by Irene Hannon
“You mean forgive and forget.” She folded her arms tight against her chest.
“Forgetting is hard, but you might manage the forgiving part if you worked at it.”
She swung back to him. “Why should I? Besides, he’s obviously found someone else to care about now.”
“That doesn’t mean he loves you any less.” He pulled back the blankets on her side of the bed and patted the mattress. “Climb in. It’s late. Besides, I have a hard time concentrating with you standing there in that skimpy sleep shirt. We’ll continue our conversation under the covers.”
She played with the hem of the shirt. “I don’t think you have talking in mind.”
“I might.”
“Liar.”
“Why don’t you test that theory?” He patted the bed again.
How was she supposed to resist her husband’s bone-melting wink and come-hither smile?
She crossed the room and scooted in beside him. After rearranging his pillows, he pulled her close.
“You think I’m wrong to be cold toward my dad, don’t you?” Somehow it was easier to put the hard truths into words snuggled up next to his solid chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
“I think you have your reasons.” He trailed a kiss along her temple. “But I know you have a tremendous capacity to love. And your dad is a good man, despite any mistakes he made in his priorities in the past. I just hope you can find a way to work through your resentment so someday you don’t look back with regrets.”
“Seeing him with that woman didn’t help matters.” She snuggled closer. “But there’s one thing I’ll never regret.”
“What’s that?”
“Marrying you.”
“Now that’s exactly the kind of thing a man likes to hear.” He shifted toward her, until they were almost nose-to-nose, his hand resting on her hip.
“We’re done talking, aren’t we?” She traced the curve of his jaw with one finger.
“Uh-huh.”
She reached back, groping for the switch on the lamp beside the bed. Grateful for the man beside her. Grateful for their life together, the home they’d built, the family they’d created.
Grateful for the reprieve from this discussion.
But as Shawn pulled her close, she knew the issues with her father would resurface in the light of day. Now that he was making a concerted effort to be part of her life, of her children’s lives, things were going to come to a head. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Because despite Shawn’s counsel, she wasn’t anywhere close to forgiveness.
7
This was getting old.
As Keith turned onto Maureen Chandler’s street for the second time in four days, he once again eased back on the gas pedal. He had reports to write, meetings to set up, quarterly results to review. On any other busy day, he wouldn’t leave the office until after seven.
Instead, David had told him to cut out early and meet with the art professor to discuss some material she hadn’t shared with him on his first visit.
Hopefully, this would be his last trip.
He parked in front of her house, same spot as last visit, taking a moment to examine the newly sealed driveway next door. Claire Summers had done a decent job, as far as he could tell. No sign of her today, however.
A twinge of disappointment rippled through him, and he frowned. What on earth was that all about? He ought to be glad she wasn’t around. She might be pretty and appealing in a girl-next-door sort of way, but the lady had a serious chip on her shoulder, a sharp tongue, and attitude with a capital A.
No wonder she wasn’t married.
Her friendly daughter must have inherited the congenial gene from her father, whoever . . . and wherever . . . he was.
Putting thoughts of Maureen Chandler’s neighbor aside, he grabbed his notebook and started up the professor’s walk.
She answered immediately, as if she’d been watching for him.
“Hello, Keith. Welcome back.” Her greeting was warm, her manner gracious.
“She’s been through a lot this past year. Go out of your way to be extra nice.”
As David’s parting admonition echoed in his mind, he forced up the corners of his lips. “Thank you.”
He crossed the threshold, and she gestured toward the back of the house. “Would you mind if we talked in the kitchen? I’ve got dinner underway, and I’d like to keep things moving.”
“No problem.”
He followed her down the hall—but came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the kitchen.
This wasn’t at all what he’d expected based on the traditional style of the small brick house and the conventional furnishings in the living room.
The original kitchen had been totally redesigned and expanded. White cabinets gleamed beneath the skylights in the vaulted ceiling, and a long sweep of multicolored granite formed a huge island that featured a cooktop at one end with a rack of copper pots and utensils hanging above. A modern glass table supported by a stainless steel cube sat at the far end, in front of a wall of windows. Colorful modern-art prints added splashes of color on the cream-colored walls.
“You didn’t say wow.”
He transferred his attention to the professor. She was watching him with an amused expression.
“Everyone says wow.”
He took another survey of the airy, open space. “I may not have said it, but I thought it.”
“Not the decor you’d expect for a professor of medieval religious art, is it?”
“No.”
“Just goes to show there’s usually a lot more facets to people than one might think.” Before he could come up with a suitable response, she waved a hand toward the island. “I’ve put some paperwork there for you to look through. If you’d be more comfortable at the table, feel free to move over there.”
“This works.” He slid onto one of the stools and reached for the first file.
“Let me know if you have any questions. Would you like a glass of iced tea or some coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“If you change your mind, say the word.”
She walked over to the refrigerator, and he got to work.
