Instead—for the moment, at least—he rested his hands on the counter’s edge, too, outside hers, near but not touching.
He had to give her credit. She didn’t tremble or quake. On the other hand, it didn’t appear she could take a deep breath to save her life. Still, she bluffed it out, raised her head, straightened her shoulders—and leaned back an inch or two away from him. “What are you afraid of?”
You. Me. Doing this. Not doing this. He drew a breath that smelled of faint perfume, sunshine, and shampoo, and wished he hadn’t. Who needed air? “You’re the one who insists I’m afraid. You tell me.”
“I think—” She gulped in a breath. “I think this conversation should have ended a few comments ago. I think it’s time for me to pick up Micahlyn at day care. And I think—”
He silenced her with one finger across her mouth, centered over her cupid’s bow. Her lips were soft, full, free of lipstick, dotted by that single freckle. “You think too much.”
That was his cue to kiss her. God knew, he wanted to. If he thought about it, he could count back to the last time, more than three years ago, he’d kissed a woman—Fiona. Later that same day, Massachusetts State Police officers had taken him from his office in handcuffs, and he’d very slowly begun to realize how deeply someone had betrayed him.
It hadn’t been one of his better days . . . though there had been worse.
But that was in the past. He and Nolie were right here. All he had to do was lean forward six, no more than eight, inches. Replace his finger with his mouth. Maybe coax her just a little, but not much, he was sure. Just do it.
The last woman he’d kissed had been his wife. Was he ready to make Nolie the next one?
The answer came as, slowly, he let his finger slide away from her lips and willed himself to back off. Just as slowly his body obeyed the command, taking two steps back before turning away.
Not before he saw the regret flash in her eyes.
Not before he felt it way down deep in his gut.
As he returned to safety on the opposite side of the counter, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, tugged at her shirt, then turned her back to him to open the cabinet door. “Do you want to stay for dinner?” Her voice was unsteady, and so were her hands as she began taking dishes from the cabinet.
Did he want to stay? He was hungry, sure, but he had food at his house—not just frozen dinners, but real food that he could add to boxed mixes to make an honest-to-God meal. Or he could drive to Howland for a greasy burger and fries or a steak with all the trimmings. Hell, he could even order a pizza from the delivery place in town. Pizza delivery drivers tended to be kids, and since he’d been gone from Bethlehem sixteen years, odds that he would know any of them were slim.
But whether he wanted to stay had everything to do with hunger of one kind or another and nothing at all to do with food. For that reason alone, he should politely turn her down.
He didn’t.
“Okay.” He heard the uncertainty in that single word, and wondered if she did. It was hard to tell, with her back still to him.
“Good. By the time I pick up Micahlyn at day care, the pot roast should be done.” She set a stack of dishes on the counter, placing three dinner plates near him and sliding a serving platter closer to the stove. “Would you mind staying here while I run into town, to make sure it doesn’t burn?”
He looked from her to the pot, steam escaping in a thin column from the loose-fitting lid. “What does that involve?”
“Just check it every so often to make sure it doesn’t boil dry.”
He nodded. He could do that.
“Also . . .” She set a container of chocolate frosting and a packet of chopped walnuts in front of him. “Could you frost the brownies when they’re cool and sprinkle these nuts over them? All you do is stir the frosting, then spread it smoothly across the top with this.”
He accepted the utensil she offered—what looked like a wide, flat knife with a rounded edge instead of a point. “I’m not totally useless. I used to watch my mother frost cakes so I could have first choice between the bowl and this spatula thing.”
“So you’re not an only child.”
Chase kept his expression blank. “What makes you think that?”
“If you got first choice, then you needed someone to get second. Like a brother or a sister.”
“Or a cousin or a friend or a mother with a sweet tooth.”
Her mouth thinning, she gave a shake of her head as she started for the living room. “I’ll be back soon.”
