A Father For Zach

by Irene Hannon

  Not a good sign.

  “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  Sitting in one of the chairs at the small café table in the tiny kitchenette of Edith’s rental cottage, he braced himself. “Yes.”

  “I promised I’d get back to you about the project. You’ve done a great job, Nathan, so this has nothing to do with your work. But I have a lot of baggage, as you discovered Friday. And the thing is, your background is so similar to…well, I don’t think I can get past it. It might be better if I find someone else to finish the job.”

  Her decision wasn’t unexpected. He’d seen her look of horror as he’d recounted his history. But it hurt nonetheless.

  “I understand.”

  “Is it okay if I mail you a check?”

  She didn’t even want him stopping by to pick it up. His spirits took another nosedive.

  “Sure. You can send it to me in care of The Devon Rose.” He recited the address. “Listen…tell Zach he’s still my buddy, okay?” His voice rasped on the last word, and he cleared his throat.

  “I will. Thanks for all your hard work.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “Goodbye, Nathan.”

  The line went dead.

  Punching the end button, he set the phone on the table and tried not to take the rejection personally. His failure to convince Catherine to overlook his past was more a reflection of her own history than of his, he told himself. Others with less trauma in their pasts might be better able to judge him on his current merits.

  But even if that was true, he was going to miss the lovely violinist and her charming son.

  A lot.

  Resting his elbows on the small table, Nathan steepled his fingers and tried to lift his spirits by reminding himself how blessed he was. This cottage was a good example. None of the other guys he’d done time with had traded a cell for digs like this, courtesy of a brother and sister who loved him.

  The unaccustomed luxury had actually thrown him in the beginning. When Marci and J.C. had ushered him in, he’d been stunned by the marked contrast not only to his prison quarters, but to any of his preincarceration abodes. For the first few days, he’d been afraid to touch anything.

  He was more comfortable and relaxed now, but he never failed to appreciate—and relish—the bright, airy decor. Though the place was small by most people’s standards, the vaulted ceiling gave an illusion of spaciousness. A queen-size bed stood on the polished pine floor in one corner, while a sitting area boasted a small couch upholstered in floral fabric. A brass reading lamp stood beside it, and an old chest, topped with a glass bowl of hard candy, served as a coffee table. A kitchenette and private bath completed the floor plan. It was more room than he’d ever had all to himself. And best of all, there were no bars. Anywhere.

  What more could a guy ask for?

  A family to love.

  As that answer echoed through his mind, an image of Catherine and Zach followed close on its heels.

  And the ache returned to his heart.

  Nathan had always known the odds of connecting with the first woman to catch his eye were miniscule. He’d acknowledged that very thing at Marci’s wedding, when he’d first noticed the lovely violin player.

  But why couldn’t the odds, for once, have been in his favor?

  Lost in thought—and wallowing in a healthy dose of self-pity—he missed the first knock on his door. But he heard the second one. Loud and clear. Checking his watch, he was surprised to discover twenty minutes had passed since Catherine’s call.

  When he opened the door, he found his brother on the other side.

  “I thought you were going to meet us at the garage?” J.C. raised an eyebrow.

  Brunch. He’d agreed to go with J.C. and Heather to brunch. The commitment had totally slipped his mind after Catherine’s call.

  “I’m sorry. I got distracted.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’ll let you explain that to Heather. She’s starving. At his stage of her pregnancy, mealtime is sacrosanct. Anybody who messes with it does so at his own risk.”

  The shadow of a smile tugged at Nathan’s lips. “Apologize for me, okay?”

  “No way. It’s your neck on the line, buddy.”

  “Look, J.C., if you don’t mind, I think I’ll pass today.”

  His big brother frowned. “How come? You were all set to go when we drove home from church.”

  “I’m just not in the mood anymore.” J.C. folded his arms across his chest and squinted at him. At six-foot-one, with dark hair and penetrating brown eyes, Detective Cole was a force to be reckoned with. Nathan doubted much got past his brother on the job.

