For Love of Eli: Quilts of Love Series

by Loree Lough

  Besides, anybody could see how happy and well-adjusted he was, and Reece knew that Taylor was largely responsible for that. A decent man would thank her, but when it came to matters involving Taylor Bradley, Reece felt anything but decent.

  Take now, for example, as ire built inside him, watching Taylor lean against the sink, one sneakered foot crossed over the other and frowning at the screen of her iPhone. If he lived to be a hundred, Reece would never figure out why some people couldn’t seem to get ten feet from the devices without going into detox. If he didn’t make tracks, he might just be tempted to say so, out loud.

  “Ready, Eli?”

  “Yup! Are we goin’ to the diner, like you said on the phone the other day?”

  “Yup.”

  “And then to the movies?”

  He opened his mouth to say, You bet we are! when Taylor looked up from her phone.

  “You’re in luck, boys!” She tapped the phone’s screen. “I just checked, and that movie you wanted to see is playing tonight. Seven-fifteen. So there’s time for Mile-High Meatloaf before the show starts.”

  “You mean the movie about the dolphin?”

  She put her phone on the counter and clapped her hands. “One and the same!”

  “Way cool!” Eli said.

  Then he grabbed Reece’s hand. He grabbed Taylor’s, too, and as Eli walked between them into the foyer, Reece felt like a heel for lumping her in with every other cell phone addict out there.

  Crouching, she held Eli’s face in her hands. “Have a great time,” she said, kissing his forehead, “and I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  She didn’t remind Eli to brush his teeth and take his vitamins. Didn’t tell him to get to bed on time or zip his jacket if he went outside, the way his buddies claimed their exes did. Taylor’s behavior wasn’t anything new; he’d witnessed this cheery demeanor every other Friday. Her relaxed behavior and positive words told Eli that not only was he in good hands with his uncle, but that she would be fine while he was gone. It told Reece something, too: if his buddies had exes like Taylor, they probably wouldn’t be exes.

  He realized that Eli had been watching him and Taylor. Left brow up and right eye narrowed, the better word was scrutinizing. Grinning, Reece thought, oh, to know what was going on in that remarkable little brain. He didn’t have to wonder long, because Eli chose that moment to slap a palm over his eyes. “Oh, good grief. If you’re gonna kiss her, just get it over with, will ya please?”

  Taylor’s rasping gasp echoed loud in the big foyer. She looked sweeter and prettier—if that was possible—blushing like a schoolgirl as one hand shaded her eyes. Reece felt obliged to get her off the hook. Putting both hands on Eli’s shoulders, he turned him toward the front door. “Grab your backpack, little nut, and let’s get a move on.” But even as he said it, Reece knew that his words got him off the hook, too, because for a weird minute there, the kid’s suggestion sounded mighty tempting.

  Without skipping a beat, Eli asked permission to bring his ninja soldiers. “I know right where they are,” he said, looking up at Reece. “It won’t take me long to get them. And they’re little, so they’ll fit in my bag, no problem.”

  Reece looked to Taylor for guidance on that one because she’d bought the toy soldiers.

  “Of course you can bring them, if—”

  Eli was halfway up the stairs before she finished with “if it’s all right with your uncle.” Then she laughed, making Reece wonder why he’d never noticed before how much music there was in every sound that passed her lovely lips.

  “I hope he doesn’t bring them all,” she said, “because he has dozens of those crazy things.”

  Reece pictured the overflowing toy box in his family room, and the one just like it up in Eli’s room. “And dinosaurs.”

  She nodded. “And Hot Wheels.”

  “Right, they’re everywhere.” He chuckled. “Like crayons.”

  “Oh, no kidding! I mean, seriously, does Crayola intend to replicate every color in the entire world?”

  “Sure seems that way, doesn’t it? And if they do, no doubt Eli will want every shade.”

  Small talk. Usually, he did his best to avoid it. Today? Reece didn’t know what to make of the fact that he was actually enjoying it.

