Macy winced, remembering Leah’s sad eyes, her obvious pain. How could she tell her sister that Nonni, for all her loving-kindness, had been so very wrong? Leah would be as much a fool to trust God with her future as she would be to count on a boyfriend facing jail time for prescription fraud. Right now they could only trust that Elliot had everything in order. So that next month they’d be stepping across the threshold of their very own home. Right now it was their hope, the only real reason to smile, and—
Macy reached into the pocket of her knit hoodie as her cell phone buzzed. Then traced her fingertip across the screen to connect. Fletcher.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“The gym. What’s up?”
“I’ve got good news,” he said, his voice warming her ear. “I called in a favor and have tonight off. So that means . . .”
“What?” She was fairly certain her heart rate was faster now than when she’d performed that stellar cross power punch with her trainer. This man was a cardio workout even over the phone. “What does that mean?”
“Dinner. On the river—Scott’s Seafood. Any kind of fish you want.” He chuckled low in his throat. “So you won’t have to toss your plate to the wildlife.”
Macy feigned an indignant groan.
“I thought,” Fletcher continued, “that your great news about the house deserved some celebrating. We could drive by Tahoe Park on the way. Then over dinner you can tell me what you plan to do with it. Carpet, paint, landscaping . . . that kind of stuff. What do you think?”
“I think . . .” Macy blinked against a foolish prickle of tears. “I think that’s exactly what I needed tonight.”
“Good. Pick you up at seven?”
“I’ll be ready.”
Macy disconnected, shook her head. She’d been wrong: there was definitely another reason to smile.
There she was. He watched as she pushed open the glass doors, hiked the strap of her gym bag more securely over her shoulder. Broad shoulders for a woman, but proportional to her height—she looked to be at least five foot nine. Maybe taller. Strong, obviously. A fighter. Not easy to take down. He’d expected that, of course. The sign in the gym’s window said they offered kickboxing and tae kwon do. He wasn’t surprised by any of it; they wouldn’t send a fluffy ballerina to follow him.
He smiled grimly behind the wheel of the Buick. Who was following who now? From the hospital to the gym. And to her house, if she was going there next. He’d told himself it was worth the risk. If he could believe what he saw on the news, they hadn’t identified the Buick LeSabre from that photo. Not exactly. He’d changed the plates again this morning—down to his last set. He needed to know for sure if Macy Wynn was part of it all. He couldn’t let her screw things up before he finished what he needed to do.
He watched her climb into the older-model Audi and then started his engine.
30
“BUT . . .” The woman’s red-rimmed eyes searched Taylor’s and she hugged herself as if the air-conditioning in her comfortable home were suddenly running dangerously cold. Seth had settled a knit blanket around her shoulders, but it didn’t seem to matter.
“Howard was fine this morning,” she insisted. “I packed him a lunch—salami and cheese with those little pepperoncinis he loves. Only a few. I always watch that because of his acid stomach. And he promised me he’d use sunscreen. SPF 30. And a hat. He was only going to fish until three at the latest, so he could shower and change. We have to be at our grandson’s baseball game at . . .” She shuddered and grasped Taylor’s arm as if it were a life preserver. “The man they found out there on the lake? They’re sure it’s him? That it’s my Howard?”
“Yes.”
It was the third time in twenty minutes the poor woman had asked Taylor that question. She was clearly clinging to any hope that she hadn’t just become a widow. Taylor knew the same desperation firsthand. She took the woman’s cold, shaky hands gently in her own. “The deputies are certain, Mrs. Emick. It’s your husband.”
“He was wearing his fishing license around his neck,” Seth added, his deep voice managing to sound both caring and professional. Once again, Taylor was beyond grateful he was by her side for this chaplaincy call. “His wallet was in his pocket,” Seth continued, “and the boat is registered in his name. The Bonnie Mae.”
“After me . . .” A tear slid down Mrs. Emick’s cheek. “What should I do? I need to let our family know but—”
“That’s why we’re here,” Taylor assured her quickly. “To help you with the things that must be done. We’ll explain all that. And make the calls, assist you with the arrangements. We’ll do anything you need us to, Mrs. Emick. Seth and I are here to . . . to help.”
