.”

He listened to the silence that prefaced her quiet sigh.

“Oh, thank goodness! You do have my bag. I was beginning to worry I’d have a long uphill battle with the officials at the airline….”

“It’s here,” he assured her, “safe and sound.” Then, remembering that he’d promised to drive his mom to a church brunch the next day, he said, “Tell you what. I’ll be in your neck of the woods tomorrow.” He knew exactly where her street was, and could easily stop by her place on the way to his mother’s. “How ’bout we make the switch then?”

He remembered the delicate perfume that had wafted from her clothing, the soft fabrics, the feminine colors. He very much wanted to meet the woman with feet half the size of his, who packed with such precision, who had the voice of an angel…and the strength to haul his big, heavy suitcase home.

The instant he realized he’d been daydreaming, Alex coughed. Twice. “Well. Now, then. So tell me, Miss Griffith, are you an early riser?”

“An early riser? Well, I—I, um…”

Easy, he warned himself, because if the rest of her was as small as her shoe, she was probably just a little bit of a thing, and easily frightened.

“Do you need directions?” she asked.

Chuckling, he said, “Nah. Ellicott City is my hometown. I used to drive a delivery truck during my college years. I bet if I put my mind to it, I could draw a map of the place.”

Alex shook his head, more confused by his odd behavior than he’d been by anything in quite some time. It wasn’t like him to make small talk, particularly of the humorous kind. At least, he hoped she’d heard the nonsense he’d been spouting as humorous….

“Well, all right,” she said hesitantly. “I’ll see you around ten, then?”

“Right-o. Ten, then.”

Right-o? Where had that come from? Was it her voice or her attitude—or both—that had rattled him so? Alex wouldn’t have been able to explain why if his life had depended on it, but he didn’t want to say goodbye.

“Thank you, Mr. Van Buren, for going to so much trouble.”

“No thanks necessary, Miss Griffith. Like I said, it’s no trouble. No trouble at all.”

When she hung up, Alex felt disconnected from more than her lovely voice. Smiling, he climbed back into bed and snapped off the light. Fingers clasped under his head, he stared at the darkened ceiling. “If she looks even half as good as she sounds,” he said to himself, “you’re in for a real sweet treat, Alex, m’boy.”

But that was the flyboy in him talking, and he knew it. A test pilot was expected to behave like Romeo and Casanova and Valentino rolled into one. Alex had spent his share of compliments on the opposite sex, but unlike his contemporaries, for whom flirtation seemed second nature, he’d had to work hard at it. If flattery didn’t get him a date with a beautiful woman, the flight suit was sure to have a positive effect. If he’d been in civilian clothes, talking plain talk, would the ladies have paid him a moment’s attention?

Alex didn’t think so. And the dishonesty of it all had always bothered him.

Talking with Taylor Griffith hadn’t been like that. Instead, the conversation had been smooth and easy. Maybe for no other reason than the honesty that had prompted her phone call, and his.

He closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, remembering that sweet, lyrical voice.

It didn’t surprise him when he had no desire to conjure up the image of his pretty Irish lass.

The minute she was dressed and ready, Taylor called her uncle. “Ready for the ladies’ auxiliary brunch?” she teased.

“Don’t rub it in,” he complained. “If it wasn’t for the fact that the money they’ll raise is for a good cause—”

“Oh, Unc, you know you enjoy these functions.”

He chuckled. “Says you.”

“Says anybody who sees you.” She giggled. “You certainly look like you’re enjoying yourself, surrounded by ladies all the time.”

“Yeah, well, I’d have a lot better time if they didn’t all have blue hair,” he added, laughing.

“Well, at least you can always depend on great food.”

Taylor heard him smack his lips. “That’s true,” he agreed.

“I’ll be there by noon. That’ll give us plenty of time to get a good seat.”

“Okay. See you then, kid—”

The doorbell rang, interrupting his farewell. “Who’s that so early on a Sunday morning?” he demanded.

“It’s five of ten,” she pointed out. “Hardly early.”

“Well, don’t open that door till you’ve checked first to see who it is. Through the peephole, mind you. We’re not living in the world I grew up in,” he warned.

“I’ll be careful,” she said as the bell rang a second time. “See you at noon.”

After hanging up, she half ran to the foyer, and stood on tiptoe to peer through the peephole.

A man, hands in his pockets, stood on the porch, staring across the street. Taylor opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow and spoke through the crack. “Yes?”

When he turned, the sight of his wide, friendly smile made her wonder if it was possible for a human heart to burst through its rib cage.

Because it was him, the man she’d nearly mowed over in the aisle of the plane.

“Hi,” he said, removing his sunglasses. “Alex Van Buren.” He used the glasses to point at the porch floor. “I’ve got your suitcase?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She closed the door to unlatch the chain, then opened it again, wider this time. “Won’t you come in?”

