by Irene Hannon
Even if you don’t.
The unspoken comment hung in the air between them.
The waitress returned with their drinks, buying her a few seconds to come up with a reply.
“I didn’t say I was going to leave before you finish.”
Based on the skeptical look he gave her, however, she got the distinct feeling he knew that had been her intention.
Thankfully, he didn’t pursue the topic.
Instead, he took a long drink of his Coke, leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. “So tell me what happened today.”
His full attention was fixed on her, and she had the oddest feeling he’d tuned everything else out, that nothing existed in his world at this moment except her. Had he learned to summon up that kind of intense focus as a SEAL, or was it a natural ability?
But it didn’t matter. She needed to talk through her day, and he was willing to listen. Better to share her concerns with him than with Aunt El, who had enough on her mind already with the problem-plagued church project. Why add to her worries with the story of a neglected little girl?
Rachel took a sip of soda, laced her fingers, and told him about her morning with Madeleine and her subsequent impromptu babysitting gig.
As her shrimp cocktail and his salad were delivered, grooves dented his brow. “I can’t believe a mother would forget her own child—or let her child go off with someone she didn’t know.”
“I can’t, either. Yes, I was screened by the hotel, but I’m still a stranger.” Rachel picked up one of the shrimps and dipped it in the container of sauce, glad she’d ordered lightly. Thinking about the poor little girl chased away her appetite.
“Did you find out anything else about her situation during the afternoon?”
“Yes. Madeleine perked up quite a bit, and by the end of the day she’d turned into a talking machine. Her parents are separated, and she only sees her dad every other weekend—when he’s not out of the country on business. She wasn’t certain what her mom’s job is except that it involves a lot of meetings, so I asked the mother a few questions when I dropped her off. She’s a sales rep for a software developer and spends a lot of time on the road making product pitches and doing demos at corporate meetings. Since she doesn’t have any family available to watch Madeleine at home, she drags her along on the trips. I don’t know what she’ll do in the fall, when it’s time for Madeleine to start first grade.”
“That’s not much of a life for a little girl.” Although he’d been eating steadily as he listened to her story, his focus had been on her, not the food.
Rachel nibbled on another shrimp. “No. And I can’t get the image of her sad eyes out of my mind. She’s in desperate need of nurturing. She responded to my attention like a parched flower to water, but I was a momentary diversion. She needs what I gave her today on a full-time basis, and it’s tearing me up that I can’t do a thing to help her.” Her voice choked, and she fumbled for her glass of water.
Silence fell between them while she took a drink and tried to compose herself. After all, what could Fletch say? A situation like this held no easy answers, no quick fixes. He was probably sorry now he’d invited her to dinner instead of spending a quiet evening walking the beach or catching up on email. Either would have been far more relaxing than listening to her vent.
Just as she was about to make her excuses and bolt, Fletch pushed aside his salad plate, reached over and covered her clenched fingers with his.
As the warmth of his hand chased some of the chill from her heart, her pulse ticked up.
“You know, when I was eight my four-year-old brother came down with acute bacterial meningitis.” Rachel tried to keep breathing, to focus on his words rather than the pressure of his fingers on hers. “His brain swelled, and he began having seizures. It was touch and go for days, and everyone was afraid he’d suffered permanent neurological damage. We’d just moved to Guam, where my dad was stationed at the navy base, but he was at sea when Paul got sick. Mom practically lived at the hospital, and I was passed around from family to family on the base. Everyone was kind, but they were all busy with their own lives. No one had a lot of time for me—except one young wife.”
Fletch stopped to take a drink of soda, and Rachel held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t retract his hand.
He didn’t.
“Long story short, I only saw Susan Forester twice in my life. Her husband was reassigned not long after Paul’s health crisis. But I never forgot her. We baked cookies together. Played with her dog. Watched a funny movie. For a few hours with her, I had a normal life. It reminded me there were people out there who did care, and that things could get better. It gave me hope.” He let a beat of silence pass. “The point is, brief encounters can have an impact that lasts a lifetime.”
Pressure built in Rachel’s throat, behind her eyes. Fletch might have said a lot of things in response to her story, but it was almost as if he’d looked into her heart and cherry-picked the perfect words.
“Thank you.”
At her soft reply, he stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “I learned long ago that I couldn’t rid the world of all the bad stuff...or even make everything right for the people closest to me.” A flash of pain echoed in his eyes, so fast she wouldn’t have noticed it if her attention hadn’t been riveted on him. “But small acts of kindness can make a lasting difference. You did the best you could in the short time you had with Madeleine.”
“Again—thank you. That does help...even though I still wish I could do more.”
“I know the feeling.” Fletch removed his hand from hers while the waitress set his meal in front of him, and from the tinge of regret in his tone she had a feeling he wasn’t thinking about Madeleine anymore.
Jack Fletcher had some secrets he wasn’t sharing—just as she did.
Best to move to safer territory.
