by Deb Kastner
“Folks around here tend to think calamities like this one are simply a God-given opportunity to start over and make things better.”
“I can’t even imagine.” Her voice trailed off.
He shrugged. In Serendipity, that’s just the way things were done—and had always been done. It was a mind-set built on many generations of tough western folk.
He glanced at her when she didn’t speak further. She was looking at him like she had a question but was hesitant to ask. Her full lips were twisted and her brow was low. On another woman, that might not have been the most attractive expression. On Phoebe, it was endearing.
“What?” he queried.
“I know I’m going to sound like an idiot, but exactly what is a barn-raising?”
“You’re not an idiot,” he assured her. “Just a city girl. A barn-raising is just what it sounds like. All the neighbors will be there. Everyone brings food to share, and we all pitch in and build a barn in one day.”
“It sounds—intriguing,” Phoebe admitted.
“I wasn’t going to go, but Lucy’s been bugging me about it, and I think it would do us all some good.”
Truth be told, it was going to be sheer agony for him. In the past, he’d purposefully avoided just such situations, and for a very good reason. He didn’t want the neighbors to talk any more than they already did, even if he told himself it didn’t matter what people thought.
Lindsay had loved social situations, and when she was alive he’d attended community events for her sake. As for himself, he’d always leaned on the antisocial, solitary side of the fence. He didn’t need a lot of people around him to make his life full.
At one time, all he’d needed was Lindsay, and then Lucy, when she’d come along. Aunt Jo had always been there for him as well. But how Phoebe had managed to get her foot in the door of his insignificant world after such a short acquaintance was beyond him. He’d rather think about the barn-raising.
This would be painful, maybe excruciatingly so, for him, on any number of levels. But it would be good for Phoebe. And he had no doubt it would be good for Lucy.
Maybe, Lord willing, it would be good for Phoebe and Lucy together. He could only hope.
He knew he’d set a bad example for Lucy where Phoebe was concerned. He hadn’t nipped Lucy’s bad attitude in the bud—in fact, in his own way he’d contributed to it.
Now he had to fix the problems he’d created. And what better way to do that than to spend a whole day playing and working together?
Chapter Five
STATUS UPDATE: PHOEBE YATES: I know there are plenty of books out there on how to relate to men, but are there any on how to deal with men who have teenage daughters who can’t stand to be in the same room with you?
JOSEPHINE HAWKINS MURPHY: Don’t worry your pretty little head, dear. She’ll warm up to you. Mark my words.
Phoebe surreptitiously watched as Chance silently bundled up in his trench coat, adjusted the black bandana around his neck and planted his cowboy hat on his head. He gestured her out of the now-closed café and locked the door behind them, walked her to her car, and then turned and started walking down the road without a single word to her.
For about two seconds, she tossed around the idea of offering him a ride once again, but in the end she simply drove right past him and back to the house they now shared. If he had wanted her to give him a lift home, he would have asked. One deliberate and painful rejection a day was quite enough for her, thank you.
At least she could be thankful that she and Chance were on better terms than they had been this morning. Or at least she hoped they were. From her perspective, they had worked well together, though that might have been because she hadn’t actually been underfoot in his kitchen. That part of the equation still remained to be worked out. But he had invited her to join the Hawkins family for that barn-raising thing. That had to count for something.
She was looking forward to participating in this homemade slice of small-town America—and not only for the reasons she’d have expected, why she’d come to Serendipity in the first place. At this point, she was equally excited about the prospect of spending quality time with Chance and his family as she was experiencing the uniquely branded Serendipity to its fullest.
She wanted to get to know Chance better on a personal level, and this seemed as good a way as any. But more important was her relationship—or lack of one—with Lucy. If some dynamic didn’t change at the house, it was going to be a long six weeks.
From the very first moment, Jo had welcomed her with open arms, treating her as one of the family.
Chance was a harder nut to crack. She’d promised Chance she wouldn’t pry, and she hadn’t, but last night when she and Jo were chatting, Jo had filled her in on the details of Chance’s life that Phoebe had been missing—the heartrending story of how Lindsay had died in some sort of car accident four years ago. Jo didn’t go into great detail, but she didn’t need to. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize the man was still grieving for his wife.
And while Phoebe had seen small glimpses of warmth and kindness behind the gruff, churlish exterior he presented to the world, most off the time he shut himself away behind that dark, brooding exterior. It wouldn’t be an easy task to successfully draw him out from behind the mental barrier he’d created between them.
And then there was Lucy—truly problematic, as Phoebe had admittedly little experience with teenage girls. Okay, none, she mentally acknowledged, though she vaguely remembered the confusing mix of polar emotions she’d struggled with at Lucy’s age. Having developed a little later than some of her peers, she recalled how gawky and gangly her tall, reed-thin figure had made her feel. She’d become interested in boys about that time as well, even if they hadn’t necessarily wanted anything to do with her.
She’d been a figurative fish out of water, wildly flapping her tail in order to get back into the ocean and fit into her own school of fish. Thirteen wasn’t an easy age to be for a girl.
Was that how Lucy felt?
