Yuletide Hearts

by Ruth Logan Herne

  The woman and the kid probably hated him for who he was and what he’d done. On top of that, they appeared to live across the street from where he would take over Hank’s dream because he was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.

  The hinted headache surged into full-blown reality, a niggling condition spawned from a really nasty concussion while fighting in Iraq, a grenade explosion too close for comfort. But if occasional bad headaches were his worst complaint after a double tour in the desert, he really had no complaints at all.

  Dad’s dream is gone.

  Callie steered the car into the drive, angled it between the catalpa tree and Tom Baldwin’s classic Chevy, then headed inside, determined to put on a happy face despite what just happened. The smell of Dad’s stew reminded her of how often her father had been there for her, supportive, honest, caring and nonjudgmental.

  Returning that respect was imperative now.

  The men trooped in, their footsteps heavy on the back porch. Callie pulled out a loaf of fresh-baked Vienna bread crusted with sesame seeds, placed it on the table and settled a plate of soft butter next to the bread, her mama’s custom because cold butter seemed downright unfriendly.

  Right now a part of Callie felt unfriendly, but not to Dad and the guys. Or Jake, her beautiful son, her one gift from a sorry attempt at marriage to a fellow soldier.

  Hank dropped a hand to her shoulder. She looked up, sheepish, knowing he’d see through her thin attempt at normalcy. “It’s okay, Cal. He’s young. Looks competent. And he must have the numbers behind him because the bank signed off. Those homes need someone now, not next spring when things might look better for us.”

  He was right, she knew that; she’d been handling his books for three years, and truth be told she did as well with a nail gun as she had with an M-16 and a computer spreadsheet, but—

  “The important thing now is to save the houses. I’m hoping Matt Cavanaugh and his crew can do that.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  Hank had personally planned that subdivision to honor her mother, the name reminiscent of her mother’s childhood home along the shores of Lake Ontario, the quaint family cobblestone a salute to artisans of old. Hank had been determined to carry that classic neighborhood warmth throughout Cobbled Creek, his plans lying open on a slant board he’d erected at the back of the family room. He didn’t glance their way now, and neither did she, the thoughts of all that time, effort and money gone in the blink of an eye, a slash of a pen.

  Hank lifted the stew pot onto the center of the table. Tom and Buck grabbed bowls, napkins and utensils, the old-timers a steady presence at the Marek homestead. Jake put The General on the back porch and shut the door. He ignored the dog’s imploring whine and triple tail thump, a sure sign The General would rather be curled up on the braid rug alongside the coming fire, but the smell of wet dog didn’t rank high on Callie’s list.

  An engine noise drew her attention to the north-facing kitchen window.

  Matt Cavanaugh’s black truck sat poised at the end of Cobbled Creek Lane. Sheeting rain obscured her vision, but something about the truck’s stance, strong yet careful, imposing yet restrained, reminded her of the man within, his shoulders-back, jaw-tight stance just rugged enough to say he got things done. His dark brown eyes beneath short, black hair hinted Asian or Latino, maybe both, his look a mix that defied the Celtic last name. She’d faced him almost eye-to-eye in three-inch heels which put him around five-eleven, not crazy tall, but with shoulders broad enough to handle whatever came his way.

  She refused to cry, despite the disappointment welling inside. Stoic to the end, she’d been practicing that routine for years now.

  Too long, actually, don’t you think?

  Callie pushed the internal caution aside. Survivors survived because they manned up, took the shot and stood their ground. Four years in the military taught her how to draw down the mask, put on the face, pretend disinterest as needed.

  “Great bread, honey. Thanks for picking it up.”

  Callie turned, flashed the men a smile, laid a gentle hand on Jake’s shoulder and nodded. “You know I’ll do anything to keep you boys happy. Any word on when this storm’s going to let up?”

  Jake took her lead, such a good boy, so much like his grandpa. “Supposed to be nice tomorrow, Mom.”

