by Glynna Kaye
“Sorry about that, Sandi.”
She didn’t have to ask what he was referring to.
“But she’s right, you know.” He opened the driver’s-side door and she slipped into the bucket seat, then turned to look up at him. “You deserve some fun.”
He glanced at the ground. Scuffed a tennis shoe-clad toe in the cinder rock. “So, you know, if you change your mind, just give me a call. Invitation still stands.”
“I appreciate that. But summer’s only begun and it’s filled with work, friends and family.” With a smile she reached for the car door handle. “And surely you haven’t forgotten that this is a small town. I think we’d both agree showing up together would imply more things to your friends than you’d want implied.”
He shrugged. “I can handle it. Never put much stock in what people have to say about me.”
“Lucky you. As a widowed woman I find myself all too often the source of unwelcome speculation. I have to be constantly on my guard to protect my—”
“Reputation?”
Heat flooded her face as the insensitivity of her words belatedly struck her. As if being seen with him—a man with his sullied background—would sink her upright, pristine standing in the community.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t.” He gave a self-deprecating smile and stepped back. “Have a good rest of your day, Sandi.”
With a casual wave he turned away.
Mortified, she stared at his retreating back. Watched as he bent to speak to his grandma, then slipped an arm around her waist and helped her to the stairs leading to her apartment. How could she have spoken like that, so tactlessly, without even thinking how it might come across?
She momentarily squeezed her eyes shut, then pulled the car door closed and started the engine.
Please, God, forgive me. Will I never learn to think before I speak?
“I wasn’t trying to set you up with her, Bryce.” With an aggrieved sigh at his accusation, Grandma Mae headed to the tiny living area just off the kitchen that did double duty as Bryce’s sleeping quarters. She eased down on the upholstered sofa. “I’m concerned about her.”
He lowered himself into a nearby recliner, Sandi’s words about guarding her reputation still stinging. In the past he’d have laughed it off. He’d never much cared what people thought about him, one way or another. Why was this any different?
Grandma straightened a plush throw pillow, then fixed him with an accusing eye. “When are you going to tell her and the historical society about the remodeling plans?”
He scratched his bearded jawline with a knuckled hand. “No point in alarming everybody just yet. I’m checking out the home supply places to estimate the cost plus labor for anything I can’t do myself. When that firefighter position opens up I won’t have much free time, so likely won’t be doing it all myself.”
Which meant more money. But it was still cheaper than buying a new house.
Grandma reached for her crochet basket. “What happens if the job doesn’t come through? Do you plan to stick around Canyon Springs and work odd jobs until you’re my age?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He gave her a confident smile, unwilling to admit the possibility had already occurred to him. Concerned him. “It’ll work out. God’s timing, isn’t that what you always say? I’m settling into civilian life, getting reacquainted with the town. Joining up with the fire department will be like reenlisting. My time won’t be my own. So this is a good break. God only knows I needed it.”
Grandma pulled out her crochet hook and a skein of pumpkin-colored yarn. “You’ve seen a lot of things in your young life that most people hope never to see.”
He nodded, memory flickering to the heat. The cold. The grittiness. The odors. The fear. Death. He plucked at the fabric on the arm of his chair. “I know Grandpa did a stint in the army, but why’d you let me join, Gran? Even encouraged it.”
“I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
“It was because of Jenn, wasn’t it?” He never called his mother by anything but her given name. “I was letting her turn me into an angry young man on a fast journey to nowhere.”
“You were at that.”
He rubbed his thumb along an upholstery welt. He didn’t like thinking about his mother. Talking about her. “Have you heard from her lately?”
“Postcard from L.A. in April.”
“She’s still messed up, isn’t she?”
“Drugs change a person.”
And bad company corrupts. The combination was as destructive as war. “Are you ever mad at God, Grandma? That he let this happen to her? To us?”
Goodness knows his grandparents had done their best. Grandpa had discovered Canyon Springs on an elk hunting trip and talked Grandma into resettling here, far away from the temptations of city life in Cleveland, Ohio. Jenn was fourteen then and already heading down the wrong path.
A change of scenery didn’t do one lick of good.
Grandma shook her head, concentrating on securing the crochet hook in her gnarled fingers. “Jenn made bad choices despite her upbringing. Continues to make them. Being mad at God is a waste of time, don’t you think? He’s our only hope that someday her eyes will be opened before it’s too late.”
She shifted to a more comfortable position, her keen gaze now fixed on him. “What about you? Are you mad at God because of her? Because you don’t know who your father is? I honestly don’t think she knows, Bryce. I believe with all my heart that she’d tell you if she knew.”
His jaw tightened. “Probably better not to know and risk hating him.”
“Like you hate your mother?”
“I don’t hate her, Gran.” But he had for a lot of years—or had tried to. Until God got hold of him.
Grandma set her crochet work aside, her eyes filled with love and concern. “I’ve long feared Jenn’s overbearing, unreliable disposition may have colored your perceptions of women. That that’s why you’ve never found one to commit to.”
His mind flashed to Sandi and the unreasonable demands she’d put on Keith. Do this. Don’t do that. Sit. Speak. Shake. Roll over.
