One Perfect Spring

by Irene Hannon

  Decision made, he slung the towel back over the edge of the sink and ascended the stairs, testing the railing as he went.

  More than wobbly.

  When he emerged into the kitchen, he found Claire filling a glass with water.

  “Let me guess—the standard put-off-going-to-bed trick.” He closed the basement door behind him.

  “Bingo.” She tossed the reply over her shoulder, wincing as she twisted her neck. “How did you know?”

  “I used that line as a kid too.”

  “Oh. I thought you might have nieces or nephews or . . . maybe even children of your own, from a previous relationship or something.” She threw him a quick look, her circumspect query reminding him how little he’d shared with her about his past.

  Perhaps it was time to crack the door, test the waters.

  “No siblings, so no nieces or nephews. I was adopted when I was three by an older couple, and I guess one like me was enough.” He tried without much success for a smile.

  Her eyes widened. “I had no idea you were adopted. Does Maureen know?”

  “No. I don’t usually announce it to the world.”

  She studied him, head cocked. “She’s not quite the world. And it’s kind of an area of mutual interest.”

  “The circumstances were completely different.” He needed off this subject. Fast. Before he lost control of the headache that was primed to morph from dull ache to sharp throb. “As for your other question, there’s no divorce or children in my past, either.”

  He could read the next question in her eyes, and though she didn’t ask it, he answered. This was a far easier topic than adoption.

  “It’s the classic story. I never met the right woman. Plus, work consumes a lot of my life.”

  “Yeah. I know all about demanding careers.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, her expression conflicted, as if she was waging some sort of internal debate. A few seconds ticked by before she spoke again. “Give me a minute while I take this in to Haley. Or do you need to leave?”

  Did she want him to?

  Hard to tell.

  That had been his plan, though. Their evening together had been an unexpected and enjoyable bonus, but he had several reports in his briefcase to review for tomorrow.

  Yet suddenly he was in no hurry to go.

  “No. I can stay a little longer.”

  “I’ll be back in three minutes.”

  While she was gone, he wandered over to the sliding door and gave it a test glide. Still working, but those worn rollers were nearing the end of their life. As for the deck . . . He propped his hands on his hips and peered at the rotting boards illuminated by a dim security light. It was a lost cause. She’d be better off tearing it down and starting over.

  Except decks were expensive, and she could fix a whole lot of other problems for the cost of replacing it.

  “Would you like a drink, or another cookie?”

  He turned as she set the barely touched water glass on the counter and faced him. He wasn’t in the least hungry. Yet when he opened his mouth to refuse, different words came out. “I wouldn’t mind another cookie.”

  “I could put some coffee on too, if you like.”

  “Will you join me?”

  “As long as you can handle decaf. Otherwise, I’ll be awake until three in the morning.”

  “Decaf is fine.” He gestured to some mugs hanging on hooks over the counter. “Are those okay to use?”

  “Yes.”

  While he retrieved them, she got the coffee going.

  “This won’t take long. Have a seat and . . .” She winced again as she gestured to the table.

  “You really did a number on those muscles.” He set the mugs beside the coffeemaker. “Is it your shoulders or neck?”

  “I’d call it a draw . . . and the ceiling is the culprit, not what I did tonight. I spent hours with my head tipped back while I used the roller.”

  “I might be able to work out some of the kinks.” He moved to the table and pulled out a kitchen chair. “Want me to try?”

  She gave the chair a guarded look. “More Boy Scout training?”

  “No. I had a neck issue a few years back after I overdid it at the gym with weights. I ended up needing physical therapy for a few weeks, which included some neck massages. I don’t claim to be an expert, but I remember what my therapist did and I might be able to give you some relief.”

  She stuck her hands in her pockets. “I can just use the heating pad again after you leave.”

  “Has that been helping?”

  “Some.”

  “This might be more effective.”

  Still she hesitated, keeping her distance. Almost as if she was afraid.

  Too afraid, given the circumstances.

  He was a respected businessman, not some stranger she’d picked up at a bar. He’d been sent to help with Maureen’s project by a high-profile executive known for his integrity, and had done nothing during the time he’d spent with Claire to give her any reason to mistrust him. Her daughter was sleeping in the next room.

  So what had happened to make her wary? Was her fear—and caution—about being touched fallout from her failed marriage? Was her experience with her ex-husband the reason for her jitters?

  Had the man hurt her physically?

  Given her skittish reaction to his offer, the latter possibility seemed more than plausible.

  And it didn’t sit well with him.

  At all.

  As his blood pressure spiked and a muscle contracted in his cheek, Claire folded her arms across her chest and retreated a step.

  Uh-oh.

  She was picking up his tension.

  Time to regroup. Lighten the mood.

  Coaxing his taut lips into a smile, he propped a hip on her table, feigning a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “How about this—I’ll give you a money-back guarantee. If your neck and shoulders don’t feel better after I work on them, the genie will grant you an extra wish. What do you say?”

  Silence fell, broken only by the hiss and spit of the brewing coffee.

  She moistened her lips. Gripped her fingers around her upper arms. Swallowed.

  Just when he thought she was going to ignore his question, she spoke.

