by Irene Hannon
“He’s waiting in the kitchen. It took a couple of Hershey’s Kisses from the bowl on the counter to convince him to stay put, though.”
So much for his lunch, Catherine thought with a sigh. But at least the bribe had bought her a few minutes to get herself together.
Gripping the vanity for support, she examined her reflection. Not good. All the color had vanished from her face, and small beads of sweat rimmed her upper lip. She could try and buy herself a few more minutes, but she doubted her appearance was going to improve anytime soon. Resigned, she snagged a tissue, wiped off the moisture, straightened her shoulders and swung the door open.
Nathan sized her up in one swift but thorough scan. “You don’t look too good. Any idea what’s going on?”
“Too many pain pills is my guess.” She propped a weary shoulder against the doorframe. “I don’t take any medicine as a rule, and I’ve been doubling up on the dosage. I felt a little queasy last night, too.”
“That could be it. Why don’t you lie down for a while?”
She tried to smile. Failed. “Not an option. I have a six-year-old to feed.”
Several beats of silence passed as he regarded her. “I could do that for you. If it’s something simple.” The smile he gave her seemed a bit stiff. Like a little-used window that had to be coaxed open. “I’m afraid I never learned many cooking skills.”
Under normal circumstances, Catherine would have refused his offer. She didn’t relegate Zach’s care to anyone. Nor did she allow strangers in her home. But with a throbbing head, a throbbing foot and legs so shaky she wasn’t certain they’d keep her upright much longer, these weren’t normal circumstances. Not by a long shot.
Rather than labor over the decision, she told herself she ought to be grateful that providence or fate or simple luck had provided a set of helping hands today.
“Can you handle a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
His smile hitched up a notch. “If you direct the process, I’m sure I can manage.”
He seemed to understand that much as she might want to take his advice and lie down, there was no way she intended to leave him in her home—nor with her son—unsupervised. She was glad he’d discerned that—and hadn’t taken offense. It made things easier. Less awkward. And there was no hurt in his eyes this time, as there had been when she’d rebuffed his gesture of friendship toward her son at the wedding.
Relieved, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “That works.”
He stepped aside to let her pass as she started down the hall, but she hadn’t gone more than three steps when her good leg buckled. He was behind her in an instant, his hands firm on her upper arms, supporting her.
Fingers splayed against the wall, she drew an unsteady breath. “Sorry. I guess that little episode took more out of me than I thought.”
Without releasing his grip, he stepped beside her. “You’ve had a rough few days. Why don’t you lean on me and we’ll get you situated in the kitchen?”
The notion of leaning on anyone didn’t sit well with her, but she didn’t have much choice. Not if she wanted to make it to the kitchen on her feet instead of her knees. “Okay.”
He slipped his right arm around her shoulders, and she moved closer to him, clinging to his left hand.
As they slowly traversed the short passageway, Catherine discovered a couple of things. Despite his thinness, Nathan was strong. She could feel power in the sinewy muscles that bunched in his forearm, in the solid chest that brushed her shoulder, in the lean fingers that gripped her forearm. And he was also tall, towering at least six or seven inches above her five-foot-five frame.
Usually big, strong men scared her.
For some reason, this one didn’t.
When they entered the kitchen, Zach looked up from a small pile of incriminating silver paper, his guilty expression morphing to concern. “How come you’re so white?”
“Your mom’s toes are hurting a lot, and her stomach isn’t too happy about the medicine she’s taking to help them feel better.” Nathan stepped in before she could respond, and Catherine let him. She also let him guide her to one of the kitchen chairs. And she didn’t protest when he retrieved the cushion from the breezeway and lifted her foot to an adjacent chair, his fingers warm and gentle as he settled the soft pad under it.
A little quiver that had nothing to do with nausea rippled through her stomach, and Catherine frowned. What in the world was that all about?
“How does a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sound?” Nathan directed his question to Zach.
