by Mae Nunn
“Dad?” she called.
Instead of the usual squeaking of rubber wheels on the oak planks, she was greeted by the rumble of masculine voices from the end of the hall. Actually, it wasn’t a greeting at all. Her father hadn’t even acknowledged her. If not for the conversational sound of the men, she’d fear something was terribly wrong.
“Daddy?” she called for him again as she walked the dark hallway.
His wheelchair sat in the laundry room doorway.
Empty.
She gasped and tightened her arm around Dillon, who yelped his discontent.
“In here, baby girl.”
Then she spotted him. Seated cross-legged on the floor was her seventy-six-year-old father. Beside him stretched a pair of legs in blue jeans, with an orange H&H apron draped over the waistband. The man wore a white polo shirt stretched tight across his abdomen. She could see very little of his arms and nothing of his head since the top quarter of his body was crammed beneath her mother’s utility sink.
But there was no mistaking the identity of the Hearth and Home employee. The fancy cowboy boots gave Guy Hardy away.
“Daddy, what are you doing on the floor?”
“Giving this man a badly needed lesson in drain replacement.”
“Hi, Abby,” Guy’s muffled voice greeted her from inside the cabinet. “Was that Dillon I heard?”
“Weet, weet!” Dillon responded to his name and kicked his feet to be released.
“Hey, Guy,” she returned the greeting. The first relief she’d felt for days surged through her heart at the sight of her father enjoying himself over a simple plumbing repair. God had sent the perfect distraction. “I see you’ve met the other man in my life.”
“And this one is every bit as charming as Dillon,”
Guy answered.
Her dad grunted and glowered up at her from his spot on the floor.
“Weet, weet!” Dillon squirmed, wanting to join the men.
“Hey, little buddy,” Guy acknowledged her son, who obviously recognized the voice.
“We’re just about finished here,” her father said. Despite the deep creases around his eyes, she sensed his skeptical approval for their company. “Give us fifteen minutes and then I’ll get cleaned up to go see your mother.”
“You go ahead, sir. A couple more turns of this wrench and we’re done.”
Her dad nodded and began the difficult task of climbing back into his chair. Abby choked down the desire to offer help as he struggled to hoist himself up into the seat. He was determined to be independent despite the primary progressive stage of the disease that he’d lived with for as long as she could recall. The inflammation in his spinal cord had made walking impossible for several years but he insisted on being self-sufficient in every other way.
Respect for her father’s wishes and worry for his weakened upper body churned her emotions. Fearing the chair would topple from his efforts, she decided to help whether he wanted it or not. She squatted and released Dillon. He chuckled with delight, no doubt over escaping his mama’s grasp, and toddled toward his papa.
“Here, let me give you a hand with that, sir.”
She looked up to see Guy, already on his feet, offering the assistance she was positive her father would reject. Guy had braced the wheels against the cabinet and was gently supporting her father so he could settle comfortably into the leather seat of his chair.
“Thanks.” Her dad huffed out a breath, sounding relieved. “Getting down is always a sight easier than the climb back up. I coulda made it by myself, though. Always do.” Abby heard the gruffness and wondered if Guy had any idea it was there to mask the gratitude so hard for her father to show.
The two men exchanged respectful nods. Dillon stood at their side, watching, holding his arms outward, literally drooling to be in the middle of the awkward maleness.
“Papa! Weet, weet!”
The moment pulsed with something that distinctly excluded her.
A sort of male bonding. Her insides twisted into a tight knot.
That was exactly what seemed to be going on, and something about this emotional picture was all wrong. Phillip should have been the man helping her father, ruffling the hair on Dillon’s head, hoisting him up into his papa’s lap for a ride into the kitchen.
But Phillip had left her. Voluntarily. Now he was gone. Permanently.
How could the loving God she’d heard so much about also be so cruel?
“I know your family has things to do and I apologize that I’m still underfoot.” Guy watched her dad and Dillon cruise the hallway and then turned to her. “I’ll just clean up here and be on my way.”
“Thank you,” she softly spoke the words, knowing he deserved them, determined to deny the constant stabs of resentment that had taken hold of her heart at the news of Phillip’s death.
“It’s kind of you to spend time with my dad. He’s a tad irascible with Mama in the hospital, and your visit seems to have distracted him for a bit. Once again, you’re a lifesaver.”
He held up his palms deflecting the praise. “Hey, I’m just a regular guy trying to walk the walk the company teaches. When I saw he needed help, I offered to stick around. Any H&H employee would do the same.” He downplayed his kindness.
She let her shoulders slump, relaxing for the first time all day. It was nice to meet a simple man who believed in acts of kindness.
“I’ll mop up back here later,” she gestured to the spatters of grimy water on the utility-room floor. “But right now we have to grab a sandwich and get to the hospital before visiting hours are over.”
“Hey, no problem. I’ll just pick up this mess, put away the tools and show myself to the door.” He squatted and began loading rusted pipes into the cardboard box. “By the way, your dad’s really something.”
“Yeah, I agree.” She nodded and turned to leave the utility room.
“And quite the talker,” he added with a note of amusement in his voice.
