Heart of Clay Read online

  Chapter Two

  Callan awoke to the sound of the alarm blaring. It took her a moment to register that Clay let it continue resonating in the early morning quiet.

  She felt across the bed. No Clay. As she opened her eyes, she realized she was alone in their big bed. Nothing unusual about that. Rolling over, she silenced the alarm and tossed back the covers.

  Hurriedly jumping into the shower, she mentally ran through her to do list, dreading the meetings and deadlines ahead.

  It took just minutes for her to blow dry her hair and twist it up on her head then apply a coat of mascara. After brushing her teeth, she selected a skirt, blouse and blazer from the closet. It didn’t really matter what she choose to wear since most everything was black. She disliked her current wardrobe almost as much as everything else in her life. Even if her selections seemed somber and depressing, she maintained a respectable and professional appearance.

  Between bites of cold cereal, she threw together a lunch. She shoved her feet into shoes, snapped on her watch, slipped on her coat, and headed toward the front door. Clay left a note taped to the glass in the door’s window.

  Had an early meeting. See you for dinner.

  “I seriously doubt that,” Callan muttered. She tugged on her gloves then hurried outside to start her car and scrape the windshield before running back inside the house. In the days when Clay was madly in love with her, he would have scraped her windshield when he did his. Recollections of the past only served to add fuel to the fire of irritation burning a hot blaze through her, despite the early hour of the morning.

  Snatching Clay’s missive off the door, she slammed it down on the counter and added her own note.

  Working late, don’t wait up. Please do the dishes!

  Angrily stomping out the door, Callan slid in her car and headed off to work. As she turned into the parking lot at the convention center where she worked as the creative director, she knew the sink would still be full of dishes when she got home late that night.

  The only dinner she’d been home for in the past week was last night’s pizza. They’d eaten it on the good china because all the other plates were dirty… in the sink. Perhaps Clay thought she joined in the spirit of celebrating because she’d brought out the china.

  The dirty dishes had definitely become another hot button with her that Clay seemed all too eager to press.

  Their rule of thumb had always been the first one home was responsible for dinner. If she made dinner, she made it as quickly as she could with as few dishes as possible. When Clay cooked, she was surprised there was a pot, pan, or plate left clean. She couldn’t fathom how he created such a mess making something as simple as soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

  Unfortunately, Callan and Clay rarely ate a meal together. When they did, it more often than not involved them sitting in separate chairs in front of the television with Clay watching sports or hunting programs while Callan quietly seethed that he always controlled the remote.

  She would spend the remainder of her evening in her home office, working to get her own business off the ground. At bedtime, she’d return to the kitchen expecting Clay to have done the dishes. Disappointment always washed over her to find them still piled on the counter, covered in dried-on food.

  Instead of addressing the issue, she’d say nothing and start loading plates into the dishwasher. Clay would wander into the kitchen and ask if she needed help. Rather than responding, she’d send him a heated glare that would have fried lesser men and continue slamming dishes. Clay wouldn’t say anything, retreating to their bedroom. By the time Callan climbed into bed, she would be in a snit because he always left the dishes for her to do. She was the one who cleaned house, purchased groceries, paid the bills, and did all the laundry. She didn't think it was such a big deal for him to take responsibility for the dishes. Especially when she worked two jobs and wasn’t home most nights.

  In addition to her full-time job at the convention center, Callan ran her own event planning business. The board at the convention center fully approved of her second job because it brought in a respectable amount of additional revenue. Callan always suggested the meeting space there to her clients who searched for a place to hold an event. Too bad Clay didn’t appreciate it as much as her employers did.

  When she started the event planning business four years ago, Clay half-heartedly agreed to her trying it. It was the ideal career for her. She loved to socialize, was known for her attention to detail and organization skills, and she possessed a unique creative flair. Event planning was her passion.

  Callan attended some small business classes, put together a business plan, took out a loan, and started her business. She ran it out of her home office and spent any free moments during her evenings and weekends meeting with clients and organizing their events. She dreamed of growing the business to the point she could do event planning full-time and quit her job at the convention center.

  The first few years in business had been rough as she sought to establish herself and gain a client base. The business was like a, “black hole of debt, sucking money left and right,” or so Clay said in one particularly unpleasant conversation.

