One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  “That’s what prayer’s all about.”

  “I mean talk as in a conversation.”

  Maureen smiled. “Did you ever see that old movie called Oh, God?”

  “No.”

  “The script had some serious theological issues, but there’s a great line at the end when the main character is talking to a physical manifestation of God. He asks if God will reappear in the future if he needs further guidance, and God—in the form of George Burns—says, ‘You talk. I’ll listen.’ And the truth is, he does listen. He also answers our prayers, often in ways we least expect.” Maureen leaned close and gave her a quick hug. “Now if I were you, I’d go have another one of those oatmeal cookies. An occasional treat is a great morale booster.”

  With a wave, she stepped through the door and crossed the lawn toward her house.

  Claire watched until she disappeared onto her front porch, then slowly shut the door and wandered back into the kitchen. The plate of cookies beckoned, and for once she gave in to the temptation. Another hundred calories wasn’t going to add an inch to her hips.

  Chewing the cookie, she retook her place at the table. Maureen’s story about the George Burns movie was cute—but she could sympathize with the main character. She might pay lip service to prayer for Haley’s sake, but it felt dry and rote and very one-way. If God was listening, she hadn’t seen any evidence of it.

  Still, she hoped he gave Maureen the guidance she was seeking with her decision.

  Because trusting in God was one thing. Trusting in men was another. And while Maureen had apparently gotten positive vibes from David McMillan, his assistant hadn’t impressed Claire in the least.

  She only hoped her friend wasn’t about to make a mistake she’d live to regret.

  4

  “Turn right.”

  Following the Yoda voice from Star Wars that he’d chosen for his GPS system, Keith swung onto Maureen Chandler’s street and eased back on the gas pedal.

  This was ridiculous.

  Why in the world had David gone to see the professor after her neighbor asked them to drop the whole thing?

  And why had Dr. Chandler insisted on meeting him before accepting his boss’s offer of help?

  Blood pressure spiking, he compressed his lips and flexed his fingers on the wheel. This assignment could have been handled with a few phone calls or emails. He needed facts, not small talk. And once he had those facts in hand, he’d organize, analyze, and act—just as he did with every assignment.

  Not that there’d be much acting required in this case. Based on the information the woman had shared with David, she’d covered all the bases already. Dot a few i’s, cross a few t’s, he’d be done.

  First, however, he had to get through this meeting.

  Gritting his teeth, he increased his pressure on the gas pedal and accelerated slowly down the sidewalk-lined street of small but well-kept houses—the kind of neighborhood once favored by rising young professionals or retired couples who’d downsized.

  But a lot of younger folks—like him—went the hassle-free condo route these days, while a lot of older people were choosing retirement communities for the same reason. Why bother with home maintenance chores if you didn’t have to? Surely that woman on her hands and knees doing something to her driveway had better ways to spend a Saturday morning.

  “You have arrived.”

  Still rolling, he verified the number on the mailbox. Yep. This was it.

  “You have arrived. Powerful, you have become.”

  The Star Wars theme began to play.

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it the first time, Yoda.”

  He flipped off the device as he pulled close to the curb, and the X-wing starfighter icon representing his car disappeared. After setting the brake, he checked the digital clock on the dashboard. Eight fifty-eight. Right on time.

  Tucking the notebook he used for business meetings under his arm, he slid out of the car and turned to find the woman next door—the one who’d been working on her driveway—watching him.

  The woman next door.

  Maureen Chandler’s neighbor.

  His jaw dropped.

  Could that stunning blonde be Haley Summers’s snippy mother?

  As she broke eye contact, stood, and walked toward her garage, he squinted at her mailbox. The number matched the return address on Haley’s letter.

  Huh.

  Claire Summers wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

  For one thing, in her skinny jeans and a faded T-shirt that appeared to have shrunk a size or two, she didn’t look old enough to have an eleven-year-old daughter. He’d have pegged her at twenty-four, twenty-five, tops.

  And a blonde . . . for some reason he’d expected a brunette with a short, no-nonsense cut. Could that ripened-wheat color of her long hair be real—or was it bottled?

  As for those soft curves . . .

  Keith jerked his gaze away from her retreating figure. He wasn’t here to ogle Dr. Chandler’s neighbor. Nor was she likely to appreciate his perusal if she happened to glance over her shoulder. In fact, given her prickly attitude during their terse phone conversation, she might very well march over and whack him with the broom propped against her garage.

  Time to get to work.

  Keeping his attention fixed on Maureen Chandler’s door, he strode up the walk, stepped onto the porch, and pressed the bell. He’d make this as quick as possible and then get on with his day. A couple of hours at the office to finish a report for David and review the latest numbers for the new project in Wentzville, an hour at the gym, a quick jog, and a cursory cleaning of his condo.

  The perfect Saturday—except for this part.

  At least it would be over soon.

  And perhaps, if the fates were kind, the good professor would decide she didn’t want to take advantage of David’s offer after all.

  One could hope, anyway.

  Keith Watson didn’t want to be here.

