Virgin River 09 - Angel's Peak

by Robyn Carr

  And there he stood, his white hair, which was not terribly thick, askew and spiking, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, covered with sawdust. His face was tan—but hadn’t he said he’d come from Seattle? Cloudy, dreary Seattle? Despite herself, she noticed his shoulders were broad, his butt was solid and his legs were long. What was a man his age doing with broad shoulders and a solid butt? She wondered what he’d look like without a shirt and was immediately appalled that she would even think that!

  The thought must have caused her to make a noise because he turned toward her. The smile that split his handsome face was bright. No slippery dentures there; his teeth were white and strong. He must have been good about brushing and flossing all through the years, probably the only thing they had in common.

  “Mrs. Riordan,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “Curiosity,” she said. “My son Luke told me about all the activity here over the weekend and I thought it was such a wonderful thing that I just wanted to see it for myself.” She entered the house farther. “What is it you’re doing?”

  “I’m cutting the boards for the new stairs. Noah will be along when he can clear some of his morning appointments. We’ll install the stairs and, later today and tomorrow, Muriel will help with the sanding, staining and varnishing.”

  “Muriel?” Maureen asked.

  “You’ve met Muriel St. Claire, haven’t you? She’s an ace woodworker and she completely restored an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town. She moved in right next to Walt Booth’s place, which is how they met. They’ve been a hot item for the past year.”

  “Hot item?” she said. “For a year?” She frowned. “I guess I thought they’d been a couple for a long time.” Even though many of her female acquaintances found romance later in life, Maureen never really got used to the idea. Viv told her it was high time she dispelled the notion that romance was strictly for the very young. Still, when she thought about couples the age of Muriel and Walt getting together, she couldn’t help but think of it as more practical than passionate.

  “Fairly recent, as I understand it,” George went on. “Walt was widowed several years ago. And while Muriel has never taken me into her confidence, the movie rags say she’s been married and divorced a number of times.” He grinned. “She must think the day she ran into Walt Booth—stable old war dog that he is—was one of the luckiest days of her life.”

  “George, I probably owe you an apology,” Maureen said. “I don’t think I was as friendly as I could have been when we ran into each other at Jack’s a week or so ago. The fact is, I do remember meeting you at Luke’s wedding. I don’t know why I was acting as if I couldn’t remember you. It isn’t like me to play coy like that.”

  “I knew that, Mrs. Riordan,” he said.

  She was stunned. “You knew?”

  He smiled gently. Kindly. “I saw it in your eyes,” he explained, then shifted his own back and forth, breaking eye contact, demonstrating what he saw. “And the moment I met you I knew you were more straightforward than that. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

  She was a little uncomfortable now, in fact. She felt vulnerable, being found out before she even had a chance to confess. “And I was widowed quite a while ago.”

  “Yes, I know that, too. Twelve years or so?” he asked.

  She put her hands on her hips. “And you know this how?” she asked, not trying too hard to keep the indignant tone from her voice.

  “Well, I asked,” he said with a shrug. “That’s what a man does when he has an interest in a woman. He asks about her.”

  “Is that so? Well, what else did you find out?”

  “Nothing embarrassing, I swear. Just that you’ve been widowed quite a while now, all five sons are in the military, you live in Phoenix and, as far as anyone knows, you’re not currently seeing anyone special.”

  Special? she thought. Not seeing anyone period with absolutely no intention of doing so. “Interesting,” she said. “Well, I don’t know a thing about you.”

  “Of course you do. I’m a friend of Noah’s. A teacher.” He chuckled. “And obviously I have time on my hands.”

  “That’s not very much information,” she said.

  He took a rag out of his back pocket and wiped some of the sawdust and sweat off his brow. “You’re welcome to ask me anything you like. I’m an open book.”

  “How long have you been a teacher?” she asked, starting with a safe subject.

  “Twenty years now, and I’m thinking of making some changes. I’m seventy and I always thought retirement would turn me into an old fuddy-duddy, but I’m rethinking that. I’d like to have more time to do the things I enjoy most and, fortunately, I have a small pension and some savings. Besides, I’m tired of keeping a rigid schedule.”

  “You would retire?”

  “Again.” He laughed. “I retired the first time at the age of fifty and, after twenty years at the university, I could retire again. There are so many young professors who’d love to see a tenured old goat like me leave an opening for them.”

  “And before you were a teacher?”

  “A Presbyterian minister,” he said.

  “Oh! You’re joking!” she said.

  “I’m afraid it’s the truth.”

  “I’m Catholic!”

  He laughed. “How nice for you.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” she accused.

  “I’m making fun of your shock,” he said. “Don’t you have any non-Catholic friends?”

  “Of course. Many. But—”

  “Because I have quite a few Catholic friends. And Jewish and Mormon and other faiths. I used to play golf with a priest friend every Thursday afternoon for years. I had to quit. He was a cheat.”

  “He was not!”

  “You’re right, he wasn’t. I just threw that in there to see if I could rile you up. No one riles quite as beautifully as a redhead. Actually, he was transferred to a new parish. I hear from him once in a while. We used to have the best time with those minister-rabbi-priest jokes. We were in search of a golfing rabbi for a long time. We never did find one.”

