by Jamie Beck
Jackson managed a friendly smile, although he wanted to escape before she said something that would make them both uncomfortable.
“Yes, and I’m looking forward to a little solitude.” Jackson opted for a quick exit, so he stood and threw twenty bucks on the counter. “Keep the change, Missy.”
His damp clothes chafed his skin with each step. So far nothing about this day had gone smoothly. As soon as he picked up his keys, he’d take a hot shower and change. He fired up the engine and headed back to Winhall to find his landlord, Jon Bouchard, and check out the carriage house apartment he’d rented above the man’s garage.
Three hundred dollars later, Gabby finally pulled her truck in behind the home she and her son shared with her father. At least the rain had finally stopped and her dress had dried from sopping to damp.
She gathered her notebook from the front seat and strode toward the back door, passing by her pumpkin patch. Pumpkins weren’t easy to grow in Vermont, but she’d promised Luc she’d grow some for Halloween. A quick perusal indicated she’d have not only one for him, but also a dozen or so to sell in a couple of weeks.
The little garden reminded her of her summer visits with her grandmother in Burlington, when they’d spent endless hours together gardening. Under her tutelage, her preteen self had taken pride in her first crops of cucumbers and lettuce, tomatoes and carrots. Her grandmother had also taught her about horticulture, and the two of them had worked together around her grandmother’s house, planning and planting flowerbeds. Gabby had taken those lessons and tested things here at her own house, as if making it look pretty on the outside could somehow fix what had been broken inside. Epic fail there.
Still, gardening gave Gabby a much-needed sense of control and peace at a time when her life had been in constant upheaval. In high school, she’d joined the local gardening club and learned even more about design. She’d spent some of her summer days working with her dad in the yards of the homes he maintained. His clients always praised her ingenuity and creativity. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant, she’d have gone to college and studied to become a landscape architect. But she wouldn’t dwell on that old dream. Now she made do just fine with the skills and resources she already had.
When she entered the house through the kitchen door, she heard her father, Jon, call out, “Gabby, that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry I’m late. Flat tire.” She plucked a banana from the fruit bowl and meandered to the living room. Luc sat on the floor playing with old Tonka trucks she’d bought at a yard sale. She bent over and kissed his head before doing the same to her dad. “Luc give you any trouble?”
Silly question. What toddler didn’t fuss and throw tantrums? He might’ve just turned three, but his “terrible twos” behavior lingered. Her dad’s helpless shrug told her everything she’d already guessed.
“At least he took a short nap.” When he rose from his chair his knees cracked, evidencing his age. At only fifty-three, he looked fit and trim, but his sandy hair also had hints of gray. She’d always thought him handsome, and felt guilty that he’d never met anyone new to love, probably because of her and Luc. She and her dad had both ended up in a situation that made finding love tricky, if not impossible. “Good gracious, girl. You got drenched.”
“I know.” Gabby picked at her dress, thinking back on her highway interlude with the handsome stranger. “I’ve got to change.”
“What’s got you smiling?” He cocked his head, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his bright blue eyes.
“Was I smiling?” How embarrassing. She and her dad were close, but she wouldn’t confess the little daydream she’d just had about the Good Samaritan. After three years filled with obligations and an utter lack of romance, the idea of a little fling with someone like him held a lot of appeal. Sadly, daydreams were all she’d have. Then again, unlike reality, daydreams never disappointed.
Her dad didn’t seem to notice her evasive answer, because he prattled on. “Our tenant should arrive any minute. You remembered to clean the garage apartment this morning, didn’t you?”
“Of course.” Her dad still hadn’t noticed how responsible she’d become, apparently intent on viewing her as the hapless screwup who got pregnant. Couldn’t really blame him, though. Responsibility hadn’t factored into most of her choices before Luc came along. At least Dad never rubbed that in her face. So until she could stand on her own two feet with Luc, she’d have to tolerate being treated like a child herself.
