One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  “Can we invite him in, Mom?”

  And put him on the spot, when he obviously hadn’t intended to pay a call?

  Not a smart move.

  “No. We’re . . . uh . . . not dressed for company.”

  Flimsy, but true. They were both splattered with paint from head to toe, and her jeans were so old and filled with holes, they’d do a punk rocker proud.

  On second thought . . . she ought to be grateful he hadn’t detoured to their house.

  “I bet he wouldn’t care what we’re wearing.”

  Maybe not . . . but she did.

  “We’re not prepared for company. Maybe we’ll see him again the next time he comes over to—”

  All at once, every light in the house seemed to come on at once—spotlighting the two of them in the window just as Keith looked up.

  Wonderful.

  Short of being rude, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t see him—especially when he was looking right at her.

  Edging behind Haley to hide as much of her scruffy attire as possible, she forced up the corners of her lips and lifted a hand in greeting.

  Keith waved back.

  Five seconds later, he opened his door.

  “Hey, look! He’s getting out! I think he’s going to come over and say hi.”

  Her daughter’s conclusion was verified a moment later when he made a dash through the rain toward their small front porch.

  Yanking the rubber band out of her ponytail with one hand and fluffing her hair with the other, she bolted for the hall. A full makeup job was out of the question, but if she could add a touch of lipstick and—

  The bell chimed, and she froze as Haley raced over and yanked the door open.

  Was the man ever going to see her when she looked normal?

  “Hi, Keith! Come in.” Her daughter pulled the door wide.

  “It looks like someone’s been painting.”

  “Yeah. We started on my bedroom, but after the lights went out, it got too dark. Are we gonna finish now, Mom?”

  Keith swept a bead of rain off his forehead as she approached. Despite his clinging shirt, he looked good. Spectacular, even.

  Damp was definitely a flattering look for him.

  “Um . . . I don’t know.” She forced her gaze higher, resisting the urge to comb her fingers through her hair. “We have company now. Hi, Keith.”

  “Hi.” He gave her an amused once-over. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you in the middle of your redecorating project. And I do mean middle. Did you guys have a paint fight, or what?”

  “No.” Haley examined her T-shirt. “I guess painting is messy. We’re changing my walls from gross brown to awesome pink.”

  “So I see. The new color complements your complexion.” He grinned and tapped Haley’s paint-splattered nose with his index finger. “Your mom’s too.”

  Claire stifled a groan. Just how much paint was on her face?

  Too much, based on the hint of laughter in his brown irises.

  Time to divert his attention.

  “Were you visiting Maureen?”

  “Yes. I think I might have a couple of leads. A pediatrician and a priest, of all things.”

  “You mean you might be able to find her son after all?” Haley’s eyes widened. “Mom said not to get my hopes up, but I’ve been praying really hard.”

  “I’m going to try—but keep praying, okay?” He looked back at Claire over her daughter’s head. “Listen . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to make sure you survived the storm.”

  “The basement leaked again, but we’re used to that. Want to help us paint?” Haley sent him a hopeful look. “We have extra brushes.”

  “He’s not dressed for painting, honey.”

  “Maybe he could wear one of your old shirts. Do you think it would fit?”

  As Haley sized up her chest, Keith’s eyes flicked down. Zipped back up.

  She crossed her arms as warmth spilled onto her cheeks. Why, oh why, couldn’t she have picked a T-shirt a touch less threadbare?

  He cleared his throat. “You know . . . my gym bag is in the trunk. If you could use another pair of hands, I could make a quick change. I still owe you one wish, remember?”

  “I don’t expect you to spend your evening painting after working all day.”

  “You are.”

  “True. But it’s my house. You probably have stuff to do at your own place.”

  “Not that much. I live in a condo.”

  “We could have a painting party!” Haley clapped her hands. “I could put on some music and we could sing along while we work.”

  “If I sing, you’ll throw me out. But I wouldn’t mind listening to the two of you do some harmonizing. So . . .” He held out his hands, palms up. “Want to cash in your third wish?”

  The dimple in his cheek was hard to resist.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

  “You’ll get paint on your gym clothes.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They’re old.”

  She was out of excuses. And spending the evening in the company of a handsome man was far preferable to a ladies-only event, much as she enjoyed being with her daughter.

  “Okay. Wish number three has now been officially redeemed.”

  “Give me five minutes to grab my stuff and change, and we’ll get this painting party started.”

  “Yes!” Haley pumped her fist in the air.

  Reining in his grin, Keith tipped his head toward her daughter. “Is she always this listless?”

  “You should see her when we go ice-skating.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You ice-skate?”

  “Yeah! Mom’s really good. She knows how to go backwards and do spins and everything.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. I learned when I was a little girl, and it’s like riding a bicycle.” Claire smoothed her palms down her jeans. “I’ll reopen the paint cans and round up another roller and brush for you.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  While Keith retrieved his clothes and changed in the hall bathroom, she also set out a plate of cookies and a carton of lemonade.