  He didn’t want to incur any debt and instead thought it better to borrow the money from his parents to start her business. Callan refused. They had never borrowed money from relatives and she wouldn’t start just because Clay acted hardheaded. Clay quickly went from offering unenthusiastic support to being actively annoyed at any mention of her business, Elegant Events. They finally agreed not to discuss it at all.

  Due to that fact, he was unaware that her business had recently experienced remarkable growth or that she had made a sizeable dent in the debt. If the growth continued like it had for the past two years, she should be debt free in another eighteen months.

  Callan pulled her car into the parking space she had used for the past eight years. It was hard to believe she’d been at the convention center that long, but she did enjoy her job. The only fly in the ointment was the general manager the board hired to replace the last in a long line of incompetent general managers.

  Arty Bierwagen was in his late sixties, short, overweight, and a prime candidate for a study on the early stages of dementia. He took a daily bath in cologne that smelled like a cheap motel’s lounge and walked as if his hips might come unhinged at any moment. A tacky comb-over graced his shiny bald dome, creating a vision similar to limp, greasy gray noodles stretched across the top of his head.

  Callan had yet to decide if Arty was an improvement over the last general manager. Jane was a shrewish woman in her fifties, in cahoots with the receptionist, Bev. She disappeared for weeks at a time while she had something else tucked, lifted, or sucked and Bev had an unlimited supply of excuses for Jane’s absences. Fortunately, the two women managed to tangle their stories one day with some of the board members and that was the end of Jane and Bev.

  The new receptionist was a big improvement over Bev. Although she was young, Rachel worked hard, was professional, punctual and sweet. They had a good management team and a strong staff.

  Except for Arty.

  Callan knew, though, that given enough time and rope, Arty would hang himself. However, in her current state of fatigue and stress, she didn’t know if she could wait that long. Arty constantly pushed her closer and closer to the edge of a complete breakdown.

  She entered the conference center and pasted on a smile, offering a friendly greeting to Rachel. Briefly, she popped her head into the sales manager’s office for a sincere hello. Jill Taylor, a fiery redhead who didn’t take flack from anyone, had become a good friend.

  As she strolled toward her office, she took a moment to admire how beautiful the convention center looked, decked out for the holidays.

  Callan just needed to make it through the next week. After that, Christmas would be over, her schedule would calm down, and she could try to make some sense out of the mess her life had become. In addition to her
full schedule at the convention center and her own clients’ events, she and Clay were hosting all their family Christmas Day. Out of a sense of duty or guilt, she wasn’t sure which, she had agreed for both her family and Clay’s to converge at their house for Christmas dinner again this year.

  Callan walked into her office, set down her purse then took off her coat and hung it up. Quickly perusing the stack of messages waiting for her return call, she turned on the computer and sat down in her chair. She removed a to-do list from her purse and gave it a glance.

  Christmas dinner invitations were issued. Most of the baking was completed and in the freezer waiting to pull out and defrost. She’d purchased the last gifts from the shopping list last week. She still had several gifts to wrap and a few last minute treats to make, but other than one major haul from the grocery store, she felt confident the to-do list was manageable. If a Christmas miracle took place, Clay would muster some spirit of the season and help her finish the final details.

  Stuffing that list back inside her purse, she pulled out her list of the top five things that needed her attention at work that morning. She picked up the phone and immersed herself in her job. No matter how hard she worked, there never seemed to be enough hours in the day to get everything accomplished.

  At noon, she sat at her desk eating a cold lunch when the phone rang. She hurried to swallow the bite of sandwich in her mouth and answered the phone.

  “Good afternoon. Thank you for calling River Garden Convention Center. This is Callan, may I help you?” Her voice held a cheery brightness in stark contrast to her true feelings. If anyone needed a lesson in perfecting a fake sense of cheer, Callan could provide an excellent example.

  “Callan, its Laken. How are you? We haven’t talked for a while and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  Callan smiled as she heard the voice of her best friend come across the line. She met Laken Johnson years ago when they were both working at the local newspaper. Even though they ventured off in different career directions, they remained close.

  Laken and her husband, Tyler, and their two children, Alex and Brant, would be among those gathered around the Matthews’ table for Christmas dinner.

  “Hey, Laken,” Callan said with genuine warmth. “It is so good to hear from you. I could use someone calm and friendly on the other end of the line for a change.”

  Laken laughed. “That bad, is it? How many more events until you get time off for good behavior?”