She picked up another shrimp and swirled it in the sauce. “What happened to your brother?”
Fletch dug into his grouper. “I’m happy to report he made a full recovery. He’s now an executive with a start-up tech firm in Silicon Valley.” While he ate, he sang his brother’s praises, making no attempt to hide his pride as he concluded. “Paul’s smart as a whip and more successful at thirty-one than I’ll ever be.”
So Fletch was thirty-five.
She tucked that piece of information away.
As for his brother being smarter—she suspected the former Navy SEAL was shortchanging himself.
“I’m glad your story had a happy ending.” Rachel swallowed. “I wish they all did.”
His fork paused for a tiny fraction as he scooped up some rice, his response confined to a single word. “Yeah.”
But in that one syllable she heard a world of hurt that told her some stories in his life hadn’t turned out as well. Was he thinking of his missing leg—or were there other chapters he’d rather forget, too?
“Speaking of unhappy endings...Gram told me you’re a widow. I’m sorry.”
Rachel stiffened. That wasn’t a topic she wanted to discuss. “Thanks.”
“Was it an accident?”
Her fingers crumpled the napkin in her lap. For a man who’d been so insightful about her feelings toward Madeleine, he was sure missing her cues about this subject.
“No.” She chewed the last bite of her shrimp, washed it down with a long gulp of water and reached for her purse.
The gentle touch of Fletch’s hand on her arm stopped her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that was such a sensitive subject.”
She surveyed his plate. Only a few bites remained. “I just don’t talk about it much. Since you’re almost finished, would you mind if I head home?”
After a beat of silence, he withdrew his hand. “Of course not. I’ll walk you to your car.”
“That
’s not necessary.” She dug through her purse for her wallet.
“Gram would disagree.” He flashed her a grin. “And dinner’s on me.” He signaled to the waitress and handed over his credit card.
She continued to paw through her oversize shoulder bag. “I want to pay for my own food.”
“Rachel.”
She looked up.
“The shrimp cocktail and Coke aren’t going to break my budget. Besides, I invited you.”
“And I bent your ear about Madeleine. I should pay for your dinner.”
“Next time.”
She opened her mouth to continue protesting—then closed it as his comment registered.
Next time?
No way. Not a smart idea. Being with Fletch was way too unsettling, and she’d come to Jekyll Island to be soothed, not stressed.
Silence fell between them until the waitress reappeared with the charge slip. He signed it and rose.
Rachel gestured toward his plate. “You’re not finished.”
“Close enough. Shall we?”
Without waiting for a response, he took her arm and guided her through the tables. Everyone they passed was laughing, chatting, enjoying the beautiful evening. No one seemed aware of the powerful sparks of electricity that were making her heart misbehave and short-circuiting her lungs.
All of it generated by a simple touch.
This was not good.
Rachel walked faster.
Only when they reached her car and he broke contact did her pulse begin to moderate. “Thank you for dinner—and for listening to my tale about Madeleine.”
“Anytime.”
What did that mean?
Was he angling for another get-together?
It was hard to tell from his expression. But if so, he was out of luck. There was not going to be an encore of tonight.
Fletch rested his hand on top of her door. “Try not to worry about her too much.”
Rachel tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. “Easier said than done. But I guess I’ll just have to put it in God’s hands.”
Silence met that comment, and she swiveled back toward him. Faint creases etched his forehead, and he stuck his hands in his pockets.
Hmm. He’d passed on services Sunday, and the mention of God made him uncomfortable. Her dinner companion was obviously not a churchgoing man.
That was yet another reason to ignore the unwanted spark between them. If she ever felt ready to date again, she’d choose a man of faith. Marriage held enough challenges without adding religious differences to the mix.
Rachel slid into the driver’s seat and looked up at him, striving to end the evening on a lighter note. “I’d say ‘Drive safe,’ but there’s not much need to worry about more than a fender bender on Jekyll Island.”
A slight flex of the lips was the closest he got to a smile. “It’s not Norfolk, that’s for sure. See you around.”
With that he closed the door.
Taking the cue, she started her car.
Fletch remained where he was while she backed out and drove toward the exit. Only after she pulled onto the ring road did he move toward his SUV. A few seconds later she lost sight of him.
Settling behind the wheel, Rachel flexed her fingers and accelerated. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
If only.
Chapter Five
What the...?
Fletch froze in the doorway of the church conference room as six smiling faces turned his way and applause broke out all around.
He looked to Gram for guidance, but she was grinning and clapping along with everyone else.
All at once, the pieces fell into place.
Gram’s request that he pick her up from the vacation-house meeting had been a ruse. The committee hadn’t assembled to discuss his offer; they’d already decided to accept it and wanted to say thanks.
Warmth crept up his neck.
A note in the mail, or a phone call, would have sufficed.
He shifted from one foot to the other, eyeing the exit down the hall.
Before he could bolt, Gram hurried over to him, linked her arm with his and tugged him into the room.