Her son sidled a guilty look in her direction. “I’m not real hungry.”
Nathan swiped up the incriminating silver papers and deposited them in the trash can. “You must be. Hard workers have big appetites. And you’re a hard worker, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Zach wandered over to the table and sat, chin in palm, watching Nathan.
“I thought so.” He turned toward Catherine. “Peanut butter?”
“In the cabinet on your right. Jelly’s in the fridge. Bread’s on the counter, by the toaster.” She motioned tiredly to her left, the spare response all she could manage.
She watched as he went about his task with an admirable efficiency of motion. It was the same approach he took with his work. She’d noticed it when she’d stopped in a few times this morning to make sure Zach wasn’t getting in his way.
But as she took a closer look at him for the first time, she noticed some other things, as well. Flecks of silver in his neatly trimmed brown hair. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Small scars on his temple and chin. Brown eyes that looked as if they’d seen way too much bad stuff, confirming the impression she’d had at the wedding.
Guessing his age to be midthirties, Catherine couldn’t help wondering what struggles this quiet man had endured to earn those premature signs of age. Were they as traumatic, as life-changing, as her own? Were they the reason he was trying to make a new start on this island, as she was?
“How about some milk to go with that?” Nathan set the finished sandwich in front of Zach and raised an eyebrow at Catherine.
Refocusing on the present, she nodded.
Without waiting for Zach to respond, Nathan pulled a gallon jug out of the refrigerator, poured a glass and placed it beside the youngster’s plate.
“What’re you eating?” Zach inspected his sandwich as he queried Nathan.
“I brought a turkey sandwich from home.”
“Why don’t you go get it? That way, we can eat together.”
Nathan cast a quick glance at Catherine and rested his hands on the back of one of the two empty chairs. “I think I’ll have lunch later. After you’re finished.”
Plunking an elbow on the table, Zach propped his chin in his hand again and pressed a finger into his sandwich, creating dimples in the soft white bread. “It’s no fun to eat by yourself.”
There was a cue here for her, Catherine realized. She could take it—invite this stranger to dine with her son—or remain silent and let him walk out. To eat alone.
Two weeks ago, if someone had told her she’d even consider inviting a man she’d known for only three days to eat in her kitchen, she would have dismissed the comment as absurd. She didn’t trust easily. Not anymore. But Nathan had come to her via a respected E.R. doctor. And he’d done some work at a church, offered to give her the name of his pastor. As far as she was concerned, those were good character references.
In her heart, however, she knew that wasn’t the only reason her attitude toward this man was softening. Even though she knew nothing about Nathan’s background, she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, in some way, they might be kindred spirits. And her instincts also told her that this man, who had charmed her son with his patience and kindness, possessed a gentle, caring spirit incapable of inflicting pain.
When the silence lengthened, Nathan started to turn away. But not before she caught a flash of sorrow in his eyes that tugged at her soul. Again. An
d pricked her conscience. Again.
This was her chance to try and make amends for the hurt her unfriendliness had inflicted at the wedding reception, she realized.
“Wait!”
He cast a glance over his shoulder.
“If you’re hungry now, why don’t you eat with Zach? Unless you’d rather spend some time alone on your lunch break.”
He gave a slight shake of his head, and gratitude softened those velvet-brown irises. “I’ve had plenty of time alone. I’d welcome some company over lunch.”
His response intrigued her, but when he offered nothing else, she gestured to the refrigerator. “Help yourself to some soda. And there are a few homemade brownies left on that foil-covered plate on the counter. You and Zach can divide them up. Then it’s naptime for you, young man.”
Zach scrunched up his face. “I hate naps. I’d rather help Nathan.”
Leaning over, Nathan rested his forearms along the top of the chair back, putting him closer to eye-level with Zach. “I’m going to work on the ceiling this afternoon anyway, champ. You can help me again with the wallpaper tomorrow morning. How does that sound?”
