Two years after graduating from college, Chesney’s father showed up at her apartment. It was a Thursday morning. She had never seen such a tortured look on his face. The moment she opened the door, Chesney’s legs began to shake. She sank into a nearby chair and a chilly fear, a dread, a heartbreak, hid inside as she squinted her eyes shut, praying not to hear her father say the words. Somehow, she knew already. Grace was gone.
Lyle Blake could barely breathe or find his voice. His heart was shaky in his chest as he cupped his daughter’s shoulders. He could not possibly share with his child how lost he already felt. He could not be brave enough at this moment to say that his mother was the strongest human being he had ever known. She had been his rock, his calm, his place for comfort. “Chezzie honey, I need to tell you...”
“Was she alone?” Chesney whispered. “Oh, Daddy, was Grace alone when she died?”
The thought strangled her. She was overcome with sadness. Grace lived all of her life alone. And now she died alone as well? How fair was that? Chesney imagined her grandmother’s lifeless body, snuggled under the handmade quilt on the feather bed. During those moments before she slipped away, did Grace realize she was leaving? Had she been frightened? Was Grace’s heart sad about leaving the world with no one there to comfort her? “I should have been there,” Chesney said as she buried her face in her hands and sobbed inconsolable. “I will never forgive myself for not being there when she needed me most.”
Three days later, Chesney drove south alone. She refused to ride with family members. She wanted time alone so she climbed into the rusty Toyota she drove during those years and cried all the way to the Bean Blossom funeral home, a one-story gray building crowded with people who loved Grace Blake. Women in their best Sunday dresses dabbed at their eyes near the casket. Old farmers stood outside the funeral home wearing out-of-style suit coats and clip-on ties. There was plenty of food, soggy meatloaf wrapped in foil, deviled eggs clumped together on paper plates, cakes, cobblers, pies. All that Grace loved, everything simple and predictable, and the people who loved her dearly. They gathered to repeat countless stories that Grace had loved to tell. They spoke of the many kind moments when their hearts were touched by hers. Feeling numb, Chesney stood near the casket, occasionally glancing over at Grace’s petite body, which was dressed in one of her favorite soft blue blouses with a beautiful scarf loosely arranged around her neck. Her favorite brooch, a gift from her only child on her sixty-fifth birthday, was attached to the scarf. It was a silver hummingbird with her son and granddaughters’ birth stones imbedded on the bird’s body. Grace’s hands were folded sweetly just below her chest and the faintest smile seemed to barely touch her thin lips.
One after another, Chesney greeted Grace’s friends. She listened to them talk about how they met Grace and why they loved her. She listened to them sob about how much they would miss her. As the older ladies from Grace’s Sunday school class wept against her new black suit, Chesney reminded herself to breathe. She awkwardly patted old men on the shoulder and thanked them for attending. She rubbed the top of her dad’s hand without saying anything comforting. How could she find words to comfort her father when she had none for herself? She understood the silent depth of her dad’s grief. Grace was the rock, the family pillar. She was the strong, relentless single mother who blazed a brave trail through the hardest times and found victory. How do you possibly say good-bye to a hero like that?
Still standing next to the casket, Chesney’s eyes landed on an older man with soft, white hair and piercing blue eyes. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him as he approached the casket. His face crumbled with tears. Chesney could have sworn the old man whispered, “I love you, Gracie.” But his voice was filled with an intimacy the other old men didn’t offer. He nodded an acknowledgment as he walked away alone with slumped shoulders and a blue handkerchief wadded into his hand.
Chesney never saw the man again. After the service, she scanned the church. At the cemetery, she again looked around but he was nowhere to be seen. After the burial, more than a hundred grieving friends crowded into the outdated parlor at Gracie’s home on Chesney Ridge. They rocked on the wrap-around porches, took walks around the pond, spoke in soft, respectful voices.
