Safe in Noah's Arms

by Mary Sullivan

Still, he sat there mute, not sharing his thoughts, and she gave up. For now.

  She spread a handful of linen handkerchiefs across the table. “Look at the work on these. It’s exquisite. Do you think this is all my grandmother’s work?”

  “Yes, certainly, and her mother’s. But there were also a couple of much older maiden sisters who lived with them until they died when your mother was young.”

  “They had amazing skills. Yeah, maybe my great-grandmother, too. Some of this is very old. I’ve never seen work this elegant. I don’t even know if they make needles and thread this fine anymore.” Ultrafine openwork, pulled-thread embroidery caught on a callus on her finger. Only a week into her community service and her hands were already a mess, despite wearing gloves. “I should donate these to a museum somewhere, but I’m too selfish.”

  “It’s not selfish to hold onto your heritage when you’ve only just found it.”

  Dad had a good heart. She just wished she knew what he was holding back from her these days.

  Back in her own apartment, she stored the embroidery in a small cedar chest. She got herself washed and ready for work. On the walk over along Main Street, she noticed a For Rent sign in the window of the old cigar shop that was in the process of shutting down. She peeked in through the window. Too bad she had to go to work. If she could linger until the store opened, she would love to see the interior, to check out the space. She hadn’t been inside in years and had only gone in with Dad when he’d bought gifts for friends at Christmas.

  She remembered mahogany countertops and stained glass pendant lamps. She could really work with that kind of atmosphere to turn it into a spectacular storefront.

  If she was to start a small business, this spot would be perfect, but she didn’t have a business idea, did she?

  Deflated, she continued on to work. Ever since Monica had expressed her anger with both Noah and Olivia, things had been better at the gallery. She guessed her boss understood, finally, that Monica hadn’t injured her son on purpose.

  Either that or she was afraid of Monica. She smiled. That was okay, too. It wouldn’t hurt for her boss to respect her more.

  * * *

  ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER way to find Monica Accord too attractive.

  This was absurd. He’d thought about Monica nonstop since their time in the attic yesterday morning. After they’d carted some of the items downstairs, Monica had hugged him hard and said, “Thank you” with the prettiest, most sincere smile, and then had run out to do her chores.

  He’d stood in his front doorway dumbfounded, the press of her body indelibly stamped on his. How was he supposed to deal with this new, warm Monica, who handed out hugs that left him rattled and wanting more?

  Today he watched her straighten and walk to the end of the row, her stride both sultry and elegant. He followed her like a hound dog on the scent of a pheasant, wondering what she would look like without all of her plumage—the makeup and artifice that Monica used to put herself together every day.

  The crass, shallow teenage boy still lurking inside of him wanted to see her naked.

  She bent over to pick more weeds. Oh, Lord. His gaze shot away from her delectable derriere.

  She let out a distressed cry. He ran to her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That.” She grabbed his arm, pointing with her other hand to a beet plant. A tremor of fear ran through her voice.

  Noah edged closer, right into the circle of Monica’s heat. He forced himself to ignore his body’s traitorous reaction. You will not, absolutely will not, desire this woman.

  Too late. His body refused to heed the message.

  He followed her pointing finger. A small garter snake slept in the sun.

  “It’s harmless,” he said.

  “Kill it,” she demanded, the real woman gone and the princess back on display.

  Her demand inflamed his sense of injustice. He growled, “I’m not killing a harmless creature.”

  “But it’s a snake.” Real fear tinged her voice.

  “Yeah, but it’s harmless. Look.” He picked it up and it curled around his fingers below his cast.

  “Won’t it bite you?”

  “Not this kind. Here. Hold him.”

  She shrank away, backing up against the next row of plants. “Are you crazy? No way.”

  “Careful.” He drew her away from the young seedlings. “Relax. I won’t force you. I respect your fear. I just wanted to bust through some of your preconceptions about them.”

  “Like what? What do you think I’m thinking?”

  His face only a foot away from hers, he noted how her nose had turned pink from the sun. Other than that, her skin was flawless.

  “You think they’re slimy,” he said.

  “Aren’t they?”

  He grinned. Bingo. She had thought exactly that. “No. Most people assume so, but they aren’t. Besides, he’s been basking in the sun. He’ll be warm and dry.”

  “Seriously?”

  He smiled at her, happy to hear the hint of curiosity in her voice.

  “Do you want to hold him now?”

  “No.”

  “How about touching him?”

  “Mmm. Maybe.”

  “He is truly not slimy, and I promise that he’s harmless.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to touch him.”

  He took her gloved hand and held the snake over it. “Okay if I put him in your hand? You’re wearing a thick glove.”

  “I think so. He’s small. His head is sure tiny.”

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t lay a python on you.” He placed the snake on her hand, where it curled up. “You ready?”

  She trembled slightly.

  “You want me to take him back? I won’t force you, Monica. My thing is to get people to appreciate nature, but it has to be their choice.”

