Lessons in Love

by Yvonne Lehman

  He walked over. “Morning, Miss Jane. Can I help you with this?”

  She swatted his arm. “I’ve been making coffee for this office longer than you’ve been living. And no man is going to take this job away from me.”

  He got the idea. “Then pour me a cup when it’s ready, will you, please?”

  “If you’re still here,” she said with a sly look. “Your dad wants to see you.”

  Uh-oh. What had he done now? He’d tried to get back into the swing of things during the past six months. He’d been more comfortable with a hammer in his hand than in the office. But he’d do what was needed. He finally moved out of his parents’ house and into the one he’d just bought. Maybe his dad had another construction job for him to supervise, or maybe he wanted him to get the rest of his boxes out of the basement. Those were mainly things he’d packed up years ago before going into the military.

  His dad lifted his head of prematurely white hair and handed Noah a memo sheet with a message on it. “Looks like that writer fellow wants to see you.”

  “Rider fellow?” Noah was trying to think if he meant horses or what. Nobody had ridden in the car with him.

  “You know, those books you got me into reading. He called this morning. Wants you to come out to Miz Brandley’s when you have time. I assured him you’d have time this morning.”

  Noah took the pink memo and looked at the name and number. “Sure. I’ll call right away.”

  “You know where he lives?”

  “Miz Brandley is Miss B, right?”

  His dad nodded. “We’ve done some work for her in years past. That writer was the caretaker’s son. Now he’s famous.” His dad nodded and smiled like he was pleased. “His dad really knew his business. Kept that mansion and property looking like a painting. Anyway, this Symon said he’s in the caretaker’s cottage on her property. That’s where he and his dad lived when he was young.”

  “Amazing,” Noah said.

  “That the boy became a writer?”

  “Not that. You never know what a person could become.” He looked around when Miss Jane came in with two cups of coffee. “Thank you,” he said as he took them and handed one to his dad.

  “Well,” she said. “What less could I do for a person going to do business with a famous author? I took that message, you know.”

  “You read his books?”

  “Of course. He’s a native son. And how could anybody resist a good murder mystery?” She gave him a look and strode out the door. He had a feeling she was into karate and eager to use it.

  His dad wore a pleasant look on his face, the kind Miss Jane had a way of giving to people around her.

  “So,” his dad said, after a swallow of coffee. “What’s amazing?”

  Noah took a drink of his own coffee and sat in a nearby chair. “Last week I went into the bookstore to get his book. He took time to ask who I was and what I did, and then he asked for my card.”

  “You scratched his back and now he’s gonna scratch yours.”

  Noah laughed. “Well, I like to think opportunities come through prayer.”

  “Sure. But God has funny ways of answering sometimes.”

  “True.” And many different ways than funny. Noah’s own prayers for safety had been answered by his being back in this beautiful city. He’d prayed with some who did not return to their homes. He hoped they were in their heavenly home. He didn’t know how prayer was answered. People still had choices, and others became victims of somebody else’s bullet or land mine. But he wouldn’t dare start a day without asking for God to be with him.

  “But,” his dad said, with lifted brows, “like I said, we’ve done work for Miss B in the past. This writer fellow probably remembers us.”

  Noah thought if that were the case, the author would have asked his dad to come out, not Noah. How or why wasn’t all that important. What the author wanted was the most important. And if he only wanted to know what Noah thought of his new book, that was okay, too. He was almost finished with it.

  He downed his coffee, then went to his office and had Miss Jane put a call through to Symon Sinclair. Obviously, Sy DeBerry was only his pen name. After a short conversation, Noah jumped into one of their white vans with the Fairfax-Nansen logo on the sides and headed out to Miss B’s.

  Turning onto the property was like becoming a part of a picturesque landscape. Spanish moss hung from the live oaks lining the drive and bordering the wide expanse of lawn that looked like a smooth green carpet.

  He appreciated the historic district and the pristine manicured landscape of the squares and Victory Drive. But this was beauty magnified. Green shrubs offered a perfect background for plants and flowers in full bloom. He doubted there was a dead leaf anywhere. Noah estimated that both the house and the caretaker’s cottage on his left were built in the late 1700s or early 1800s.

  He began to remember when he was here years ago. Yes, he now recalled helping put on a new roof one summer while he was still a college student. He’d thought it a beautiful place then, but now he could see it was a storybook setting. He appreciated everything more now, even each breath of air, having been so close to death. The caretaker had been in charge, making sure everything was handled properly and no damage was done to anything. Including a leaf of a plant. Noah laughed.

  Now, he thought he’d seen Symon then, too. He hadn’t thought much of it then, but now he recalled Symon was about his age. Had been on the swimming team. They hadn’t been friends. He knew Symon looked familiar but thought that was because of his pictures on the backs of his books.

  Neat.

  Maybe Symon remembered him. Well, maybe not. Noah had been on top of the three-story structure with a hammer and a nail in his hand.