  “You don’t take things very seriously, do you?” she asked.

  “Not as much now as I did when I was younger. I’m proud of that, by the way. So, what do you say we pick a night for dinner?”

  “Have you ever been married?” she asked.

  “You asked that before. Twice,” he said. “Does that disqualify me as a dinner companion?”

  Truthfully, she’d been too rattled to pay attention to his answer. “Are you a widower?”

  “Yes. My second wife died of cancer a few years ago. You’d have liked her—she was such a lovely, funny woman. My first wife is alive and well. She left me over thirty-five years ago. You wouldn’t have liked her at all. Hardly anyone did. Does.” He frowned and shook his head. “Really, she was one of the most difficult women I’ve ever known. Beautiful, however. Very beautiful. But very…Oh, never mind. I thought I was long past complaining about her.”

  “Divorced?” she said. “A divorced minister?”

  “You’d be amazed at how many real-life issues priests, ministers and rabbis deal with in their own lives. Now…”

  “You know, you’re a peculiar man,” she said. “Why would you want to have dinner with me?”

  “I thought it was obvious,” he said. “You’re a striking woman with a strong and entertaining personality. In fact, you’re even more entertaining today. What a lot of funny questions and concerns you seem to have. Does the Catholic church have some sort of punishment for parishioners who date out of the faith?”

  “Don’t be glib,” she said. “I’m old school. When I was growing up, one didn’t even contemplate a date outside the faith. Of course, attending an all girls’ Catholic school pretty much ensured that. Besides, I wasn’t an ordinary Catholic. I was, for a short time, a novitiate.”

  “Well, now.” He grinned.

  “Well, now, what?” she asked.

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nbsp; He shrugged. “Very devout, are you? Then it turns out we have more in common than we have at odds.” He grinned. “I, for one, am glad that didn’t work out, but it certainly explains how you can seem so sophisticated on one hand and so old-fashioned on the other. Want to think about that invitation a while longer?”

  She sighed deeply. “I like to spend whatever afternoons and evenings I can with my newly found granddaughter. Obviously I can’t spend every evening with her. That gets in the way of my son having quality time with Rosie and her mother. But—”

  “Ah. But you like to keep evenings open for her. Understandable. How about a nice, leisurely lunch? How does that sound?”

  “Lunch shouldn’t be out of the question,” she said, surprising herself.

  “Bravo! Tomorrow?”

  “What about your work on this house?”

  “I imagine I’ll be spending plenty of time on this old house,” George said. “I’m planning to stay through Thanksgiving. And, besides, a man has to be well-rounded. All work and no play is no good, you know.”

  “You’re very persistent, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “Now, may I at least call you Maureen? Or do I have to continue with this Mrs. Riordan business forever? It makes it seem like I’m trying to get a date with a married woman!”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “My sons are going to be flabbergasted.”

  “Why?”

  “You might as well know the truth. I haven’t been out with a man since my husband died. And, in fact, I hadn’t been out with many before I met him.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me at all, Maureen. I haven’t run into a woman as difficult to get a date with as you. We’re going to have a good time, you and me.” And then he smiled at her.

  Maureen had no idea how many people George Davenport told that they were having lunch together, but she saw no need to mention it to anyone. She told herself she wasn’t keeping a secret, just not making an issue. The real truth was that she couldn’t bear to answer any questions—before or after the lunch. She was nervous, excited, a little frightened, afraid of disappointment…and even more afraid of not being disappointed. All morning while she tidied up Vivian’s small house and got ready for George to pick her up, her stomach was in flutters and she went over possible scenarios in her mind. What if he came on too strong? Or made a pass? Or tried to kiss her? Or worse—what if it turned out he was a terrible bore and she never wanted to see him again, for lunch or anything else?

  All those flutters and possibilities were gone minutes after he picked her up. “Have you been to Ferndale, Maureen?” he asked her.

  “I haven’t been much of anywhere around here.”

  “Good!” George boomed. “Actually, I didn’t mean it was good you haven’t seen the sights, just good that I get to show you some of them. It’s a beautiful little town. The restored and renovated Victorian houses and buildings are wonderful. There are plenty of shops, and just outside of town there’s an amazing cemetery built straight up a hill. It’s old and interesting. One of the big old churches in town has been remodeled into a large bed-and-breakfast. I thought we’d walk the town and poke into the shops. I put a picnic basket and cooler in the trunk—if the weather holds and the sun stays out, we can sit at the top of the hill, above the river, and have crackers, wine, cheese and fruit. There’s a blanket in the back. It’ll be brisk, but not too cold.”

  “That sounds so nice,” she said. Perfect, she thought—not too fancy.

  “Will that hold you? Not much of a lunch, but I’ll take you to get dessert afterward if you like. There’s a wonderful old Victorian hotel with a restaurant in town.”

  “I think you’ve given this a lot of thought,” she said. “Do you date a lot?”

