by Irene Hannon
“Big girls do too.” Marci sipped from her china cup. “So how is Logan? I don’t see him much around town.”
“I don’t see him often either.”
“I’m surprised, you being neighbors and all.”
“He’s probably busy with that niece of his, not to mention his new job.” Ben extracted his credit card from his wallet and set it on the tray. “We were lucky to get someone of his caliber at the urgent care center. I couldn’t have held on to both jobs much longer, with the Coos Bay practice mushrooming.”
“I think it was providential.” Marci rested her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers. “So many positive things have happened because he came.”
“Like what?” Ben took a final sip of tea.
“He saved the clinic . . . gave Mariam Shabo a job . . . tapped into Thomma’s magic touch with dogs—and the word is spreading about that, let me tell you . . . provided a companion for darling Elisa, who needed a friend . . . shall I continue?”
“No.” Ben set his napkin on the table, chuckling. “We get the picture. In case you didn’t realize it, Jeannette, my wife always sees the bright side of everything.”
“Are you complaining?” A dimple appeared in Marci’s cheek.
“Not in the least.” He took her hand, tenderness softening his features. “Have I told you lately that you’re the sunshine of my life?”
“Yes—but I never get tired of hearing it.”
Jeannette took a discreet step back. “Thank you both for coming today, and enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
“We will.” Marci’s attention remained fixed on her new husband.
Jeannette retreated, checking on the newlyweds over her shoulder.
They were both still focused on each other, oblivious to the world around them.
It must be incredible to share a love like that.
Also scary.
Because if you loved, you could lose—as she well knew.
The Shabos would attest to that truth too. From what she could tell, Thomma might never get over the tragedy that had robbed him of most of his family. That could be the reason he was withholding affection from his daughter. Experience too much pain, and self-protection mechanisms kicked in.
But her heart ached for Elisa, who watched her father with such longing and confusion during every tutoring session.
Dwelling on troubling subjects while she had a tea to wrap up, however, wasn’t productive.
She continued to the next table, forcibly redirecting her thoughts to the tasks ahead—settling the bills, seeing all her guests out, and feeding Button, who would be more than ready for his next meal.
A smile tickled her lips as she finished distributing the bills. The kitty was growing fast. Tomorrow she’d add solid food to the mix. Before long, he’d be ready for adoption.
And then he’d be gone.
Her mouth flattened.
Hard as she’d tried to keep her distance from the tiny fluff ball, he’d managed to worm his way into her affections with his soft, contented purrs . . . those big blue-gray eyes that watched her every move . . . and his trusting snuggle into the blanket after she settled him on her lap for feedings.
But that didn’t mean she was going adopt him, as Molly had suggested.
Instead, she would cut the ties—and the sooner the better. From now on, she’d approach the kitten’s care as she had in the beginning—as a chore on her to-do list, nothing more.
It took another half hour for the last dawdling group to depart, but as soon as they did she locked the door, did some preliminary cleanup, and headed back to the house to change. Once she fed Button, she’d finish tidying up, reset the tables for tomorrow, and prepare the last-minute menu items that were best served fresh.
Ten minutes later, her elegant tea attire exchanged for jeans and a sweatshirt, she entered the kitchen and set about mixing the kitten’s formula.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Button. It won’t take long to warm this up.”
After she set the bottle in a small pot of hot water, she replayed the messages on her answering machine. One cancellation for tomorrow, party of two, but otherwise a full house.
Business was good.
Today had also been good. The new lavender and goat cheese croustades she’d introduced to her tea menu had gotten rave comments, she was off the hook about offering the Shabos a place to stay now that they were back in their apartment, and the high school students who’d helped her with the lavender harvest last summer had signed on for another season.
Everything was going as well as possible in her life.
She tested the formula on her wrist.
Perfect.
“All ready, Button. I know you’re hungry.”
She set the bottle on the table and crossed to the box in the corner.
The little guy was sleeping.
Odd.
Usually when she bent down to pick him up for a feeding, he was wide awake and raring to go.
“Hey.” She touched his head. “Wake up, buddy.”
Nothing.
A tiny twinge of alarm radiated through her.
“Button?” She jostled him gently.
Nothing.
Pulse accelerating, she pushed aside the folds of the blanket he’d burrowed into.
He didn’t react.
In fact—he didn’t move a muscle.
That’s when she knew.
Button wasn’t sleeping.
He was gone.
Someone was sobbing in Jeannette’s kitchen.
And given her solitary lifestyle—along with the absence of visitors other than her tea customers—it had to be her.
Logan hesitated at the back door. It had seemed like an inspired idea to pick up two Sweet Dreams cinnamon rolls while he’d been in town dropping Molly off for her sleepover with Elisa, then mosey over here and ask Jeannette to share them.
But surprising her in the midst of a meltdown could backfire.
On the other hand . . . if a woman who always maintained firm control over her emotions was shedding tears, there had to be a serious reason for it.