  Two ninjas tumbled down the stairs, and right behind them, a fat red crayon that stopped rolling when it bumped into the baseboard, right where the sewing basket had sat, earlier. He remembered thinking that it looked a lot like the one his grandmother used to keep in her spare bedroom, right down to the little wooden balls that served as feet.

  “Looks like our boy is conducting a search-and-rescue mission up there,” Taylor said, rescuing the toys.

  Our boy. It surprised him a little, but Reece liked the sound of that. “You’d think there was a herd of elephants up there instead of one small boy,” he said with a glance at the ceiling.

  “Makes you wonder about the guy who coined the phrase ‘pitter-patter of little feet.’ ”

  He laughed. “Yeah. If he’d ever met a real live kid, he’d know it’s more like drumbeats.”

  “Or the thunder of horses’ hooves.”

  They were laughing when Eli raced down the stairs and stood between them, clutching half a dozen ninjas and a handful of crayons to his chest. “What’s so funny?” he asked, looking from Reece to Taylor and back again.

  “Well, first of all,” Taylor began, touching a fingertip to Eli’s nose, “how many times have I asked you not to run in the house?”

  Shoulders slumped, he exhaled a heavy sigh. “About a hundred thousand million.”

  Squatting, Reece said, “A hundred thousand million, eh? That’s a lot of times.” Winking, he gently chucked the boy’s chin. “So how ’bout if we quit running indoors, then, ’cause it’d be a shame for that number to reach a hundred thousand million and one.”

  Grinning, Eli said okay and stuffed the toys into his backpack. When he finished, he slung the bag over one shoulder. “So where’s your sewing kit?”

  “Upstairs, where it belongs,” she said, blushing and looking a bit like a kid, caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

  “You gonna hem my new jeans while I’m gone?”

  “Maybe …”

  A long-suffering groan escaped Eli’s lungs. “Now what?”

  Taylor hugged him again, longer and tighter this time. “Well, I’m sure your uncle has a mountain of toys for you over at his place. Those crayons will probably only get broken in that overstuffed bag of yours. Or lost on the floor of his car, where they’ll melt in the hot sun and mess up his mats.”

  “Good point.” He found as many as he could and dropped them into the cup Taylor made of her upturned palms. “See you Sunday,” he said, popping a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t poke yourself with a needle or anything, ’k?”

  She followed them onto the porch and promised to be careful.

  And something told Reece that he’d see her lopsided grin and that goofy crayon-fisted goodbye wave in his dreams.

  3

  Friday night blues?”

  Squinting, Taylor threaded the needle. Maybe feigned concentration would convince her friend and neighbor that she didn’t miss Eli like crazy. “I think you’re confused. Wasn’t that movie title Friday Night Lights?”

  Tootie helped herself to a chocolate chip cookie. “Neatly sidestepped, girlfriend. But you know what they say: you can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can never fool an old friend.”

  Taylor smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I wonder what Mr. Lincoln would say about the way you just tweaked his quote.”

  “Hmpf,” Tootie said, pushing back from the table. She poured herself a cup of tea, then fixed one for Taylor. On her way back to her chair, she peeked over Taylor’s shoulder. “Wow. That’s some quilt. Making it for the church raffle?”

  “No, my mother started it as a birthday present for me. I found it in an old trunk this morning.” Tootie knew the story only too w
ell; hopefully, she’d let the “old trunk” line pass. But just in case, Taylor quickly added “I thought maybe I’d finish it for Eli. But not a word about it to him, you hear, because it’s a secret.”

  “Birthday present, huh?” She grabbed two packets of sweetener from the bowl in the center of the table.

  The month of May was more than half over already, and he’d turn five on the Fourth of July. “No, I don’t see how I could possibly get it finished by then.”

  Nodding, Tootie dumped the sweetener into her mug. “Interesting pattern,” she said, leaning forward, “but you know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.” Her spoon clinked a dozen times as she stirred her tea. “What’s it called?”