Was this a sudden change of plan? Catherine wondered. Designed to make the nap more palatable by reassuring her son he wouldn’t be missing anything? If so, she hoped Nathan’s psychology worked. She wasn’t up to any more battles today.
“Okay, I guess.” Zach sounded more resigned than enthusiastic.
To sweeten the pot, Catherine touched his hand. “I’m going to lie down this afternoon, too, for an hour or two. How about if we nap together?”
His eyes brightened. “In your bed?”
She’d hoped that would do the trick. Sleeping with Mom was a rare treat, and she didn’t bestow it often. The child psychologist had discouraged her from making it a habit, stressing the importance of returning to a normal routine as soon as possible. Besides, there were too many nights when she still woke up crying. Or shaking. Zach didn’t need to witness that.
“Yes. In my bed.”
“Cool!” Zach went back to eating with renewed enthusiasm. “You want to take a nap with us, too, Nathan? It might be a little crowded, but I bet we could all fit.”
Heat surged on Catherine’s neck, and she made a pretense of adjusting the laces on her elevated hiking boot.
“I have work to do, champ.”
Nathan’s husky reply did nothing to quell the unexpected flurry of butterflies Zach’s comment had set off in her stomach. Fortunately he exited to retrieve his lunch, giving her a chance to compose herself. And when he returned, he kept the conversation focused on the remodeling project.
Once lunch was finished and he and Zach had polished off all the remaining brownies, Nathan went back to work with a nod in her direction and a quiet thank-you for the dessert and soda.
Fifteen minutes later, with Zach cuddled up beside her and already drifting off, her own eyelids began to grow heavy. Until a sudden realization drew her back from the brink of sleep.
For the first time in two years, she hadn’t double-checked the locks on every door before lying down.
Snuggling closer to Zach, she told herself she ought to get up and secure the house.
But she didn’t.
Because oddly enough, despite the presence of a stranger on her property, she felt safe.
Chapter Four
On Friday, as Nathan tapped the lid closed on the can containing the soft-ochre–colored paint Catherine had chosen for the psychedelic room, Zach planted his chubby hands on his hips and inspected the transformed space.
“This looks real good, Nathan.”
Standing, he did his own survey. And came to the same conclusion. Although the flooring still needed to be laid, the rest of the room was ready for decorating.
“Thanks, champ. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
A glow suffused the little boy’s face. “I like helping. Mom says I’m a good helper.”
“She’s right. I’m going to run over to the house and tell her I’m leaving, okay?”
“Okay. You want me to put your tools back in your toolbox while you’re gone?”
Nathan scanned the room. One of his ground rules was that Zach wasn’t to touch any tool without asking permission. And the little boy had followed it to the letter. But nothing lethal was lying around. Just a hammer, a paint-can opener and a couple of screwdrivers. “Sure. I’ll be back in a minute.”
As he exited the room, Nathan was pleased by the progress he’d made during his first week on the job—both with the room and with his employer. She’d begun to relax around him. To hover less. To trust him with Zach. That meant a lot. As did the routine they’d all fallen into of sharing their lunch at a glass-topped wicker table in the breezeway. Their conversation was always impersonal, focused mostly on the renovation, but the normalcy of it, and the sense of acceptance he felt, were a balm to his soul.
Crossing the breezeway, he could see Catherine through the screen door. She was angled away from him, arms akimbo, shoulders taut. As he approached, he heard her expel a frustrated breath before setting a jar on the counter.
He tapped on the door. “Looks like round one went to the jar.”
She twisted toward him and gave a rueful shrug. “Try round three. I think I’m down for the count.”
“Would you like me to give it a try?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“May I?” He gestured to the door. She hadn’t asked him in since the day she’d gotten sick, and though her wary manner was softening, he didn’t want to do anything to make her nervous.
“Sure.”
She picked up the jar and met him halfway across the room, limping a little less than she had on Monday.
“How are the toes today?” He took the jar of spaghetti sauce as he asked the question.
