by Mae Nunn
I’m pathetic.
“You’re incredible.”
Certain he was teasing, she searched his face for humor but saw only appreciation in his azure-blue eyes.
“I have to agree with my daddy, you’re a very kind man, Guy Hardy.”
“Shorty actually said that?” It was Guy’s turn to look suspicious, and with just cause. Praise from her parents was more precious than plutonium and harder to come by.
“Yes.”
“About me?”
Yes, about you.” She couldn’t help smiling at his disbelief.
“I admit hearing Shorty feels that way means a lot, but I didn’t compliment you out of kindness. Abby—”
Her face warmed with embarrassment. She waved away his words but he caught her hand, determined to finish what he’d started.
“Abby, while there’s no doubt you’re a beautiful woman, it’s your gift of spirit that makes you so attractive. My sisters are a generous bunch and I love them to distraction. But you may be the most selfless and giving young lady I know.”
He watched her stare for several long moments, her eyes gleaming, puzzled. As with the first day they met, she seemed reluctant to accept, much less believe, she deserved the kind words. Her gaze fell to their hands. He released hers and she reached for the sack, rustled the contents inside and drew out a golden-brown gob of fried dough affixed to a wooden stick.
“Thank you, Guy,” she modestly acknowledged what he’d said. “Now, I’m about to earn those compliments by giving you the first bite.”
As she spoke, she ripped open a small packet, squeezed out a crooked line of yellow mustard and then pushed the corn dog in his direction. The motion of her hand didn’t slow as she approached his face, leaving no doubt that she expected him to open wide. Feeling a bit like Dillon must when Abby shoveled oatmeal into his mouth whether he wanted it or not, Guy reluctantly parted his lips and awaited the inevitable.
“Oh, get that terrified look off your face. It’s a corn dog, not a cow paddy!” she teased. “Be flexible, Guy. Take a bite.”
He sank his teeth into the cornmeal-covered hot dog. As he began to chew, he gave a head bob of approval.
“Seeeeee?” she chided.
The burst of spicy mustard, the crispy crunch of the fried shell and the tender bite of all-beef wiener were, to his amazement, a surprisingly nice combination. The fact that he didn’t choke was a plus, but would the immediate gratification outweigh the indigestion that was bound to follow?
The trepidation he felt must have shown in his face because Abby’s smile drooped over his failure to share her enthusiasm.
He reached across the console, accepted the wooden stick from her, took another large bite and basked in the approval of her broad grin. What was a little grease if it made her that happy?
As she went to work on her own snack, he deftly steered the woody through another boat’s foamy wake, continuing toward the landmark rock she’d pointed out.
“Just around that next bend there’s a cove off to the left. We can idle in there and drop anchor for a while if you want to wet a hook.”
Fifteen minutes later, they stood back to back in companionable silence, casting off opposite sides of the boat. Abby got a hit almost immediately and reeled in a fat perch. Guy watched, impressed as she expertly removed the lure then gently slipped the wriggling fish back into the still water with hardly a ripple to disturb the surface.
He felt a tug, jerked his line, reeled hard and frowned. Snagged, but good. Abby caught sight of his hardship, snorted a burst of laughter.
“Oh, I should have warned you, there are lots of submerged stumps around here.”
Bested by a girl. And it wasn’t even the Warden!
“That would have been useful information two minutes ago.” He pretended to be annoyed; she continued to snicker.
At the exact moment he realized there was no additional tackle onboard, his line snapped. He abandoned his useless rod and settled on the Chris-Craft’s rear bench seat. The vantage point allowed him to admire Abby’s petite but curvy figure encased in snug jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. The definition in her arms said she did a lot of lifting. The better he knew her, the more he understood she bore the mental heavy lifting for her family as well.
“And now that I have nothing to do, I’m all ears. Tell me about this rodeo career of yours.”
Poised to cast her lure into the water, Abby paused while she appeared to consider how to reply. She turned a brief glance his way and seemed satisfied his question was earnest. Then she whipped the tip of her pole forward, releasing the line that arched for fifty feet before meeting the water with a soft plop. Guy had been tournament fishing since he was old enough to afford the entry fees, so a textbook cast was an area he knew well and appreciated. He couldn’t hold back a smile realizing it was a skill his baby sister hadn’t quite mastered.
He recalled Abby’s comment that her dad and Curbo got along like a barn on fire. That was the way Abby and Casey were going to be once they were acquainted.
Guy felt his eyes widen, wondering what had prompted such an absurd thought. There was no reason for the two women to meet. Still, setting something up might have merit. They were polar opposites with a lot in common. It had the potential to be a friendship made in heaven.
Or a disaster. Maybe introducing them was not such a good idea after all.
Abby mulled over Guy’s innocent question. She took her time, reeled slowly, unsure she wanted to probe into an area where the fond memories crowded all her senses and left her longing for the sport she could never again afford. She loved the smell that radiated from the neck of a barrel horse during the heat of a race against the clock. The dust in her nostrils, the grit that inevitably got in her teeth, the constant soreness of her muscles, and the cheer of a familiar crowd were all part of the personal reward of the amateur rodeo circuit.