  Or off.

  “What changed your mood during the past forty-five minutes?”

  “It’s not important, J.C.”

  “It is to me.”

  Those four words said it all, Nathan reflected. The visits J.C. had made to the prison, and the letters he’d continued to write—even after Nathan had refused to talk to him year after year—had eloquently communicated his love. The love that had been Nathan’s salvation. That same love was J.C.’s motivation for probing today, Nathan knew. If something was bothering his kid brother, he cared enough to risk Nathan’s ire to find out—and help, if he could.

  Except there was nothing he could do to remedy this situation. Nathan’s fate with Catherine had been sealed years ago, by his own bad choices.

  But J.C. would find out soon enough he’d lost his job. There was no sense keeping it secret.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shrugged. “I got fired.”

  J.C.’s frown deepened. “I thought the job was going well.”

  “It was. She liked my work. But she had a hard time dealing with my past.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to bring that up right away?”

  “I wasn’t. There were extenuating circumstances. I found out her husband was killed by an armed robber two years ago. In light of that, I couldn’t in good conscience keep my history secret.”

  J.C. raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “What a bizarre coincidence.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Then this wasn’t about you.”

  “She said as much.”

  “You won’t have any problem finding another job. There are plenty of people on the island looking for good workers with your skills.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I plan to talk to Reverend Kaiser tomorrow and see if he has any leads. And I’ll put up ads on a couple of the bulletin boards I’ve seen around town.”

  Heaving a sigh, J.C. propped his fists on his hips. “You remind me of Marci when she arrived. Her visit was supposed to be a vacation, too. So what did she do? She took on a massive garden restoration and then got involved in developing an elder-assistance program. Doesn’t anyone in this family know how to relax?”

  “What’s that old saying about the pot and the kettle?” J.C. smirked. “Very funny. But you don’t have to plunge into work right away, you know. Take a few weeks to chill out. Do some more painting, now that you have a gallery interested in your work.”

  He’d told his siblings about yesterday’s visit to the Blue Water Gallery, though he hadn’t mentioned the exorbitant price Monica had put on his paintings. He doubted they’d ever sell. But he’d been thrilled by her interest. J.C. and Marci had been, too.

  “I plan to. But I’ll feel more comfortable if I develop a steady source of income. I’m not going to mooch off you and Marci forever.”

  “You’re not mooching. These three months are our gift to you.”

  “And I appreciate it. But I want to earn some of my keep.”

  J.C. huffed out a breath. “You’re stubborn, you know that? Just like your sister.”

  “Join the club.”

  “Ha, ha.” He folded his arms across his chest and his demeanor grew more serious. “Listen, don’t let this job thing get you down, okay?”

  “I won’t. Now go take the mother-to-be to br
unch. I don’t want Heather to be mad at me for delaying chow time.”

  “Yeah.” J.C. checked his watch again. “The Devon Rose hath no fury like a hungry woman. You’re sure you won’t go?”

  “Another time.”

  “All right. I’ll check in later.”

  With a wave, J.C. strode down the stone path that led to the gate in the privet hedge around Edith’s backyard.

  Closing the door, Nathan tried to take J.C.’s advice to heart. Of all the jobs he could have taken on Nantucket, how ironic was it that he’d find one with a woman whose experience would predispose her to dislike him? But as his brother had also pointed out, there were plenty of other jobs out there.

  Yet as he scrounged through his small refrigerator and took out a couple of eggs to scramble, Nathan couldn’t help wishing the woman with the beautiful green eyes could have found it in her heart to take a chance on him.

  Chapter Seven

  Sitting in the breezeway late on Friday afternoon, Catherine leaned back in the chaise longue and drew a weary breath. The week had been a disaster.

  Nathan had not been as easy to replace as she’d expected.

