As opposed to busybody nieces, who most likely weren’t.
Dunking his twice-used tea bag in the hot water, Charley watched her from the kitchen door. He loved the girl with all this heart, he really did, but being around her made him feel as if he was constantly treading in a stew of conflicting emotions. Some days, when the loneliness nearly choked him, he was actually grateful for her company; other days her energy and pushiness made him crazed.
More than that, though, he simply didn’t know what to say to her, how to ease her pain while his own was still sharp enough to scrape. That’d been Mae’s job, to soothe and heal. To act as a buffer between them. Not that Rox was a moper, thank goodness, but every time he looked at her, there it was, his own hurt mirrored in eyes nearly the same weird green as Mae’s. And at this point the helplessness that came with that had about rubbed his nerves raw.
Especially compounded with her being constantly on his back to clear out Mae’s stuff, to “move on” with his life. As if he had someplace to go. Even as a kid, Charley had never liked being told what to do, whether it was in his best interests or not. Like now. Because, truthfully? What earthly use did he have for all of Mae’s collections? Yet part of him couldn’t quite let go of the idea that getting rid of it all would be like saying the past forty years had never happened.
He turned back to the counter to dump three teaspoons of sugar in his tea, a squirt of juice from the plastic lemon in the fridge. Then, the mug cupped in his hands, he meandered back into the living room, where the glass-topped coffee table was practically buried underneath probably two dozen of those anemic-looking ceramic figurines Mae’d loved so much. Things looked like ghosts, if you asked him. “What’d you say that stuff was again?”
“Lladro,” Roxie said, gently setting another piece on table, next to a half dozen others. “From Spain. Mostly from the sixties and seventies.” She sat back, giving him a bemused look, the spunk in those grass-colored eyes at such odds with the sadness. “Let me guess—you don’t recognize them.”
“Sure I do,” he lied, sighing at his niece’s chuckle. “I was putting in long hours at work back then, I didn’t really pay much attention.”
“There’s probably a hundred pieces altogether.”
He’d had no idea. “You’re kidding?”
Her curls shivered when she shook her head. “Even though the market’s pretty saturated with Lladro right now, some of the pieces could still bring a nice chunk of change from the right buyer. Mae collected some good stuff here.”
“And some not so good stuff?”
She pushed a short laugh through her nose. “True. Not sure what the demand is for four decades’ worth of TV Guide covers, or all those boxes of buttons—although some crafter might want them. Or the Happy Meal toys. But this—” She held up another unwrapped piece. “This I know. This we can sell.”
Over the pang brought on by that word “sell,” Charley felt a spurt of pride, too. Maybe the girl drove him bonkers, but she was damn smart. And knowledgeable, like one of those appraisers on Antiques Roadshow, which Charley realized he hadn’t watched since Mae’s passing. And for sure, Roxie’s talents were wasted in some fly speck of a village in northern New Mexico. Child needed to be someplace where she could put all that education and experience to good use.
Then he could get back to living on his own, which he’d barely gotten used to when Roxie returned and tossed everything ass over teakettle.
He leaned over and picked up one of the pieces, the flawless surface smooth and cool against his hand. “Getting any messages from Mae?” Roxie asked, a smile in her voice.
Charley set the piece back down, then took a long swallow of his tea. “Do whatever you think best,” he said, feeling a little piece of himself break off, like a melting iceberg.
Although the fact was, Mae had told him before she died to sell the whole shebang, put the money into an annuity. It was him who was resisting, not Mae. Who didn’t really speak to him, of course. Even if he sometimes wished she did. Lord, what he’d give to hear her laughter again.
The pretense hadn’t even been a conscious decision, really. Just kind of happened one day when Roxie had been bugging him about packing up Mae’s clothes, and Charley, growing increasingly irritated, heard himself say, “Mae wouldn’t want me to do that,” and Roxie’d said, “What?” and he said, “She told me not to get rid of her things yet,” and Roxie had backed right off, much to Charley’s surprise.