He walked as far as the doorway between living room and dining room and watched her go, not the least bit hesitant about leaving him alone in her house. He wouldn’t feel so comfortable if the situation were reversed. Of course, there were things in his cabin he didn’t want anyone to see, bad reminders that he should have thrown away long ago, but kept to remind him of the lessons he’d learned. Don’t get involved, don’t trust anyone, and never, ever forget.
But Nolie wasn’t the sort of woman for secrets. The fact that her name was Magnolia was probably her most closely guarded secret. She had nothing to hide.
Too restless to sit, he walked through the first floor of the cabin—pantry, laundry room, and bathroom off the kitchen, dining room, living room, and, through a door at the foot of the stairs, her great-grandfather’s office. The room was small, dark, and stank of cigars and old papers.
As he set one foot on the first step, he hesitated. Likely all that was upstairs was bedrooms and another bathroom. He didn’t care where Micahlyn slept, and he didn’t need to see where Nolie slept. Better he should just get comfortable on the couch with a book or watch television while he waited.
But instead of turning away, he climbed to the next step, then the next, all the way to the top. The kid’s bedroom was to the left, with a twin-sized bed made up in pink-and-white, pink curtains at the windows, and enough toys to stock a small Toys Us. The first door to the right led into a bathroom, overly large and boxy, with fittings—clawfoot tub and shower, pedestal sink with porcelain knobs, metal medicine chest with hazy mirror— that appeared original to the house.
Nolie’s room was at the end of the hall. Feeling guilty, he didn’t set foot inside, but he didn’t have to. He could see everything he needed—or didn’t need—to see from the open doorway. The furniture, he assumed, was old Hiram’s, acquired at a time when he wasn’t so miserly. The double bed, dresser, and tall chest were all made of oak, sturdy pieces that would last forever. There was a night table on one side of the bed—presumably the side Nolie slept on— a round table topped with a ruffled skirt that matched the curtains. It held a small beaded and fringed lamp not much better for illumination than a night-light, a telephone, and a book. On the other side of the bed, a wooden rocker that had seen better days was backed into a corner.
It was a far cry from fancy. The walls, a dirty, vaguely white shade, needed painting, and the wood floor, once painted brown, needed stripping. There was a water stain in one corner of the ceiling, and the closet door, too tall for the opening, had gouged a semi-arc across the floor.
But it looked comfortable. The pastel curtains and tablecloth were fresh and starched, and the pale green sheets helped lighten the room. A half-dozen pillows in pastels and white lace were piled against the oak headboard, and a quilt, in similar colors, was folded across the foot of the bed. It seemed a good place to retreat to at the end of the day.
A good place to spend the better part of the day . . . with the right companion.
Because he was tempted to step inside, he forced himself to go back down the hall and downstairs. He checked on dinner, then frosted the brownies and put them in the refrigerator, then sat down on the sofa to wait with one of Nolie’s books.
It was open in his lap when he heard her car approaching, though he couldn’t remember a word he’d read. Forgetting it, he watched out the window as she parked. When she got out of the car, she stood there a moment, sunlight gleaming on her hai
r, her skin as pale and fine as any he’d ever seen, her smile as warm. Then she started toward the house, moving out of sight, and he realized he’d forgotten to breathe.
The kid burst through the door first, full of energy, and skidded to a stop the instant she saw him. He steeled himself for one of her piercing screams, but instead she slowly backed away, never taking her gaze off him, even though she directed her words outside to her mother. “Mama,” she said in a loud whisper. “That man is here. In our house. I think he breaked in.”
Nolie came through the door, purse in one hand and a bakery bag in the other. “Why would he break in, babe? All the windows and doors are open.”
“So why’s he here?”
“He’s having dinner with us, and he stayed to make sure it didn’t burn while I was gone to get you.” Nolie shifted her attention to him. “It didn’t, did it?”
“No. I told you, I’m not completely useless.”
She tossed her purse on a chair, then went into the kitchen, the smell of fresh-baked bread following. It was enough to make Chase’s mouth water. At least, he was pretty sure it was the bread.
