Finding Mr. Romantic Read online

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  Hard Shell Word Factory

  www.hardshell.com

  Copyright ©2005 Betty Jo Schuler

  April 2005 Hard Shell Word Factory

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

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  Chapter One

  CELESTE HARTE GLARED at the twenty-nine candles on her birthday cake. She'd squandered her last fourteen birthday wishes asking for a fairy tale romance, and her life still read like an instruction manual. The frog she'd hoped would turn into a prince—God rest his soul—had been a cheating toad. Leaning her hands on her glass-topped kitchen table, she puffed out her cheeks and blew. I wish I'd meet a man who would turn my life into a sizzling romance novel.

  "Easy.” Marianne Joest raised an auburn brow as she swiped cream frosting from her blouse with a manicured nail. Closing her eyes, she sucked her fingertip. “Mm. Next best thing to an orgasm."

  "My life is half over, I haven't made love in I-can't-remember-when, and you talk about orgasm?"

  "Half over?” Marianne snorted. “And I thought Susan was the drama queen.” She cut two slices of cake and handed Celeste one.

  Celeste shook her head. “It's loaded with fat."

  "Dammit, Cee. This is carrot cake, a vegetable with frosting. You're thin enough no matter what Harry said, and twenty-nine isn't the beginning of menopause.” Reaching into her oversized straw bag, Marianne pulled out a bottle of chilled champagne and two crystal glasses. She popped the cork on the bubbly. “It's time to ... live."

  Cee dipped a finger into a fat icing rose and savored its creamy sweetness. She could always count on Marianne. Champagne, cake, and a silver-wrapped package with a violet bow, their boutique's signature wrapping. Her best friend, business partner, and next-door neighbor knew how to make an occasion special. “I wish I could find a man with as much romance in his soul."

  "You can't find a plum between the oranges and escarole at the market. Or one of those boring women's thingies. And that guy you went out with the other night...” Marianne closed her eyes and faked a snore.

  "He was an old friend, and safe.” Cee made a face. “I went out with him once and that was enough."

  "That said, let's drink to men you'd like to see again and again.” Marianne filled their champagne glasses and raised hers. “Exciting, romantic, dangerously handsome men."

  Cee downed her champagne and stared into the moisture at the bottom of her glass. Does such a man exist? If so, would he look twice at me? The bubbles danced and swirled in her head, creating a warm glow that pooled down low.

  If I find Mr. Romantic, I'll make sure he does...

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  JOHN REACHED FOR Isadora, pulling her into his arms, crushing her to him.

  "No,” she whispered. “Not yet."

  He wanted her so badly, he almost dropped to his knees to beg her to make love. “Why?"

  Nick Dennis waited for Isadora to answer. His fingers itchy on the keyboard, he stared at his computer screen and silently begged her to say something. She refused to cooperate. He beat a rapid tattoo on the scarred tabletop. Why wouldn't Isadora make love? She needed a convincing reason to keep John waiting. He was an intriguing hero, whom Nick understood completely, but Isadora was an unfathomable woman who was starting to tick him off.

  He rose to pour himself another cup of mud. The trailer was so cramped, he could have reached the coffeepot without moving. Hell, he could cook, write, and use the john at the same time. But he needed to stretch. Isadora was pissing him off, not letting him inside her head. The women in the mysteries he wrote were all action and thought with their bodies, like the women he dated. Romantic heroines needed depth, or so the pink-paged writer's manual he'd surreptitiously purchased said.

  He should never have made that fool bet, but he'd thought a love story would be a cinch to write. “Piece of cake,” he told his cousin Dell.

  Nick paced six steps and bumped into the bed. He needed a bigger place to live, but the trailer was a loaner, his only cost the lot rental, and he liked the view. From the table where his computer sat, he could gaze down on the mirror-blue lake. From the open window over his bed, he could smell the fragrant pines, and at night, count stars and listen to crickets chirp.

