Finally Home

by Lyn Cote

  Guthrie pushed his hands through his golden hair. “This beats all.” He grinned then. “This is really sweet of you, but I can’t let you.”

  Giving him a confused look, she set her toolbox on a nearby sawhorse. “Why not?”

  “You’re a food writer, not a carpenter. Don’t you think that will keep you busy enough?”

  He’s evading the issue. “Guthrie, I’m perfectly capable of helping you build my parents’ house. Why don’t you let me worry about whether I have enough time?”

  “It’s not right.” He shoved his hands in his back pockets and looked down.

  Imitating him, she shoved her hands in her back pockets and took a step closer to him. “It makes perfect sense, and I’m here to assist you with the church, too.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “It’s just not right. I contracted to build your parents’ house, and I can’t have you working without being paid. But I can’t afford to pay—”

  “Seeing my parents in their home before Christmas will be my payment.”

  He sucked in breath. “I don’t know if the construction insurance would cover you.”

  “Guthrie Thomas, you’re grabbing at straws.” Why did men react like this? Like women couldn’t do he-man stuff, pound nails and work a saw? “Now let’s get busy.” In her stiff new work boots, she picked her way over the exposed floor joists to the sawhorse and opened her small toolbox. She turned to Guthrie expectantly.

  “What’s that?” He pointed to her red toolbox.

  She felt like saying something sassy like, “I’ll give you three guesses,” but she suppressed it and said with a straight face, “I brought my own hammer and a few other tools. I’ve gathered a small collection of necessary items. I know how carpenters hate other people using their tools.” She pulled out her hammer and hefted it in one hand. “Now let’s stop talking and start working. How can I help with this floor?”

  Guthrie stared at her as though she’d just spoken in Greek. He didn’t move a muscle.

  Tossing the hammer from one hand to the other, she walked as close to him as she could. “What job are we doing here today?”

  With a decided frown, Guthrie folded his arms over his chest.

  With a deceptive smile, Hannah folded her arms over her chest. I’m not giving in, Guthrie Thomas. I let Edward overrule me for three years. Now you’re stuck with me. This church and my parents’ house are going to be finished and I’m going to help you.

  The sound of footsteps came from behind her. “Hannah!” her mother said. “I wondered why you were wearing overalls and work boots. You’ve come to assist Guthrie!”

  From behind her mother, Hannah’s father chimed in. “What a generous idea, daughter. We can always count on our Hon—our Hannah!”

  Guthrie stared forlornly at the light rain trickling down the dirty, grease-smudged front window of Carlson’s Auto Body and Repair. The garage was more than fifty years old, steeped in motor oil, dirt and gas fumes.

  Under the hood of Guthrie’s blue pickup, his lifelong friend Ted Carlson twisted another cleaned spark plug into place. “So could she do the work or not?”

  That morning Hannah had expertly measured and cut the boards for him. They’d put the new floor in the attic in no time at all. But by the time they’d broken for lunch, Guthrie had been ready to explode. He swung around and growled, “That’s not the point.”

  “Well, it’s going to be. If she can do the work, it will probably turn out okay.” Ted bent over the engine. “If she can’t, you’re in for it.”

  Guthrie looped his thumbs in his belt. “I work alone because I like to work alone.” In his mind, he heard Hannah’s startling question once again. “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Know what you mean. Feel the same way. But how can you tell her not to help when her parents think it’s great? Isn’t polite. He’s the new preacher. Can’t tell him off, or at least you shouldn’t.”

  Guthrie leaned under the raised hood to watch Ted. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Why had she brought up his not being married, then gone on like she hadn’t asked it?

  “Well, I’ll tell you this. Mr. Kirkland stopped by yesterday to introduce himself.” Ted pulled out, then cleaned another spark plug with a metal brush. “Said he’d heard my dad had been a regular church attender till he died two years ago.”

  “Did he invite you to church?”