Charley supposed it was his subconscious stumbling upon a way to make Mae the buffer again. Not that he was entirely proud of using his dead wife in this manner, but if it got Roxie off his case? Whatever worked. And that way it wasn’t him changing his mind, it was Mae.
Long as he didn’t carry things too far. Dotty was one thing, incompetent another. Fortunately the hospice social worker—who Roxie’d contacted without his say-so—had reassured her it wasn’t uncommon for the surviving spouse to imagine conversations with the one who’d gone on, it was simply part of the grieving process for some people, it would eventually run its course and she shouldn’t become overly concerned.
So it would. Run its course. Soon as “hearing” Mae no longer served his purpose, he’d “realize” he no longer did.
Two more pieces unwrapped and noted in that spiral notebook she carried everywhere with her, Roxie glanced up. “You okay? You’re awfully quiet.”
He decided not to point out he could say the same about her. And he was guessing Noah Garrett had something to do with that.
“Nothing to say, I suppose,” he said as the powerless feelings once again threatened to drown him. “Need some help unwrapping?”
“Only if you want to.”
He didn’t. Outside, the wind picked up, the wet snow slapping against the bay window, slithering down the single-paned glass behind the flimsy plastic panels he popped into their frames every year. Simply watching the plastic “breathe” as it fought valiantly but inefficiently against the onslaught made him shiver. Roxie glanced over, then reached behind her for one of the new plush throws she’d bought at Sam’s Club to replace the sorry, tattered things that had been around since the dawn of time, wordlessly handing it to him.
Charley didn’t argue. Instead, he tucked it around his knees. “New windows included in that estimate Noah’s gonna give us?”
Shoving a pencil into her curls, Roxie smiled. “What’s Mae say about it?”
“Mae’s not the one freezing her behind off,” Charley snapped. “So. Am I getting new windows or not?”
Rolling her eyes, Roxie pulled her cell phone and what Charley assumed was the shop’s card out of her sweatshirt’s pocket and punched in a number. While she waited for somebody to pick up, she glanced over, a tiny smile on her lips. “Mae would be very proud of you, you know.”
Charley grunted—only to nearly jump out of his skin when he heard, clear as day, You want me to be proud? Fix Roxie. Then we’ll talk.
Chapter Three
“This is still way over Charley’s budget, Dad,” Noah said, frowning past his oldest brother, Silas’s shoulder at the computer screen as the accountant ran the figures for the third time.
“Then we’ll simply have to shave off some more,” his father said. Silas quietly swore, then sighed.
Even though Gene insisted they’d do the work for practically cost, no matter how much they whittled, the estimate still stubbornly hovered around twice what Charley could afford, according to the figure Noah’d finally wormed out of him when he’d gone back to shore up his figures the following day. Oh, there was enough for the repairs, to get the guy some new double panes, but the bright blue daisies had probably been given a reprieve. And Roxie was not gonna like that, boy.
Not that Noah should care. It wasn’t her house, and she wasn’t Noah’s…anything. In fact, after that little exchange between Roxie and her uncle about hearing Mae’s voice…
Yeah. That he would do well to remember. Also, the woman’s pain-in-the-butt potenti
al was through the roof. And did he need that in his life?
He did not.
Speaking of butts…Noah pulled his head out of his when Benito, the shop foreman, called Gene out of the office and Silas pushed away from the computer with a noisy sigh, crossing his hands behind his head. Silas’s involvement in the family business was limited to number crunching and filing taxes, but since the bottom line was what made the difference between success and a whole bunch of people starving to death, his input was crucial.
And now his short dark brown hair was a mess from his repeatedly ramming his hand through it over the past hour. “And you’re sure Charley wasn’t lowballing his figure?”
“Since I’m not privy to the man’s bank account, I have no idea. But he’s only going to spend what he’s going to spend.”
