One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  He tossed his car keys on the counter in the kitchen, got himself a drink of water—and stared at the half-empty glass, shoulders drooping.

  Though he’d been reciting that litany to himself for years, he’d never quite managed to achieve those goals. He might only have fragments of memory from those early days, but he couldn’t shake them—and they were still influencing his life.

  However, given his history, given what his birth mother had done, there wasn’t much chance she’d reformed, seen the light, gotten her act together—or decided to look for him.

  Was there?

  With that unsettling question hanging in the air, he yanked his cell phone off his belt and scrolled through his messages. Good. There were one or two requests he could work on tonight that were sufficiently complex to distract him.

  He booted up his laptop, put a pot of coffee on to brew, and settled in at the kitchen table to dive into the first request.

  Yet, fingers poised over the keyboard, he hesitated.

  Would it hurt to check out this registry his mom had mentioned, see how it worked? Just in case, someday in the distant future, his curiosity was piqued enough to pursue her suggestion?

  No.

  His birth mother had made her choice years ago.

  He might be stuck helping Maureen Chandler search for her own son, but as far as he was concerned, the woman who’d given him up didn’t deserve a second chance.

  6

  David spotted her the instant she stepped into the restaurant. Maureen Chandler might have lost her wavy, russet hair, but she was still a stunning woman.

  He rose from the corner table he’d requested at the chic café and lifted his hand.

  Smiling in acknowledgment, she wove through the tables with an inherent grace and settled into the chair he held out.

  “Sorry I’m a few minutes late. A student stopped by, and . . .”

  “Your schedule fell apart. No problem. I’m just glad you had time for lunch, if your Mondays are as busy as mine. Based on our quick phone conversation, I had a feeling this might be a discussion better held in person.”

  “I agree—and thank you for suggesting it. This is quite an upgrade from my usual brown bag repast.”

  The waiter appeared and extended a menu to Maureen. “I can recommend the salmon. It’s very fresh today.”

  “Sold.” She waved the menu aside.

  “A decisive woman. I like that.” David handed the waiter his menu too. “Make that two.” Once the man departed, David picked up the conversation. “From what you said earlier, I have a feeling your meeting with Keith didn’t go well.”

  “It was cordial.” She unfolded her napkin and draped it across her lap, brow puckering. “He’s very polite, and he struck me as an intelligent, focused man.”

  “But . . .”

  “But I picked up a sense of . . . resistance might be the best word for it. I have no doubt he’ll do the job; his commitment to his work came across loud and clear. But I got the distinct feeling he doesn’t want to take this on.”

  “So did I. I think he considers the time he’ll devote to it a waste of resources.”

  “I expect that’s true—yet by the end of our meeting, I was certain it went deeper than that.” She tipped her head, her expression pensive. “Could there be something in his background that makes this assignment distasteful?”

  “It’s possible. As I said in your office, he’s always been tight-lipped about his personal life. I do know he and his parents had a strong relationship, and he’s still close to his mother.”

  “Hmm.” She tapped a finger against the linen tablecloth. “I suppose he might have some moral objection to helping an unwed mother, if he’s the judgmental type.”

  “I’ve never found him to be the least judgmental, except when I’ve asked him to evaluate the competence of an employee.” The waiter delivered a basket of rolls, giving him a chance to ponder Maureen’s feedback . . . and come to a troubling conclusion. “He offended you, didn’t he?”

  She lifted one shoulder and focused on selecting a roll. “Not by anything he said or did. It was just intuition—and I could be reading more into this than I should.”

  “Why do I think you’re a sound judge of people?”

  “I’m flattered . . . but we hardly know each other.”

  “That can be remedied.”

  She set her butter knife down, folded her hands, and focused those green eyes on him. “What are you suggesting?”

  What was he suggesting? Those glib words had rolled off his tongue almost faster than his brain could form them. It was the kind of flirty thing he might have said forty years ago.

  “Honestly? I’m not certain. I’m sixty-four, Maureen. Too old to play games—even if you make me feel young enough to want to try. Here’s the truth. I still love my wife. Carol was a wonderful person, and we had a solid marriage for thirty-one years. That should be enough for any man—and I thought it was for me. Then I walked into your office, and I felt like a teenager. I guess what I’m saying is I’d enjoy getting to know you better. Perhaps a lot better.”

  “That’s very direct.”

  “Candor comes with age.”

  “In that case, I’m eligible to reciprocate, since I’ll be sixty in a few weeks. Why in the world would you want to get involved with someone who has cancer?”

  Has.

  Present tense.

  His heart stumbled.

  “The treatment wasn’t successful?”

  “I’ll find out in five years.”

  “May I ask what kind of cancer you had?”

  “Breast, stage IIA. A four centimeter tumor. On the plus side, it didn’t spread to the lymph nodes. I had surgery, followed by chemo every three weeks for almost six months, finishing off with radiation five days a week for six weeks. Since it was early stage, the prognosis is good.”

  “All of that sounds positive.” His spirits took an uptick.

