She looked around. The sofa and chairs were older than she was, the springs broken down, the fabric worn through in places. The same description applied to virtually everything—old, broken and worn. Not even someone down on his luck would find much use for it. "I think I'd like to keep that table—" she gestured toward the long narrow table pushed against one wall "—but the rest of it can go."
"Then grab an end."
Between them they maneuvered the sofa out the door and down the steps, then left it in the front yard. One chair followed, then another. They worked steadily—Jayne and her father carrying stuff out while Lucy and Clarice moved their personal items into the bathroom and out of the way. They were in the larger bedroom, trying to take the bed apart, when a distant bark sounded outside and Lucy's ears perked. "Cameron Diaz!" she shouted and raced from the room.
"Cameron Diaz lives next door and barks?" Clarice asked, her brows arched.
"Our neighbor's dogs—Cameron and Diaz," Jayne explained. She was holding the foot of the mattress several feet in the air while her father tried to rip the fabric free from the metal springs that had snagged it. She hadn't known that beds had once come with bare metal springs.
"Do you have a sharp knife or a pair of scissors?" her father asked, his voice muffled by the mattress looming over his head.
Her shoulders were starting to ache from holding the mattress neck-high. "The kitchen knives aren't very sharp, but there's a pair of manicure scissors in the bathroom, Mom—"
"Here." Tyler's voice came from behind her, but by the time she'd turned her head, he'd moved to stand between her and her father. He offered Bill an open pocketknife, handle first, then took the weight of the mattress from Jayne.
Go ahead, a devilish voice goaded. Tell him you don't want his help.
Maybe she would once the throb in her shoulders went away. Once that smelly mattress and the rusty, sharp-edged springs were out in the yard with the rest of the junk. Once she'd finished taking a long, appreciative look at him. He looked just as he should for having come straight from work—sawdust on his jeans, smears of stain across his shirt—and he smelled of wood and sweat and pure sexy male.
She stepped back to allow him to take her place—the better to observe him—and her mother came forward to meet her. Who is that? Clarice mouthed.
My neighbor, Jayne mouthed back.
Clarice's brows reached for her hairline.
"You keep doing that, Mom, and I'm getting you BOTOX for Mother's Day," Jayne said aloud. "Mom, Dad, this is Tyler Lewis, our neighbor. Tyler, my parents, Bill and Clarice Jones."
Everyone murmured something appropriate, then Tyler looked at her over his shoulder. "Your maiden name was Jayne Jones?"
She offered a phony smile. "Yes, it was." Plain, common, everyday-average. She'd heard comments about it all her life.
Finally Bill finished cutting the fabric around all the sprung springs and Tyler hauled the mattress to the floor, standing it on its side. It was so broken down that it wobbled, then collapsed in on itself.
Bill returned the knife, then extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you."
Jayne had tried to shake hands with Tyler the day they'd met—only a week ago—but he'd refused. After sliding the knife back into his jeans pocket, he gave Bill a strong shake, then took hold of the mattress again. "You want this on that pile outside?"
"Yeah. That's the stuff we're getting rid of."
The two men left the room, balancing the mattress between them. Clarice followed them to the bedroom door, watched until they turned the corner into the living room, then fanned herself with one hand. "I see why you didn't mention him."
Jayne took hold of the springs and managed to lift the end an inch or two before something caught. Letting them fall back to the frame, she faced her mother. "What was to mention? He lives down the road. He builds beautiful furniture. He has two dogs and he keeps to himself."
"Is he married? Gay?"
Jayne blinked. The closest Clarice ever came to swearing was Mercy me, a phrase she'd learned from her grandmother, but she could still surprise her daughter with the words that came out of her mouth. "No, and I don't think so."
"Homicidal? A drunk? A pervert?"
"Mom!"
"If my only daughter and granddaughter are living down the road from him, I have a right to know more about him."
"You know everything I know." Except that his family and friends thought a great deal of him. That he was a nicer guy than he wanted to admit. That he'd practically run them into a ditch when she'd touched him in the truck Monday night.