  Tearing his eyes from snowy white sails and glistening blue lake spray, Nick applied butt to chair. He could write and sell a romance novel by summer's end. He could win a year's free lodging in Dell's cabin on the other side of Neuman Lake. It was still early June, and he had until August 31.

  Nick slammed his mug down on the table. Coffee slopped over the edge onto the printout of Chapter One. Wiping it up with paper towels, he knocked over the cup. Brown liquid ran across the table and onto the floor. “Damn."

  He opened the tiny closet to look for a rag, and a mop fell out and rapped him on the shoulder. An old Halloween mask hit him in the head. Rags fell at his feet, along with a bunch of other crap. The mop looked new. So he swabbed the floor with a raggedy pillowcase he could pitch.

  Eyeing the pile on the floor, he picked up the cell phone and called his cousin Delbert. “What's all this stuff in the kitchen closet, Dell? Trash or treasure?"

  "Fire hazard. Pitch it all out."

  He set the mop upside down in the corner by his bed. Grinning, Nick picked up the half-mask with a veil and hung it on the mop head. “You sure?” He pulled a filmy green scarf out of the pile. “Looks like some of this belonged to an old girlfriend."

  "Sabrina. Throw it away."

  "Was she the one with the body from heaven?"

  "And a mind that wouldn't stop."

  "I like women with brains."

  "I've never known you to date one."

  "Luck of the draw.” Nick chuckled into the phone. “Beautiful women are drawn to me."

  "And smart ones aren't? In case no one's told you, it's possible to be both."

  Nick glanced at his computer where a screen saver hid the words that haunted him ... why not? Isadora was both and annoying as hell. The women he dated were fluff, for good reason. Dating should be fun, not an exercise in deciphering what a woman really meant, nor comparing histories. Discussing who made the highest grades in school or had the most skeletons in their closets wasn't for him. His only A's were in subjects he liked—English, science, and industrial arts. When it came to skeletons, his closet contained more than he wanted to talk about.

  "So I guess the book is coming along,” Dell said, with a touch of sarcasm. “Considering all that experience with beautiful women, it must be a cinch."

  "Don't worry, Dell.” The mop had strands of yellow sponge instead of string, and Isadora had golden hair. She was introspective, a mysterious breed, and the little half-veil on the black mask lent her an air of mystery. Nick looped the green scarf around the handle and tied it in a knot. “I'll win this bet."

  Dell loved giving him a hard time. And Nick, who was competitive and loved a challenge, had fallen for his bait. After a night of bar hopping, trying to outdo one another with tall tales about volup
tuous women, Dell had dared him to write a romance book. He could write mysteries, so why not a love story? A love story would be easy. They shook hands on it.

  "If you don't, there are worse things than working with your father."

  Nick glanced out the back window of the trailer, where he could see a house going up on a hill. The framework stood so strong and proud, he could almost smell the wood. He'd loved going to construction sites when he was a kid, and Dad loved taking him. Nick retied the knot on the green scarf, so it wouldn't slip, then attempted to make a bow.

  "Dennis Rustic Homes could be yours someday."

  "I don't want Dad's business, Dell.” He didn't even want to work with his father. But his cousin wanted them to have a close relationship, like him and his dad. So he got this fool notion Nick should work at Dennis Homes for a year if he lost.

  "Sabrina was a psychology major who drove me nuts trying to analyze me. However, I would like to find the right girl and settle down. Don't you ever think about getting a regular job and getting married, Nick?"

  "Have you forgotten who you're talking to?” Nick nudged the pile on the floor, hard, with his toe. “I'm a free man who likes it that way."

  "You're full of it, too. You're afraid of marriage, women, and love. Yet, you think you can write about it."

  Nick, hearing a bell ding, knew a customer had entered Dell's sporting goods store. He spoke quickly. “I'll find a way to make this the best damned love story you ever read, Delbert Dennis. Just wait and see."

  Nick kicked the junk back in the closet and slammed the door.

