Ain't She Sweet (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers #2) - Whitney Dineen Page 0,37
holed up in a hotel room until that happens.” I can just imagine the look on her face if she’s there for longer than a couple of nights. She’s already exuding a trapped energy.
“I think she’ll do whatever she has to, to get this guy to leave without knowing she’s here.”
When I get back to Tara’s suite, I discover she’s sound asleep on the couch. I write a note telling her that her sandwich is in the refrigerator before collecting Penny and heading back to my farm.
I hate borrowing money from my mom. But, what’s that old saying about pride going before a fall? For me that fall would entail my entire house falling apart if I don’t address the plumbing apocalypse.
I’m surprised to see Gwen’s rental car parked by the farmstand when I pull into the driveway. I thought she was on her way to Tara’s house. I park next to her and hop out to see what she’s up to. Whoever worked the stand this weekend—I’m only open Saturday and Sundays right now—must have forgotten to lock up. I make a note to check on that.
Gwen’s back is to me when I walk in. She’s standing next to the bin of dried corn. “Hey,” I ask, “what are you doing here?”
She lets a scream of surprise that causes me to jump backward. “James, hello. You scared me to death!”
I scared her? My heart is racing like I just ran a three-minute mile. “How did you get in here?” I ask her.
“The door at the end of the building was open.” As I’m the one in charge of locking that door, the security breach is on me.
I look around still trying to ascertain why she’s here. “Were you looking for something in particular?”
“I wanted to check out your space to see where you could put your gift shop.”
“And?” I ask, surer than ever that I need to bring in some extra cash.
“What’s behind this wall?” she says as she indicates the back of the building.
“That’s where my workers put the harvested crops to sort out for the farm stand.”
“I can’t imagine they need all that space.”
“They don’t,” I assure her.
We talk about a few options that include local artisans, and a possible bakery section. I start to feel much better about future possibilities.
Before I can respond, we hear the crunch of tires on the gravel in the parking area out front. After it stops, a car door slams. I look out the window to find an attractive woman in jeans and a sweater staring at the sliding doors that marks the public entrance to my farm stand.
I slide one of the doors open. “I’m sorry but we close up early in the fall. Not much produce this time of year,” I tell her.
“Oh, that’s okay. I was actually looking for the owner.” She rummages through her purse and pulls out a business card.
“I’m the owner. What can I do for you?” I ask before looking down at her card and seeing her name. Rachel Perry, reporter.
“I’m looking for information about Tara Heinz.”
Anger starts to bubble beneath my skin like an active volcano. Luckily, I don’t show it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is.”
“I think you do,” she challenges.
“Why would I say I didn’t if I did?”
Gwen pushes the door open farther so that she’s visible. “What are you doing here?” she demands.
“Mrs. Heinz, I told you the other day I wanted to write a story on body positivity and that I want to interview your daughter.”
“You followed me to Oregon for that?” Gwen’s fists are clenched at her sides like she’s getting ready to rumble.
Rachel nods her head, causing her brown hair to bounce around. “I’m sorry if that upsets you.”
“No, you’re not. For your information, Ms. Perry, I’m not in Oregon to see my daughter, I’m here on business.” She motions to me. “Mr. Cavanaugh hired me to consult on a gift shop he’s adding to his farmstand.”
The stranger laughs. “I’m pretty sure a small-town farmer wouldn’t have the money to hire a consultant such as yourself. How would he find you?”
I cannot believe the gall of this woman. “My mom owns the Willamette Valley Lodge. She hired Mrs. Heinz.” I find it appalling that I have to lie, but I’m starting to see how tenacious these people are, and I have much more empathy for Tara. This kind of persistence would make anyone grumpy.