He remained where he was, and so did Micahlyn. After a long moment, her gaze finally shifted from him to the package on the coffee table. “Mama, what’s that box?”
“I don’t know,” Nolie called. “It’s for you from your grandparents.”
A gleam of excitement lit Micahlyn’s eyes, tempered by caution. Like any kid, she obviously liked presents. She just wasn’t sure she liked them enough to get that close to him, Chase realized.
The adult thing to do would be to move—go into the kitchen, give her plenty of room to open her gift. He didn’t. If they were going to spend time in the same room, she had to quit acting as if he was some sort of . . . well, bogeyman.
Twisting her fingers restlessly in the hair of the doll she carried, she shuffled a few steps sideways, then stopped to look from him to the box, then back again. A few more steps, another measuring look, again and again until the package was almost within her reach. Darting forward, she grabbed it, clutched it to her chest, then raced for the kitchen.
The sound of tape ripping was followed by the crinkle of paper, then a shriek. “Look, Mama! Look what Grandma and Grandpa got me! Isn’t she beautiful?”
Chase looked over his shoulder as Nolie crossed to the table, where Micahlyn was holding up a boxed doll. A muscle in Nolie’s jaw tightened, and her tone was less than approving as she replied, “Yes, honey, she’s beautiful. You know, though, she’s not the kind of doll you play with.”
“Of course you do, Mama. Jus’ carefully. Grandma said. I’m gonna take her upstairs and show her to the others.”
As Micahlyn ran off, Nolie grimly shook her head. Chase took the kid’s absence as an opportunity to go into the kitchen. “What’s the problem with the doll?”
“It’s a porcelain collectible that costs about two hundred dollars,” she said heatedly as she dumped the contents of the bakery bag—warm buns—into a napkin-lined basket. “It’s not an appropriate gift for a five-year-old—not for her birthday or Christmas, and certainly not for no reason at all.”
Besides buying her affection, Chase thought. Or getting under her mother’s skin.
She slid the basket to the edge of the counter, where a dish of butter and a bottle of ketchup sat. He moved all three to the middle of the table, then removed the packaging from the doll’s box. As he picked up the tissue paper, a piece of paper with a photograph attached fell out. “She missed something,” he said, laying it on the counter.
Nolie’s jaw tightened even more as she read the handwritten note, then looked at the picture. “Damn it,” she whispered. “Just when she’s finally settling in here, they do this.”
Without asking permission, Chase picked up the note again. The photograph was taken in, presumably, the Harpers’ backyard. Off in the distance was a barn and several outbuildings, with acres of something green stretching off in all directions. The focus, though, was on an elaborate playground setup—swing, jungle gym, slide, teeter-totter, and fort, all connected by tunnels, bridges, or stairs.
Hey, Mikey, the note read. Look what Grandpa built for you. The sooner your mother brings you home, where you belong, the sooner you can play on it. Isn’t it great? Love, Grandma.
Marlene Harper’s brand of love was the kind that turned otherwise normal families dysfunctional. What kind of grandparent would manipulate her only grandchild that way?
“Why don’t you talk to her?” he asked as he picked up the silverware and napkins that had appeared on the counter while he was preoccupied with the note.
Nolie snorted. “Lately I try to avoid talking to Marlene as much as I can.”
He didn’t blame her. He hadn’t spoken to his mother in six years, or to his father in sixteen. But he wasn’t trying to maintain some sort of relationship between either of them and their grandchild. If he and Fiona had had children— something she’d always said she wanted as much as he did, but somehow the time had never been right—they would have to have been satisfied with the Kelly relatives for their only family. He wouldn’t even have been inclined to let them meet his sister, not after she’d sided against him with their parents.
But Nolie was different. She thought family was important. More than that, he suspected she felt she owed it to Jeff to get along the best she could with his parents or, failing that, to see that Micahlyn had a good relationship with them.