  When she’d called Becky last Sunday afternoon looking for recommendations, the real estate agent had warned her the itinerant handyman types on the island weren’t always reliable. Nor could she vouch for their work. Each season brought a new, untested batch.

  After passing along the few names she had, Becky had wished her luck.

  In short order, Catherine had discovered she needed it. She’d ruled out the first three guys she interviewed less than five minutes after they’d arrived. The one with bloodshot eyes hadn’t been able to put a complete sentence together. The second had seemed to know less about carpentry than she did. Candidate number three had spoken almost no English, and she’d spotted him swigging out of a beer bottle before he rang her bell—at eight in the morning.

  So when Dennis Molini had shown up to be interviewed on Wednesday—clean, sober and seeming to possess some construction knowledge—she’d hired him. He’d started yesterday morning.

  By earlier this afternoon, less than two days into the job, Catherine had known he wasn’t going to work out.

  First, he was sloppy. He left tools lying around to be tripped over, he’d gouged the wall while ripping out the musty carpet and his drywall-patching skills were pathetic.

  Second, he was slow. Nathan had finished the first room in five days, except for the floor. And he’d done a beautiful job. In two days, the only thing Dennis had managed to do was rip out the carpet and repair a section of baseboard. Badly.

  Third, he took long lunches and frequent breaks, which he spent smoking in the breezeway. Since he charged by the hour, the meter was adding up quickly.

  Fourth, the loud music he’d played had driven her crazy. She’d asked him to turn it down twice, but she hadn’t noticed any appreciable decline in volume.

  Finally, Zach hadn’t liked him. Not that she blamed him, considering one of Dennis’s ground rules to her had been, “Keep the kid out of my way.” In hindsight, she should have known that was a bad sign. But she’d been desperate.

  Not desperate enough to keep him on, however.

  So ten minutes ago, after settling Zach in the living room with a video, she’d handed Dennis a check and said thanks but no thanks.

  Meaning she was once again without any help.

  And with only six weeks left to complete the renovations and finish the decorating, she was beginning to panic.

  “Is he gone, Mom?”

  At Zach’s question, she looked toward the screen door that led into the kitchen. He was hovering inside, scoping out the breezeway to make sure the coast was clear.

  “Yes, honey. And he won’t be coming back.”

  Zach pushed through the door, relief etched on his features as he climbed into her lap. He’d been doing a lot of that since the spaghetti sauce incident, reverting to a degree of clinginess she hadn’t seen in months.

  “I’m glad. He wasn’t very nice.”

  “No, he wasn’t. And he didn’t do very good work, either.”

  Tucking his head into her shoulder, Zach yawned. “Nathan did the bestest work. I miss him, Mom.”

  So did she. But admitting it wasn’t going to help either of them. “I know, honey.”

  “Maybe he could come back and help us again.”

  “I’m sure he’s working for someone else by now. I think I’ll try to see what I can do myself. My toes are feeling a lot better.”

  He lifted his head and gave her a skeptical look. “Then how come you’re still limping?”

  There was nothing wrong with her son’s observation skills.

  “I’m just being careful.”

  He nestled against her again. She ought to get up and fix dinner. But she was exhausted. And so was Zach. The nightmares that had plagued him for the first few months after the shooting had come back with a vengeance. Several times each night his cries would send her hurrying to his room, where she’d remain until he quieted and fell back asleep. For the past two nights, she’d disregarded the psychologist’s advice and let him sleep with her. The nightmares hadn’t gone away, but they’d been less severe.

  The spaghetti incident was the culprit, of course. But she knew it had been compounded by the strong attachment he’d formed to Nathan in the week the two of them had spent together. An attachment that had been severed as swiftly as the one he’d had with his father.

  Catherine’s stomach growled, reminding her again it was dinnertime. But she didn’t have the energy to get up and cook a meal just yet. For now, she was content to hold her son safe in her arms and relish the pressure of his soft, trusting body cuddled against her.