“The swelling has gone down, and they don’t hurt as much. Keeping them elevated helps a lot. But I don’t like sitting around.”
That didn’t surprise him. Catherine struck him as a take-charge, get-it-done kind of woman.
He took a firm grip on the lid, preparing to give it a strong twist. “Well, maybe by next week you…”
His stopped midsentence as the lid came off far more easily than he expected and spaghetti sauce spewed all over the front of his gray T-shirt, dripping onto the floor at his feet.
Catherine gave a little shriek and took a quick step back.
Recovering from his surprise, Nathan set the jar on the counter and sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry about that. I think I’m wearing your dinner. If you have a dish towel, I’ll…”
Behind him, the screen door opened. “Hey, Mom, I heard you yell. What…”
As Nathan swiveled toward Zach, the little boy froze. In the space of a few heartbeats, every ounce of color drained from his face and he began to shake.
Alarmed, Nathan took a step toward him. “Hey, champ, it’s okay.”
The boy jerked back, his breath coming in shallow puffs.
“Oh, God!”
Nathan heard Catherine’s murmured, anguished comment a second before she brushed past him, headed for her son. Wincing as she dropped to one knee in front of him, she pulled him close.
“I’m here, Zach. Hold on to me. It’s okay. Nathan spilled some spaghetti sauce on his T-shirt. That’s all. It’s just spaghetti sauce. I guess we’ll have to eat something else for dinner, huh? How does pizza sound? Would you like that?”
No response. The little boy continued to shake, his eyes glazed.
Nathan had no idea what was going on. Why was Zach so upset?
But that question could wait. At the moment, he was more interested in comforting a traumatized little boy and his frantic mother.
Stripping off the stained T-shirt that had apparently caused Zach’s distress, he used it to wipe up the spaghetti sauce on the floor, then tossed it into the sink before joining the duo huddled near the screen door.
“What can I do to help, Mrs. Walker?”
<
br /> She shook her head, still clinging to her son. “Nothing. I just need to calm him down before he hyperventilates.” She backed off a bit to examine the boy’s face. “Zach, honey, it’s okay. Everybody’s fine.” She stroked his hair, his cheeks, his hands as she spoke. “Nathan’s not hurt. He’s right here.”
Nathan dropped to their level, balancing on the balls of his feet. Following his instincts, he cocooned one of Zach’s hands in his, his stomach contracting at the child’s obvious terror. He could feel Catherine quivering beside him as well, fighting her own panic. “Hey, champ, did you finish putting away all the tools?” He kept his voice gentle, soothing—the way he wished an understanding adult would have talked him through his own childhood traumas.
No response.
He tried again.
“I was thinking that next week you could help me paint, if your mom says it’s okay. Do you know how to paint?”
A flicker of awareness dawned in the child’s blue eyes, the glaze dissipating slightly.
“It’s okay with me if you want to help Nathan paint, Zach.” Catherine jumped in, following his lead. “I might join you myself. Maybe we could have a painting party. Would you like that?”
Zach blinked. Sucked in a sharp breath. Then he gripped Nathan’s hand and stared at him wide-eyed. “I saw blood.”
His quavery words jolted Zach.
“No, honey. It was spaghetti sauce.” Catherine ran her fingers through his fine blond hair. “Nathan spilled it all over his shirt. Like you spilled that jar of applesauce when we first moved here, remember? But it’s all cleaned up now. And I think we’ll have pizza for dinner instead. Would you like that?”
A shudder passed through Zach and he tightened his grip on Nathan’s hand, exhibiting surprising strength for such a little thing. “Will you stay?”
Nathan deferred to Catherine with a silent look.
Unlike the day of the lunch invitation, she didn’t hesitate. “If you can, it would help.”
He didn’t hesitate, either. “I’ll stay.”
“Thanks.” Her grateful gaze met his for a brief second before she reached for Zach, who was still way too pale. “How about you lie down for a few minutes while I get the pizza ready?”