by Hinze, Vicki
For a long moment, the child stared at his jacket buttons and worried her lip with her teeth. Then she looked back at his eyes, her own filled with resolve. “I can’t promise, but if you say it’s true, then I’ll try hard to believe it. I really will, Tony.”
Her leap of faith touched him. “Why?”
“Because you promised, and you didn’t lie.”
Her mother. It had been her broken promises, so many of them, which had taught Suzie skepticism and a fear of believing anyone but her father. Yet Tony couldn’t judge Meriam harshly for it; the poor woman had fought her emotional demons, too. How well Tony knew she had from her visit here. She’d, unfortunately, been one of his failures; too far gone before she arrived to trust in herself, to trust in him, and to heal. “Thank you, Suzie.” He placed a fatherly kiss to her soft brow, and whispered a silent prayer that he wouldn’t fail her as he had her mother. “Sleep peacefully now.”
He started to disappear, thought better of it, then walked toward the door.
“Tony?”
Gripping the doorknob, he looked back over his shoulder at her. “Hmm?”
“A yellow carnation. I won’t forget.”
She wouldn’t. She’d be more attentive than Batty Beaulah Favish next door with her goofy binoculars. “Good girl.”
“Will it be soon—that my new mom will come?”
The longing in Suzie’s voice cut through him like a knife. “Very soon. But, remember now, she won’t know she might be your new mom. We don’t know for sure, either. We have to let her and your dad figure it out.”
“Why can’t I just tell them?”
“Won’t work, little one.” Tony had tried that often enough to know it for fact. “Some things grown-ups have to figure out for themselves. That’s how love operates. We can encourage, but they have to decide.”
“Shoot.”
Tony raised his brows.
“Well, sometimes grown-ups take too long.”
He supposed they did. “Then we’ll have to be patient.” He winked. “And wish hard that they hurry.”
Suzie squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her jaw, putting her heart into it. Tony grinned. If wishes alone could do the trick, this case already would be a done deal.
But with Bryce and Caline’s challenges, their healing enough to maybe find love would take far more than wishes; it’d take a fistful of miracles. And Tony only hoped they’d find them, and that this case would become a done deal. For Suzie, and Jeremy and Lyssie, but also for Bryce and Caline. Their odds weren’t the greatest, but then if they were, they wouldn’t be here. Both seriously need loving. Desperately needed loving. And just as desperately, they both needed to love.
Tony eased into the hallway. Slumped between wall and floor, Bryce shivered in his sleep. Eons ago, Tony had grown accustomed to his presence cooling temperatures, though, truthfully, it still rankled. He visualized Hattie’s crocheted afghan, draped it over Bryce, then stepped back to study him. If the man held his head at that weird angle long, he’d awaken with a heck of a crick in his neck. “Well, why not?” Tony thought. “In for an ounce, in for a gallon.” He visualized a pillow, too.
After situating it under Bryce’s head, Tony straightened up, then walked down the hallway. There was a consolation to him chilling rooms. As soon as Suzie spilled tonight’s events to Miss Hattie—which would most likely be at the crack of dawn—Tony figured his beloved would be glaring at the ceiling and railing, heating up his own ears plenty.
A smile curved his lips. Heading up the stairs to his attic bedroom, he rubbed his hands together, hardly able to wait. Few things held the appeal of a righteously indignant Hattie Stillman. Even if, in this instance, she had every right to be furious. He never should’ve told Suzie that “new mom” bit. Never should’ve interceded into her dream without first knowing the costs. Yet he’d had no other choice. None he could live with anyway. And again he wondered. What would be the penalty for interceding?
And who will be penalized? Sunshine asked in a phantom whisper.
Fear trickled down his spine. Tony came to a dead halt, clutched the banister in a death grip. Why hadn’t he considered that his actions could affect someone else? Could affect Hattie?
Chapter 3
“I’m tendering formal notice of my resignation, Mr. Richards.”
The fire in the fireplace crackled and the image of Meriam sitting beside it, curled up on the rocker’s red-and-white-checked cushion and smiling at him, disappeared.
“Mr. Richards? Did you hear me?” Mrs. Wiggins pulled out a chair. Its legs scraped over the tile floor. “I’m resigning.”
