by Melissa Tagg
Since the holidays, however, business had slowed considerably. And since Lenora left, nothing.
Until Marshall.
Maybe she’d be better off looking for a job, putting her resume out on career websites. But if she did that, she’d officially become traceable. And if by some insane chance, Garrett was still looking . . .
“I’ve found you twice now, Mara. I can find you again. You don’t get to ignore me.”
Her fists balled inside her work gloves, the first traces of panic quickening her breath, her steps.
“Hey, Mara?”
She spun then wished she hadn’t because the puffs of white air around her face were coming too fast and Marshall would see and— “Yes?”
“Why children’s books?”
The question caught her off guard enough to slow her breathing. “Just how much of that conversation this morning did you overhear?”
“Some of it.” He leaned on the protruding axe handle, tipped his head to one side, pretend innocence sliding into his expression. “Possibly all of it.”
She pulled off her work gloves, set them on top of the firewood piled up against the shed, and stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Lenora asked me several times what I dreamed of doing when I was a kid. She knew I had to go to work right after high school. I guess she wanted to know what I might have done if I’d had more options.”
It’d seemed sweet at the time, as if Lenora cared about her hopes and dreams. But had she really just been trying to get Mara to think about what might come next? Life beyond the Everwood? Perhaps because, as Sam had said this morning, she knew what was coming?
“Anyway, I never had an answer for her. I don’t recall having some big dream as a kid. So one day she came home from the library with this stack of children’s books and said perhaps if I could remember what it felt like to be a kid, I’d remember having a dream, too.” They’d lounged in the den all afternoon, thumbing through picture books and eating M&Ms in front of the fireplace.
The memory made her want to laugh and cry all at the same time. And when she chanced a look at Marshall, this stranger who had spent all night in the cellar and worked all day as if he had as much at stake in the Everwood as she, all she saw in his eyes was compassion.
And maybe determination. “I’d like to help, Mara.”
The breeze scraped over her cheeks. “You already have. I don’t know what I would have done about the tree—”
“No, I mean, I want to stay and help fix this place up. I know I haven’t seen all of it, but I don’t think it’s so rundown that it’s beyond hope. Do some work, do some advertising, and we can fill those empty guestrooms. Fresh paint inside and out, some new furniture, landscaping—”
“What . . . I can’t . . . Marshall, this isn’t my property.”
“And yet, here you are.” He rushed on. “I know foreclosure is a possibility. But what bank wants to deal with a rundown old B&B? If they repossess, they’re stuck with trying to offload it on someone else. They’ll have to do an auction or a short sale. Plus, the owner being AWOL just adds to the mess. If you ask me, they’re not going to care who rescues the Everwood as long as someone does.”
He was forgetting one awfully large detail. “But paint and furniture and landscaping and advertising . . . all of that takes dollars. Lots of dollars.”
“So look into that emergency business fund the cop mentioned. And if that doesn’t pan out, well . . . I’ve got a little money.”
Who was this man? “I can’t take your money. I don’t know you from Adam. I don’t know a single thing about you.” Except that he was a hard worker.
And that he’d had a soft touch last night when he’d cleaned her wound. That he’d picked her up as if she weighed no more than a stuffed animal.
And that once, just before they’d headed down to the basement, her face mere inches from his, a flash of lightning had given a glimpse of such deep pain in his eyes she could almost feel it. Like the shuddering of the house against the storm.
But now he was all ease as he took a step closer and held out his hand. “Marshall Hawkins. Thirty-five. Born and raised in Milwaukee. And funnily enough, my middle name’s Adam.”
“Be serious.”
When she didn’t accept his handshake, he reached to tug her hand from her side. His palm was callused and his grip secure. “I am being serious. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I’d like to stay, Mara. I’d like to help. Please.”
There was something earnest and vulnerable in his tone, in the way he seemed to hold his breath now as Mara stalled. Trying to find an argument or excuse, a reason not to accept the lifeline he offered.
Finally, as if he couldn’t stand the wait, he released her hand and let out his breath. “If it’s too weird for me to stay here, both of us sleeping in the same house without any other guests, I could find a hotel.”
He was smiling again and actually, maybe she was too. It was a crazy thought, illogical and probably impossible. But what if Marshall was right? What if, together, they could save the Everwood?
She had promised Lenora she’d take care of it.
“There aren’t any hotels in Maple Valley.” That’s what Jonas from the bank had said yesterday. And it was all the more reason to do whatever she could to turn the B&B into a successful business.
Her reply was a crack in her resistance and Marshall knew it, those creases around his mouth deepening. “Then maybe I can lug a mattress out to the garden shed and camp out there.”
She bit her lip, burrowed her chin into the warmth of her jacket, and made her decision. “I have a better idea.”
6
The stale breath, hot on her cheek, sent alarm spearing through Mara’s entire body. But the fear robbed her ability to move.
“You told them, Mara? You tattled to my parents? Like you’re my nanny?”
How had Garrett gotten into her bedroom? She’d locked it, diligently, every night since the day she’d found her clothes pilfered through and the blankets on her bed disturbed. And that note on top of the dresser . . .
