He crossed his arms against his chest. “I’ll bet she did. And let me guess what she said. I turned my back on the neighborhood, right?”
Phoebe couldn’t help but notice the way the man’s chin jutted ever so slightly as he waited for her response, his stance bordering on rigid. It wasn’t in her nature to intentionally hurt someone’s feelings, but neither was lying.
“Something like that. But I’m not here to judge you or—” she motioned toward the two-story foyer visible through the open doorway “—or your lifestyle. I’m just here to deliver a letter that this other Tate Williams should have received a long time ago.”
Silence fell for a moment as Phoebe shifted uncomfortably on the stone walkway and gently wrestled the letter from Kayla’s pudgy little hands. It was obvious she wasn’t getting anywhere with young Tate.
“Look, I’ll just try a search online or something. See if I can find the right man.” She turned toward her car, then stopped. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Williams.”
“It’s Tate. He goes by Bart.”
“Bart?” She turned back to the handsome man in the doorway, her mind willing her gaze to remain above the neck, to concentrate on the first real lead she’d gotten in the past ten minutes.
Tate dropped his arms to his side and nodded slowly. “Bart Williams. Tate Bartholomew Williams. He’s my father.”
“Your father?” The second the question left her lips she wished she could press Erase. The pain that swept across Tate Williams’s face was raw and unmistakable. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. But thank you. For the tip on his name. It might make finding him a little easier.”
He looked at her strangely for a moment, his eyes searching hers. Oddly, though, the in-depth inspection didn’t make her uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you just let the post office deliver it? Save yourself the hassle? Especially if you’ve got some walls to finish and a baby to take care of.”
She considered correcting his misconception but opted instead to let it slide. Really, in the grand scheme of things, what difference did it make whether she painted walls or a canvas? Probably not much to someone who lived as Tate Williams did. Someone she had no reason to ever see again.
Phoebe chose her words carefully when she answered, her tone as ambiguous as possible. “Because someone addressed this to your father nearly forty years ago. Whoever wrote this letter thought its contents were important enough to put it in an envelope and pop it in the mail. It got lost for all these years, only to turn up in my mailbox as your father’s last known address. It’s a story without an ending. Those drive me crazy.”
The explanation was true enough. She did need life’s various strings to be tied up one way or another. But the desire to deliver the misplaced letter to its rightful owner went way beyond that. To a place too personal to share with anyone—Tate Williams included.
She switched the yellowed envelope to her Kaylaholding hand and extended her empty one through the open doorway one last time, an undeniable charge surging through her body at the feel of his skin against hers when he shook it. “Thanks again, Mr. Williams. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
TATE WILLIAMS WATCHED from the window as she walked to her car, his mind keenly aware of one thing. Maybe two.
Phoebe Jennings was a beautiful woman.
And he was sorry to see her go. Even if it meant visiting a part of his life he’d rather forget.
Pushing away thoughts of his father, Tate stepped slightly to the left to afford a more unobstructed view of the petite woman who’d stopped at the curb to kiss the top of her daughter’s head. He couldn’t help but notice the way the sunshine cast a golden glow through her soft brown hair, and the way it made his body react. Quickly and definitively.
It was hard to picture Phoebe Jennings climbing up and down ladders, painting walls for a living. Especially with such a young baby at home. But he admired her for it. Work was work. Whatever form it took.
Work.
Tate glanced down at his wristwatch and rolled his eyes. His lunch hour was virtually over and he hadn’t eaten a thing. But he wasn’t terribly hungry anymore, anyway. Thinking about his dad tended to have that effect.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder about the envelope a little, too. Who was it from? Who called his father Tate?
No one he knew.
Shrugging, he grabbed his briefcase and keys from the hall table and headed toward the garage. If he wasn’t going to eat, he might as well get back to work. He peered into the kitchen as he walked by, his eyes locked on the seascape above the table. It had been a gift from his mother when he graduated from college.
“Always believe in your dreams, Tate. For when you believe in them, you will believe in yourself.”
And she’d been right.
In fact, his mom had believed in him enough for the both of them. But it had never quite made up for the way his father had tried to dissuade him from his desire to be an architect. To his father, work was building homes. Not designing them.
It had been one of many points of contention between his parents in a marriage that seemed to exist solely for his benefit. While his mother had loved with her whole heart, his father had always been one step removed. As if he wanted to be somewhere else.
Shaking off the memories that threatened to ruin his day, Tate stepped into the garage toward his new red BMW convertible. Following his dreams had brought the kind of perks he could never have imagined while growing up on Quinton Lane—a place where success was measured simply by one’s ability to keep food on the table. A place he’d always felt loved…until he came back from college a different person.
In their eyes, if not his own.
As he slipped his shiny new car into Reverse, he realized he hadn’t thought of the house on Quinton Lane in a very long time.
Then again, he hadn’t laid eyes on Phoebe Jennings before today.
Chapter Two
Phoebe looked up from the Dolangers’ canvas and reached for the gooseneck lamp to the right of her easel. The sun was slipping lower in the sky, taking with it the natural light she craved for her work. But waiting until morning to continue wasn’t an option.