Maybe she’d welcome a shoulder to cry on.
Or not.
As he debated his options, another heart-wrenching sob tore at his gut.
Decision made.
No matter the consequences, he wasn’t walking away.
Psyching himself up for whatever awaited him on the other side of the door, he lifted his hand and knocked.
The sobs continued.
He tried again.
Silence descended in the house.
Thirty seconds ticked by.
Sixty.
Was she going to ignore him?
Just as he was about to give up, the back door cracked open barely wide enough to give him a glimpse of one puffy red eye.
“I heard you crying.” No sense pretending otherwise. She had to know the sound of her weeping had carried through the door.
She hiccupped a sob, and a tear trailed down her cheek. “B-Button died.”
He clenched his teeth, biting back a term he rarely used.
A woman who—according to Molly—had lost people she loved . . . who avoided relationships of all kinds . . . who then took a chance on an abandoned kitten . . . would be devastated by another loss.
“I’m so sorry. May I come in?”
“Why? There’s n-nothing you can do.”
Not for Button—but his neighbor was another story.
“I’d like to see him.” It was as valid an excuse as any.
She waited a few moments but finally swung the door open.
The full view of her face was like a punch in the solar plexus.
Both eyes were puffy and red rimmed, her complexion was pasty, and streaks of mascara trailed down her damp cheeks.
His first inclination was to pull her into a comforting hug.
But every taut muscle of her posture—not to mention the arms crossed tight over her chest�
�sent a clear keep-your-distance message.
He set the Sweet Dreams bag on the table and continued to the box.
“H-he was fine when I fed him before the tea.” Jeannette stayed where she was, near the door. Away from Button.
Logan bent and examined the limp kitten.
He was gone, no question about it.
And there could be dozens of reasons why—none of which had a thing to do with the care Jeannette had provided.
She needed to know that.
He rose. “This isn’t your fault, you know.”
“I know.”
Thank heaven she didn’t sound as if she had to be convinced. Taking the blame for what had happened would have compounded her misery.
“You did your best for him.” Small consolation, but what else was there to say?
“It didn’t matter in the end.” She sank into a kitchen chair and dropped her face into her hands. “Why does everybody and everything I love die?”
The broken question sent a jolt through him.
And what did she mean by everybody? Was that an exaggeration—or was she being literal?
If it was the latter, that would explain a lot.
He took the chair beside her. “Who else have you lost, Jeannette?” Asking the gentle question was risky. But she’d opened the door—and she might never do that again.
“My whole f-family.”
She’d meant her previous comment literally.
His stomach twisted.
Curious as he’d been about her background, now that he was on the verge of finding out, he wasn’t certain he wanted to know.
Because it was going to be bad.
Very bad.
As Charley had said, people didn’t cut themselves off from others unless they’d been seriously hurt.
But he wanted to hear her story. Knowing what had shaped this woman could help him figure out how to help her move on.
“What happened?”
“It was an a-accident.” She lowered her hands to the table. “Where’s Molly?”
The non sequitur threw him for a moment. “Um . . . spending the night with Elisa. I’m picking her up tomorrow morning before church. The Shabos were able to go back to their apartment yesterday.”
“I know. Why are you here?”
“I had a free evening, Molly was occupied, and I thought a cinnamon roll”—he tapped the bag—“and a walk on the beach would be a perfect Saturday night. I hoped you’d join me. I also wanted to get an update on Button.”
“I have to . . . to take care of him.” She glanced at the box, dread etching her features.
“I can do that for you, if you like.” Later. After she shared whatever had happened in her life to cause a major meltdown over the kitten. “Jeannette—would you tell me about the accident?”
Her face was bleak as she looked at him, the sadness in her brown irises as deep as the fathomless waters beyond Hope Harbor. “I haven’t talked about it in years.”
“It might help if you did.”
“That’s what everyone said at the time. I tried. It didn’t change how I felt.”
“Did you lose a husband? Children?” Considering the profoundness of her grief, the death had to be on that level of magnitude.
“No.”
Not what he’d expected.
“Then who did you lose?”
She appraised him. “Why do you want to know?”
Smart question. She was being cautious, protecting herself.
However . . . his interest had nothing to do with morbid curiosity, if that was her concern. It was driven by a much more personal component.
But how to express that without scaring her off—and shutting her down?
“We’re neighbors . . . and I’d like to think we’re also friends.” He didn’t rush his answer, choosing his words with care. “Friends care about each other. They share their histories, like I shared mine with you.” Reminding her of that couldn’t hurt. “Friends also trust each other to keep confidences. Whatever you tell me will stay between us.”
She frowned and bit her lower lip. “I don’t know . . .”
He let several seconds pass. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I collect Button’s things and take them—and him—over to my place while you think about it?” The delay was a gamble—but he’d rather not hear her story if she later felt she’d been coerced into telling it and ended up resenting him. “I’ll bury Button tomorrow, if you like.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to come?”