Her mattress shifted with Garrett’s weight. He was supposed to be at college right now. Midterm break wasn’t for another two weeks. She’d purposely made plans to take off those days and stay at a hotel for as long as Garrett was home.
But here he was, looming over her from his seated perch beside her. “How could you do that to me?”
“Get out of my room, Garrett.” She pulled her sheet around her shoulders, willing her trembles to stay trapped underneath her skin.
“You shouldn’t have told them.”
He was right about that. Mrs. Lyman had, at least, appeared uncomfortable when Mara had finally summoned the courage to talk to her employers. But Mr. Lyman’s response had dripped with bitter condescension. Garrett, Mr. Lyman’s oldest son from a previous marriage, wasn’t a saint, the man had acknowledged. But harassing the younger children’s nanny?
The way he’d looked Mara up and down in that moment, the utter disbelief in his expression . . . His dismissal was almost as shriveling as Garrett’s constant attention.
She should’ve given her notice right then and there.
Mara inched to the far edge of her mattress. “Garrett, I wasn’t trying to be hurtful. But you—”
Skinny fingers clamped over her mouth, hard and bruising, muffling her words and her breathing until . . .
* * *
Mara awoke, lurching from her pile of pillows, skin slicked with sweat despite the chill of her room.
Except, no, this wasn’t her room and it wasn’t her faded patchwork quilt tangled around her legs. Lavender and vanilla clung to the air and muted sunlight filtered through sheer curtains. Lenora’s room.
Her labored breaths slowed. Just a dream—a nightmare. She wasn’t in Ohio or even Illinois. Nor was she alone.
A rhythm of thumps echoed through the house. Marshall. She swung her feet to the cold floor as the pieces of last night dropped in. He’d asked to stay. She�
��d said yes. And she’d moved into Lenora’s living quarters at the back of the first floor.
Funny thing was, Marshall thought she’d moved down here for the sake of space or privacy. But truthfully, she’d fallen asleep easier last night than any of the nights since Lenora left—and it didn’t have a thing to do with what bedroom she was in.
Marshall Hawkins’s presence in the house probably should’ve made her feel uneasy, especially after everything with Garrett. But instead, hearing Marshall’s footsteps overhead as he’d settled in to a guestroom upstairs, knowing she wasn’t all alone in this big old house, had been oddly comforting. She’d felt . . . safe.
So, no, she hadn’t switched rooms out of propriety. Instead, it had been a symbolic move more than anything else. She was claiming the place Lenora had abandoned.
Which now, in the morning’s bright light, seemed far nervier than it had nine hours ago.
At another thump from the other end of the house, she rose, her gaze landing on the framed photo on Lenora’s bedside table. A man with gray hair whose straight nose, high cheekbones, and warm smile gave him a Jimmy Stewart appearance. George, Lenora’s husband.
Other details she’d missed in the fatigue of the previous evening caught her attention. A cardigan hanging from the closet doorknob. The white sneakers Lenora always wore around the house lined up near the door.
It sure didn’t look like the space of someone who didn’t intend to return.
Then again, from the stories Lenora had told Mara about her life as a travel photographer, this wouldn’t have been the first time she’d abruptly picked up and left. Traded in one season of life for another without so much as a backward glance.
But shouldn’t Mara and the friendship they’d developed have been worth a backward glance? Or maybe she’d imagined their closeness. Maybe, considering Dad and Mom and the Lymans and every other family she’d nannied for, she should’ve been prepared for Lenora’s eventual departure from her life.
Her stomach growled and she shook off her gloomy thoughts. She made quick work of a shower and threw on a pair of jeans and a light sweater. She let her damp hair hang free as she made Lenora’s bed.
She would’ve stopped in the kitchen then to start a pot of coffee brewing, but more noise from the front of the house sent her that direction instead. She padded, still barefoot, through the dining room, into the sitting room . . . and froze between pillars.
Marshall stood on a ladder in the lobby, reaching over its top to pull an already-peeling section of wallpaper loose. It ripped all the way to the floor until he released it into a wrinkled pile at the foot of the ladder. Half the lobby wall was already uncovered, plaster cracks and chipped paint exposed.
“What are you doing?”
He jerked at the sound of her voice. The ladder jostled and he quickly hooked one arm through a rung to keep himself from falling. He wore jeans and another plaid flannel shirt and when he turned, she could see that he’d once again not bothered with a razor.
Wonderful. She had a lumberjack tearing up her lobby.
“What are you doing?” And now she was repeating herself.
The tarp she’d hung where the front door was supposed to be whipped in the wind, cold wedging its way in. Marshall jumped to the floor. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m getting a head start on the day. This wallpaper—” he gestured around the room “—is enough to give a person vertigo. So it’s the first to go.”
There were those grooves around his mouth again, along with a lightness in his gray eyes. He seemed eager and energetic, ready to plow forward and . . .
Oh dear. The anxiety she’d felt in her dream chafed its way back in. “What are we doing, Marshall? W-what was I thinking?”
Marshall stuffed his hands into his back pockets. “Huh? You sleep okay?”
