by Irene Hannon
"Purely decorative. Before I started this rehab, I researched period Federal-style houses and I noticed some of them had murals"
"That's true. They did. A mural would be appropriate to the period. But I've never tackled anything quite this large. It would take weeks"
"That's what I'm counting on"
She turned to find him regarding her with a slow, intimate smile that curled her toes.
Uncertain how to respond, she tried to focus on practical matters. "This wouldn't"-she had to stop to clear her throat"be cheap"
"I think it will be worth every penny."
That remark left her speechless.
When the silence lengthened, Nick's smile broadened. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you put some ideas and estimates together for me to consider? If you're interested:"
Interested? Was he kidding? Doing the mural would be fun, but the big attraction was spending more time with Nick. And he seemed to feel likewise. She'd do the job for free, except she counted on her mural business to supplement her income and this job would cut into the time she could give to other commissions. But she'd lowball the price.
"Okay. Give me a few days."
"Sounds fair. Now how about some breakfast?"
"Lead the way. Considering the magic you've worked with this house, I have great expectations for your culinary ability."
"You might want to reserve judgment on that until after breakfast:"
She smiled. "I'll take my chances"
As she followed him back down the hall, she considered her last comment.
And realized that when applied to Nick Bradley, it was true for a whole lot more than breakfast.
An hour later, Rachel polished off her second serving of eggs Benedict and smiled at Nick across the table. "You weren't kidding. You really can cook:'
"I'm glad you enjoyed it:" He took a swig of coffee from his oversized mug and returned her smile. It was nice to have company for a meal. Much as he liked this house, it sometimes felt cavernous when he was here alone. More so since Mark and Coop had stayed with him last summer.
"You've also done a great job with this place. I envy the lucky family who will reap the benefits of your labor."
He dismissed her compliment with a shrug. "I enjoy the work. But I have to admit this house has been special. I like that it's survived for more than 150 years. That it has a history, and roots. The instant I stepped inside the door I got a feeling of substance and permanence and stability-even though the walls were literally falling down around me." He grinned and shook his head. "Go figure:"
"I sense that too. I wonder if foster kids are more attuned to those qualities?" She treated the question as rhetorical and moved on. "I do know having a home was always one of my goals. My house may be humble, but it means the world to me. And I love knowing I never have to move again if I don't want to'
Nick rested his elbows on the table and lifted his mug with both hands. He wanted to ask her why she lived in her little bungalow alone. A woman like Rachel should have a devoted husband and a couple of kids to come home to each night, not an empty house. Since Valentine's Day he'd kept their conversations light, but perhaps it was time to shift into a more serious gear.
"I'm curious about one thing, Rachel. And tell me to back off if this is too personal. How come there's no man in your life?"
Surprise arched her eyebrows. Fearing he'd made a tactical error, he backtracked. "Sorry. None of my business"
"No. It's okay." Her swift response eased the sudden tension in his shoulders. "I don't mind answering. Except all I can give you is the standard line. I never met the right guy. No surprise there, I guess, considering my lifestyle. I teach at two grade schools. I give piano lessons to children. Painting murals is a solitary occupation. I've never seen a man come alone to afternoon tea at the hotel. And what little free time I have I prefer not to spend in bars" She propped her chin in her hand. "I could ask you the same thing"
Nick had known when he'd broached the question that she might turn the tables on him. Had almost hoped she would. Unlike his off-limits past, this was a subject he was willing to talk about. With this woman, anyway.
"My job can require long hours. It also carries a certain risk many women find glamorous in dating partners, but not so appealing when it comes to more serious commitments. As for the bar scene, it's not my style, either. In general, the women I've met in that venue don't live by the values that guide my life"
"Did this make you think I do?" She fingered the cross around her neck, watching him.
"My faith is very important to me, Rachel:" His gaze held hers. "I'd like to find a woman who shares it. Or at least who hasn't ruled out that possibility."