All these years later, Chesney still wondered if the grieving man next to Grace’s casket might have been her long-lost grandfather, Richard Blake. Would the man who left his wife and son actually return to Bean Blossom for the funeral of the woman he abandoned? Richard Blake, for all the family knew anyway, had never bothered to return, not once.
In the last few months of Chesney’s emotional disasters, Grace’s life had begun to haunt her. Sometimes she feared that like Grace, she would spend all of her life alone. She had not yet loved any man enough to want marriage, yet Chesney stayed in relationships hoping they would grow into something magical. She obviously didn’t have the skills to pick a good man, a man who was honest and loyal, a man who would adore her forever and make her heart melt easily, with no fears of being hurt.
Grace had made her life alone a noble one. Maybe Chesney was too selfish, too needy. Maybe that's why she was here now at her Grandmother’s house. Maybe Grace had somehow brought Chesney back to the place she loved, so her heart could heal and her life could begin again. But the continuing fear in Chesney’s heart was wrapped around the possibility of following in her lonely grandmother’s footsteps. She was afraid to love. She was afraid of emotional pain. But at the same time, Chesney knew she did not want her life to always be so lonely. She swatted impatiently at tears when they dripped over her cheeks and off her chin. But as she turned the corner to walk back to the staircase, her hand rested on the rusty attic door knob.
As a child, Chesney spent hours exploring the attic. Sometimes she sat on the dusty floor to turn pages in Grace’s scrapbooks. Other times, she admired her grandmother’s costume jewelry, fancy felt hats and beautiful gloves, a couple of fur coats and a foxtail-looking fur that Grace draped over her olive-colored coat before attending the Christmas Eve church service.
When Chesney was very young, still lisping frequently because a couple of front teeth were missing, she opened the old trunk filled with party dresses. “Were you a princess before you were a granny?” she asked as she floated across the attic floor, wearing one of Grace’s fancy dresses. Grace had laughed that familiar sweet, velvet laugh and hugged Chesney. “I was not a princess, sweetie,” Grace had said with a grin. “I was a silly young woman.”
With her hand resting on the attic door, Chesney wondered if she might someday get the nerve to pry the door open. She wondered how long it had been locked. And actually, why was the door locked in the first place? The previous homeowners had never tried to enter the attic. It never mattered to them that the door was mysteriously locked. The past owner, a lady named Mavis Logan, worked in the post office with Ruby, the postmistress. Mavis had shrugged and smiled, explaining to Chesney that she had no need to access the attic. The rest of the rambling home offered more than enough space for Mavis to provide a sewing room for herself and an exercise room for Charlie, her husband with cardiac trouble. She declared the two spare rooms as playrooms for the grandkids. No, they never felt a need to go inside the attic, Mavis said. She and her family certainly didn't need additional storage space. So they left the attic untouched.
Now Chesney stood with her hand on the knob, wondering why she was suddenly so bothered about the locked door. She had so many projects to do. Yet here she was, fretting about the locked attic door. Was she so nostalgic about being in Bean Blossom again that she was incapable of keeping her mind out of yesterday? When she turned around to go back downstairs, Dalton Moore was standing on the landing.
“Ms. Blake?”
She nodded and tried not to gaze too long at his ruggedly handsome face.
“I think I'll take a lunch break now,” he said.
“Lunch?” She ran her hand nervously over her hair. “I guess I lost track of time.”
Just walkin
g toward Dalton made her breath quicken. She quietly cursed the adolescent reaction to him and willed her heart to stop flopping around like a fish. His beautiful blue eyes and those lovely dark lashes...he was a beautiful man. And Chesney was suddenly overwhelmed by an incredible urge to rub her cheek against his beard stubble. Just as quickly as the thought entered her mind, she shooed it right back out again. Swallowing hard, she hoped Dalton Moore could not visibly see her insanity. Her lips quivered, not sure whether she might cry or maybe laugh hysterically. “I have cold cuts and cheese in the fridge,” Chesney said quickly. “I'd be happy to make sandwiches.”
