Sealed With A Kiss. Mae Nunn

what to say next. “Even if you can sell a few motorcycles, it’s only a matter of time before you get bored with this place and want to leave again,” she blurted.

      The deep crease between his brows softened as he dropped his arms to his sides and indulged in a slow shoulder roll followed by a patronizing smile.

      “I can see where a city woman like you might think that,” Sam reasoned, “but there’s still plenty for me in Beardsly. But have you considered that folks might be a bit suspicious of your staying power?”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” She bristled.

      “I was forced to relocate when my opportunity here dried up. But you had every advantage and every reason to stay. These folks may talk slow but their minds work just fine. They know the difference between being left behind and being dumped. I think they’ll give me another chance. You, however, might have some charred bridges to rebuild.”

      Sam’s insight was a punch to the solar plexus. Had she been a fool all these years, unconcerned about how the hometown folks would react to her refusal to visit? Suddenly she envisioned her grand opening with no one to sample her fancy cappuccino, no kind face to purchase her hardbound books, no supporters to guide well-heeled shoppers her way.

      She knew a thing or two about changing. She might have accepted her grandmother’s challenge without seeing all the relationship repairs that would be necessary but, thanks to Sam, the blindfold was off.

      She had a name for her store. Bridges to build.

      Literally.

      Five days after her loan application was accepted, Tara was still without funds. Buying on credit and scrimping to cover her few personal needs brought back memories of her early years in the city, years she’d sooner remember with distant nostalgia than with familiar clarity.

      Sam made building an exterior entrance for the second floor his top priority. By the end of today she would no longer need to bother him for passage upstairs. The thought of not seeing him at his homemade drafting table made her heart sink a bit. But it was just as well, since he goaded her at every turn.

      Sitting behind the scarred secretarial desk she’d picked up at a local thrift shop, Tara’s best sales voice echoed in the otherwise empty room.

      “Miss Frieda.” Tara tried to sound confident. “I assure you Bridges will pose no threat to the campus bookstore traffic. If anything, we’ll work in concert with you to fully meet the needs of the students.”

      “Young lady, as you may recall, I’ve been ‘fully’ meeting the needs of my students for almost forty years, now. Did you ever lack for anything during your school days in Beardsly?”

      Her fear was confirmed. The woman at the other end of the telephone line had an ax to grind.

      “No, ma’am, of course not. I wanted to tell you myself about the opening of Bridges and let you know my intention is not to compete with your sales, but rather to offer literary alternatives.”

      “Well, you’re a few days late. I’ve heard all about your literary alternatives.”

      Tara smiled to herself. So, word was out. There must be some buzz on the street.

      “That nice young Sam Kennesaw already told me all about your plans.”

      Nice? Young? Well, by Frieda Walker’s standards Tara supposed he might be.

      Her smile flipped upside down. Was he secretly going behind her back to poison everybody’s opinion? Was he planning to drive her out of town and keep everything for himself?

      “Um, I see. So Sam gave you a call already then?” Maybe with some careful questioning she could find out what the big sneak had been up to.

      “Sam? Gave me a call? Not hardly. He knows how to do things the proper way. He’s been in the bookstore and student center every day this week. How else is everybody supposed to find out about his bike shop?”

      Careful questioning of the college bookstore manager was not going to be necessary. Miss Frieda was in a chatty mood.

      “And I saw him down at the Varsity Theater, too. The poor boy can’t afford advertisement, but I always say word of mouth is the best mode of communication, anyway.”

      Tara began to suspect she was the one person in town who hadn’t been the target of Sam’s one-man ad campaign.

      “Which is another reason for my call. I wanted to let you know the grand opening of Bridges is scheduled for—”

      “I know, June first, the same day as Sam’s place, Sam’s Cycles. He’s already told everybody.”

      Everybody but Tara.

      So that’s what he’s up to. He plans to overshadow my special day with a little excitement of his own, huh? We’ll see about that.

      “He’s living with the students? Over in those tiny apartments?” Tara questioned.

      “That’s what I heard.”

      She and Lacey filled their plates from the all-you-can-eat salad bar at Ruthie’s Kitchen. They ladled creamy dressing atop greens and choice veggies, tossing raisins and croutons on for good measure. Neither woman was inclined to pass on lunch in favor of squeezing into designer jeans. Tara’s all-black, figure-minimizing wardrobe had become infamous about town. It had also become unbearably hot as the mercury rose into the nineties before noon each day.

      They slid into an empty table as Lacey continued. “You know the older boys don’t want to live in the dorm anymore. So, three or four of them get together and share one of those little efficiencies that have less square footage than a dorm room, go figure. Well, Sam’s living in the smallest one of all, which makes sense, seeing as he doesn’t have a pot to cook in or a window to throw it out of.”

      Lacey paused to collect a getaway crouton and pop it into her waiting mouth. “Anyway, they have a new evening ritual of sitting out behind the apartments, drinking sodas and asking Sam for advice on keeping life simple. He’s becoming their mentor.”

      At this new piece of information, Tara sucked in a surprised breath and, along with it, a raisin. Heads turned toward their table while she sputtered and coughed in an effort to dislodge the fruit. She struggled to free her airway, tears trickling over her lashes.

      “Honey, are you gonna be all right?” Lacey pleaded.

      Tara nodded, swiped at her running nose and continued to struggle for breath.

      Strong arms grabbed her from behind, hoisted her to her feet, positioned clasped hands against her chest and gave a powerful tug in and upward. A whoosh of breath was forced from her lungs. A small projectile shot across three tables and into the trash can by the exit door.

      The lunch crowd burst into cheers. She didn’t need eyes to confirm what her intuition already suspected. The conquering hero was at it again.

      Lacey stuffed a wad of paper napkins in Tara’s hand, motioning she should wipe her face.

      Sam released his grip and stepped around the table, his concern turning to amusement as Tara smeared navy mascara from one temple to the other. On the tips of her auburn lashes, he found the blue color enchanting. But by the time she’d finished wiping her eyes and nose, the streaks had given her the appearance of a masked character from the comics.

      “Thank you for your help,” she sniffed. “I should go to the ladies’ room and freshen up.”

      “No, that’s not necessary. You’re fine, considering you were almost done in by a dried grape.”

      “Tara, I agree you should make that trip to the ladies’ room,” Lacey cautioned, gesturing toward her own eyes.

      “Nonsense.” Sam took Tara’s hand as he sat and drew her down into her chair. “Now, finish your salad. Oh, by the way, my mama taught me to chew each bite twenty times before swallowing.”

      “That