He'd phrased his reply as a comment, but he could tell by the sudden conflict in Rachel's eyes that she heard the question underneath.
"I admire your faith, Nick:" She said the words carefully. "And I would call myself a Christian if asked to name my religious preference. But I don't pray. I don't feel connected to God like you do. I never attend services:" She shook her head. "I doubt I could ever get to the place you are."
"Would you like to?"
Rachel touched the cross again, and faint creases etched her brow. "I don't know. I do think about God. Every Sunday I pass several churches on my way to tea, and in nice weather I always see groups of people standing around outside, mingling, laughing, conversing. In the summer, one of the churches has a picnic on the lawn the first Sunday of each month. I've considered asking about membership because I'm drawn by the sense of fellowship ... of family, almost. But I don't think you should join a church for social reasons"
"Maybe deep inside your reasons are more than social:"
She shook her head, and he could see the regret pooling in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Nick. I know what you want me to say. I know what I wish I could say. But the truth is, I don't feel a compelling need to establish a closer relationship with God. I believe in him, but I've seen little evidence of his presence. I tend to think of him as an uninvolved deity who watches from afar as we humans make a mess of our world. I don't feel any sense of connection or kinship. I don't know how anyone can if they watch the evening news"
Nick did his best to quell the disappointment that welled up inside him. He'd hoped for more. An openness to the possibility of a relationship with the Almighty, at the very least. He liked Rachel and had begun to believe she might be the one God had sent in answer to his prayers. But perhaps their chance encounter had been just that-chance, and nothing more.
"I appreciate your honesty. And I admire it:" Nick tacked on the last as he looked at Rachel across the table and realized how much her admission had cost her. The attraction went both ways; he could read it in her eyes. He doubted she wanted to do anything to jeopardize the tenuous connection they were establishing, but he suspected she'd sensed her lack of faith could be a deal breaker. Yet she hadn't lied to him. That bumped her up another notch in his estimation. And had him scrambling to think of some way to convince her to give Christianity a serious try.
"When was the last time you went to Sunday services, Rachel?"
With one finger she traced the grain pattern in the wooden table. "I can't remember. But it has to be at least twenty years ago."
"Would you consider giving it one more try? I go to the ten o'clock service, and I'd be happy to pick you up. You'll be finished in plenty of time to get to your tea commitment"
She shifted in her seat. "I'd feel like a fraud sitting among a congregation of believers"
"You wouldn't be the only doubter in our midst, Rachel. Even people of faith struggle with their beliefs at times. Besides, it's just one service. Not a lifetime commitment" He kept his tone conversational, bordering on teasing.
Her lips curved into a slight smile. "Are you trying to strongarm me, Nick?"
"I'm not into strong-arming. I prefer persuading with charm:" One side of his mouth hitched into an answering smile and he lifted the mug toward his lips.
; "No strong-arming, hmm?" She tipped her head and studied him, mimicking his teasing inflection. "Then where'd you get that scar on your temple?"
Nick's hand froze halfway to his mouth and his smile evaporated.
Her smile faded too, and she reached out to rest her fingers on his. "Nick, I'm sorry"
He tugged his hand from beneath hers and shoved his chair back with more force than necessary. Standing, he crossed the room in a few strides and busied himself at the coffeepot as an awkward silence settled in the room.
Outside, a sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. Rachel rose and picked up her plate.
"You wouldn't let me help with the cooking, but I'm not going to leave all this cleanup in your hands" There was a false lightness to her tone.
From his vantage point across the room, Nick watched as she carried her plate and glass to the sink and set them on the granite countertop, rinsing them one by one, each action deliberate. The stiffness in her shoulders, the tautness of her profile, the tremble in her hand when she reached for the glass beside her were telling.
Way to go, Bradley. Ask her personal questions and then act miffed when she reciprocates. That's agreat example of kindness and charity. And a surefire way to convince her to accept your invitation to attend services, where she can learn more about how to be a good Christian.