“Let me introduce my grandson, Jack Fletcher—better known as Fletch. Thanks to him, Francis House is back on track.” As the applause resumed, she leaned close. “Don’t you just love that name? We decided on it this morning, in honor of Francis of Assisi. He was such a kind, gentle man. We’re going to put his peace prayer right in the foyer.”
As the applause died down again, a middle-aged man in a clerical collar joined them and extended his hand. “Jim Carlson. I’m the pastor here, and I’m delighted to meet you.”
Fletch returned the man’s firm shake and mumbled a response.
“Eleanor made her famous coffee cake in your honor.” He gestured toward a side table, where the cake, a large urn of coffee and a bowl of fresh fruit waited. “But before we dive in, would you join our meeting for a few minutes?”
Fletch hesitated. What was this all about? The amount he’d offered should be more than sufficient to cover the basic finishing work that was required, and he didn’t need any more accolades.
When he sent Gram a questioning look, she busied herself with some papers in front of her rather than meet his gaze.
A niggle of unease raced down his spine. Something was up.
“Fletch?”
At the minister’s prompt, he cast one more longing glance toward the door, quashing the urge to make a run for it.
He was stuck.
With a resigned sigh, he followed the man to the empty seat at the table.
“Eleanor, you have the floor.” Reverend Carlson reclaimed his chair as Fletch sat.
His grandmother’s friend stood and gave him a megawatt smile. “First of all, on behalf of the entire Francis House committee and the congregation as a whole, thank you so much for your generous offer.”
He fidgeted, trying without success to find a more comfortable position. “It’s no big deal.”
“On the contrary. It’s a huge deal—especially to the families who will now be able to take their much-needed vacations. The committee’s been back and forth on the phone a dozen times since Louise called me yesterday with the news. You’re truly the answer to our prayers.”
Fletch squirmed again. “I’m glad to help.” Then he sent Gram a Get me out of here! look.
She ignored him as Eleanor continued. “Now, here’s the thing. This project wasn’t just supposed to be about monetary donations. It was also intended to be a labor of love. However, as you know, some of our most skilled members have had to renege on their commitments for various reasons. But after a lot of calling around yesterday, we’ve lined up some reinforcements who’ve agreed to do a lot of the grunt work. Even Reverend Carlson is going to roll up his sleeves.”
The minister held up a hand in warning. “Just be sure to assign me to some task where I can’t do any damage—and nothing pipe-related. The last time I picked up a wrench at home we ended up with a several-hundred-dollar plumbing bill.”
“Duly noted,” Eleanor said. “In fact, we’ll bring in the experts for the remaining plumbing and electrical work. So Fletch, we’d like to accept your offer of a donation in an amount that will cover those repairs. We’ve got some estimates here...” She riffled through the papers in front of her and passed a couple of them around the table in his direction. “If you could cover those items, we’d be grateful.”
When the estimates reached him, Fletch gave them a quick scan and did some mental math. The total was far less than the amount he’d offered to Gram after she’d asked him for a ballpark figure on his contribution.
“Are you certain this is all you need?”
“Yes. As I sai
d, we’ve lined up additional members of the congregation to give us some hands-on assistance. Even Louise and I are going to pitch in.”
Fletch frowned at Gram. “You have a broken wrist.”
His grandmother sat up straighter. “I may be having trouble with zippers and lids, and I might not be able to drive, but I’m not useless. I’m sure the crew can find simple jobs for me to do. I don’t need two hands to scrub a stovetop or hold a ladder while someone paints.”
Gram holding a ladder with one wrist in a cast while some amateur was painting above her.
That recipe for disaster sent a chill down his spine.
Before he could voice his concerns, Eleanor stepped back in. “We’ll all be careful, Fletch. With these old bones, none of us can afford to take any chances. I’ll watch out for Louise. And maybe we’ll round up enough volunteers to keep her on the sidelines.” She sent him a pointed look. “Of course, we wouldn’t turn down an offer of assistance from an able-bodied younger man.”
A beat of silence ticked by as six pairs of eyes swiveled toward him.
“Now, Eleanor.” Gram turned to her partner in crime. “Fletch is a busy man. He’s not here on vacation.”
“I realize that. I just thought he might be able to spare an evening or two for some painting or sanding or some such thing. He’d probably get more done in an hour than most of our volunteers would accomplish in three, seeing how slowly some of them move. I wanted to give him an opportunity to contribute in a more concrete way, that’s all.”
If Gram was in on this manipulation caper, you’d never know it from her innocent expression.
But Fletch wasn’t writing off the possibility. Nor did he intend to be conned into a home-repair gig.
He was about to make his excuses when Reverend Carlson spoke.
“We don’t want to put you under any pressure, Fletch. You’re already being more than generous with your financial donation. If you can’t spare two or three hours a week, we understand.”
Two or three hours a week.
His stomach bottomed out.
No one was too busy to give that amount of time, especially for a worthwhile cause—and every person at the table knew it.
