PerfectMatch

Perfect Match - Chapter One

PERFECT MATCH

CHAPTER ONE

 Death is unforgiving. No second chances, no more hellos. Simply a last farewell. Kent Weston was dead. The reason Cali Weston had returned.

Crossroads, Tennessee was no longer home and the last place she wanted to be, still, she hadn't driven this far on one of the hottest days in July to turn back now.

Dealing with her father's estate wasn't at the top of her list, yet here she was, because of deep-seated morals, driving to her destiny.

Cali pulled into a parking space behind the Henry Hotel, whose two top floors were now offices. If the red truck charging from the parking lot was any indication of good manners, Southern hospitality could do with an upgrade. She grimaced as dust and grit settled over her white Porsche.

Perspiration trickled down her back. She shrugged out of the cream linen jacket, grabbed her handbag then slid across the car's hot leather seat.

Rocks dug in at the heels of her Gucci shoes as she walked across the graveled lot. Cali's footsteps echoed like hammer blows while she picked her way across wooden planks, down the L-shaped porch of the hotel's rear entrance.

On the porch, her gaze fixed on rusty plows, saddles, harnesses, and bits of unrecognizable clutter. A heady scent of leather intensified as she focused on a child's dusty saddle.

She blinked at the tears and swallowed back a lump that formed in her throat. Too many memories rushed in, and revived old wounds. She recalled the day her father drove to Homestead and surprised her with a handcrafted saddle for her tenth birthday. With a deep breath, she nudged aside feelings, opened the heavy oak door, and stepped inside the hotel's lobby.

From across the room, a low throaty growl stopped her in her tracks. Hesitant to invade the basset hound's territory, Cali eased back.

An old gentleman sat in a rocking chair, by a wood-burning stove, and glanced up when he'd seen her pause. "Carter won't bother you." He continued to play a soft tune on his guitar." The growl's worse than his bite."

Cautious, she stepped toward the man and crossed the creaky rough-hewn boards, in desperate need of a solid wax job. The old lobby hadn't changed much, at least from her young memory.

 Fascinated, Cali watched the man roll a cut of tobacco around his tongue, lean over and aim at a spittoon in the corner. She fastened a look on long fingers that caressed guitar strings, and strummed The Tennessee Waltz. The song was a favorite of her father's and he'd often played itfor her.She winced. I so needed to hear that song.

Flushed, she brushed back a strand of moist hair from her forehead. "I'm looking for Tim Stone." "Tim won't be back 'til sometime after one."

With an effort she held back asking why Tim had made an appointment he had no intention of keeping. "Then I'll wait. Would you point me toward his office?"

"Cali?" He stared and at her a long moment, spoke in a soft voice. "You're ...are you Kent Weston's daughter?"

"Yes," she conceded, then cut her eyes in a puzzled glance, and extended her hand. "And you are?"

"Well, of all people." He stood, squeezed her hand and rested the guitar on its end. "Burt Hall. Remember me?" He tipped back his hat with a thumb.

Cali stared at the pot of red Geraniums atop the wood-burning stove, then focused on his tilted western hat and rugged, aged face. "Of course, Mr. Hall. I'm distracted at the moment. It's good to see you."