by Linda Kage
“I fully trust your capabilities in this matter.”
I stared at her a moment before saying, “I’d still like you to come with me.”
She shook her head.
I sent her a sad smile and capitulated, feeling as if I’d lost. “Some other time, then.”
I might’ve lost this battle, but I was still determined to win the war.
chapter
TWELVE
When I drove home that night, I expected red and blue lights to start flashing behind me any second with some cop threatening to arrest me for theft. I drove with my eyes more on the rearview mirror than on the road ahead of me.
By the time I made it into town, handcuff-free, my worry only gained volume. People didn’t own rides as nice or new as this in my neighborhood. If I parked this thing on my street, I might as well paint a huge target on it. It wouldn’t survive the night.
Swearing under my breath, I found a better neighborhood about a fifteen-minute walk from my own, where the cars and trucks started to look nicer and were safer to park on the street. I still felt wrong about leaving it there, so far from my apartment, but hell, it had a better chance here.
“You’ll be okay,” I said, stroking the paint job and reassuring myself more than I was the truck. Then I stepped back, took a deep breath, and hurried home. Once I reached the apartment, I remembered to check the mail slot on the first floor before heading up the stairs. There were about half a dozen letters, all from people we owed money.
Realizing it’d been days since we’d received a single late notice, I started to sweat and tore open the first letter. I was halfway up the first flight when I realized what I was staring at. Slowing to a stop, I gaped in disbelief.
I knew I’d made the deal with Mr. Nash, but a part of me had never fully believed he’d see to his half. Yet there I stood, slack jawed as I stared at the loan paid in full notice. It was exhilarating and kind of scary. I feared it couldn’t be real.
Palms sweating, I tore open the second letter. Another loan paid notice.
Holy shit. He’d done it. He’d really done it. He’d paid off all my mother’s debts.
With the third letter ripped open, I blinked, my eyes prickling with emotion. Every single thing had been paid off.
I covered my mouth with my hand and stared around the quiet stairwell, overcome.
She was free. My mother was finally free and safe.
If Henry Nash were standing there in that moment, I would’ve hugged him. He’d just saved Mom. To me, he was a hero.
By the time I made it up to my apartment, my relief and joy had left me somewhat drained and dazed. So I was even more flabbergasted when I opened my door, only to smell baking bread along with apples and cinnamon.
Oh God, it couldn’t be. Not my mom’s famous apple cinnamon rolls. They’d grown so popular around the neighborhood, they were actually the reason my sister Victoria had urged Mom into opening the bakery. Inhaling them now was bittersweet. It reminded me of how our life had been led into ruin, but it also told me Mom was up and about, actually baking.
I hurried toward the kitchen, worried I’d find her hovering over the oven and hacking out the last of her flu. But when I came to the opening, I jerked to a surprised halt. Mom looked completely recovered from her sickness. She hummed to herself as she spread butter over the top of a still steaming bun. A limp remained as she moved toward a plate at the other end of the counter, but even her uneven gait seemed better than any movements she’d made since breaking her hip three months before. Her walker sat unused on the other side of the kitchen.
“Shaw!” she said, pleasure blooming across her face. “Are you hungry? I made enough to feed us for a week, I think.” Then she laughed her tinkling laugh that always reminded me of fairy bells ringing or angel wings flapping. I loved my mother’s laugh. It’d been too long since I’d last heard it.
Affection warmed my entire chest. Mom was back, better than ever. She was free from loans and she looked healthy and happy.
“I could eat,” I said, approaching. “But first…” I wrapped my arms around her and gave her the biggest hug, even picked her up and caused her to laugh.
Patting my shoulder and then touching my cheek, she grinned. “What’s all this about?”
I shook my head, not sure if I could voice how pleased I was by all our good fortune if I tried. “It’s just been a good day.”
She, of course, totally misunderstood me, not at all thinking I was happy because of her. “Something must’ve happened at work,” she mused, her brown eyes, the same shade as my own, twinkling with joy.
I started to shake my head before I remembered, oh shit, yes. “Yeah, I guess.” I gave a rueful shrug, almost too embarrassed to tell her my news. “Mr. Nash loaned me a truck to drive to and from work.”
“Wow, that’s nice.” Mom turned to pick up the cinnamon roll she’d just buttered to hand it to me. “You won’t have to spend so much time walking to that place anymore.”
She said that place as if it were a nasty omen. I’d told her over and over again there was nothing shady about the Nashes, but she continued to doubt.
I took the roll and bit into it, moaning over the apple and cinnamon flavors that exploded on my tongue. Then I closed my eyes, enjoying the taste, before I swallowed. When I looked at Mom again, she was buttering another roll. I leaned against the counter and watched, taking another bite.
“Mom, nice doesn’t even cover half of what this truck is. You don’t understand.” I went on to explain the model and year along with all the bells and whistles it contained. “I was so afraid to drive it home and park it in our neighborhood, I had to leave it outside the Denny’s on Fifth and Grand.”
“Oh, Shaw.” She rolled her eyes. “You can be so dramatic, my sweet, precious boy. You make it sound like the Holy Grail when it’s just a work truck.”
