“Whatcha doin’?” she asked again.
“Making memories.” He knelt and showed her his last photo.
“Of my grandparents’ house?”
She swiped through his recent images, manipulating the gallery app with the ease of a millennial who’d been using smart devices since she was in diapers.
“You make it look so pretty,” she praised. “How did you do that?”
“I just played with what the camera saw, until it saw what I wanted it to.”
She scrolled her way back through the photos he’d taken in town. “They’re all so pretty!”
“Want to try?”
She snatched the phone out of his hands, nodding. “Can I do it on my mom and dad’s phones, too?”
“Anyone can do it.” He helped her take her first shot, showed her how to turn the phone to get a landscape view, how to zoom in for the next snap. Then he stood while she continued playing on her own.
She finally looked up, wonder in her expression. “Wow.”
He couldn’t have said it better himself.
“Let’s see what you got.” He crouched beside her and switched back to the gallery, selecting the first of her shots from the thumbnails.
She frowned as he studied more of what she’d done. “My pictures aren’t the same as yours.”
“It just takes a little practice. Every camera’s different. Get used to the one on your mom or dad’s phone, and you’ll be a pro in no time.”
“That’s so cool!” She gave him another smile, each one improving his afternoon by leaps and bounds.
“Camille?” a soft voice called from the porch.
An attractive, middle-aged woman stood there, the front door open. She was dressed in khakis and a green knit blouse that was covered in a dusting of what looked to be flour. Her hair had once been a vibrant red, he’d guess. It was a tousled, shoulder-cropped wave of auburn now, shot through with silver.
“Who’s your new friend?” the woman asked.
“Grandma Marsha!” The little girl sprinted up the steps, taking Mike’s camera with her. She shoved it at the woman. “Look what I did.”
Dutifully inspecting each picture, the woman smiled at both the photos and the child.
“Beautiful,” she praised. She hugged her granddaughter to her side and straightened. “Can we help you?”
Mike headed toward them. “I’m from MedCare, ma’am. I have a site visit scheduled with Joe Dixon. My name is—”
“Mike?” Bethany was suddenly in the doorway, too.
Her appearance—the effect seeing her had on him every time—knocked him back down a step.
“Mike?” Another woman—a blonde who was just a little older than Bethany, maybe—appeared from inside. “The Michael Taylor? You’re Cowboy Bob?”
The older woman chuckled. Then a very tall man with a thick crop of gray hair walked stiffly up to the ladies from the depth of the house.
“So, Bethie,” the man said, looking Mike up and down while he hugged Bethany to his side. “We finally get to meet your non-date to Dru’s wedding?”
Chapter Six
“I’m Mike Taylor, sir.” The young man moved his duffel bag to his left shoulder so he could shake Joe’s hand with his right. “And the other day was a . . .” He glanced at Bethany, and Joe watched the guy’s expression melt. “It was a crazy misunderstanding. I’m actually a rehab tech from MedCare. I’m here for your preliminary site evaluation before we begin our work together.”
“He showed me how to take these, Grandpa!” Camille piped up while Bethany stared at their visitor as if he might disappear if she blinked.
Camille handed Joe a smartphone.
“What do we have here?” Joe bent so they could look at the display together, wincing at the sharp stab of stiffness in his back.
“Pictures I took.” His granddaughter scrolled through the photos. “And these are Mike’s. His are better, but he says mine are good, too, and I just need practice on Mommy and Daddy’s phones. And he was showing me how, and look at what I did. Isn’t that cool?”
“They’re beautiful.” Joe pressed a hand to his lower back so he could straighten, earning himself the attention of every adult on the porch—including his new physical therapist. “It’s very cool.”
“You’re going to help my grandpa?” Camille asked the young man.
“I am . . .” Their visitor’s gaze flicked back to Bethany, whose attention had dropped to the motorcycle boots she’d worn today, along with a flowing, ankle-grazing sundress. “As long as that’s not a problem.”
