Frowning, Taylor crossed the room. “Hey, where’s my luggage tag?” she wondered aloud. “And my bungee cord?” Her uncle Dave—self-appointed protector and Taylor’s only living relative—had insisted she secure the suitcase with a sturdy strap. “For extra protection,” he’d said.
Why hadn’t she noticed before that it was missing?
Jet lag, she thought, excusing the oversight.
On her knees now, she laid the suitcase on its side and pulled at the lock. It opened easily. Too easily. Ordinarily, it took several hard tugs to pop it. Unzipping the case, she threw back its lid and stifled a gasp.
Inside, where skirts and blouses should have been…
A jumble of rumpled blue jeans, wrinkled T-shirts and rag-knit socks. “Eee-yooo,” she complained, “just look at this mess.”
In her hurry to get home, she’d obviously grabbed the wrong suitcase. Had someone else picked up hers? Or was it still there, going round and round on the belt, waiting to be claimed?
Taylor glanced at the clock. Nearly six in the evening—far too late to call the airline now.
Attention on the suitcase again, she lifted one well-worn running shoe from the pile, held it at arm’s length. “Look at the size of this thing, Barn. Who would have guessed that the Jolly Green Giant was a jogger?”
In response, Barney hopped into the suitcase, purring as his forepaws kneaded the messy clothes inside.
“Get out of there,” she scolded, gently shooing him away, “before you snag something.” Though she honestly didn’t know how any of it could look any worse.
The cat gave an insulted meow and swaggered from the room, tail pointing indignantly toward the ceiling.
Taylor barely noticed. Pinkies raised and nose wrinkled, she searched for a business card, an address book, anything that would tell her the owner’s name.
She felt like Little Jack Horner as she stuck her hand into a side pocket and pulled out a business card. “‘Alex Van Buren,’” she read. “‘2345 Lancaster Road. Ellicott City, Maryland.’ Good. He’s local.”
A second glance at the clock told her it was early enough to call him.
Perched on the edge of the bed, she dialed Alex Van Buren’s number, and counted the rings.
“Alex’s answering machine is broken,” said a deep male voice. “This is his refrigerator. Leave your name and number, and I’ll put the message under one of the magnets he’s got stuck all over me.”
Giggling, Taylor rolled her eyes and waited for the beep. “Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith. It seems there was a mix-up at the airport, and I picked up your suitcase by mistake. Hopefully, you have mine, which, coincidentally, looks an awful lot like yours….”
She cleared her throat. Why was she rattling on this way?
“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade? If you have my suitcase, that is. If not, we can arrange a good time for you to pick up your suitcase.” She recited her phone number and hung up.
Then, stretching, she slid under the covers, remembering his voice. Wholly, soothingly male, it reminded her of someone. Someone she knew.
But who?
The voice continued to echo in her mind until she drifted off to sleep.
“Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith.”
Alex lifted the corners of his pillow and pressed them against his ears. But it was no use. He could still hear her. “I picked up your suitcase by mistake….”
He’d locked up tight and closed the blinds before climbing into bed, intent upon making up for the many nights of sleep he’d lost while in Ireland.
If only he’d remembered to turn off the answering machine.
Groaning, he levered himself up on one elbow and flicked on the light. Eyes shaded by one hand, he squinted across the room. Well, the bag he’d brought home certainly looked like his….
“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade?”
Alex turned the volume on the answering machine down, clicked off the light and flopped back onto his pillow. Rolling onto his side, he took a deep breath, hoping to pick up where he’d left off when Taylor Griffith had interrupted his dream.
He’d been strolling along Ireland’s Dingle Coast, staring out at the great expanse of churning gray sea, when a lovely blue-eyed lass had stepped up beside him and offered to share her home-baked brown bread. But it was no use. Instead of accepting a slice, his thoughts returned to the Griffith woman’s message.
Knuckling his eyes, Alex decided the suitcase news wasn’t nearly as interesting as his dream. Punching his pillow, he tried again to return to Ireland and the lovely blue-eyed lass.
But a question popped into his head, disrupting the dream yet again. Its answer was obvious—this Taylor person had gotten his name and number from his luggage tag.
Jaw set with determination, he forced himself to remember Galway Bay. Bunglass Point. The thatched cottage on The Burren where he’d spent his first night abroad, listening to the gentle lowing of Black Angus cows.
But he couldn’t concentrate on Ireland or anything related to it, thanks to one Taylor Griffith.
Alex sat up, threw his bare legs over the edge of the bed and growled under his breath. There seemed to be a conspiracy these past few days to keep him from getting any shut-eye at all.
At a bed-and-breakfast in Ballydehob, the owner’s short-legged dog—named Bruce, of all things—barked the whole night away. In a small hotel in Killorglin, trains that ran like clockwork woke him every hour on the hour. Last night, the darlin’ woman who owned the house near Shannon Airport couldn’t seem to comfort her colicky baby. And now some girl seemed to think she had his suitcase, and he had hers.
He wouldn’t get any sleep until he got to the root of this, so why try?
Heaving a deep sigh, Alex hit the answering machine’s play button and turned the sound up. As the tape rewound, he opened the nightstand drawer, poked around until he found a pen buried under paperback novels and soda straws. Dig as he might, he couldn’t find anything to write on.
He listened to the first part of her message, and when she began reciting her number, Alex scribbled it on the palm of his hand. He’d call Ms. Griffith first thing in the morning, see about straightening out this mix-up she’d referred to.
After tossing the ballpoint back into the drawer, he turned the answering machine’s sound down. For the last time tonight, he hoped.
Then the red, white and blue ID tag on his bag caught his eye. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He’d lost the original luggage tag soon after buying the suitcase, and had been making do with the paper ones provided by the airlines ever since.
Alex hobbled toward it, rubbing his bad leg and doing his best not to think about how he’d earned the limp. Try as he might, the crash was something he’d never forget, or live down. And why should he be allowed to do either? It wasn’t every day that a test pilot lost a multimillion-dollar aircraft in the middle of the Caribbean.
He grabbed the luggage tag. “Taylor Griffith,” precise black letters spelled out, “142 Old Belle Way, Ellicott City.” Grinning, he thought, She sure didn’t sound like an old belle….
He unfastened the stretchy red-and-yellow band wrapped around the suitcase, then unzipped it. Inside, in neatly folded stacks, lay delicate, feminine articles of clothing in every shade of the rainbow. A tiny, pointy-toed black shoe poked out of a side pocket, and he held it by its