  She stiffened. “You know what, Noah? I want to get past this fear. Up close, he’s actually a cute little guy.”

  He smiled again. He liked her courage. “He is,” he said, pulling her glove from her other hand. “Okay, now touch him.”

  She hesitated.

  “Want me to take him back?”

  “Nope.” She smiled tremulously. “I’m just working up my nerve.”

  “You’re doing well.” He took her long, soft, tanned forefinger in his and directed it toward the snake’s skin.

  Monica jumped and then settled. “You’re right,” she admitted, wonder in her voice. “He isn’t slimy.”

  She touched the snake and then pulled away. “Okay. He’s not as creepy as I thought, but I don’t want to hold him any longer.”

  Noah laughed. “All right, just put him back with the plants where he belongs.”

  “Thanks,” she said as she set the little guy on the ground.

  “For what?”

  “For setting me straight about snakes. Now I won’t be afraid of them.”

  That chilled him. Not all snakes were friendly or safe. “Okay, listen, this guy was harmless, but many aren’t. Come on.”

  He didn’t have time for this. He really needed to get the entire beet crop weeded before opening the shop, but he also had to keep Monica safe. She was his responsibility as long as she worked on his farm. The thought of someone in his care getting hurt sent him into a panic.

  He rushed her into the farmhouse, toeing off his sandals inside the door, with visions of Monica making friends with every snake she encountered. Cripes, what if she picked up a rattlesnake one day?

  From one of his overflowing bookshelves, he retrieved a book.

  “Noah, I want to get more linens from the attic before I leave today. I really want to show Audrey.”

  “Hey, great. That’s just the kind of stuff she would love.”

&n
bsp; “That’s what I thought.”

  “But first, come here,” he said and sat on the sagging sofa. “I’ll show you the snakes you shouldn’t get close to.”

  She moved a week’s worth of newspapers he hadn’t had time to read to the coffee table. “Your place is messy.”

  “That’s because I don’t have time to clean. I run a business in town that doesn’t bring in oodles of money so I can’t hire anyone, which means I work six days a week. Plus, the farming I do doesn’t bring in any money because I give all of the produce away to charity, so I can’t hire a maid.”

  “Don’t you care about money?” She sounded genuinely curious.

  Don’t underestimate her.

  He set the book in his lap. “I do. I have a healthy respect for what it can do for people. I’m not so naive that I don’t understand the value of it in my life and for my future—that’s why I work hard. But I can’t care so much about it that I won’t give to others, or that I’ll care more for keeping my house clean than working in service to others.”

  Monica nodded in understanding and sat down beside Noah. He opened the book to show her snakes she should avoid that were native to Colorado.

  “You have a lot of strange ideas, Noah,” she said, “but I’m starting to respect what you think.”

  His pulse lurched. She respects what I think. Her opinion shouldn’t matter so much. It did.

  She picked up the book and thumbed through it.

  She’d stunned him with her simple honesty. For once, he was speechless.

  * * *

  MARCIE GREEN RODE into town on a wing and a prayer, last dime spent, belly empty, stomach kissing her backbone, every nerve and pore end-of-the-road gutted and hollowed out. She’d hit rock bottom.

  She couldn’t help but sigh. Girl, you’re a walking bundle of clichés.

  Yeah, she sure was.

  The one and only bus that came through town let her off on Main Street.

  That old feeling of being new and outside and a stranger assaulted her like an old enemy—or friend, perhaps the only one she had these days. At least it was something familiar. There was so little in her life she could think of as familiar these days.

  Up and down the street, residents who belonged here strode with purpose, while she stood, just letting it all happen around her. She should have belonged here, too, but she’d been robbed.

  And it was past time to right a grievous wrong.

  She studied the town like a connoisseur. Sizing up every new town was something she’d become good at. Every town had a unique character.

  Accord, Colorado.

  She knew next to nothing about it except that, if she had her way, it would become home. Her new home, last home, only home she’d ever need from now on. She’d moved so many times, she barely knew how to spell home let alone recognize it when she found it.

  She studied her new maybe home.

  Spruced-up storefronts lined the street. Old-fashioned globe lamps on black cast-iron posts held huge baskets of blue lobelia and white alyssum, along with orange pendulum and pink tuberous begonias.

  Pretty.

  Donna had been an avid gardener and had indulged her interest in every new town they’d lived in, for as long or as little as they’d stayed. She had taught Marcie a lot.

  When she thought of Donna, spasms of betrayal wrenched Marcie’s empty belly. Mere seconds after Donna had told her the truth, Marcie had left her in the hospital and hadn’t looked back.

  For all of her life, she had thought Donna was the one person she could trust. How wrong she’d been.

  She rubbed her hand across her stomach. “Settle down.”

  A man walking by smiled at her. “New haircut. Nice change. It suits you.”

  People sure were friendly here.

  Movement in a window nearby caught Marcie’s attention. Just beyond the glass, a man watched her intently. Unlike the friendly guy who’d just said hello to her, this man’s eyes were calculating, sizing her up.