Afraid to ask what that meant, she kept moving.
True to his word, Guy Hardy finished up the work, and ten minutes later poked his head into the kitchen to say goodbye. He declined the offer of a sandwich and even insisted on letting himself out as if he’d done it a hundred times.
Abby rose to put her plate in the sink and glanced toward the family room. Through the large picture window she could see the driveway was once again empty. He was probably halfway back to the store that would be open for several more hours.
“Dad, if you’ll wash Dillon’s face, I’ll go freshen up and we’ll still have time to stop at the market for that bunch of flowers you wanted to get Mama.”
As Abby passed the laundry-room door, she glanced inside, expecting to find wet traces of their sink repair. Instead, the white linoleum floor was much cleaner than usual. The mop was thoughtfully replaced, damp end upward, in the hanging utility rack. This regular guy, as he called himself, was nice and a clean freak.
She sighed, knowing there was only one way to handle this. With the bedroom door closed, she asked directory assistance for the new Hearth and Home Super Center. After the cheery greeting, Abby requested the store manager. Following a brief hold, a woman’s voice answered.
“I’m Leah Miller, and it’s my pleasure to serve you.”
“This is Abby Cramer and I left some things there on Saturday after my mother’s accident.”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Cramer,” the voice was filled with concern. “If there’s any way we can be of help to your family, you just let us know.”
“Well, thank you for the kind offer, but I was really calling for another reason. I’d like to compliment one of your employees. He delivered everything today and then stuck around to help my father with a plumbing repair.”
“That’s the kind of story we like to hear about our personnel. Can you give me the employee’s name, please?”
“He’s the same person who took us to the hospital. His name is Guy. Guy Hardy. Do you think you could put a note
in his file so it will look good on his work record?”
“Ma’am, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that,” the woman sounded amused. “Guy doesn’t have an employee file. Not in Austin, anyway.”
“I don’t understand.” Abby squinted at herself in the mirror above her dresser.
“Guy’s the boss,” Leah said simply.
“But I thought you were the manager.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s true. I’m the manager, but Guy Hardy is the owner.”
Abby watched her own reaction in the mirror as her jaw sagged with the realization.
There was nothing at all regular about this Guy.
Chapter Three
Abby fastened her seat belt and slammed the door of the van.
Well, that explains it, Lord. The nice-guy act had nothing to do with genuine kindness and everything to do with protecting his interests. When will I learn not to be such a Pollyanna?
She shifted into reverse, turned to glance behind her and looked at her precious boy. He’d dozed off the moment he’d settled into his car seat. Her father was silent for once, busy with his own thoughts. The quiet was a welcome relief from all the chatter of her first graders. The school year was winding down. Coming to a screeching halt, actually. She was preparing her kids for the testing that would assess not only their skills but her ability as a teacher. With the burgeoning Hispanic population in Texas, many children required special attention because English was their second language. She could teach twelve hours a day and not meet everybody’s needs. The playground project at church was behind schedule, underfunded and she still hadn’t found a weekend sitter so she could devote more time to its completion. School would be out just after Mother’s Day, the day of the playground unveiling, and there was more on her to-do list than she could possibly accomplish in what little free time she had.
And now it looked like she might have a battle with an insurance company on her hands. The true identity of Guy “Good Samaritan” Hardy was just one more brick in the wall that was weighing heavily on Abby’s heart. On Saturday he’d insisted the store would cover her mother’s medical expenses, but that was when he’d thought Hearth and Home might somehow be responsible. Now that they had the diagnosis of a spontaneous fracture, would the store try to weasel out? Would their insurance provider be like the others, washing their hands of the case and leaving her folks to fill in the gap that would surely be left once Medicare benefits were paid? They’d had enough setbacks during her father’s battle with MS to know how quickly the bills could pile up. Abby prayed they wouldn’t have to rely on their church for assistance. Again.
The hospital parking lot was full and once more she was grateful for the handicapped spaces up front.
“Daddy, you go on in and stay as long as you’d like,” she offered as they entered the building. “I’ll sit out here with Dillon.”
“You sure were quiet on the way here, baby girl. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, but you don’t need to worry about me and your mama. Just pray that God will continue to bless us like He always has and we’ll be fine.”
Her daddy wheeled the manual chair that should have been replaced ages ago out of sight and Abby sank down onto a waiting-room sofa.
“If God continues to bless us like He always has,” she muttered to herself, “we’re in a heap of trouble.”
The next afternoon, Guy climbed down Shorty’s stepladder and flipped the switch by the kitchen door. The ceiling fan overhead whirred to life, sending a gentle rustle of cool air through the room. Guy folded the aluminum ladder, leaned it carefully against the wall, and gave the shiny silver chain that dangled from the new light fixture a tug. The bulbs glowed inside their tulip-cup houses, spreading much-needed illumination across the kitchen countertops.
One last touch and the job would be finished. He fished in the pocket of his Hearth and Home apron, drew out a small, faceted glass prism, and clipped it to the end of the pull chain. He stepped back to admire his work. Perfect.