The first file contained medical records from the professor’s pregnancy. He scanned the sheets, pausing when he noticed that five months in, a new physician was listed in Boston. The change of location was consistent with what she’d told him during his first visit, though she hadn’t explained the reason for it.
In any case, a ten-minute perusal of the medical material didn’t turn up any information that appeared useful.
He moved on to the file about the private adoption agency. This one was thicker, the paperwork she’d filled out more than twenty years ago slightly yellowed at the edges. He pored over it for fifteen minutes, but as far as he could see, there was nothing to indicate the names of the adoptive parents. The only biographical information on the couple was a scribbled note in Maureen’s hand indicating both were teachers.
Given her profession, it made sense that academic types would appeal to her as adoptive parents.
An enticing smell distracted him as he closed that file and picked up the next one. The aroma was spicy and savory and Italian—and it set off a rumble in his stomach. Chinese had been on the menu again tonight, but this smelled a whole lot better.
Too bad he’d have to wait until Sunday for another home-cooked meal.
Trying to ignore the appetizing scent swirling through the kitchen, he opened the third file. This one detailed her efforts to find her son, and corresponded to the information she’d given him on his first visit, albeit with a few more details. She’d listed herself on several of the kinds of registries his mom had mentioned, so either her son wasn’t searching for her or he was looking in the wrong places. It didn’t take long to read through the material.
“Can I interest you in some homemade salsa and chips?”
Without waiting for him to respond, s
he set a plate and small bowl in front of him. After helping herself to a serving, she returned to the other counter where she appeared to be assembling the ingredients for a salad.
His stomach rumbled again, prompting him to take a chip. The salsa was so tasty, he took another. And kept eating as he opened the file containing the PI’s report.
The man had been thorough, no question about it. He’d even managed to track down a retired maternity nurse from the hospital where Dr. Chandler had delivered her baby and an employee from the long-gone adoption agency. However, neither had been able to offer any leads. Again, as far as he could tell from a first read, the file offered no further clues.
He’d give everything closer scrutiny later, when hunger wasn’t—
A knock sounded on the back door, and the professor crossed the room to open it.
“Hi, Haley. Come on in. Where’s your mom?”
“She’s trying to fix a loose piece of gutter in the back. She said I should give you these and tell you she’ll be here as soon as she can.” She handed over a plate. “Mmm. It smells yummy in here . . . hey! You came back!”
The little girl scurried over to him as the older woman set a plate of dangerous-looking brownies on the island, next to the salsa.
“Is your mom up on a ladder, Haley?”
“Yeah.”
The professor narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure I like that.”
“Mom does stuff like that all the time.” Haley shrugged, then directed her next query to him. “The driveway turned out real good, didn’t it?”
“Yes. Very nice.”
She climbed on the stool beside him and snagged a chip, making herself at home—as if she spent a lot of time in the professor’s kitchen. “What are you looking at?”
He closed the last file. “Some papers Dr. Chandler gave me.”
“Keith . . . would you mind checking on Claire while Haley helps me set the table? I’m not a great fan of ladders.”
He tapped the files into a neat stack. In general, he wouldn’t hesitate to comply with such a request. Most women doing a gutter job would appreciate assistance.
Given her reaction in the driveway last Saturday, however, Claire was more likely to take a swing at him with her hammer than welcome his offer of aid.
“I asked if I could help, because the ladder’s kind of rickety, but Mom said she could do it herself.” Haley took another chip and scooped up a generous portion of salsa.
“Keith?” Maureen looked at him, concern scoring her voice.
He was sunk. He didn’t much like the idea of her neighbor on a rickety ladder, either—even if the lady in question was bad tempered.
Sliding off the stool, he gestured to the rear door. “I assume I can get there from the back?”
“Yes.” Maureen led the way to the door and pulled it open. “A row of arborvitae separates our property, but you can get through where one died.” She pointed to a narrow opening in the hedge.
“That’s the secret passage Mom and me use,” Haley offered, still chowing down on the chips.
“I won’t be long.”
“No hurry. The lasagna I made won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes.”
Homemade lasagna.
Now that was a dinner.
At least he’d be out of here before they started eating.
He crossed Maureen’s pristine lawn, slipped through the hedge, and stopped to take stock of the situation.
The rickety ladder was still at the back of the house, and the gutter was still sagging, but Claire Summers was nowhere in sight.
The temptation to retreat was strong. If she wasn’t on the ladder, she wasn’t in any danger, right?
But given the state of the gutter and the position of the ladder under the center of the sag, the job wasn’t finished yet.
Sighing, he trudged across a patchy stretch of grass in need of a mow, passed a weed-filled plot of overgrown roses, and circled around an eighteen-inch-high wooden deck that featured more than a few rotted boards.
The gutter wasn’t the only thing around this place that needed attention.