Oh, please. Taylor drew in a slow breath. Was she floundering here? Could she trust herself to remember even one little thing she’d learned in chaplain training? She’d almost told this suffering woman that they were here “to make things easier.” Easier? There would be nothing easy about any of it. Taylor knew that as well as she knew her own name. This woman’s husband grabbed his lunch, waved from the driveway, and was found slumped in his boat three hours later, the victim of a probable heart attack. Dead. Gone. With no good-bye.
“I should call our daughter.” Mrs. Emick slid her hand from Taylor’s and glanced at the elegant grandfather clock across the room. “They’ll be leaving for Jordy’s ball game in an hour. I should call, but I’m not sure how to . . . or if I can . . .”
“We could do that for you,” Seth offered, pushing up his sleeves and reaching for a pad of paper. “Taylor can call your daughter and ask her to come here. That might be the best place to start.” His expression said she was his only priority and that nothing mattered in this world more than helping her. “Would that be all right? If Taylor calls your daughter, while you and I put our heads together about things we need to do after that?”
“I . . .” Mrs. Emick looked from Seth to Taylor and took in a deep breath. She closed her eyes for a moment, her hands clasped in her lap. “Yes,” she said finally, meeting Taylor’s gaze. “Please call my daughter. Cynthia—Cyndy. You’ll do that better than I can right now. I know you’ll be careful not to frighten her too much. . . . I trust you.”
“Thank you.” Taylor nodded, swallowing against tears. “I’ll do my very best, Mrs. Emick. I promise.”
The new widow looked away and dabbed at her eyes. Seth took the opportunity to capture Taylor’s gaze. This time his concern was for her alone.
Please, Lord. Help me do my best for this family . . . and help me survive it too.
“What do you think, Dood?” Macy laughed as the eager Labradoodle inspected the bedroom closet, hoping, no doubt, that there was a tennis ball or rawhide bone hidden somewhere among her meager collection of hangers. “Dinner date attire. Not that we have much choice.” Macy sighed. She was standing here in her underwear, thirty minutes from zero hour, with no clue what she was going to wear. It was beyond pathetic.
The Yosemite trip with Fletcher had been a wardrobe no-brainer. Hiking boots, quick-dry capris, shirt layers, sunscreen, a little dab of almond lotion that simply stirred her senses with no practical purpose. Her usual uniform—that’s what her closet offered. Hiking clothes plus biking gear. And scrubs, of course. Macy had loads of scrubs—nothing too trendy or cutesy; she didn’t go that far. It wasn’t like she was looking to snag some eligible surgeon.
Macy smiled, thinking of what she’d told Fletcher about the Bridalveil Fall legend. Marriage was the furthest thing from her mind. Along with home ownership. Which she was actually accomplishing. It was the reason for tonight’s celebratory date. She stared at her closet. What on earth could she wear? This dog had more collar options than she had choices of—
“Grrrr—ooof!”
Dood’s low growl became a bark as he took off toward the living room.
“Nobody there,” Macy called out to him in complete futility. “We checked three times already. Nobody on the porch, nobody in the
yard.” The poor dog was a curly hero aching for a cause. If there were more time, she’d snap on his leash, take him for a run down the—
There. Macy snatched a hanger wedged between her ski parka and the oversize denim shirt she’d worn to paint all the apartments she’d ever lived in. She retrieved the dress with a smile: sleeveless summer linen, purple and white, a color-block design that highlighted the bodice and sort of nipped the waist. Short enough to show some leg, but still modest, tasteful. The dress had been a birthday gift from Ricki Rush; Macy had forgotten all about it. She just needed to snip off the tags. Her sling-back espadrilles would work fine with it.
Dood’s barks rose to a crescendo.
“Easy, boy,” she shouted, pulling the dress over her head and her hair away from the zipper. “We don’t have time for playing burglar. I keep telling you that there’s nobody out—”
Thudding knocks echoed down the hallway. The front door.