  The mop fell over, and he sighed. Standing up the “woman” he'd created, he adjusted her mask and scarf. “If you only had a brain,” he said softly, “maybe I could get inside your head.” There wasn't a blink of an eye behind the slits in the mask.

  His mysteries sold, and he could whip one out in six months. Two and a half months left on this book, and he was stuck in the second chapter.

  Sitting down, he flexed his fingers and read John's question aloud. "Why?"

  Nick had never been in love and didn't have a close woman friend or relative. He might have been able to talk to Dell's mom, but she'd moved to Florida after Uncle John died. Nick gazed out the open trailer door. The sun shone brightly. Wind chimes he'd made from old spoons tinkled. A squirrel scampered across the wire hookup to his trailer. The call of a summer afternoon.

  The tall grass felt cool beneath Nick's bare feet as he stepped outside, and the air smelled sweet. Easing himself into his hammock, he succumbed to its soothing motion and closed his eyes. Life was for enjoyment, and he was free as the birds in the trees to enjoy it. He'd find a way to learn what went on inside a woman's head, finish his romance novel, and win his bet. Mañana.

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  CELESTE SANG ALONG with the radio as she cruised down the road. The steering wheel of the RV felt cool and solid beneath her palms. The air conditioner hummed against the late June day. Buttery seats exuded a rich leather smell. The purring of this rented beast gave her a feeling of control.

  Tossing her newly highlighted hair, she glanced down at her brief red shorts. A departure from capris, they showed off her long legs, tanned from springtime gardening. Compared to her intimate MG, the motor home felt huge, but the sure response of the pedals beneath her sandaled feet had lulled her into tranquility. The six-hour drive from Montclair lay behind her in a four-lane ribbon of highway.

  Adventure lay ahead. She'd loved camping when she was in school. Girl Scout Camp ... cheerleading ... even French Camp. Her camping experiences ended abruptly when she and Marianne crawled under the fence to the boys’ side of Senior High Church Camp.

  Over the years, Marianne remained as free-spirited as ever, but it had been a long time since Cee chose fun over propriety.

  Now, with her thirtieth birthday on the horizon, Celeste Joy Bachman Harte was throwing inhibition to the winds, just as she had her late husband's ashes. She chuckled. It was time to live—and love—again.

  Spotting her exit, she eased the RV onto a two-lane road where traffic was light and the setting rural. Cows grazed in grassy fields. Farmhouses with open windows welcomed the afternoon sun and breezes. Faded road signs told half a Burma Shave story, the other half disappearing into a lanky growth of weeds alongside the road.

  The class ring she'd dug out for the occasion felt odd and bulky, and she slipped it off and into a cubbyhole on the dash. She'd left her diamond ring at home so no one would mistake her for an engaged woman. Engaging, okay, but not pledged to anyone.

  Lowering the window, she inhaled the sweet smell of alfalfa. This week would be cleansing as well as fun. She'd write letters resigning from the civic committees that dominated her free time. Browse college catalogs for night classes to take in the fall. Climb high hills. Breathe fresh air. Revamp her plans for the future. Free to be me, she'd live life for herself instead of others.

  Since Harry's death four years ago, she'd been the best darned stand-in “mom” to his sister, Susan, possible. But Suz was eighteen now and ready to leave the nest. If she had her way, she'd marry her boyfriend Mark. If Cee had hers, she'd go to college.

  A larger, bold wooden sign popped into view as she rounded a gentle curve. NEW BEGINNINGS. One mile ahead. She laughed aloud, in delight.

  She'd chosen her destination on its name alone. The man who rented her the RV gave her a booklet listing campgrounds in southern Indiana. She'd stopped reading, mind made up, when she saw her “mission” in print. She would commune with nature, set goals, and make a new beginning while Susan was with Mark visiting his parents at their summer home in the Pocono Mountains.

