Delivered with Love

by Sherry Kyle

  Claire,

  I couldn't wake you. Eat breakfast.

  I'll check on your car and call around 10 a.m.

  Tom

  Just then the phone rang. Claire reached over the counter and answered it.

  "Hey, you're up." Tom's voice indicated he was a morning person, something she was not.

  "Sorry I slept so long." Claire held the phone between her neck and shoulder and lifted the lid to the coffeepot. There were at least two cups left. She poured the dark liquid into a mug she had pulled out of the cabinet.

  "I'm down at Mike's Auto Repair on Main Street. The guys can't work on your car without your signature and form of payment." Tom sounded matter-of-fact.

  Form of payment? Claire flinched. "How long will they hold my car?"

  "I'll talk with Mike and let you know."

  She'd have to find a job before she could afford the necessary repairs. She hung up the phone while her coffee heated in the microwave. Rummaging in the refrigerator, she found a package of cinnamon bagels. When she and Haley were kids, her mother bought bagels every Wednesday, half-price days at the bakery down the street. She missed her mom—everything about her, except when she scolded her for sleeping in late. Claire slathered a thick layer of cream cheese on her bagel, grabbed her coffee and sat down at the table. How she wished her mom was still alive. She'd be able to tell her who wrote the letter.

  Claire hurried to the guestroom and pulled the envelope from her purse. She brought it to the kitchen and reread the words from her mom's admirer as she ate her breakfast. How far was Depot Hill from Tom's house? She had to find out.

  Claire gulped down the last of her coffee, tidied the kitchen, showered, and straightened the guest room before setting off on foot. A bright green umbrella covered her head and rain boots kept her feet dry. She hoped Nancy wouldn't mind that she had borrowed her umbrella, but her hostess had said to make herself comfortable—and it was perched in the corner next to the door. Claire stuck the letter into her tote bag, and then hung it on her left shoulder, tucked close to her body so it wouldn't get wet.

  After a fifteen- minute walk, she stopped inside Mr. Toots coffeehouse in Capitola Village. The aroma of coffee and baked goods filled the building.

  A short woman, about Claire's age, stood behind the counter straightening a stack of napkins. She looked up as Claire approached. "May I help you?"

  "Yes." Claire dug in her purse for the letter. "Can you tell me where I can find Saxon Avenue? On Depot Hill?"

  "Sure. Are you driving or walking?" The woman grabbed a napkin and a pen.

  The closed umbrella in Claire's hand dripped water on the floor. "Walking."

  "No problem." The attendant drew a map on a napkin. "It's easy. And close by." She slid the paper across the counter.

  Claire glanced at the napkin. Each street was clearly marked.

  "Any questions?"

  "Point me in the right direction?"

  The woman chuckled. "Once you're out the door, head right."

  "Thanks."

  Claire hiked through Capitola Village before coming to Monterey Avenue. There she found the steep stairs the attendant had drawn next to the small, boarded-up theatre. She panted as she climbed the mountain of steps before reaching the top of Depot Hill, a neighborhood that overlooked Monterey Bay.

  She admired the houses in the neighborhood. An eclectic mix of contemporary, old Victorians, and ranch-style homes graced the streets. She walked down Grand Avenue a couple of blocks. The view of the ocean and the coastline, even on a rainy day, was the reason she loved California. The waves crashed against the shore and the salty air penetrated her senses.

  Suddenly there it was—the street she'd been looking for. Claire picked up her pace. She searched for the house among the small, older ranch-style homes. Halfway down the street, she came to an abrupt stop. Number 216. The return address of the letter. An older home with dark blue shutters stood in front of her. Claire walked up the sidewalk, her insides quivering with each step. A For Rent sign hung in the window. She climbed the few steps to the porch and set the umbrella down. Leaning up against the window, she peeked in. The front room was empty.

  "You interested?" A male voice called from behind.

  Claire spun around. A dark-haired young man wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a flannel jacket stood at the bottom of the steps. Wow, he is good-looking.

  "Are you the owner?"

  "No. I'm Blake Coombs, the neighbor." He pointed to the house directly on her left, joined her on the porch, and extended his hand.