“Abby? Is the subject off-limits?”
Guy’s question snapped her out of her reverie. She angled her body where she could hold a conversation and continue to cast without the sharp hook on the end of her line being a threat to her spectator.
“Not really. It’s just something I haven’t thought about in ages so I was going through a little memory dump for a moment there.”
“Were you as good as Curbo said? Could you have competed professionally?”
She tipped her hand side to side in a so-so gesture. Yes, actually she was pretty good but that had been years ago, not something worth bragging about today.
“I had some lucky rides.”
“Lucky?” His eyebrows tipped together, his voice skeptical.
“Okay, I was blessed with a little natural talent and some great horses while I was in high school, so I guess I do have a few dusty trophies in the top of my closet to show for it.”
She tossed the lure perfectly, appreciated its clean entry into the water. Daddy was going to enjoy hearing the details of this impromptu visit to their favorite spot. He’d love knowing she hadn’t lost her touch.
“Did you own horses?”
“Goodness, no. My part-time job at the arena paid for my tack but it was the kindness of people from our church that kept me on horseback. Rodeo requires a significant investment of time and money and even professionally the prize payoff is pretty slim most of the time. There was never much hope for me to continue once I went to college. Then when Daddy’s condition began to deteriorate, it became impossible.”
“Where was Phillip during those years?” The tone said he was sincerely interested.
“He was there every minute.” Her hands stilled from the business of reeling, her gaze locked with Guy’s. “Phillip was my best friend for most of my life. I was his only friend.” She ached with the memory. “He was very shy and had a nearly disabling speech impediment when he was nervous. But with me and my family there was no judgment so there was no stammer. He didn’t have the same comfort level at his home so he basically grew up at our house.”
“And he was the only boy you ever dated?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. I never even considered seeing anyone else.” Not that her parents hadn’t suggested it a thousand times. “It would have broken Phillip’s heart.”
Guy nodded, seemed to understand.
“You are an amazing lady, Abby.”
She glanced at her watch and reluctantly stretched her line to attach the lure to an eye near the rod’s grip.
“I don’t know why you’d say that.”
“You’re a great mom to Dillon and a devoted daughter, you teach, you fish, you ride and from what little you’ve let me observe, you volunteer for a half-dozen things at your church, including keeping your husband’s memory alive with that playground. Pretty amazing to a guy like me with only one commitment and it’s a family business at that. You need to give yourself more credit, sweetheart.”
He raised the anchor and she reached shaking hands to coil the rope, using the excuse to turn her face away, not wanting him to see how his endearment was affecting her. Not even wanting to see it herself.
He took his place at the wheel to start the engine.
“And, more importantly,” he continued, “give yourself a break before you’re dried up and burnt out like that awful toast Dillon cuts his teeth on.”
She focused on the truth in what Guy said. A break? What did that mean? And if she followed his advice, would anybody pick up the slack? Of course not.
The sun had ducked behind the clouds. The air was cool. The ride back to Patrick’s would be a chilly one. Guy reached for the lightweight cotton pullover he’d wisely brought from the truck and tossed into the boat. He handed it to her.
“Here, wear this, Goldilocks. And lean toward me instead of huddling over there like I’m the big bad wolf.”
She accepted the soft shirt, tempted to press her face into it, inhale his scent. Instead she looked skeptically at the pullover and recovered with a snappy reply. “You’ve got your fairy tales mixed up, Papa Bear.”
“Oh, hush.” He grinned. “And get that look off your face. It’s a sweater, not a straight jacket. Be flexible, Abigail Cramer. Put it on.” Guy mimicked her earlier demand with a gotcha glint in his eyes.
She returned his easy smile and snuggled into the warmth of the sweater that embraced her like a soul mate’s hug.
Perfectly.
And as she did she inhaled. Lumber, leather and lemon oil.
Guy.
Chapter Seven
“Mondays are crazy,” Abby muttered to herself. “I shouldn’t have let Guy talk me into this.”
She swung her six-year-old Civic into the Hearth and Home parking lot, cut the engine and ticked off the must-do list for the afternoon and evening. This was the first stop after leaving school because she’d agreed to meet him to look at bathroom fixtures. He had some ideas about making the private area of her parent’s home more user-friendly for a wheelchair and a walker. There was no money for such an industrious project but Guy didn’t know it, and there was no harm in listening to the ideas he seemed intent on sharing. The work had to be done eventually, so she might as well know the cost and labor requirements up front.
Mama would be released in a few weeks, hopefully in time for Mother’s Day, the date the church had set aside to celebrate the playground dedication.
Abby covered her mouth as a yawn escaped. Each deadline in the coming weeks was dependent upon at least two others and the weight of what had to be accomplished was costing precious sleep. Fortunately the primary need in her projects was time and elbow grease, not cash. But the small band of volunteers at New Harvest was shrinking as the end of the school year approached and the afternoon spring activities morphed into full-time summer commitments.
Each call from a harried mother who had to back out of planting or painting left Abby to do the work. It was either that or abandon some part of the playground, not an acceptable option. What Dillon would think in ten years of the efforts his mother made today mattered a great deal. She wanted to give her son a special place, beyond a box in the attic, where he could feel connected to his father. And maybe one day it would also become a place where she could release Phillip once and for all.
