by Irene Hannon
“Dirt washes out.” Without waiting for her to respond, he walked over to the earthen bank she’d indicated and sat.
Nice to know the man wasn’t worried about getting his clothes—or his hands—dirty.
She gave him another discreet perusal as she joined him. He appeared to be in excellent physical condition . . . a perfect candidate to reattach Eleanor Cooper’s guttering, which had been on the Helping Hands to-do list way too long. The sag in the front was more pronounced every time she stopped by with some grocery item or prescription the woman needed. It didn’t take a lot of skill to tackle a job like that. She’d do it herself if she had a spare minute—and didn’t hate ladders.
After dropping down beside him, she opened the bag again. The aroma of cinnamon wafted up, setting off a rumble in her stomach, and she slowly inhaled. Nirvana. She’d ruin her appetite for the lunch Nancy was preparing if she ate the whole thing, but a few bites couldn’t hurt.
“I can hold the coffee while you tackle that.” Michael inspected the huge cinnamon roll as she pulled it out and set it on the bag. “I hope it’s still warm. I had them heat it up.”
She tore off a piece. “It is. Would you like to share?” She scooted the bag across her lap, closer to him.
“No thanks. I couldn’t resist getting one for myself while I was there . . . and I ate the whole thing. You can keep what you don’t finish for later.”
She didn’t argue. Sweet Dreams cinnamon rolls were a special treat. “Did you have any specific ideas about how you wanted to contribute to Helping Hands?” It might be more polite to give him a chance to offer suggestions before she threw the gutter job at him.
“I can do simple home repairs. Very simple.”
Perfect.
She bit into the warm roll, letting the icing dissolve on her tongue. “How do you feel about gutters?”
He cocked his head. “As in . . . ?”
“Reattaching. We have an elderly woman on our list who could use a hand with the one on the front of her house.” She reached for the coffee and took a swig.
“I think I could handle that.”
“Good. That will repay in full any debt you think you owe me. And Eleanor Cooper, who owns the sagging gutter, will also be grateful.”
She handed back the coffee and tore off another piece of the roll, giving him a surreptitious appraisal. Hmm. Maybe she’d been too hasty in assigning him a job. Michael Hunter came across more as the white-collar type, and they had plenty of need for that kind of help too. If he happened to be an attorney or computer expert, Eleanor’s gutters might have to wait.
“You know, you never did tell me what you do for a living. We have people who need professional help too, if that’s more your forte.”
When he didn’t respond, she stopped chewing and looked over at him.
Uh-oh.
His shuttered face told her she’d overstepped—the same reaction she’d gotten after inquiring about his background yesterday. But what was the big deal? It wasn’t as if she’d asked him his age or weight . . . or why he was here without his wife.
Better try to lighten the atmosphere. “Whoops. You must have some sort of clandestine job—like CIA operative or undercover FBI agent. Forget I asked.”
A few silent seconds passed.
Then he slowly dug into his pocket, extracted a card, and held it out.
After wiping her hands on one of the napkins in the bottom of the bag, she took it and read the information.
Michael Hunter was the CEO of a charitable organization?
Not at all what she’d expected.
And why would he be gun-shy about mentioning such an admirable job?
She fingered the card. There was a story here, and even though his personal history was none of her business, she wanted to know more.
But unless she handled this with a whole lot of delicacy and discretion, she had a feeling the man beside her would be out of here in a heartbeat, taking both his story and his offer of help with him.
5
He should have prepared for this contingency.
As Tracy scanned his card, then sent him a curious look, Michael’s gut clenched. She’d asked about his background yesterday; it had been foolish to assume he could preempt further questions by offering to do some simple home repair.
She lifted the card. “Is this anything like Helping Hands?”
Based on her tentative tone and body language, she’d picked up his signals that this wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss in detail. Good. Perhaps a few pertinent facts would suffice.
“Not exactly. We try to help people struggling with a variety of issues—homelessness, addiction, family violence—get their act together and achieve independence. The operating philosophy is based on the old saying that if you give people a fish you feed them for a day, but if you teach them to fish you feed them for a lifetime.”
“Sounds very worthwhile.” The comment was casual—but her eyes continued to probe.
“It can also be all-consuming.”
Whoa!
Where had that come from? He was supposed to be sidestepping questions, not generating them.
“I can understand how there could be a high burnout factor in a job like that if you didn’t pace yourself.” She watched him—and he had a feeling she was seeing a lot more than he wanted to reveal. “Is that why you took a leave of absence?”
Closing his fist over a clump of grass, he stared out over the fields. In addition to her many other assets, the lady had solid instincts. “Partly.”
He braced for another query . . . but none came.
Had she finally gotten his butt-out message?
He looked toward her, and she shifted her attention to the cinnamon roll, tearing off another section she played with but didn’t eat.
His cryptic reply had accomplished his goal and deflected further queries—but based on her blush, he’d also made her feel like an annoying busybody.
