by Irene Hannon
While he downed his soda, Rachel recounted the events that had led up to her mad dash to the hospital—as well as what had transpired in the past six hours.
“Sounds like Madeleine’s mother has a few issues.”
“More than. But I’m praying this was a wake-up call that brings about some positive changes in all their lives—especially Madeleine’s.” She ran a fingertip down a trail of condensation on the side of the can. “Children are such a precious gift...my heart breaks when people don’t realize that and treasure each day with them.”
Weighing his can in his hand, Fletch studied her. He already knew she had a tender spot for children. Why be a teacher if you didn’t? Or take on extra classes during your summer vacation instead of lazing around on the beach? Plus, her feelings had come through loud and clear last night as she’d shared her angst over Madeleine’s situation.
But his gut told him there was a personal component to her last statement—and his gut never lied.
He’d learned that the hard way.
Swigging back the last of the soda, Fletch tried to wash away the lingering bad taste.
It didn’t work.
The can crinkled beneath his grip, and he loosened his fingers. “Madeleine’s lucky to have found a friend in you.”
Rachel shook her head. “It would be better if she bonded with her mother. But maybe that will happen.”
“Have you always loved kids?”
“What’s not to love?”
“Let’s see.” Fletch pretended to consider. “Messy diapers, midnight feedings and ear-piercing wails come to mind.”
Her expression grew solemn, derailing his attempt at humor. “You don’t like children?”
“I didn’t say that. But life with kids isn’t always rosy. Ask any parent.”
Rachel wrapped both hands around her soda can and gave him an appraising look. “That almost sounds as if you’re speaking from experience.”
Despite a sudden hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, he managed to conjure up a smile. “As a son, not a parent. I watched my mom and dad contend with two boys. It wasn’t always fun and games.”
“I bet there were plenty of happy times, too.”
“Why do you say that?”
“From what I’ve seen, you turned out fine—and kids who turn out fine have usually had a solid support system growing up. They also tend to make good parents.”
The hollow feeling spread.
Time to put the spotlight back on her.
“Using that same yardstick, you must have had a solid support system, too.”
“The best. I still do, even though we’re scattered now. My dad’s with the State Department, and he and Mom live in Cairo. My brother and his wife live in London.”
“It must be tough to orchestrate family get-togethers.”
“It is.” She swallowed. “The last time we were all together was after my husband died three years ago.”
The very subject he’d been curious about—and she’d introduced it. Last night, however, she’d backed off when he’d probed.
Dare he try again?
Maybe—if he approached with caution.
“I understand that’s a sensitive subject, but I have to admit I’m curious about what happened to him.” Fletch put as much empathy as possible into his tone, choosing his words with care. “He had to be young.”
Several seconds of silence ticked by, and he expected her to change the subject. But she didn’t.
“Too young. Thirty-three. He got melanoma. It was stage four before we discovered it. The cancer was in his lymph nodes, and it spread faster than he could be treated...to his liver, lungs, kidneys—every major organ. I watched him go from a healthy bike rider and jogger to a bedridden invalid in just a few weeks.” Her voice hoarsened, and she swallowed. “He was dead in three months.”
In the silence that followed, Fletch grappled with her news. He thought he’d had problems, but a story like hers restored perspective—fast.
As he tried to come up with some kind of response, Rachel looked over at him. “You don’t need to say anything. People always feel as if they have to offer some sort of platitude, but what is there to say beyond ‘I’m sorry’? ‘It was a tragedy.’ ‘He was too young.’ ‘Rely on God.’ ‘There’s a reason for everything.’ ‘He’s in a better place.’ ‘If there’s anything I can do...’” Her shoulders hunched. “But no one can do the one thing that would make it better—bring him back. So I’m left to struggle with the loss and the...” She stopped.
The what?
Before he could ask, Rachel pressed her lips together, stood and eased away. “As long as both of Madeleine’s parents are here now, I think I’ll say goodbye and head home. Thank you again.”
The distance she’d put between them was more than physical, the message clear: I’m done talking.
So much for his idea of suggesting they grab a bite before heading back to the island.
He rose, too. “I put your deflated tire in the trunk. A garage can test it for you, see if it’s salvageable.”
“Thanks. I’ll take care of it. See you around.”
With that, Rachel fled the waiting room and disappeared down the hall.
Juggling his keys in one hand, Fletch weighed her parting words as he headed toward the elevator. See you around? Not if she could help it. At least that’s the distinct impression she’d left.
And that was a good thing, right? Hadn’t he come to the same conclusion mere days ago? It was obvious she had baggage. He had a ton of it. There couldn’t be much benefit in two people who were dealing with major issues striking up any sort of relationship.
At the elevator, he jabbed the button for the ground floor. He should be glad she’d stepped back. It would save them both a lot of grief.
So how come he wasn’t?
* * *
Rachel brushed a wisp of hair back into her French braid, skimmed the directions to Francis House Aunt El had given her and hung a right off Captain Wylly Road. According to her notes, the cottage was a pale yellow one-story, five houses down on the right with a live oak in the...
