"Jeff said since his wife died, he pretty much keeps to himself. He lives on a farm somewhere."
"A farm?" Marisol raised a brow. "How far out does he live?"
"About fifteen miles or so. He ain't milkin' cows, Sugar. It's more like acreage." Sharon settled in for what could potentially be a lengthy discussion. "Growin' vegetables and stuff like that. Probably got a slobberin' dog or two." Her expressive face scrunched with distaste. "Me? I'm a city girl. I gotta know that when I turn on the TV, my shows are gonna be there. I gotta have my cable." She shrugged massive shoulders. "But, I can respect someone who likes to rely on himself. We see too little of that around here."
Intrigued, Annie stayed quiet. She'd already raised enough suspicion. From the little she knew of Hank, she agreed with Sharon's impression. A loner—but in a comfortable way. Quiet. Capable. Confident about who he was. A simple, self-sufficient life would likely appeal to him. She could envision him plopped on ten acres somewhere . . . unconcerned if the power went out. Probably able to handle any issue that could arise. Fix anything that broke down. How appealing would that be? Being with someone who could do . . . just about anything? Unable to suppress her smile, Annie acknowledged that everything she'd just imagined was pure fantasy. She knew nothing about Hank Freeman—except what she'd seen with her eyes. And her gullible eyes had deceived her before.
"Jeff actually warned me Hank might come across as cranky-" Sharon's eyes lit with surprise. "But, I sure haven’t seen evidence of that yet."
Marisol smothered her laughter. "That’s because Jeff is running interference on all the color selections. He said Hank would blow his stack if he had to meet with your committee every week."
Sharon harrumphed as though the very idea they could be viewed as difficult was beyond imagination. "You took forty-five minutes yesterday," Mari reminded, "just to pick out the tile in the women's dormitory bathroom."
Bracelets jangled as the older woman flailed her arms. "These are big decisions. It's not as though we're drownin' in money here," she reminded. "We have to live with those choices for a very long time."
"What about the carpet in the conference room?" Annie reminded. "I was able to set the entire dining room that day . . . in the hour it took you and the board ladies to select a pattern."
Her expression was priceless as she tried to defend herself. Annie would have sworn Sharon’s cocoa skin was blushing dusky pink. "Let me just tell y'all it’s much harder than it looks."
"You only had three samples to choose from." She was still smiling when she left them a few minutes later. Despite their circumstances—her little family wedged into the tiny room above the dining room . . . Tommy still unhappy over another new school, yet settling in with the resilience known only to almost seven-year-olds. Peacekeeper Jason, simply going with the flow. They could be worse off. New Beginnings had become a safe haven. Phil hadn’t found them yet. When he finally did, she would hopefully be stronger for their inevitable confrontation. Calmer in how she dealt with his rage. Determined, when her courage would likely want to nosedive all over again.
At New Beginnings, she had meaningful volunteer work that kept her mind off the nursing career she’d been forced to place on hold. Phil’s relentless pursuit of them left her unable to hold a job. His erratic behavior . . . threatening her—threatening the boys. Employers weren't exactly sympathetic to the new hire whose personal life spilled over at work. She could never gain her footing before he'd show up—making a public spectacle. Instead of professional respect for her patient care, she received commiseration. Anxious, knowing looks from supervisors that told her they were concerned—for their business. For their patients and staff who could possibly be caught in the shit storm Phil usually wrought. She'd lost three jobs in the last two years. Until their lives settled down, Annie had suspended her job search, not wanting to burn any more bridges with employers who would surely remember the woman with the volatile ex-husband.
Releasing a steadying breath, Annie pushed the bad memories aside. Until she determined her next move, she could still take pride in serving those who were less fortunate. Instead of cowering . . . waiting for Phil’s next move, she could be proactive in helping others, instead of always worrying about herself. New Beginnings was temporary. A place to regroup. But, soon . . . she had decisions to make.
