by Michele Hauf
Stunned how easily the kid could knock the wind from his sails, Sam lowered the DVD to his side. “You really don’t watch a lot of cartoons, do you, buddy?”
The kid quirked a brow.
Sam tried again. “The toaster’s friends are a blanket, a radio and a vacuum cleaner. After waking one morning to find the house empty—because their owners went on vacation—they go on a quest to find their missing master.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m—no.” Never let it be said Sam Jones gave up the good fight. He opened the case and popped the disk into the player beneath the television. “Part of being smart is using your imagination. How else could a toaster, or a big yellow sponge, have a really big adventure?”
“I do use my imagination. Look at this graph I’ve drawn to designate the various lobes of the brain. The pink one is the cerebellum. That part fascinates me because it controls motor skills. Don’t you think the colors I’ve chosen are imaginative?”
“Yep, they are. And very precise. You’ve got mad coloring skills, Maxwell. Bet you’ll get an A on that one. But I still haven’t seen you smile. Give me five minutes with the toaster, and I know you’ll want to watch the whole thing.”
Maxwell slouched against the thick pillow and crossed his arms high on his chest. He glared at Sam. Sam matched the glare, but with a lot less vehemence. He was prepared to leave if Maxwell insisted. He had no right to be bugging some random kid with homework to do, and he’d probably catch hell when the parents showed up.
His brother had used the same pouty stare on him many a time to win an argument. Such tactics had always worked, too, ending up in a treat from the Dairy Queen or a round of Scrabble. Or both. “Both” had always been best.
With a defeated sigh, the boy nodded. He didn’t smile, but Sam felt the same triumph he had a year earlier when he’d finally gotten Jeff to lift his head from the hospital pillow and talk to him—one last time.
“Five minutes,” Maxwell said. “I’m setting the timer on my watch.”
“Deal. But you’d better turn down the alarm, because you don’t want it interrupting your enjoyment of this awesome movie.”
* * *
Rachel McHenry smiled at the nurse she passed on her way to Maxwell’s room. The staff here at the hospital was kind and supportive, but when it came down to it, customer service still didn’t change the fact that her son had been through a harrowing experience. Only yesterday afternoon he’d gotten the worst stomach pains, and she’d had to rush him to the E.R. Half an hour later, he’d been prepped for surgery.
She hated the lack of control she had felt, standing back and watching as Maxwell was wheeled away. At that moment she’d been utterly incapable of making things right for him. But it was a parent’s job to keep a stiff upper lip and smile through it all, which she had done.
Only when Maxwell was taken to recovery had she made a quick trip home to lock up and grab her work files and laptop. While standing in the darkness of her living room, Rachel had finally allowed herself a good cry. Crying always made things better.
The doctor had said Maxwell was doing fine and could be released tomorrow. Rachel had been able to stay overnight because the hospital rooms featured a pull-out sofa bed for parents and family.
This morning she’d had a house closing at a mortgage office just down the street from the hospital, so had slipped out at seven-thirty. Maxwell was an early riser, and probably woke not long after she’d left. She hoped he hadn’t felt too alone without her here, but also knew her son was industrious and enjoyed mornings on his own, puttering about the house, making toast with strawberry jelly for breakfast, doing homework out on the patio, and generally starting the day quietly.
The closing had run an hour longer than she’d expected. Had she really left her son alone in the hospital? Bad mother.
Bad mother who was trying to support a family and pay medical bills, she reminded herself. She forced a smile for Maxwell’s sake. Of course, it wasn’t hard being cheerful around her son. And she had always possessed an innate cheeriness that sometimes drove even her bonkers. She wished Maxwell had inherited that particular gene. He was such a serious child. Not depressing serious, just…astute for his age.
Rachel paused outside Maxwell’s room when she heard sniffling.
“Oh, my baby.”