“When Marlene called this afternoon, our conversation lasted less than six, seven minutes. In that time, she accused me of putting Micahlyn in day care so I could watch soap operas all day; she reminded me that she, Obie, and Jeff have supported me since my parents died; she called me a liar; and she criticized me for letting you come over.” She stepped into the doorway and shouted, “Micahlyn, dinner’s ready!”
“She was always smothering and overly critical,” she went on, “but ever since I told her we were moving here, we can’t carry on a conversation anymore. In her eyes, I’ve turned into this selfish, ungrateful, disloyal creature who’s stolen all that’s left of Jeff from her. She’s not interested in anything I have to say if it doesn’t include ‘We’re moving back to Whiskey Creek.’ ”
“Then have a lawyer talk to her.”
She stopped in the act of setting the serving platter on the table and stared at him.
“Grandparents have some rights.” He sounded impatient, and made an effort to neutralize it. “But the bottom line is, you’re Micahlyn’s mother and legal guardian. You’re responsible for raising her, for all the decisions affecting her, and they’re interfering with that. Ask Alex Thomas to write them a letter stating that there are stipulations to their continued access to their granddaughter. Trust me, Thomas will be so reasonable and pleasant that they’ll think it was their own idea.”
Nolie snorted again. “You don’t know Marlene . . . though it sounds as if you do know Alex Thomas.”
“I already told you I don’t.” Had already lied to her. Shrugging as if that fact didn’t bother him, he pulled out the chair where he’d sat last Friday, waited for her to sit on his left, then sat down. “Take my advice or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me. You’re the one who has to deal with them.”
He was out of the family-dealing business, and the problem-solving business.
Forever.
Chapter Seven
WHEN SATURDAY ROLLED AROUND, NOLIE was prepared for a slow start to business. Even with the ad in the local paper, she fig-ured it would take a week, maybe even longer, for Hiram’s customers to come back. But when she got to the store at 7:45 that morning, not only was Trey Grayson waiting for her, so were a half-dozen customers.
That was just the start of a steady stream. She met more people than she could remember, both serious customers and the friendly sort who stopped in to support a new business and meet a new neighbor. By the time she turned over the Closed sign at six P.M., her face was aching from so much smiling, almost as
much as her feet did from long hours on hard concrete. When she finished balancing the cash register, she tucked the day’s deposit into a bank bag, then watched as Trey finished sweeping up.
“We didn’t discuss salary.” She named an amount. “Does that seem fair?”
His first response was a grin. “You bet. Want me to come in Monday after school?”
“That would be great.”
After he’d returned the broom to the back room, Nolie switched off most of the lights, then walked to the door with him. “You have plans for this evening?”
“Some of us are going to Howland to dinner, a movie, maybe play a little pool. What about you?”
“I’m putting my feet up on something soft and letting Micahlyn wait on me. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Huh. You’re not that much older than me.” After she locked the door, he gestured overhead. “Who changed the sign, and when? It didn’t say that when I got here this morning.”
She looked up, too, and her gaze fixed on the banner. The red-and-gold color scheme was the same, but now, instead of REOPENING SOON, it read OPEN FOR BUSINESS. “I don’t— There must—” She sighed. “I don’t even know where those signs came from. I thought Gloria and Sophy had someone put the first one up as sort of a welcome gift, but . . .”
“Who are Gloria and Sophy?”
“The two women who cleaned the store so I could get it painted. They’ve lived here a long time. They even knew Hiram. Gloria works at Angel Wings Day Care, and Sophy . . . heavens, she can’t be more than a few years older than you. You must know them.”
He shook his head. “Never heard of either one.”
That wasn’t so strange, Nolie told herself. He was a teenage boy, and usually a teenage boy’s biggest interests were sports and teenage girls. “Well, have a good time this evening, and be careful.”
“Yeah, you, too.”
Trey was gone and Nolie was backing out of her parking space when the beeping of a horn caught her attention. She stopped, and the red SUV pulled up beside her, with Leanne Wilson behind the wheel. “Hey, sorry I didn’t make it for the grand reopening, but I got tied up at the shop. How did it go?”
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