It was fairly obvious that he hadn’t gotten a clear view of her while the chain lock had been in place. But now, eyes wide and brows high on his forehead, he said, “No way.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the coincidence. Couldn’t help but remember that he’d occupied most of her dreams last night, either.

He lifted the bag as if it weighed no more than a gallon of milk. Taylor had packed the thing. She knew how heavy it was. Well, she told herself, he was tall and good-looking and strong. She grinned inwardly. But what were the chances he was single…and a Christian?

Putting the bag at the bottom of the stairs, he noticed Barney. “Hey, there,” he said, crouching and extending his hand. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

She was about to warn him that Barney did not take well to strangers when the cat rubbed its face against the man’s hand. A tremor of envy coursed through her. It had taken months before she’d earned that kind of affection from the cat.

Blushing, Van Buren stood, pocketed his hands again. “Kids and animals…” he said haltingly, and shrugged. “What can I say?”

Taylor surely didn’t know what to say, and so she said nothing.

She caught him staring, and followed his gaze to see what had so thoroughly captured his attention. On the foyer table lay the church bulletin, where she’d circled the ladies’ auxiliary brunch in red. But why would he be interested in that?

“Is that my suitcase?” he asked, nodding at the bag near the door.

“Oh. Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m afraid I, ah, sort of messed things up inside, looking for some, um, identification. I hope you won’t mind that things aren’t quite as you left them.” Fact of the matter was, the muddled mess had driven her to distraction, and she’d dumped the whole thing out and repacked it, her way.

He shot her a sideways glance, narrowed one brown eye. “You didn’t do my crossword puzzle, did you?”

She grinned. “No. But only because I couldn’t find a red pen to match the one you’d been using.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, winking, “’cause I can’t figure twenty-seven across to save my soul.”

Taylor laughed. She was strangely drawn to this man, and didn’t quite know what to make of it. She glanced nervously at the face of the grandfather clock that stood beside the front door. She’d promised to pick up her uncle at noon. But first she needed to shower and—

“Nice place,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Very homey.”

“Homey” had been precisely the look she’d been going for when Taylor had begun decorating her house. Funny that no one before him had noticed.

“I, ah, have an appointment this morning, or I’d invite you to stay for coffee, to thank you for coming all the way over here.”

He unpocketed his hands, drove the right one through his hair, leaving wide finger tracks in the dark waves. “Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, grabbing his suitcase with one hand and the doorknob with the other. “Nothin’ worse than a guy who overstays his welcome.” He shrugged. “I’ll just be on my way.”

In the doorway, he turned slightly and smiled. “Nice meeting you.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. “Well, guess I’ll hit the road, then.”

“Drive safely. You know how those Sunday-morning drivers can be.”

Chuckling, he nodded. “Yeah. Crazy.” He clumped down the porch steps and across the flagstone path, then dumped the suitcase unceremoniously into the back of his minipickup. Snapping off a smart salute, he slid in behind the wheel. “See you,” he said, slamming the driver’s door.

“See you,” she returned, waving. But her words were drowned out by the growl of his engine.

Taylor’s professional side kicked in, and again she wondered what might have caused his limp. He’d done quite a job trying to hide it, but it was there, nonetheless. Was he getting regular physical therapy treatments? Or was he beyond that sort of help?

Barney jumped onto the window ledge to watch him back down the drive, continued staring until the pickup was completely out of sight. Then he aimed a golden-eyed stare at Taylor.

“Don’t look at me like that. It isn’t my fault your new best friend is gone, is it?”

He leapt to the floor and pranced off, as if to say, “It most certainly is your fault.”

The phone rang, and Taylor picked it up. “It’s just me,” her uncle said, “calling to—”

“To make sure whoever was at the door hasn’t chopped me into little pieces and stuffed me into the garbage disposal?”

“Miss Rosie’s posies, Taylor. What a thing to say!”

“Sorry, Unc.” And she meant it.

“You can never be too sure these days, y’know.”

“I know.” She’d been hearing the “be careful” lecture since her mother’s death.

“What say we get to the brunch early, put in an appearance, fill our bellies and hotfoot it outta there?”

Laughing, Taylor said, “You’re one of a kind. I just have to shower and dress. See you in about an hour.”

“Remember…Sunday drivers…”

“Yeah. Crazy.”

From nowhere, a picture of Alex Van Buren flashed in her mind. Taylor swallowed a lump of regret. Why hadn’t she invited him to the church social? He’d certainly seemed interested enough when he noticed the bulletin…. “I’ll be careful,” she told her uncle, “so don’t worry.”

“I always worry,” he said.

And she knew it was true.

She hit every green light and didn’t get behind a single slowpoke. Her uncle was sure to think she’d been speeding. Rather than go through the rigmarole of explaining how she’d made the trip in record time, Taylor drove around his block a few times. It was a lovely sunny day, and she took advantage of the extra moments by taking in the summer foliage glowing on both sides of the street.

“Well, let’s get this nonsense over with,” Uncle Dave grumbled when he got into the passenger seat, “so I can go home and turn on the sports channel.”