  Claire shook it. His hand felt warm, nice. "I'm Claire James. "She looked up into his steel blue eyes . . . and realized she was still holding his hand. Neighbor, huh? Her cheeks heated. She pulled her hand free and tucked her hair behind her ear.

  "Good to meet you, Claire. I told the owner I'd keep watch over the house until it was rented. Would you like to see the place?"

  Would she like to see it? Definitely. Her insides danced. "Please."

  He produced a key from his jeans pocket and stepped toward the front door.

  She hesitated for the briefest moment. Something about the man put her at ease. Her desire to go inside the house, the place where her mother's love interest wrote the letter, jumped ahead of her common sense. "I do need to find a place." She removed her boots at the door.

  "Then come on in."

  Michael's wipers smeared water across his windshield, giving him a hazy view of the street. He pulled his BMW over to the curb and slid out, sidestepping a puddle. Water spattered his face as he attempted to clean the wipers. He couldn't remember when it had rained last.

  He jumped back in his car and headed toward his rental property. The small sign posted in the window of the house wasn't much in the way of advertising, but it had done the trick before. The last couple had lived there for a good three years. A job transfer was the only reason for their departure.

  Michael turned down Saxon Avenue. The street was only a couple hundred yards long before it reached the bluff. He had bought the house before the market spiked. Light gleamed through the front window. Either Blake had shown the place earlier and had forgotten to turn off the lights, or he was there now with a potential renter. He cut off the engine and hurried to the front door.

  Wiping his feet on the mat, he saw a pair of women's rain boots leaning haphazardly against the side of the house. He turned the doorknob and walked in.

  "Hey, Michael." Blake rested his arm against the fireplace mantel. "I'm showing the house to a young woman. She's in the bathroom."

  "Thanks. Not working today?"

  "Even police officers get a day off now and then." Blake tucked his hands into his pockets. "Lately we've been busy cracking down on graffiti. It's been a huge problem."

  "I'm glad the police are involved. Do you think it's street gangs?" Michael's eyebrows furrowed. "I've seen signs and walls vandalized. It makes me think twice about showing homes for sale in certain neighborhoods."

  "It doesn't appear to be gangs, but I may be wrong. The best thing to do is call 9-1-1 if you see someone destroying property. Street gangs tend to be violent and may carry weapons."

  "Thanks for the tip." Michael planted his hands on his hips as he inspected the new paint job. "How's it look?"

  "Armstrong Painting does good work." Blake stood next to Michael and looked at the ceiling. "The cut-in line couldn't be any straighter."

  "I had the carpets cleaned in the back bedrooms as well. With Julia's wedding around the corner, I'd like to rent the place soon."

  Michael heard the water running in the bathroom. He turned when the door opened. A young woman approached. She was about the same age as Julia. Blonde wavy hair spread out like a fan around her shoulders. She was petite even in a raincoat.

  "Michael, this is Claire."

  "Nice to meet you." Michael held out his hand.

  "I've seen you somewhere before." Claire's forehead creased as she shook his hand. "Have we met?"

&nb
sp; "I don't think so." Michael laughed. Was this woman one of Julia's friends? "I'm the owner. Do you have any questions so far?"

  "How much is the rent?" Claire bit her lower lip.

  He named a price that made the woman's eyes widen. She wrapped her arms around her midsection and had a look of discomfort on her face.

  "I'll need to collect first and last month's rent as a security deposit. And run a credit check." Michael walked over to the window and looked out. "I didn't see a car out front when I came in . . ."

  "I walked."

  "From where?" Blake piped in.

  "Not far from here."

  Michael could hear a hitch in Claire's voice. That's all he needed—a homeless woman who couldn't pay rent. But she didn't look homeless by the clothes she wore. "Do you own a car?"

  "Yes, a '72 VW bug." Claire's eyebrows furrowed. "But it's in the shop."

  Michael's heart skipped a beat. "A '72 VW bug?" He crossed his arms over his chest and chuckled. "The last time I rode in a VW bug was well over twenty years ago."

  "I was working on a VW the other day." Blake leaned against the wall. "My cousin thinks I'm the repair shop."