“Thanks.” It was a grumbled gratitude, but sincere nonetheless. “Sarah’s been after me and Abby for a year to hang that thing. Now she can enjoy this nice breeze in the kitchen all summer.” The grouchy old man who’d met Guy at the door yesterday was still front and center but he’d softened a bit. It was clear it would take a lot of effort to win his approval.
But from Shorty’s observations, it would take even more to earn Abby’s. To quote Shorty, his daughter was “madder than a wet hen.” Twenty-four hours earlier she’d learned Guy’s identity from the store manager instead of from him directly. When he’d mentioned the situation to his sister on their nightly call, she’d burst into snorts of laughter.
He could just imagine Casey wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes as she administered a dose of sibling wisdom.
“I adore you, big bro, but in some areas you’re pretty dense, which is why Dad’s going to give me your job one day.” Her chuckle carried over the phone line. “Just because your five sisters think you hung the moon, it doesn’t naturally follow that every woman will love you like we do.”
He shook off the memory of the wisecrack. He didn’t expect every woman to love him, but something about Abby Cramer made him want to be liked, at least a little bit.
The front door creaked open, a signal that she was home much earlier than the day before. Guy made a mental note to oil the hinge, and then quickly changed his mind. Until she’d forgiven his failure to disclose, he probably needed a warning sign that she was in the house.
“Hey, Daddy,” she called.
“In the kitchen, baby girl.”
Guy lifted the stepladder, carried it through the entry leading to the darkened garage and pulled the door closed behind him. He’d noted earlier that the fluorescent ceiling bulbs were burned out, the overhead door opener was broken and the ventilation was insufficient for the cans of paint stacked on the ancient cinder-block shelves.
“What’s he doing here again today, Dad?”
Abby’s voice carried through the hollow-core door. Guy grimaced at the question that sounded more like an accusation.
“He came back to help me hang the ceiling fan.” Guy smiled as Shorty defended his presence.
“Looks to me like he did more than help. You let him take over another one of our projects.”
“That’s not quite true. I gave all the instructions and handed him the parts and he managed the rest without too much difficulty. He has apprentice potential, but not much.”
“Well, nothing’s wrong with the apprentice you already have, Daddy. Me.”
Guy heard the possessiveness in Abby’s voice, recognized it as the same tone Casey took with their father when she was vying with her older siblings for a share of his attention. Guy’s natural reaction when Casey got that way was to tell her to suck it up and wait her turn. Somehow he didn’t think that was the correct approach with Abby, an only child who’d probably never had to compete for her father’s time.
He heard the rumbling of Shorty’s lowered voice and stepped closer to the door. Eavesdropping. Casey would call him a jerk and pinch him till he yelped.
“Honey, you have zero time for all the repairs and improvements this house needs and I thought it would be nice if your mama came home to find some of those things finished. I wouldn’t admit it to him just yet, but he seems like a nice enough Christian fella. If he wants to help an old man out, what’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t you see what he’s up to, Daddy? That horse’s behind is just doing all this to stay on our good side so we won’t sue his store over Mama’s accident.”
“So what if he is. He’ll find out soon enough that we’re not that kind of people. Besides, as much as I love Dillon, it’s nice to have some conversation with a guy who’s not wearing a drool bib. Now, come hug your old man and tell me what you’re doing home so early.”
Guy stamped hard on the wooden step and rattled the loose knob to announce his approach. The brown eyes that g
reeted him were…different. Her mother’s eyes. Stern. Abby had actually called him a horse’s behind! Worse yet, she seemed determined to remain angry with him, something he’d rarely experienced, and couldn’t accept.
“How do you like the fan?” He used the cajoling tone that never failed to work with his sisters.
She turned her face toward the slowly rotating blades, giving him a moment to appreciate her clear skin, the natural blush of her cheeks that were round, like her son’s.
Abby studied the new fixture. Except for the twinkling piece of stained glass dangling from the end of the chain, it looked just like the picture on the box.
“Not bad,” she muttered. Not exactly praise for a job well done but it was the best she intended to give under the circumstances. Abby knew she’d never be able to speak her mind with her father sitting there like this interloper’s begrudging champion.
“Dad, would you mind getting me a change of clothes for Dillon?” She needed to get him out of the room. “That little pair of denim overalls and a clean T-shirt would be nice.”
“Where is he? Is anything wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” she assured her father. “The day care called and he got fruit punch down the front of his shirt today. I thought I’d pick you up first then we’d change Dillon at the day care and go to the hospital before dinner.”
“Sure. That’ll be a nice surprise for Sarah.”
“Speaking of nice surprises,” she turned to Guy. “That certainly was a breathtaking arrangement the store sent yesterday, and I noticed you personally signed the card. Of course, you hardly know our family, or you’d understand we’re simple folks. The five-dollar bouquet we took her made my mother just as happy.”
“Abby’s right. My bride has always appreciated small pleasures. A good thing since that’s about all we’ve been able to afford most of our lives. So she was tickled pink by that big crystal vase of flowers.” Her father held out his hand. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
Guy accepted the grip. “Absolutely. We need to get started on that list if you want everything shipshape before Mrs. Reagan comes home.”