  “Perfect.” She smiled, ruffled his hair and sank into a seat alongside him. “We’ve got to finish the front of the house while we can, get it cleaned up so we can decorate for Christmas. We’ll save cleaning the gutters—”

  “Again?”

  Callie sent Jake a “get serious” look and nodded. “Yes, again, they’re filled with leaves and maple spinners. You know we can’t leave them like that for winter.”

  “We don’t want ice damming that porch roof again,” interjected Hank.

  Tom took up the thread, his face saying he’d play along, pretend everything was all right. “I remember Callie up on that roof last winter, luggin’ that smaller chain saw, cutting through the ice.”

  “Bad combination of events, all around,” agreed Buck. “To get that much snow, then warm up just enough to get a quarter inch of ice. Rough circumstances.”

  “But nothing we couldn’t handle,” Callie reminded them all. She’d used the short chain saw to hack through the pileup, pretending she didn’t recognize the risk of being on a roof bearing thousands of pounds of unwanted ice, chain saw in hand. The roof’s shallow slope helped steady her, but that flattened slope caused the initial problem, the lack of height allowing snow to gather and drift beneath the second-story windows.

  “Exactly why we used steeper roof pitches on the subdivision,” Hank reminded them. His expression said he was determined to face this new development like he handled life, head-on. “Quick water shed is crucial in a climate like ours.”

  “It is, Dad.”

  “Right, Grandpa.”

  Mouths full, Buck and Tom nodded agreement, pretending all was well, but Hank’s old buddies were no fools. Faced with the new realization that Hank’s dream was in someone else’s hands just beyond the big front window, Callie was pretty sure that nothing would ever be all right again.

  Chapter Two

  “What do you mean you’ve got no crew?” Matt asked his roofing subcontractor the next morning. “I can’t do a thing until we get these places under cover with good roofs. We’ve got water-damaged plywood to replace, it’s November and I need the crew you promised today. Not next April.”

  Jim Slaughter, the owner/manager of Slaughter Roofing and Siding sighed. “I’m tapped out, Matt. Fewer housing starts and reroofs. I’m filing for bankruptcy restructuring and hoping I can keep my house so we’re not tossed out on the street. I had to let the guys go.”

  Matt’s marine training didn’t allow temper tantrums or bad vibes, even though he was tempted. “Who else might be available?”

  Jim went silent, then offered, “You’ve got the Marek family right there, and Hank is friends with Buck Peters. They’ve all done roofing.”

  Ask the guy whose dream got yanked out from under him to finish that dream for someone else? Matt didn’t have the callousness to do that.

  Did he?

  Matt eyed the farmhouse across the way. A ladder leaned up against the front. While he watched, the woman came out of the house with a bucket. She climbed the ladder, the unwieldy bucket listing her to the right until she settled it on the ladder hook. She pulled out a large green scrubbie and began washing the faded paint systematically, until she’d extended as far as she could, then she climbed down, shifted the bucket and the ladder and repeated the process despite the cold day.

  A scaffolding would be so much easier. A power washer? Better yet.

  He clenched his jaw and shook his head internally. “Another option. Please.”

  “I’ve got nothing. Literally. There aren’t a lot of roofing contractors close by and making time for your job would be hard with a clear schedule. Fo
r anyone with jobs lined up, getting yours in would be next to impossible and a lot of people let their crews go from November to March because of the holidays and the weather. I was hoping to hold out, but the closing took too long.”

  It had, through no fault of Matt’s. Bankers didn’t comprehend weather-related restrictions and rushed work meant shoddy work.

  Matt didn’t do shoddy. Ever. He inhaled, eyed the house across the street and released the breath slowly. “If I get help, can you crew with them?”

  “If it means fighting my way out of this financial mess, I’ll work night and day,” Jim promised.

