The Engagement Charade
A Temporary Betrothal
Pregnant widow Ellie Jameson is hiding a secret: her betrothal is a sham to keep her safe from her interfering in-laws. It’s simple friendship that prompts her reclusive boss to pose as her fiancé. But can Ellie keep her feelings for Alexander Copeland from developing into something more?
When he moved to Gatlinburg after losing his wife and child, Alexander had one rule: stay out of other people’s lives. Easier said than done with the café owner’s eternally optimistic cook interrupting his enforced solitude. He only intended to protect Ellie, not propose to her. But with a little trust, and a helping of forgiveness, this temporary arrangement could be a recipe for lasting happiness...
“Ellie, please don’t forget this is make-believe.”
“You’re assuming I want a husband,” she retorted. “And that I’m somehow lacking the ability to discern what’s real and what’s not.”
Alexander could never know how wonderful his attentiveness made her feel. Ellie liked being his fiancée. She liked being one half of a couple and the sense of belonging that imparted. And if she’d occasionally imagined what it would be like to be his wife, she’d quickly dismissed the notion. He was too afraid to risk his heart again, and she was too afraid to risk disappointing someone again. Failing at marriage had eaten away at her self-esteem. She wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.
“I wanted to remind you. Just in case...”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tumble into love with you and hang on your heels like an affection-starved puppy dog.” Spinning on her heel, she stalked toward the door.
Karen Kirst was born and raised in East Tennessee near the Great Smoky Mountains. She’s a lifelong lover of books, but it wasn’t until after college that she had the grand idea to write one herself. Now she divides her time between being a wife, homeschooling mom and romance writer. Her favorite pastimes are reading, visiting tearooms and watching romantic comedies.
Books by Karen Kirst
Love Inspired Historical
Smoky Mountain Matches
The Reluctant Outlaw
The Bridal Swap
The Gift of Family
“Smoky Mountain Christmas”
His Mountain Miss
The Husband Hunt
Married by Christmas
From Boss to Bridegroom
The Bachelor’s Homecoming
Reclaiming His Past
The Sheriff’s Christmas Twins
Wed by Neccessity
The Engagement Charade
Cowboy Creek
Bride by Arrangement
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KAREN KIRST
The Engagement Charade
For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.
—Psalms 139:13, 16
To my friend and lunch buddy Christy Barton, whose love of tea sparked a friendship.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Excerpt from The Renegade’s Redemption by Stacy Henrie
Chapter One
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
September 1887
Alexander Copeland’s one goal in life was to be left alone. Not an easy task for a café owner, but he’d managed just fine until Ellie Jameson entered his life uninvited. He hadn’t hired the new cook. She had been hired for him without his permission. And because of her skills in the kitchen, he wasn’t prepared to fire her. Yet.
If only the woman would accept that he didn’t wish to be involved in the daily operations. He didn’t care whether she was serving roast duck or chicken livers, boiled potatoes or sautéed squash, apple pie or pumpkin fritters. Nor did it matter if she embellished the menu board with dainty little chalk flower drawings and arranged late-summer bouquets in Mason jars to use as centerpieces. Nothing mattered save passing the hours until he could retire upstairs and shut out the world.
At 10:15 a.m., her succinct rap sounded on his office door. He could say this about her—she was punctual and persistent. Snapping the ledger closed, he sank against the leather chair and considered ignoring her.
“Mr. Copeland?” She knocked again, and the burning in his gut spread to his entire abdomen.
Stalking to the door, Alexander wrenched it open and leveled her with a formidable glare. “Must we do this again today, Mrs. Jameson?”
“I’m afraid we must.” The young widow—she couldn’t be more than twenty—smiled in the face of his annoyance. Not a tremulous, placating smile, but a sunny one that brightened her gamine features and made her coffee-brown eyes shine. “As the proprietor of the Plum Café, you should be informed as to what I’m serving your customers.”
“My other cook didn’t share your opinion. He did his job and left me out of it.”
“Perhaps that’s why this place earned the nickname the Rotten Plum,” she countered.
“Excuse me?”
Twin brows raised a notch. “You didn’t know?”
He winced. How could he? He made a point not to interact with the locals, and his employees were hardly going to tell him that to his face.
“No.”
Mrs. Jameson’s gaze lowered to where he cradled his midsection. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” She held a glass of frothy milk out to him. “Here you are.”
“I’ve already had my breakfast, Mrs. Jameson.” A bland one of lukewarm oatmeal, toast and weak tea, just as the doctor had prescribed.
“Please, call me Ellie,” she said, not for the first time. “Trust me, this will help soothe the fire in your belly.”