As if drawn by her thoughts, Lucy was waiting on the front porch as Phoebe pulled into the long driveway. She was sitting on the bottom stairs, holding a branch in her hand. From what Phoebe could see, she appeared to be writing something in the dirt between her booted feet.
Lucy looked up when the car door slammed and glared in Phoebe’s direction. There was bound to be a confrontation, and Phoebe’s head was suddenly beginning to throb with a tension headache. There was a lot riding on her being able to make peace with the girl.
Like having the remote possibility of enjoying her time in Serendipity. Like any opportunity to live peacefully in this new and interesting environment. This whole adventure was way more complicated than she’d imagined it would be.
“Hi, Lucy,” Phoebe called in her friendliest tone of voice. “Are you waiting for your dad? He was right behind me when we left. I’m sure he’ll be home in just a few minutes.”
Lucy stood and crossed her arms. Her jaw was clenched and Phoebe thought perhaps the girl’s eyes were glistening with tears.
Phoebe winced. Was she the cause of all this? The last thing she wanted to do was make an already bad situation even worse.
“What are you drawing there?” she asked as she approached the porch, pointing to the dirt at Lucy’s feet.
Lucy’s cheeks immediately stained cherry-red—from embarrassment or anger. Maybe it was a little of both. She kicked at the dirt, but not before Phoebe had read what she’d written.
Brian.
Phoebe smiled to herself. She had a good notion of what Lucy had been doing—daydreaming about the boy she liked. How many times had a teenage Phoebe scribbled the name of her current crush onto the front of a notebook or into the sand on the beach?
Phoebe didn’t remark on it, but she filed the knowledge away for the future. Lucy wasn’t used to having a woman around, other than her Aunt Jo, who clearly had her hands full just running the café. Maybe Lucy could use another
female role model in her life.
If Phoebe could somehow gain Lucy’s trust…
“Why do you have to stay in this house?” Lucy demanded, every bit as forthright as her exasperating father. “We don’t want you here.”
The girl’s scowl deepened and her lips turned down at the corners. She thought it was actually kind of a cute expression, were it not for the fact that Lucy was so earnest and the look in question was directed at Phoebe.
“Your Aunt Jo has asked me to stay here as her guest,” Phoebe explained softly, though she knew Lucy was already aware of the arrangement.
Lucy shook her head. “It’s not her house. It’s my dad’s house, and my house, and we don’t want you here.”
“I’m sorry, Lucy, but it’s not just your aunt’s idea anymore. Your dad has asked me to stay, and I’ve accepted. I hope we can be friends.” Phoebe made a placating gesture with her arms.
“No way,” Lucy responded brusquely. “I will never be friends with you.”
The girl was nothing if not straightforward to the point of being rude—much like her father, Phoebe thought. As the old saying went, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. The girl might look like her mother, but she definitely had her father’s curt personality. Phoebe couldn’t help but feel a little hurt and rejected by the girl’s response.
It had been a long day.
“Well, it’s your call,” Phoebe offered, “but no matter how you feel about me, I would like to be your friend. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.” Lucy spun around and stomped up the wooden stairs and into the house, leaving a literal trail of dust behind her.
Phoebe fanned the grime away from her face and coughed repeatedly.
“That went well,” she muttered to herself.
Deciding she would wait outside until Chance got home to ask him how he thought it best for her to approach Lucy, she took the girl’s spot on the bottom step of the porch and picked up the branch the girl had discarded.
It wasn’t long before her mind was a million miles away as she appraised and discarded various solutions to effectively deal with the teenage girl and that ruggedly handsome, annoyingly standoffish and confusing father of hers.
“Hey, there.” Chance’s deep, raspy voice pierced into her thoughts and his shadow loomed over her. She jumped to her feet, placing a hand over her racing heart.
“You startled me,” she said, her words hovering somewhere between an explanation and an accusation.
“Yeah, I can see that.” He tipped his hat to her with his thumb and index finger, but he didn’t apologize.
Her lungs burned as she inhaled and exhaled. “I was just thinking about things.”
“Uh-huh,” he acknowledged gruffly. “And drawing in the dirt.” He pointed to the ground at her feet.
Her gaze unthinkingly followed to where he had pointed, expecting to see nothing out of sorts. She might have been doodling while she was thinking, but she’d never been an artist, at least not the kind who was able to draw more than a crude stick figure.
But, she realized in horror as she stared down at her handiwork, she hadn’t been drawing images at all.
She’d been writing.
Chance’s name. More than once.
Her heart slammed into her head and heat instantly diffused her cheeks. She lurched forward, stirring the dirt with both feel, creating a cloud of dust that would have suffocated her, had she not been choking already.
There was no possibility whatsoever that Chance could not have seen what she’d written, although there were any number of appalling ways he could interpret—or rather, misinterpret the words.
Her gaze flashed to his, but there was nothing in his expression to indicate he’d seen what she had written. No smile hovered on those masculine lips—no frown, either, for that matter. There was no amused gleam in his eyes, nor was there annoyance.
In fact, she couldn’t read him at all, which was in its own way worse than knowing what he was thinking. His hard-planed face gave nothing away.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked in a neutral, unnaturally conversational tone.