Clenching his teeth, Nick tried to regroup. The scar comment had blindsided him, and his withdrawal had been automatic. He'd avoided talking about his past for so long that retreat was second nature to him. That was true about his youth in general, and the scar in particular. He'd shared the origins of it with no one in the thirty-two years since he'd acquired it. They were too painful to dredge up.
Yet he felt an obligation to offer some explanation to Rachel.
As he grappled with his dilemma, he saw the glass slip from Rachel's hand. Heard her utter a soft exclamation of dismay as it fell against the unforgiving granite. Took a step toward her as she grabbed for it. Watched as it shattered in her hand and her fingers turned red.
He was beside her in three strides, reaching for her hand.
"I'm sorry, Nick. It s-slipped."
The quaver in her apology, and the blood on her hand, had the effect of a punch in the gut. "I'm the one who's sorry" His words came out hoarse as he cradled her hand and eased it under the stream of water. The cut on her index finger was long but not too deep, he noted in relief. "Keep this under the water while I go get some antiseptic and a bandage:"
"It'll be okay. Don't bother"
"It's no bother, Rachel:" Her eyes were inches from his, the gold-flecked irises wide as she stared up at him. With an effort he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. "I'll be back in a minute:"
Leaving her at the sink, he strode to the foyer and took the stairs two at a time. His fingers were clumsy as he rummaged around in the master bath closet for his first-aid supplies, the streaks of blood on his hand distracting him.
Nick had seen plenty of blood in his line of work. Through the years, he'd built up a pretty thick skin. Spilled blood no longer made him squeamish, nor did images of it keep him awake at night. Yet these smears of red on his palm and fingers coiled his stomach into a knot.
Because they were Rachel's blood.
The significance of his reaction wasn't lost on him. It didn't matter that the cut was minor. He didn't want her hurt, period. And if he got the shakes over a scratch, how would he feel if she sustained a more serious injury?
The answer was simple.
Not good.
The reason for that was also simple. He was beginning to care for her a whole lot. Faith or no faith.
That acknowledgment brought him back to the dilemma that had led to this little incident. Uncomfortable with his invitation to church, she'd tried to lighten things up with an innocent tease about the thin white scar at his hairline. He should have laughed it off.
Instead, he'd overreacted. And his withdrawal hadn't been fair. Rachel had no way of knowing about the less visible scars it represented.
Perhaps if she did, though-if she understood what he'd gone through, if he explained how finding his way to the Lord had been his salvation-she might be willing to give faith a try. To take that first, all-important step toward the Lord.
But close on the heels of that hope came fear.
Sharing secrets was dangerous. It made you vulnerable. And you didn't take that kind of chance unless you had absolute trust in the other person.
Logic told Nick it was premature to take that leap with Rachel. Their acquaintance was too new.
Yet his heart told him otherwise.
Heading back to the kitchen, he paused halfway down the stairs to survey the empty foyer, the bare living room, the vacant dining room. This was a house made for a family. It should be filled with children and laughter and love. As should his life. There was a chance Rachel held the key to those things-unless he shut her out.
Rays of sun streamed in the fanlight above the front door, enfolding him. The warmth seeped into his pores like a calming balm, and he closed his eyes for a brief prayer.
Lord, please guide me-and give me courage.
Rachel was still standing at the sink when he returned, looking a bit too pale for his taste. Forcing his lips into a smile, he turned off the tap, took her arm, and led her to the table.
"I can't claim a great deal of medical training, but I do have experience with minor bruises and abrasions, thanks to my rehab work" He positioned her hand palm up on the oak sur face and treated her cut as he spoke. "I've also dealt with burns, pulled muscles, and electric shocks. Fixing up houses is not for the fainthearted, let me tell you:" He secured the bandage and picked up her hand to examine it. "There you go. Good as new. Almost. This won't impede your piano playing, will it?"
She flexed her index finger in his palm. "No. I once played with a broken pinkie. I'll manage with this."
