8
How long did it take for a broken heart to heal?
Annabelle Cooper stared at the framed photograph she’d pulled from the packing box. To her dismay, her hand trembled. Her heart pounded so hard she swore she could hear it over the blustering north wind that swept down through the Texas Panhandle and rattled the windows of her grandmother’s house.
The photograph had been taken last Christmas at a friend’s party. In the photo, Annabelle looked so happy. So innocent.
Innocent? She gave a snort of derision. Painfully naive was more like it. Easy pickings for the man in the photo. Just looking at his image—even knowing how he’d treated her—he still attracted her as no man ever had. His dark hair was hidden by a Santa hat, but his eyes—so dark they appeared black—drew her gaze just as they had the night she’d met him.
The memories rolled over her. Annabelle sank onto the edge of the bed and tried to steady her breathing. As irrational as it sounded, she’d felt his presence that night before she’d seen him. She’d turned from the man who’d been plying his charm. Her laughter had faded. A delicious thrill of anticipation filled her. As if this was a moment she’d waited for her entire life.
The man walking toward her was nothing like the pleasant men she dated. It wasn’t just that he was built like a football player—tall and broad-shouldered. He commanded attention. His long, shaggy hair was nearly black—his skin deeply tanned. But it was his eyes that made her weak in the knees. That’s what she’d felt. His eyes on her. His gaze had captured hers, and everything around her had fallen away as if they were the only two people in the world.
She remembered the incredible heat that had swept through her when he’d touched her. A year later, just thinking about it stole her breath away, as if all the air in her bedroom had been sucked out into the cold December night. In the photo, her hands clasped his shoulder. Her fingers tingled as she remembered the heat of his body…the feel of the bunched muscles beneath her hands. But his arms were folded. Bitterly, she realized that she was the one clinging to him. That should have been her first clue.
“Stop it!” She commanded in a fierce whisper. “Every woman has had her heart broken. So get over it.”
A tapping on her bedroom door startled her to her feet. Her grandmother rushed in, leaving the door open. The sound of a piano playing “Deck the Halls” accompanied her. Hastily, Annabelle swept the photo behind her back, hoping Namesy hadn’t noticed.
“What are you doing unpacking boxes? It’s time for the guests to arrive,” Edna Tate said.
“I know, Namesy, but this was the last box.” Hoping to distract her grandmother, she added, “That white silk blouse and the red plaid evening skirt are perfect for your party. You look elegant and sophisticated. Just like Lauren Bacall.”
Her grandmother snorted. “Thank you. You sure know the buttons to push to make this old gal preen like a peacock, or peahen would be the more appropriate word choice.”
Annabelle smiled at her grandmother’s adherence to proper word usage. She was the namesake for Annabelle Edna Tate, a woman who was an original, just like the heroines in the Regency novels she’d introduced Annabelle to with a leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice on her fourteenth birthday.
Her grandmother patted her upswept white hair even though not a strand was out of place. “I might look okay for a lady of a certain age, but you look beautiful. That emerald green is perfect with your creamy skin, and the dress is tight enough to be alluring, but subtle enough to be classy. Just right to make the single men in town take notice.”
Annabelle snickered. “Single men? Are there any under the age of sixty?”
“I think you might be surprised. What are you hiding behind your back?”
She’d never been able to put anything over on Namesy. She brought the photograph around. “This? It’s nothing.” She tossed it into the box. Her grandmother stepped forward to get a better look, and Annabelle picked up the box and moved it to her dresser. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs?”
Her grandmother’s cornflower blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Who’s the man in the photo with you?”
Annabelle glanced quickly at the photo then started folding the flaps together to close it. “No one special so don’t bother using your grandmotherly mind probe on me.”
Namesy laughed. “Oh, if only I had a mind probe. Seriously, I didn’t get a good look at the picture. Who is he?”
She hated to lie to Namesy. Her grandmother might be looking at eighty in her rearview mirror, but she was as sharp as ever. The woman didn’t miss a detail. She’d have made a successful interrogator—especially with that probing stare of hers. Like any good interrogator, Namesy waited.
Like any good suspect, Annabelle rushed to fill the silence. “Just a guy. My friend who gave the party passed out Santa hats to everyone as they arrived. Then she sneaked around and took pictures of those of us actually silly enough to wear the hats. That’s how he and I ended up in a photo together. Later she framed it and gave it to me as a memento.”
“Did you two date?”
Memories of the sexually-charged days and nights that followed the party flashed through her mind. She kept her back to Namesy to hide the blush that stained her fair skin. “No we didn’t go out.”
At least that wasn’t a lie. They’d stayed in, locked away from the rest of the world while he’d introduced her to passion unlike anything she’d ever known.
“That’s too bad. You must miss your friends in Houston.”
“We weren’t really close, but we still text.” She had never told her grandmother about the man who’d broken her heart. Namesy would be so disappointed in her if she learned that Annabelle was just like her mother.
“Not close? I thought you were best friends since you spent last Christmas with her instead of coming home.”