Not what you’re thinking, she wanted to reply, but of course she didn’t. Granted, she didn’t exactly know what he was thinking, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good for her. She’d rather not call attention to herself if it could be avoided.
“Did Lucy lock you out?” he suggested with a wink, one side of his lips tugging upward.
“No,” Phoebe immediately replied, glad she had finally found her voice. “At least, I don’t think she did. I haven’t actually tried the door, but I guess I wouldn’t be surprised if I couldn’t open it. She dashed inside a few minutes ago—anything to get away from me, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’ve seen her, then.”
Phoebe nodded.
“I take it that didn’t go well?”
“No,” she agreed. “It didn’t. Which is why I was waiting out here for you to get home, actually.”
“So I can protect you from my feral daughter?”
“I think I can hold my own,” she assured him wryly. “But I do think we should talk about how you think I should best handle this. You know your daughter much better than I do. Is there something I can do to reduce her apprehension?”
“Yeah, about that…”
“Yes?”
His hands jammed into the pockets of his trench coat, he looked at the ground and stirred the dirt around with the tip of his boot for a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry for the way Lucy’s been treating you.”
Phoebe didn’t know what she had expected him to say, but an apology seemed out of character for him. Of course, he was apologizing for his daughter and had not mentioned his own actions at all, though he’d been at least as rude to her as Lucy had.
Lucy’s reaction she could understand, and even, on some level, relate to.
Chance? Not so much.
“You have to understand that for the past four years it’s just been the two of us and Aunt Jo,” he explained in that low, throaty voice of his. This time he didn’t sound gruff; rather, it seemed to Phoebe that he was attempting to hold his emotions in check.
What a terrible tragedy for anyone to face. Phoebe couldn’t help but feel for him—for both of them. She nodded. “I imagine she misses her mother terribly.”
“Yes,” Chance agreed, momentarily dropping his gaze. Clearly Lucy was not the only one who missed Lindsay. It was obviously a difficult subject for Chance to talk about.
“She is very protective of you.”
“Overprotective, you mean.” Chance lifted his hat and combed his long, tapered fingers through his curly black hair. They were chef’s hands, Phoebe thought, capable, in the right conditions, of the creation of a culinary masterpiece.
He definitely had the mind for it. The circumstances were another thing entirely. Phoebe was pretty sure Cup O’ Jo, with its usual down-home customers ordering ordinary country fare, was not the place to find out just how capable Chance was in the kitchen.
Lucy, on the other hand…
“Does Lucy cook?” she asked as a new idea suddenly occurred to her. Maybe baking was something they could do together, a way for Phoebe to share her passion with the girl.
Chance shook his head. “She used to bake with her mother all the time, but now she has—” he paused, his mouth pulling to one side as he considered his next words “—lost interest in it.”
Cooking was out, then. Phoebe knew better than to try to pursue such a lead, even if it happened to be her specialty. Lucy obviously connected baking to her mother. Phoebe wouldn’t even want to try to fill those shoes.
“I want to get along with Lucy,” Phoebe offered, bemused and unsettled. She wasn’t any closer to figuring out how she was going to live with the Hawkins family than she had been when she’d walked in the door last evening. “Frankly, I just don’t know how that’s going to h
appen.”
Chance’s brow lowered over obsidian eyes as he blew out a low, frustrated breath. Clearly he shared Phoebe’s concerns regarding Lucy.
“Just give her some time,” he suggested softly after some time, rhythmically tapping his hat against his leg. “Hopefully she’ll come around on her own.”
Phoebe privately agreed with Chance and silently lifted her concerns in prayer. God was the One who could change people’s hearts. For all their sakes, they needed to learn to live together, or something would have to give.
That, Phoebe knew, would be her, and now she wasn’t in such a hurry to leave. Hopefully, her adventure here was just beginning.
STATUS UPDATE: PHOEBE YATES: I’ve feasted on the highest quality gourmet foods from all around the world—New York, France, Italy. But there’s something to be said for plain old-country cooking. The beef roast, fried potatoes and steamed broccoli we had for supper was spectacular.
JOSEPHINE HAWKINS MURPHY: Why thank you, dear. I’ll have to share the recipe with you.
Little had been said over dinner. Aunt Jo chattered merrily about all the latest town gossip and didn’t seem to notice that no one else at the table appeared to be joining in.
Or maybe, Chance thought, he wasn’t giving his aunt enough credit. More than likely Aunt Jo knew exactly what was going on and was filling in the silent void with words so that no one else would have to speak unless they wanted to.
As for Chance, he didn’t have anything to say.
Phoebe was obviously deep in thought—probably musing over her confrontation with his irrational daughter. Lucy was using her fork to push her food around her plate without really eating anything. If she sulked any deeper her bottom lip would be dragging on the ground.
Chance knew he should be thinking about how to ease the tension between Phoebe and his daughter, but to his own dismay, his mind kept wandering in one direction.
Phoebe.
Not Lucy and Phoebe. Just Phoebe.
He couldn’t seem to get her out of his mind. She’d walked into his life in the worst way, and yet here he was, experiencing feelings he’d thought had died forever when he’d buried Lindsay.
