by Janet Dailey
“W-we did?” She kept her focus on his right cheekbone, her lashes glistening.
“Yeah.” He held out one of the mugs. Steam rose above the rim, twirled in the sunlight that poured through the open window, and the scent of aromatic brew drifted between them. “It’s black. No sugar. Just how you like it. And I found the cups J—”
“Joe bought for me,” she said, finishing for him, her anguished expression receding a little. “He found them in a pottery store outside Helen when we honeymooned in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We went for a hike early one morning, stumbled on this little run-down cabin, and there they were.” She pointed at one delicate flower painted on the mug. “See the white one there? The one with the yellow tip on it? That’s an Eastern shooting star. Joe said that’s what I was to him. Precious and hard to catch. That was back when I ran just about everywhere. When I was young and strong.” She took the mug from him, grew quiet for a moment, then said, “Isn’t that funny?”
“What?” he asked.
“That I can remember that morning so clearly. Like it was yesterday. Like he should still be here on this bed, next to me.” Her chin trembled. “But yesterday I forgot I’d lost Cindy Sue. This thing is stealing from me. It’s taking things I don’t want to give. My thoughts, my words . . . pieces of my soul.”
Throat tightening, he cradled his mug in his hands, the scalding heat against his palms a welcome distraction from the burning sensation in his eyes. “You know that for sure?”
She nodded, staring down at her mug. “I found out two years ago. I was forgetful. Things seemed off, and Carrie suggested I go have a checkup. I got the news and came on home.” She shrugged. “What else do you do?”
Mitch focused on the long white curtains on the other side of the room. Watched them billow out and deflate with each push of the morning breeze. “There are specialists. We can ask about new treatments to slow the symp—”
“No.” Her tone had hardened, and she faced him. “It’s taking my time from me, too. An hour here, a day there.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to spend what good time I got left on waiting rooms and side effects. I want to be home with people who’ll treat me like I’m still me. I want to hear Sadie laugh louder, see Dylan smile more. I want to watch that corn grow. Help you and Kristen make this land breathe again. This farm and this family give me a reason to get up every day. To try.”
He scooted forward in his chair. “I’m going to stay and help you through this.”
“But your job—”
“It’ll wait. After I order a few things online and have them shipped, I can draw up plans here just as well as I can in New York. And I have some savings I’m going to use to make improvements here. Kristen told me she’s willing to help in whatever way you need her. You can count on both of us.”
Emmy turned toward the window. The curtains rippled faster on a stronger gust of wind, and outside the mist had faded from the property, providing a clearer view of the soggy red driveway, the freshly planted fields, and the solid blue sky.
“Kristen came out here to hide, you know,” she said. “Not sure what from, but some people do, thinking it’s a good place to disappear. Doesn’t take long for ’em to find out it’s not. There’s just the earth beneath your feet, the air in your lungs, and the sky above. The only thing in between is you—whatever’s in you—the good, the bad. Can’t hide from any of it. Can’t do nothing but choose what to hold on to and what to let go of.” She faced him again. “Can you understand that’s all I was doing with your father? I was holding on to the good I still saw in my son.”
Neck heating, he looked down and tightened his grip on his mug.
“There’s one more thing I want,” she continued. “I want to see you feel at home here one day. I want to know that, in your heart, you forgive me.”
The air left his lungs, pouring out of him and tugging him forward. “Emmy . . .” He reached out, squeezed her hand. “I want to understand. I do. And I’m going to try.”
A hesitant smile lifted her lips. “I’m not perfect—never have been. I’ve screwed up a lot in my life and made yours and Carrie’s harder. But I’d have given my life for David—just as I would for you. There was still good in him, and I couldn’t just throw him away.” Her shoulders lifted helplessly. “Is it okay for a parent to give up on their own child? To stop loving him? Because I couldn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t.”
Mitch rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I mattered, too, Emmy. So did Carrie. I just . . . I feel like you were putting him over our well-being. Over the rest of the family. Sometimes there’s no more hope of someone changing.”