“Oh, great.” Macy struggled with the last few inches of the zipper, wiggled the dress down over her hips, and took off at a trot toward the living room. Fletcher was half an hour early, her hair was still damp from the shower, and—
Elliot?
She stopped short, stunned to see him in the room. “Why are you—?”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, managing to close the door behind him and pat the wriggling Labradoodle at the same time. “The door wasn’t locked, so I . . .”
Walked right in?
She reminded herself that she’d always given the Rushes her extra key; they were practically guardians.
“That dress.” Elliot’s gaze moved upward from her bare feet with obvious appreciation. “As soon as I saw it, I knew it would be perfect for you. I described your build and coloring to the personal shopper at Neiman’s—Ricki did,” he amended quickly. “And we found—”
“Why are you here?”
“I just came from the Tahoe Park house,” Elliot explained, striding toward the couch. He brushed at one of the cushions and perched on its edge, beckoning for Macy to join him. She smoothed the dress and settled on the ottoman across from him, very aware she had no time for chitchat. “I wanted to catch the inspector before he left.” Elliot’s well-groomed brows scrunched as Macy sneaked a peek at the wall clock. “You’re going out?”
“Yes. Is there some problem with the house?”
“I’m afraid so.” Elliot bridged his fingers. “The report won’t be filed for a few days, but there’s a big problem, Macy. Mold—substantial mold. I saw it myself.”
“You mean like the shower grout?”
“No, far worse. It’s in the subfloor, inside the walls. Clearly there was a water leak at some point. It’s extensive. With a bank-owned house, this would be an as-is sale. And your lender wouldn’t touch a moldy structure with a ten-foot pole. I’d say pinch your pretty nose and run away as fast as you can. There are plenty of other homes, even an auction coming up on a house not far from where you’re living. That inspection . . . it’s a deal breaker.”
It’s my home. Our hope. “There’s no way to repair it? Get rid of the mold?”
“Macy . . .” Elliot shook his head, sighed. “It’s a huge process. Very expensive. I’ll find you another house. We can start looking tomorrow.”
“How much?” Macy’s mouth had gone dry. “To fix it?”
“That’s foolish thinking. I understand your disappointment but—”
“You couldn’t possibly understand,” Macy blurted, crossing her arms. “And I don’t need you to judge my thought processes, Elliot. I need you to tell me what it would cost to make this problem go away.”
He brushed at the couch cushion again. “A ballpark estimate could be upward of thirty thousand dollars.”
She fought a wave of nausea. “And then . . . after it was fixed, we could go ahead with the purchase?”
“Yes. The inspector didn’t see any other issues. The preliminary title report looks clear. But, Macy—”
“Use the trust money.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the humiliating memory of her father’s face across that San Francisco table. This is about a home for Leah. “Withdraw what we need to fix the house. And then make whatever investments necessary to ensure that the principal is replaced as quickly as possible. Put it all back—every penny. Whatever it takes.”
“Free rein?” Elliot’s expression brightened. “Those higher-return investment vehicles I’ve been trying to discuss with you? Like the viaticals and—”
“Just get it done, Elliot. Please. Work your magic. I trust you.”
“And I appreciate that. I’ve always done my best to look out for your interests, Macy. It’s my privilege and—”
“I’m sorry.” She glanced at the clock, stood. “I need to finish getting ready. Fletcher will be here any minute.”
“Of course.” Elliot’s lips compressed. “Don’t forget to cut the tags off that dress.”
“I guess I’m not sure how to handle it. If I’m ready for something like this.” Jessica leaned closer to her tablet monitor, making her gray eyes look even more beautiful. And little-girl vulnerable. She sighed and Fletcher swore he could feel the warmth of her breath. “Ben and I have only been dating like four months. Isn’t that too early to say he loves me?”
Yeah. He should have the decency to wait like I did. Couple of decades.
“And then there’s this mood disorder thing. The meds and all,” she continued without waiting for his answer. “I mean, I know I’m so much better. School, work, spending. I’m doing my own pedicures now, and I’m wearing the same dress to the Summer Symphony as I wore when he took me out for Valentine’s Day.” Her lips puckered into that teasing smile that had fueled so many of his adolescent daydreams. “Mostly because Ben loves it on me. Really, I am better now, Fletcher. But this love thing . . .”