Not with Friday’s deadline looming in just a little over sixty hours.
And not after she spent most of her day obsessing over a letter that had nothing to do with her.
She switched paintbrushes, dipping the bristles into the auburn shade she’d created to capture the exact hue of Cara Dolanger’s hair. Phoebe’s steady hand returned to the canvas, carefully filling in the final details of a woman who’d been difficult to immortalize.
This job had been quite a coup, the phone call coming right after a small art show of her work in downtown Cedarville. Phoebe paused for a moment as she recalled the amazing things Shane Dolanger had said when he’d hired her to paint a group portrait of his family.
“I’ve traveled extensively, both here and overseas. I’ve seen the art of some of the most renowned painters who ever lived. Yet there is something about your work that captures the very essence of your subjects. I want you to do the same for me. And for my family.”
The notion of being hired to paint a picture of the town’s founding family had been thrilling. The kind of assignment that could move mountains by word of mouth alone. And when he’d told her how much he was willing to pay, she’d nearly fainted. The thought of not worrying about rent and food money for the next year was almost too hard to fathom. As was the realization that her days of working a second job to make ends meet were numbered.
It had all seemed like a dream. And in many ways it still did. But the pinch of reality was the short deadline she’d been given.
Three weeks.
Which ended in three days.
A deadline that couldn’t be missed for any reason, thanks to a party the Dolangers would be throwing that same evening.
“I want our portrait to be hanging above the mantel when everyone arrives.”
&nbs
p; Phoebe had considered declining, for all of about thirty seconds. The promise of money had a way of sugar-coating reality.
Fortunately, she was a workhorse, willing to do whatever it took to complete a task. Even missing meals and getting by on very little sleep.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t counted on a forty-year-old letter finding its way into her mailbox. And she certainly hadn’t counted on crossing paths with Tate Williams.
Tate.
Ever since she’d left the house on Starry Night Drive, her thoughts had been returning to the man in the doorway. There was something about the man that made her suspect he could ward off life’s problems with a simple hug.
And his hair? It begged to have her fingers come and play.
Shaking her head against the wave of crazy images, Phoebe forced her attention back to the canvas. There was no use dreaming about someone so different from herself. The probability of such a pairing was unlikely. And if by some fluke it did happen, it would never work.
Never. She’d learned that the hard way.
She glanced down at Kayla, who was happily chewing on a red block with one hand and sorting shapes with the other. Turning down Doug’s offer of a lifetime supply of money in exchange for his freedom from fatherhood had hurt in ways she could never verbalize. Yet it had been freeing in a way, too. Because it was at that moment that she’d realized they didn’t need him. She had not only survived childhood, but treasured it, thanks to her grandmother—a woman who’d loved and believed in her completely. Sure, money had been scarce, but the love in their home had more than made up for the niceties they’d been unable to buy.
If Phoebe had taken Doug’s offer, she’d have been able to get Kayla anything and everything. She’d have been able to stay home and devote herself entirely to her daughter.
Turning it down had been her choice, not her lot in life as it had been for Gram. The glaring reality that resulted made Phoebe wonder, repeatedly, if she’d shortchanged her daughter by choosing pride and hard work over easy living. Had she made the decision based on what was best for Kayla? A desire to show her daughter what dreams and vision could accomplish over money and entitlement? Or had it been a knee-jerk decision based on anger and pride?
It was a question Phoebe wrestled with constantly, but there it was. Because as much as she wished she could erase Doug from her mind altogether, she couldn’t. He was always there, undermining her confidence and shaking her belief in herself and her talents. He was always there, flicking cash in her face as she dropped Kayla at the Haskells’ so she could work—again. And he was there, in Kayla’s rounded chin and perfectly proportioned ears, making it impossible for Phoebe to hate him completely.
How could she? If it weren’t for Doug, there would be no Kayla.
And her daughter made everything worth it. Even a broken heart and the confidence-crushing reality that came from being stood up at the altar and offered a bribe to nev—
A loud banging from downstairs thwarted the trip down memory lane, forced Phoebe to focus on the here and now.
She dipped her brush in a cup of mineral spirits before wiping her hands on a paint-stained cloth and lifting Kayla off the floor. They made their way down the hardwood stairs and across the front hallway. The porch light had switched on in the gathering dusk, illuminating two of her neighbors on her porch.
It was hard not to groan when she saw Gertrude Applewhite and Tom Borden peeking through the glass panel that comprised the top half of Phoebe’s door. Sure, she loved her neighbors, but her deadline left little time for chitchat and local gossip.
Strike that. It left no time. For anything.
She could say she was tired. Because she was. In a way. But the deadline-induced adrenaline coursing through her body would make that a hard sell.
She could say she had a date. But they’d insist on waiting around to check out the nonexistent guy. Anxious to see if he was good enough for their Phoebe and Kayla.
Or she could try the truth—they, of all people, would understand the importance of completing a job. Especially when paying bills and staying home with Kayla was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
But even as she pulled the door open, she knew she would invite them inside. It was who she was, even to her own detriment at times. “Hi, Mrs. Applewhite, Mr. Borden. What brings you by?”