“Good.” He folded his arms and fixed the “father knows best” expression on his face. “The extra couple grand will come in handy with the cost of Luc’s nursery school.”
“Too bad I need some of the rent to pay for the new tire I just bought.” Gabby broke off part of her banana and handed it to her son. Would she always view Luc as a child, she wondered absently. “On the upside, the Clarks emailed asking me to redo their backyard in the spring.”
“That’s terrific!” His proud smile took the sting out of his earlier parental condescension.
The doorbell rang, interrupting their conversation. Gabby wrinkled her nose, knowing her warm shower and change of clothing would need to wait a few minutes longer.
“I’ll get it.” Gabby hastened through the front hall and opened the door, then she almost fainted. Her heart lodged itself smack in the middle of her throat, so it took a second for her to force any words. “You?”
Her Good Samaritan’s eyes widened before he frowned. He stepped back to glance at the address on the porch and then at his phone.
Finally, he held up his hands, half stunned, half laughing. “I swear, I’m not stalking you.”
Her lips quirked before she could stop herself. “So you say.”
“Seriously. I’m looking for Jon Bouchard. Is this the wrong address?”
He’s our tenant? She wished the thunderstorm would return so he couldn’t hear her heart galloping right out of her chest.
“Dad,” she called out as she opened the screen door to let the handsome man inside. “Your tenant’s here.”
She glanced back at her white knight. His hair had dried. Messy, sexy hair, like she’d suspected. He was a bit shorter than six feet tall, which meant he still stood several inches taller than her five foot two. The heat of him seemed to brush against her skin when he stepped beside her.
Pressing her lips together, Gabby forced a burst of giddy pleasure back into her lungs to avoid humiliating herself. A second later, she rushed to fill the awkward silence. “So, this is kind of serendipitous.”
“Lucky coincidence?” He grimaced. “Doubtful.”
“Aren’t you the flatterer?”
He grinned then, the same playful grin she’d witnessed earlier that day. The one that turned her knees to jelly. “Nothin’ to do with you. It’s just that Lady Luck hasn’t paid me a visit in a long time.”
The sorrow she’d noticed earlier flickered in his eyes once more. Before she could respond, her father arrived.
“Jackson St. James?” Her father extended his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Jackson’s gaze darted from her dad to her and back before they shook hands. “Excuse my appearance. I got caught in the storm.”
“Actually, Dad, he got caught while trying to help me with my flat tire.” Gabby smiled at Jackson. Jackson St. James. She liked his name—a lot. Masculine yet refined. It suited him, or what she knew of him so far. “Jackson was quite the gentleman. Waited with me until the tow truck came.”
“Thanks for looking out for my little girl.” Her father wrapped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed, smiling. Heat washed through her cheeks at being called a “little girl” in front of Jackson, who looked at least half a dozen years older than her, possibly more. “You’re probably eager to change into something dry. Let me go fetch the key, then Gabby can take you over and show you whatever you need to know.”
Her dad disappeared down the hallway, presumably to go to the junk drawer in the kitchen.
&nbs
p; She looked up at Jackson again, her lungs expanding with irrational happiness. The lighter-than-air feeling sharpened her senses. The old hallway seemed to shrink around her. The floorboards beneath her creaked when she shifted her weight to one leg. Even the dining room behind Jackson brightened, as if the sun were fighting hard to illuminate the cloud-covered sky outside. It was as if Jackson’s presence had transformed a mundane moment into one brimming with excited anticipation. “By the way, thanks for today. Once I realized you weren’t a threat, I was glad you were nearby.”
“My pleasure.” Again he smiled, and again it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Luc appeared in the hall and then trotted toward her, arms raised. “Up, Mama.”
Before she leaned down to lift him onto her hip, she noticed Jackson’s brows rise before his eyes softened as they settled on her son.
“Luc, say hi to Jackson. He’s going to live over the garage for several weeks.”
