“Fellow businessperson and neighbor.” He accepted her hand, finding her grip surprisingly strong and her skin enticingly soft. He’d always had a fondness for soft things, seeing as how they had been lacking for most of his life. After holding her hand a good while longer than was necessary, he released it and gestured toward the boy approaching them, flying the newspaper page like a kite behind him. “Is that your son?”
A tender expression crossed her face as she watched the boy. “Yes, it is.”
“Here’s your paper, Mom.” Folding the double-wide page was beyond the boy’s ability, so he handed it to her as was, then turned a dark-eyed gaze on Cole. “Hi.”
Leanne lifted the kid into her arms. “This is Danny. Sweetheart, this is Mr. Jackson.”
“Hello,” Danny said again, extending his hand with grave formality.
Feigning the same formality, Cole shook hands with him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Danny.”
Before he could say anything else, though, a shout from across the street—“Hey, Cole!”—interrupted. He turned to watch the twelve-year-old boy running across the street toward them, with surprise, anger, and disbelief building inside. He kept it all off his face, though, and merely stared.
“Who is that?” Leanne asked curiously.
Cole stifled a sigh—or was it a curse?—then stiffly said, “That’s Ryan. My son.”
And why the hell wasn’t he in Philadelphia where he belonged?
WHEN SHE HEARD FOOTSTEPS ON THE PATH BEHIND her Sunday afternoon, Nolie wasn’t the least bit surprised. She glanced over her shoulder as Chase appeared through the trees, and nearly walked into a tree herself before swerving back onto the trail. She’d seen him stretched out on the hammock when she’d left the cabin and waved, but he hadn’t waved back. Friendly or distant, wanting to be alone or volunteering to spend time with her—she’d gotten to the point where none of it surprised her.
“Where’s the kid?” he asked when he fell into step beside her.
“Her name is Micahlyn.”
“I know that.”
“She went home with the Winchester sisters after church.”
“They still invite everybody over for Sunday dinner?”
“They invited us. I declined. Micahlyn accepted. Apparently, several of her new friends from yesterday live near the sisters.” Nolie gave him a sidelong look. “I take it you used to go to their church?”
“Do I look the type who would go to any church?”
“Well, now that you mention it . . .” He didn’t. He looked too aloof, too sophisticated, too . . . wicked. Though wasn’t that exactly the sort of man who needed church?
Shifting her attention to the trail as it sloped down to the stream and its bridge, she went on. “Of course, getting to church on Sunday morning is awfully hard when you keep such late hours on Saturday night.” She’d seen him drive by barely an hour after they’d finished work at the store, and his cabin had remained dark all evening and late into the night. She knew he’d come home around three-thirty A.M.—though not because she’d been waiting. It had merely been the unfamiliar sound of his truck passing her house that had caught her attention, nothing more. Honestly.
He made an odd choking sound, and when she glanced at him, she saw a blush had turned his cheeks dark bronze. He looked guilty and more than a little defensive. Why? Though she was curious, it was none of her business where he’d gone last night or what he’d done. Especially the what he’d done—and with whom.
As they crossed the footbridge, he changed the subject completely. “Why doesn’t the ki—Micahlyn go to school?”
“She’s not old enough yet. She just turned five last month, so she’ll start kindergarten next fall,” she replied absently. Her attention was still focused on the previous topic. She would have thought a man like him had outgrown blushes sometime around the age of six. Heavens, what had he done last night?
Then her own cheeks grew warm. Sometimes she was so naive. Saturday night was party night, prime time for unattached singles to go out to bars and clubs, have a few drinks and do their best to become attached, at least for a night or so. Chase was apparently as unattached as they came . . . but he wasn’t dead.
“I would have thought you’d had your fill of painting yesterday,” she said as the back of the feed store came into sight. By the time they’d painted every single set of shelving, they’d both been bending their index fingers only when necessary and usually accompanied by grimaces. “I certainly have. Once I finish with the store, if I never have to pick up a paint roller again . . . though of course I will. Before long, I’ll have to start on the cabin.”