  Sleep tugged at her eyelids, and she let them drift closed, trying to put aside worries about her renovation project and her son.

  Not to mention the nagging feeling she’d made a big mistake letting Nathan go.

  As Catherine led her son down the aisle of the small church she’d scouted out in a quick drive around the island yesterday, Zach suddenly tugged on her hand.

  “Mom, look! Nathan’s here!”

  She jerked to a stop at his excited comment and followed the direction of his pointed finger. He was right. Even though she had only a back view, she recognized the chestnut hue of Nathan’s hair, his broad shoulders and his steadfast posture.

  It figured. Of all the churches on Nantucket, she’d managed to choose the one Nathan attended. Not that there were dozens of options. But still…the coincidence was odd.

  Zach gave her hand another urgent tug. “Can we go talk to him, Mom?”

  She guided him into the closest pew and put her finger to her lips, motivated more by embarrassment than reverence. “The service is about to start, honey. And we have to be quiet in God’s house.”

  He lowered his voice. “Can we talk to him afterward, then?”

  The eager brightness that had been missing from her son’s countenance for the past week had returned. She didn’t have the heart to turn him down flat.

  “We’ll see.”

  Although the service was okay—she approved of the quiet piano music over a booming organ, and the minister seemed warm and personable—she couldn’t concentrate. But the final few words of the sermon did snag her attention.

  “Sometimes providence steps in where we fear to tread,” the minister said. “The Lord has interesting ways of helping us focus on the things we know we need to do, but have put off out of fear or apathy. If we listen, He’ll tell us when to move forward. When to hold back. When to let go. All we have to do is open our hearts to the signs all around us.”

  Catherine frowned. She’d never been a great believer in signs. And if the Lord had been telling her anything over these past two years, His message had fallen on deaf ears. She hadn’t tuned Him in since the day David died.

  Her thoughts traveled back to that fateful Sunday morning. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, sipp
ing a cup of coffee as she’d waited for David and Zach to return from their newspaper-and-cinnamon-roll run, when she’d heard the sirens. As was her custom at the time, she’d said a silent prayer for whoever was in need.

  Never knowing it was David.

  Never knowing the man she loved was bleeding to death on a cold tile floor a block away.

  She’d said more prayers after the call came in from the police, alerting her that her husband was being transported to the hospital and that an officer would meet her there with her traumatized son. As she’d sped through the quiet streets, she’d begged the Lord to spare David’s life. Pleaded with Him.

  But when the chaplain met her in the E.R., she’d known at once that the Almighty had turned a deaf ear to her entreaties.

  She hadn’t talked to Him since.

  The notion of signs niggled at her, though. It did seem odd that she’d pick the same church Nathan attended, that their paths would cross again when she was most in need of help with the house—and with Zach.

  A quick glance confirmed that his presence was already having a positive impact on her son. Zach was fairly glowing as his worshipful gaze rested on the man who called him “champ.” As for the house—her aching toes were still protesting the work she’d tried to do yesterday.

  It would be good to have him back, for practical reasons.

  On a personal level, however, she was far less comfortable with the idea. Yet her son’s welfare had to come first. If Nathan’s presence forced her to confront some serious issues—so be it, she decided.

  As the piano struck up the notes of the closing hymn, she took Zach’s hand and leaned close to whisper. “Let’s leave before the crowd so no one steps on my sore toes.”

  He gave her a crestfallen look. “Aren’t we going to talk to Nathan?”

  “Yes. We’ll wait for him on the lawn in front.”

  A smile split his face. “Okay. I bet he’ll be happy to see us.”

  Catherine wasn’t as confident of that. Not after the send-off she’d given him.

  But maybe—if she was lucky—he would find it in his heart to be generous.

  Nathan saw Catherine the moment he stepped out of the church. She was standing off to one side, Zach’s hand in hers, the golden light of morning bathing her skin in a warm glow as their gazes met. She appeared to be waiting.