  “Touching scares me.”

  Whoa.

  His heart stuttered as his theory about her ex-husband morphed from possible to probable.

  Putting a lid on the anger simmering in his gut, he managed to speak in a conversational tone. “May I ask why?”

  She didn’t respond at first—and he couldn’t blame her. He understood how hard it was to share painful secrets. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if she shut down, told him to mind his own business. In her position, he might do the same.

  In the end, however, she parroted his words from a few minutes ago back to him. “I don’t usually announce it to the world.”

  He waited, wondering if she’d add an excepting “but,” then proceed to offer an explanation.

  She didn’t.

  Quelling his disappointment, he pushed the chair back in. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. But just so we’re clear, you don’t have to be scared of me. And in case you were concerned about my intentions, I had no ulterior motives. I was planning to touch your neck and shoulders, nothing else.”

  The facsimile of a smile twisted her lips. “To be honest, you’re not the one I was worried about.” Without giving him a chance to process that, she gestured to the coffee. “Would you like cream?”

  “No. I take it straight.”

  “Help yourself.” She put the plate of cookies on the table and moved to the pot to pour their coffee.

  He took a cookie he didn’t want and bit into it to give his mouth something to do, since any limited gift of gab he possessed had deserted him.

  “The rain stopped and it’s a warm evening. Would you like to sit on the front porch while we have our coffee?” She handed him a mug without making eye contact.

  N
ear as he could recall, there weren’t any chairs on the small front porch . . . but some instinct told him to accept her overture.

  “Sure.”

  She led the way out. The storm had, indeed, blown over, leaving behind air that smelled fresh and a brilliant full moon that cast a silver glow on the landscape.

  His quick scan confirmed there was no seating on the porch, but she set her mug on the railing and pulled two woven-mesh folding chairs from under a tarp in one corner. Like the house, they looked as if they’d seen better days.

  “Another gift from the last owner?” He gave the flimsy aluminum frame a dubious inspection as he opened the one she handed him.

  “No. I found them at a garage sale. They’re okay for now, but someday I’m going to hang a swing over there.” She gestured to the other side of the porch. “And I want to put a rose arbor behind it to create privacy. I like to think about sitting there in the evening when all my tasks for the day are done, watching the sun set and smelling the roses.”

  Given the multitude of chores and responsibilities on her plate, she might have a shot at achieving that dream sometime in the next century.

  She settled into her chair, and he did the same—gingerly. But it held. Must be stronger than it looked.

  Kind of like the owner of this house.

  In the silence that followed, he sifted through the questions running through his mind. Could he find a way to ask about that touching comment without shutting her down? Or should he stick to some careful probing about her reasons for buying this house? He could also venture into . . .

  “Are you a praying man, Keith?”

  At her out-of-the-blue question, his strategy deliberations stalled. “What?”

  “Sorry.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh that sounded stiff. Nervous. “That came out of left field, didn’t it? I was attempting to set the stage for a conversation I want to have with you, but that wasn’t the smoothest opening.”

  “A conversation about what?”

  “Me. My background. Us. A bunch of stuff. I brought up praying because it’s what I do when I need guidance—and I needed some tonight. So I had a quick word with God while you were in the basement. Two minutes later, after I kissed Haley good night, her comment seemed like an answer to my prayer.” Claire paused, wrapped her hands around her mug, and took a sip of her coffee.

  Intrigued, he leaned forward. “What did she say?”

  “She mentioned how much fun she’d had tonight, how our house was happier whenever you were here, and she said we should invite you to come over more often. To use her words, ‘Keith makes our house brighter. Even tonight, when it was rainy and stormy outside, the sun was shining inside.’” Claire looked over at him. “I feel the same way.”

  As her soft words infiltrated his heart, Keith took a slow, deep breath. The porch was dim, only a few far-flung streetlights and the luminescent moon providing illumination, and he couldn’t read her face.

  On the plus side, that meant she couldn’t read his, either.

  Because based on the pressure behind his eyes, she might catch him tearing up.

  “I embarrassed you, didn’t I?”

  “No.” He steadied his own mug with a two-handed grip. “I’m just . . . surprised. And very flattered. No one except my parents has ever said anything that complimentary to me.”

  “Seriously?” Her tone spelled skepticism in capital letters. “You’re single, successful, attractive. Translation: chick magnet. It’s hard to believe your female friends haven’t had some very nice things to say.”

  Okay. She had a point. A few of the women he’d dated a time or two after his infrequent happy hour sojourns had been on the gushy side.

  “I’ve had an admiring comment now and then. Most of them weren’t very sincere. It was just flirting stuff.”

  “This isn’t.”

  “I know that.” Otherwise, it wouldn’t have packed such an emotional punch.

  She took a sip of coffee, then stared into the dark depths. “Here’s the thing. I vowed a long time ago that I wouldn’t waste one more day or night fretting over how someone feels about me. It’s too gut-wrenching and stressful and exhausting. I also decided that when—or if—I ever again met a man who interested me, I was going to be up-front with him.”

  Lifting her chin, she looked over at him. “I don’t have any time for or interest in playing games. I believe in honesty and trust and candid communication. If those kinds of parameters scare a guy off, so be it. Better that than let myself get carried away about a man who could end up disappointing me.”