  “Can we use your equipment?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Matt made several futile phone calls, carefully avoiding people who wouldn’t give him the time of day for good, if old, reasons. And while plenty of construction workers were laid off, most had left the area, unable to survive on nonexistent funds. Half the remaining subcontractors were the type Matt wouldn’t trust with his hammer, much less his livelihood, and the others were too busy to take on a huge project like Cobbled Creek.

  Matt eyed the Marek place again and squared his shoulders, determined to find another way. He took two steps toward his truck, then gave himself a mental slap upside the head.

  Jim made two very important points earlier. Was Matt willing to risk his investment on the possibility of bad workmanship?

  No. His intent was to implement the appealing design plan that drew him initially. Of course it was less than beautiful now, and that had steered other developers clear. But Matt saw the potential and was determined to watch this pretty neighborhood spring to life under his guidance.

  But rot problems would continue if the homes sat unroofed for another winter, and in the Allegheny foothills, rough weather came with a vengeance. He could complete inside work between now and spring, but outside endeavors were dictated by conditions. Lost time meant lost money, an unaffordable scenario to a guy who’d just invested a boatload of his and Grandpa’s money into this venture.

  He pivoted, then headed across the front field, his gaze trained on the house facing him, uncertainty and determination warring within.

  Callie strode into the house after her lunchtime waitressing stint and came to an abrupt halt when she saw Matt Cavanaugh seated at their kitchen table, sipping coffee like he was an old friend. A heart-stopping, good-looking old friend.

  Except he wasn’t.

  “Callie, Matt needs some help.”

  Callie bit back a retort, trying to separate the tough-as-nails guy before her from the situation that wrested her father’s dream out of his hands.

  Nope. Couldn’t do it.

  She moved past the table, set a couple of plastic grocery bags on the counter and headed for the stairs. “I’ll leave you men to your discussion.”

  “It’s a family decision, Cal.”

  Callie swallowed a sigh, one hand on the baluster, her feet paused, mid-step, then she shielded her emotions and faced them, albeit slowly. “About?”

  “I need a work crew for roofing,” Matt explained. His deep voice kept the matter straightforward and almost a hint detached, as if this wasn’t about as insulting as life could get because he was talking about roofing their homes, their dreams, their project. “Jim Slaughter’s run into bad times, he had to let his crew go and you guys know how crucial it is to get these houses roofed.”

  Hank nodded. “It broke my heart to see them sitting unprotected. Uncovered.”

  Callie knew that truth firsthand; she’d lived, breathed and witnessed her father’s depression. His Crohn’s disease had contributed to the ruination of what could have been a beautiful dream, a feather in his cap. She’d prayed, promised, cajoled and bullied God and this…

  She swallowed a sigh, eyeing Matt, trying to look beyond the tough-guy good looks, the steel gaze, the take-charge attitude so necessary in a good contractor.

  But right now this man represented their failure through no fault of his own other than being fiscally sound at the right time. While she couldn’t hate him for that, a part of her resented his success in light of her father’s failure.

  A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.

  Churchill’s quote stuck in her craw. She crossed the room, poured a cup of coffee, moved back to the table, sat and eyed the two men. “I’m listening.”

  “Matt’s offered some good money if we can crew alongside Jim Slaughter while his business is restructured.”

  So Jim’s company had succumbed as well, and he had a nice, hardworking wife and two kids. Callie choked down a sigh. “Good money as in?” She turned Matt’s way, keeping her affect flat, her gaze calm. Extra money was worth getting excited about for a combination of reasons, but taking it from the victor who now owned the spoils?

  That cut. Nevertheless, her twenty-five hours of waitressing offered small monetary respite, not nearly enough to get by on, and she’d crewed for her father and his construction friends for years after leaving the military.

  Matt’s calm expression went straight to surprise. “You crew?”

  And there it was, old feelings rubbed raw, his look reminding her of her ex-husband’s disdain, how Dustin found her unfeminine and unappealing. She met his gaze straight on. “Yes.”

  The bare-bulb wattage of his grin should have come with a warning label. Sparks of awareness flickered beneath her heart, but she’d served in the military for four years and good-looking smiles had been a dime a dozen. But something about his…

  “Well, that’s an unexpected bonus.”