“We’ve got a problem, Phoebe. A big one.” Tom pushed his walker through the front door, the tennis-ball-covered feet gliding easily across the hardwood floor after he’d stopped for a second to tickle Kayla’s cheek.
Fear gripped Phoebe’s stomach as she looked from Mrs. Applewhite’s ashen skin to Mr. Borden’s troubled eyes. “What’s wrong? Did Ms. Weatherby pass?”
Eunice Weatherby lived two doors down. A spitfire mentally, the century-old woman suffered from a host of physical ailments.
Mrs. Applewhite waved her hands in the air as she rounded the corner into Phoebe’s sitting room, visibly irritated by the fact that Mr. Borden had reached the room first. “Eunice is fine. Ornery as ever, but fine.”
Phoebe took a slow calming breath then perched on the sofa beside Mr. Borden as Kayla pulled on her hair and squealed. “Then what’s wrong?”
“It’s them council folks. They want to take over our neighborhood green space,” Mr. Borden explained as he ran a hand across his coarse, gray hair.
“Can I have some water, Phoebe? I’m parched.”
Phoebe flashed a grin at Mr. Borden as he rolled his eyes. “Of course, Mrs. Applewhite. Mr. Borden? Would you like some, too?”
“Yes, he’ll take some. He needs more water. Helps with regularity.”
“I’ll speak for myself, Gertrude.” Mr. Borden turned wary eyes in Phoebe’s direction and nodded, a slight smile tugging at his lined mouth. “That would be nice, Phoebe, thank you.”
She set the baby on the floor near the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen. As she pulled two glasses from the cabinet beside the sink she couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Kayla happily babbling away with their unexpected company—a common occurrence that was as good for Kayla as it was for their neighbors. Nothing could bring Phoebe’s grandmother back, but raising Kayla in this environment was the next best thing.
When she returned with ice-filled water glasses, Phoebe glanced at the clock on the mantel. Eight minutes gone already.
“So tell me about this council thing. They want to take over our green space?”
Mr. Borden nodded. Mrs. Applewhite grunted.
“Sure as shootin’ they do. And why? Because they say we don’t take care of it. Like those daffodils I plant every year aren’t good enough. What more do they want?”
Phoebe waited patiently for Mrs. Applewhite’s diatribe to end. “What do they want?” she finally asked, her eyes focused on Mr. Borden’s face.
“Something different. Something unique. It’s part of this Clean Up Cedarville campaign they’re all jabbering about.” Tom raised a shaking glass to his lips and took a long, slow sip before continuing. “But to clean our space up the way they want it cleaned up—to make it different and unique—costs money. Money we ain’t had for a long time.”
“What happens if we don’t?”
Mrs. Applewhite crossed her bony arms across her stomach and huffed. “If we don’t, the city takes it over.”
Phoebe was missing something. She had to be.
“And why is that bad? They’d be making it unique on their dime.”
Mr. Borden set his glass down on the coffee table and fingered the top bar of his walker. “That space has belonged to this neighborhood since I was Kayla’s age. I know that doesn’t mean much to folks these days, but it means something to me.” The elderly man’s voice deepened, his eyes narrowing as if he was picturing things she could only visit through his words. “I’m not dumb, Phoebe. I know it’s nothing more than an empty lot with pretty flowers. I know it doesn’t have all the trappings of a real park. But it comes to life just fine whenever we need it. Always ha
s.”
Suddenly it made sense. It was about tradition. A well-earned, time-honored tradition that was being threatened by people who simply didn’t understand.
She reached out and touched his cold, leathery hand. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll find a way to make that space unique. A way to keep it for the neighborhood as it was intended.”
Mr. Borden nodded, a hint of moisture in his eyes. “I don’t know how any of us can come up with that kind of money. We’re all on a fixed income. And you’re barely making ends meet yourself, Phoebe.”
“We’ll figure it out. If I get this portrait done in time, I’ll be working a big shindig Friday night. I agreed to this particular party because the pay is more than usual and I’ll get to be the proverbial fly on the wall as guests see my work. We can use that money.”
“The kind of ‘unique’ these people want is going to require more than one job,” Mrs. Applewhite said sadly.
Mr. Borden stood and motioned for her to do likewise. “We’ve taken enough of Phoebe’s time for this evening. Let’s go, Gertrude.” To Phoebe he said, “Your offer is very kind. Thank you.”
“Perhaps a few bake sales…” Mrs. Applewhite murmured.
Phoebe trailed behind her neighbors as they made their way to her front hallway, the elderly woman’s comment taking hold in her mind. “That could work. A little here and a little there could add up to a lot. Let me get through Friday and we can talk again over the weekend, have a neighborhood meeting. I’m sure Eunice will have some ideas. Mr. and Mrs. Haskell, too.”
They were almost at the door when Mrs. Applewhite turned, her eyes magnified to twice their size behind her thick glasses. “So, did you speak to him?”
“Him?” Phoebe tried to follow the change in conversation but her thoughts were still sifting through money-making schemes even as her gaze tracked a crawling baby in desperate search of a furry tail to pull.
“The uppity one.”
The uppity one?
“Oh! You mean, Tate Williams?”
Kayla's Daddy Page 2