“But how do you know that for sure?” A deep sadness shadowed her expression, and her eyes eagerly questioned. “How do you know when there’s no more hope?”
He moved to answer, then stopped. Recalled the pain and disgust he’d hauled up the sludge-filled driveway when he’d arrived weeks ago; examined the renewed energy and peace that had pulsed through him just hours ago on the porch, at sunrise, when he’d held Kristen in his arms. That unexpected feeling continued to well inside him at just the thought of her. At the prospect of something fresh, whole, and pure—a chance to start over.
“I don’t know.” His attention strayed to the open window. The scenery outside was brighter and more welcoming than he could’ve ever imagined.
“I’ve never been able to step outside and not feel something bigger than me out there,” she said quietly, her tone searching. “And I still believe miracles come along out of nowhere. Hoped for one for David and this place—no matter how ignorant, superstitious, or naive that may be to some. Where’s the wrong in hoping?”
Heart aching, he looked back at her. Studied the sagging muscles in her arms, which had lost their definition, and the feisty gleam in her eyes, which defied the exhaustion lurking in the cloudy depths. And despite everything she’d lost, all the pain she’d suffered, the almost insurmountable odds and opposition she now faced, she still fought. Still dreamed. Still loved.
“There’s no wrong in it, Emmy. None at all. But you’ve never needed anyone’s permission or approval on that. You’re not asking for it now, are you?”
The desperate look in her eyes faded, and defiance flooded her expression. “No.”
He set his mug on the nightstand, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. “You’re going to see this place become whole again. I promise.”
She looked up at him and smiled, a fresh surge of tears moistening the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you.”
A knock sounded, and the bedroom door creaked open. Kristen peeked around it. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see you, Mitch.”
Nodding, he squeezed Emmy’s hand once more and made his way to the door. “Kristen and I will handle things today, Emmy. I want you to spend the day resting. No cleaning, no cooking, no worrying—just resting.”
She perked up, a sassy spark lighting her expression. “Ain’t he something, Kristen? Bossing me around like I’m some preschooler. Might go over better if he asked me nicely.”
Mitch paused on the threshold. “Please?”
“Only ’cuz I’m comfy and got coffee.”
“And you’ll have pancakes in a few minutes,” Kristen said. “The griddle’s heating now.”
Emmy settled back against her pillow, nose twitching. “I suppose y’all have talked me into it.”
Laughing, Mitch shook his head, then went to the front door. Dylan stood at the window, frowning toward the porch and rubbing his sleepy eyes.
“Who is it?” Mitch asked.
“Zach and his dad.” Dylan flashed him an angry look. “What’re they doing here?”
“Probably has to do with yesterday, and we’ll greet them politely, just as we would any guests.” He ruffled Dylan’s bed head and managed a smile, despite the knot tightening between his shoulder blades. “Where’s Sadie?”
“In the kitchen. We’re gonna help Ms. Kristen with bre
akfast.”
“Good. Why don’t you go on and help her out? I’ll handle this.”
Dylan’s frown deepened, but after one more look out the window, he trudged back to the kitchen.
Mitch rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then opened the door and walked onto the porch. Charles stood on the top step, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his khakis, and Zach hovered behind him on the bottom step, head lowered, eyeing the ground.
“Morning, Charles.”
Charles stepped forward, held out his hand, and gave a strained smile. “Mitch. I’m sorry to show up so early, but I’ve got some errands to run today and wanted to speak to you first.”
Mitch shook his hand. “Not a problem. I’m guessing you heard about yesterday.”
Charles nodded.
“I’m sorry things happened the way they did. Emmy wasn’t hersel—”
Charles held up a hand. “Zach has something he wants to say.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Zach?” The boy started, then cringed as he looked up at his dad. “Come on up here.”
Zach did, moving slowly up to the porch and studying the worn floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hart.”
“For what?” Charles prompted, voice stern.
