Then he turned to Renee, his deepening smile enhancing the strength of his chin.
He was way too attractive for his own good.
“Was just looking at the view,” he said quietly. “I love the location of this house. Up on a hill like this.”
“That’s why my dad bought it,” Renee said. “I’m so used to it I don’t always notice, but it is beautiful.”
She was babbling. Yanking the front door all the way open, she stood aside. “Come on in.”
Tate glanced over his shoulder again, then stepped into the house.
“So, obviously this is the living room,” Renee said as she watched Tate’s appraising glance flick around the entrance. “When my dad bought it, he had plans to put on a front porch, but after my mother’s accident we needed to make the house more wheelchair accessible, so we added a ramp, and now there’s not really room for a porch. It would be nice to have one, because there’s not much space for boots and such unless you go through the back entrance.”
Again. Stop with the chatter.
Tate didn’t seem to notice, however, as he stepped farther into the house. “How many square feet is the place?”
“About eleven hundred on the main floor. There’re two bedrooms on this level, three rooms upstairs and a basement that we haven’t done much with.”
“Looks homey,” Tate said, his hands shoved into the pockets of his blue jeans. “I like how the living room flows into the dining room.”
“My dad did some renovations. He took down a couple of walls to open up the space.”
“I like the hardwood floors.”
“I do, too. They’re especially wheelchair friendly.”
Tate pointed to the fireplace. “Does that work or is it just for show?”
“My father put an insert in it, so, yes, it is a functioning fireplace.” She followed him as he walked over to it, suppressing the compulsion to rearrange the pictures on the mantel. In one on the far left she was obviously pregnant. Renee had kept the picture as a small way of acknowledging the baby she had borne for nine months.
And as a reminder of the consequences of the poor decisions she’d made in her life.
“How old is the house?” Tate asked.
“It was built in the twenties. My dad rewired it to bring it up to code. Put insulation in the attic and retrofitted the outside with new siding.”
“You know a lot about the construction of the house,” Tate said, giving her a grin.
“Every day after school I’d stop by, pick up a hammer or nail gun and work beside him,” Renee said. “One summer, I had thoughts of becoming a carpenter.”
“But you started a scrapbook store instead.”
Renee nodded. “I loved helping my father, but I love playing around with paper and glue way more. The store grew out of a hobby my mother and I shared.”
“Sounds like you had a good relationship with your parents.”
Renee gave a wistful smile as she looked around the house. So easily she recalled laughing with her father as she held boards for him to saw, handed him nails and ran a hundred little errands. “I did. My father was a loving, patient man. Took me a while to get over his death.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died of lung cancer about ten years ago. He smoked like a steam engine. I was angry with him because of that.” She stopped herself. Why was she telling him this? She hadn’t talked about her father in years.
Tate held her gaze, frowning.
“The dining room is over here,” Renee said, moving past him, trying to regain control of herself, dismayed at the memories deluging her after all this time. “My father also put in the bay window by the dining-room table and put in new kitchen cabinets.”
Renee walked around the island that held an eating bar with three stools that were only used the times Mia and Evangeline would come over after book club.
“I like the stained-glass lamps,” Tate said, pointing to the set of three small lamp shades suspended over the eating bar. They were red with a pattern of leaves twining around them. Simple but beautiful.
“A woman named Naomi made them a couple of months ago,” Renee said as she flicked the switch to make them come alive. “My mother gave them to me as a birthday present.”
“Would they come with the house?” Tate asked.
Renee felt a flicker of guilt as she switched the lights off, knowing she would have to leave this particular gift behind. She remembered how pleased she’d been with the surprise and how she loved the way they shone in the evenings.
“They would have to,” she said, turning away from them to the rest of the kitchen. “My mother and I will be renting a place in Vancouver. So I can’t bring them along.”
“That’s too bad,” Tate murmured.
“The appliances are older, unfortunately.” Renee waved a hand toward the fridge and stove, surprised at the emotions creeping into her mind. It was as if showing Tate around this house made her realize how much of herself she had invested in it and how much she would be leaving behind.
Don’t think about that. Think about what will happen for your mother.
Those thoughts centered her, and she managed to push the doubts aside.
“You might want to look at replacing them in a couple years. The cabinets are over ten years old now but still in excellent shape.”
“They look great,” Tate said, running his hand along the countertop. “Your dad did quality work.”
“He always told me that if you’re going to do something, do it right or don’t bother.” Renee smiled as she remembered her father’s often-repeated advice.
“I wonder if your dad and my dad went to the same school,” Tate said, opening and closing one of the cupboard doors. “He says the same thing.”
“Your dad is a good lawyer and a wise man.” Renee’s gaze caught Tate’s. Awareness seemed to buzz between them. Renee wanted to dismiss it as merely attraction to a good-looking man, but her heart told her different. Working with him and Addison had shown her other aspects of his personality that were as appealing as his blue eyes and his strong features.