  Once he rejoined them, she handed him an extra painter’s cap and tried not to stare at the well-developed hamstrings below his gym shorts. “You’re going to end up with paint all over your legs.”

  “Nope. I’m a very careful painter.” He pulled the cap over his hair. “So what do you want me to do?”

  She held up a roller and a brush. “Your choice. Edge around the baseboards and molding, or roll.”

  “Door number two, no contest.” He reached for the roller and inspected the walls. “You’ve made a lot of progress. When did you start?”

  “Monday. I did the ceiling first, then we put a coat of primer on the walls. I’ve got parent-teacher meetings the next two nights, which will slow things down, but with you pitching in tonight, we should finish up Saturday morning.”

  “I see you’re still using that.” He gestured toward the wobbly ladder.

  “I only had to go up two rungs.”

  He eyed the furniture clustered in the center of the room. “Who moved all that?”

  “Mom.” Haley grabbed a cookie from the plate on top of the plastic-covered dresser. “I helped, though.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Keith took another inventory of the furniture, then dropped the subject. “Okay. Let’s roll—pardon the pun.” He aimed a grin at her and went to work.

  Haley cranked up the music loud enough to drown out the rain, and for the next two hours they laughed and painted and chatted. Mostly they laughed.

  It was one of the nicest evenings she’d spent in years.

  By the time they called it a night at nine o’clock, the first coat of pink was finished.

  “Wow.” Haley did a three-sixty pivot. “It doesn’t even seem like the same room.”

  “That was the whole idea.” A sharp twinge of pain struck as Cla
ire turned her head, and she tried to discreetly rotate her neck and flex her shoulders.

  “Sore?”

  The man didn’t miss a thing.

  “Teaching requires a whole different set of muscles than painting. On the plus side, this house gives me more of a workout than a gym. I’m in a lot better shape now than when we moved in a year ago.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Haley pilfering another cookie. “Enough, young lady. That’s number four.”

  Her daughter retracted her hand with a disgruntled sigh. “I think moms have eyes in the backs of their heads.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you.” Keith chuckled and pulled off his baseball cap. “I was never able to put one over on my mother, either. I still can’t.”

  “Go wash up and do your teeth.” Claire took Haley’s paintbrush. “After you get into your pajamas, I’ll come in and kiss you good night.”

  “Where are you bunking while your room’s all torn up?” Keith dropped down onto the balls of his feet and fitted the lid back on the can of paint.

  “I’m sleeping with Mom. There’s plenty of room for both of us in her bed. You want to see?”

  “Haley.” Claire interrupted before Keith could respond, firing a stern look at her daughter. She didn’t want any man taking a tour of her bedroom—especially a certain executive assistant. “Stop dillydallying.”

  “Okay, okay. Thanks a lot for helping, Keith.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Are you leaving now?”

  “After I help your mom clean up.”

  “I can take care of this.” Claire bent to retrieve some of the rags. “You did enough already. Why don’t you head home?”

  “Trying to get rid of me, huh?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were serious. Searching.

  “No.” She met his gaze steadily. “It was nice having you here tonight. But you don’t need to hang around now that we’re done.”

  “I don’t mind. And I always clean up my messes.” Several charged beats ticked by before he broke eye contact. “Where do you want this stuff?”

  Based on the firm set of his jaw, his decision to help was not a negotiable subject.

  Fine. She could live with that.

  Because there was something to be said for men who refused to leave messes in their wake.

  “There’s a utility sink in the basement.”

  “I’ll find it while you get Haley settled for the night.”

  “Do you want to come back Saturday morning and help us finish?” Her daughter sent him a hopeful look.

  “Haley.” Claire summoned up her don’t-argue-with-me voice. “He’s helped enough already.”

  “But . . .”

  “No buts.” She pointed to the door. “Bed. Now.”

  Shoulders drooping, Haley trudged toward the door. “’Night, Keith.”

  “Sweet dreams.” He put the brushes in one of the pans and stood. “Basement door’s in the kitchen, I presume?”

  “Yes. Be careful going down.”

  “Let me guess. The steps are shaky.”

  “No. Solid as a rock. The railing, on the other hand . . .”

  “I get the picture. Take your time with Haley. I need to clean myself up too.”

  She gave him a quick once-over. “Other than two tiny pink specks on one cheek, you don’t need much cleanup. How come you didn’t splatter paint all over your clothes, like I did?”

  One side of his mouth hiked up. “Genies repel paint.”

  “Cute.”

  “True. Trust me. We genies have magical powers.” With a wink, he disappeared out the door.

  For a few moments after he left, while she inhaled the smell of fresh paint and listened to the muted sounds of her daughter’s singing coming from behind the bathroom door, she surveyed the fruits of their labors. Together, they’d transformed a room that was drab and bleak and uninviting into a place that was warm and welcoming and happy. And they’d had fun doing it.

  It was only a room . . . but could it symbolize more? If she let Keith into their lives, could he do for them what he’d done for this room? Add lightness and vibrancy and joy?

  Of course, that assumed he wanted to be part of their lives.