One side of Silas’s mouth hiked up before he removed his wire-rimmed glasses to rub his eyes. “True,” he said, shoving the glasses back on. “But even if you do the absolute minimum, Dad’s cutting this way too close for comfort. My comfort, at least.”
Straightening, Noah crammed his hands in his back pockets, frowning at the figures on the screen as if he could will them to change. “There’s really no wiggle room at all, is there?”
“Nope. Meaning he’ll have to eat any cost overruns.”
“Then I’ll just have to make sure there aren’t any.”
Silas snorted, then leaned forward again, apparently unaware of the SpongeBob sticker clinging to the back of his navy sweatshirt.
“I know this is your project—”
Noah snorted.
“—but can I make a suggestion?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s tack on another five percent to cover our backsides, in case lumber prices go up or something. Because you know what’ll happen—things’ll get tight, and Dad will get stressed—”
“And Mom will be all over us about how we let things get out of hand. Yeah, I know. And I would’ve suggested it if you hadn’t. Except…” He cuffed the back of his neck, glowering at the screen. Or rather, the image of Roxie’s sad, mad green eyes. “Adding five percent to our price isn’t going to add it to his budget.”
“And sometimes,” Silas said quietly, “that’s not our problem.”
Silas was right, Noah knew he was, but… He walked around the desk to sink onto the old, dusty futon on the other side. “I did warn Roxie this might be a bigger project than she anticipated. But she’s going to be pretty disappointed.” A half laugh pushed through Noah’s nose. “Probably more than Charley, to tell the truth. And you know Dad, he’s liable to go over there himself and do it all for free if we’re not careful. And then we’re right back where we started. Having Mom mad at him. And us.”
“So basically we’re screwed.”
“Exactly.”
Silas leaned back again, taking a swig from a can of soda as he stared thoughtfully at the screen. “I suppose I could pitch in on the weekends, maybe. We could ask Jesse, too.” He grinned. “Make baby brother earn his keep for once.”
Noah chuckled. “Baby” brother, in charge of the business’s promotion and advertising, earned his keep fine.
However, homeboy was also built like an ox and not incompetent with a power saw.
“That might work—”
“Get Roxie in on the action herself, too. Why not?” Silas said to Noah’s frozen expression. “No reason why she couldn’t do a lot of the demo, whatever doesn’t require a whole lot of expertise, save the crew for the stuff that matters.” He flicked his index finger at the screen. “With enough sweat equity you might squeeze by. Think she’ll go for that?”
Noah unlocked his face muscles enough to get out, “I have no idea.”
“Well, I’m in,” Silas said, oblivious to his brother’s paralysis. “And I’m sure we can strong-arm Jesse. Might want to leave Eli out of it, though. Sleep deprivation and power tools are not a good mix.”
His arms crossed, Noah grunted. “And you guys wonder why I’m perfectly happy leaving the kid raising to you.”
“Uh-huh. And I suppose Jewel had to twist your arm to build that tree house for my boys?”
“And miss an opportunity to watch your brain explode? No damn way.” And before Silas could pursue the topic, Noah stood, checking his watch. “I told Roxie I’d swing by with the estimate before lunch. You mind printing it out for me?”
“See that little printer icon right there?” Silas said, rising as well to slip on his denim jacket. “Click it and watch magic happen.”
“Jerk,” Noah muttered, plunking his butt behind the computer and hitting Print.
“By the way,” Silas said, as the ancient gray monstrosity on the dinged metal table beside the desk wheezed to life. “Jewel and I set a date. April fifth.”
This said with the slightly nauseating smirk of the headover-heels in love. Not that Noah didn’t like the eccentric little midwife who’d snagged his brother’s—and his two awesome little boys’—hearts. But that left Noah the last brother standing. Alone. Meaning his mother could, and undoubtedly would, now focus all her matchmaking energies on him, bless her heart. Not.
Waiting for the printer to cough up the estimates, Noah let out an exaggerated sigh. “So you’re actually going through with it?”