  “We’ve got three more days of parties and frivolity here at the center and I have an event tonight and another tomorrow. Then I can collapse into a mindless heap before I have to make Christmas dinner. How about you? Are things crazy at the store?” Callan often admired Laken for following her dreams and opening a successful gift shop at the Tenacity Mall.

  “Yes. But I decided I needed to talk to someone who wasn’t demanding a better price, free gift wrapping, or something I don’t carry in stock.” Laken laughed before taking on a more serious tone. “Callan, why don’t you call off Christmas dinner? No one will mind. I know you’re worn out and it’s going to be too much for you.”

  “Absolutely not!” Callan sat up in her chair, unwilling to cancel plans made weeks ago. “I’ve got this down to a science. It’ll be fine. Besides everyone expects dinner as usual and I can’t disappoint them. You’re still coming aren’t you? Just having you and Jenna there is a huge help to me.” Jenna, married to Callan’s younger brother Josh, was close to Callan and a great support to have when the family all descended at her home.

  “Of course we’re still coming if you still insist on having everyone over.” Laken didn’t mask the exasperation in her voice. “You know I’m completely hopeless in the kitchen, but what can I bring?”

  “You aren’t hopeless. Look how far you’ve come in the last year or two. You’re at least trying to learn to cook and I’m very proud of you.” Callan tried not to laugh thinking about all the disastrous failed recipes Laken had made before she found a few things she could successfully prepare. “It would be a big help if you could bring your raspberry punch. I’ll make mulled cider and that should keep everyone happy.”

  “Just so you know, I plan on kidnapping you after Christmas so we can have some girl-time,” Laken said with a note of authority that did not foster any argument.

  “As long as it includes some decadent dessert we shouldn’t eat, I’m in.”

  “Agreed! I’ll check in with you in a day or so. Don’t work too late.”

  “You know me.”

  “Yes, I do. That’s the problem.” Laken sighed, envisioning Callan working herself into a state of complete exhaustion. “I’m serious. You need to take better care of yourself. You work way too hard.”

  “You worry too much.” Callan felt uncomfortable with the direction the conversation headed. “Thanks for calling, Laken. I have to run. Talk to you soon.”

  Callan hung up the phone and finished eating her sandwich between client calls. She spent a few minutes answering emails before deciding to take a quick break to stretch her legs.

  She walked around the entire circumference of the conference center. With more than thirty-thousand square feet of meeting space, they could accommodate a wide variety of events, meetings, celebrations, and conferences.

  The center really was beautiful, located on a little knoll above a creek. Terraced lawns provided the perfect setting for brides striving to create a dream wedding. White lights draped the bushes outside, creating a fairyland at night, particularly when they glistened through the snow.

  As Callan rounded the corner nearest to the business offices, she almost plowed over Arty.

  “Sorry, sir,” Callan said, trying to breathe through her mouth to avoid inhaling his mid-day reapplication of cologne.

  Arty stared up at Callan, appearing dazed and confused, before he took a step back and wandered down the hallway.

  It hadn’t taken Callan long to figure out she intimidated Arty simply because of her size. He seemed to have a genuine problem with women who exceeded his height, encompassing a good portion of the female population. At least his issue worked in her favor because he avoided her if possible.

  When she returned to her office, she noticed Arty left some papers for review on her desk. She decided to save herself irritation down the road and look them over right away. She reached out for her favorite pen, but couldn’t find it.

  Irritated, she tugged open her desk drawer and started digging around for it. If that idiot Arty pilfered it again, she would scream. The drawer stuck partway open. She gave it another yank and noticed a slip of paper wedged in the side. Carefully pulling it out, she unfolded the creases and recognized a note Clay wrote eons ago. Back when they still liked each other enough to use nicknames.

  Laney, you are the best. I love you! Brick

  Callan sat back in her chair and wondered if Clay still had any of those feelings. She'd done a good job of destroying them the past few years.

  Regretful, Callan thought back to the first time Clay had called her Laney.

  They’d been dating about a month and were out at his parents’ ranch when Clay decided they would pack an impromptu picnic and eat it at the pond. They made some sandwiches, grabbed a bag of chips and a few cans of soda pop, then rode horses out to the pond.

  The summer heat bore down in waves that shimmered in the sunlight. Even as it neared late evening, the air was stifling.

