The woman glanced at Dylan, fear in her eyes.
“She was the one who discovered his body. Overdose. He died in his bed. Where he was safe.”
Maryann looked away. “She had him, though, all those years. She loved him.”
“That’s not love, Maryann. It’s fear. You did the right thing, the hard thing, the loving thing.”
She gazed at the photo. “You talked to him?”
“Gave him the phone and told him to call you when he’s ready. I guess he hasn’t?”
She shook her head.
“I told him what you told me, that when he’s ready for rehab, you’ll send him.”
“Don’t know how I’ll pay for it.”
Dylan covered the woman’s hand with his. “God’ll make a way. Trust Him.”
She stared at the boy in the photograph. Barely eighteen but an adult in the eyes of the law. He looked about fifteen with those freckles. His eyes, though… They were older. What had the kid already endured living on the street? How far would he have to fall before he sought help?
“You did the right thing sending him to rehab,” Dylan said. “He chose not to get clean, but he won’t make that choice forever. Keep praying, keep trusting God. Your son is in His hands. Only God can bring him home.”
Dylan lifted a prayer for the young man and his mother. There was hope. The kid would get tired of that life and seek help. Dylan had to believe that.
The door to the food bank opened, and the blonde with the Louis Vuitton purse limped out, a walking cast on her foot. She didn’t turn their direction and probably didn’t realize they were there.
Maryann slid the photos into the envelope and lifted her handbag from the bench. No designer brand, that one. It was tattered canvas, torn in a couple of places. Though she worked full-time, as a single mom with three kids at home, she had no extra money for fancy purses or new clothes. Or private detectives. She shoved the envelope inside and pulled out her checkbook with shaking hands. “Do you mind if I date this for Friday? My paycheck’ll go in tomorrow…”
He settled his hand over hers. “We’re good. It didn’t take nearly as much time to find him as I thought it would.” Not true, but he couldn’t take her money. She needed it more than he did. “Call me if you ever need my help again.”
More tears. The woman wiped them away, and they both stood. She wrapped her arms around him and held on. “Thank you.”
He patted her back. “I’ll keep praying for both of you.”
She hurried past the blonde and inside the building.
The blonde stepped out of her way, saw Dylan, and nodded.
“I think if you’re not inside when they call your name,” he said, “they go on to the next person. You don’t want to end up at the back of the line.”
She stepped away from the door. Pain flashed across her face with the movement, but she masked it quickly.
“Why don’t you sit while you decide?” He gestured toward the bench. “You need some help?”
“Don’t you need to get inside?” She had an English accent. Sounded highbrow, which went along with the fancy purse. And, if he weren’t mistaken, her jeans cost more than he made in a week. What was she doing here?
“I was meeting someone,” Dylan said.
“I see.”
She hobbled to the bench and sat.
He gazed across the parking lot at his pickup. He should go. But this woman clearly needed help, and he’d always been a sucker for a damsel in distress.
He approached. “Mind if I sit?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were rimmed in dark circles. She’d pulled the sleeves of her long-sleeved T-shirt over her hands despite the heat of the summer day. He remembered the bandages he’d seen earlier.
This woman didn’t belong at a food bank. The walking cast and bandages made him wonder if she was the victim of an abusive husband. Her left hand was hidden, or else he’d check for a ring. Maybe she’d left the man—and the financial security he’d provided. That would explain why she was here. Whatever the reason, she obviously needed food. People didn’t come to the food bank for fun.
“There’s no shame in needing help,” he said.
“I thought it would be a simple task—grab a few cans of soup and go. I didn’t realize…” She waved toward the door, caught sight of her bandaged hand, and dropped it back to her lap.
No wedding ring. But boyfriends could be abusive, too. “It takes some time to get free food, but most people don’t mind the wait when they leave with a car filled with groceries.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “A car full?” She shook her head. Her smile was sad and didn’t hold. “I can’t take food from those people.”
Those people? What did that mean? “Looked to me like you were one of those people a minute ago.”
“I didn’t… I don’t mean it like that. I’m not a snob.” She paused, shook her head. “I just mean that they need it, truly need it. Their need is serious, ongoing. Mine is temporary.”
“A lot of their need is temporary, too.”
“I understand that. I cannot…” She sighed and settled back against the bench. “I don’t belong here.”
He forced himself to rein in his rising frustration. This woman couldn’t be more of a snob—an amazing feat considering where she sat. “Nobody thinks they belong at the food bank.”
She dropped her head, then turned to face him. “Are you a policeman? Am I loitering?”
“Not a cop,” he said. “Used to be. Now I’m a lowly private investigator one job away from being a client at the food bank.” Not entirely true, but only because he’d saved a lot of his detective’s salary, so he had a savings account to fall back on. If he had to survive on what he made in the business, he’d be forced to live in his parents’ basement.
Work would pick up. And it would help if he didn’t give away so much of his time. He thought of the woman he’d just sent away. How could he have taken her money?
The blonde turned to face him, mouth slightly open as if in surprise. Her lips were pink and full and…
Nope. Pretty but snobby. Not his type.