She had wondered how long Maxwell would be able to hold up without showing some sign of pain or defeat. He’d led an enchanted life up until now. He’d been sick only once or twice, and had never injured himself. The doctor had assured her it wasn’t uncommon for children to undergo surgery once in their lifetime, but she hadn’t wanted it for her son.
It hurt her to know he was crying. He did it rarely, and over the most incredible things, such as finding a dead butterfly in the backyard, or hearing that a friend’s dog had died. Briefly, she wondered if he’d want her to see him crying, but she couldn’t stay outside and let him suffer alone.
Surprised at the sight of the handsome man who rose from the chair beside Maxwell’s bed, Rachel immediately looked to her son, who was wiping a tear from his eye. The television was on, and that, even more than finding a stranger in Maxwell’s room, set her off.
“You’re watching a movie?” she said to her son, trying to keep the accusatory tone from her voice. She turned her frustration toward the adult in the room instead. “And who are you?”
He extended his hand but refused to shake it.
“Sam Jones,” he said. “I was delivering movies when I happened to see your son sitting alone and looking bored. Me and Maxwell found one to watch we both liked.”
“I see. I suppose Maxwell neglected to tell you he’s not allowed to watch movies without my permission?”
“Oh.” The man—Sam—raked his fingers through his sandy brown hair, which Rachel noticed looked even better when tousled, save for the flakes of what she now figured was sawdust that sprinkled the air. He was covered with the stuff. “Sorry. I didn’t know that.”
“I imagine not.” She shot Maxwell the evil eye, but wisely, he avoided looking at her. “So, Mr. Jones, do you often enter children’s rooms and entice them with movies when they should be doing their homework?”
“No, I… Don’t make it sound like that. Maxwell is a good kid. I just wanted to see him smile. Which he did.”
Sam twisted to high-five Maxwell, and her son moved to meet the man’s palm with his, but stopped when he caught Rachel’s condemning glare. Sam slid the offending palm down his sweatshirt, which was splashed with unidentifiable stuff she assumed must be related to the sawdust.
A carpenter? If she wasn’t so angry, she’d consider her luck at meeting the one person she could really use right now.
“Anyway,” Sam said, “the toaster saved the day, and the blanket got back home, along with the vacuum and the radio.”
“I…” Rachel didn’t have a clue what to say. While the man was disturbingly sexy, and certain parts of her were softening and wanting to stand there and take him in, the dedicated mother who protected her son at all costs was outraged. “I think you should leave, Mr. Jones, or I’ll have to report you to Security.”
“Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”
Sam glanced at Maxwell, and Rachel caught her son’s fading smile. The man had just wanted to see him smile?
“He’s okay, Mom,” Maxwell finally said. “Even if he does have a bad case of dandruff.”
Sam brushed off his shoulders. “It’s sawdust, buddy. Hazard of the trade. I’m a carpenter.”
“You are?” Her son’s own shoulders lifted. “But we need—“
“For you to get some rest,” Rachel interrupted, before Maxwell could explain the disaster in their garage that was in desperate need of elbow grease and new lumber. “I’m sure Mr. Jones has work to get back to.”
“Right. I do have a job this afternoon. Handyman stuff, mostly.”
&nbs
p; “Oh.” Now that he’d said the word handyman, she remembered hearing about him. At least, she’d heard about the sexy guy who wielded a hammer and an easy smile. Seemed the entire female population in the neighborhood absolutely hummed when he was anywhere in the vicinity. “You’re Handy Sam? I’ve heard of you,” Rachel said, before she could tamp down her growing interest.
“Really?” He hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and straightened proudly. “Good, bad or otherwise?”
She shrugged and made a show of considering the options. “Otherwise. I know some of the neighborhood mothers break things on purpose so they can call you over.”
And she completely understood that wacky compulsion now that her anger had subsided a bit and she could look at the man with a woman’s eye.
“No way. They break stuff?”
“Mrs. McTavish told me she shoved a Reader’s Digest down her toilet just last week, and blamed it on her three-year-old.”