“You could have hired someone to do all that work.”
She gave him a chastising look. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. You’re the one who pays people to do things for you. I don’t, unless there’s a very good reason why I can’t do the job myself.”
His voice was all stiff. “And that makes you better?”
“Not better. Just different.” Abruptly she laughed. “I guess I have too much of Great-Grandpa Hiram in me.”
“If I’d said that, you would have been insulted.”
“Hey, I’m insulted anyway. I told you, by all accounts, he wasn’t a nice man.”
They came out of the woods behind the store and walked around to the front. The REOPENING SOON sign made a fluttering sound like birds’ wings as she unlocked the door, then stepped inside. The smell of paint was strong in the air, completely masking the stale cigar smoke odor. She took a look around, at bright white walls and blue shelves, and smiled privately, proudly. Professional painters could have done the job in a fraction of the time—and at twenty times the cost—but they couldn’t have done it any better. She and Chase did good work.
He volunteered to paint the wood trim, and because tedious detail work wasn’t her strong suit, she let him and got started on the long countertop and the cabinets that supported it.
After a time, he broke the silence that seemed too often to settle between them. “What did you do in Whiskey Creek besides hide from your father-in-law when he needed help on the farm?”
“I had a part-time job keeping books for Obie—that’s Jeff’s dad—and several of our neighbors. I wanted to work full-time, since I didn’t have much else to do, but Marlene—Jeff’s mom—objected.”
“What business was it of hers?”
“It wasn’t. But I was trying to be a properly grateful daughter-in-law. I didn’t want to cause trouble. They’d done so much for us—too much, really. All they wanted was to take care of us, to do their duty by Jeff’s widow and child. It made me feel guilty, because all I wanted was out.”
“So how’d you get out?”
She paused in stroking the rich blue paint over the countertop. If she hadn’t been so properly grateful, things wouldn’t have ended the way they had. If she’d spoken up from time to time. If she’d done the things important to her without letting their opinions sway her. “Everything just built to a head this spring. I wanted Micahlyn to go to day care a couple days a week just so she could play with other kids, but Marlene vetoed the idea. I wanted to work full-time, but she didn’t like that, either. When I accepted an invitation to a movie and dinner with an old friend of Jeff’s, she was scandalized that I could even consider going out with another man. Then I found out that they had directed Alex Thomas to put this place up for sale and to dispose of Hiram’s belongings without even discussing it with me first. That was the last straw. I blew up and said some things, and . . . here we are. I don’t think they’ll ever get over it.”
“So what? You don’t need them.”
“They’re Micahlyn’s grandparents—all the family she’s got except for a few distant relatives.”
“Doesn’t sound like she needs them, either.”
“You’re not a real family type, are you?”
He didn’t slow in his painting. “Family’s overrated. Most people get along just fine without their relatives butting into their
lives.”
“What did your parents do to make you feel that way?”
For a long time he continued to paint, cutting in the blue paint in a clean line alongside the white, moving with long, smooth strokes, and she watched him. Watched the way the soft cotton of his shirt stretched across his shoulders with every stroke. The way the muscles in his back alternately flexed, then relaxed, visible even through the shirt. The way his long dark fingers held the brush easily and the way the muscles in his jaw tightened, twitched, as if he found her question too hard . . . or too hurtful.
“You do have a family, don’t you?” she asked softly.
That made him glance at her, with something dangerously close to becoming a smile hovering over his mouth. It didn’t form, though, to her great disappointment. Some smiles could be lethal, and she was pretty sure his was one of them. “Hard to imagine me as a kid with a mom and dad, isn’t it?”
A mom and dad who had failed him. But how?
“Not at all,” she lied. “I can just see you as a little squirt, stealing cookies from your mother’s kitchen, going fishing with your dad, playing Little League, and tormenting all the little girls around.”