Her shy son laid his head against her shoulder and peered at the stranger with one eye.
Jackson stepped forward and gently tapped Luc’s nose. “Hey, buddy. It’s nice to meet you.” Then his expression tightened. He didn’t look angry, just distant. The air around him turned so heavy its weight pressed on her shoulders.
The sadness she’d seen earlier that day intensified. Had Luc somehow triggered it, or was that her imagination?
When her dad returned with the keys, she tried to hand off Luc. “Stay with Pappy while Mommy takes Jackson to the apartment. I’ll be back soon.”
“No!” Luc clutched her, his fingers digging into her like cat claws.
“Listen to Mommy, Luc.” She pried him off her body and handed him to her dad, at which point he burst into manipulative tears. If she hadn’t been embarrassed by his behavior, she’d have been annoyed. “Come on, peanut, you know crying won’t get you your way.”
“Go on, I’ll deal with him.” Her father shook his head and turned toward the kitchen, speaking to a despondent Luc. “How about we get a snack?”
After flashing an apologetic grin at Jackson, she gestured toward the front door. “Let’s go.”
Jackson’s gaze darted from her to her father’s retreating form and back again, then he opened the screen door and held it for her before following outside. If he had questions about her son, he kept them to himself.
“Let me grab my bag,” he said, dashing toward his Jeep.
Seconds later, he hefted a giant duffle bag over his shoulder and then shadowed her across the driveway to the detached garage.
Gabby had a truckload of questions. Where was he from? Why did he choose Winhall, of all places, to visit? Why was he staying for six weeks? And why did he look so downhearted? Of course, she asked none of them. He didn’t strike her as the kind of guy who’d open up easily, if at all. And certainly not to a nosy landlord.
Still, his comment about being unlucky stuck out. Jackson St. James presented a puzzle, and an alluring one at that. Her humdrum life would be a little more interesting this fall thanks to him, and she intended to take full advantage of a break in the monotony. First she’d need to observe him longer so she could find her way around the heavy curtain he hid behind.
She led him up the outside stairwell and then unlocked the door. Thankfully she’d done a good job cleaning this morning. Still, a guy who kept his car so tidy and could afford to take off for six weeks probably had money and a pretty nice home of his own.
“Hope this will do.” She swung the door open.
Once inside, he dropped his duffle by the door.
As he glanced around the well-worn space, she tried to envision it through his eyes. A queen-size bed with a patchwork quilt peeking out from behind a trifold furniture screen, a fake-leather loveseat and recliner clustered around a vintage coffee table in front of an old television, and a kitchenette along the far wall with a table for two.
Suddenly feeling self-conscious about the apartment’s lack of style, she blurted, “It’s a little dated, but it’s clean and dry. Two things you can’t say about lots of places in Winhall. The bathroom is around that way,” she said, pointing toward the bedroom area, “and everything else is pretty much right here. Vermont’s strict about recycling, so use clear bags for recyclables, and there are special bags for regular trash under the sink. You can toss it all in the bins outside the garage and we’ll take them to the dump on our runs.”
“It’s great, thanks.” He looked at her expectantly, and when she didn’t speak, he asked, “Your dad had promised Wi-Fi. Is there a password?”
“Yes. GGguest. GG for Gabby’s Gardens, in case that helps you remember it.” She held out the keys. “I’m Gabby, by the way.”
His hand grazed hers when he took them, sending a shock of heat up her arm.
“I know your name. It’s all over your truck.” When he winked, that heat raced straight to her face.
“Oh, I guess you’re right.” Their gazes locked for a second or two longer than expected, which shot another warm rush through her limbs, making her insides gooier than the center of a roasted marshmallow.
The golden streaks in his amber eyes now lit with something other than sorrow. She hoped she’d put that flicker there and provided a temporary break from whatever had him troubled.