  Michael made a move to the kitchen. "So, what do you think about the place?"

  Claire followed along with Blake. "I'd need to find a roommate."

  "It's the right size for two people. It's nine hundred square feet, two bedrooms, one bath." Michael glanced from Claire to Blake. "You'd need to pay for utilities, and I'll take care of landscaping. I've had the same gardener for years."

  Claire peered out the kitchen window. "The plants are nice. Especially the daisies along the sidewalk."

  "If you're interested, you'll need to fill out this application. And after I check your references, it could be yours." Michael slid the paper across the counter.

  Claire picked up the application and looked it over. "When can I get back to you?"

  "Here's my business card. Call me anytime." Michael glanced at his watch. "Say, Blake, can you lock up? I've got a meeting in twenty minutes."

  "Sure thing." Blake walked him to the door.

  Michael grinned. "She'd make a great neighbor." He kept his voice low, almost a whisper.

  "You're the one she's met before." Blake raised an eyebrow.

  "Nice to meet you, Claire." Michael gave Blake a steely look. "Hope to see you again."

  Michael shut the door behind him. He hopped in his car and drove in the direction of the office. The meeting was optional, but he felt compelled to leave the rental for reasons he didn't understand. Had he met Claire before? Where? When?

  9

  Claire stared at the business card in her hand. Michael Thompson. That's why he looked familiar. He had attended her mother's funeral. His three-piece suit and beautiful wife on his arm had made him stand out. She heard the click of the door and Michael's car pulling away.

  "So, that about wraps it up." Blake's voice interrupted her thoughts as he approached. "Need a ride? It's pouring."

  He was nice . . . and attractive. "Sure. Thanks." Claire tucked the business card in her coat pocket, folded the rental application in half, and slid it in her purse. "Can you drop me off at the pizza place in Capitola Village? I'm hungry." She remembered the twenty dollars Geraldine gave her and the pizza parlor she passed on her way to the rental. Her cheeks warmed. Since when had she been so open in front of a guy—a stranger, no less?

  Blake chuckled. "Okay. Pizza My Heart it is. I'll get my truck. Wait here." He locked the front door, jogged across the lawn, and climbed into a white Ford F-150 parked in his driveway. She slipped into her rain boots and grabbed Nancy's green umbrella as Blake pulled up to the curb.

  Claire could feel his eyes on her as she descended the few stairs. She approached the truck self-conscious of every move. As she reached for the handle, the door flew open with such force that it knocked her to the ground. She found herself sprawled among the row of bushes and small plants that lined the sidewalk.

  Blake jumped out of his truck and ran to her side. "Claire, are you okay?" He pulled her to her feet and tenderly picked the grass and leaves out of her hair. "I pushed the door open. So much for being a gentleman."

  Claire looked down at herself. Her jeans were soaking wet, and the green umbrella was twisted and torn. At least it had broken her fall. "On second thought, drop me off at the house where I'm staying." Claire hobbled to the truck and slid into the passenger seat, her wet jeans sticking to the leather.

  Blake muscled the green umbrella shut and tossed it into the bed of the truck before hopping into the driver's seat next to her. "I owe you at least a slice of pizza."

  "But I'm soaked. You don't need to do that." Claire stared straight ahead. One look into his eyes and she'd change her mind for sure.

  "I knocked you to the ground and ruined your umbrella. It's the least I can do." Blake turned the key and pulled away from the curb and the small rental house. "We'll get it to go."

  She could think of a few things she needed—her car to be fixed, a job, and money to rent the house. Her mind turned from her selfish thoughts. She glanced at Blake as he drove. Nice profile. And his hair curled perfectly over his collar. Her stomach growled. "Okay. One slice."

  "Great. I know the owner. He makes the best pizza sauce. "Blake made a couple of left turns. "The lunch crowd will start coming in soon, so our timing couldn't be better."

  He was wrong. Claire saw the CLOSED sign first. There were "Dangerous Surf" signs posted all along the beach. The waves crashed hard against the shore coming all the way up to the row of shops and businesses. There would be no pizza today.

  "Another time." Blake merged into traffic. "Where does your friend live?"