“A private investigator, you say. What kind of cases have you worked?”
He couldn’t help the laugh. “You can’t afford to buy groceries, but you want to hire me?”
Her mouth closed, turned down at the corners. “It’s a long story, but I can pay you. I have money, I just can’t access it right now.”
“You need a banker or a lawyer, not a PI.”
Her stomach growled, loudly. She covered it with her hand, and her pale cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. “Pardon me.”
Dylan had no intention of working for this woman, but she needed to eat. “Go back inside. I’ll wait until you get your food, and then we can talk.”
She stood, wobbled a bit on her walking cast. “I’m not going to take food from the mouths of families who truly need it because my credit cards have been canceled. I’ll survive. If you don’t want my business, then I’ll find someone who does.”
She hobbled toward the parking lot.
He followed. “Ma’am?”
She turned, eyebrows lifted over bright blue eyes. She was a beauty. He thought of the hot-to-crazy ratio his frat brothers used to joke about and decided she might be too high on the crazy side. Not that he was considering asking her out, but even working with her might be more than he could handle. On the other hand, she was injured and in need. There was no way he could just let her walk away without at least trying to help.
“Let’s get something to eat.” She opened her mouth, but he interrupted with, “I’m buying.”
“I can’t…” But her words trailed as her stomach growled. “If you’ll let me pay you back when I get access to my accounts. Where shall we go?”
“McNeal’s. Wait here and I’ll pull my truck up.”
The fear in her eyes was unmistakable. At least she wasn’t a fool who’d fall for any offer of food.
He could pu
t her at ease. He led her back to the door of the food bank and urged her inside. Behind the counter, Vanessa looked up.
He said, “This young lady has decided not to stay.”
Vanessa glanced at the blonde, nodded once. “You are okay?” Like the blonde, Vanessa had an accent. Hers sounded Eastern European, though. It wasn’t always noticeable after years in the States.
“I’m okay,” the blonde said.
“I invited her to eat,” Dylan said. “Can you assure her I’m safe?”
Vanessa barely glanced at Dylan. “As far as I know, he is as trustworthy as any man can be.”
Wow. Rousing endorsement. He wondered how she talked about men she didn’t know.
Vanessa added, “He was a cop. You should be safe with him. You’ll tell me if he tries anything though, yes?”
“I will,” the blonde promised.
Excellent. They should have some nice bonding time discussing his behavior.
Vanessa returned to her work.
The blonde looked at Dylan and smiled, showing a line of perfect white teeth. They stepped back outside, where she stopped and held out her hand. “Chelsea.”
No last name. Interesting. He shook her hand. “Dylan O’Donnell. Pleased to meet you.”
Chapter Five
Chelsea slid into a booth at a charming restaurant in downtown Nutfield, trying not to salivate at the scents in the air. Bacon, coffee, maple syrup. Her stomach was growling like a monster in a cage. Thank heavens the chatter and clatter of silverware and dishes drowned out the offensive sound.
“What looks good?” Dylan asked.
“I’m tempted to order one of everything.”
That easy smile he had, open and wide, the little dimple on one cheek—it was enough to make a hungry woman swoon. For heaven’s sake, she’d just met the man. Surely, this weird attraction she felt for him had less to do with his looks and more to do with his willingness to feed her.
But she couldn’t deny he was handsome. Despite the Irish name, his dark red hair, green eyes, and strong chin brought to mind a Scottish warrior sporting a kilt and wielding a broadsword.
Oh, my. She blinked away the image.
She needed food. Her mind was playing tricks on her.
A fifty-something waitress appeared carrying a carafe in one hand and two cups with the other. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Chelsea said.
At Dylan’s nod, the woman set down both cups and filled them.
The aroma so tempted Chelsea that she had to clench her hands together in her lap to keep from reaching for it immediately.
The waitress focused on Chelsea. “This guy always gets the same thing”—she nodded toward Dylan—“but you probably need a few minutes to decide.”
Chelsea glanced at the menu. She wanted to order the meal called The Lumberjack but thought better of it. Hungry as she was, she’d never be able to eat all that. “Two eggs over easy with a side of biscuits and gravy.”
The waitress looked at Dylan, who said, “Lumberjack, and bring us a bag of soda crackers ASAP.”
When the waitress walked away, Dylan said, “I’m afraid the coffee’s going to make you sick if you don’t get some food in your stomach.”
“Oh. Quite thoughtful of you.”
“When did you last eat?”
With her bandaged hands, she carefully lifted her coffee, took a sip, and felt the strong brew warm her empty stomach. Dylan was right. Too much of that without food and she would regret it. She took another sip anyway. “Monday lunch.”
His eyes held no amusement. “Was that before or after your injuries?”
She hid her hands in her lap as if she’d done something wrong. “After.”
“Okay.” He sipped his coffee but never took his eyes off her. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
The beginning. Where would that be? She didn’t even know what was going on, so how could she possibly know when it had begun?
All she could do was tell him what she knew.
“My mother was killed in a car accident last week.”