  Marcie checked the name on the door. John Spade. A lawyer.

  If this tall, dark-haired guy standing in the window was Mr. Spade, he was a good-looking man, even if too spit-shined for Marcie’s taste. A lawyer, though. He had to be making a good living.

  Conscious that the suit he wore was worth more than everything she owned, which was stuffed in her backpack, she thought money is everything. She needed money. Now. Yesterday. For her entire life there hadn’t been enough. Soon all of her troubles would be over, maybe even by the end of the day.

  She had plans.

  The way lawyer-man John Spade studied her, as though he could see into her mind and dissect those plans, sent a chill up her spine.

  As she walked away, she felt the man’s eyes still on her.

  All along Main Street, her thoughts echoed the pace of her footsteps.

  I want. I want. I want.

  She passed a café with a lineup stretching nearly to the door. A woman with a small girl by her side stepped out with a huge bag in her hand, no doubt full of baked goods, smiled at Marcie then walked on down the street.

  The child nibbled on a cookie with yellow icing.

  Mind-numbing scents drifted out of the bakery, cinnamon and sugar and vanilla.

  Marcie’s mouth watered.

  If she had her way, she would enter, take a seat and order everything in the display cases—but she didn’t have a cent to her name.

  Staring in through windows and doors closed to her—this, too, was familiar.

  An outsider looking in.

  Story of her life. Always on the outside.

  Soon, though, that would change.

  She wandered through town, getting the lay of the land, passing the impressive and stately old Victorian B-and-B. She read the plaque out front. It used to belong to the founding father, Ian Accord.

  She continued on until she found the house owned by the current Accord descendants, Milton Accord and his daughter, Monica. It wasn’t quite as impressive as Ian’s house, but it could hold its own in any of the dreams she’d had about it.

  She approached along a walkway lined with purple and white sweet alyssum. She kind of doubted either Milton or his daughter did the actual planting themselves. They probably had plenty of employees to indulge their every need.

  The clomping of her boots echoed on the stately veranda. She shouldn’t be wearing boots in June. They made her feet hot. But she had no money to buy sandals. Not yet.

  She knocked on the door.

  The man who answered was handsome, his face only lightly lined. At a guess, she would put him in his early to mid-sixties. He was aging well, with that patina of gloss Marcie associated with the wealthy.

  When he saw her, his eyebrows rose to his perfectly barbered, tastefully graying hairline.

  His eyes grew misty.

  She hardened herself to the emotions she saw there—love, hope and guilt in equal measure.

  As much as she wanted to give in, especially to react to the love, there was no room in her heart for sentimentality. She was on a mission.

  When he didn’t say anything, just continued to watch her with a mixture of expectation and dread, she took matters into her own hands.

  “Hi, Dad. Can I come in?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MONICA TURNED OFF the alarm clock and rolled over in bed. She stared at the ceiling, thoughtful, musing on how the simple things in life could reap the biggest rewards.

  She was really starting to get off on this farming business. The days were flying by, one after another.

  She was falling into bed every night dead tired and waking up refreshed and ready to work. When was the last time she’d felt like that?

  On the heels of that thought came a mor
e surprising one. She looked forward to going to the farm every morning not only for the fresh air, sunshine and satisfying crunch of honest labor, but also for the chance to see Noah.

  She liked learning from him. Every day he taught her something new. Yesterday’s lesson about snakes had turned out to be less terrifying and more edifying than she would have ever thought.

  Throwing back the covers and bounding out of bed, she splashed water on her face, applied face toner and brushed her teeth. She ate breakfast before calling her dad. She’d tried repeatedly last night, but he hadn’t picked up.

  Just before heading out, she called him again. No answer. Maybe he was sleeping in.

  So after putting in a deeply satisfying two hours at the farm, she came home and showered then tried him again. Still no answer.

  Okay, this was getting really strange. Dad was always available to her. She had nothing earth-shattering to share. She only wanted to tell him about how good working on the farm felt—how much less a punishment and more a learning experience it was turning out to be.

  If she couldn’t reach him later today, she’d stop by and see him tonight.

  At lunchtime, Monica stepped out to pick up something at Tonio’s—she needed her Maria-and-Joseph fix today.

  “Maria,” she called up through the open window of the office.

  Maria rushed down to greet her. “You have garlic scapes again? We finally have some in, but had to order them from across the other side of Colorado.”

  “Actually I brought something to show you. Not food,” she explained, taking a couple of embroidered handkerchiefs out of her purse.

  “Ooooh. Where did you find these?” Maria handled them with care. “This work is beautiful. My grandmother used to do this kind of thing when I was a little girl back home in Italy.”

  Monica explained everything.

  “Your heritage. It’s good to become acquainted with it. How lucky for you it was still in the house.”

  “It seems that no one wanted to take responsibility for it, so they just left it there.”

  “I’m happy for you, Monica. I would love to see the rest.”

  “Yes! Come for coffee the next time we have a day off together.”