She jammed on her brakes as the house came into view—along with the black Explorer in the driveway.
Fletch’s SUV? He’d volunteered to contribute sweat equity as well as dollars?
Funny how Aunt El had neglected to mention that.
Not.
Mouth settling into a straight line, Rachel pulled to the side of the road, dug around in her purse for her cell and punched in her aunt’s number.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then it rolled to voice mail.
Aunt El was ignoring her. When she’d left less than five minutes ago, her aunt had been settling in on the screened porch with a glass of lemonade and a new romance novel, her portable phone at hand.
This was a setup. What else could it be? Her aunt coordinated the work-crew schedule.
Rachel huffed out a breath. The two of them were going to have to have a long talk later.
But in the meantime, what was she supposed to do? She’d promised to help out, and reneging on a commitment didn’t sit well.
Foot still on the brake, she eyed the other car in the driveway. At least she and Fletch wouldn’t be alone. That would help keep things businesslike and impersonal.
She hoped.
Resigned, Rachel released the brake and covered the remaining distance, squeezing into the driveway behind the second car, next to Fletch’s SUV.
As she walked toward the front door, she smoothed a hand down her ratty khaki shorts and tugged at the hem of the faded Art in the Park T-shirt that had shrunk from too many washings. Aunt El had said to dress cool, since the air conditioner hadn’t yet been repaired, and to wear
old clothes. This outfit was about as old and cool as it got—and scraped the bottom of the attractive scale.
Then again, why should she care? It wasn’t as if she was angling for a date or anything.
Straightening her shoulders, Rachel marched up to the open front door, gave a cursory knock and called out as she crossed the threshold. “New volunteer reporting for duty.”
A clatter sounded from somewhere in the recesses of the house, to her left.
Five seconds later, a wiry, white-haired man holding a hammer appeared from the doorway to the right. “You must be Rachel. I’m Hank Adams, the so-called shift leader of our motley crew. Big title, no authority. The story of my life.” He gave her a jaunty salute and extended his hand. “Welcome.”
She returned his firm shake, liking the merry twinkle in his clear, blue eyes. “Nice to meet you.”
“I see you came dressed to work.” He gave her a quick sweep. “Excellent. Remodeling is a messy business. So...tonight you have the option of painting a bedroom or cleaning grout in the bathroom. What a choice, huh?”
The man’s good humor was infectious, despite the oppressive heat in the stuffy house.
“I think I’ll go with the painting.”
“Can’t say I blame you. Our other volunteer is also on paint duty, so I’ll turn you over to him and he can show you the ropes.” The man started down the hall.
Rachel held back.
Was it too late to opt for the grout detail?
But Hank had already disappeared.
Besides, what excuse would she use? I don’t want to work alongside Fletch because he makes me nervous? Because he stirs up emotions I’m not ready to feel? Because when I’m with him, I forget about Mark—which only adds to my guilt?
As if she could say any of that.
She’d have to suck it up and deal with the proximity for tonight.
Both men were waiting by the time she reached the last room at the end of the hall. Well, Hank was waiting. Fletch was picking up a bunch of supplies that must have been in the overturned bucket on the floor. The one he’d knocked over, perhaps, after she’d called out to announce her arrival—because he’d been as surprised as she was?
“So...as you can see, we’re painting this children’s bedroom yellow. We’ll have bunk beds over there,” Hank motioned to the right, then to the left, “and a chest of drawers over there.” He propped his hands on his hips and looked down as Fletch retrieved the last runaway roll of painter’s tape. “Close call. If that had been a can of paint, we’d have had a real mess on our hands.”
“Yeah.” Fletch tossed the tape back in the bucket and angled away to stretch for a screwdriver, his prosthesis on full display below his cut-off denim shorts.
Thank goodness he was facing the other direction or he’d have found her gawking at his leg again. This prosthesis was nothing like the one he’d worn on the beach. That leg had been crafted to appear lifelike. Today, above his sport shoe, there was just a tube of metal attached to a hard, flesh-colored-shell that fit over the stump of his real leg.
After tossing the screwdriver into the bucket, Fletch stood and turned toward her. “Hello, Rachel.”
“Hi.” She kept her gaze on his face.
Hank looked from one to the other. “You two know each other?”
“Yeah.” Fletch didn’t offer more.
“Perfect. That should make being painting partners easier.”
Fat chance.
“I’ll leave you in Fletch’s hands, Rachel.” Beats of charged silence pulsed in the room as Fletch gave her a swift but thorough scan.
Resisting the urge to tug on the hem of her shorts, she edged closer to the oscillating fan in the corner. Maybe it would cool her down a few degrees. “So how can I help?”
Fletch indicated the baseboards and crown molding. “That’s supposed to be white. You could tackle the trim on the walls I’ve finished—unless you’d rather help me roll over there.” He tipped his head toward a half-painted wall.