  Seeing a black sports car parked beside the cottage, Noah parked the van on the side of the driveway, past the lane leading to the cottage.

  His eyes surveyed the cottage flanked by large oaks and hickory trees. It looked nicer than many of the historic homes. Maybe there was some renovation to do inside. Or maybe Symon Sinclair was helping Miss B with something she wanted done. He sat for a moment to keep in mind that fixing a cabinet door is just as important, maybe more so, than building a house for a famous person. Always lead me to the job You want me to do, he prayed.

  He exited the van, aware that the landscaping around the cottage was as pristine as the rest of the property. A perfect picture of well-cared-for grounds. As soon as he stepped onto the porch the front screen door opened, making him feel as if his visit was favorably anticipated.

  Noah wore slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt and a tie, wanting to give the impression he could conduct business and he could work. He hoped he looked like a balance between a businessman and a skilled worker.

  The author held out his hand. “Good morning, Noah Fairfax,” he said, his smile friendly. “Symon here.”

  They shook hands and Noah smiled. “I think we maybe met years ago when we did some work on Miss B’s house.”

  “Miss B.” Symon’s nod held understanding. “You must’ve been a student of hers.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Come on in,” Symon said and Noah followed him into the living room. “I’m glad you stopped by my book signing. I’ve been thinking about contacting your company, but after meeting you, I thought I’d ask for you personally.”

  “Thanks.” He walked through the living room with Symon, trying to glimpse anything that might be a renovation project but thinking more about this famous author seeming like a regular guy.

  “I’m about two-thirds through the book. You’d think my serving in Iraq would mean a story wouldn’t scare me, but I’m at the place where—”

  His words stopped, along with his feet and his heart. Then his heart beat triple-time to make up for it. Symon walked into the kitchen. Noah hel
d on to the door casing. A white long-haired cat approached and played “ring around the legs” with him while a golden retriever stood back watching. But that’s not what had caused Noah’s anxiety attack.

  Sitting at the table was a red-headed man about his age and the three gorgeous women he’d seen in the restaurant at the mall. The beauty queen, the vibrant one and Megan.

  All three women stared at him. Blue eyes. Green eyes. And chocolate eyes. No lips smiled.

  All his hopes of a great job, or even a small one with Sy DeBerry, even for the fixing of a cabinet door, went down a hole in the floor where he wished he could go. Now he figured he hadn’t been summoned here for a job.

  At least not a material one. Maybe Megan had told her friends he’d stalked her. Now he remembered Megan said she called Miss B her aunt. He was going to be in the hot seat and answer for his actions. They might insist he answer for Michael’s actions, too.

  Lord, help me, he quickly prayed.

  He recalled the Bible passage about the people asking the prophet Jeremiah to pray for them. Then the scripture said that ten years later the prayer was answered. How long would Noah have to wait?

  These friends and the famous thriller-killer writer were going to...kill him. That would be the easy part. They’d tar and feather him first.

  Chapter 6

  Noah’s face reminded Megan of Michael’s when he’d been sick with the flu last Christmas and never seemed to fully recover. Had it not been that his platinum-colored hair was lighter than his face, she’d say he was white as a sheet.

  His flickering glances from her to the others and back again indicated he didn’t expect to see her there. His deep blue eyes looked almost black on that off-white face.

  “Coffee?” Symon gestured to the pot and took a cup from the cabinet when Noah nodded. “Have a seat.”

  “Just—just black,” Noah said and pulled out a chair at the round table. Symon poured his coffee and Megan thought Noah’s hand shook when he reached for the handle. He didn’t lift the cup. Symon introduced Annabelle, Lizzie and Paul.

  Symon sat across from Noah. “Heard you make a mean breakfast.”

  “Yeah, well.” He sort of mumbled and half smiled. Even looking pale and rather self-conscious, he was handsome. Michael’s dimples had been cute. Noah’s lines at his mouth were more like character marks. His demeanor now was certainly different from the confidence he displayed at their breakfast.

  Feeling a little guilty about his discomfort, Megan decided to offer him a tad of relief. “That was a compliment,” she said.

  His glance at her seemed to imply she’d just saved his life.

  Lizzie popped in, “At least send her home with a take-out box next time.”

  “Next—?” Megan’s head snapped around and her gaze met the mischievous twinkle in her friend’s green eyes. Megan doubted her reprimanding silent message had any influence on whatever went on in Lizzie’s head.

  Lizzie smiled innocently. Symon turned the conversation back to the business at hand. “Annabelle and I are considering some renovations to the cottage,” he said. He looked over at Megan. “I asked Megan to sit in on our discussion since she knows about historic homes and has already offered some advice.”

  Megan watched the color returning to Noah’s face as he seemed to relax. She glanced at Annabelle and Lizzie, who sat on each side of her. They focused on Noah.

  They’d be watching his every move and listening to every word. They’d said Noah had acted like a pervert. Symon said he’d behaved like a really decent man that had checked on Megan and then fed her. But then, Symon was a writer and writers didn’t think like normal people. He wrote about killer characters, yet he seemed to trust people.