Chase snorted. Stealing cookies, yes. Doing anything with his father, no way. Being in the same room together was almost too much to ask, and spending time together alone was too much. “You must be imagining someone else. That wasn’t my life.”
“Then what was?”
He pulled the ladder over—the same one she’d used to reach the cabin roof—and climbed halfway up to paint the trim across the top of the plate-glass window. He generally didn’t discuss his family with anyone. Even Fiona hadn’t known much about them or his relationship with them . . . though he couldn’t recall if that was because he’d never told her or she’d never asked.
“Don’t you ever have any desire to talk about yourself?”
The wistful tone in Nolie’s voice made him stop in midstroke. Slowly he rested the brush across the top of the paint can, then turned on the ladder to face her. He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one halfway out, saw the delicate twitch of her nose, and let it slide back. After flipping the package onto the top shelf of the nearest display, he slid his fingertips into his hip pockets. “Honestly?”
“Always.”
He took a breath to say no, no desire, but he didn’t think that was the truth. Sometimes he was lonely. He missed spending time with someone. He missed casual conversations, and serious ones, too. Sometimes he would give just about anything to hear another voice, to not feel so alone.
But most of the time he knew alone was the best way to be. People couldn’t be trusted. They betrayed you and let you down when you needed them most. They called you friend, then believed the worst of you.
They weren’t worth the heartache.
She was waiting for an honest answer, and he gave her the only one he had. “I’m not the neighborly type, or the church type, or the family type, or the trusting type.”
The emotion that flitted across her face was difficult to name. Disappointment, maybe, though instinctively he knew it wasn’t in him. God knows, he’d seen enough disappointment in his parents’ eyes to recognize it at a glance.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m sorry whatever went wrong for you did go wrong, and I’m sorry your family wasn’t there to help.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter—told himself it really didn’t matter. But it took him a long time to pull his gaze from hers, and if voices hadn’t filtered in from outside, he might not have managed even then.
Through the open door he saw two women coming across the parking lot toward the store. He jumped the three feet to the ground and headed for the storeroom, ignoring the question in Nolie’s eyes. Once inside the dark room, he pushed the door up until it was almost closed, then took up a position beside it, where he could see and hear.
“Good afternoon, Jolie!” the older woman greeted her in a booming voice as they came through the front door. “My, what a wonderful difference you’ve made in this place.”
Nolie glanced toward the storeroom, then turned back to the visitors. “Thank you. It’s nice to see you, Gloria, Sophy.”
“We were out taking a walk since it’s such a beautiful day,” the younger woman, Sophy, said, “and we thought we’d stop in and see how you and Micahlyn are getting along.”
“Oh, we’re fine. She’s in town right now—”
“With the Winchesters, of course,” Gloria interrupted.
“Yes. She gets bored spending all her time here with me.”
“Too bad she’s not old enough to help.” Sophy stopped next to the ladder and studied the wet paintbrush and the open can of paint. “Though it looks as if you’ve got someone helping.”
“Uh . . . no, I, uh . . . I tend to get distracted. I started on the trim, but decided the counter would be easier.”
How had he gotten to know her so well, Chase wondered, that he knew from no more than the tone of her voice that the lie was making her blush? He didn’t want to know her that well—didn’t want to know anyone that well ever again.
“Did you also take up smoking?” Sophy gingerly picked up the cigarettes he’d left on the shelves and made a face before letting them fall again.
“No, those aren’t mine.” This time Nolie sounded relieved that she could tell the truth. “Someone must have left them.”
“How’s your neighbor?” Gloria asked. “Chance, isn’t it?”
“Chase,” Sophy corrected.
“That’s what I said.” Gloria gave a dismissive wave. “You see a lot of him?”
“Uh . . . no, not a lot. He, uh, likes his privacy.”