  Tray of coffee and scones in hand, Maureen rejoined him in the living room, where he was sitting stiffly on the edge of one of her wing chairs. She couldn’t fault his manners. Even now, he stood to relieve her of the tray and settle it on the coffee table. Waited until she took her seat before sitting himself. Accepted a cup of coffee while politely declining a scone.

  But she wasn’t picking up a single positive vibe.

  No wonder Claire hadn’t been gung ho on the man.

  Yet David McMillan had praised his sterling qualities.

  It was an odd disconnect. Claire’s instincts were sound. And despite their short acquaintance, she trusted David McMillan’s too. Of course, he’d also known Keith a lot longer than Claire had.

  Perhaps David’s assistant was simply so business-focused he resented wasting time on a job with no bottom-line value. Or perhaps he’d had other things to do with his Saturday morning. Who could blame him for being unhappy about giving up his personal time for one of his boss’s pet projects?

  Better to reserve judgment until they had more of a chance to chat . . . the very purpose of the meeting she’d arranged by phone with David yesterday.

  “I apologize again for intruding on your Saturday morning.” She added a generous dash of cream to her coffee, softening the dark hue.

  Keith left his java black and lifted his cup. “I’m used to working on weekends. It’s not a problem.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you long. I thought it might be best if we had a chance to get to know one another before I give your boss the green light on this project, since you and I will be working together.”

  He took a sip and waited her out, expression neutral, eyes guarded.

  “So tell me a little about yourself.” She leaned back and settled in.

  A few beats of silence passed as he carefully set his cup back in its saucer. “What would you like to know?”

  “Anything you’d care to share. Some background, perhaps.”

  He sat back in his chair too—more to put distance between them
than to relax, she suspected.

  Even though she’d left the request open-ended, it was clear he wasn’t comfortable sharing information about himself. She could almost hear the rant running through his brain.

  I didn’t sign on for this. My personal life is none of this woman’s business. She has a lot of nerve asking me questions. That’s supposed to be my job.

  Truth be told, he was right—and she’d respect his feelings if he gave voice to them.

  But he didn’t. And that told her a lot too. David had given him an assignment, and he was committed to carrying it out . . . even if some of the tasks were unpleasant.

  “I was born and raised in St. Louis, so of course you’ll want to know my high school.” He managed a taut smile at the humorous reference only a St. Louisan would understand. No one in this town meant college when they asked what school you’d attended, as she’d learned years ago as a newcomer.

  He provided that piece of information, then continued with his college and work history. It was a recitation of his resume and offered zero personal insights.

  When he finished, she topped off her coffee and added some more cream. “You’re quite accomplished for one so young. Any brothers or sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Are your parents still living?”

  “My mother is.”

  “Any other family?”

  “No.”

  “Then we have a bit in common, except you’re more fortunate than I am. You have a mother. My relatives are all gone. That’s one of the reasons I’d like to find my son.” She took a sip. “Since I’ve been asking all the questions up until now, why don’t you take a turn?”

  With the expression of a man who’d just been paroled, Keith picked up the leather notebook he’d set on the edge of the coffee table and put her through a quick quiz about all the steps she’d taken to find her son.

  He didn’t ask one personal question.

  After jotting a final note, he closed the notebook. “I think that’s all I need to get started.”

  She gestured toward his half-empty cup of coffee. “Would you like a refill?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The man couldn’t wait to escape.

  When the silence lengthened, he twisted his wrist and looked at his watch. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  “You haven’t asked about the circumstances of my son’s birth—or why I gave him up for adoption.”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t need to know that.”

  “Need to know—or want to know?”

  She had no idea what had prompted that question, and based on the slight flush creeping over his cheeks, it surprised him as much as her.

  “I don’t think it’s any of my business.”

  His reply was similar to David’s, but while his boss’s had been couched in kindness, she was picking up an entirely different emotion from this young man. It was stronger than indifference, or even resentment about being tasked with an assignment he thought frivolous.

  Was there a touch of hostility in his attitude?

  Whatever it was, she didn’t like it.

  Rising, she set her coffee cup on the table and gestured toward the foyer. “I think we’ve covered everything for today. Let me show you out.”

  At the door, he offered her his card. “So shall I dig into this on Monday?”

  “I’m going to give it a bit more thought. Please let your boss know I’ll be in touch if I decide to proceed.”

  He hesitated, faint furrows creasing his brow. “I can spare a few more minutes if you’d like to talk further. Did you have any other questions for me?”

  Plenty.

  But he’d only offered to extend their visit because he was concerned she might give a negative report to his boss. He had to know he’d been less than friendly during their conversation.

  Or did he?

  She was beginning to get a handle on the problem David saw with his protégé. The man might be an ace with numbers, but he flunked empathy. There was nothing remotely warm and fuzzy about this guy.

  “No. I think we covered enough ground today.” She opened the door. “Thank you for stopping by. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Left with no choice, he exited.