  At the quiver in her final words, his stomach tightened. “I appreciate your honesty. And you haven’t scared me off.”

  He was tempted to reach for her hand, twine his fingers with hers, and assure her she could count on him to be the kind of man she deserved.

  But he didn’t.

  Because while she hadn’t disclosed the specifics of her background, one thing was clear. This was a woman who had suffered more than her share of hurt and betrayal. He wasn’t about to make any promises until he was certain he could commit to moving forward without putting her heart at risk again.

  “That’s good to know.” Her words were positive; her tone wasn’t. There was a distance, a coolness in it that hadn’t been there before.

  And he knew why.

  She’d just given him one of the greatest compliments of his life, and he hadn’t said one word to indicate the feeling was reciprocated—even though it was.

  Yet how could he acknowledge the mutual attraction without creating expectations?

  On the other hand, if he didn’t offer some affirmation, she was going to withdraw.

  That wasn’t an acceptable option, either.

  Perhaps the solution was to dig deep and match her candor with some honesty of his own.

  He set his mug on the concrete floor beside him and took a steadying breath. “To be frank, I’m not used to having conversations like this. None of the women I’ve dated have been so forthright—and to tell you the truth, if they had been, I would have run in the opposite direction.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “But I don’t feel that way about you.”

  The shadows made expressions difficult to read, but he could feel her searching gaze. “So how do you feel?”

  He shifted, the chair squeaking in protest as he formulated his response.

  “I like being with you. I think there’s potential—and I know there’s some serious electricity.” He paused, cherry-picking his words. “However, even before this conversation, I’d concluded there are things in your background that might make you . . . vulnerable. So I’d decided to move slowly, see how this develops. The last thing I want to do is cause you any more grief.”

  “I’m fine with slow. More than fine.” She ran a fingertip around the rim of her mug, making a full circle. “And you’re right. I’ve had plenty of grief, and I’m not in the market for any more. On the flip side, I don’t want to saddle an unsuspecting guy with my baggage, either. That’s why I think it’s only fair to give you some history before you get too involved with Haley and me—if you’d like to hear it.”

  He hesitated. Not because he was unsure of his answer, but because an affirmative response carried an obligation to share in return. Maybe not tonight, but at some point in the future.

  That scared him.

  But having this woman shut him out scared him more.

  Decision made.

  “Yes. I would.”

  She leaned back in her chair, putting a bit more distance between them. Perhaps to create a bigger comfort zone of personal space?

  As she lifted her mug to her lips, the plaintive wail of a distant train whistle echoed in the silence. A gentle breeze drifted past, the sweet scent it carried familiar but elusive. Overhead, a stray cloud drifted across the moon, leaving the world in shadows.

  Just when he began to think she’d had second thoughts, she spoke.

>   “I haven’t shared the details of my past with many people. And the odd thing is, you were the last person I ever expected to connect with.”

  “Why?”

  “In a lot of ways, you remind me of my ex-husband.”

  That wasn’t the best news he’d ever heard, especially if some of his speculations about her ex turned out to be accurate. “What ways?”

  “He was a numbers guy too. Public accounting. The job consumed his life. All he ever thought about was work and getting ahead.”

  “That’s not all I think about.” Not anymore. Not since he’d met her.

  “Still, on a superficial level, the parallels are striking. You wear the same kind of upscale clothes and drive a similar sporty, expensive car.”

  “Is that why you weren’t too friendly the day we met over a tub of sealer in your driveway?”

  “Yeah. That, plus your take-charge manner.”

  “I was only trying to help.”

  “I know, but at the time, it rubbed me wrong.”

  “So your ex was a take-charge kind of guy?”

  “More a my-way-or-no-way kind of guy, I guess.” She rose and walked over to the railing, angling away from him as she gazed into the darkness. “I’m going to back the story up a bit, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I grew up in Charleston, and my childhood was idyllic in many ways. My dad operated a charter fishing boat. Still does. My mom worked part time at the local bank. We were a close-knit, loving family. Everything was perfect until I was twelve. That’s when my older brother, Steve, was killed in a car accident while he was out with a friend who’d just gotten his license. He was only fifteen. Things were never the same after that.”

  He listened as she told him how she and her parents had struggled to make peace with the tragic loss, about her mother’s demise from early-onset Alzheimer’s, about her father’s financial struggles after medical bills depleted his savings.

  A car passed by, the headlights piercing the gloom and illuminating a young couple walking hand-in-hand down the dark sidewalk. Claire watched them for a moment, then turned the opposite direction. “So that brings me to Brett.”

  “Your ex?”

  “Yeah. A world-class jerk.” Her words curdled with an almost palpable bitterness. “We met in college. He was two years ahead of me, a big-man-on-campus type. Handsome, popular, star of the debate team. A real smooth talker—and I fell for his charm and flattery hook, line, and sinker. No surprise, I guess. I’d lived a sheltered life as the coddled surviving offspring, working summers on the Molly Sue with my dad, singing in the church choir. I never even went on a date until I was seventeen. I guess you could say I was a late bloomer.”