She'd thought about that the past few days—more than she should have. He hadn't shrunk away from Sarah's embrace or her father's handshake. Was it only her touch he'd found offensive? Or had he confused her with someone in his past? His features had paled and taken on a distant look, sweat had popped out across his forehead and he'd clenched the steering wheel so tightly that she wouldn't have been surprised if it had turned to dust under the force.
What had he been thinking? Who had he been remembering?
She gave a start when Clarice touched her shoulder, though far more subdued than Tyler's had been that night. "What?" she asked, finding her mother watching her with concern.
"It's too soon, honey."
"For what?"
Heavy footsteps sounded in the living room, and Clarice nodded in that direction. "It's only been five months, Jaynie. You need time to get over that, to put it in the past." She glanced at the men in the hallway and hastily repeated, "It's too soon."
As she turned away to remove empty drawers from the warped dresser, Jayne didn't know which surprised her more—that Clarice assumed she was romantically interested in Tyler or that she needed time to get over Greg. She'd been over Greg for years. She had cared deeply for him, but she had never loved him, and he hadn't loved her. If anything about the marriage still affected her, it was sadness that she'd married a man she didn't love. Marriage was too important, too … well, sacred, and she hadn't entered it with the respect it deserved.
And she wasn't interested in trying again just yet.
Though, she admitted, stealing a look at Tyler's back in the dresser mirror, he was certainly handsome enough to tempt a less susceptible woman. In a white T-shirt that stretched across broad shoulders and faded denim that clung to narrow hips and long legs, with nicely bronzed skin and brown hair a shade too long, he could make any living woman look twice—even her mother.
Even her.
Her arms full of drawers, Jayne left the room ahead of the men, grateful her mother stayed behind. She dumped the drawers on the growing rubbish heap, saw that the hallway was blocked while her father and Tyler worked to get the bed-springs through and waited on the porch, watching Lucy throw sticks for Cameron and Diaz to retrieve.
She would marry again. She was only thirty. She wanted more children. She believed in love and marriage and happily ever after. But she was in no hurry. With modern medicine, she had ten or more childbearing years ahead of her. Her biological clock hadn't even wound up yet. And though she wondered what it was like to be loved the way her father loved her mother—or her heroes loved her heroines—she wasn't desperate to find out. When the time was right, it would happen. In a year or two or five.
And when it did, just like her father and mother, just like her heroes and heroines, she would know. Her parents had denied it for a time—and so did her characters—but deep inside, they'd always known. She would look at the man and just know.
She didn't even know what to think when she looked at Tyler.
Except that he was handsome. Kinder than he wanted to be. Looked better in faded jeans and a T-shirt than any man should.
But that was the professional in her. Noticing handsome men was part of her job—how lucky was that? But to the woman in her, he was a neighbor—a handsome one, to be sure, but still just a neighbor.
Unlike her parents and her characters, she wasn't in denial.
S
he was simply stating the facts.
* * *
It took an hour to clear the furniture from the house. Tyler's footsteps echoed as he walked through the rooms, now empty except for the sofa table that held Jayne's computer and papers and the personal stuff piled up in the bathroom. Mrs. Jones was vacuuming before they started bringing in the new stuff, and Mr. Jones was outside with Lucy, getting acquainted with Diaz and Cameron.
Jayne, he saw when he stepped outside, was on the porch, watching them. She glanced at him, then turned back. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail that she'd braided and secured with a green band. Her T-shirt today read, Warning: What you do may appear in my next book! and her jeans fitted like a second skin.
He had once asked Rebecca how she could breathe in such tight jeans, and she'd laughed before explaining the miracle of stretch fibers.
"You don't have to help unload," she remarked when he stopped a few feet away.