He stopped beside the ladder. A hammer rested on top, along with a gutter spike and its sleeve. The gutter was not only sagging, it was bent inward in the center of the sag.
Obviously, the woman had no clue what she was doing.
Expelling a breath, he fisted his hands on his hips. He ought to walk away, tell Maureen Chandler her neighbor wasn’t on the ladder, and beat a hasty retreat.
He glanced toward the partly open sliding door at the back of the house. With dinner waiting for her next door, she couldn’t spend a whole lot more time on . . .
A red splotch at the edge of the weathered deck caught his eye, and he moved closer.
Was that . . . blood?
He checked the rest of the deck.
A trail of red spots led to the sliding door.
Fresh, bright-red spots.
Pulse kicking into high gear, he picked his way across the dubious deck as fast as he dared, avoiding the most unreliable-looking boards.
At the door, he paused. “Ms. Summers?”
No response.
But the trail of red spots continued across the chipped tiles inside, disappearing through a doorway. When he strained his ears, he detected the sound of running water.
She must be in the bathroom, trying to deal with whatever injury she’d inflicted on herself.
When a second summons produced no result either, he followed his instincts and tugged at the door.
The stupid thing refused to budge.
He put both hands on the edge and gave it a yank.
This time it opened—under protest.
Was everything in this house falling apart?
Hoping she wouldn’t prosecute him for trespassing, he followed the trail of red drops down the hall.
He found her bent over the bathroom sink, her right forearm stuck under the faucet, tears streaming down her face as the water gushed over a long, nasty gash.
Stomach clenching, he cleared his throat. “Ms. Summers.”
With a gasp, she jerked toward him, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. When Dr. Chandler heard you were on a ladder, she asked me to come over and check on you. Looks as if she was right to be concerned. May I?” He nodded toward the oozing cut.
She gripped the counter with her other hand. “I can deal with this. Sorry you were bothered.”
Her complexion was white, her whole body was trembling, and she seemed completely unaware of the tears coursing down her cheeks.
He gentled his tone. “Look . . . I know you’re an independent and capable woman. You did an impressive job on your driveway. But it’s going to be hard to deal with that cut one-handed—and left-handed, at that. Unless you’re a leftie?”
“No.” The word came out shaky.
“Then let me help.”
If she told him to leave, he would—but for some reason he hoped she didn’t. Maybe because he felt sorry for her, living in this house that Jack built. Maybe because he’d always been a sucker for a woman’s tears. Maybe because she brought out his latent protective instincts, standing there trying to look strong when all she looked was fragile and vulnerable and . . . appealing.
Whatever the reason, he held his breath while she stared back at him with those big blue eyes fringed by damp, spiky lashes.
All at once the rigid line of her shoulders collapsed. “Okay. I have some first-aid stuff in the hall closet, middle shelf.”
“Keep your arm under the water while I get it.”
He found her medical supplies, picked out what he needed along with a clean washcloth, and returned as fast as he could.
As he deposited the items on the vanity, he gave the cut a closer inspection. “It’s long and deep in the middle—but not deep enough for stitches, as best I can tell. Why don’t you sit and put your arm on the counter while I clean it up?”
She took a step
to the left and sat on the toilet seat in the small bathroom.
The cut was still oozing at the ends and bleeding in the center, but the flow was slowing.
She didn’t make a sound while he worked on her arm, other than a few small intakes of breath as he carefully cleaned the wound with soap and water and applied antibiotic cream. By the time he’d bandaged it, adding an extra layer of gauze in the center, her respiration had evened out and her voice was steadier.
“You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
“I learned a lot on the way to becoming an Eagle Scout.” He began gathering up the first-aid supplies. “So what happened out there? Did you fall off the ladder? Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No to both. The hammer slipped, and as I grabbed for it, I ran my arm along the edge of the gutter. It was sharp.”
“No kidding.” He twisted the cap on the tube of antibiotic cream. “You know, you’re supposed to drill a hole through the gutter first so it doesn’t cave in when you hammer.”
She stiffened. “Yes, I know. I read the instructions online. But you have to own a drill to use a drill. I did the best I could with what I had. Besides, what makes you an expert?”
“I repaired my mom’s gutter last year.”
He could feel her giving his Ralph Lauren dress shirt and Johnston and Murphy shoes a skeptical once-over. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. She’s on a fixed income, and she won’t take money from me. So I give her sweat. Let me wash the blood off your fingers.”
She fell silent as he turned the faucet back on, positioned her hand under the stream of water, and gently scrubbed at the bloodstains with the washcloth.
Her hand felt small in his, and delicate, with long, slender fingers. But the palm had too many calluses, the nails were chipped and unpolished, and the cuticles still bore the faint, dark stain of driveway sealer.
His heart contracted with a sudden surge of tenderness.
Hands like these—a woman like this—shouldn’t have to do the kind of hard, physical labor that seemed to be her lot.
“I think they’re clean now.”