I snorted and shook my head. “You sound like Isobel.”
“Who’s Isobel?”
I jumped at the question, because it hadn’t come from my mother. Not realizing anyone else had been in the apartment, I jerked away from my casual lean against the counter and spun toward the new voice.
Gloria stood there, pointedly staring at me with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Jesus, where did you come from?”
She began to tap her foot. “I was in the bathroom, freshening up, when you came in. Who’s Isobel?”
Righteous indignation stretched across her face, and she continued to glare at me as if I’d cheated on her. I narrowed my eyes and pinched my mouth together, refusing to answer, because it was none of her business who any of my acquaintances were.
But then Mom had to go and say, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention an Isobel before. Does she work for Mr. Nash as well?” Then she passed the newly buttered roll to Gloria, murmuring, “Here you go, dear.”
When Gloria took it, answering, “Thank you, Mama,” I almost lost my cool.
I did not like her calling my mother Mama. I didn’t like her hanging out in my apartment all day. I didn’t like her staring at me as if she had any right to me, and I really didn’t like that I was going to have to answer her demanding question because now Mom wanted to know who Isobel was too.
Dammit.
“Uh, no,” I said, frowning between the two women. The bite I’d just taken seemed to grow larger in my throat the more I tried to swallow it. “She’s not another employee. She’s Mr. Nash’s daughter.”
Mom smiled politely. Gloria scowled harder.
“I didn’t realize he had any children,” Mom said.
I nodded. “Yeah, he’s a widower with a son and a daughter. The son lives elsewhere, though.”
“How old’s the daughter?” Gloria asked, her jealousy thick and livid.
I stared at her, my jaw ticking. I didn’t want to answer her.
But Mom had to go and press, “Well?”
With a sigh, I muttered, “She’s twenty-five.”
Gloria snorted. “Twenty-five and still lives at home with her daddy? Wow, that’s impressive.”
I tipped my head to the side, drilling her with an insulted glare. “I’m twenty-eight and live with my mother.”
Face flushing, she immediately began to stutter, “That’s not…but your situation is unique. I’m sure Mr. Nash could buy his daughter another home to live in. Besides, why doesn’t she have her own job and take care of herself?”
“She can’t,” I snarled, needing to defend Isobel more than I needed my next breath.
But I was so vehement about it, both women reared back in surprise before Mom said, “What do you mean, she can’t? What’s wrong with her?”
My instinctive answer was nothing. There was nothing wrong with Isobel. She was flawless in my eyes. But after my passionate she can’t, I had to give them something.
“She, uh, well…she was in a house fire that killed her mother, and it left her…”
Mom pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh, that poor sweet child. Is she crippled?”
“No.” I smiled a bit to myself, thinking about how in shape she was. After running with her for a week, I still couldn’t keep up with her pace. She definitely wasn’t crippled. “I mean, she doesn’t use the fingers in her left hand much because of the burn wounds.” I’d noticed that about her, anyway. “But mostly it’s just…aesthetic.”
“So she looks hideous?” Gloria guessed, a smirk of evil relish brightening her features.
“No,” I said before I could check myself. Honestly, it was probably best if I let Gloria think Isobel was too revolting for me to have any interest in her. She’d probably hate her less, and I knew the two would never meet, but I didn’t want someone to hate Isobel, even in spirit only. “I don’t think the scars look that bad, but she’s become quite self-conscious about them. She doesn’t leave the property, like ever.”
The two women stared at me a moment longer before Gloria self-righteously proclaimed, “What a lazy, entitled coward.”
For the briefest moment, I was too shocked by her words to respond. Then I blinked and slowly said, “Excuse me?”
“She’s so scared people might laugh at her looks that she’s decided to live off her rich, fat daddy for the rest of her life and, what, eat bonbons while you shine her shoes? That’s appalling.”
“She’s not appalling.” I was so flabbergasted by the critique I couldn’t check my words. “The way she pushes herself every morning during her run, and how tenaciously she tends to her roses, is the very opposite of lazy. Plus, she’s been quite the trooper, helping me build her bookshelves. I think she carried just as many lumber supplies into the house from the truck as I did today. And who the hell cares if she lives the rest of her life on her daddy’s money? Trust me, he can certainly afford it.”
Lifting her chin, Gloria narrowed her eyes and sniffed. “I suppose you’ll try to convince me it’s bravery that makes her hide away from the rest of the world, too, won’t you?”
“Can you honestly blame her?” I spat back. “Her life was irrevocably changed. She’s just trying to deal with it the best way she can. Until you lose your mother in a fire and get half of your face melted off, you have no right to judge her so harshly.”
“Well,” Gloria said, her entire being rigid with sanctimonious outrage. “I think it’s time I be on my way.”
Finally, I agreed with her on something. “I think you’re right.”
“Shaw,” Mom gasped, sending me a disappointed glare. “I invited Gloria to stay for supper.”
Of course she had. Pulling my anger back together, I drew in a deep breath. “Sorry, Mother. I wouldn’t dream of kicking out your guest.” Sending Gloria a tight smile, I splayed out a hand. “Please, stay and eat.”
With a satisfied little smirk, Gloria preened and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Why, thank you. I think I will.”