  Taylor had made every quilt in the guest rooms, but none would have won county fair blue ribbons, the way Tootie’s had. “I’m sort of making it up as I go along.” She shrugged. “Got the idea in the attic this morning. I thought maybe I’d call it a mem—”

  “Whoa. You? In the attic?”

  Shortly after moving into the place she’d inherited from her grandparents, Taylor had given Tootie permission to snoop around in the turret, alone. Though she hadn’t pressed it when Taylor flatly refused to go up there, Tootie had looked exactly as she did now: brown eyes wide with stunned disbelief.

  “You wouldn’t kid a kidder, would you?”

  “Eli sorta talked me into it.”

  “Well, God bless all the li’l chil’ren.”

  Taylor chose to ignore Tootie’s sarcasm. It wasn’t her fault, after all, that Taylor couldn’t explain her aversion to the place and everything in it. “While he hunted for lost treasure, I finally opened the hope chest—”

  Tootie propped both elbows on the table. “Do tell.”

  “—and I found a box, hidden under a bunch of old hats and stuff.” She hugged the quilt to her chest. The faint scent of her mother’s favorite perfume, wafted into her nostrils. She could almost picture the classic Chanel No. 5 vial, reflected in the mirrored tray that sat on her long, mahogany dresser.

  She told Tootie about the note, and how Eli got all choked up and teary-eyed when he admitted how lucky she was to have something to remember her mother by. And then, without any warning whatever, tears welled in her eyes.

  Thankfully, Tootie took it as a hint to change the subject. “Think I’ll start calling you the Artful Dodger. Very clever, young lady, trying to get me off track with quilt talk.” She tapped her temple. “Good thing I’m not as addle-brained as I look!” Her merry laughter bounced from every surface in the kitchen. “There’s no shame in admitting that you miss Eli. Heck, even I miss him when he’s with Dr. Limpy.”

  Taylor only shook her head.

  “What.”

  “I won’t even comment on your crack about Reece’s limp, because I’m sure it was only a slip of the tongue. But I am wondering what Charles Dickens would think about how you’ve misunderstood one of his most famous characters, that’s what.”

  Tootie’s brow furrowed. “Charles Dickens? What’s he got to do with the price of tea and cookies?”

  “He created Jack, the Artful Dodger, remember?”

  Laughing, she took another cookie. “Oh. Right.” She giggled. “Okay, so maybe you’ve never picked a pocket, but you’re still a shoe-in for the ‘evading issues’ title.” Using her cookie as a pointer, Tootie added, “And I’ll bet even Dr. Haughty would admit that he misses the boy when he’s with us … if we could get him to step down from his pedestal long enough to pose the question.”

  “Much as I admire that thesauruslike brain of yours, I really wish you’d stop calling him names.”

  “Why? It’s all true. He is haughty, and you know it far better—and for a whole lot longer—than I do!”

  “Well … maybe that was true in the beginning. But he’s coming around. Why, most days, Reece is downright warm and friendly, and—”

  “Pishposh.”

  Taylor continued sewing as if the interruption hadn’t happened. This patch—a rectangle cut from Margo’s white-satin wedding gown—demanded extra care to avoid snags. “Besides, what if one day you forget what a sweet and caring person you are, and refer to Reece as Dr. Haughty—or any one of a dozen other colorful adjectives I won’t name—in front of Eli? How would I explain that!”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Tootie said, winking. “But seriously, girl, why should you have to explain it? If I ever do something that thoughtless in front of the li’l squirt, I’ll be the one to make things right.” She picked up a square of blue plaid flannel.” Even though it wouldn’t change the fact that Dr. Reece Montgomery is a self-important, stuck-up, stubborn know-it-all.”

  “Gosh. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel? Keeping things all bottled up inside isn’t healthy, you know.”

  “Pishposh,” she repeated.

  “Anyway, you wouldn’t talk about Reece that way if you knew him better.” The image of him, looking anything but overconfident as he’d sat right where Tootie was now, made her heart do a little flip.

  Tootie returned the flannel to its stack and plucked a napkin from the wrought iron holder. “So how’d he get that limp of his, Miss Knows Him Well?”