Sam winced. “I thought it seemed a little suspicious when she greeted me at the door with martinis.”
“Yes, well, you said you had work to do,” Rachel insisted.
Sam got the hint. Grabbing the box of DVDs from the end of the bed, he strode to the door. “Nice to meet you, Maxwell. We had a good time with the toaster. And again, I’m sorry, Mrs. McHenry.”
Rachel was about to correct him that it was Miss—always had been—but instead she nodded stiffly and moved to close the door behind him. Sam Jones smelled like sawdust and looked like a man she would love to tuck in her purse and take home with her, just to watch the neighborhood ladies’ tongues wag.
She did have a legitimate reason to invite him over, so why hadn’t she?
“He was nice,” Maxwell commented, his attention focused on his homework.
Rachel made a dismissive, yet slightly positive response.
“You were rude to him, Mom. Do you know he was here to donate movies so kids would have something to do while stuck in these hard, uncomfortable hospital beds?”
“That was very kind, but he shouldn’t have assumed it was okay to invite himself in without first asking my permission. You understand I only want to keep you safe, sweetie?”
Maxwell sighed. “I understand. I should have told him I wasn’t allowed to watch movies. But you know, I was watching him more than the movie. His expressions made me laugh. But watching a DVD once in a while wouldn’t be so awful, would it? It made me forget about this IV I have in my arm. It’s starting to itch.”
“I’ll get the nurse. You shouldn’t have to have that anymore. Oh, Maxwell, how are you?” She kissed him on the eyelid, which always made him grimace comically. “I tried to make the closing quick but the clients wanted to take their time and read everything twice.”
“I’m fine. Got a lot of work done before Sam walked in. But now I think I have some new ideas, after watching the movie. Must have stirred my imagination, just like Sam said it would.”
She closed her eyes and nodded in agreement. Watching a movie once in a while wouldn’t be such a bad thing. She’d made the rule a few years ago, after he’d wanted to see a horror flick that was advertised on television. It was her responsibility to screen what her child watched, and it had been easier at the time to cut out everything.
Watching the film had made him forget the pain and had stirred his imagination? Such a simple solution.
But that didn’t dispel her uneasiness over finding a stranger sitting at her son’s bedside.
“Mr. Jones will forget my rudeness,” she said, dismissing the man, because if she didn’t erase him from her thoughts now, he’d linger there for the rest of the day.
Chapter Two
Four days after Maxwell had been released with a thumbs-up from his doctor, he’d begged Rachel to take him to the local store for some paper for his printer. He’d been given strict instructions not to run and jump for two weeks while the incision was healing, but a quick trip would hardly tax him.
The grocery store was small, and Rachel knew half the staff, so she trusted Maxwell to wander the aisles on his own. He headed toward the one that featured everything from office supplies to baby wipes, while Rachel tucked some fresh veggies into her mesh bag. For tonight’s menu she planned a frittata stuffed with peppers, onions and cheese.
Reaching for a bright red pepper, she bumped knuckles with a fellow shopper who had spied the same prize vegetable. “Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. Oh, hey, Rachel McHenry, right?”
It was Sam Jones, looking absolutely delicious in a soft blue T-shirt, and not a shred of sawdust to be seen. And yet Rachel impulsively stiffened and nodded toward the vegetable bin. “You can have it.”
“How’s Maxwell doing?” He nabbed the pepper and put it in a recyclable mesh bag very similar to her own. “Kid get his homework done?”
All right, he’d made his point. She was the evil mother, forcing her child to do schoolwork while laid up in the hospital. Didn’t she get the same guilt trip from her own mom?
“Maxwell happens to be the one who insists on spending two hours a day on schoolwork. He thrives on the pride that comes from getting straight A’s.”
“I know. He’s going to be a brain surgeon. I also know the cerebellum fascinates him.”
She gaped at Sam, not so much surprised that Maxwell and he had talked, but that he remembered a detail like that.