Work within touching distance of the tall ex-SEAL, or paint in the opposite corner of the room, as far as possible from him.
One option was appealing.
The other was safe.
She went with safe.
“Detail work is my strong suit. I’ll take the trim.” She started toward the can of white paint.
“You want me to open it for you?”
“I can handle it. I’ve done my share of remodeling work.” She reached for the can of paint and the opener. “Mark and I bought a fixer-upper a couple of years before he died.”
For an instant she froze.
Why had those words come out so easily? She never talked about her life with Mark.
And when had the sharp pain that seared through her whenever she mentioned him subsided to a dull ache?
Since you met the man standing ten feet away.
The answer echoed in her mind, impossible to refute. For whatever reason, in Fletch’s presence the past receded. Even the guilt seemed to ebb.
Maybe that was why, try as she might, she couldn’t get too angry at Aunt El for setting her up tonight.
But how did Fletch feel about yet another attempt to push them together?
Rachel risked a peek at him as she pried the lid off the can. He was pouring some more paint into the roller pan attached to the ladder. But all at once, as if sensing her scrutiny, he looked her way.
Her first instinct was to break contact with those dark, discerning eyes. To ignore the sudden zip of electricity that buzzed through her nerve endings. Except that was juvenile. They should just deal with any...stuff...that came up between them. Why not be honest? Act like the adults they were?
Taking a deep breath, she curled her fingers around the handle of the paint can. Tight. “It appears we’ve been set up again.”
“You didn’t know about this, either?”
“Do you think I’d be here if I did?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?”
Good question.
And honesty only went so far.
This time she shifted away and made a project out of selecting one of the brushes from among the choices on the tarp. “It feels awkward. We’re both too old for all this matchmaking stuff. Besides, I don’t think either of us is interested.”
Fletch didn’t dispute her statement or drop even the slightest hint that while she might not be interested, he was.
A surge of disappointment swept over her, and she exhaled. How dumb was that? Ten days ago, Jack Fletcher hadn’t even been in her life—and she had more important things to do than get involved in a summer romance. That was for teenagers.
Behind her, the aluminum ladder squeaked and she risked another peek at him. He’d gone back to painting the wall with steady, measured strokes, turning the dingy gray walls a bright yellow that brought sunshine into the room.
Kind of like she wished someone would do to her life.
But that, too, was a teenage fantasy. The stuff of fairy tales.
Because as she’d learned, love came with a price. Loss was part of life. And happy endings only happened in storybooks.
Chapter Seven
“My word. You two are going to put the rest of us to shame.” Hank stuck his head into the bedroom and gave it a once-over. “You’re almost finished with the first coat on the walls and the woodwork.”
Fletch set the roller in the pan at his feet and checked on Rachel. She was two rungs up the ladder, lines of concentration etched on her forehead as she carefully drew her brush along the edge of the crown molding, trying not to deposit any white paint on the fresh yellow walls.
As she stretched to continue the line, she adopted a ballerina-like pose, leaning forward and extending one long, shapely leg behind her.
/> Blood pressure spiking, Fletch forced himself to turn back to Hank. Considering how distracted he’d gotten every time he’d looked her way, it was a wonder he’d made any progress at all in the two hours since her arrival.
“It’s coming along.” Fletch flexed his shoulders to work out the kinks. “How are you doing with the kitchen cabinets?”
“All resecured. I’ll tell you, the older gent who owned this house was lucky he didn’t meet his maker a lot sooner. A couple of them were ready to fall.” Hank stifled a yawn and offered a sheepish grin. “I don’t know about you young folks, but I’m ready to call it a night.”
Rachel finally joined the conversation. “I’ve only got a little more to go.” She gestured to a six-foot section of dingy crown molding. “I’d rather finish up.”
“I don’t have much left, either.” Fletch surveyed the quarter of a wall remaining. “Might as well knock it out.”
“Fine by me. Let me show you how to lock up.” Hank looked up at the female half of his painting duo. “Good night, Rachel. Thanks for your help.”
“Glad to assist. Nice to meet you, Hank.”
As Fletch followed the man down the hall, Hank spoke over his shoulder. “That pretty little lady sure is a hard worker.”
“Yes, she is.”
“You two make a nice team.”
Fletch let that pass.
The man detoured into the kitchen to retrieve his cooler. “You want some more soda before I haul this thing home? It’s a hot one tonight.”
“Not a bad idea.” After the man flipped open the lid, Fletch pulled two out, juggling the sweaty cans as they continued to the front door and Hank explained the lock.
“Now you go ahead and take that soda back to your helper. I expect you’re both parched.” Hank shifted the cooler to his other hand. “Will I see you on Tuesday?”
That had been the plan. He’d committed to two nights a week.
What about Rachel? Was she on the same schedule? If so, would she show up again to work with him?
Based on how quiet she’d been tonight, he wasn’t counting on it.
Hank squinted at him. “Don’t tell me we scared you off already.”