Shame brought a fresh tide of color to Annabelle’s skin. She hated lying to her grandmother. You had to keep track of what lie you told. Plus, she just wasn’t very good at it. “I was keeping her from being lonely because she’d broken up with her boyfriend.”
When Namesy didn’t say anything for a full minute, Annabelle hoped the subject was closed.
“There’s something about your expression in the photo. There’s a kind of softness. Are you sure the man in the photo isn’t someone special?”
No. Not closed yet. She took a deep breath and told another lie. “He was just a guy. I don’t even remember his name.”
“Oh.” Namesy sighed. “Well, I guess it’s for the best since you don’t live in Houston any longer. I’m sure there’s someone else out there for you.”
Annabelle wished she shared that view. She’d been back less than two weeks, and Namesy had begun hinting that she wanted great grandchildren before she was too old to enjoy them.
“That finishes my unpacking. I didn’t have much after losing just about everything in the last flood. There’s nothing in this box worth saving so I’ll put it in the trash in the morning.” She carried the box to the small chest at the top of the stairs. With no reminders left, maybe she could finally forget him. But she’d never forget the lesson she’d learned.
She’d never let a man hurt her like that again.
The loud gong of the old-fashioned doorbell echoed up the staircase. “Oh. There’s the first guest.” Namesy’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Literally saved by the bell. Annabelle’s shoulders sagged in relief. She forced her thoughts to the upcoming Christmas party and drew her lips into a smile, hoping it looked more genuine than it felt. Thinking about him had opened all the old wounds. That stupid photograph! Her hands fisted. She’d like to fling it against the wall and smash it into a million pieces. Like he had shattered her heart.
Annabelle fought for control. Fiercely, she whispered, “Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I am at acceptance, not anger.”
Who was she kidding? Of the five stages of grief, anger was the one she couldn’t get beyond. Maybe because she was more angry at herself than at the man who had seduced her. But anger wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It stiffened her backbone and fueled her resolve to never let a man deceive her again. If she ever saw that…that waste of skin again, she’d be cool and sophisticated, not starry-eyed and lovestruck. She’d never let him know he’d broken her heart. She’d look through him as if he were a pane of glass, and give him the cut direct like a Regency heroine gave an unscrupulous scoundrel.
Time to go downstairs. She checked her appearance in the dresser mirror. She looked too pale. Unlike Regency heroines, she didn’t have to resort to pinching her cheeks to make them bloom with color. She stroked a little more peach blusher across her cheeks. To her reflection, she said, “You moved home to leave the past behind. Isn’t it time you did that?”
With that goal in mind, Annabelle went to the stairs. Pine boughs tied with big red bows wrapped the banister, and the scent of more evergreens downstairs perfumed the house and made it smell like Christmas.
Laughter, accompanied by a jazzy version of “Jingle Bells,” provided the perfect soundtrack for the Christmas party thanks to the talented college girl hired to play the baby grand piano in the living room.
A frigid blast from the front door made Annabelle shiver despite the long sleeves of the velvet dress. The two years she’d spent in Houston’s mild winters had spoiled her. She hadn’t been back in New Estacado long enough to acclimate to the Panhandle’s frigid winter. She didn’t let a little discomfort dim her smile as she stood next to her grandmother and greeted each guest. “Merry Christmas, and welcome to the New Estacado Gazette’s Christmas Open House.”
She’d hoped Tom Perez and Gracie Marshall would be here. In high school they’d been inseparable. Gracie always had her nose stuck in a book, and Tom had lived for football. Yet, somehow the three of them had become best friends. Tom’s full-ride scholarship had taken him to an out of state college and then to pro football. After a career-ending injury, he’d returned last year to work the family ranch. Gracie had gone to Texas Tech and returned to be the town’s librarian. Spinster librarian as Gracie described herself. Both had other obligations tonight. Tom was in California visiting friends, and Gracie had rushed to Dallas because her sister had gone into labor with her first child.
Annabelle remembered all the past Christmas parties hosted by her grandparents. The annual holiday bash was the biggest social event of the year not just in New Estacado but in all the surrounding small towns that comprised the circulation for Namesy’s weekly newspaper.
The parties hadn’t changed much over the years. The house was always decorated with evergreen boughs wrapped with twinkling white lights and swagged with big red bows. The ceiling high Christmas tree in the living room held the same twinkling lights, red bows, and glass ornaments. Glittered pinecones and poinsettias graced the mantel.
The guests hadn’t changed much either. Some men wore evening attire; some came in their best boots, felt Stetsons, starched white shirts, and dark jeans. All of the women dressed for glitz and glamour whether they chose western style or contemporary fashion.
When the house was overflowing with guests full of Christmas spirit, Namesy left to mingle while Annabelle stayed in the foyer to welcome any late arrivals.
College students home for the holidays served as waiters, circulating through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes.
When the door opened and she heard Vince Sanchez’s voice, Annabelle grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray. Vince, who’d been mayor as long as she could remember, and her grandfather had been best friends. At the annual party, the two gentlement always lifted their glasses in a toast the minute they laid eyes on each other.