  From the time she and Marianne opened their boutique, Reflections, Cee had chosen to stay behind the scenes, ordering specialty items and jewelry and doing the bookwork, while Marianne ran the shop and chose their lines of clothing. Marianne's far-out tastes were what drew customers; she loved “selling,” and as a fashionista, she was perfect for the job. With the way they'd divided the work, it was easy for Cee to get away for a week, and Susan's trip worked right into her plans.

  The next camp sign was nearly hidden by tall grass. Turn here for New Beginnings. She negotiated the sharp turn onto a narrow road where trees converged overhead, forming a leafy tunnel with only an occasional splash of sunlight on her windshield. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels, and dust rose. She hit the power window button and clutched the steering wheel as gravel gave way to ruts.

  Suddenly, sunshine spilled over her. Like golden honey, it filled her eyes and her heart. The clearing where she'd emerged lay at the top of a hill. To her right, long fingers of campsites reached out toward a dense stand of trees. At the bottom lay a clear blue lake bordered by deep emerald woods. What a heavenly place.

  Leaning against the steering wheel, she studied the campground. Shiny RVs, rusty trailers, tent campers, and sleek mobiles sat parallel. They were too close to one another for her taste, but she was here to change.

  A clearing with two buildings and a flagpole lay ahead. Baskets of produce and coolers marked BAIT sat in front of one. Candy and pop machines stood in front of the other. Two women sat on a bench in front of the roughly painted MARKET sign.

  OFF CE. The I was burned out in the blue neon sign where Cee parked to pay her lot rental. The hefty woman behind the counter gave her a map. “You're in section Joy. Row 4. Lot D."

  "Joy” sounded like a good omen, and not just because it was her middle name. So what if she was in the last row of the last section, in the next to the last lot?

  Row 4 sloped toward the woods. The dirt road was narrow, and backing into Lot D looked tricky. Cee had never backed a vehicle of this size before, and perspiration beaded her forehead as she seesawed, trying to attain the correct angle. Drawing a tissue from her canvas purse and blotting her face, she looked around.

  The blinds were closed on the windows of the silver mobile on C, and empty flower boxes lined the small porch. Its summer tenants must not have ar
rived yet. The rust-riddled trailer on E, the last lot, sat rakishly on the edge of the hill. Behind it, a hammock slung between two trees dangled precariously.

  Her lot sloped, and she didn't like the feel of loose dirt giving way below her wheels. Scrunching her eyes, she backed slowly.

  The right rear wheel hit something and dropped off. As she was thrown against her shoulder harness, her foot clamped down on the accelerator. Panicking, she hit the brake, and the motor home rocked. The engine ground. Wheels spun. Dust and gravel spattered. The RV settled off balance.

  She accelerated gently, but it wouldn't go anywhere. Breaking a sweat, she rolled down the window for a breath of the tranquility promised by the brochure.

  Wind chimes danced and tinkled in the breeze from the porch of E. The hammock, curved to fit a body, shifted slightly. Only a risk taker or someone extremely tranquil would lie hanging over the hill.

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  CEE SHIFTED INTO drive and tried to pull forward. No luck. Switching off the motor, she opened the door and jumped down to check things out. She'd run over a railroad tie at the back of her lot and hung up her right rear wheel. Wooden ties marked the end of each space. Hers, knocked askew by other campers, lay hidden in the grass. Smothering a groan, she stepped inside the RV to survey the damage.

  A basket of fruit had slid off the table, and books she selected from the New York Times Best Seller List lay scattered on the carpet. Stepping over apples and grapes, she picked up Susan's picture. It had fallen face down on the bed that spanned the back wall. Leafy branches covered the windows behind and beside the bed. Cee set the picture upright on the headboard where it belonged.

  Climbing down from the angled RV, she tapped a fingernail against her teeth. The right wheel had completely passed over the wooden beam, and the rear end of the trailer was in the trees. She shoved at the railroad tie with both hands. It wouldn't budge. She turned away.

  Ocean blue eyes set in a deeply tanned male face sparkled over the edge of the hammock on Lot E. Her neighbor was enjoying her predicament.