Tongue-tied again, she practically stammered, “I should probably let you get settled, and I’m dying to get out of these wet clothes.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she’d chosen a phrase that didn’t sound like a come-on. Her reckless subconscious had probably taken over and said it on purpose.
His gaze smoldered again and she almost compounded her mistake by suggesting his luck was about to change, but then he glanced away. “Good plan. I’m sure I’ll see you around later.”
And that was that. She’d leave without answers to any of her questions. Berating herself for caring one little iota, she nodded. “Have a good rest of your day.”
She let herself out and trotted down the metal staircase. As she crossed the driveway, she turned to look back at the windows above the garage. They’d had short-term renters before. People who’d come and gone without attracting her notice. Clearly, Jackson was different.
Who was he, and why did it matter? The haunted look in his eyes should be enough of a warning. Life with her mom had introduced her to that kind of empty gaze, a look she supposed everyone who ever lived in a small rural town knew in one form or another.
Still, fate had thrown her and Jackson together twice. And despite the hint of unhappiness simmering behind his eyes, she couldn’t escape the sort of momentous feeling he inspired. Anticipation bloomed in her fallow heart like the fragile shoots of winter aconite breaking through freshly thawed soil.
Then, laughing to—or at—herself, she turned and went inside, back to reality. Whatever did or didn’t happen between her and Jackson, six weeks from now he’d leave, like everyone else, and never look back.
CHAPTER THREE
Listening to the rhythmic crunch beneath his feet as he ran along the tree-lined road, Jackson pushed aside the cramps that reminded him how long it had been since he’d actually exercised. Building and remodeling jobs kept him trim. But aerobically, he had some serious catching up to do.
At first he’d lumbered, unable to move at anything faster than a slow jog, until old habits had kicked in and his body responded with its reliable agility and strength.
His sweat-coated skin didn’t reek of whiskey—a change he reluctantly acknowledged. With each breath he inhaled invigorating, earthy aromas like tree molds, loamy soil, pine. The recent sunrise hadn’t yet burned off the fog that pillowed around him as he ran back toward his temporary home.
No traffic, no cell phone. Only the sounds of his steady footfall and the sparrows’ early-morning whistling, punctured occasionally by the drumming of a woodpecker. At his current pace, he’d enjoy another twenty minutes or so of peace and solitude as little clouds of breath puffed from his mouth like smoke rings.<
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Although he wrestled to pin his thoughts on the beauty around him, they kept wandering to the appointment he’d scheduled at eight o’clock.
He could cancel.
It’s not like he’d promised his family he’d talk to a shrink while he chillaxed in Vermont. He’d agreed to address their concerns, but he hadn’t forfeited the right to make decisions for himself about how to do that. Still, he’d mentioned it to David yesterday, and he didn’t want this journey to be wasted.
Whatever mistakes he made, whatever promises he broke, he needed to own.
The final minutes of his run consisted of a quarter-mile uphill climb. His breathing had grown heavy, lungs burning, as he rounded the corner where the Bouchards’ wooded driveway came into view.
Yesterday he’d been too tired and waterlogged to pay much attention to the house. This morning, however, the early-morning sun—diffused by remnants of fog—bathed the aging, farmhouse-style home in a dreamy light. A good thing considering the fact that, when one looked closely, everything about the place was worn.
He slowed to a walk and studied the scene. Vermont’s dank weather demanded a ton of maintenance if a homeowner wanted to prevent disrepair. Patches of rotted wood marred the beauty of the front porch. Both the house and garage needed a new coat of stain, too. Yet the aging home had the potential to be a knockout, especially if the Bouchards would upgrade to modern farmhouse windows and choose a deep green stain instead of the more traditional red.
The idea of transforming the home got Jackson’s creative juices flowing.
His gaze swept across the yard. The landscaping had been better maintained. Interesting groupings of small boulders, shrubbery, and mums carpeted the area surrounding the house. A fieldstone-and-grass walkway led from the gravel driveway to the front steps, enhancing the storybook setting.