Bethany blinked at Mike through her bangs. “You’re a nurse?”
“A physical therapist. My specialization is advanced cardiovascular and pulmonary cases like your father’s.” He smiled hesitantly at Bethany, as if he couldn’t stop himself. “This is your foster family?”
“Mine, too,” Camille said.
“Mine, too.” Dru grinned, like a Cheshire cat lapping up her sister’s awkward moment.
“They have lots of foster kids, like my dad,” Camille added. She’d been more excited than Joe and Marsha—who’d been thrilled—when she became an official part of their sprawling brood. “And now they have me, too, because me and Mommy came back to Chandlerville to visit my other grammy. And my mommy and my daddy made up, and now I have two grammies and a grandpa and lots of uncles and aunts, right?”
“Right.” Marsha nodded enthusiastically. Then she gasped as Selena and Oliver’s angel snuggled against Joe’s legs, too, and Joe staggered.
Damn his balance. It came and went for no reason.
He gripped the door frame. “No sense in sorting this out on the porch. Let’s take the conversation inside.”
He and Marsha hadn’t put too much stock in the rumors about whatever had gone down at McC’s last week, even after their son’s griping at Friday night’s dinner. Bethany had denied that anything of real interest had gone on at all. Joe and Marsha had figured they’d give her the benefit of the doubt until they saw differently with their own eyes.
They’d hoped to get a chance to talk with her more this afternoon, when Bethany and Dru stopped by to cart away a new batch of the wedding gifts he and Marsha kept accumulating, as neighbors and friends dropped them off. Which of course had been a ruse by the girls, who’d thought they needed to be there to support Joe’s finally agreeing to look into physical therapy.
Bethany led the way into the house, looking closed up again, the way Joe had seen her too many times in the years he and Marsha had had her as a teenager—and more and more often in the months since they’d gotten her back with the family. Her young man, or whoever this guy was, looked to be considering beating a path back out the door. Except of course for the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off Joe’s little girl.
Legs shaking, Joe trailed his family into the living room. He’d been reading the paper there when the doorbell rang. The kids were either playing outside, upstairs, or making themselves scarce—for fear they’d be assigned one of the random chores Joe and Marsha made sure popped up if someone dared to look bored.
Marsha hooked her arm around Joe’s, casually supporting more of his weight than she should have to, two months after his open-heart surgery. She waited until he was settled in his recliner before taking a seat on the end of the couch closest to him. Dru joined her, Camille scampering into her lap, leaving the remaining two upholstered chairs for Bethany and the guy who wasn’t her guy. Evidently this was Joe’s guy, if Joe wanted his mobility, stamina, and respiration to improve enough for him to keep working full-time. And to do more than sit on the sidelines of his daughter’s upcoming wedding.
Bethany claimed the chair farthest from everyone. Joe’s new rehab aide dropped his duffel to the floor. Mike remained standing, linking his hands behind him, clearly unsure of his welcome.
“Would you like to have a seat?” Marsha asked the young man.
Mike checked with Bethany, who wouldn’t make eye contact. His attention d
ropped to the hand Joe hadn’t realized he’d clenched on the arm of his recliner. It took Joe a while these days to find a sitting position that would ease the stiffness that had become chronic in his back. He loosened his grip and reached behind him for the pillow he wouldn’t have needed before, using it like a bolster. Like an old man.
Mike withdrew a folder from his duffel and settled in the chair next to Bethany’s.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said to Marsha.
“I understand that you and my daughter have gotten to know each other a bit already,” Joe ventured.
No sense avoiding the obvious. And, okay, he conceded to his wife with a raised eyebrow, maybe he was delaying the inevitable questions to come about his derailed recovery.
“I . . .” Their guest hesitated. “I wouldn’t say we know each other well.”
“Well enough to have the whole town buzzing,” Dru offered.
“This is a nightmare . . .” Bethany finally looked at the guy. “I’m so sorry. I—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike assured her.