Irritated, Bryce looked across the round oak kitchen table to the sour-expressioned woman now seated opposite him. Pushing sixty, her hair slicked back into a tight bun that tugged at the skin at her temples, she clamped her square jaw shut and swiped smooth the sleeve of the gray dress she reserved for wearing only on her official resignation days. He rubbed at his neck. She did look about as resolute as he’d ever seen her. Well, hell. “Again?”
She rolled her gaze toward the light oak cabinets and lacy white curtains, clearly not amused. Seeking patience, most likely. He’d opt for a little divine intervention himself. He’d only swallowed half a cup of coffee, had been thoroughly enjoying his now shattered early morning fantasy, and his bones still ached from their night on a chilly hardwood floor, especially his old football-injured knee.
“Yes, again.” Staring at the basket of porcelain bisque, yellow daffodils on the table, she steepled her fingers atop two stacked sheets of paper. “But this time I really mean it.”
She’d said and meant it at least once a week for three years. Bryce paused, rubbing at his tender kneecap, then held out a reconciled hand for her daily list of infractions. “What did Jeremy do this time?”
Miss Hattie stood at the island stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal and pretending hard to be stone deaf. If it weren’t for that disapproving twist to her lips, Bryce might have believed she’d managed it. But did she disapprove of Mrs. Wiggins’s resignation, or of Bryce’s reaction to it?
Probably the resignation. Though he couldn’t deny that his beloved moppets were ill-behaved brats, Miss Hattie, with her kind and gentle ways, had been very patient and nurturing, spoiling them and Bryce rotten. T.J. had said she was in her early seventies, but from her gentle green eyes and blue-veined hands to her generous spirit, she seemed aged and ageless, almost touched by magic.
Sniffing, Mrs. Wiggins passed her list. “What the boy hasn’t done would be easier to tell you.”
Bryce took the paper, still looking at Miss Hattie. Blue floral dress. Soiled apron and pearls. She looked like the perfect grandmother, not like the type to join her best friend, Miss Millie, for weekly games of penny-ante poker. But, according to T.J. and Maggie, that was one of Miss Hattie’s favorite hobbies. Bryce liked that about her. To the bone, the woman seemed approachable.
The steam from the pot had tiny tendrils of snow-white hair coming free from her loose bun and it had turned her cheeks rosy. Why couldn’t Meriam have hired Miss Hattie to care for the kids? In three days, they’d come to adore her sunny smiles and tender ways. So had Bryce. Instead—he glanced back to Mrs. Wiggins, then winced at the stark contrast between the women—Meriam had opted for the battleaxe and, because she had, God spare them all, Bryce couldn’t fire the woman.
Mrs. Wiggins scraped her cup against its saucer. “After specific instructions not to go into Miss Hattie’s greenhouse, the boy not only went inside, but created havoc.”
Havoc could be anything from getting a blade of grass on the floor to destroying the place. Awaiting further explanation of this particular “havoc,” Bryce settled in and watched Miss Hattie fill a canister with flour. Little specks floated in the sunshine streaming in through the window above the sink.
She dusted her hands on her apron, pushed the flour back into the line of canisters on the white tile countertop, then turned to him, looking torn. “Honestly, i
t was just a minor accident.”
“Don’t protect him, Hattie. The boy rebels against discipline as it is.” Mrs. Wiggins frowned at Bryce. “He ruined several pots of soil and clippings from Hattie’s most prized Peace roses.”
Weary though the day had only just begun, Bryce looked at Miss Hattie. “I’m terribly sorry. Of course, I’ll replace them.”
“You can’t replace them.” Mrs. Wiggins frowned down her nose at him, her arms akimbo.
His coffee mug reflected in the lens of her glasses, and the refrigerator’s ice-maker plopped cubes into the empty bin. Bryce’s stomach plunged with the hollow sound. “I can’t?”
“They’re truly not Peace roses, but a new hybrid I’m toying with.” Miss Hattie tapped a metal stirring spoon against the edge of the pot. “It’s not important, dear.”
Geez, a new hybrid. Months, if not years, of work. And it wasn’t important? “Of course it’s important.”
She walked over to the big antique radio behind the rocker, near the fireplace. “I wouldn’t presume to intrude, Bryce, but Jeremy was only doing what he’d seen me do.”
