Hey Jude (Lennox Valley Chronicles #1)

Appalled at my impulsive diatribe, I numbly pull back onto Elmwood Road and continue on. My stomach rumbles, bringing me back into my body. Right, I forgot to eat breakfast. Classic Olena fail, I think to myself, shaking my head.

The roads are mercifully uneventful the rest of the way up to Charles Faulkner’s cliff-side property. The rain is letting up, so I chance a few glances in the rear-view mirror to paw at my hair and try to tame the mess. I find a roll of paper towel jammed in the pocket of the door, and do a decent job of squeezing the water out of my hair with one hand, the other on the steering wheel as I slowly wind my way up the mountain road.

Out the window, the river snakes along far below, revealed in the gaps between a stand of birch trees to my right. I finally see the worn wooden sign marked “Faulkner” and pull into the long gravel driveway. It cuts a path between densely packed evergreen trees; their uniform darkness seeps into my awareness, taking the edge off my nerves. I vaguely remember I had been looking forward to seeing this place for the first time.

As the driveway dips down and around a bend, the trees clear to reveal a stunning view: an enormous yet slightly run-down Tudor-style home sits perched before an expansive panorama of misty… nothingness. The landscape drops away on the far side of the house and I can see the river clearly now, hugged by rolling mountains on the opposite bank.

My stomach drops. Parked in Charles Faulkner’s driveway is a familiar large, dark green truck.

6

OLENA

This is not happening. He can’t be here. What’s he doing here? My mind spins with questions. Our chaotic roadside encounter suddenly lurches back to the forefront of my awareness, regret once again gripping me by the throat. But I’m late showing up; I can’t linger in my car any longer than necessary. I park beside his truck, which bears the business name Sharpe Blades Landscaping in bold, white lettering with the shape of a saw blade emerging from the bottom. Clever, I think vaguely as I try to pull myself together.

A jolt of panic hits me. Is he the landscaper Charles mentioned? Shit. Shit shit shit. It would be just my luck to get stuck working with him after humiliating myself.

Shame threatens to wash over me as I recall my accusations from earlier. You called him an asshole, my inner voice screams. I scrunch my nose, stuffing the memory down; I can’t think about that right now. Just focus on getting out of the damn car.

The rain has now stopped completely, giving me a sliver of hope. Small white clouds drift across the blue sky and it’s clear the gray monstrosity that drenched me on the way here has passed. Sunlight cuts through the nearby trees.

I awkwardly peel off my jacket and realize, with relief, that I’m not as drenched as I felt when wearing it, the damp having made me feel colder and wetter than I was. Careful to extract my portfolio first, I throw the jacket in a crumpled heap onto the passenger seat and pull my purse onto my lap. With closed eyes, I inhale what I hope is some semblance of bravery and calm. Holding my breath, I step out of the car to face reality.

Those green eyes instantly meet mine before we both look away. He turns his attention back to the gray-haired man opposite him, who is gesturing enthusiastically at the landscape.

I know he must have spotted me pulling in; Nat’s ridiculous yellow car doesn’t exactly blend into the background. Plus, I’m sure he couldn’t forget it after following me on the road for so long—especially after what I said to him. I can’t imagine what this guy must be thinking about me showing up here. I risk a glance at him but his expression is unreadable. I’m not sure I can do this.

I push the doubt aside and give myself a quick mental shake, determined to forge ahead. I hope plastering on a cheerful demeanor will effectively mask my inner reality, which is clearly a total raging mess.

“Hi, Mr. Faulkner?” I meet the older man’s eyes with a genuine smile as I remember his kindness from our phone call the other day. I grip my portfolio in one hand and readjust the strap of my purse with the other, then reach out to shake his hand.

“Olena,” he replies, his kind eyes crinkling. “Lovely to meet you in person. And remember, please call me Charles.” A smile spreads over his round face.

I nod quickly. “So sorry I’m a bit later than expected,” I venture with a weak smile, pointing a thumb behind me toward the road. “I got… held up.”

Operating against my will, my eyes jump to the man I called an asshole only ten minutes ago. He returns my gaze with one dark eyebrow raised. He looks like he’s enjoying watching me explain myself. I can’t bear to face the reminder of my earlier behavior and decide to focus my full attention on Charles. Mercifully, he doesn’t press me for details.

“Oh, nonsense.” He waves dismissively. “You’re here now,” he adds, patting a weathered hand on my forearm. The gesture is reassuring in a fatherly way and I smile gratefully, remembering again why I liked him so much when we spoke on the phone. “Olena, this is Jude Sharpe, my landscaper.” He turns, gesturing at the man before returning his gaze to me. “Jude, this is Olena MacMillan, the designer I was telling you about.”

No one speaks as we consider each other a moment, my jaw hanging slightly open in a silent expression of understanding.

“Nice to meet you,” Jude says politely.

Jude. Well, it’s a better fit than ‘Asshole’, I think wryly to myself. I inhale as if to say something professionally relevant, but find I have no idea where to begin. Charles and Jude are looking at me.

“Hi, nice to meet you too,” I blurt out, because that’s how normal people respond to being introduced to someone new in a work setting. I’m kicking myself for letting that dead air hang.

Jude smiles and holds my gaze with a quiet intensity that brings a hint of heat back to my cheeks.

I bite my lip.

Charles glances between us, a question in his eyes. “Tell me,” he ventures, “why do I get the feeling you two know each other? Have you worked together before?”

Jude looks at me with a slight smirk, both of us clearly calculating how much to divulge in this professional scenario.

I contemplate my words for a moment before he rescues us.

“No, actually, we hadn’t met before today,” he says, pinning me with a knowing look that Charles doesn’t catch. Carefully chosen words.