“But . . .” Bethany started to say, her voice trailing off the way she used to stop speaking midsentence as a teenager—back when she’d been afraid that something she’d say could make them stop wanting her.
Joe studied the reaction of the quiet, respectful young man he’d heard had stood up for Bethany with as much conviction as her brothers. Mike reached toward her. He hesitated and pulled his touch back, as if not wanting to add to her distress.
“If my working with Mike is going to make you this uncomfortable, sweetheart”—Joe waited until he had Bethany’s attention—“I can postpone doing rehab until MedCare finds someone else.”
“No,” his wife and two daughters said in unison.
“Dad,” Bethany insisted. “You’re not putting this off again because of me.”
“You don’t want to get better, Grandpa?” Camille asked.
“Of course he wants to get better.” Marsha reached for Joe’s fingers and squeezed. “Your grandpa knows not doing what his doctors have been recommending for months is no longer an option.”
Joe did, even if he didn’t want the expense and the added fuss of at-home rehabilitation. But he was still too weak. He hurt too much. Too much of his life was slipping away. He had too many people depending on him, for him to rationalize not doing whatever he had to do to get better. And the kids always came first.
It was the promise he and Marsha had made to each other a long time ago, and it had never steered them wrong.
He patted his wife’s hand.
“What have you got there?” He nodded toward Mike’s folder.
“Your preliminary files.” Mike placed the paperwork on the coffee table. “Nothing that you haven’t already seen. Records from the hospital and follow-up visits with your doctors. Some notes from your insurance agency. Bare-bones details that I’ll want to discuss with you as we customize your rehab plan together. But none of that’s important right now, sir.”
“What is important right now?” Marsha asked.
“In my experience,” the young man said to Joe, “your commitment to the process is all that matters at this stage. As your wife pointed out, you’ve repeatedly delayed this step that your doctors prescribed for you when you returned from the post-surgery rehab center. And unless a patient is fully on board with the benefits of home therapy, committed to our program and to additional exercises between visits, there’ll be very little long-term benefit from our working together.”
“Let’s not overdramatize things, young man.” Joe strummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I need a little help stretching and getting my strength back. That’s all. There have been some bumps settling back in at my job. But I’m a claims adjuster for an insurance company. It’s not like I’m going to be running marathons.”
“But you’re not sleeping through the night, either,” his wife said, “or eating much of anything that I don’t pester you to eat.”
“Or doing most of the things you usually do around here, Dad,” Dru added.
“Like playing with me and the other kids.” Camille nodded for emphasis when Joe looked her way.
“Limited stamina and mobility,” Mike said, “and loss of interest in everyday activities are common obstacles to recovering from bypass. Dealing with the side effects of some of the medications you’ve been taking post-op adds to the problem. There can be debilitating mood swings and bouts of uncharacteristic anger and frustration and the sense of wanting your life back to normal. Which can make it even more difficult for you to commit to the work it’s going to take to get us there.”
“Us?” Joe barked. He felt his wife flinch and then relax.
Marsha smiled encouragingly, as if telling him everything would be fine.
She’d been his rock to lean on since his heart attack, making sure everyone else in the family was okay, too, especially with Dru and Brad’s impending wedding and Bethany’s return. Meanwhile, all the kids Joe and his wife were currently fostering needed to be looked after. And there was only so much his older, “aged-out” children could pitch in to help with. Their lives were getting busier by the day.
Joe was becoming a burden to his family. He was watching his wife grow more tired and worried by the day. And there didn’t seem to be a damn thing he could do to stop it.
“I think I can help you, sir,” Mike said. “If you’re ready to fully commit to your recovery, it would be my privilege to assist you. You have an excellent chance to regain the quality of life a man your age should have, particularly with this kind of support network in your corner.”