Why in the world was she trying to present herself like some kind of domestic Donna? She wasn’t interested in dropping her paintbrush in order to slap together a sandwich for this man or any man. Why were these weird suggestions popping out of her mouth without notice to her brain? She wanted to stop in the hallway, gently bonk her head against the wall and see if she could knock herself back into reality. Why was she behaving like a pimple-faced girl around this handyman? Was she so quickly forgetting that Dalton Moore could be, and probably was, as big of a jerk as stupid Jack?
Moving like a robot, Chesney walked closer and the hunky handyman stepped backward. She found that reaction rather intriguing, but also hurtful. Why was Dalton stepping away? “I can make sandwiches,” she said again even though she didn’t plan to say anything.
Shut the hell up, you whiney, clingy, needy fungus!
“Thanks, but I'll go home for lunch,” Dalton said. “Rose isn't feeling well today.”
Rose? The name stuck in the pit of Chesney’s stomach with a sting. Who is Rose? Dalton turned to walk back down the stairs and Chesney was thankful that he could not see the disappointment on her face. She was confused by that flood of sadness. For goodness sake, this guy was just a handyman. What did a successful author of romance novels want from a man like Dalton Moore? He might be gorgeous. But Dalton Moore was simple and arrogant. He wouldn't provide an intellectual challenge like Jack did, even though Jack was a pompous ass. He wouldn’t care about corporate takeovers. He wouldn’t notice the stock market. He wouldn’t keep track of the hot list of places to dine and entertain. Heck, Dalton Moore probably didn’t even own a suit. He probably never missed a sunset. He probably loved to watch grass grow and flowers bloom.
Comparing Dalton to Jack made Chesney feel ashamed. Dalton Moore's profession and bank statement certainly had nothing to do with his worth as a man or his worthiness, in general. He certainly didn't strike her as a high roller, stock market watching stuffed-suit like Jack. Dalton did not appear to care about those things. Maybe that's why she realized just now that she had a school girl crush. He was the cowboy, the farmer, the carpenter that Jack would never be. Thinking about Dalton Moore in such a materialistic way; dissecting his strengths and labeling what and who he was made Chesney feel more than embarrassed. That thought process was exactly what Jack would do in a situation like this. Besides that, she didn't know anything at all about this man. She reminded herself that none of this was an issue. Dalton Moore wasn't attracted to her. And just now he announced his plan to spend lunch with a woman named Rose. He said he was going home, which meant they apparently lived together.
“I'll be back in an hour or so,” Dalton said as he skipped the last step and walked loudly across the hardwood to grab his truck keys.
“Take your time,” Chesney said after him, trying to sound flippant.
He walked several steps ahead and she followed like a rejected duckling, trying not to look like she cared about Dalton or his woman or his incredibly broad shoulders and tight ass. Every time she tried to avert her eyes, they deceived her and traveled right back to the handyman’s body, especially that breath taking area between his shoulders and his butt.
“Do you like the counters?” Dalton asked as he entered the kitchen and turned to face his employer.
“Wow,” Chesney smiled broadly. “I love them.” She ran her hand along the shiny newness and fell in love all over again with the picture in her mind of a sunny, warm kitchen. Her dreams for Chesney Ridge were slowly coming true.
“You're very pretty when you smile,” Dalton said. Then he turned and walked out the back door to his truck.
Nearly breathless from the compliment, Chesney peeked out the window. “Who's Rose?” she whispered. “And why do I care?”
Chapter Eleven
By the third week of August, Chesney’s hands were calloused and her back was constantly sore. But every single day, Grace's forgotten house looked more like a well-loved home. Since the granite counter tops and a kitchen island were installed, her kitchen was a breezy, yellow hug. She added a hint of red accents by placing her grandmother’s red canisters on the counter top and a couple of braided rugs on the floor, with red threaded into the fabric. Every morning she looked forward to filling the room with the cozy aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. During the long summer, her sleeping schedule had drastically changed. She wasn’t only sipping coffee, she was watching the sunrise. She wanted to completely celebrate that sweet something that welled in her chest. It felt like a nice lazy mix of hope and contentment. It was all she really needed. Or at least that’s what she frequently told herself, anyway. “I can do this,” she often whispered. “I can really do this. Look at what I have already done.”