  Claire retraced her steps in her mind. What was the name of Tom and Nancy's street? Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Haley. Should she answer the call? Her sister must be sick with worry over her hasty departure.

  "Why haven't you returned any of my calls?" Her sister's voice sounded angry, controlling, and a bit motherly. Nothing's changed.

  "Wait a minute, Haley."

  Claire motioned for Blake to take a right-hand turn, "I think it's a couple of streets down on your right." She remembered that the streets were named after jewels. She breathed a sigh of relief that the houses looked familiar. "That's it. Turn on Emerald Street."

  Blake nodded.

  She brought her cell phone to her ear. "Okay, I'm back."

  "It's so good to hear your voice." Haley seemed to have calmed down. "I didn't think you'd leave. Where are you?"

  "Capitola—a small town in Santa Cruz."

  Blake turned down Emerald Street and gestured to Claire.

  Claire motioned for him to keep going.

  "What's in Capitola?"

  Claire put up her hand for Blake to stop and pointed to Tom and Nancy's house. She maneuvered herself out of the truck. Blake joined her and grabbed the disjointed umbrella.

  "Hold on, Haley." Claire held the cell phone against her chest and took the broken umbrella. "Thank you for the ride."

  "No problem." Blake ran a hand through his dark hair. "It'd be nice to have you for a neighbor. Maybe we can get that pizza another time." He waved. "See you later."

  Claire watched him get back in his truck and drive off. She almost forgot Haley was waiting for her. "I'll tell you what's in Capitola. Mom's old love." She stuck her hand inside her coat pocket.

  The business card was gone.

  10

  The sound of a fire truck caught Claire's attention. She tucked her purse and the broken umbrella under her arm and walked between the palm trees toward the Daniels' front door as she finished her conversation with her sister.

  "What do you mean Mom's old love?" Haley's voice dripped with sarcasm.

  "It's a long story, but I'll let you know if I find him."

  "So you're still stuck in the past."

  Claire rolled her eyes. "Haley, I've gotta go."

  "I finally get ahold of you, and you want t
o hang up on me?" Haley's voice rose.

  "I'm starting my own life—like you said, make friends and go out on dates." Claire turned and looked down the street where Blake had driven merely moments before.

  "But do you need to be so far away?" Haley sniffed and blew her nose.

  Claire held the phone away from her ear. Was her sister acting overly dramatic? "Give me time. I promise, I'll let you know where I end up. Okay?"

  The front door burst open. Tom stood with his hand on his hip and a scowl on his face. "There you are."

  "Gotta go." Claire snapped her cell phone shut. "I'm sorry about your umbrella." She set the contraption on the porch and gave a sheepish grin. "I needed a walk. You know, to clear my head. Where's Nancy?"

  "In the kitchen." Tom stepped back and allowed Claire to walk through. "We need to talk."

  Claire's insides twisted. Now what? Were they ready to toss her out? She deserved nothing better. Claire laid her purse on the bench inside the door, shrugged out of her coat, and hung it on the rack. "Mind if I change first? I'm soaked."

  "Nancy and I will be waiting in the kitchen."

  The aroma of tomatoes, hamburger, and spices tickled her nose. Her mouth watered. She closed the bedroom door behind her, wiggled out of her wet jeans, and pulled on a pair of sweat pants.

  Once in the kitchen, Nancy scooped her a big bowl of chili. "We can't talk on an empty stomach." She dished up two more servings. "I hope you like this. It's my mother's recipe."

  Claire set the bowl down and took a seat. "Thank you. "Tom sat to her left and Nancy to her right.

  "We want the truth." Tom's deep voice startled her.

  Claire dropped her spoon into the bowl in front of her. "The truth?" She gulped.

  "Let the woman enjoy her food." Nancy chided. "While it's hot."

  Tom glared at his bowl, dug his spoon into his chili, and shoved it in his mouth. "After we eat, then."

  Claire took small spoonfuls. She wondered what had caused the interrogation. Tom's attitude toward her had changed. Nancy's eyes still held a sadness that Claire didn't understand. She picked up her glass of water. The cool liquid helped her keep her meal down, but it didn't do anything to get rid of the lump that was lodged in her throat.