  As she wandered back into the living room to tidy up, she fingered his card. She didn’t doubt Keith Watson was a workaholic with a lot of smarts. He seemed intense and focused, and the questions he’d asked about her search had been astute. Given the assignment, he might very well turn up some piece of information she and her PI had missed.

  But he didn’t want to help her—and she had a feeling his aversion had nothing to do with wasting time on what he deemed a less-than-productive endeavor.

  So what did it have to do with?

  Maureen picked up his coffee, the blackness unredeemed by the merest hint of cream. She had no clue about the answer to that question—but that young man was in need of . . . humanity . . . perspective . . . compassion . . . something.

  And she did want to locate her son.

  It didn’t appear to be a match made in heaven. Yet having a resource drop in her lap out of the blue, after she’d more or less given up any hope of finding her child, was too providential to brush off.

  So she’d sleep on it. Pray about it. Think it through from every direction.

  And trust that if God wanted her to proceed, he’d provide the guidance she needed.

  Arms aching, shoulder muscles screaming in protest, Claire tried again to heft the plastic drum of driveway sealer out of the trunk of her car.

  It rose a mere inch.

  She let it drop back in with a thud and planted her hands on her hips.

  No wonder the guy at Home Depot had carried it to the checkout lane and loaded it in her car for her. The thing weighed a ton.

  She glanced at the Hamilton house next door. Too bad Todd hadn’t made a trip home from college this weekend. The strapping quarterback could have lifted the drum out of her trunk one-handed. But the street spot always claimed by his rattletrap Focus, just a few yards in front of where she’d parked her own car for the duration of the sealing job, was empty.

  It was up to her—and today was the day. The forecast was for dry weather, and the driveway had been prepared. After spending her Friday night patching cracks and trimming the grass and weeds along the edges, and after rising at the crack of dawn to sweep the asphalt, clean the oil stains, and hose down the surface, she was getting this sucker done today.

  Lips locked, she wiped her palms down her jeans, grabbed the handle, and pulled. All she had to do was get it on the ground. She could drag it from there.

  Somehow she managed to maneuver the tub to the lip of the trunk. As it teetered on the edge, she gave one more yank, swinging around at the same time.

  And ran into a brick wall.

  As she staggered, an “oomph!” registered. Then two masculine arms encased in crisp, oxford-cloth sleeves shot out and grabbed the handle alongside hers.

  By the time she regained her balance, the tub of sealer had been tugged from her grasp and set on the ground.

  Steadying herself with a hand on the fender, she lifted her gaze.

  It was the guy who’d gotten out of that red Infiniti sports car parked in front of Maureen’s house.

  She tried not to stare, but he was even better-looking up close than he’d been at a distance. Neatly trimmed dark brown hair, intense dark eyes . . . and tall. He topped her five-six by half a foot, minimum. As for the ease with which he’d handled the heavy drum—there were some serious muscles under that oxford cloth.

  It figured that the one day a hot guy crossed her path, she’d skipped her morning makeup routine.

  Good thing she wasn’t in the market for male attention.

  He took a step back and gestured toward the drum. “I saw you struggling as I got to my car and figured you could use a hand.”

  “Thanks. It was heavier than I thought.”

/>   “Why don’t you tell me where you want it and I’ll carry it for you?”

  She rubbed her palms down her slacks again. Why were they sweating?

  “I can manage from here, thanks. Getting it out of the trunk was the hard part. I just need to drag it up to the top of the driveway.”

  Instead of responding, he snagged the handle of the drum with one hand and started toward the garage.

  Did the man not understand English?

  She slammed the lid of her trunk and took off after him.

  It was nice he was willing to lend a hand, but ignoring her wishes was demeaning. No more patronizing attitudes for her, thank you very much.

  “Hey!”

  He kept walking.

  She picked up her pace. “Mister . . . I said I could handle it.”

  Three strides later, he plunked the drum of sealer at the top of the driveway and turned to her. “I know you did, but I was trying to save you a hernia.” He gave her a sweeping appraisal. “This thing probably weighs half as much as you do.”

  Fifty-five pounds times two . . . he was darn close.

  But that was beside the point.

  “Look . . . I appreciate the gesture, but I’m used to doing things on my own.”

  He cast a quick glance at her bare left hand and frowned. “Are you going to seal this thing yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s hard, messy work.”

  “I’m not afraid of hard work, and I dressed for messy.”

  He gave her a quick head-to-toe scrutiny, then cleared his throat and surveyed the squeegee on a stick, off to the side. “Have you ever done this before?”

  “No. However, I know how to follow directions—and the ones for this job aren’t rocket science.”

  The house door inside the garage opened, and Haley stuck her head out. “Mom, can I watch the . . . oops. Sorry. I didn’t know we had company.”

  “We don’t. This . . . gentleman . . . helped me carry the driveway sealer up from the car.”

  “That was nice.” She beamed at the man. “Mom’s always trying to lift stuff that’s too heavy, and she never lets me help. I’m Haley.”

  Usually her daughter’s cheery disposition brought smiles to the faces of the people she encountered.