Marsha smiled, the sparkle in her beautiful blue eyes telling Joe that Mike had won her over. And her instincts about people were as good as money in the bank. If she thought this man was worth keeping around, then who was Joe to argue? Except he wasn’t the only one needing to face a few difficult truths if this was going to work.
Bethany kept staring at their guest, smiling when Joe doubted she realized it. Almost flinching when Mike looked her way. She was a bundle of nerves around the guy.
“I’ll agree to rehab,” Joe said. He pointed at his daughter and then Mike. “But only if whatever’s going on between you two stops being a problem.”
“It’s not a problem, Dad,” Bethany said. “Really. It’s just—”
“It’s just that my child who has finally made her way back to this family was already having a hard enough time settling in. And today she looks even more like she wants to find somewhere else to be.” Joe levered himself out of his chair with a groan, facing Mike. “I suspect that has something to do with you, sir. Which means you two are going to figure whatever this is out, and Bethany’s going to be okay with you coming around. Or you’re not setting foot in my house again.”
Joe headed slowly for the kitchen, motioning for everyone else to follow so Bethany and Mike could talk.
Bethany shot out of her chair.
Mike stood, too. He towered over her, wearing gym pants today, pristine white sneakers instead of grungy hiking books, and a relaxed-fit golf shirt. He’d shaved. There was no hat in sight. His hair, a bit too long still, was neatly combed. There wasn’t a whiff of the cowboy she’d met, until she lost herself in those eyes that weakened her knees.
“I thought you were a bartender,” she said, silently pleading with her sister and mother not to desert her. The other women followed Joe into the kitchen with Camille.
“I’m a lot of things,” Mike said.
“And you’re telling me you really didn’t—”
“Know that I would be your dad’s physical therapy aide when I kissed you until we were both senseless?”
Bethany felt her body heating at the memory.
“No,” he insisted. “I didn’t.”
“What on earth where you doing bartending at McC’s?”
“Law and Rick needed help Friday night. Thursday was my tryout. I’m a decent bar back. It sounded like fun, and I like to
get to know a place I’m going to stay in for a while. Unless Rick’s in another bind, I doubt he’ll need me anymore. But you never know.”
“You never know?”
The corners of Mike’s mouth ticked up into a smile that he seemed to be trying to control. Bethany realized how close she was to him. Practically pressed against him while they talked softly in comically loud whispers that she was certain her sister at least could hear—Dru’s ear smashed against the now-closed kitchen door.
“Are you okay with this?” Mike asked.
Okay with it? This was a guy she’d embarrassed herself with, whom she’d consoled herself with probably never seeing again. And even if she did, it wouldn’t mean anything. Only there he was, standing in front of her in her parents’ living room. And the needle on her hunky-guy radar was pinned to the red zone. Now Mike was going to be in and out of her parents’ house on a regular basis—unless Bethany put the brakes on her foster father’s rehab.
“Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?” She put several inches between them. “I don’t know what my dad thinks is wrong. I’ve told my family about Thursday night, and that we’re not dating. Why would it be a problem for you to help Joe if you can?”
“Well . . .” Mike caught her hand. He lifted her fingers for a kiss like the one he’d given them at Nic’s, making Bethany’s sensitive skin there—everywhere—tingle. “There’s the fact that you can’t seem to stop wanting to be next to me, but every time we get close, you keep—”
“Stop that.” She yanked her hand free.
“Shoving me away.” He backed out of her personal space, the way he would from a frightened, cornered animal. “What did you wind up telling your family about me?”
“The truth. That I asked you to help me with Benjie at the bar. And that I was . . .”
“Grateful?”
“Momentarily confused.”
“About liking having a total stranger kiss you? Or about trusting me to help in the first place?”
She inched even farther away. He had been a stranger. She’d been in a room full of friends and neighbors, and eventually family once her brothers showed up. But with Benjie zeroing in, when the pressure was on and she’d accepted that she needed help, her subconscious had run once more toward the unknown—straight into Mike’s arms.
His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) Page 10