A shrill beep, beep, beep caught her attention as a forklift backed out of the H&H commercial dock door, prepared to deposit a load of treated lumber onto the flatbed delivery vehicle. The logo on the truck was the same on the shirts the employees wore. It was becoming a comforting sight. Kinda like Guy.
“Hey, Abby!” Leah, the store manager called a greeting from the courtesy desk as Abby entered through the wide double doors. “How’s Mrs. Reagan?”
“She’s responding very well to her physical therapy, thanks for asking.”
Leah rounded the counter and closed the space between them. “That’s wonderful news.” She embraced Abby loosely and patted her shoulder in that comforting touch Texans love. “Please give your sweet mama our best and tell her the staff is praying for her to make a full recovery. And if there’s anything we can do for you, just holler.”
“Thanks, Leah, but y’all have been incredible already, bringing meals and helping out with Dillon and my daddy.”
“Hey, that’s what a community is for, and one of the things that most appeals to me about working here. It’s a family atmosphere and the Hardys believe in taking care of their employees as well as customers. I think it’s the main reason they recovered after that nasty lawsuit a couple of years back.”
Abby knew nothing about a legal battle, but filed that unexpected piece of information away to be investigated when she had a spare minute.
“Would you happen to know where I can find Mr. Hardy? He asked me to stop by to look at some bathroom hardware.” She felt the need to explain.
“Sure, Guy said you’d be in. He’s waiting in the office.” She pointed toward the stairs. “Go on up.”
Abby climbed the steps and knocked lightly on the door marked Private.
“It’s open, Abby,” the familiar voice called, obviously expecting her.
Inside the dimly lit room, Guy sat with his back to the door, facing a bank of security monitors. Each flat-panel screen displayed a different area of the store fed by cameras throughout the facility. He seemed to study one in particular, focusing on several shoppers in a busy aisle.
“If I’ve come at a bad time I might be able to drop by later in the week.”
He swiveled the high-backed leather chair, giving her his attention. Her gaze locked on his engaging bluebonnet eyes. The smile that spread across his handsome face caused the strangest flutter in her belly, not unlike the feel of Dillon’s cartwheels during the months she’d carried him beneath her heart.
“Nonsense. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got a lot of stuff to show you.”
He twisted a knob on his desk lamp, throwing a wash of bright light across the work surface. As he busied himself unrolling a sheet of drawings, she noted the calendar. An orange line was drawn to highlight several weeks, ending with a double circle around Mother’s Day.
A thoughtful son. Again her insides danced.
He swept his hand to indicate the blueprints. She leaned forward, taking a close look at the sketch of her parents’ bathroom, both before and after Guy’s ideas. Impressive.
She hesitated, not sure how to continue. With the strength of the Hardy family resources behind him, he might not understand her financial constraints. And while living on a budget so tight that every dollar counted was nothing to be ashamed of, it was a bit embarrassing to have to explain.
“Guy, listen,” she said, searching for the right words. “It’s great that you want to show me your ideas, and I’d love to be able to do this stuff for my mom and dad someday, but we don’t have the money just now for new fixtures, much less structural changes, something you’ve probably never had to worry about.” She straightened, took a step away from the drawings that were luxurious daydreams.
He reached for the other executive-style chair
in the room, rolled it close to his and opened his palm in an invitation. She hesitated, considering whether or not to sit. He grasped her fingers and tugged her down to the soft leather seat.
“There.” She heard satisfaction in his voice. “One less decision for you to worry about today.”
She returned his grin, appreciating that he realized how much was perpetually on her plate.
“Now, let me clear something up for you and put your mind at rest at least on this subject.” He scooted his chair close, their knees brushed lightly. A pleasant warmth tingled. She considered backing up a bit but the kind squint of his eyes told her his closeness was to share something personal.
“Obviously the Hardy clan is financially well off, but it wasn’t always that way. Both of my parents came from very big families. Dad had seven brothers and sisters, Mom had nine. With that many kids to feed and clothe there was always a struggle to make ends meet, so they each grew up in extremely frugal households. That experience drove the way they raised us, even after the business took off. To give you an idea, my mom only has a few dogmatic rules but one of them is that none of her kids are ever to go out in public in sneakers.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a copperhead’s bite.” His brows tipped together as he nodded, leaving no doubt. “Mother was the fifth daughter so she wore hand-me-down shoes till she left home at nineteen. All they could afford were sneakers and by the time a pair made it to her it would be in pretty rough shape. But used clothes and shoes were just a fact of life back then so she wore them without complaint. Still, she made up her mind that her kids would never have to be embarrassed by old tennis shoes in public, the way she was.”
“So, I guess she refuses to wear them today, huh?”
“Oh, goodness no! Sneakers are a symbol of family to her, to all of us. When we go to my parents’ house, that’s all we wear. It’s our way of connecting to her personal experience, saying we’re home, the most special place in our hearts. But away from the house we wear ‘Sunday-go-to-meeting shoes’ as my chubby, white-haired grandma Hazel used to say.”