Increasingly, she experienced flashes of happiness. The women she’d met were strong. Mostly kind. Making the best of their stressful situations. As she’d slowly opened up—both in group therapy and with her new friends, Annie had enjoyed getting to know Marisol. The young woman reminded her of herself . . . back when her life had been full of promise. And she loved talking with Sharon Carter, despite her teasing. The older woman had seen just about everything humanity had to offer. Thirty years running a homeless shelter and soup kitchen would do that to a person. Yet, Sharon’s faith in humanity never seemed to waver, her sage advice doled out with a smile.
And now she had Hank. Or at least . . . the idea of him. Annie knew better than to dream. But, she wasn’t above the occasional wish. The appreciation of a fine man cost her nothing. Her back to the ladies at the table, she released a satisfied sigh and strolled to the kitchen. Who knew? Maybe one day, if she were ever ready to try again, she could search for a man like Hank.
IT WAS THE LITTLE THINGS, Henry Freeman acknowledged as he and Bo took their nightly stroll. Walking the fields, checking fences, his gaze studiously avoiding the garden that still needed turning over. Even on a gentleman's farm, there was always an endless list of chores. Tonight, his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t see Bo, tail wagging, as he waited for him to remember the throwing stick he held in his hand. Not pausing in the usual places, Hank strode on, destination unclear, his legs just seeming to know he needed to keep moving. Forward. Finally.
Pausing in the clearing where Gayle had always sidetracked on their walks, he viewed it from his wife's perspective. An opening in the tall sycamores provided the perfect stargazing spot. The beckoning patch of wild crocus would have lured her, a spatter of yellow and purple paint on the still wintered ground under the trees. Hank stopped, reaching back for her hand. And froze. Bewildered for a moment until he remembered. "She’s gone, you idiot."
Yes, it was little things he missed most. Habits developed over a lifetime together. Meaningless to most people, but agonizing to the one left behind. Reaching for her hand. A reflex so small. So natural. One he still couldn’t break himself of. The pressure of warm fingers entwined with his. The ever present ache when he remembered it was gone. Like the soreness of a paper cut. Forgotten until you brushed against something and felt the sting all over again.
For the first two years, Hank had reached for her hand almost every night. Every meandering hike to their stargazing spot. Knowing she wasn’t there, yet somehow—for an instant . . . able to forget the terrible truth. But, the hand he’d held for nineteen years just wasn’t there anymore.
His old Lab left him, loping a few paces ahead to sniff out the scents dancing on the breeze. Squirrel . . . rabbit. Hell, sometimes he swore it was simply the joy of a new spring that Bo celebrated, nose down, the occasional ecstatic bark urging, ‘C’mon. Come see what I found’. Returning every few minutes to make sure Hank was still where he’d left him.
Tonight, Hank wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. Trudging up the hill after Bo, his ribs jabbed with a sharp twinge of guilt—an acknowledgment that it might actually be possible to experience happiness again. Would Gayle mind? His breath coming in short gasps that had nothing to do with the hike, he inhaled the cool, night air. Relief drizzled through him—because maybe his life was finally changing. At the same time, there was pain. His life—was finally changing.
Hell, he knew Gayle wanted him to move on. To not get stuck. She'd said so . . . in the months after learning she was sick. In the days leading to her death, she’d exacted his promise. Be happy, Henry. Swear to me you'll be happy.
For four years, he'd believed in his soul . . . happines
s wasn't possible. The best he'd hoped for was relief—from the haunting ache inside. The gaping, yawning chasm where the meteor had crashed down. Where his verdant, green life full of promise had incinerated. But, each day, another spear of grass grew over the charred remains. Each week. Each year. Until all that remained was a gently sloping reminder of what he'd had. And lost.
Be happy, Henry. Gayle had repeated the mantra, especially toward the end. But, when it came down to it, would she have wanted him to find someone else? Tipping his head back, he awaited the gloaming. Bo returned to his side, flopping at his feet, content to rest for a moment. Over the next several minutes, night crept over the sky, softening from pink to violet to dusky plum. Deepening until the stars revealed themselves, hidden in plain sight.
That morning, he'd awakened to the sense of something different. Dawn trickled in, same as usual. But, the patterns of light had shifted. Shower. Coffee. Feed Bo. The same tasks he'd performed every day for as long as he could remember. But, this morning—the dull ache that had resided in his chest for the last four years, two months and nine days . . . had disappeared. It had taken Hank a goodly while to figure out what was missing. Before realizing the pain had gone—slipping away when he hadn't been paying attention.