  But she was getting the distinct impression he did.

  She picked up a damp rag and scrubbed at a spot of pink paint on the back of her hand. Slowly it disappeared—but the effort to eradicate it chafed her skin, leaving an angry red blemish.

  Kind of like the lingering blemish left on her heart after Brett’s betrayal and their breakup.

  Sighing, she squeezed the nubby rag tight in her fist. A few minutes ago, Keith had said to trust him—and she wanted to. Wanted to believe that if she followed her father’s advice and tossed a line into the sea, she wouldn’t end up with a shark this time.

  Given her track record, however, fishing was risky.

  Yet despite her lurking fear, the temptation to let herself believe things might be different with Keith was strong. Very strong.

  “Mom!” Haley called down the hall from the bathroom. “There’s paint stuck in my hair.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Claire tossed the rag into the pile on the floor and exited the bedroom. In the basement, she heard Keith turn on the water as her genie prepared to clean up.

  Her lips lifted in a wistful smile. He’d been joking when he’d told her he had magical powers, but her life was, indeed, a lot brighter since he’d started coming around.

  As for trusting him . . . that was no joke. In the end, the question about whether to let this thing between them progress came down to exactly that. To move forward, she had to trust him.

  But could she?

  Should she?

  The answer eluded her as she walked down the hall.

  At the bathroom door, she paused. She didn’t spend enough time in prayer these days, but God had always been her go-to source when she needed direction—and he had impeccable credentials in the trust department.

  So closing her eyes, she put the problem in his hands.

  Lord, I could really use some guidance here. If Keith is meant to be more than a casual acquaintance, could you help me discern that? Because I can’t afford to make another mistake. For Haley’s sake . . . or mine.

  12

  Keith finished rinsing the last roller, set it aside, and surveyed Claire’s basement.

  It was a pit.

  Literally.

  No, the cement wasn’t crumbling and bats weren’t swooping over his head. But based on the style of houses in the neighborhood, this bungalow was at least five decades old—and the basement looked every day of its fifty years.

  He glanced again at the pile of wet rags near one of the walls, marking the leak Haley had referenced.

  What on earth had Claire been thinking when she bought this problem-plagued place? Had she realized the scope of the work that needed to be done before she signed on the dotted line? Did she ever feel overwhelmed—and discouraged—as she watched her to-do list mushroom?

  All of those questions bothered him.

  But one question bothered him more.

  Why did he care so much about the troubles of a woman he’d just met? An acquaintance too new to even qualify as a friend?

  Frowning, he grabbed the bar of soap on the edge of the sink and sudsed up, checking out his hands. Claire was right. Somehow he’d managed to avoid most of the paint thrown off by the roller.

  But during their painting party, something more intangible and elusive had seeped into his heart, leaving him upbeat, energized, and filled with a sense of contentment—as well as hope.

  It was kind of how he’d always expected love to feel when he met the right woman.

  He scrubbed at the few flecks of paint on his fingers. This wasn’t love, though. It couldn’t be. Love happened gradually, over time.

  Still, the happy mood Claire engendered in him could explain why he was beginning to care too much, too fast. And every time he sa
w her, every time they interacted, her appeal grew. She never complained about her lot in life—and it was a challenging one. She just did what had to be done, day in and day out, working hard to provide a home for herself and her daughter with grace and courage and even humor.

  As far as he was concerned, that was the definition of a hero.

  And he’d like to get to know her better.

  A lot better.

  But therein lay a problem.

  He rinsed off his hands, snagged the towel hanging over the edge of the sink, and faced the truth.

  Building a relationship was a two-way street. If he expected her to share the details of her past with him, to trust him with her hopes and dreams and fears, she’d expect the same in return.

  And that was tricky. It would require a leap of faith he wasn’t sure he was ready to make—and an acknowledgment that he’d lied earlier when he’d told her he always cleaned up his messes. Instead of dealing with the untidy jumble of baggage from his past, he’d tried to marginalize it, to convince himself it was old news that didn’t matter anymore.

  But his mom was right. It did matter. Hard as she and his dad had tried, they hadn’t been able to compensate for the bad stuff that had happened in his early years. Not that he even remembered the particulars—thank God. But Mom had filled in some of the blanks, and he’d never forgotten the main trauma . . . nor how it had made him feel.

  He wadded the towel in his fist, the familiar hurt echoing in the recesses of his soul—a reminder that he had unfinished business. That if he wanted to pursue Claire, he needed to get his act together.

  And his mom’s advice on that score could be right too. Connecting with the woman who’d borne him might help.

  On the other hand, what if it opened a whole new can of worms?

  A dull throb began to pulse in his forehead, and he massaged his temples. He’d like to attribute the ache to the paint fumes, but why kid himself? While the headaches that had once plagued him on a regular basis had subsided, stress could still bring one on. And thinking about wading back into his past was a huge stressor.

  But he didn’t have to deal with all that junk this very minute. Why not take tonight at face value—as a pleasant couple of hours with a lovely woman and her charming daughter?