With a single nod at her compliance, I took a step in reverse. “I hope you ladies enjoy your meal.”
They both blinked. “What? But where are you going?” Mom asked.
I sent her a sad smile, completely ignoring the woman at her side. “I think I’ll eat out tonight.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek before adding, “Have a great evening, Mom.”
With that, I turned away and started for the door.
Both Mom and Gloria called after me, but I kept going. Once I was outside and back in the stairwell of the building, by myself, I finally cursed under my breath. I wished I hadn’t been so quick to defend Isobel. It felt as if I’d just painted a great big target on her back for Gloria to hate. It wasn’t a big deal, of course—the two women would never meet. Gloria couldn’t mistreat her to her face, and Isobel would probably never even be aware that someone disliked her now, because of me. But I still wished I’d been able to hide my feelings better.
What if Henry caught on to the fact I was starting to like her…a lot?
Damn, I was definitely going to have to learn to control myself better than this. Everything seemed to depend upon it.
chapter
THIRTEEN
Planning bookshelf projects and reading about bookshelf projects were entirely different beasts than actually building fucking bookshelves.
“Dammit,” I muttered, tossing down another board I’d cut a fourth of an inch too short. “I suck at this. I so totally suck at this.”
You’d think routing fancy edges or aligning and screwing boards together would be the real challenge for me. But nope, I just couldn’t measure and cut worth crap.
“Too short again?” Isobel asked from across the room, where she sat at the opened window and brushed wood stain across a freshly sanded shelf. Between us, the floor was covered in plastic drop cloths while sawdust fluttered in the air and the crisp scent of lacquer floated to me from the breeze the window let in.
“Yes,” I mumbled, tearing off my hat to run a hand through my hair and trying not to lose my shit. But seriously, you’d think I’d learn not to fuck up the length so badly after the first five boards I’d cut wrong. Moodily, I jammed my hat back on.
“Well, this is only the sixth miss,” Isobel said, dipping her brush into the metal can she held with one hand. “You’ve easily cut three times that number right.”
I blinked at her, wondering when the hell she’d turned so optimistic and encouraging. And why was she being so helpful? From the moment I’d showed her my idea for the library, she’d been involved in this project one hundred percent, just as much as I was. In fact, I wasn’t building these bookcases at all. We were.
The saw scared the shit out of her, so she didn’t do any cutting, but she sanded and beveled and measured, and now she was staining. This was supposed to be my handyman job, but she’d worked and sweated as much as I had. And I had to say, it was nice. We’d bickered, and disagreed, and then agreed and complimented, and now we were encouraging each other, apparently.
“Why don’t you take a break from cutting,” she suggested. “I only have one more board to stain before I’m out of the ones that have been sanded.”
Grateful to move on to something else for a bit, I started toward her. “You need some more sanded?”
She pointed her brush toward a stack of cut boards. “Those right there.”
“On it,” I said, happy for a change of scenery.
“I know it’s not plausible, but I was hoping we could at least put up one range of shelves today. I’m excited to see how the new ones will look next to the old ones.”
I grinned. Her enthusiasm was contagious. And adorable. I wanted to make sure she got whatever she wanted. With a grin, I said, “I bet we could get one up before the end of the day.”
She snorted. “It’d probably take us another eight hours, working straight through, to get to that point, and you get off work in,” she consulted her wrist, “two.”
I shrugged. “I don’t mind staying a couple hours longer.”
Blinking, she stared at me as if I’d just suggested I give her my undyin
g love and devotion.
“But…you don’t have to do that. You already work here nearly fifty hours a week as it is.”
Sending her a grin, I merely said, “But I want to see one of the bookshelves up today, too.”
Before she could argue the point further, I slid my safety glasses on, turned up the sander and drowned out her protests with noise.
We’d been working on the bookshelf project for about a week now. And throughout all the planning, brainstorming and calculating, we talked. We talked a lot. We talked about books, movies, and our favorite television shows. We talked about my family, my mom’s situation, her lost bakery business, and my absent siblings. She wasn’t as open about her family. She mentioned things about her dad and brother, but usually avoided conversation about her mom entirely, as well as the fire that had changed her life.
Occasionally, I asked her about her future, what she wanted to do with her life and if she ever planned to move out of Porter Hall on her own. But her eyes would glaze over with this faraway expression, and she would never go into any of that. So I’d change the subject.
But mainly, smiles and conversation flowed smoothly between us, just as it did for the rest of the afternoon.
At one point, Mr. Nash strolled into the room, saying, “Izzy, did you receive the note I left, letting you know I’d be late on Friday because I had a business dinner?” He was shuffling through a pile of mail in his hand, not paying attention to any of the progress we’d made.
“I saw it,” she answered, her voice strained, because she was busy holding two boards in place for me so I could screw them together.
Henry finally lifted his face and blinked. He gazed about the construction zone we had going on before returning his attention to us. “Shaw,” he said with some surprise. “I must not have been paying attention when I pulled into the drive. I didn’t realize you were still here. It’s two hours after your regular time to leave.”
“We wanted to get at least one shelf installed tonight.” I glanced at Isobel. “Ready?”