“You know,” Silas said after a moment’s silence, “maybe the idea of being ‘stuck’ with somebody for the rest of your life gives you the heebie-jeebies, but in case you haven’t noticed, not everybody sees it that way.”
“Sorry,” Noah mumbled, his face warming as he turned back to the printer. Silas’s first marriage had sunk like a stone, followed by his ex’s death in a car crash when the boys were still babies. For so long, and whether it was right or not, Silas had felt like a failure, Noah knew. So why was he taking potshots at his brother’s well-deserved happiness?
Fortunately single fatherhood had turned Silas—who God knew had taken inordinate pleasure in torturing his younger brothers when they were kids—into a model of forbearance.
“Oh, you’ll get yours someday,” he said, cuffing Noah lightly on the back of his skull before heading out the door.
When hell freezes over, he thought as he yanked on his own jacket and scooped up the estimate, then hotfooted it out of there before his father had a chance to check the new figures.
Or before Noah could think too hard about what he was about to ask of Roxie Ducharme.
For three days, between temping as a receptionist for the town’s only family practitioner, continuing to pound the virtual pavement looking for a “real” job and the unending task of sorting through her aunt’s things, Roxie had kept herself so busy she’d begun to think she’d imagined the close-to-knee-buckling jolt at the end of Noah’s visit earlier in the week.
Except now he was here, his forehead creased as he gently explained to her uncle why his budget was too small by half, and there was the jolt again, stronger this time, undeniable, and she found herself nearly overcome with a sudden urge to bop the man upside the head with the kitchen towel in her hand.
Or herself.
“Well. That’s that, girl,” Charley said, sounding almost…disappointed. Weird. “Can’t afford to do all this. So let’s go with the new windows and let the rest of it ride—”
“Hold on, I’m not finished,” Noah said, and Roxie’s eyes flashed to his. Right there in front of her, not quite the same brown, but definitely the same kindness. The same…genuineness. That it had taken her so long to see the resemblance only proved how prejudiced she’d been. How much she’d been determined to see only what she’d wanted to see.
Her breath hitching painfully in her chest, she propelled herself out of the chair and over to the fridge to pull out stuff for lunch. Cheese. Ham. Lettuce. Leftover spaghetti sauce. Cottage cheese.
“Roxie?” she heard over the roaring inside her head. “You listening?”
Sucking in a breath, Roxie shoved the streak of wetness off her cheek and turned. Both men were frowning at
her.
“I’m—” She cleared her throat. Sniffed. “Sorry.”
“You okay?” Noah asked, simply being nice again, and more memories surged to the surface, memories she’d assumed the spectacular implosion with Jeff had wiped out for good.
Silly her.
“Yes, fine,” she said, snatching the three-page estimate off the table and leafing through it. Forcing herself to focus. Holy moly. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “If I’d realized…” Letting the papers flutter back onto the kitchen table, she crossed her arms against the sick, you-screwed-up-again feeling roiling in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t as if Noah hadn’t warned her, warned both of them, how costly the project might be. But this was…
Wow.
Roxie never begged or bargained or haggled. Ever. So even though embarrassment seared her cheeks, she said, “I d-don’t suppose there’s any way to, um, bring down the prices…?”
“Not without jeopardizing our payroll,” Noah said, his eyes even more apologetic than his voice. “But—”
“Then…I guess we’ll have to stick with the windows. And maybe the front porch—?”
He chuckled. “You weren’t listening, were you?”
“Um…I thought I was—”
Charley slapped the table in front of him, making both the sugar bowl and Roxie jump. “Man says if enough people pitch in to help—you know, do some of the easier stuff— Noah and his crew can handle the rest and we might be able to get everything done for the same price.”
Roxie felt her forehead pinch. “I don’t understand.”
“Silas offered to help since things are slow, taxwise, right now,” Noah said. “Maybe Jesse, too.” Noah glanced down, then back up at her with a little-boy grin. “And we figure there’s a lot you could do, too. If you’re amenable.”
Husband Under Construction Page 4