  When Symon had mentioned Fairfax-Nansen Construction and Renovations as a possibility for the renovations he and Annabelle had in mind, Megan had balked. But Symon said that might be the way to get some word about Michael. Her friends had convinced her that if Noah were nearby, they all could keep a closer eye on him. She’d expected them to say she should steer clear of Noah Fairfax, but they’d said if she were serious about getting into design, this might be a good place to start.

  Now, Symon was saying, “What all does your company do?”

  “Just about anything you need. Minor repairs, restoring historic homes or building new ones.” He went into detail, giving examples, as if trying to prove his family’s business was a worthy company.

  Noah then related how he’d grown up with a hammer in his hand, not with toys but a real toolbox and instructions on how to hammer a nail into a real board. He’d worked with his dad during summers from the time he was twelve years old. Besides his personal experience, he began to expound on his university studies until Symon stopped him.

  “I wasn’t seeking your lifelong credentials.” Symon laughed lightly, which seemed to dispel Noah’s attempt to ensure he was capable of the project. “My dad wouldn’t have had the company work on Miss B’s house had it not been reputable. Annabelle and I are interested in adding on a couple rooms, but we don’t want it to look like an add-on or disturb the landscape.”

  Noah was nodding. “That kind of work is our specialty here in Savannah. Could I take a look at the house?”

  They all followed as Symon took him through the house and Noah inspected, knocked on wood and made comments. When they returned to the kitchen, confidence laced Noah’s voice. “Not only can we make the rooms look like part of the original house, we can use some of the same types of materials that are in this one.”

  “Same?” Symon queried.

  “Several decades ago, a company who appreciates historic structures as much as we do began buying those scheduled for demolition,” Noah explained. “They were relocated and restored. Those not salvageable still had valuable materials that could be taken and used in other buildings, and we have access to them.”

  Megan heard the pride in his voice and watched him stroke the door casing as tenderly as if it were one of the pets lying side by side on the floor. She heard him talk about beams, trim, windows, doors and floorings that had been harvested and restored.

  Her thoughts, however, went to the conversations she and Michael had had about restoration. But, she reminded herself, they hadn’t gone as far as making any definite plans. Symon and Noah were talking business, about a project Symon and Annabelle wanted done. Her conversations with Michael had been more along the lines of general conversation.

  The questions had been like which house had she preferred, the one on Jones Street or Michael’s? What changes did she think might be made in the house? Did she prefer historic or contemporary? There had always been that “if” factor or the “maybe,” or a vague hinting at a life they might have together. There had been no firm commitment from either. She had thought that was falling in love, getting to know each other. And then it was habit, and later it was accepted they were together, and then he was ill.

  Megan felt mesmerized, watching Noah talk, seeing the resemblance to Michael. If Michael had stayed with the company, that might be him talking about restoration, working with her friends in this way. He could have fit in with them all so very well. And he had, until a few months ago. He’d said he didn’t want to work with the company. He’d needed to get his life back on track.

  Apparently, she was not part of that track.

  Sometimes, however, she felt like she’d been run over by a train.

  She didn’t realize she was staring at the man who might have been Michael until their eyes met and she felt a shock. It seemed to be the same for him. His words stopped. She glanced at the others and decided they hadn’t noticed. They were watching Noah as Annabelle asked a question, and Lizzie was in listening mode for the answer.

  Megan turned to the table and began to gather the cups and take them to the counter. While the others talked about
the subject that she was supposed to have been so interested in, she rinsed the cups and put them into the dishwasher.

  Even when the conversation turned to Megan’s considering turning her house into a B and B, or Noah making changes in his house, she could hardly fathom that this conversation was taking place with this cousin of Michael’s. She and Michael had talked about the possibility of her turning the house into a B and B. He hadn’t asked her to marry him, but he had asked what changes she thought should be made in the Nansen house.

  She already had ideas. Why not share them with this cousin? Was Michael ever coming back? If Noah was telling the truth, Michael’s mother apparently didn’t think Michael was coming back. She’d sold the house. Had Michael tried to buy it and been refused?

  Why did everything seem to be working well for Noah, though it hadn’t for Michael? She’d been attracted to Michael not only because of his good looks, but also because of his fun-loving nature. He’d had a rough time while in college, had married and then divorced and had been devastated. After a year of having wasted his life, as he called it, he’d returned to college and earned a business degree.

  She admired him for taking control of his life, wanted to make it count for something. She’d identified with his heartache over his failed marriage. She’d seen that heartbreak in her dad when he’d lost her mom to cancer. But her dad had recovered, and he’d married again. She was able to encourage Michael about that.

  A startling thought occurred. Had Michael and his wife decided to reunite? That could explain a lot. He might be reluctant to tell her. Or Loretta might have stipulated their getting back together meant he must never have any contact with Megan again.