"Good" He lowered her hand to the table, but when she started to retract it he tightened his grip. At her questioning look, he took a fortifying breath. "You mentioned this scar earlier" He traced the thin white line on his forehead with his free hand, his tone now serious. "It wasn't a rehab injury."
She went still. "I didn't mean to touch a nerve"
"I realize that. And I'm sorry I upset you enough to cause this" He stroked her bandaged finger.
"My clumsiness wasn't your fault. Not entirely, anyway. I've been tense and unsettled for weeks. I've broken four glasses of my own since the first of the year"
"You're still feeling that way?"
"Yes. I can't shake it"
He weighed her hand in his. "My reaction today didn't help, I'm sure. I'm sorry I pulled back. That was inappropriate."
"I have a feeling it was more like self-defense"
"It was prompted by that, he acknowledged, struck again by her intuitive ability. "I've avoided discussing that scar for thirtytwo years. Evasion has become a reflex by now. But self-defense implies a suspicion of danger, and that doesn't fit in this case. I don't feel threatened with you"
Soft color suffused her cheeks, and the hint of a smile softened her lips. "I'm glad"
He played with her fingers, examining their delicate grace as he summoned up the courage to continue. "Would you like to know the story behind it, Rachel?"
His question was met with a moment of silence, followed by a gentle squeeze of his hand that pulled his gaze back to hers. Her eyes were warm, inviting, empathetic, and her voice was husky and not quite steady as she responded. "Very much"
She waited in the silence that followed, giving him space to gather his thoughts-and his nerve. That was another thing he liked about her. She didn't push. And she was tuned in to nuances. He sensed she understood how difficult this was for him and would give him as much support and encouragement as she could. Still, this wasn't going to be easy.
"I should warn you that my story isn't pretty, Rachel:"
"I didn't think it was going to be."
He n
odded and swallowed. "Okay. I'll give you the abridged version. Straight up. My father was an out-of-work drunk who thought the world owed him a living and who vented his anger and frustration on my mother and me. In an effort to shield me, she took the brunt of his wrath. I went to sleep most nights curled into a ball and trying not to cry while I listened to my father yell at her. Then the abuse would switch from verbal to physical. I could hear the punches and slaps through the thin walls, and my mother's sobs as she pleaded with him to stop"
Nick lifted an unsteady hand and wiped it down his face. "Mom died when I was five. She fell down the basement steps. An accident, my father told everyone. But I knew different. I saw him grab her as she started down with a load of laundry. She tried to pull away, to tell him she had chores to do, and he said, `Fine. You want to go down the steps? Let me help you. And then he pushed her" His voice grew raspy, and he sucked in a harsh breath.
"It's okay, Nick:" Rachel cocooned his hand between hers, stroking his fingers in a steady, comforting rhythm at odds with the shakiness in her voice. "Take your time"
He downed a swig of his cold coffee, trying to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. It didn't work. It never did. "He knew I saw what had happened. He grabbed me and said if I ever told anyone, he'd take me out some night and drop me off the bridge into the Detroit River."
At Rachel's gasp, he tightened his grip on her hand and searched her eyes. "I told you this wasn't pretty."
"I know. It's just hard for me to imagine a father doing such a thing to his son" Tears laced her words.
"Maybe I should stop"
"No. Please ... tell me the rest"
Her sincerity was impossible to question. She might be disturbed by his story, might prefer not to know any more, but she had realized that to really understand him, she had to hear it.
The lady had guts. And determination.
More sterling qualities to add to her growing list.
"Okay." He gave a curt nod. "With my mother gone, I became the target of my father's wrath and bad temper. I tried to stay out of his way, to do everything he told me to. But I could never satisfy him. He kept raising the bar until there was no way I could succeed. I think he got some kind of perverse pleasure from tormenting me. One of my jobs was to clean the bathroom, and I remember one night it wasn't good enough. As punishment, he forced me to scrub the toilet with my toothbrush-and then brush my teeth"