He'd told himself that when he'd seen the truck out front on his way home. He'd parked around back, entered the house through the rear door and let the dogs out for a run, turned on the television and drunk a bottle of water, all the while telling himself that. They were three able-bodied adults, and Lucy could do her share. They hadn't asked for help, and he didn't owe it to them. If Jayne wanted to live on her own, then she needed to learn to live on her own. She shouldn't expect anything of him.
But the expectations were within himself. He couldn't say his mother had raised him to be the friendly sort—in fact, they'd been taught to not even speak to the neighbors for fear of what they might say. The old lady who'd lived next door to them in Nashville could have collapsed on the sidewalk in front of them, and Carrie would have rushed them inside and locked the door.
But while Carrie had discouraged him from all outside social interaction, taking care of the kids, protecting them, keeping them safe—that had been his job from the day Rebecca was born. Hiding them, comforting them, shielding them, taking their punishment…
He felt Jayne glance his way and he met her gaze. Her eyes were brown, like his, but so much more. Flecked with gold. Filled with warmth. Friendly. He missed warmth and friendliness. Missed softness. Missed wanting and needing and having.
But they came at too great a price. He'd barely survived the first time. He wouldn't survive a second time. But damn if he wasn't tempted…
"I guess I should be thinking about dinner. They were supposed to be here hours ago, and we would have been done by now and could go out to eat. But they decided to visit some friends in Kentucky and time got away from them. So here we are and I don't have anything planned to cook, to say nothing of the fact that in a little while my kitchen's going to be filled with boxes."
He waited for her to take a breath, then said, "I have stuff in the freezer—that bag you delivered for Rebecca last week. Lasagna, bread, an apple pie and a half gallon of ice cream." It had seemed pointless to cook the entire meal for himself. The pie he could have finished off, but he would have been stuck eating lasagna the rest of the week.
"You wouldn't mind sharing?"
Actually, he'd been offering to give it to her, but Rebecca had wanted him to share the meal. And better to eat her cook's good food than a sandwich standing at the island while his neighbors enjoyed it. "We can eat at my house when it's ready."
She pushed away from the rail. "Thank you," she said, and he thought for a moment that she was going to lay her hand on his arm before she walked away. His muscles tensed as she considered it, then with a taut smile, she lowered her hand and went inside.
He told himself that was relief spreading through him.
Even if it did feel like disappointment.
Leaving the porch, he went to his house to leave the bread and the pie on the counter to thaw and to put the lasagna in the oven. He set the alarm on his watch, then stepped out the front door to find Lucy and the dogs on the porch swing. She jumped to her feet and fell into step with him. "Hey, Tyler."
"Hey, Lucky girl."
She giggled. "That's not my name."
"Are you lucky?
She thought about it a moment, then grinned. "Yep."
"Are you a girl?"
"Yep."
"Well?"
She resorted to skipping to keep up, so he shortened his stride. "I'm gonna sleep in my own bed tonight," she said. "And I'm gonna have all my clothes and books and toys, and Mom'll have all her clothes and books. Have you ever read one of my mom's books?"
"No."
"My grandma read one and said, 'Jaynie! Where did you learn such things?' I asked what things and she wouldn't tell me. I think there's lots of kissin' and other yucky stuff in 'em."
"When you get older, kissing won't seem so yucky."
"Do you like kissing?"
Tyler stumbled over a nonexistent bump in the road. It had been so long since he'd kissed a woman that he hardly remembered what it was like.
Liar. He remembered. More every day.
To distract her, he crouched, bringing himself to her level, and studied her face intently. She stood still for a moment, then shifted. "What're you doing?"
"Trying to figure out how that little tiny nose of yours can belong to someone as nosy as you are. By rights your nose should be about this long." He measured a foot with his hands, and she stretched out her arms to try to reach them.
"Then my nose would run into doors before I could open 'em and it would go into rooms before me, and when I sneeze, it'd get snot all over the place."
"And people would see you and say, 'Look at that nosy little girl.'"
"You're silly, Tyler," she said with a laugh before she raced across the yard, calling, "Mom, you know what Tyler said?"