"I don't feel great, mind you," he'd said to Bo before leaving the house. "But, I don't feel bad." Hank's perception of the day had changed. Instead of something to get through . . . another day notched as an 'after Gayle' day— it felt more like a maybe-something-good-could-happen day.
Maybe that's why he'd done something completely out of context with the life he’d led since Gayle. He’d smiled at a woman. Not the distracted smile you flashed when holding the door for someone. But a full-on, it's-great-to-be-alive kind of smile.
"Her name is Annie." Bo barked an acknowledgment, nose to the air as he caught an enticing scent. "Annie McKenna." That morning, he'd entered the construction zone like any other Tuesday. Met with his foreman. Breathed in the smell of freshly excavated dirt. Hustled inside before he was late for the early project meeting. Girded his loins—for the same meeting—with the passionate, stubborn, pain-in-the-ass gaggle of women he was dealing with on the New Beginnings project. No expectations except coffee . . . and maybe a cinnamon donut from the shelter kitchen.
Just like every day, he'd smiled at the shy, pretty blonde who worked the cafeteria line. A tireless volunteer whose smile sometimes didn't reach sober, brown eyes. But today, she'd hesitantly returned his smile. Today, her eyes had glowed with a brief flash of happiness. And Hank had been blindsided. By a hot burst of yearning he’d truly believed he'd buried with Gayle. Now, he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
"Honey, what do you think?" His rusty voice drifted away on the cool, spring night. "Give me a sign, Gayle Marie." As though he understood, Bo lifted his head, his whimper sounding like 'huh?'.
Part of him would always mourn the loss of his old life. Strange as it seemed, Hank would even miss the awkward half-life he’d been trapped in since his wife’s death. It had become comfortable. Constant. A single, familiar marker in the vast sea of 'after Gayle' unknowns. His boat had been stuck in neutral, with only the nudging waves to jostle him forward in time. Safely moored in a harbor of loneliness that hadn’t felt good, but had absolutely felt right.
A sudden breeze wove through the trees, breaking the stillness. When pinecones rained down, Hank startled, turning his face to the wind. Knowing Gayle, she was chucking them at him. "You always had a good arm, babe." Ducking when one glanced off his shoulder, he raised his hands in protest. "Hon, that was a compliment—not a challenge." His mouth lifted in a smile as he experienced a thrill of hope. "So, you're sayin' it's okay, then?" Had he finally reached the other side? Of the endless, gray solitude he’d wandered. Would the warmth of a sunny day finally touch him once again?
Turning in a circle in the clearing, Hank released a gusting breath. "Bo? I think I'm ready."
Chapter 2
"Mr. Freeman?"
His mind on the permitting issue with the city, Hank stopped in the shelter corridor the next day. A young boy, maybe six or seven, stared back at him from the doorway. "Did you call me?"
The little guy glanced over his shoulder. "Miss Robin says I can’t wander around . . . but I’ve been tapping on the window at you and . . . you didn’t hear me."
Hank retraced his steps. "This is the daycare center, right?"
The kid nodded vehemently. "Me an’ my brother hafta stay here after school while mommy works."
Hank scanned the room. It was large, but ill-suited for its purpose. Sorta worn out. Windows too small to let in any real light, the ancient panes clouded from blown seals. The space crowded with toys. He wondered why the daycare hadn’t made it's way onto the list for renovations. Before remembering. Money. On this project—everything came down to money. Or the serious lack of it. "Your mom works here?"
"Uh-huh. She works in the kitchen."
Solemn, brown eyes stared at him from under a mop of curly, brown hair. A mini version of the same kid hovered a few feet behind him. "That your brother hidin' back there?"
"My name’s Tommy and he’s Jason." Without looking over his shoulder, he added, "he’s shy."
"But, you’re not?" Hank squatted to the ground, surprised when his knees didn’t protest. He extended his hand. "Nice to meet you. My name’s Hank."
Tommy shook his hand with a grin and a load of little-kid enthusiasm "Miss Robin says we have to call you Mr. Freeman." He pointed to the grandmotherly volunteer with a squalling toddler on her hip. "She says that’s polite."