“I’m sorry,” he suddenly said. “An apology is necessary. I shouldn’t have figured it was okay to barge into your son’s room without your permission.”
“Apology accepted. A mother can’t be too careful nowadays. I hope you understand.”
“I do, and like I said, it was a stupid move on my part. My head was in a weird place that morning, being in the hospital and all. So, how you doing?”
“I…” She frowned, feeling uncomfortable under the man’s soft, seeking stare. His brown eyes were so clear and—were those freckles on his nose? “Why would you ask about me? I wasn’t the one in the hospital.”
Sam shrugged. “Single mother with a sick kid.”
“Last time we spoke you called me Mrs.”
“Yeah, I just—uh, Mrs. Hogan, the lady I did a job for the other day, mentioned her friend’s son was in the hospital, and I wondered if that was you. She said you were a single mother. With a wink.”
“I see.” Lucy Hogan tended to spill details best left unspilled to anyone who would listen, including the postman, cable guy and Rachel, on more than one occasion. “Winks are flitted about rather carelessly in our neighborhood.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“But apparently martinis go right under your radar.”
“Hey now, I didn’t have one.” He winced. “That was the most uncomfortable job I’ve been on. I was so glad to get out of there when I was done.”
Rachel laughed. “Mrs. MacTavish has a not-so-subtle vixen that comes out around the male species. She’s very needy.”
And you aren’t? she wondered.
“Mrs. Hogan mentioned something about you being in the market for some repair work? Anything I can give you a hand with?”
So the queen of neighborhood gossip had filled Sam in on more than just her marital status.
“It’s a fallen ceiling in the garage. I’ve been so busy trying to sell houses, I haven’t had time to hire a carpenter to look at it.” Rachel turned and stuffed a green pepper into her bag, feeling a blush rise up her neck at his intense scrutiny. “Money’s a little tight right now with the medical expenses. I think I can tug down the Sheetrock that’s dangling from the ceiling, and stuff the electrical wiring back up into the framework.”
Sam whistled. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you. Handling electrical wiring is tricky. You could get hurt or even screw up the stuff inside the house. And there’s probably insulation that should be replaced. You have to be careful—the old staff could have asbestos in it. Why don’t you let me stop by and take a look and give you an estimate? Your neighborhood is on my usual
route.”
“Sam!”
Rachel turned to admonish Maxwell for running in the store, but he had slowed by the time he reached them.
“Hey, Maxwell.” Sam ruffled her son’s hair. The two of them had the same color hair and both looked as though combs were forbidden objects. “You supposed to be out and about so soon after they cut into you?”
“It was laparoscopic surgery,” Maxwell explained with his usual droll condescension. “Do you know what that is, Sam?”
“No, but I suspect you’re going to tell me,” he said, with a wink to Rachel.
Who did the man think he was, nudging into their lives with his movies and chitchat in the produce aisle? It wasn’t that easy. The way to her heart was not through forming a friendship with her son. So he could take those winks and—
“It means the surgeons make a very small cut in the skin and go in with a device that has a movie camera on it,” Maxwell explained. “That lets them see what they are looking for without making a huge incision, then they take it out with precision instruments.”
“That sounds like science fiction,” Sam said. “Are you sure they didn’t stick an alien in there before they closed you up?”
Maxwell sighed and shook his head. “Aliens are hokum. Laparoscopic surgery has been around for decades, Sam. You should look it up online. Mom, can we get a smoothie on the way out?”
The store boasted a smoothie machine at the deli counter. Maxwell’s favorite was the mango banana.
“Of course. Nice to see you again, Mr. Jones.”
Rachel started toward the deli section, but was suddenly aware the conversation between Maxwell and Sam had not ended. In fact, Sam accompanied them to the deli counter, where she hastily dug out a steel canteen she always carried with her, and set it under the smoothie dispenser.
“So, Sam, I did some research online about donating movies to hospitals,” Maxwell said.
“You did?” Rachel asked abruptly.
Her son nodded.