  “Said he’d be glad to see me back on Sunday mornings. I said I like to sleep in on Sunday mornings. Wondered how he’d take that. Just laughed.” Ted twisted the clean plug in.

  “He’s a good guy.” Guthrie made himself concentrate on what Ted was saying. “I liked him right away. He’s solid, not a fake.”

  “Asked me if I’d ever be interested in attending a singles’ night at the church.” Coming out from under the hood, Ted stared at the toes of his scratched work boots.

  “What?”

  “Said he was going to start a singles’ night in the church basement once a month this fall. Snacks, country music, videos. Everything just casual. Come and spend the evening. Also said he’d like to get up some groups to go to some football games in Madison.”

  “College games?”

  Ted nodded.

  Guthrie wondered if these were the preacher’s ideas…or Hannah’s. “I don’t want to hang around with a bunch of kids.”

  “Said the singles’ nights would be for twenty-one and older. No teenyboppers.”

  Guthrie could see that Ted looked interested, and why not? Their little town had nothing to offer socially after high school for singles. Most of the marrying took place in the year or two after high school graduation. But in the eight years since Guthrie’s graduation, those marriages had been breaking up at an unpleasant but steady rate. Just like his sister’s had.

  Ted and he hadn’t followed the general practice. Ted had always been too shy. Had Ted ever guessed why Guthrie hadn’t married? He wondered if that had anything to do with his not wanting Hannah Kirkland working beside him. He wasn’t lucky in love. He liked Hannah so far. But had she come to town with marriage on her mind?

  “Think your sister would be interested in going to a singles’ night?” Ted nonchalantly wiped his hands on some gray-blue paper toweling.

  “Might. Mom will probably encourage her to.”

  “Rain’s stopping.” Ted pointed outside.

  Guthrie exhaled with relief. “It’s time I got back to the church. I might get some work done on that steeple before supper.”

  Ted nodded. “See you. Maybe the preacher’s daughter will work out.”

  Guthrie glared at his friend. “I’m not going to cut her any slack. If she wants to work, I’ll let her. But I don’t think she will be able to hack it.”

  “She may surprise you.”

  “I may surprise her.” He got into his truck and backed out of the garage, feeling as grumpy as a ten-year-old getting socks for Christmas. But not clear on why.

  Guthrie found Hannah sitting innocently beside her mother in the church office in the basement. He nodded politely to Mrs. Kirkland. “Ready to do some work, Hannah?”

  Looking perky, Hannah saluted him and stood up. “Reporting for duty, sir!”

  He refused to be charmed. “Come on then. It’s not raining, so I want to try to replace the flashing around the steeple before it starts again.”

  “Guthrie, you’ll use the safety harness, won’t you?” Hannah’s mother cautioned.

  He grinned, accustomed to maternal warnings. “No problem. My mother already reminded me this morning.”

  “We just don’t want any more surprises,” Mrs. Kirkland said apologetically.

  “Then you might tell your daughter not to scream suddenly while I’m out on the roof.” He kept his tone vaguely humorous. After all, Hannah hadn’t intentionally scared him off the roof. He didn’t want to be rude, but he didn’t want Hannah working with him, either!

  Hannah grinned. “Don’t worry. As long as neither of my parents are o
n the roof, you won’t hear a peep out of me.”

  He waved Hannah ahead of him. Without further conversation, he followed her as she trudged up the church steps to the attic. He tried to ignore the intriguing feminine swing of the denim blue overalls in front of him. Overalls shouldn’t make a woman more attractive. It wasn’t right!

  In the attic, she turned to face him. “So what can I do to help you?”

  “Flashing is the—”

  “Is the covering applied wherever there is a joint on a roof. As the house settles, the flashing keeps any joints on the roof covered even if joints separate some. It’s usually metal. I’m figuring this church is old enough to have lead instead of aluminum. Am I right?”

  The easy flow of information knocked Guthrie for a loop. “Did Habitat for Humanity put you in charge of flashing?”

  She grinned. “No, I just like to sound like I know what I’m doing.”