A new hybrid. Bryce’s spirits sank even lower. He was a lousy parent. That’s all there was to it. He tried, and tried, but he was no good at it. Love just wasn’t . . . enough. “But if he’s damaged something irreplaceable—”
“Bosh.” Adjusting the wooden knob on the round dial, she cocked an ear. Static gave way to big-band-era music. “Jeremy damaged his fingers more than anything else.”
“Excuse me?” Now Bryce was totally confused.
“Thorns,” she explained, her eyes twinkling. Walking back to the stove, she held up her hand, signaling. “Three Band-Aids’ worth.”
“Ouch.” Bryce bit a smile from his lips and lowered his gaze to the salt and pepper shakers atop the table. The angel had given him a way out of this situation. One that would satisfy the battleaxe.
He sipped from his burgundy marble coffee mug, then conjured up his best convince-the-jury voice. “Surely, Mrs. Wiggins, the pain and suffering in three Band-Aid bandages’ worth of thorn injuries is adequate punishment. Jeremy was trying to help—wasn’t he, Miss Hattie?”
“Oh my, of course, dear.” The coffee carafe in hand, she nodded firmly, then refilled Bryce’s mug with steaming coffee that smelled like a pint of heaven. “And he was only doing what he’d seen me do.”
“There you have it.” Bryce lifted his cup and imagined Meriam winking at him from the rocker. The cushion string had come untied and swept the floor on her forward rock. Irked that she would find this amusing, he blinked her fantasy image away. “I’d say we can consider the matter settled and forget about your resignation, Mrs. Wiggins. Don’t you agree?”
Her frown deepened, then faded. “Well, with three Band-Aids’ worth of injuries, I suppose I could reconsider. But just this once.”
Ah, finally. Peace in sight. “Thank you.”
She wadded up the remaining sheet of paper, obviously her resignation. The crunching sound eased the tension in him.
“Though I warn you, Mr. Richards, Jeremy is too willful to do himself a bit of good.” Her stiff collar jabbed into her neck. “I realize you feel I’m too strict with the children, but I would remind you that I’m only following Mrs. Richards’s—may she rest in peace—explicit instructions.”
How could he forget it? While crossing herself, the woman reminded him of that detail with every weekly resignation. But, the knots in his stomach subsided, she had withdrawn it—again—and thankful for that, he straightened his tie. His gold cuff link caught the light from the overhead fixture and winked over his starched cuff. “I’ve never once believed you’ve had anything but the children’s best interests at heart, Mrs. Wiggins. Nor would my wife.”
“Bosh.”
Bryce reeled his gaze to Miss Hattie. She looked more surprised by her outburst than he felt. “Excuse me?”
“I, er, dropped the spoon.” She glanced at the ceiling, as if looking at someone else, shrugged lamely, then pasted on a bright smile. “Breakfast is ready.”
“I’ll get the children.” Mrs. Wiggins pushed back from the table. Her chair legs again scraped the floor, and grated at Bryce’s already raw nerves.
Someone knocked at the mud room door.
He glanced over. A wiry, bald man around Miss Hattie’s age, dressed in a postal uniform, stood there, nose pressed to the glass and waving. Vic Sampson. Sea Haven Village’s mail carrier, who should have retired, and should have confessed his love for Miss Hattie, years ago. He hadn’t done either and Bryce wondered why, just as he wondered why Miss Hattie didn’t seem to notice Vic’s obvious feelings for her.
“Ah, Vic’s early. They must have canceled the Grange dance last night.” Miss Hattie raised her voice. “Come on in.”
Mrs. Wiggins returned with the kids, and Bryce situated Lyssie in the old wooden high chair Miss Hattie’s friend Jimmy had brought down from the attic. “Where’s Jeremy?”
“He’ll be right along.” Miss Hattie pointed through the windows overlooking the garden. “He had an errand to run.”
Vic dropped his worn mailbag to the floor near the mud room door. “Morning,” he said, wiping his feet on the throw rug. “The new owners of Fisherman’s Co-op arrived, Miss Hattie. They’re already getting mail.”
“Really?” She hiked up her eyebrows.
“Yep.” Vic moved to the cabinet, grabbed a cup, then, filling it with coffee from the carafe, he looked at Bryce. “Former owners moved back to California to be with the wife’s family. Her dad got ill and her mother needed help caring for him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Maggie and T.J. spoke highly of the entire family.” Bryce inwardly cringed. If he got ill, who’d be there to care for his children?