In spite of himself, he smiled and settled more deeply into the recliner, forcing himself to relax. “I can’t say that I’m not overly sensitive to, shall we say, women with dictatorial inclinations.”
A knowing look glistened in Grandma Mae’s eyes. “You know God’s going to send you a strong-willed woman to partner with for a lifetime, don’t you? One who’ll challenge you, keep you on your toes. Who won’t let you get away with anything. Mark my words, that’s the kind of woman that will make you happiest.”
“When pigs fly.”
“You’d be miserable with a whatever-you-say-sir gal.”
“I’m actually thinking I might hunt me up one of those meet-me-at-the-door-with-a-kiss-and-my-house-slippers models.”
And why was it Sandi’s face, of all people, that came to mind when he envisioned such a greeting? Imagined a kiss that would send the memories of the day’s trials and tribulations scurrying for the hills.
But Sandi “Bossy Boots” Bradshaw? She’d likely tell him to fetch his own slippers and, while he was at it, take out the garbage, mow the lawn and get the laundry started.
No thanks.
Grandma reached again for her crochet hook. “You’d be bored to tears with a follow-your-orders kind of wife.”
He banished the mental image of the too-appealing Sandi as the sting of her words about protecting her reputation—from him—stabbed afresh. “Don’t count on it, Gran.”
He glanced at his watch, then rose from the chair. He’d better get his Big Elf self downstairs and fix the creaking floorboard—before that little red notebook and its infamous checklist put in another appearance.
Chapter Ten
Pre-dawn light crept across the floor and illuminated the walls of Sandi’s bedroom, the sheer window curtains stirring lightly in the faintest of b
reezes. Where had the weekend gone? And why was she lying here on a Monday thinking about Bryce Harding?
Unstructured time, such as these early morning summer hours before she threw off the covers and her feet hit the floor, had invariably drawn memories of Keith.
But this morning Bryce filled her thoughts. Did he think she’d turned down his invitation to the cookout because of his reputation as a party animal who indulged in superficial relationships? She hadn’t given any thought to that at the time she’d opened her big fat mouth. She’d only been concerned with letting him off the hook after his grandma badgered him into asking her out. With letting him know that she understood he wouldn’t want to appear to his old buddies or eligible females that he’d “hooked up” with her.
But two days later here she was still miserable at the misunderstanding. Keith had long prayed for Bryce—and she’d failed her husband yet again when she’d all but slammed the door in his friend’s face. Unintentionally for certain, but what would be the point of trying to apologize again? Trying to explain would only be awkward for her and embarrassing for Bryce.
But should she accept his invitation after all? It wouldn’t be a date exactly. Just hanging out. An opportunity to talk to him about rethinking the museum rent. An opportunity to make it up to him—and Keith—for her insensitive blunder of the other day.
“Mommy!” The whisper came accompanied by a timid knock at her closed door. “Are you awake?”
She sat up in bed and propped pillows behind her. “Good morning, Gina.”
The door opened a crack and her daughter’s smiling face peeped in. Then the door flung open and, with a flying leap, Gina landed on the bed and clambered into her arms.
“What are you doing up so early, sweetie?”
“You said we’d go to the park today.”
“You’re sure you still want to do that?” she teased, giving her daughter a hug.
“Yeah. Can Davy come, too?”
“I don’t know. We can ask.”
“I’ll call him.” Gina scrambled off the bed, but Sandi caught the tail of her pajama top.
“Hold on. It’s only six o’clock. Too early to call. He’s probably still asleep.”
Gina collapsed again on the bed. “We could wake him up.”
“I don’t think his mom and dad would appreciate that.”
“Maybe Uncle Bryce can come. I bet he’s awake.”
Uncle Bryce. Gina had “slipped” again on Saturday night when relating to her grandma how a few weeks earlier he’d put her in his boat and let her pretend to row. That faux pas had earned Sandi a disapproving look from LeAnne.
“If he’s awake it’s because he has to go to work.” Wherever that happened to be.
“Or fishing.”
“Right. So why don’t you scoot off to get dressed. Play while I shower. Then we’ll have breakfast, drop some things off at the post office and hit the park.”
By seven-thirty they were there, joined by other early bird moms and kids determined to beat the heat. While this time of year it was still fairly cool overnight, afternoons during the weeks before the summer monsoons swept in sent temperatures rising into the upper eighties and even nineties. Not that the heat here, with its low humidity, was like anything she’d experienced growing up in Missouri.
Last night she’d emailed the historical society members a list of suggested fundraising projects, then today had snail-mailed those who didn’t have internet connections. Please, Lord, let them all come to a consensus. She had her own preferences—ones that would take the least ramp-up time and produce results most quickly. With Independence Day just around the corner, that would be a peak time to pick the pockets, so to speak, of summer visitors. Too many Canyon Springs fundraisers depended on the generosity of locals repeatedly dipping into shallow pocketbooks and wallets throughout the other nine months of the year.
“Sandi!”
She looked up from pushing Gina on the swing to see historical society member Sharlene Odel striding across the grass toward her, her little leashed Pekingese, Buffy, waddling breathlessly beside her. Sharlene, a former president of the organization, was now one of those rarely active members who stepped in only when something displeased her.