“Nice to see you, too,” she kidded.

“Don’t get wise with me, young lady,” he teased right back. “You’re not too old to stand in the corner, y’know.” He buckled his seat belt and locked the door. “When was the last time you had your oil changed?” he asked from out of the blue. “And how’s the air pressure in your tires? Have you checked the windshield washer fluid lately?”

Taylor groaned inwardly. He could be such a worrywart. But he meant well, and she loved him like crazy for it. “I took care of everything last week, remember…the guy at the station told me I needed new wiper blades and—”

“Oh, yeah. Little whippersnapper was just tryin’ to rip you off. Good thing you set him straight. He’ll know better’n to mess with you again.”

She gave an affirmative nod. They drove in silence for a few minutes. Taylor’s mind wandered to her morning visitor. She couldn’t imagine what her uncle might be thinking…and didn’t dare ask.

The instant she pulled into a parking slot in the church lot, Uncle Dave got out of the car and tugged at his jacket sleeves. “Good golly, Miss Molly. There’s Mable Jensen over there. Quick! Hide me before I have to listen to another rendition of her hip replacement surgery.”

But it was too late.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mable called, waving a lace-trimmed hankie in the air. “Daaay-veeee! I’ll save you a seat inside….”

Shoulders slumped, he groaned. “I hate it when she calls me that.” Then, forcing a smile, he returned her wave.

“Ratchet it down a notch or two, Unc, or folks will get the impression you’re trying to show off.”

His brows drew together in confusion. “Show off?”

“The fact that you still have your own teeth.” And giggling, she added, “Really, sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re in the same age bracket as these people. I mean, take Mable, for example. She just turned sixty-five. I know ’cause they wrote her up in the church bulletin. But she acts—”

“Ninety.” He stood a little straighter, did a little jig. “Guess I do move pretty good for an old guy, don’t I?”

“At sixty-seven, you’re younger than me!”

Laughing, Uncle Dave stuck out his elbow. “Will you do me the honor, young lady, of accompanying me to the Ladies’ Auxiliary brunch?”

She stuck her nose in the air and feigned a British accent. “Why, thank you, kind suh. Don’t mind if I do.”

Laughing, they walked arm in arm into the church basement. Immediately Taylor spotted Alex, standing across the room, hands in his pockets and smiling at her. Heart hammering, she felt the corners of her mouth automatically lifting as he headed toward her.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“We’re here for the brunch. And you?”

“Same.”

From the corner of her eye Taylor noticed her uncle’s strained expression. She faced him. “Uncle Dave, this is Alex Van Buren, the man whose suitcase got mixed up with mine at the airport.”

“David Griffith,” he said, a thin smile on his face as he grasped the hand of the taller, younger man. “Thanks for saving my girl a trip to BWI.”

Alex shook his hand. “Was my pleasure, sir.”

“So,” David said, “you two were in Ireland at the same time?”

He nodded. “I spent three weeks there, all by my lonesome. One of the best experiences of my life.”

Why did she get the feeling the accent was on lonesome? “Three weeks?” Taylor echoed. “Isn’t that odd? I was there for two….”

“With a tour group?” Alex asked as her uncle’s eyes narrowed.

She shook her head. “Nope. I rented a car and drove the west coast, from the southernmost point to the northernmost, then along the Northern Ireland border, back to the airport in Shannon.”

Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Alone?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“’Cause it’s dangerous for a woman to travel alone.”

Taylor noticed that her uncle’s expression changed from suspicious to admiring. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at both men.

“It’s the only way to travel,” she insisted. “Especially if you don’t like doing typical touristy things.”

From the front of the dining hall Pastor Barnes clapped his hands, interrupting all conversation. “Hello, everybody…everybody?” he hollered. “Let’s take a moment for the word of God, shall we?”

Like everyone else in the room, Uncle Dave lowered his head. “A moment, ha!” he whispered to Taylor. “If there’s anything hot on the food table, it’ll be stone-cold by the time he—”

Taylor wrapped his hand in hers, gave a gentle squeeze. “Uncle Dave…” she said around a grin.

“Well, it’s true,” he insisted.

Alex crouched near Uncle Dave’s ear. “No problem. I hear there’s a new microwave in the kitchen….”

The minister raised his hands just then, and thanked the good women of the parish who’d prepared the food, the youth group for setting up the tables and chairs, the men’s club for volunteering to clean up afterward. He gave thanks to God for a lovely summery day.

“Wonder why preachers never get laryngitis,” Uncle Dave muttered.

“They pray for strong vocal cords?” was Alex’s answer.

“Honestly.” Taylor sighed as their shoulders lurched with laughter. “You two are worse than a couple of rowdy boys. You’re going to get us—”

A red-taloned hand reached from behind and rested on Taylor’s shoulder. “Shh!” came the angry demand. “If you can’t show any respect for the pastor, at least show a little for the Lord!”