This visit wasn’t going anywhere near as well as he’d hoped.
Time for some damage control.
“Look . . . I didn’t come to Oregon to talk about my life in Chicago, okay? The whole point was to leave everything behind. But yes, I burned out in my job—and I also lost my wife eighteen months ago.”
Her head jerked toward him, her eyes wide and filled with shock.
Michael blinked. He rarely spoke about that heartbreak even with family or friends. Why had he shared it with this stranger?
None of this was making sense.
“I’m so sorry.”
At her hushed, caring comment, his emotions swelled—followed at once by a sweeping sense of panic. How had this woman managed to free feelings he’d kept on a tight leash for months?
The answer eluded him—and until he found it, he needed to put some distance between them.
“Thank you.” He stood, juggling her coffee. “My cell number is on the card. Let me know when you’d like me to take care of that gutter.” He held out the cup.
She took it, rising as he began to turn away.
“Listen, I don’t want to push . . . but would you be willing to consider a different kind of assignment?”
Hesitating, he angled back to her. “Such as?”
“I mentioned yesterday that our volunteer board is in over its head. We could benefit from a professional appraisal and some recommendations to improve our effectiveness. With your experience running a large nonprofit organization, an evaluation from you would be a lot more valuable to us than a gutter repair.” Her words came out in a breathless, nervous rush.
A bee buzzed his ear, and he lifted his hand to shoo it away.
Too bad he couldn’t shoo away her request as easily.
Unfortunately, she was right. Even with a paid staff and significant budget, St. Joseph Center had faced its share of challenges. Running an all-volunteer organization with limited funding had to be very tough. If he reviewed the Helping Hands structure and operational system, he might be ab
le to offer some constructive ideas—and a big-picture review shouldn’t take all that long.
Best of all, most of it could be done in the privacy of his room.
“I guess I could do that.” His acquiescence came out more grudging than he intended.
Nevertheless, her face lit up. “Thank you. Let me talk to our board members, solicit their ideas, and establish some clear goals for the review before we pull you into it. I don’t want to waste your time.”
“Sounds reasonable. You have my number.”
A bee began to buzz around the cinnamon roll in her hand, undeterred by her evasive maneuvers.
He moved back toward her and waved it off while he relieved her of her coffee cup. “You better put what’s left in the bag unless you’re going to eat it now.”
“I’ll save the rest for later.” It took her a couple of tries to slide the sticky bun back in—and the tremors running through her fingers weren’t helping.
Had he caused them?
Could be.
He hadn’t exactly been Mr. Congeniality for much of their conversation.
“I can take that back now.” She reached for the coffee.
He passed the cup to her, trying to find some neutral topic that would put her at ease and conclude today’s encounter on a more relaxed, upbeat note. “This is quite a layout. How many acres do you have?”
“Seventy—sixteen planted in cranberries. Our twelve beds range in size from one to two acres and are spread out over the land to take advantage of the terrain for terracing.” She surveyed the property, pride shining in her eyes. “This farm has been in my family for three generations.”
“On your father’s or mother’s side?”
“Father.”
“So you and your husband inherited the business?”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I work the land with my uncle. My husband is—he died two years ago.”
Michael’s lungs stalled. The vibrant young woman beside him was a widow?
He grappled with that bombshell for a few moments, then sucked in a breath. Apparently he wasn’t the only one with some serious grief in his recent past.
“Now it’s my turn to say I’m sorry.”
She dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “I’ll give you a call once I meet with the board. And thank you for this.” Lifting the cup and the bag with the half-eaten cinnamon roll, she took a step back.
Their conversation was over.
Five minutes ago, he’d have welcomed the chance to escape. Yet all at once he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay and comfort this woman who seemed so alone and in need of a sympathetic ear.
Or was he projecting his own needs on her?
Hard to say—and based on her rigid stance, this wasn’t the time to try to find out.
He pulled out his keys. “You’re welcome.”
He returned to his car, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine. The dogs came running as he maneuvered the Focus around and aimed it toward 101, and Tracy called out to them, shooing the two collies out of his path as he guided the car down the road.
For an instant as he drove past, their gazes met. He lifted his hand. She hefted her coffee.
Then she disappeared behind him.
He continued toward the highway, taking one final look in his rearview mirror as he approached a curve that would hide the scene behind him from view. She’d set the coffee down on a rock and was bending over to pet the dogs, holding the white bag aloft as they lifted their noses toward it and no doubt sent a silent plea with those big brown eyes.
With a twist of the wheel, he pulled onto 101 and accelerated back to town on the much smoother, paved road. If she was as kind and generous as he suspected, her afternoon snack was already gone.
And despite the tiny alarm bell that began to jangle in his mind, he suddenly found himself looking forward to seeing her again . . . and wondering if he could ferret out any more information about her from his tight-lipped, reclusive landlady in the meantime.