Pressing the cold glass into his hand, she slipped past him and, after crossing to the windows, proceeded to tie back the thick brocade draperies. Bright light filtered through the windowpane, dispelling the ever-present gloom and revealing multiple layers of dust coating the bookshelves along the right wall and the carved wood furniture crowding the room. The once-vibrant Oriental rug covering the plank floorboards had faded to dull reds and browns, and multiple threads had snapped and frayed.
“Might I remind you this is my office? If I’d wanted the draperies open, I would’ve opened them myself.”
She sneezed. “If you choose to ruin your eyesi
ght, that’s your business. But I need light to see my list.” Pulling out a slim pad and pencil from her apron pocket, she perched on one of the chairs facing his desk, her posture straight and proper, and began to read through the menu items for today’s noon and supper meals.
Alexander remained in the doorway. Instead of attending her words, his mind wrestled with the puzzle before him. Few people in this quaint mountain town dared approach him. Since the day of his arrival, he’d discouraged interaction. He wasn’t interested in making friends. Most folks respected his wishes. Why couldn’t Ellie Jameson?
He contemplated the glass in his hand. This wasn’t the first time she’d tried to soothe his ailing stomach. It was as if she studied him for signs of discomfort. Was it some nurturing instinct that spurred her to ignore his unspoken but very clear desire to be left alone? He thought it very likely considering the circumstances of her employment. Several weeks ago, the same day his former cook quit, Alexander had suffered one of his worst episodes since developing an ulcer and had become an unwilling patient of Dr. Owens. Deputy Ben MacGregor and several others had taken it upon themselves to hold cooking auditions without his knowledge. They’d pinned the blue ribbon on Ellie Jameson.
He didn’t recall seeing her before she came to work here—not that he took the time to acquaint himself with his patrons. He’d overheard her tell his waitress, Sally, that she’d moved to Tennessee in May, only four months ago. Beyond that, he knew she was an excellent cook, a dependable and conscientious employee, and far too cheerful for his tastes.
While she continued her recitation, he took the time to study her.
Her hair, worn in a high, girlish ponytail, spilled over her shoulder in nondescript brown waves. Of medium height, she possessed an average, almost boyish build draped in unbecoming gray. Her dove-colored blouse was ill fitting and nearly worn through at the shoulders and elbows. Her skirt was of a darker, charcoal gray and several inches too long, so that the hem skimmed the toes of her old black boots. Her only piece of jewelry was a slim gold wedding band.
Alexander thought of his own ring, hidden in his dresser drawer upstairs. Wearing it would invite questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. He didn’t need to see it every day to be reminded of what he’d lost. Not lost, he thought bitterly. No, it had been ripped away from him.
She finished speaking, and her expectant gaze met his. “Does that sound agreeable?”
“Uh, sure. Yes, very agreeable.” He rubbed the stubble along his jaw. “Now, if that will be all, I’ve got work to do.”
Tilting her head to one side, she arched a single brow in a way that dispelled the illusion of youth. She clearly suspected he hadn’t heard one word. “It’s been a while since we’ve offered fish. Would you have time today to catch us some? I could fry it up tomorrow and serve it with corn bread, snap beans and coleslaw.”
She’d requested his input before, but nothing that required action. “You want me to go fishing?”
“I think folks will enjoy a fish fry, don’t you?”
He shrugged and, leaving the drink on his desk, wandered over to the window. Using his handkerchief, he rubbed clean a saucer-sized circle. The alley between his establishment and the post office didn’t see much foot traffic. The other building’s exterior log wall dominated much of the view. Above the roofline, a brilliant blue strip of sky was visible.
“It’s a gorgeous day,” she enthused. “There’s a consistent breeze that eases the sun’s heat and carries with it the remnants of summer. The humidity is low. Doesn’t feel like rain, either. I—”
“Fine. You’ll have your fish.”
At her silence, Alexander turned in hopes she’d quit the room. Instead, she’d abandoned her chair to take up position in the middle of his office, her person a study in grays and browns broken only by faint strokes of pink on the apple of her cheeks and a rosebud mouth that was, in its delicate perfection, her one intriguing feature.
Startled by the thought, he said in clipped tones, “We’re finished here, are we not?”
“Before I start on the noon meal, I’d like to show you something in the dining room.”
Emitting a resigned sigh, he gestured with an impatient flick of his fingers for her to lead the way. The sooner he listened to her concerns, the sooner he’d be rid of her.
* * *
To most folks, Alexander Copeland was an irascible recluse who couldn’t be bothered with his customers’ needs or wants. In the brief time Ellie had worked for him, she’d come to the conclusion that he was a hurting soul who desperately needed a friend. Someone to gently nudge him from the nest like a baby bird.