  When she frowned, he explained, “Numbers-wise. I knew your father was experienced, and his friend Buck, but to have a third person.” He raised his shoulders in a half shrug. “That’s clutch in roofing. And Jim Slaughter will help, too, so that makes five of us.”

  “Six, actually.”

  Matt turned back toward Hank.

  “Tom Baldwin might be on in years, but he’s a solid roofer. I know that firsthand.”

  “Excellent.” Matt swept Callie another quick smile, just quick enough to make her want to shift forward.

  Therefore she pulled back. “Except I haven’t said yes.”

  “That’s true.” Matt stood, his shoulders filling the tan T-shirt beneath a frayed brown-plaid hooded flannel, the plain clothes adding to his hard-edged charm. “Here’s my number.” He handed her a business card, reached across and shook her father’s hand, his frank gaze understanding. “Can you let me know by tonight?”

  “Of course.” Hank stood and walked Matt outside. “Let me talk to Buck and see if he’s available. Tom, too.”

  “And, sir…” Matt hesitated, then turned, his eyes sweeping Hank, then the subdivision across the road. “I know this is difficult,” he began.

  Hank cut him off. “Things happen for a reason, son. Always did, always will. I can’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed by my run of bad luck, especially because it affected more than me.”

  Callie knew he’d shifted his gaze her way, but she kept her eyes down, not ready to rush this decision, although seeing Matt’s grin on a regular basis wouldn’t be a hardship. No, she’d definitely go to delightful. Maybe even delicious. But seriously off limits.

  Like you’re all that much to look at in hoodies and jeans with a tool belt strapped around your waist? Step back into reality, honey. Been there, done that. Bad ending all around.

  “But I’ve wound ’round God’s paths all my life,” Hank went on, “the ups and downs, the back-and-forths, and we’ve always come out okay in the end.”

  “Good philosophy,” Matt noted. He moved across the side porch, then down the steps. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  “I’ll call,” Hank promised.

  Callie stared at her coffee, not wanting it, not wanting to be broke, not wanting to work for the attractive guy across the street who seemed bent on getting them involved in his success while facing their loss.
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  “It’s a good opportunity, Cal.” Hank laid a hand on her shoulder, his gentle grip understanding.

  “The location’s convenient.”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed and stared out the window, seeing nothing. “And the money’s good.”

  “And welcome.”

  “I’ll say.” She paused, drummed her fingers along the table top, then slanted her eyes to his. “I know we have to say yes, Dad.”

  He winced, then shrugged, understanding her mixed feelings.

  “But I have to recount the reasons why before I do it.”

  “Like bills to pay?”

  “For one.” She nodded toward the school bus lumbering down the road. “I spent my Christmas budget on school clothes and supplies for Jake. He grew so much this summer that nothing fit, so I had to totally re-outfit him.”

  “And my little stash went toward truck engine repairs.”

  Two relatively minor things had dissolved their meager savings. Callie hated that, but then gave herself an internal smack upside the head.

  Jake was strong, healthy and athletic, a good boy who loved traipsing off to a fishing hole, who behaved himself in school and accepted the necessary extra tutoring with little argument. He knew his way around a hammer and saw, a Marek trait tried and true, and wasn’t afraid to don a hard hat and be a crew gopher.

  Her father’s health had returned with his colostomy, and if he continued to do well, they’d be able to reverse the procedure mid-winter. And while his appetite waned occasionally, she couldn’t deny that good old-fashioned hard work was the best appetite builder known to man, and that getting back to work was in her father’s long-term best interest.

  The General dashed off the porch to greet Jake, his fur blending to grays in pursuit, the flash of white tail fringe the kind of welcome any boy would love.

  “But the needy will not always be forgotten, nor the hope of the afflicted ever perish.”

  The words of the ninth Psalm flooded her, their comfort magnified in simplicity.