“Big step,” he agreed, carrying his phone with him as he pulled his sport coat from underneath Hunter. Cat fur. Great. He was picking Macy up in twenty minutes. Even if that hadn’t been the case—even if he were sitting around watching paint dry—he didn’t want to have this conversation with Jessica. “If it makes you uncomfortable, maybe it is too soon, Jessica. I think you have to trust your feelings with something like that, right?”
“That’s just it.” Her brows pinched. “I’m not totally sure how I feel. Ben’s great, so great. But I’ve never really loved any guy but my dad and my grandpa . . . and you, Fletcher.”
His breath stuck.
“I miss you.” Jessica’s voice sounded choked and raw, like when she was ten and had strep throat right before Christmas. “When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know.” He thought of his mother’s pile of scrapbook photos; Jessica would be in a number of them. “I’m here as long as my parents need me.”
“And I’m being selfish.”
Fletcher shook his head. She was better. That insight alone was proof.
“I miss you too,” he told her, switching the phone to his other hand as he slipped into his jacket. “There’s a lot to like about California, but Houston is home.”
“Hey . . .” Jessica peered into the phone the same way she used to do through the Holts’ front door sidelights. The perspective made her face look like a pampered, mooching spaniel’s. “Is that a sport coat you’re wearing?”
“Sort of.”
“There’s no sort of about it. You’re dressed up, Holt.”
“I’m going out to dinner.”
“A date?”
“I guess you’d call it that.”
“Oh.” Jessica was quiet for a moment, turning her head away just enough that he couldn’t make out her expression. “She’s . . . one of those things to like about California?”
“Yeah.” Fletcher nodded. “I think so.”
31
“I REALLY WASN’T, you know, checking out your legs,” Fletcher explained, feeling like an idiot for saying anything at all. Great choice for after-dinner conversation. “But when you slid
into the Jeep earlier, I couldn’t help but notice your ankle.”
“It’s okay.” Macy leaned forward enough that the candle on the outdoor table was reflected in her eyes. She lowered her voice like a conspirator. “If I’ve accepted that you have a handgun under that jacket, then you can know that I have a tattoo. Temporarily—I have an appointment to get rid of it.”
“Ballet shoes?” Fletcher asked, failing a second glance at her ankle in the dim lighting. Her crossed legs were lightly tanned, summer-bare. The heels on her sandals would make her tall enough to look directly into his eyes. If he was lucky enough to draw her that close . . . “It’s such a small design that it’s hard to tell, but it looks like the dancing shoes my cousin had. With those sort of ribbon ties.”
“Good eye. The other day, this guy at the gym asked me if they were pinto beans. Seriously. Beans.” Macy sighed. “I was sixteen when I agreed to be a tattoo guinea pig for the big brother of one of the other foster kids. Not my brightest idea. Though I heard he developed quite a following later—” she rolled her eyes—“in prison.”
“Why ballet?” Fletcher asked, remembering her teasing threat to plant a combative foot square in the middle of his chest. No tutu there.
“I . . .” Macy reached for her cup again, hesitated. “One of my foster moms—the same one who took us to Yosemite—paid for me to take ballet lessons for a while. They were sponsored by her church.”
Church . . . That connection again. It had been there, once.
“She . . . Nonni was pretty special.” Macy glanced over the deck railing toward the small marina. The delta breeze blew a wisp of hair across her face. Somewhere, beyond the soft burble of conversation at the adjacent tables and the tinkle-chink-clatter of wineglasses and silverware, a single gull’s cry repeated over and over. A lonely sound. “I was thirteen,” Macy continued, “and skinny. Bad hair—worse attitude. I didn’t even trust the sun to come up in the morning. But Nonni kept after me, doing all these little things. She made me feel special—safe, too, I guess—maybe for the first time in my whole life.” That faraway look came into Macy’s eyes. “For a while I believed it all: I’d dance Swan Lake with the San Francisco Ballet, grow up beautiful like my mother, and have a family, a real home . . .”
By Your Side Page 19