Five years ago, the Christmas after her grandfather had passed, Annabelle had the champagne ready when the Mayor had walked in. With tears in his eyes, he’d lifted his glass and said, “Here’s to a goldarn party with fizzy soda pop wine and prissy food.”
To which Annabelle had spoken her granddad’s response: “And to the bottle of Black Jack hidden in the kitchen spice cabinet.”
Last year when she’d stayed in Houston was the only year she hadn’t been here to carry on the tradition. Now, with a glass of champagne in each hand, Annabelle greeted the portly Hispanic man. He grabbed her in a bear hug. She laughed and somehow avoided dropped the glasses.
“Hey, pretty girl, it’s about time you came home where you belong.”
Emotion clogged her throat, but she forced a laugh. “Careful, Mr. Mayor. You’re going to make me spill our fizzy wine.” She kissed his leathery cheek and whispered, “It’s good to be home.”
Sanchez beamed at her. “I have a scoop for the newspaper. Well, it’s not really a scoop. Your grandmother already wrote it up.”
She smiled fondly at him. Vince Sanchez had been giving her “scoops” since she was eight-years-old. The first had been that Miss Mabel Moore made teacakes every Monday morning. Annabelle had ridden her bicycle over to Miss Mabel’s and proceeded to get sick on teacakes. “What are you talking about, Mayor?”
Before he could answer, the door opened again. A woman with blond hair brushed sleet from the full-length mink coat she wore.
“Crap,” Annabelle muttered. Brianna Walker.
Brianna slammed the door forcefully. “I swear. I don’t see why Daddy won’t move to Miami, or at least Galveston. These Panhandle winters are damned cold. It’s sleeting out there. Damn. I might as well be on a mountaintop in Montana.”
Annabelle kept her smile firmly in place and greeted Brianna, the daughter of the county’s richest man—well, richest next to Tom Perez she figured. She knew Brianna and her father were always on Namesy’s guest list. Mr. Walker usually declined. She’d hoped Brianna would have a red carpet in Hollywood to strut or a late dinner at Tavern on the Green in the Big Apple to jet off to. But, no. Apparently, Brianna had nothing better to do than bring her pseudo sophistication and complaints to Namesy’s Christmas party.
Annabelle wasn’t surprised when Brianna ignored the pleasantries most Texans indulged in at social occasions. Shrugging out of the coat, she tossed it at Annabelle. The mink glanced off her knees and fell in a heap at her feet, almost making her spill the glasses in the process. She looked around, wanting to hand off one of the glasses to the Mayor, but he’d turned to speak to his counterpart from another small town in the county.
Brianna stroked her hands down the sides of a tight slinky black dress that clearly showed she wore nothing underneath. “Honestly, Annabelle. Don’t you think it’s a little early in the evening to be a two-fisted drinker?” She trilled a laugh. “Just kidding. Take care of my coat, sugar. Be sure, and put it where I can get it when I’m ready to leave. And don’t spill champagne on it.” Brianna glanced behind her at the front door. “I guess my date’s still looking for a parking spot. When he comes in, tell him to come find me.”
Annabelle lifted both glasses in a salute. “Yes ma’am, Miz Scarlett.”
Brianna must not have heard. She turned to walk away, and Annabelle stared agape at Brianna’s back. The neckline of her dress scooped low, revealing a huge expanse of naked skin from neck to the cleft between her butt cheeks. Butt cheek cleavage might be the hot holiday trend in New York City or Los Angeles, but she had a feeling New Estacado wasn’t ready for it. By tomorrow, the town would be abuzz for sure.
Cold air ushered in a new arrival. She heard the Mayor exclaim, “Annabelle, he’s here!”
She dragged her attention from Brianna’s butt. Oddly, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She turned and saw the Mayor grasping the hand of a tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal gray suit. Her eyes widened as her gaze locked with the man’s dark eyes—eyes so dark they appeared black.
For a moment, the room seemed to tilt. She closed her eyes. She must be hallucinating. She opened her eyes and gazed into the same unforgettable eyes that haunted her memory.
Distantly, she heard the Mayor announce, “Annabelle Cooper, I want you to meet our new Police Chief Rick Lassiter.”
Lassiter’s hair wasn’t long and shaggy. It was neatly trimmed and GQ-perfect. No beard stubble covered his handsome face.
Different name. Same face.
Lassiter’s eyes held hers. He gave no sign of recognition as the Mayor dragged him forward.
No. It couldn’t be.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cooper,” Lassiter said in a husky voice that singed her nerve endings.
That voice had murmured erotic words to her in the dark as he’d made love to her again and again.
Shock body-slammed Annabelle as if she’d hit a brick wall.
It couldn’t be. But it was.
Her breath caught in her throat. The blood in her veins congealed. Ice settled around her heart. That voice had echoed in her memory in the darkest hour of her soul when she’d finally accepted the truth. He’d never loved her. He had only wanted to…to—the phrase used in a Regency novel was kinder than the harsh four-letter word—to bed her.
Rick Lassiter? Annabelle felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up her throat. That wasn’t the name he’d given her last Christmas. Buzzing like that of a million bees filled her ears. Black spots danced before her eyes.
How could he be here in her town?