“Oh.” He leaned a little forward, mouth turned down at the corners. “I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”
Awful didn’t begin to cover it. “I was at my apartment in Paris when I got the news. Of course I flew home immediately. I—”
“Wait. Home is…where?”
“Coventry, New Hampshire.”
His head tilted to the side. “I’ve been there. Pretty little town. No offense, but you don’t sound like a local.”
“Right.”
The waitress dropped a few plastic bags of oyster crackers on the table. Chelsea reached for one but, between the bandages and the trembling fingers, couldn’t get it open.
Dylan eased the bag from her hands, pulled it open, and handed it back.
She popped a cracker in her mouth. She’d eaten at some of the finest restaurants in the world, but she didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything as good as that tiny oyster cracker.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Have a few more,” Dylan said. “We’re in no hurry.”
She did as he suggested, then washed them down with coffee. She felt better already.
“You asked about my accent.” As she said the words, she tried to sound more American. “I was sent to secondary school and attended university in England.”
“Good effort. Maybe you could pull off Connecticut—a broadcaster’s accent.” He smiled with the words to show he was teasing. “Your family lived in England for how long?”
She shook her head. “My mother is English, but she stayed in Coventry. My grandmother lived in Chelsea, a neighborhood in London.”
“That’s where you got your name?”
She nodded and ate another cracker.
“So you lived with your grandmother for how long?”
“Not with Grandmother. Before she passed a few years ago, I’d go to her house on holiday. But I lived at school from the time I was twelve.”
His eyes narrowed.
Americans and Brits did things differently. Boarding school wasn’t unusual for many wealthy English families. Her mother had attended one. Of course, Mum’s had been near her parents’ home, not on the far side of the Atlantic. “I was born and lived the first twelve years of my life in Coventry. New Hampshire is my home.”
Chelsea saw the waitress coming toward them carrying a tray, and all thoughts of her story dissipated like the steam rising from their plates. She pushed her coffee and crackers aside to make room.
The waitress set a single plate in front of Chelsea, then set three on Dylan’s side of the table. Eggs and bacon on one, pancakes on another, hash browns on a third.
She should have ordered that. She smiled at the waitress, tempted to ask for an order of bacon. Better yet, bangers. Sausage, to use the American term.
Dylan must’ve seen the envy in her eyes, because he chuckled. “I’m happy to share.”
Take his food? “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”
“Anything else I can get ya?” the waitress asked.
Dylan looked at her, laughter dancing in his green eyes.
“No, thank you,” Chelsea said.
After the waitress left, Dylan lifted the bacon from the large plate, set it on top of the hash browns, and slid that plate to the middle of the table. “We can share.” He slid the pancakes closer to her, too.
“What I have will be fine.” She cut a piece of the biscuit topped with white gravy and popped it in her mouth. Warm, salty, creamy… She’d never tasted anything so delicious.
Of course, she’d thought that about the oyster cracker, too.
“You didn’t get your love of biscuits and gravy from your English mother, I assume.”
She wiped her mouth. “Certainly not.” Her English accent came out as strong as ever. It would take time for it to fade. She focused on sounding American. She could do it. For heaven’s sake, she’d talked like an American nearly half her li
fe. “My father’s mom grew up in Oklahoma. When I was a little girl, I used to spend Saturday nights at her house, and every Sunday she’d make me biscuits and gravy before church.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Dylan said. “I like your accent.”
She had a mouthful of food, so she just shrugged.
“Nice tradition.” He forked a bite of hash browns. “Biscuits and gravy and church.”
It had been. More than nice. Chelsea had felt safe then. Safe and protected in the little town with the little family who loved her and cared for her so well.
Since then, everything had changed.
Daddy, Mum, all four of her grandparents—they were all gone. All that remained of Chelsea’s family were herself and Uncle Frank.
Oh, Mum.
Losing three grandparents had been hard. Losing her father had been indescribably awful. But Chelsea didn’t know if she’d ever recover from losing her mother.
She was really and truly alone in the world.
Dylan nudged the plate with the bacon toward her. “Really, help yourself.”
But after eating one egg and one of the biscuits, she was full. Overfull, actually. Apparently, not eating for a few days could mess with a person’s appetite. “Thank you, but I’ll decline.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” He broke off a bite of bacon and popped it in his mouth. When he’d finished chewing, his expression turned serious again. “You flew home when?”
She consulted the calendar on her phone. “Left Paris the morning of June tenth. I was back in Coventry that afternoon. I spent the next week planning the funeral and dealing with all the details that go into that.”
“And grieving,” he said.
There’d been a lot of that. Holding herself together in the company of others, breaking down when she was alone. Alone in the huge house Daddy had built to accommodate the big family he’d always wanted. But it had only been the three of them. Then two. Now Chelsea was alone.
She swallowed a sip of coffee and pressed down the feelings trying to emerge. This wasn’t a gab session with dear friends. This man was a stranger. She absolutely would not cry in front of him. When she’d reined in her emotions, she continued. “The funeral was Sunday. Monday morning, I went to the state park to get some exercise before work.”
Legacy Reclaimed Page 3