Hank waved, surprised she was still able to smile over all the racket. "Miss Robin is right." He nodded to Jason. "How about you, little man? Are you havin' fun today?"
Jason took a cautious step back, thumb in his mouth. "Can I ride your tractor?"
"Me, too. Me, too." Tommy grabbed his hand. "That’s why I called you. You can’t hear us through the window . . . and we wanna help. Me and Hector and Jason."
Hank glanced at Miss Robin. "Are all the kids watching from the window?"
She glanced to the clouded casement window. "They all crowd around to see what’s happening. They fight for position because the window's so small." She smiled. "It’s gotten so bad I’ve cleared a bookcase off to make a window seat for them." She tousled the toddler’s hair. "They wait to take turns."
Unfamiliar spending time around little kids, Hank was oddly humbled by their enthusiasm. "You boys want to help with the new building?" Both boys nodded eagerly, their gaze glued to his face. It was a little intimidating . . . being the focus of all that interest. But, also . . . kind of fun.
"How about we do a little cleanup in here so you have more room to play?" His brain mentally de-cluttering the space, he debated whether he could take on the side project of renovating the daycare. Heck, if he got a few subcontractors on board, he could probably secure most of the materials from scrap. Maybe convince them to throw in some free labor if they knew it was for the kids. Paint, room dividers, some remnant carpeting . . . Sure, he’d have to clear it with Jeff, first. But, since Jeffie was hot to score with the fundraising lady, he'd probably be interested in notching a few bonus points.
Glancing to the ancient window again, he envisioned a deep window seat with cushions for story time or naps or just gazing out the window. "That baby’s gotta go." He felt a tug on his shirt and glanced down. Apparently, Jason had lost his shyness.
"What about the tractor?"
A full, coherent sentence, spoken around the thumb in his mouth. Hank grinned. "That’s a backhoe, not a tractor." The kid’s eyes just stared, not blinking. He took a step toward the window. "And that one's a skidloader."
Tommy pressed his nose against the cloudy glass. "I seen one 'a those before. One time with my dad." Gaze still glued to the pile of dirt being moved around, he frowned. "What's the thing that swings stuff around and drops it on the roof?"
He cringed at Tommy's word choice. The last thing
he'd want was to drop something on the roof. But, the highly engineered movement of materials—precisely planned—days in advance, probably appeared to the average observer as 'dropping stuff on the roof'. "You mean a crane?" The kid nodded, not bothering to turn around. "We won't need one for this project. We use them on taller buildings."
"Oh."
One syllable and the kid's excitement seemed to deflate. Way to go, Freeman. "How about if I talk to Miss Sharon . . . and uh—your mom," he remembered to add. Whoever she was, it was unlikely she'd hand off her kids to some random guy running the job site. Especially since some of the sub-tier dudes wandering the site looked downright sketchy—even to him. For an Army lifer . . . twelve of those years starin' down an M24 sniper rifle, he'd seen damn near every facet of humanity.
But, every worker on the New Beginnings site had cleared a background check. A condition of the contract, since they'd be working around women and children. So, while some of the guys might look a little rough—none of them actually were. "Once I talk to the ladies," he said, warming to the idea, "I'll see if we can arrange a little field trip."
"You mean like goin' to a museum?" The older kid—Tommy?—looked disappointed again. "I wanna see the trucks."
He hid his smile. "No, Tommy. I meant we can go outside and look at the trucks." He glanced to Miss Robin. "Maybe you could even take a quick ride on them."
Their whoops of joy startled the toddler, who began wailing all over again. Wincing at the noise, he avoided Miss Robin’s annoyed glare as he beat a hasty retreat to the door. "I have to get back to work, but I’ll stop by to see you later, okay guys?"
"SO—HOW'S IT GOING WITH her?"
"Who?" Two days later, Hank drummed a pencil on the site plans, wondering what latent defect had surfaced in his personality. That he'd make the massive mistake of confiding in Jeff Traynor. A kid. A player. A guy whose longest relationship wouldn't outlast a pair of his work boots.
Sheltering Annie Page 2