  “I wondered the same thing, at first,” Taylor admitted, “but a person doesn’t just blurt out a question like that.” She double-stitched the corner of the white satin square, then made the turn to begin a second side. “The right opening never presented itself. I figured sooner or later, the subject would come up, but it didn’t.”

  “And you’re not the least bit curious?”

  “I wouldn’t say that… .”

  Harrumphing, Tootie removed her eyeglasses. “He probably broke his toe, kicking a three-legged dog.”

  “Good grief, Tootie! You talk as if he’s the troll in that billy goat fable!”

  “I know what I see and hear. And if I do say so myself, I’m a pretty good judge of character, too.” She huffed onto one of the lenses, polished it with the napkin. “I remember only too well what that … that man put you through after Eliot was killed.” She held her glasses up to the light, then put them back on. “And I don’t know how you can forgive him for those cold-hearted things he said to you after Margo’s burial.”

  For years, just thinking about his scathing glare and heated words made her shy away from him at family get-togethers. “I’m sure he doesn’t intend to sound so …” Taylor searched her mind for the right word.

  “… like a cold, callus, heartless mule?”

  “Tootie, really. Give the guy a break, if not for me, then for Eli.”

  The woman picked up one of the circles Taylor had cut from Eliot’s high school football uniform. Snorting, she inspected it. “What position did Eliot play?”

  “Fullback.”

  “Sorry about the name-calling. I’ll keep my opinions about the good doctor to myself from now on.”

  You’ve been doing it for years; I know that won’t be easy!

  “I’m not the one who has to put up with him every other week.”

  Well, that’s true enough!

  “I suppose I owe it to you to at least try.”

  “Do or do not,” she quoted Yoda, “there is no try.”

  On the heels of a frustrated sigh, Tootie said, “You know what I wish?”

  No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.

  “I wish that once, just once, I could catch you on a day when your halo is in the shop.”

  “When my …” Taylor laughed. “What does that mean!”

  “How long have we been friends, Taylor?”

  “Leave it to you to answer a question with a question,” she teased.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s an Irish thing. Just humor me, will ya?”

  Taylor did a quick mental tally of the years. “Since you carried that gorgeous rosebush all the way over here to welcome me to the neighborhood. Just a little over six years ago, if my math isn’t off.”

  “It isn’t. You moved he
re on my birthday, April 13th. It fell on Friday that year, remember?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do… .” And she remembered thinking that for a never-miss-a-service Christian, Tootie sure was big on superstitions.

  “Meeting you changed my notion that Friday the 13th was an unlucky day.”

  “It was a pretty lucky day for me, too.” Because Tootie had pretty much been a fixture around the inn ever since.

  “In all this time, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a negative word about anyone. Not even Dr. Haughty. So either you keep a lot bottled up—a whole lot bottled up—or you’re an angel, sent to earth to set a good example for the rest of us run-of-the-mill grumblers.”

  Memory of all the mean-spirited things she’d called Reece in the privacy of her own mind made Taylor’s mouth go dry. “Believe me,” she said, taking a sip of tea, “I’m no angel.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And chickens have lips.” She waved Taylor’s denial away. “The way you took care of Mark when he got sick? Twenty-four-seven for months on end, without a break or a complaint? And let’s not forget the way you wait on your guests, no matter how bad-mannered or ungrateful they are. And how you make time to volunteer at the kids’ cancer center. And the—”

  She’d heard it all before, from Eliot and Margo before they died, from her grandparents, Tootie and Isaac, even Mark’s best friend Jimmy. Frankly, she’d grown tired of defending her decision to live by the Golden Rule. It’s what God expected of everyone, right, so why was her behavior viewed as something weird?

  “Where’s Isaac?”

  Tootie shrugged. “Still in the barn, I’d guess.”

  “Good. I want the horses ready in case Jimmy wants to go riding when he gets here.” Please God, she prayed, let there be time for me to go with him. Because oh, how she longed for a good hard ride on her dependable mare.

  “Speaking of Jimmy, shouldn’t he be here by now?”