  Her brash candor teased him, easing the tenseness inside him. He almost smiled, but conquered it. He wouldn’t let her push the advantage a pretty woman always had. He went on without emotion. “The old flashing is lead. I need to remove it and replace it with modern aluminum. I’ll put on the harness and attach it to the steeple. You can sit up in the steeple opening and hand me out what I need.”

  “I’m not afraid of heights.”

  “Neither am I, but I’m the only one who’s going out on the roof today.” He pinned her with his intense gaze. “That tight area around the steeple won’t allow two of us to work out there. You’d just get in my way.” Just like you are, anyway.

  She teased him with another saucy grin. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss of this job.”

  And don’t you forget it. He snapped on the brown leather harness. Sitting in the opening on the side of the steeple, he secured his harness rope. He backed out onto the shingleless roof and straddled its damp, slick peak. “Now use the tin snips to cut each piece the same length and hand me out one piece of step flashing at a time.”

  After he stripped the old flashing, Hannah offered him the first piece of silvery aluminum. He pounded a ninety-degree angle, then tapped and nailed the L-shaped piece snugly into place, bridging the gap where the steeple and roof met. Piece by piece, Guthrie worked away from the steeple opening until he reached the next side of the steeple, forcing Hannah to venture out to perch on the peak to feed the flashing to him.

  “Now I don’t want you to move from that safe spot. I want your feet inside the steeple,” he ordered. He was standing with his feet braced against the roof. The harness around his midsection attached him safely to the steeple so his hands were free to work and his eyes were free to look at Hannah. He tried to ignore the way the breeze tousled and played with her walnut-toned hair.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She waved a piece of flashing at him, and it made a funny wobbling whistle.

  Replying with only a stare, he stonewalled her attempt to lighten the mood. He rarely felt grumpy, but her horning in on his territory had pushed him too far.

  She appeared to ignore his dark mood. “I’m going to cut several pieces ahead, and when you get to the point where you’re going to be on the side opposite me, I’ll load you up before you move to that side away from me.”

  “Who did you say was the boss here?” He needled her.

  “Just obeying orders. You don’t want me crawling around to reach you, do you?”

  “No!” He slammed a nail in hard.

  “Then I’ll get busy and cut extra pieces for you. You can tuck them into the front of your tool belt.”

  While waiting for Hannah to lean around to hand him the next piece of flashing, he gazed at the town below. The rain had left every lawn and tree a stunning green. The clouds had cleared off. The August sun warmed his shoulders, and he hoped it meant tomorrow would be a day he could do more outside work. Without Hannah’s help.

  Looking at the little yellow house where his mother and sister lived, he watched an unfamiliar battered silver truck drive up and park in front of it. Who was stopping there and why?

  He tapped another piece of flashing into place and glanced down. He saw the stranger get out and head toward his sister’s front door. Something about the man’s build and walk stirred Guthrie’s memory. It couldn’t be, could it?

  Chapter Five

  Guthrie’s mother handed him the fresh white dish-towel. She sent him one of those pointed looks, those looks mothers give sons when, out of the blue, they volunteer to dry the dishes, kind of her chin down and her eyes peering over her half glasses at him like he was a specimen in a test tube.

  “What?” he asked. “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m delighted to have help in the kitchen.” Mom turned off the hot water and pulled on bright yellow rubber gloves.

  “Well, I just thought you…would,” he explained with a lame shrug.

  She handed him a dripping Mickey Mouse glass warm from the scalding rinse water. “You were strangely quiet at supper tonight.”

  “Oh?” Why don’t you just tell me about the stranger in the silver truck, Mom? Was it Terri Sue’s truck like I thought? It was driving him nuts. He had to know! He looked back to find her staring at him.

  “Guthrie, what is the problem?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he fibbed to his mother. Why couldn’t he just ask her?

  “Then why are you just holding that glass? Why don’t you try drying it?”

