“I’ll drive!”
Private Investigator Garth Willowby motioned for Nancy and Shanna to climb into
the yellow Thunderbird. Before the ladies buckled their seat belts, he floored
the accelerator and was in pursuit of the black sedan. Both cars wove along the
beach road that led into town. The sedan
stopped near the café, and a lone man jumped from his car and hurried toward
one of the side streets that dead ended at the Cupid's Corner
Museum.
Garth scurried after the man with Shanna
and Nancy following close behind. Suddenly the private investigator stopped
short. He stared at the museum, which the man appeared to have entered, and let
out an exasperated sigh as he pointed to the sign on the door. “Closed.”
“Where
could he have gone?” Shanna glanced up and down the street and then placed her
hand on Mr. Willowby’s arm. She stared up at him and fluttered her long lashes.
“What’s your plan, Garth?”
“M…my
plan?” Evidently overcome by her nearness, his face turned as crimson as
raspberry cream sauce slathered on top of a chocolate torte. He patted her hand
and smiled a lopsided grin as if he’d forgotten the reason for their search.
Nancy rolled her eyes in dismay at how
easily the P.I. could be pulled off course. Without question, she had hired the
wrong investigator. Needing to depend on her own wherewithal, she started to
retrace her steps back to her Thunderbird when raucous male laughter accosted
her.
The sound
of the merriment grew so intense that Mr. Willowby glanced away from Shanna and
toward the source of the hearty revelry. His gaze narrowed. “Seems there’s a
gathering at Cupid’s Corner Bed and Breakfast.”
He motioned
to the women. “This way, ladies. We may find Nancy’s admirer after all.”
The B&B
was a quaint Victorian surrounded by a white picket fence and wide front porch.
Mr. Willowby held the gate for the ladies, who quickly entered the well
manicured grounds. They climbed the steps, but before they could knock, the door
opened, and a handsome man – the man they had seen at the beach – bowed with a flourish.
“Welcome to
your Valentine Dream Come True, Nancy Hart.” Taking her hand, he gently urged her
forward. “We’re so glad you followed the clues.”
“You…you mean the roses…the poetry…the cherry
Lifesaver?” she stammered.
The doorman
nodded. “We’ve been waiting for you. A few friends from your past.”
“But—”
Nancy glanced at Shanna who shrugged and
at Garth who shook his head but encouraged her to follow the doorman inside.
The
interior of the B&B was warm and welcoming, and some of her trepidation
eased when Mrs. Cannoli, the concierge, rushed forward. “Isn’t it exciting?”
“Isn’t what
exciting?” Nancy
asked, totally flummoxed.
“Why the
contest you won.” The concierge’s eyes widened. “Don’t you remember entering
the contest, dear?”
“The Valentine
Dream Come True Contest on the back of the marshmallow cream jar?” Shanna asked, her voice faltering.
“That’s the
one,” Mrs. Cannoli said with a nod of her curly, gray hair. “The one to find your
secret Valentine.”
“There’s
been a mistake.” Nancy
hooked her arm around her friend’s waist and shoved her forward. “If Shanna
entered the contest, she should be the winner.”
Mrs. Cannoli’s
face clouded. “But your name is on the entry, Nancy. You have to play the game.”
“Game?”
“That’s
right, dear. Your admirers are in there.” The concierge pointed to the closed
parlor door. “Three lucky gentlemen. They’ll tell you something about
themselves, and you have to guess which man is your Secret Valentine. But,
first, you need to be blindfolded.”
Before Nancy could object, Mrs. Cannoli
tied a silk scarf over her eyes. The parlor
door creaked open. Shanna giggled nervously. Mr. Willowby laughed, too, and
added a “By Jove, this is turning out to be quite an exciting evening.” All the
while, Nancy remained
in the dark.
“Hello?”
she called out, unsure who would answer.
A hand—twice
the size of her own--touched hers. “Nancy,
do you remember me? We knew each other in Georgia. I took you to the Fox Theater, and we watched a rerun of Gone With the Wind, which you loved. I’ve brought a dozen red
roses and a box of chocolates in hopes you’ll choose me as your Valentine.”
“Jason, is
that you?” She recognized the voice. Or thought she did.
He took a
step back, and a second person moved closer. “Nancy,
dear, surely you remember when we toured Atlanta
and picnicked on shrimp and grits and sweet tea along the banks of the Chattahoochee River. I brought heart-shaped truffles and
chocolate covered strawberries in hopes you’ll choose me.”
“Paul?”
A third
person approached her. The scent of aftershave brought back memories she had
tried to forget—not of Brad but of someone else. Someone very special. Her
knees went weak and her heart hammered in her chest.
“Nancy, my love.” His
voice was deep and rich and enticing. “Do you remember me?”
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