She shook her head. “I’ll help you collect everything.”
They worked in silence, packing a bag with the bottles and formula and other items. When they finished, he tucked the package beside Button and picked up the box.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
She nodded and opened the door.
He slipped through—and shifted into high gear. The longer he was gone, the higher the odds she’d stop him at the door with a “thanks for your help” greeting and send him home.
But that didn’t happen. As he crossed her patio nine minutes later, the aroma of coffee drifted through the window.
She opened the door as he approached.
During his absence, she’d done some repair work on her face. The pallor remained, but the mascara smudges had been erased and the tearstains wiped away. Her eyes weren’t quite as red, either, and the puffiness had subsided a tad.
“I put coffee on. I assume you prefer that over tea.”
“I like your tea.”
“Diplomatically put.” She offered him the ghost of a smile. “But I’ll have coffee too. Once in a while it’s a nice change of pace.”
He crossed the threshold. She’d put the cinnamon rolls on plates and added napkins, knives, and forks to each place. Two mugs waited beside a small coffeemaker.
“Where do you want me?”
“Either spot is fine.” She moved to the coffeemaker and poured them each a cup. “Sugar or cream?”
“Black.”
She set his mug on the table, added a healthy dose of cream and a teaspoon of sugar to hers, and joined him. “Where did you put Button?”
“In the garage. I’ll bury him in the backyard tomorrow morning.”
She stirred her coffee. “Do you think Molly should see him first—or be there for the . . . burial?”
“Do you?”
Her brow pinched. “Sometimes that makes it more real. But she’s already been through her Nana’s death. That’s fresh enough in her mind and should give her the gist of what happened without the ritual. Seeing where he’s buried may be sufficient.”
“I was thinking along those same lines.” He took a tentative sip of his coffee. Not a bad brew for a tea drinker.
As if she’d read his mind, the corners of her mouth tweaked again. “I know how to make coffee. My dad loved his java, and even though I always preferred tea, he insisted I learn how to brew a decent cup.”
“My thanks to your dad.”
He waited, letting her set the pace, giving her a chance to organize her thoughts and tell him her story in the way that was most comfortable for her.
She broke off a bite of cinnamon roll with her fork but didn’t eat it. “My comment about how seeing a body makes death more real is based on personal experience. I didn’t have that opportunity. It was just a memorial service.”
Again, he wanted to reach out and touch her. Instead, he held on to his mug to keep his hands where they belonged. “Who did you lose, Jeannette?”
She drew a shaky breath. “Everyone.”
She’d said that before, but it wasn’t computing.
How could a person lose everyone they loved in one fell swoop?
Even with the Shabos, three had survived the horrendous act of terrorism that had decimated their family.
“What do you mean by everyone?”
“I mean everyone. My entire family. Mother, father, brother, sister-in-law, niece—even my broth
er’s d-dog.” Her voice rasped, and she picked up her mug with both hands. Took a sip as her eyes began to shimmer.
Logan’s stomach bottomed out as he tried to digest that bombshell.
The kind of loss she’d sustained was almost incomprehensible.
Yet she’d endured.
Meaning the slender woman sitting across from him had tremendous emotional stamina—perhaps more than she realized.
He remained silent while she composed herself. Hoping she’d continue the story without more questions from him—and he had plenty.
A few seconds later, she did.
“It was a plane crash. My dad was the pilot—but it wasn’t his fault. The investigators from the FAA and National Transportation Safety Board found a mechanical defect in the aircraft Dad had rented. It was a new plane, but this was a factory error. The plane caught fire after the crash, and there . . . there wasn’t much left to find by the time the emergency crews put it out.” Her throat worked as she swallowed.
As Logan tried to process the horror of that scenario, she hit him with a second bombshell.
“I was supposed to be on the plane too.” She swiped up a glob of icing that had dripped onto her plate. Wiped it off her finger with a napkin. “It was a thirty-fifth anniversary trip for my mom and dad. We were all going to Hilton Head. But the flu was decimating the staff at my school, and they asked me to delay my trip two days while they rounded up subs.”
As the truth slammed home, his pulse stuttered.
If Jeannette hadn’t agreed to stay behind, she would have died too.
He gripped his mug to steady his fingers. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through.”
“Don’t try. It’s not a place you want to go.” Her voice hitched, and she motioned to his roll. “That’s g-getting cold.”
“I can nuke it again.” But he wouldn’t. His appetite had vanished. “You told me a couple of weeks ago that you moved here because you needed a change of scene—now I can understand why.”
“Most people back in Cincinnati didn’t—but there was nothing left for me there except memories that made me sad. And I had the financial resources to start over somewhere else. I was the beneficiary of several insurance policies and wills, and those funds—along with the settlement money from the plane manufacturer—gave me the seed money for this place. Literally. Plus a fair amount to spare. Financial stability is one problem I never have to worry about.” She took a tiny sip of coffee. “So now you know my story.”