  “I suppose you could say I do,” he answered. “There are women I’m friendly with and we share certain interests. There’s a neighbor woman I’ve known for years who is a food critic for the newspaper, and sometimes she invites me along to restaurants she’s reviewing—what an opportunity! She doesn’t listen to a word I say about the food, but I love the whole experience. I have a colleague I can invite to those college parties I’m forced to attend—she’s single and doesn’t usually have a date, either. Mainly I have a number of friends who happen to be women, and if I’m looking for something to do, I might give one of them a call.” He turned and looked toward her. “Maureen, I don’t have anything romantic going on with anyone. Ridiculous as it might be to think a man my age could be a playboy, I promise you, I am not.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  He grinned and grabbed her hand. “Of course you did, and not only am I encouraged, I’m flattered!”

  “Well, don’t be,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

  And then he laughed at her.

  George drove toward Ferndale, but went past the exit and took a back road that wound up a hill. He pulled off the road across from a corral that held four nice-looking horses. “The first time I passed by this spot, what came to mind was that it was a perfect picnic site. I know it’s a little brisk for a picnic. Will you be comfortable? I have an extra jacket in the backseat.”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” she said. “I love being outside.”

  “Good, come with me. You take the basket and blanket and I’ll take the cooler. Let’s go up this path a little bit, just until we can get a view.”

  Maureen followed him for a while, then when he stopped she turned around and sighed. The hill sloped down sharply and the river and valley spread out beneath them. “That’s beautiful,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?” he agreed. He put down the cooler, spread the blanket, got down on his knees and began to unpack the things he’d brought along. He had an aged Gouda, some soft Brie, cheddar and Muenster. He put out two small boxes of crackers and, using the cooler lid as a table, spread out grapes, apples, some sliced kiwi from a Baggie and a small plastic container of melon balls.

  “George, you went to some trouble,” she said. “You very nearly cooked!”

  “I’m not a bad cook, either. Will you have a glass of merlot? Or a soda or a bottled water?”

  She chose the wine and toasted him. “I’m glad you’re persistent,” she said. “This is wonderful.”

  During the course of their leisurely picnic, they learned about each other. How it was he had never had children. “I wanted them, but my first wife and I didn’t have children, and my second wife had a couple from a first marriage and, given her age, wasn’t keen on more. My first wife remarried and had a son, so I suspect it was my physiological problem that prevented pregnancy. God has always saved my butt in the clinches. It was a terrible relationship.”

  George wanted to know what it was like raising five sons. “Like war,” she answered. “My husband was a good father, but he worked long hours and plenty of overtime. I learned early that I’d better make sure they understood my word was law, or I was doomed. I know they called me the Enforcer behind my back. God knows what they call me now!”

  They talked about their friends, their hobbies, their favorite foods and books, trips they’d like to take, their homes and what they liked about them. They talked about their community service—he liked the soup kitchen and food drives, she moderated a grief group at church and was drafted for every fundraiser they had. Eventually they talked about their spouses and their deaths. Maureen’s husband had developed congestive heart failure and, although he was being treated, he didn’t live long after the diagnosis. “I guess he tried to ignore his symptoms too long and, though I hounded him, he wouldn’t see the doctor. Men don’t, you know. And good wives don’t want to aggravate them by nagging. If I had to do it over, I’d have had him abducted and taken off to the doctor for a full exam.”

  “No doubt,” George said. “I know what you mean.”

  She asked about his wife. “Well, a similar situation. Her doctor harped about a colonoscopy to be safe, to make sure there was nothing wrong. Something
a person should really have done around the age of fifty. But Mary was obstinate—it sounded dreadful to her and she put it off. She had no symptoms of any kind, after all. What neither of us realized, once you have symptoms, you might have waited too long. She went through surgery and chemo, which bought her a year.” He gave her a small smile.

  She surprised herself by covering his hand. “Time eases a lot. I did the best I could back then, and so did you.”

  In the early afternoon they packed up their picnic and proceeded to Ferndale to stroll the neighborhoods to see the houses, dawdling and talking and laughing. They had an ice cream and looked in the shop windows and finally climbed the steep cemetery hill on the outskirts of town. Maureen was fascinated by the head-stones and read many of them. Suddenly she looked at her watch and realized she hadn’t been paying attention to the time. “Oh, my God!” she said, plucking the cell phone out of her purse. “Rosie!”

  “It’s only three,” George said.

  “But I promised to pick her up today at three!”

  “I can have you there by three-thirty. They’re not going to leave her on the curb, are they?”

  “No, they’re open till six for working parents, but…”

  He grabbed her wrist firmly to get her attention. “Maureen, call the day-care center and tell them you’re on your way. No harm done.”

  “Sean. I should call Sean. He might be at Franci’s and waiting for me to bring Rosie home.”

  “Then call him,” George said softly. “She’s safe, Maureen. And you haven’t been a bad grandmother by going on an outing with me.”

  She stilled immediately. Then she looked at her cell phone and called Sean. “Hi, Sean, it’s me. I’ve been out to lunch and lost track of time. I can be there to pick up Rosie by three-thirty if you—All right, I’ll see you at Franci’s in a half hour or so. No, I’m on my way.” She ended the call and slipped the phone back into her purse. “He said he’d run over and pick her up and I should take my time. But I’d better get going.”