Bending to pick up her daughter’s favorite cap where it had been placed out of harm’s way, she allowed Gina to pump on her own and moved some distance from the swings to meet her sometimes adversary. Pasted on a smile. “Good morning, Shar.”
“If you say so.” The forty-something woman tossed back her French-braided, bleached-blond hair with an impatient movement. An attractive woman—or she would be if she’d do away with the perpetual crease of disapproval in her brow. “I got your email last night. So what’s this fundraising business all about? When I turned the society presidency over to you two years ago, our finances were as healthy as can be. Robust. I can only assume that the current board is mishandling the monies.”
Leave it to Shar to get to the heart of things.
“Then you’d assume wrong.” Sandi put a teasing lilt into her tone, hoping to drown out the growl that threatened to rumble from her throat. “As has been indicated in our quarterly newsletters over the past two years, the drop in summer visitors has taken its toll on our bank account. And with a property-rent increase on the horizon and the city council cutting funds, it’s time to replenish our bank account.”
“There should have been enough set back to tide us over this rough spot.”
“I can assure you, there wasn’t.”
Sharlene jerked roughly on a wandering-off Buffy’s leash, sending the pudgy little canine into a rollover. “Before we launch into any of these major projects, I’m going to recommend to the membership that we have the books audited by an unbiased outside source. My cousin, Andy, is a bookkeeper at—”
“If you’ll recall,” Sandi interrupted before she had to endure a rundown of cousin Andy’s resumé, “we had an independent auditor in last winter. The books were spotless. We received accolades for funds management in a severe economic downturn.”
Shar waved her away. “Well, I don’t have time to stand here and argue with you. But you’ll be hearing from me again. Soon. No offense, you understand, but it wasn’t farsighted of the membership to vote an outsider into office.”
She snatched a squirming Buffy into her arms and strode away, not waiting for a response.
Sandi stared after her. Outsider. Even with seven years of throwing herself into endless community volunteer work, she remained an interloper to some. She’d done everything she could to endear herself to the historical society’s membership. To convince them she was as much a part of Canyon Springs as any of the old-timers. Hoping, praying, it would be a natural progression for the members to dedicate the new space in her husband’s memory.
But it was obvious she wouldn’t be getting Sharlene’s support.
With a sigh, she turned again toward Gina just as a bicyclist cruised to an abrupt halt but a few feet from her.
“What was that all about?” Gripping the handlebars, Bryce anchored his bike between his legs and nodded toward Sharlene’s retreating back. He hadn’t intended to stop, but when he’d seen that Pekingese-packing woman’s hands go to her hips and her head start wagging in that condescending way she had about her, he couldn’t sail on by.
Sandi’s stiff smile relaxed. “Another satisfied historical society customer. I think she’s going to push for impeachment of its president.”
“Grandma says Shar’s nothing but a hardheaded know-it-all.” He rapped knuckles on the side of his biking helmet to illustrate.
She laughed. “Have to say I agree, but if you repeat that to anyone I’ll deny it.”
Sandi sure looked pretty this morning in that lacy tank top and shorts, her dainty feet slipped into sparkly sandals.
“Your secret’s safe with me.” He pulled off his helmet, looped the chin strap over the handlebars and ruffed up his hair with a bike-gloved hand. Then he glanced toward th
e swings where Gina was pumping herself ever higher, her squeals ringing out in the clear morning air. “Out early to dodge the heat, huh?”
“You bet.” She glanced toward Gina, then back at him, her gaze uncertain.
“Something wrong?”
She compressed her lips as if deciding how to respond, then took a quick breath. “I’ve been thinking about what your grandma said. About getting out more. About going to the cookout with your friends.”
His heart jerked at the unexpected direction the conversation was taking. Tamped down the outlandish hope that her words elicited. What was with him? She’d been right to turn him down to begin with. A “good girl” seen hanging out with him wasn’t the wisest move. He’d already had old acquaintances punching him playfully in the arm and commenting on his being seen at the equine center’s grand opening with “that hot widow.”
Sure, he’d turned over a new leaf, gotten his heart scrubbed squeaky clean, but it could be a long time before his reputation followed suit. If ever. The past tagged along behind him, a perpetual cloud of trailing dust like with Charlie Brown’s friend Pigpen.
“If the invitation is still open,” she ventured, fiddling with the army cap in her hands, “I’d like to go.”
He heard the words, but the uncertainty in her eyes gave away that she wasn’t confident in what she was saying. Why’d she change her mind about going with him anyway? But if he didn’t assure her the invitation still stood, she’d think he held a grudge about the earlier put-down.
He cleared his throat and tightened his fingers on the bicycle handlebars. “Sure, it’s still open.”
Was that disappointment clouding her eyes? Like maybe she’d hoped for an excuse not to go?
“Great. You said Saturday night? Where and what time? I can meet you there.”
Talk about making it clear she was a free, independent agent. Making sure he didn’t misconstrue the outing as a date. Well, that was fine with him. Dating Keith’s wife was the furthest thing from his mind.