In the spacious dining room, she watched him pace restlessly from one window to the next, his remote blue gaze surveying the various aspects of Main Street. The café was currently closed for the two-hour break between breakfast and the noon meal, an opportune time to broach the subject of sprucing up the place.
He ceased his restless movements and directed his full attention to her. Despite his recent health problems, Alexander Copeland cut a commanding figure. Over six feet tall, he favored austere, formal clothing at odds with his tousled, collar-length raven hair and habit of shaving every third or fourth day. His features were classically handsome. His light blue eyes were ringed with darker blue and fringed with lush black lashes any girl would envy. Noting how his black vest shot through with silver threads over an ice-blue shirt complemented his coloring, she recalled the gauntness of his appearance upon his return from the doctor’s not so long ago. Sensitive to others’ suffering, she was grateful he was following his prescribed diet. While he could stand to gain a bit more weight, he was well on the way to complete recovery—physically, anyway. Whatever tormented his mind remained—that much was obvious.
“What is it that requires my personal attention?”
Arms stiff at his sides, he looked around the room, his gaze snagging on the back wall and the large blackboard where she’d written the day’s menu. Did he disapprove of her drawings? Or perhaps it was the Bible verse she’d included? According to her assistant, Flo Olufsen, Mr. Copeland hadn’t darkened the doorstep of the church since his arrival.
“It’s the curtains, sir.” Ellie indicated the maroon draperies that should’ve been replaced years ago. “They’re in bad shape, as are the tablecloths. Their appearance gives a poor impression of the state of the restaurant.”
There were twelve tables in total, all rectangular in shape. Four windows overlooked the street and two windows flanked the fireplace on the alley side. Alexander inspected the cloth on the table closest to him. When his finger pierced the worn material and opened up a hole, his face puckered in bewilderment. Ellie couldn’t squelch a giggle.
He straightened immediately, his mouth tightening.
Feeling chastened without him ever speaking a word, Ellie hurried to cover the gaffe. “I was thinking we should choose material of a lighter, neutral hue that would brighten the room,” she said. “Nothing too feminine, of course. And it would have to be sturdy. You won’t want to be replacing them every year.”
“You’ve given this a great deal of thought.”
“I want the Plum to be a place where folks feel comfortable. Somewhere they can be assured of a fresh, hot meal in an inviting environment.”
He skimmed his fingers along the mantel and inspected them. “Are you responsible for the cinder-free fireplaces?”
Thrown by the question, she said, “Sally and I did the work while you were indisposed.”
“It was your idea, though.”
“Yes.”
“And the windows? You scrubbed them, as well.”
“We did, yes.”
Folding his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels. “For a new employee, you’re awfully committed to the success of my café. Neither Sally nor Flo, whom you might say I inherite
d from the former owner, have shown a thimbleful of the initiative you have. While I appreciate your commitment to excellence, I have to wonder at your motivation.”
His gaze probed hers and, for a wild moment, Ellie wondered if he might’ve guessed her secret. But that was silly. No one else in the entire world knew about the precious baby she carried.
“I need the work,” she stated baldly. “I happen to enjoy cooking for people. It’s a rare occurrence to find a paid position doing what you love. I’d like to keep it.”
“You’re a recent widow, I understand. My condolences.”
Ellie stammered out something unintelligible, her tongue suddenly tied. It was his first mention of her loss. She’d gotten the impression he expected her to burst into tears if he broached the subject. He’d be wrong.
Her marriage to Nolan Jameson had been fraught with difficulty and failed to be the loving union she’d hoped for. She had mourned his sudden passing but rejoiced at this unforeseen chance to finally be a mother, to have a child of her own to raise. Her last two pregnancies had ended in tragedy. She’d beseeched God morning, noon and night on behalf of this baby, praying this time would be different.
“Tell me, do you have someone in mind for the changes you’ve mentioned?”
“I’m a decent seamstress. I’d be happy to do it.”
His dark brows lifted. “Will you have time?”
Ellie’s days were long and arduous. Six days a week, she woke before dawn in order to be at the café by five to start breakfast. The morning serving hours were from seven to ten. After a brief coffee break, she and Flo prepared the noon meal, available between the hours of noon and two. The afternoon break was longer, as supper didn’t begin until six o’clock. By closing time at nine, her energy was at its lowest point.
“I’ll make time,” she told him. “I can utilize my afternoons. Flo may be willing to take over the desserts for a week.”
“I’m not sure the customers will thank me for that.” He shot her a dry look. “Very well. I’ll inform Mr. Darling to expect you at the mercantile. Put the supplies on my account.”