  “I hope so. But getting involved with me would be a gamble.”

  “A lot of things in life are. Sometimes the risk is worth it.”

  The server arrived with their food, and Maureen waited until he left before responding. “I’m flattered by your interest. And in the spirit of honesty, I’ll admit I felt a bit like a teenager when we met too.”

  “That’s a relief.” He flashed her a grin and dug into his salmon. “I was afraid it might be one-way.”

  She picked up her fork but didn’t eat. “You strike me as a very principled man, with a compassionate heart and high moral standards. Doesn’t the skeleton in my closet bother you?”

  “It happened a long time ago.”

  “I was old enough to know better—and that’s not an answer.”

  Somehow he wasn’t surprised she’d seen through his evasive maneuver. “I could use your perceptiveness in my boardroom.”

  “I prefer the classroom—and you’re still avoiding the question.”

  Might as well own up to the truth.

  “It bothers me a little, but I’ve learned through the years not to take things at face value. There’s often more to a story than first meets the eye . . . and I have a feeling that may be true in your case.”

  She scooped up a forkful of whipped potatoes. “I might tell you my tale someday, and you can decide for yourself.”

  “Does that mean you’re open to the idea of getting to know each other better?”

  “I need to think about it.”

  “Are you this measured and thoughtful about everything?”

  “Yes. A lesson learned in the school of experience.” Regret darkened her eyes, but it was gone in a blink. “In the meantime, we should talk about Keith.”

  “Right.” He did his best to redirect his thoughts to the original reason for their lunch.

  “I was on the verge of killing the whole project—until I stopped in at my neighbor’s house yesterday with some cookies. I complimented Claire on the job she did sealing her driveway the day before, and Ha
ley piped up to tell me Keith had seen her struggling with the tub of sealer and hauled it from her trunk to where she needed it.”

  “That sounds like Keith—and I did ask him to introduce himself to your neighbor if he got the chance. Why did that change your mind?”

  “For one thing, that act of kindness was a mark in the plus column for your assistant. For another, Claire got flustered when I asked about him.”

  Maureen fell silent, and David paused, fork poised in midair. “Is that significant?”

  “Only if you know Claire. Her experience with romance has been less than favorable. She doesn’t date, and not once in the year I’ve known her has she been anything but cool, calm, and collected when the subject of men came up. Keith threw her.”

  “Why?”

  “She claims he reminds her of her ex.”

  “Maybe he does.”

  “That’s very possible. But based on what she’s told me about her marriage, that would disgust her, not fluster or rattle her.”

  How in the world did women pick up all these subtle emotional nuances?

  David did the math—a woman in a tizzy after a nice-looking man came to her aid—and made his best guess. “You think she was attracted to him?”

  Maureen finished off her potatoes and forked a piece of sautéed carrot. “Not that she admitted to me—and probably not to herself—but I have my suspicions. And while I might not yet be certain about your assistant, it’s nice to see Claire noticing a man. It’s a nudge in the right direction, if nothing else. As I’ve learned from her many kindnesses during my illness, she has a loving, caring heart. It would be a shame if she spent the rest of her life alone.”

  “Maybe she’s content with her daughter and her career.”

  “A career is a wonderful thing—but there are gaps it can’t fill.”

  “Yet you never married.”

  She looked down at her plate, using the tines of her fork to line up her last three carrots in a straight row. “For a long time after I gave my son away, I didn’t think I deserved a husband and family. Eventually, after much prayer, I got past that.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “The right man never came along.” She set down her fork and lifted her gaze.

  David wasn’t an impulsive man, nor a demonstrative one. Public displays of affection had always embarrassed him. Yet before he knew what was happening, he’d lifted his hand and covered Maureen’s.

  “Maybe—”

  “Dad?”

  It took a moment for the single, shocked word to register. When it finally did, he raised his gaze to find Debbie and her husband standing beside their table. His daughter’s face was pale, her lips were mashed together, and the disapproval in her eyes scorched him.

  One more complication in their already complicated relationship.

  Stifling a sigh, he retracted his hand and rose. “Hello, Debbie. Shawn.” He shook hands with his son-in-law but didn’t even attempt to hug his daughter for fear she’d break, her posture was so brittle. “What a surprise to see you here.”

  “I’ll bet.” His daughter cast Maureen a disparaging look.

  When the silence lengthened, Shawn stepped in. “I had a meeting in this area and stole Debbie away from motherhood duties for an hour. Bobby’s with our next-door neighbor.”

  “Impromptu lunches are the best kind. And speaking of that . . .” David gestured to his companion and did the introductions. “Maureen is an art history professor at Manchester Christian University.”

  Shawn shook her hand. Debbie gave a curt nod and turned her attention back to him. “Is this a working lunch?”

  How best to answer honestly without raising any more hackles?

  “We’re working on a project together.”

  His daughter’s eyes narrowed. “Since when have you been interested in art?”

  “Deb . . .” Shawn glanced from father to daughter and took her arm. “I need to get moving or I’ll be late for my meeting. Nice to see you, David. A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Chandler.”