He was a good father and a good husband. A solid person and, as her father would say, a good man to have beside you in a storm.
She was realizing that she couldn’t do this. She didn’t have space in her busy, complicated life. And he was a problem with no easy solution.
But even as her practical mind told her one thing, her heart, her lonely, yearning heart, pleaded with her to do another.
Chapter Seven
Look away. Stop right now.
“So what does the rest look like?” Tate asked, dragging his attention back to the house with an intense effort.
“My mother’s bedroom is on the main floor. I sleep here, as well.” Renee waved her hand to the back of the house. “Did you want to see the rooms? We’ve had to change the bathroom for my mother, but I’m sure that can be changed back.”
Was it his imagination or did Renee sound as breathless as he did?
Please, Lord. Help me to stay focused. And in control.
He clenched his fists as he drew in another steadying breath.
She is the biological mother of your daughter. It’s too complicated.
But even as that thought stormed through his mind another followed.
How easy would it be? A relationship with the woman who gave birth to your daughter? It would be such a natural progression.
“It’s okay. I don’t need to see the bedrooms,” he said, dismissing the idea. He was in her house, looking to buy it because she and her mother were moving away. He could dream all he wanted but Renee was focused on her plans. It wouldn’t be right to confuse her and it would be selfish of him. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the basement and the upstairs, though.”
Renee went ahead of him up the narrow stairs that led to the second floor. He glanced behind him before following her up. The house was homey. Cozy. Renee and her mother had made it welcoming and frie
ndly.
He couldn’t help but compare it to the modern apartment Molly had chosen for them when they’d moved to Toronto. Cold and austere and expensive.
“We haven’t done much up here,” Renee was saying. “My dad had plans of fixing these rooms up, as well. But that didn’t happen...” Her voice trailed off as she opened a door to a room off the narrow hallway at the top of the stairs. “This is the sewing room.”
Tate walked past her and looked inside. A few chairs stood along the wall, a chest was pushed up against another and a dressmaker’s dummy was parked in one corner by a table that held a sewing machine.
“Do you sew?” he asked.
“My mother did.”
Again he heard that muted note of regret in her voice, and again he thought of all the things that had changed not only for Renee but also for Mrs. Albertson after the accident.
He walked across the hall and inspected the other room, smiling at the view the large window afforded him. The space beneath the window was taken up by a long table covered with scraps of paper, stamps and ink. A few completed cards hung from a metal stand at one end of the table.
“Do you work here as well as at the store?”
“Sometimes at night I like to craft. Gives me something to do if my mother is tired.”
“Have you always done this? Work with paper?”
“All my life. My mother said if she wanted to get me out of her hair, all she had to do was give me some scissors, paper, glue and crayons.”
“Now you can play with all the paper you could want.”
“I still get excited when we get a new shipment in,” Renee said with a smile as she straightened a pile of paper, her hands lingering. “It’s not the only thing I do, though. I’ve also branched out into graphic design. Designing and printing up logos, brochures, wedding invitations. It’s been a natural progression for my business. But my first love is cutting and gluing.”
“I imagine it will be difficult to give up the store when—” Tate held up his hand as if stopping himself. “Sorry. I don’t need to underline what you’re dealing with.”
Renee gave a melancholy smile. “It will be hard, but I believe it’ll be worth it.”
Silence followed that admission. Then Tate walked out of the room, moving on to another topic.
“I guess I should look at the basement, as well, and pretend I know something about foundations and dry rot and termites,” he said, leading the way down the stairs.
Renee’s gentle laugh warmed his heart. It was good to hear her laugh. She didn’t do it too much.
“I can’t help you there,” she said as she walked past him to a door across from the kitchen. “I know as much about basements as I do about electronics.”
She flicked on a light just inside the door, and he followed her down the worn, wooden stairs.
“This is the part in the movie where the spooky music starts,” Tate said as the stairs creaked under his feet when they descended into the cool, damp basement.
“At least we don’t have to walk in the dark to pull on a string attached to a lightbulb,” Renee added.
“But the humming of those fluorescent lights does add to the creepy ambience,” Tate said, glancing around the large, open space. “I’ll just walk around and frown, and tap on floor joists and look knowledgeable, and then we can go back upstairs where it’s safe,” Tate said, his voice echoing in the cool space.
“Frown away,” Renee said, a note of humor in her voice.
Tate did walk around, envisioning what could be done down here. One corner of the room was taken up with a furnace and hot-water tank. The walls had new insulation but hadn’t been drywalled. The floors held markings of what, he suspected, were future walls. Obviously Renee’s father had plans for this that hadn’t come to fruition.
He returned to where Renee stood at the bottom of the stairs. “I guess that concludes the tour,” he said with a grin.
“Unless you want to see the backyard.”
“I’ve seen enough to know this is a prime piece of real estate and easily worth whatever you and your mother are asking.”
“You don’t even know the price,” Renee said, leading the way up the stairs.