  He caught the amusement in his mother’s tone. “I had a kind of…rough day.” He rubbed the glass dry, placed Mickey upside down on the cabinet shelf and accepted another.

  “I thought you said you got some work done on the attic and roof.”

  “I had some unwelcome help.”

  “Grandma! Grandma!” Jenna, her braids flying, ran into the kitchen. “I finally finished my cake.”

  His mother accepted Jenna’s chocolate-crumb-decorated saucer.

  “Mommy’s going to read us a story.” The little girl started to run into the front room, then reversed and rushed back. “I love you, Uncle Guthrie! I’m glad you came to supper tonight! We missed you last night.” For a split second, she wrapped her arms around his knees.

  Guthrie’s heart clenched, but before he could bend down and hug her, she raced out of the kitchen door, calling, “Don’t start without me! I get to pick a story, too!”

  He looked at his mother. This time she was the one with a preoccupied expression on her face. What was on her mind? Was it today’s mystery visitor? Or something else?

  “You’re a good man, Guthrie. And you’ll do what is right. I know that. I want you to remember that.”

  He couldn’t think how to answer this, so he accepted the glass she was holding and glanced away. He made his voice brisk. “You won’t believe this, but Hannah Kirkland worked as my carpenter’s helper today.”

  “Hannah?” Mom scrubbed Hunter’s bright blue tippy cup.

  “That’s what I said. I couldn’t stop her.”

  “You couldn’t?” His mother chuckled, then became serious. “I would think you’d welcome some help.”

  And I thought you’d tell me about the stranger in the silver pickup without my asking. “I like working alone.”

  “What did she do?” Mom handed him the rinsed plastic cup. “How did she do?”

  The second question made him scowl.

  “I know that look very well,” his mother said in a teasing voice.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re just like your father. You make up your mind and don’t like people messing with your plans.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” He upended the dry tippy-cup on top of one of the Mickey Mouse glasses.

  She chuckled. “Life has a way of making a mess of some of our plans. Haven’t you noticed? I never intended to be the wife of a stubborn farmer. I was studying to be an art professor. But I’m glad my plans got messed up. Aren’t you?”

  He scrutinized her. “Why are you talking abou
t marriage all of a sudden?”

  “Because I think it’s time you thought about it, talked about it, did it.”

  “You’ve never said things like that before,” he objected.

  “I’ve been waiting patiently for you to do it without me saying anything.” She offered him the first piece of pale green stoneware to dry.

  Absently circling the plate with the towel, Guthrie tried to think of a reply. Marry? Didn’t his mother understand that he intended to be the bachelor uncle? How could he ever take a chance on marrying?

  Years ago, when his parents had gotten married, marriage had been for life. Now it seemed to last only as long as it proved convenient. A guy could marry someone and…bam! Have the rug yanked out from under him. Child support, custody—the very words chilled him. If he fathered a child, he wouldn’t be able to bear being legally separated from that child. His nieces and nephew had taught him that. But hadn’t divorce happened to about everyone he’d grown up with? Even his own beautiful, sweet sister.

  His mom opened her mouth. “Guthrie, I—”

  “Martha, dear!” A familiar sweet voice called from the screen door.

  Guthrie closed his eyes. The great-aunts had arrived to scarf-up all the leftovers, as Amber would say.

  “Ida, Edith, come in. Come in.” His slim mother, dressed in faded jeans like the college girl she’d been when she’d married Dad, held open the screen door.

  The aunts, wearing outdated dresses they’d probably sewn in the fifties, entered the kitchen. They must still have every dress they’d ever sewn or bought. Aunt Ida proudly held high a jar of sick-looking cucumbers. “We made pickles today.”

  Mom took the jar. “Oh, thank you. We have some stew left and chocolate cake. I hope you both have room for it.”

  Though the arrangement had never been discussed, Guthrie knew his mother always cooked extra. In the summer, the aunts dropped by. In the cold weather, Lynda or Guthrie carried food to their door.

  The phone rang. Guthrie lifted the receiver. “Hi.”