Back Where She Belongs(32)

“Known what?” he spat out, angry now, too.

“That you’re part of this town. You don’t see the corruption, the stupidity, the smugness. You put up with it. You go along. Well, I won’t. I’ll do what has to be done on my own.” She got up, bumping the table so the flatware rattled, and stalked off, every eye in the place following her.

He let a few seconds pass, then went after her, ignoring the looks, imagining the comments. Can you believe he’s still chasing that heartbreaker? Does he have no dignity? Not when it came to Tara. She was going through hell. He couldn’t abandon her now.





CHAPTER ELEVEN



“TARA, WAIT!”

Dylan’s voice stopped Tara just as she realized she’d blindly marched two blocks in the wrong direction for her car. She turned and headed back, meeting Dylan outside Ruby’s entrance.

“What?” she demanded, crossing her arms, her emotions snarled up, her mind racing. She was angry, frustrated and out of control. She’d been wrong in some of what she’d said. She’d overdone it again like she’d done in Bill Fallon’s office. She wasn’t sure she wanted Dylan to point that out right now.

“I’m on your side, Tara,” he said, low, holding her gaze, his eyes hot with conviction. “Disagreeing with you doesn’t make me corrupt or a sellout or whatever you think I am.”

She fought to control her breathing, tried to calm down, to hear the sense in his words. “I know that, Dylan. You’re a good person.” She’d fallen back on the knee-jerk negativity and defensiveness that used to rule her.

“I’m not against you and neither is the town.”

“It feels that way,” she said. “Everywhere I turn I get stalled.”

“You’re frustrated and impatient. I get that, but you can’t accuse every person who fidgets, won’t answer a question or gets defensive of trying to kill your father, sister or both.”

“And you can’t blindly defend them all.”

“You’re right. But I won’t assume the worst about them, either. People keep secrets. Sure. They lie. They cover up their mistakes. But not every person and not all the time. I know these people. I know how they think, what they’re after, what they’re capable of. Give me some credit, Tara.”

What he said made sense. Her mind had been buzzing with doubts and suspicions and worries, like a fly blocked by a window. “It crowds in on me sometimes and I respond the way I used to.”

“You’re under a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah.” Something else dawned on her. “I’m also afraid I’ll find out terrible things about my parents, Dylan. Things I don’t want to know. I have to push on before I lose my nerve. I have to know the truth, even if it hurts.”

“We’ll find out the truth, Tara. I promise.”

“Okay.” She inhaled a breath, holding it in, letting it out slowly, releasing her anger at the same time. Dylan stood quietly, waiting for her to sort her thoughts. He was so good at that. When she felt normal, she said, “Don’t you get sick of being right?”

“Never. You?”

“No way.” She liked this easy teasing between them. It was better than it had been when they were younger. They were both old enough to be able to laugh at themselves and each other.

Dylan smiled abruptly. He was looking over her shoulder.

“What’s so funny?” She turned to see what had amused him in the middle of their argument. It was a bench and a desert willow in a sidewalk planter. She still didn’t get the joke.

“Don’t you remember that time with Duster?”

Then it hit her. “This is the planter I fell into. The tree’s so much bigger.”

“I warned you he wouldn’t hold his stay when the ice-cream truck came.”

“It was worth a try,” she said. In his rush to get to the truck, Duster had knocked her into the peat moss around the freshly planted sapling.

Every inch of this town held memories for her and Dylan—silly, romantic, sweet and sad. She had to resist them. The stakes were too high. If she let memories, or Dylan’s praise of the town, sink in, seduce her, she might be tempted to stay, to forget how hard she’d fought to make her way into the bigger world.

“Now what?” she said, totally uncertain of the next step. That never happened to her in her real life.

“We go back for the flan,” Dylan said, nodding toward the café window.

“Are you nuts? Half the town saw me stomp out. If I go back in they’ll think you won the fight.”

“If we go back, we both win.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. This is not a Lifetime movie.”

“Couldn’t resist.” He grinned.

“How do you stand this? Everybody watching your every move?”

“I don’t give them that much power over me.”

“Okay, Dr. Phil. Guess I’m not as mature as you.” She sighed. “I do have to tell the waitress to tell Ruthie her empanadas are the best ever. She should take that food truck job in Tucson.”

“After you.” He motioned for her to walk ahead of him.

“I wouldn’t mind taking the Walk of Shame if we’d actually done something to make it worthwhile.”

“That could be arranged,” he said, spots of gold flaring in his dark eyes like two struck matches, tilting his chin, as if to kiss her.

Her stomach dropped. Desire tightened some muscles, softened others. She was usually the one who threw out the dare. But here was Dylan waiting for her to take him up on it.

For a few seconds, she considered kissing him, sliding into that rush of pleasure and seeing where it would take them.

Then she thought of the gawking crowd—Wharton at its worst—and the urge evaporated like steam.

Tara walked in front of him, head high, wondering if he’d been serious. Did he really want the entire town to think they were together? Did he want to be together? Or had he known she would turn him down?

Later, after the caramel glory of Ruthie’s flan had melted in their mouths, when they told each other good-night, she felt like she’d ducked trouble and missed out on a dream at the same time.

* * *

TARA ROSE EARLY Thursday morning, braced for trouble, she wasn’t sure what kind. Dylan? No. She’d walked away from him. Faye? No change there. Then she remembered. The will. Today they went to Tucson to see Norton Marshall, their estate attorney, to go over her father’s will.

She set off for her run, welcoming the chill in the air because it cleared her head. She thought about Dylan. He’d come after her, ignored the onlookers and promised to help her despite her bristles and accusations. He was a strong person, solid in his beliefs. He had what it took to survive in Wharton—to thrive really. She admired him for that, respected him.

And she wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him.

Tara pushed the thoughts away—again—as she headed up the hill to the house, breathing hard, energized by the exercise. She showered and made a few client contacts, then Judith met her in the hallway with a tray of breakfast. “Your mother’s in the sunroom working on that charity event. Now’s your chance to help her. Make her eat while you’re at it.”

Tara took the tray and found her mother at the antique desk, talking on the phone, her back toward Tara. On a card table beside her mother were neatly placed file folders, stapled pages and a table layout with names sketched in.

“That would be lovely, Margaret,” her mother said. “I’ll put you down for a table then?” She listened. “Oh, well, that’s kind of you. We’re doing very well, thank you.” Hanging up, her mother pressed the phone to her chest, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. After a few seconds, she took a shuddering breath, consulted her paper, cleared her throat and made another call. Tara stood there, stunned by her mother’s struggle and her determination.

“Yes. Natalie? It’s Rachel Wharton calling,” she said, her voice cool and smooth. “It’s regarding the Harvest Dinner Dance to raise money for the food kitchen?” Tara could see over her mother’s shoulder that the call list was long, with few names checked off.

When her mother hung up, Tara said, “Mom?”

Her mother’s head whipped around. Her nose was red, her eyes puffy. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Her eyes danced, frantic and miserable.

“Here’s breakfast.” Tara made room for the tray on the table. “Take a break.”

“I’m nearly two weeks behind on the dinner,” she said, turning back to her list.

“How about if I make those calls? I’ve got time.”

“You couldn’t possibly.” She sniffed. “You don’t know these people or their families or the donations they’ve made in the past.”