  Before Debbie had a chance to respond, he ushered her out of the restaurant.

  David slowly retook his seat.

  “I see what you mean about mending fences.” Maureen rested her elbows on the table and linked her fingers.

  “Tell me about it.” He poked at the last bite of his salmon, then pushed it aside and set his knife and fork on the plate.

  “Me being here with you at a cozy restaurant like this isn’t going to help matters. The resentment was so thick I could cut it with this.” She picked up her knife. “She thought we were on a date.”

  “Close enough.”

  “I don’t want to be the cause of any further estrangement between the two of you, David. Family ties are important.”

  “So is friendship.”

  “Ours is very new.”

  “But I value it already.” He signaled to the waiter for the check. “I’ll have a talk with her.”

  “Do you think that will help?”

  “I doubt it. But ignoring the issue won’t make it go away.”

  The waiter set the check on the table, and David put his credit card on top.

  “I agree. So returning to the reason for this lunch—let’s let your assistant see what he can dig up about my son . . . but send him back to my house first. I have some additional material I can share with him that might be helpful. And perhaps he and Claire will run into each other again.”

  “Doing a little matchmaking, are we?”

  “Not matchmaking as much as fanning a spark. I care very much for Claire, and if I can get her thinking about romance again, she might at least start opening her eyes to the possibilities around her. Not that Keith would necessarily be the one, but he did stir up an ember. So one positive thing has come out of this project already.”

  “More than one.” David smiled, signed the check, and rose. “Shall we?”

  He walked her to her car, wishing he was young and carefree and impulsive enough to suggest they skip out of work this afternoon and go for a drive in the country.

  But he had responsibilities and commitments—and she did too.

  “Thank you for lunch.” Maureen stopped at her car, keys in hand.

  He rested a hand on the roof of the serviceable, older model Taurus. “It was my pleasure—and I mean every word of that. You brightened my day.”

  A faint flush crept over her cheeks. With a rueful shake of her head, she gestured to her face. “The bane of redheads—even if the red is now from a bottle. I never got over my propensity to blush at a compliment from a handsome man.”

  “Now it’s my turn to blush.”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “On the inside.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “I see you have a silver tongue to go with that silver hair—a trait sure to impress the ladies.”

  “One lady in particular, I hope.” He opened her door, and she slid inside. “I’ll be in touch. Drive safe.”

  After closing the door, he stepped back, then waited while she backed out and started toward the exit. Once she pulled into traffic and disappeared down the street, he strolled back to his car.

  What an interesting, appealing, and insightful woman.

  Getting together with her again couldn’t happen soon enough.

  In the meantime, however, he had a daughter to talk to and an assistant to deal with. Neither were going to be receptive to what he had to say.

  Fortunately, one of them had to listen.

  And while it might be the coward’s way out, he’d start there.

  “So are you ready to talk about the scene at the restaurant?”

  At Shawn’s question, Debbie tightened her grip on the hairbrush and attacked her tangles. She could see her husband in the vanity mirror, stretched out on the bed, hands clasped behind his head on the propped-up pillows. He looked relaxed. Sounded relaxed. But after three years of dating and seven years of marriage, she could hear the undercurrent of concern—and d
etermination—in his voice.

  She was going to have to talk about this whether she wanted to or not—not being the operative word.

  “Debbie?”

  “It wasn’t a scene.”

  “You could have fooled me. The tension pinging off the walls reminded me of Bobby after he drinks a glass of Mountain Dew.”

  Giving up any pretense of brushing her hair, she swung around on the vanity seat. “Dad was on a date.”

  “He said they were discussing a project.”

  How could men be so clueless?

  “He was holding her hand, Shawn!”

  “I didn’t see that.” He squinted at her. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Or close enough.”

  “Okay. I’ll take your word for it. So what’s wrong with your dad having lunch with a nice woman?”

  “Mom’s only been gone two years.”

  “Maybe he’s lonely.”

  “He has his job to keep him occupied. That was always plenty for him before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before Mom died.” She rose and stalked over to the bed. “He never had time to take her to lunch on a workday.”

  Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Or help you with your homework or teach you to ride a bike or go to the spelling bee finals. I get it. You resent the attention he’s giving this woman because he wasn’t there for you or your mom.”

  Her spine stiffened. “That would be juvenile.”

  He watched her in silence.

  She turned away and paced over to the window, jerked the drapes closed.

  How come her husband was always right?

  She was being juvenile.

  “Look . . . I can’t help how I feel, okay?” She clamped her fingers around the edge of the fabric, fighting the dull throb of the headache she’d been struggling to keep at bay since lunch.

  “But he’s trying to make amends. In the past year, he’s cut back on work, and he spends a lot of time with Bobby and Grace. He also comes over whenever we invite him.”

  “It’s too little, too late.”

  “Sweetheart . . .” His gentle voice held just a hint of recrimination. “Holding those hard feelings inside isn’t going to fix the past. It’s only going to ruin any chance to build a future with your dad. Why don’t you try to meet him halfway?”