  The pond sat at the bottom of a hill that rose from the back of the ranch house. From the hill, Callan could see for what seemed like forever. The Matthews’ men and crew had been busy that morning cutting hay. The sweet scent of alfalfa still filled the air along with the smells of warm earth and ripening wheat.

  She had the hardest time concentrating on anything other than Clay as they rode down the hill to the pond.

  Unaware that he looked like he belonged on the cover of a western magazine, he sported a deep summer tan and straw cowboy hat, along with dus
ty boots. His navy blue T-shirt molded to his sculpted chest while snug-fitting jeans outlined the thick muscles in his thighs. He was larger than life to Callan.

  As they neared the pond, the temperature cooled a few degrees. A big tree cast shade on one side of the pond and a tiny island covered in cattails provided a great hiding spot for the ducks that swam in the water.

  Clay dismounted and tied his horse to a post set for that purpose then came over to offer her assistance. They both knew she didn’t need help, but that didn’t matter. After she swung her leg over the saddle, he grabbed her waist and slowly let her slide to the ground. His warm lips melted into hers with a long, soft kiss.

  He spread a blanket under the tree. They settled in with their picnic and talked about everything and nothing, basking in the glow of new love. Clay discovered her middle name was Alane, she loved to read historic romance novels, and considered chocolate a food group. She learned that he hated coconut and tomatoes almost as much as his middle name of Langdon. He loved football and liked to read books by humorist Pat McManus.

  When they finished eating, Clay stood and pulled Callan to her feet. They wandered around the edge of the pond, strolling hand in hand until they came to the dock where generations of Matthews’ youngsters had jumped into the pond and fished.

  “Come on, Callan.” He tugged her toward the end of the dock. “Come sit on the dock with me.”

  She let him pull her to the end of the dock. They took off their boots and socks, rolled up their jeans, and hung their feet in the pond. The water was warm, but still refreshing compared to the oppressive heat. Side-by-side, they trailed their toes in the water and watched the beauty of day’s end.

  As the sun sank toward the horizon, it painted streaks of golden fire across the water and lit the hill in a blaze of glorious color. Crickets and bullfrogs chimed together to create a symphony of summer song around them.

  “Oh, Clay, this is beautiful,” Callan whispered, taking in the landscape that looked like something from a painting. She turned and looked into his eyes, lost in the warm pools of liquid blue that grew increasingly darker. Her eyes widened in response to the desire burning in his.

  “Yeah, it is.” Clay tipped back his hat to look not at the sunset, but at Callan. Shards of pink and gold reflected off the water, bathing her in a golden light.

  He drew in a ragged breath and looked away, trying to gather his unraveling composure. Finally, he hooked a strong, solid arm around Callan’s waist while playfully giving her a shove forward.

  “Clay!” she shrieked, grabbing a handful of his shirt as she fell forward, unaware of his arm holding her safely on the dock. “I can’t swim!”

  He swung one leg around her and scooted close behind her, reveling in the feel of holding her close to him. “Don’t worry, girl, I’ve got you.” His voice sounded deep and husky.

  Clay had no idea how true that statement was, in every sense of the phrase.

  Callan rested against his broad chest and savored the closeness they shared. His heart pounded wild and fast against her back. She was sure her own heart matched his beat for beat while she struggled to remember how to breathe normally.

  A soft fluttering of air teased her ear as Clay placed a kiss on her neck. When he wrapped both arms around her, he whispered, “Laney, I couldn’t dream anything this good.”

  Incensed, Callan sat straight up, pulled away, and turned to look at him. Great. He brings all his girlfriends down here and can’t even remember my name.

  “Laney?” She glared at him indignantly. “Who’s Laney?”

  “You.” Clay gave her a shy grin. “When it’s just the two of us, I’m going to call you Laney. What do you think of that?”

  Callan didn’t know what to think. In fact, she found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than Clay. His nearness combined with his rugged good looks and alluring scent scattered her thoughts. What was the question?

  “If you get to have a special name for me, then I certainly need one for you.” She regained a bit of her equilibrium and humor. “I hereby dub you Brick.”

  Clay tipped back his head and laughed. He pulled her snug against him and nuzzled her neck. “Brick? Where did you come up with that?”

  Callan turned her head and gave him a saucy smile. “Brick means something that starts as clay that is solid, lasting, and strong. That is most definitely you,” she whispered.

  “Well, then,” Clay lowered his lips to hers. “Brick it is.”