He slowly straightened. No one had ever called him silly in his life. Of course, no one had ever seen him the way Lucy did. Everyone in Sweetwater knew his background. They knew he'd testified at his mother's trial, that he and the other kids had been under a psychologist's care for years, that his one attempt at a serious relationship had ended badly.
They thought they knew everything … but they didn't know the worst of it.
Lucy didn't know his history and didn't care. He didn't treat her like a kid, he had dogs and he didn't mind her questions. That was all that mattered to her.
Too bad the rest of the world wasn't so easy.
Too bad he wasn't so easy.
With everyone out of the way, Mr. Jones backed the moving van into the yard and Tyler pulled out the ramp, resting it on the top porch step. He swung himself up onto the ramp and raised the truck door just as Jayne joined him. He looked at the contents, then her. "Just how big did your ex tell you this house was?"
"Two stories. Huge. Too big for the three of us."
"Did you know he had a gift for telling stories?"
Finally she pulled her gaze from the furniture and boxes to give him a dry look. "I was married to him for six years. I knew. I just…"
"Wanted to believe?" His father had been a master liar, and for too many years, even after he was dead, his mother had wanted to believe. He'd destroyed their family, but he had never managed to beat the naiveté and the hope out of her. "And look what believing got you."
If the sarcasm in his voice bothered her, it didn't show in the shrug that made her ponytail sway side to side. "It got me a house that will keep us warm and cool and dry—if a little bit crowded—in a beautiful location with a neighbor who tells my daughter her nose should be this long to show how nosy she is." She opened her arms as wide as they would go, stretching the T-shirt across her breasts. "I have the peace to get a lot done. The people I've met so far are very nice. The neighbor, it turns out, is very handy and he makes my daughter laugh. That's A Good Thing."
So he was handy and he made Lucy laugh. He'd received better descriptions—though he usually hadn't trusted them—and others that were much worse. This one had some merit and some basis in truth.
With a sigh, she moved forward and picked up a box marked Toys
. Mrs. Jones and Lucy helped her with the boxes while Tyler and Mr. Jones carried in the furniture. They had to take the doors off the refrigerator to get it inside, and the only place it fit was in the dining area. There were more boxes of kitchen things than the kitchen would hold, and Lucy's toys and clothes were stacked to the ceiling in her room.
When Tyler, Rebecca and their brothers moved from Nashville to Sweetwater to live with their grandparents fourteen years ago, everything they'd owned had fit in four paper grocery bags.
They were about three quarters through when his alarm sounded. Lucy led the way to his house, where everyone washed up and gathered at the dining table while he served the lasagna, took the bread from the oven and put in the pie.
"Did you make this?" Jayne asked, rubbing her fingers back and forth over the inlay pattern that formed a rectangle within the rectangle of the table itself. "It's beautiful."
It was a casual compliment that brought a more-than-casual heat to his gut. He shrugged as he laid a stack of napkins in the middle of the table. "It didn't turn out the way I wanted."
She nodded as if she understood. "Sometimes I spend a lot of time writing a passage that just doesn't feel right when it's done. Even though I don't know exactly what's wrong with it, I have to throw it out and start again."
She did understand. The table didn't have any obvious flaw he could point to and say, That's the problem. It was more subjective than that—maybe the legs should have been rounder or squarer or the inlay simpler, the stain a shade lighter or a shade darker.
"You made this table?" Mrs. Jones looked at it from one end to the other, then bent to check the legs. When she sat up again, she looked surprised. "You actually made it? Bought chunks of raw wood and cut it and stained it and inlaid it and put it all together?"
"Mom, I told you he built beautiful furniture," Jayne said.
"Well, yes, but seeing it makes it mean more. You're very talented, Tyler."
"Thanks," he murmured.
With nothing left to do in the kitchen, he finally sat down. Lucy sat at the head of the table, her mother and grandmother at right angles to her. That left Tyler the empty seat across from Mr. Jones.
SOMEBODY'S HERO Page 8