She could feel it—the panic—gurgling in her stomach and climbing up her throat. And what was that vinegary smell? Had he used a solvent on the walls?
“This is crazy. We can’t do this. Seriously, what was I thinking?” Repeating herself again. “We can’t just start ripping down wallpaper. I don’t own this property. I don’t have money. This is probably against the law. Oh my goodness, could we be arrested for this?”
Now he was laughing. A deep baritone laugh that under any other circumstances she might find startlingly irresistible.
“This isn’t funny, Marshall. This . . . you . . . I don’t even know you.”
He opened his mouth but she spoke again first.
“And don’t say Marshall Hawkins, thirty-five, Madison or whatever.”
“Milwaukee.”
“What?”
He ambled forward, scooting a pile of wrinkled wallpaper out of the way with his work boot. “I’m from Milwaukee, not Madison.”
“Where you’re from is not going to matter when we get in trouble for damaging someone else’s property.” Coffee. She needed coffee and breakfast and a return of her common sense. She whirled, moving in a half-trance, half-march toward the kitchen.
Marshall’s steps hurried behind her. “We’re not damaging the property. These walls are going to look a hundred times better when we’re done. And I’m not sure why you’re so upset right now. Didn’t we talk about this last night? You said I could stay and help.”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly. Or maybe I wasn’t thinking at all.” In the kitchen, she crossed to the cupboard near the sink, flung open its door and reached for a box of Lucky Charms. “What makes me think I have any right to . . . to do anything around here, much less start remodeling rooms? And even if I had all the right in the world, you can’t just tear down wallpaper willy-nilly. We need a plan, a list. We need to talk about what’s feasible and what’s not and make a budget and a supply list a-and . . .” She dug her hand into the cereal box and stuffed a handful into her mouth just to cut herself off.
Marshall had stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about sugary cereal.” He wandered over to the coffee pot, opened the cupboard above it, and found a bag of grounds. “I think I’ll skip laughing about the phrase ‘willy-nilly’ and instead assure you there was logic to my decision to start where I did. The lobby is the first thing people see when they come inside. It makes sense to give it priority.”
She gulped down another bite, watching Marshall’s back as he moved around the kitchen as if entirely comfortable in the space. As if he hadn’t just landed in her world a mere thirty-six hours ago and turned it inside out.
She’d gone from isolated and alone to . . . to having a guest and companion and helper all rolled into one confident, somewhat mysterious, all the way rugged man. But though last night she’d convinced herself there was solid rationale to accepting Marshall’s help, seeing him on that ladder minutes ago had shredded her confidence.
Something that didn’t seem to bother him in the least. Within minutes, he had the coffeepot gurgling. He turned to face her again. “So, you’re having second thoughts.”
She nodded, mouth full.
“Because you don’t own the Everwood and because you don’t know me.”
Another nod. Another bite of cereal.
“Well, second problem first—I understand being weirded out that I’m a complete stranger. And that I’m a man probably doesn’t help.” Marshall rubbed his whiskered chin. “Actually, the cop in me would tell you you’re smart to distrust me.”
She hugged the cereal box to her chest. Another police officer? So that’s why he’d known exactly what Sam Ross was doing when he’d stopped by her car yesterday and scribbled her license plate number.
As nonsensical as it was, though, she didn’t distrust Marshall. The same instinct that’d warned her Garrett Lyman’s seemingly innocent infatuation with her wasn’t innocent at all told her Marshall Hawkins, thirty-five, from Milwaukee-not-Madison was harmless. He didn’t intimidate her. He confused her.
“You’re a cop?”
“Thirteen years on the force, six as a lead detective for the Milwa
ukee PD.” He crossed one leg over the other, leaning backward against the counter. “I’ve never committed a crime. Never had so much as a speeding ticket. And I’m actually pretty good at house projects. I’ve done all kinds of repairs and updates in my own townhouse and my sister’s place, too.”
If he was telling her the truth—which her gut insisted he was—he was making a pretty good case for himself.
“As for not owning the Everwood,” he went on, “frankly, I don’t think that’s an issue. The owner isn’t here. You are.”
She dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. “It’s not that simple.”
“No, it’s not that complicated.”
“Marshall.” She said it like a scolding.
He dropped into the seat across from her. “Mara.”
She set the cereal box in front of her, though it did little to hide him from view. And the question she really wanted to ask slipped out. “Why? Why are you even here?”
He scooted the box out of the way, looked her straight in the eye. “Because I want to be. And that is the simple, uncomplicated truth.”
“Don’t you have a life to get back to?”
His expression turned into a blank slate. “I have time. My job and my life right now . . . it’s all flexible. But if you want me to leave, I can go.”
He hadn’t answered her question, but he’d played his hand all the same. He had a past he didn’t want to talk about. Same as Mara. “You’d leave just like that? After destroying the entryway?”
Sunlight streamed through the window over the sink and whatever shutter had closed over Marshall’s eyes seconds ago lifted. She might not know this man, but she could see the pull of his shadows and feel his need for light. It was as if he teetered between desperation and desire. And that . . . that she knew.