Zach licked his lips. “For being rude and calling Mrs. Hart a bad name.” He looked up, cheeks reddening. “I shouldn’t have done it. And I really didn’t mean it. She just grabbed me so hard and . . .” His shoulders fell as he searched for the words.
“She hurt you,” Mitch said, then smiled softly when the boy nodded. “I understand. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re hurting.”
“I’ve suggested to Zach that one way to make amends with Mrs. Emmy would be to offer his time,” Charles said. “I understand Dylan’s been working the fields with you, and I was hoping you’d consider letting Zach assist you on the weekends until school releases for the summer.”
“That’s not necessary, Charles.”
“I know, but it’d be a favor to me.” Charles patted Zach’s shoulder, then gripped it loosely. “Zach’s a good man, but he needs to learn that you own up to your mistakes and rectify them when you can. I’ve told him he needs to repay his debt in order to earn back his skateboard. He’s a hard worker, takes direction well, and if he’s any trouble, just say the word.”
“Well . . .” Mitch glanced at Zach, then looked out at the fields. They could use the help. Every pair of hands counted, especially now that he was going to tackle the house, too. And having another boy around might help raise Dylan’s spirits. “Okay. If you’re interested, we’d be grateful and happy to have you, Zach. You’re welcome to start today if you’d like. Dylan and Sadie are in the kitchen, about to eat breakfast. Pancakes sound good to you?”
Zach stood a bit straighter. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Mitch reached back, opened the screen door, then tipped his chin toward the entrance. “Go ahead. Dylan’s in there, and I’ll be right behind you.”
He waited until Zach had left, then turned back to Charles. “Thanks. I appreciate the help and your understanding.”
Charles nodded. “How is Emmy?”
“Better today.” He looked away, watched the broad leaves on the oak trees rustle in the breeze, the sunlight flash sharply between the healthy branches. “There’s no predicting tomorrow, though. I’m staying for a while, until we see how things turn out.”
“If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call on me.” After Mitch thanked him, Charles walked back to the porch rail, the floor creaking beneath his steps. “That’s a good-looking crop you’ve got growing out there. You’ve put in a lot of hours.”
“Kristen too. Think she planted more acres than I did.”
Charles glanced back over his shoulder, smiling. “She turned out to be a find, didn’t she? Becoming Emmy’s right-hand and speaking up for her at the bypass meeting?”
Mitch smiled, recalling the way Kristen had jumped in Emmy’s corner at the meeting. How she’d consoled Sadie in the backseat of the truck yesterday. How soothing her tone had been at Emmy’s bedside last night, and how she’d offered him gentle comfort on the porch. His skin still tingled with the memory of her soft touch.
After Charles left, Mitch stood on the porch for a few minutes more, studying the balusters, railings, and Gothic trim and estimating the costs to refurbish them. He tried to focus on calculating measurements and adding up hours of labor. But his mind kept returning to Kristen’s warm but wary gaze. The genuine concern and sincerity in her voice. At that moment, he realized that her tender kiss and whispered words of comfort had slipped inside his heart, making him long to be near her, to see her, to hear her. To just know she was here, partnering with him in more ways than one to make this place new again.
Kristen came out here to hide....
Yeah. She had. But thank God, the universe, or random luck, he’d found her. And he was damn well going to hold on.
* * *
Certain parts of Mitch should be outlawed during Kristen’s working hours of five in the morning to nine at night. Like the flex of his strong biceps as he lifted lumber. The firm, masterful movements of his long fingers as he guided wood planks along a table saw. The thoughtful set of his sensual mouth as he evaluated the detail on a freshly milled porch baluster.
And . . . especially . . . that gorgeous rumble of laughter that had been bursting from him more and more often over the past two weeks, drawing her ears and eyes and drumming up deliciously sinful urges that pulsed throughout her entire body.
Just like, oh, now.
“Fine.”
She jerked upright from her crouch on the front porch, bumped her head on the top rail, and peered up at Mitch. He was standing and smiling down at her, legs staggered, a drill in one big hand, the late afternoon sunlight slanting sharp at his back.