Sure, she was still stripping several layers of wallpaper from the parlor walls and the upstairs bedrooms. Yes, the muscles in her arms ached. By the time she crawled into that trusty sleeping bag every night, her body was exhausted. But she greeted every new day with a plan in her head and new energy pumping through her veins. It was a necessity now, to get the major renovations completed before winter. It was a labor of love that Chesney could not describe. Something from her soul got left on every newly completed project. Though she was still infatuated with Dalton Moore, she didn’t worry anymore about how frizzed her hair might be. Much of the time it was stuffed under a ball cap or bandana. With every new day, the house seemed happier. And her heart felt light and cheerful. Many times her aching body begged her to at least spread the sleeping bag on top of that bare mattress in her old bedroom. But Chesney couldn’t move upstairs. Not yet. “It just doesn't feel right,” she said to Becca on the phone. “I feel far away from the world when I think about sleeping upstairs alone.”
“Maybe you just need more time,” Becca said. “Or maybe you should turn the downstairs study into a bedroom.”
“I'll think about it.” She was more bothered than usual by the fact that she was only comfortable sleeping on the floor downstairs. “More time,” Chesney whispered after she and Becca said good-bye. “You just need more time. Something about the broken engagement has thrown you off kilter. Something about the family thinking you’re a total nut cake has thrown you off kilter. Something about that very hot handyman has also got your head messed up. But don’t convert the study into a bedroom. That's the childish way out. You’ve got to overcome this fear of sleeping alone upstairs.”
Chesney would never admit to another human being that she happily waited for Dalton to arrive every morning. While he worked, she took any opportunity to look at his gorgeous butt. She had even stopped beating herself up about it. Admiring a beautiful male body didn’t mean she loved the guy. It didn’t mean she was interested in trying her hand at another relationship, either. When Chesney longingly admired Dalton Moore’s physique, it only meant she wasn’t dead yet. And that’s all she was willing to think about it.
A few weeks ago, Dalton stopped banging his knuckles on the back door; maybe because Chesney made it a point to unlock the door long before he arrived. He just walked right in like he lived there with her. And there was something delicious about that fantasy. She often peeked out the window in the parlor just to watch Dalton hop happily from the truck cab. By the time he burst through the back door, she had sprinted into the kitchen and pretended to casually notice his presence. “You're certainly the morning person,” Chesney muttered as
Dalton whistled his way into the kitchen. While she pretended that she couldn’t care less if he was in the house, Dalton offered a quiet grin as he headed toward the back of the house carrying two saw horses. Chesney sat on a stool, admiring how the sun danced through the kitchen windows. With a tiny paintbrush dipped in green, she spent last evening painting an ivy pattern across the doorways and above the cabinets. She was in love with how the birds chirped in the trees as she padded barefoot through the house, opening all the windows so she could hear the world.
“It feels great in here,” Dalton said that morning as he clambered through the back door again, this time with a ladder. “It feels cozy.” Then he glanced around the room at the hand-painted strokes of ivy. “I like that. Looks really nice.”
Her smile was much broader than she wanted it to be. But it thrilled Chesney that Dalton noticed her artistic touch. It also thrilled her that Dalton actually spoke, since most of the time, he grunted a response or intently spent the day sawing or hammering in silence. But their moment lasted only seconds. He carried the ladder carefully past the arched doorway and disappeared.
“Ms. Blake, could you help me for a moment?” Dalton’s voice somewhere near the library startled her later in the afternoon as she tackled the now hated task of stripping wallpaper from the dining room and parlor walls.
She found him on top of a ladder with a sconce in his hand. “Isn’t this where you wanted the new light fixture?” he asked as Chesney walked into the room. When she nodded, Dalton handed the fixture to her. “Could you hold this until I get the wiring corrected?”
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