“Don’t need to,” he said. “I just moved from Toronto. Anything here is a bargain compared to the prices there. But you might want to talk to your lawyer first.”
“You are my lawyer.”
“Then you’re in a tough situation. We might have a conflict of interest happening here.”
“Why don’t I make a cup of coffee and we can work on the interest and the conflict thereof,” she said, taking the pot from the coffeemaker and turning on the tap water.
“Sounds like a good idea.” Tate didn’t mind sitting down with Renee for a while.
He slipped his hands in his pockets as he walked to the bay window overlooking the huge yard. Flower beds flanked by a wide flagstone walkway stretched along the fence on one side of the yard. A cluster of tall trees shaded one corner. A wooden swing attached to rope hung from their overhanging branches. Some chairs sat beside a fire pit in the shade of the trees. Tate could easily see Addison playing in the large, fenced-in area. In Toronto, all she’d had was a small balcony. She would love it here.
The coffeemaker burbled as Renee set mugs out, then put together a plate with cookies and brownies. His mouth watered at the sight. They looked homemade.
“How do you take your coffee?” she asked as she filled his mug.
“Just black,” he said, pulling out two chairs. “Adding cream and sugar to my coffee wastes billable time.”
“I guess every second counts,” she returned with a smile as she set the pot on the counter. “But I’m not going to counter with any lawyer jokes. I still need you to get the lien off the store.”
“I understand the buyer is getting antsy. Do you think she’s still interested?”
“I hope so. She was the only one who replied to my ad.”
Tate felt a flash of sympathy at the anxiety in her voice. He knew what was on the line for her with the sale of the store and, in an unguarded moment, reached over and covered her hand with his.
When he felt the warmth of her hand, he regretted his impulse, but when her fingers twined around his, all reservations fled.
“Could you rent the store out? Get someone else to manage it?” he asked, wishing he could help her with more than advice.
Renee shook her head, still holding his hand as if his touch anchored her. “I need everything I can get my hands on to pay off the loan on the store, and pay the bills for the treatment and living expenses for the year and possibly longer if things don’t go as well as we hope—” Her voice broke and she pressed her lips together, cutting short whatever else she might have said.
Tate was quiet a moment, letting her gain control. “This is quite a sacrifice you’re making for your mother,” he said quietly. “You’re an amazing daughter.”
“I’m far from an amazing daughter,” she said.
“That’s not true. I see how attentive you are. How caring. I can’t think of anyone who would be willing to give up their home, their job, their career for the sake of their mother’s health like you are.”
Renee slowly shook her head. “It’s no sacrifice. It’s payment.”
“What do you mean, ‘payment’?”
Renee’s silence drew out the tension. She said nothing more, but Tate felt as if he was on the verge of discovering something important.
“What kind of payment?” he asked, encouraging her to speak.
Renee pressed her lips together as if holding back the words, then with a gentle shake of her head, she spoke. “I’m the one who put her in that wheelchair.”
“What do you mean?”
Renee pulled her hands away from him, twisting them around each other. “I was the one driving when the accident happened,” she continued. “The accident was my fault.”
Her words fell like stones, taking with them anything he mig
ht say. All Tate heard in the heavy silence following her shocking confession was the faint tick of a clock, the hum of the refrigerator.
He dug through his mind, trying to find some way to comfort her, to take away the pain that laced her voice, but he knew anything he said would come across as trite and meaningless.
So he simply laid his hand on her shoulder in assurance and, he hoped, solace.
He waited a moment, then spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I try not to.” Her words came out slowly, weighted with sorrow. “It hurts too much to think about it, let alone talk about it.”
“I think it might help if you did.”
She shook her head. But Tate knew that even the most reluctant witness would often speak to fill a silence. So he waited.
Then after a long, slow intake of breath, she began, her voice pitched low and quiet. “I was in a bad place in my life. My boyfriend, Dwight, and I had been partying pretty hard. I was wasting my time in college, not living the life I should have. I’d turned my back on God and my mother. Not good.” Renee released a bitter laugh. “We were in the car together, fighting about that. Fighting about what I was going to do about...about Addison. About Dwight. I told her to mind her own business. Then we came to a tight corner on the road...” She faltered, and Tate tightened his hold on her shoulder.
“I wasn’t paying attention to my driving. The road was wet, and because I was so focused on trying to convince her I was right, I didn’t make the corner. The car swerved and I drove it over a steep embankment. It landed on the passenger side. My mother...she was...she was injured and I—” She stopped there, turning her head away from him, her gaze fixed on the window. “I was okay.”
Her knuckles were white. “I can still hear my mother screaming in pain. Still feel the helplessness of not being able to take it away.” She drew in another shaky breath. “It seemed to take forever for the ambulance to come. I was fine, my baby was fine, but my mother wasn’t.”
Tate was confused by her comment, then came the shocking realization.
“You were pregnant when the accident happened,” he said quietly, his hand moving over her shoulder.
Ever Caring Page 9