Fine? Oh, boy, fine didn’t quite do him justice. Alluring, magnetic, irresistible? Those were more accurate descriptions.
“I said,” Mitch remarked, squatting beside her, “I think the balusters turned out fine.” He cupped the back of her head and rubbed the spot above her temple that had bumped the rail. “Don’t you think so?”
“Yes.” It was hard to look away from his gorgeous blue eyes, and the slow grin spreading across his face prompted her to lean closer. “They’re beautiful.”
And that was an understatement. In the span of a handful of days, Mitch had worked wonders on the front porch. He’d used every spare bit of daylight left over after checking crops for nutrient needs or signs of damaging diseases and spraying for weeds to dismantle the porch rail, then repair each weather-damaged inch of it with fresh materials. Any original portions that were salvageable, he’d saved. Any that couldn’t be resurrected had been replaced with pieces he’d painstakingly crafted for a perfect match.
At times, he’d stayed outside well past midnight, laboring under the bright flood of a halogen work light and flashing that sexy smile at her when she’d jerked awake after nodding off while priming wood on the front steps.
“You’re very talented,” she said, eyeing the sensual sweep of his bottom lip.
His smile widened. “I had a lot of great help. Matter of fact, there was this gorgeous woman that showed up every night and worked harder than I did.”
“Sometimes.” She laughed, cheeks burning. “I had a tendency to sleep on the job.”
“You had good reason, what with working in the fields all day, helping Emmy in the garden and the kids prepare for final exams at school.” He bent and brushed his mouth across her temple. The throb of hunger in his deep voice made her tingle when he said, “Besides, the sight of you certainly kept me awake.”
Heat swirled in her belly. She grinned, dropped her paintbrush back in the pail at her side, then laid her hand on his thick thigh. “Hmm. That’s good to know, seeing as how you’ve disturbed my sleep quite a bit.” She kissed his cheek, then whispered by his ear, “You have this mischievous habit of sneaking into my dreams.”
/> He laughed. “Good ones, I hope?”
Sitting back on her heels, Kristen studied his sculpted features and brawny frame, then looked beyond him at the renovated porch. Freshly painted columns, Gothic trim, and railings gleamed in the sunlight, each piece Mitch had lovingly crafted projecting lazy summer shadows on the new wooden floor beneath their feet. Emmy and Sadie hummed a happy tune at the other end of the porch as they stretched up on their tiptoes and washed the wide windows until they glistened. Dylan swept remnants of wood and dust off the wraparound floor and into the dustpan Zach held. They made a game of it, Dylan thrusting the trash forward with hockey-like moves and Zach zigzagging from one side to the other to capture it.
The boys’ laughter and Emmy’s and Sadie’s slightly off-key tune merged and the scent of paint and clay in the clean air mingled with each other. Beyond them, in the distance, the crops were thriving. The corn’s green stalks and leaves reached up toward the clear sky, and the red earth, gently furrowed around each stalk, cradled the two-foot-tall plants.
“Heaven,” Kristen said, meeting Mitch’s eyes and tilting her lips up in invitation as he dipped his head toward her. “Pure heaven.”
Every hardworking, laughter-filled, desire-inducing day with Mitch over the past couple of weeks at Hart’s Hollow had been wonderful. Better than she’d imagined, even.
So much so, it felt like—
“Oh, gag a maggot.”
Mitch’s head stopped its descent to hers. His lips twitched as he cut his eyes in Dylan’s direction.
“Y’all aren’t over there kissing, are you?” Dylan walked toward them, broom thumping against the porch floor along the way, and stared down at them. A disgusted expression crossed his face, but there was a happy—almost hopeful—light in his eyes. “You said we’re supposed to be working. You’re s’posed to be painting the rails, and me and Zach are s’posed to be sweeping.”
Mitch sighed, murmuring, “So much for stealing a romantic moment.” He stood. “We weren’t kissing, Dylan,” he said, winking down at her. “We were discussing something important.”