Miss Hattie sighed. “They’ll be sorely missed in the village.”
“No doubt about it.” Vic nodded his agreement.
Bryce adjusted the high chair’s tray. It clicked into place. Lyssie grabbed his finger. He tweaked her nose.
“Fine family,” Vic agreed. “The new owners have a daughter about Suzie’s age. Name’s Francine but she calls herself Frankie. Bit of a tomboy, I’d say. She’s already been to the lighthouse, visiting with Hatch, and now she’s helping Jimmy Goodson work on Pastor Brown’s car. From all I’m hearing, Frankie’s mother’s pretty riled up about that.” Vic grinned at Hattie. “Reminds me of Lucy Baker, back when she was a kid. Her mama wanted her to be a perfect little lady, too.”
“I remember.” Miss Hattie smiled. “Lucy turned out fine, and I’m sure little Frankie will, too.”
“I don’t know, Miss Hattie. She’s something else.”
“And the perfect age to be a friend for Suzie.”
Vic nodded. “Yep, I reckon she is.” He looked at Suzie. “You’ll meet her at the festival.”
Suzie set a fork down beside each plate. “Is that how come there’s a tent in the church parking lot? ‘Cuz there’s going to be a festival?”
“Yep. We’re celebrating the warm weather.”
“It’s usually colder here in November, Suzie,” Bryce explained.
“Sure is.” Vic leaned back against the counter. “We ain’t had a November like this since ‘sixty-three.”
“Hmm,” Miss Hattie mused, taking more strips of crisp bacon from the frying pan and placing them on a layer of paper towels to drain. “I think ‘sixty-three was wet and cold, Vic. Maybe it was ‘sixty-four. And you might also recall we’re celebrating the founding of the village.” Hattie passed Suzie a fistful of spoons. “Would you put these out too, dear?”
“Might have been ‘sixty-four.” Vic grunted, ignoring Miss Hattie’s reminder, then cocked an ear to the radio’s bagpipe music and looked to Suzie. “Do you dance the Highland fling?”
Suzie placed a spoon beside Mrs. Wiggins’s plate, then gave Vic a solemn, negative nod. “I don’t know how.”
“Well, now.” He set down his cup then hitched up his pants. “We can’t ha
ve a festival without your knowing how to do the fling. I’m in serious need of a decent partner.” He guided Suzie by the shoulder to the gap between the cabinets and the center island stove. “Scoot over, Miss Hattie, or join in.”
With those innocent remarks, the cheerful kitchen—where Bryce had enjoyed in peace but half a cup of coffee and half a fantasy that habitually got him through long, lonely days—erupted into chaos.
Vic instructed Suzie on the dance steps, then began singing along with the radio. Waving her metal spoon, Miss Hattie joined in, charmingly off-key. Mrs. Wiggins ate her oatmeal, crisp bacon, and homemade blueberry muffins in silence. With each sip of orange juice, she gave a little sniff, letting Bryce know she didn’t approve the variance from the children’s normal routine. He honestly couldn’t fault her for that. The racket was a little on the loud side for so early in the morning, but Bryce didn’t have the heart to complain. Last night, Suzie had slept peacefully, and this morning, she looked so . . . so happy.
“Bite!” Lyssie smacked her hand down on the tray of the high chair. The bowl rattled and her spoon clanked.
Bryce grinned at his demanding two-year-old. “Okay, munchkin.” He filled the spoon, blew on it to cool the oatmeal, then lifted it to Lyssie’s mouth.
Suzie giggled.
Unable to resist, Bryce let his gaze drift her way. She and Vic moved fairly rhythmically—more accurately, bounced semirhythmically—but her eyes shone brightly, her hair flounced at her shoulders, and she smiled. Bryce’s heart swelled, feeling too big for his chest. Oh, God, how rare was Suzie’s smile . . .
“Mrs. Wiggins!” Jeremy plowed through the mud room door into the kitchen, wearing more mud than a wheelbarrow would hold. “Mrs. Wiggins, I broughted you a present!”
Grimacing at his blond son being more recognizable by voice and the whites of his eyes than by sight, Bryce gave Lyssie another spoonful of oatmeal. She promptly spit it out, and a glob plopped onto her red corduroy jumper. “Geez, Lyssie.” Bryce grabbed a napkin.