“Too much privacy isn’t good for a man.” That came from Gloria, and made Sophy shake her head so her curls bobbed. “Humans deal with things in a million different ways. When he’s had enough of being alone, he’ll give it up.”
“A stubborn man like Jace?” Now Gloria shook her own head. “I don’t know.”
Chase eased back against the wall, his breathing controlled but shallow. There was a sudden tightness in his gut that extended all the way out to curl his fingers into fists. He wished the two women would leave—wished like hell he was gone, that he’d never come here. It had been stupid, weakness on his part, to come back to New York, to think he could settle so close to Bethlehem without anyone knowing he was there. Even so, he’d done all right . . . until she had come.
He had Nolie to thank for the fact that someone did know.
The conversation between the three women continued, but he didn’t listen to anything beyond the drone of their voices. After what seemed like forever, Gloria and Sophy left. A long moment later—after they were out of sight, he guessed—Nolie pushed the storeroom door open. “They’re gone—”
He caught her wrist and backed her against the door. “What did you tell them about me? Why?”
Her eyes were startled and twice their size. “I didn’t tell them anything! You heard—”
He swore, making her flinch. “They knew you have a neighbor.”
“They already knew that the first time I met them, right after we moved in!”
“They knew my name. If you didn’t tell them, who the hell did?”
She didn’t have such a quick answer for that. Her brows arching, she shook her head. “Maybe Alex Thomas. Maybe Miss Corinna or Miss Agatha. I don’t know.”
“You told the Winchester sisters my name?”
“No!”
“Then they couldn’t have told Gloria. And I doubt the lawyer would have told her.” Breathing heavily, he stared at her. She looked stunned and surprised, but not scared, and he wondered why the hell not. Why hadn’t she tried to pull away? Why didn’t she tell him to get out?
Damn it, why didn’t he let her go and leave on his own?
Her pulse slowed under his fingertips and the surprise faded from her expression. “I did tell Alex Thomas right after we moved in that there wa
s a man named Chase living in the other cabin, but he’s the only one I’ve mentioned your name to. I don’t know how Gloria and Sophy knew, I swear.” She swallowed hard, then hesitantly asked, “Are you . . . wanted by the police?”
His laughter was bitter and faded as soon as it started. “Good God, no.” He’d served his time, every single day the state of Massachusetts had seen fit to take from him. He wasn’t wanted by anyone anymore.
That convulsive swallow came again. “So it’s your past you’re hiding from.”
His past, his present, his nonexistent future. His fingers slid away from her wrist, and he turned to lean against the wall again, staring across the dimly lit room to avoid looking at her. It didn’t work, though. From the corner of his eye, he saw her rub her wrist where he’d held her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he muttered.
“You didn’t.” But she continued to rub . . . though, in truth, her fingers’ slow, easy movements qualified more as a caress. After a moment, with an awkward smile, she stopped. “If I’m ever going to finish this place, I’d better get back to work.”
After a few awkward moments of his own, he followed her back into the main room, climbed the ladder, and started painting again.
He should have stayed home. He’d spent the better part of every day for a month lying in that hammock, and he hadn’t minded at all. He should have stayed there today, instead of following her into the woods.
But all those days he’d spent slouched in the hammock, he’d been in an alcohol-induced stupor. He couldn’t have followed her into the woods, or endured the paint vapors, or climbed this ladder. Well, he could have, but he probably would have broken his fool neck.
There was something to be said for sobriety.
Then he sneaked a glance at Nolie. There was also something to be said for oblivion.
He painted the trim as far as he could stretch, moved the ladder six feet to the right, and climbed up again. Truth was, there was a lot to be said for oblivion. For example, he wouldn’t care at all if he couldn’t remember a single detail from the night before. The forty-five-mile trip to Howland. The first bar, where he’d had a burger with his beer. The second, where he’d had a little friendly conversation and a beer. The third, where he’d relied on ill-tempered scowls to keep everyone away while he nursed his beer.
Cabin Fever Page 10