Taking care not to leave any smudges, Anna fitted the new piece of glass into the picture frame, set the photo on top, and slid the back into position. Then she turned it over and studied the smiling young man.
John Phillip Williams.
Her son.
Frame in hand, she lowered herself into the chair at the café table tucked against the kitchen wall, next to the animal rehab center occupying the space that had once held the dinette set where she and George and John had shared so many meals. Getting rid of the big family table had been harder than she’d expected—but why keep it when it would never be needed again? When sitting at it only hammered home the loneliness of her solitary life? Far better to use the space for a productive purpose.
The chickadee let out a soft whistle—long, short, short—and she glanced over at the bird she’d nursed to adulthood. Soon she’d have to set her feathered friend free.
Anna sighed. Letting go was always difficult; all the creatures that found refuge in her house had their charms and unique, endearing personalities. But once they were ready to test their wings—literally or figuratively—all you could do was set them free and hope for the best.
She refocused on the photo, the image misting as she inventoried John’s features. From George he’d inherited the supple lips that smiled often and merry, sparkling eyes. Her contribution had been the too-thin nose and firm—no, make that stubborn—chin. How often had the two of them clashed because of that shared trait?
Too many times to count.
Yet George, with his kind, gentle manner, had always been able to tease them out of their mulishness if they dug in their heels over some issue that wasn’t important in the big scheme of things.
She traced a finger over John’s square jaw. Would the two of them have fared better if George had been alive when the crisis arose that drove the divisive wedge between them? An issue so acrimonious neither had ever attempted to resolve it?
Maybe.
In fact, mediator that he was, George would no doubt have found a way to avert the final scene that had led to ultimatums and accusations and words said in anger that could never be retracted . . . or forgotten.
Instead, their clash had escalated—and she’d lost both husband and son in the space of six months.
If only it was possible to . . .
Anna ruthlessly quashed that thought and swiped a hand across her eyes. What was done was done. It was foolish to get weepy over events that had happened almost two decades ago. Even if a reconciliation had been possible in the beginning, it was too late now to change anything.
Straightening her shoulders, she returned to the den, crossed the dim room, and replaced the photo on the end table.
As she set it down, the faint sound of a door opening and closing came through the far wall, and she paused. Her tenant was either coming or going.
Taking a quick detour to the vertical blinds, she tilted one to peek out. No sign of anyone. Hard to say if he was . . .
All at once, the sound of running water came from the annex.
Question answered. Her boarder was here.
Releasing the blind, she swiveled back toward the picture. Michael had noticed the resemblance yesterday, after he’d chased the rabbit. He might not have voiced the question in his eyes, but his curiosity had been piqued. Finding a photo of someone who could be your twin brother had to be disconcerting.
Too bad.
John wasn’t a subject she intended to discuss with anyone. What had happened all those years ago was no one’s . . .
All at once, faint music seeped through the wall, and she strained her ears. Was that . . . Rhapsody in Blue? The piece John had played so masterfully at his last piano recital before he went away to college and his focus shifted from music to more practical pursuits?
Yes.
How proud they’d been of him that night—and the well-deserved accolades he’d received.
But encouraging a professional interest in music would have do
ne him a disservice, as both she and George had agreed. To his credit, John had accepted the reality that music wasn’t the most lucrative or stable career and majored in business instead.
And he had done well at it.
Very well.
Anna swiveled toward the computer on the far wall, the screen caught in a shaft of sunlight streaming through the slat in the blind that hadn’t fully closed. No reason to do a Google search on her son today; unless he’d been promoted again since January, there wouldn’t be anything new.
Still . . . seeing his photo on the screen would be comforting, even if the connection was ephemeral—and one way.
She clenched her fingers, struggling to summon up the self-discipline that confined her to a twice-a-year net search on him. Doing it more often would be self-indulgent.
Yet what harm would there be in giving herself this small treat before she dropped off Reverend Baker’s cookies and swung by the St. Francis rectory to take an inventory of the kitchen and compile her weekly shopping list?
With the beam of sunlight pointing the way and the driving beat of Rhapsody in Blue urging her forward, she gave up the fight.
It would be nice to see if there was anything new in John’s life—and pretend for a few minutes she was still part of it.
“For someone who’s been hard at it since the crack of dawn, you don’t have much of an appetite.”
At Uncle Bud’s comment, Tracy looked up from her barely touched plate to find him and Nancy watching her.
“Are you feeling okay, honey? You always scarf down my pot roast.”
“I’m fine. And it’s great, Nancy.” She forked a piece of carrot. Eating too much of the cinnamon roll Michael Hunter had brought her an hour ago was no excuse for skimping on the meal Nancy had worked hard to prepare. “I just have a lot of things on my mind today.”
Uncle Bud took a roll from the basket beside him and began buttering it. “Is that young man you were talking with earlier one of them?”
She smothered a groan. “I didn’t see you around while he was here.” She chewed the carrot and cut a piece of meat, giving the food her full attention.
