by Sherry Kyle
Blake. The one detail he forgot to mention to his mother. "I took the liberty of making sure your meals were taken care of. That is, your neighbor will be coming around to cook."
"Claire doesn't know how to cook?" His mother scrunched up her nose and puckered her lips.
"Blake's kitchen caught fire the other day, and I promised he could use this kitchen until his was remodeled. Sorry I didn't run that by you sooner."
"You mean to tell me that good-looking hunk is going to be cooking in my kitchen?" His mother's eyes lit up.
Michael laughed. Mom did appreciate a handsome man when she saw one. "Until his kitchen is remodeled. And he's willing to pay part of the rent."
"Phooey on the rent, if he cooks my meals, that's good enough." She lowered a platform seat on her walker and sat.
A car pulled up in front of the house. It appeared Nancy had driven Claire. He hoped Nancy was fine with the way things had turned out. If not, he'd offer to help her find another rental for her sister. With his connections there was bound to be something else available. "Claire's here."
"Oh, good." His mother clapped her gnarled hands together. "We'll have things set up in no time. I think I would like my recliner. This seat is as hard as a rock."
"Wait. There's a tow truck out front pulling a car—" The minute he said it, Michael wished he hadn't.
"What do you mean?" Mother pushed herself to standing and turned to look out the kitchen window.
"Why that looks exactly like Emily's car—or it did before someone destroyed the hood. Emily used to drive that thing all around with you teenage boys—"
His mind raced. "Mother, please. No memories, okay." Michael walked over and stood next to her. "You promised, not a word to Claire."
"Michael, if you'd face it head-on, your heart would be so much lighter—"
"Hello, we're here," Claire called from the open doorway before she peeked inside. Her entrance saved Michael from getting into a conversation that he'd rather not have.
"Claire, great you're here." He walked over to the door. "I was going to see if Blake was home to help unload Mother's things." Michael slipped past Claire and Nancy. "I'll be right back." He sprinted out the door.
He cut through the lawn and rang Blake's doorbell. No answer. He knocked.
"Blake's not home." The tow truck driver called to him. "He told me to bring the car to the carport on the back side of the house. He'll be back later this afternoon."
So Blake's fixing that old VW. The man would do just about anything for anyone.
Walking back across the lawn, Michael had to admit he didn't want to face Nancy. How could he when he knew she had planned on having her sister live in the rental with Claire? He hadn't even looked at her as he ducked out of the rental a few moments ago. Was his mother right? Was he afraid to face conflict head-on? A memory of a past mistake jarred his thoughts. It was easier to keep it buried in the past where it belonged. Why should he stir up trouble? Michael shook it off and strolled toward his property.
"Michael, no hard feelings," said Nancy, standing outside the house. "I think it's great that your mother and Claire can live together."
"You sure you're okay—"
"I've got to run. My sister's waiting for me at home." A smile crept across Nancy's face.
That was easy. If only all uncomfortable situations ended with one person accepting things outright and getting on with life. He raised a hand and waved as Nancy drove away.
Inside, Mother and Claire were busy chatting about their favorite colors and what type of window treatments they liked.
"Blake wasn't home. Claire, you look strong enough. Ready to help move in my mother's things?" He looked down at the single duffel bag and the small pile of bedding. "Is that everything you own?"
"It's everything that's important to me, except for my car." Claire chewed her lower lip. "And this . . ." She dug into her purse and pulled out an envelope. Her eyes held a sadness, and what? Hope? "It's a letter to my mom. Do you know who wrote it?"
His mother gasped.
Heat rose in Michael's neck and cheeks. He glanced at his mother. She nodded, and her eyes pleaded for him to be brave. Michael took the envelope from Claire and pulled out the letter. He scanned it. He knew every word. His jaw muscles flexed. He shook his head. "Sorry, I can't tell you anything. "He placed the letter and envelope back in her hands. He didn't have time to deal with his past. "Let's get a move on. I've got a busy day."
17
At six o'clock, Claire heard a knock on the door. Boxes littered the family room floor. The recliner sat perched next to the fireplace, and the tan chenille couch leaned against the wall adjacent to the kitchen. "I'll get it." Claire dodged cardboard boxes and opened the front door.
"In the mood for enchiladas?" Blake grinned, holding a brown bag full of groceries.
A gorgeous man and Mexican food. Who wouldn't be? "Yes. Come on in." Claire swung the door wide. "Sorry about the mess."
"Looks like you just moved in." Blake sidestepped the clutter. "Don't worry, I'll be in the kitchen."
"Need any help?" Claire sent a silent plea with her eyes. She'd much rather help Blake cook than unpack another box.
"As long as Michael's mother doesn't need you." Blake cocked his head to look down the hall. "How's it going?" he whispered.
"Geraldine's great. She's self-sufficient and only needs help standing or getting her walker. In fact, I hope I don't get bored. You should see her bedroom. You'd think she's lived here for a month the way everything is situated." Claire walked ahead of Blake to the kitchen. "So, what'd you bring?"
"The usual Mexican fare—chips, salsa, sour cream, and all the fixings for enchiladas." Blake put the bag on the counter and pulled grocery items out one by one.
"My stomach's growling already." Claire sidled up to Blake, his musky scent drawing her closer. "Mind if I open the bag of chips?"
"Be my guest. I didn't know if Geraldine would like spicy food, so I bought mild salsa."
"How sweet of you." Claire opened the bag of tortilla chips while Blake looked in the cabinet for a bowl.
"Oh, sorry. We didn't get to the kitchen yet. But I know that box is around here somewhere." Claire grabbed a chip and popped it in her mouth before she searched the family room for the plates, bowls, and silverware.
"Here it is." Blake picked up the clearly marked box and brought it to the kitchen. He opened it and pulled out the everyday dishes. "Any idea where the pots and pans are?"
"No. I'm glad Geraldine has all this stuff. I don't know what I'd do." Claire shifted boxes around. "I wonder if she had these things in storage. I didn't think a small apartment in an assisted living community would be able to hold all this."
Blake dipped a tortilla chip in the mild sauce. "Hey, come here. Tell me what you think of this salsa."
Claire came willingly. She was hungry for sure, and the sound of Blake's voice pulled her toward the kitchen. Claire allowed him to feed her the chip. As he placed it in her mouth, he held her eyes with his. A blush warmed Claire's cheeks. "Perfect. A nice blend of cilantro and tomatoes." She could get lost in those steely blue eyes.
He laughed. "You are quite the connoisseur; I can tell. "His eyes drifted toward her mouth. "You have a little salsa right here." He held her chin with his index finger and gently brushed the sauce from her face with his thumb.
Her stomach fluttered.
"Well, look who's here. Claire, why didn't you tell me?" Geraldine interrupted.
Claire felt as if she'd been caught in the back seat of a car. Her cheeks heated. "Geraldine, I thought you were taking a rest."
"I'll never sleep tonight if I doze now." Geraldine ambled up to the counter. "What are going to cook tonight? Oh, looks like a Mexican meal. I love spicy food—the spicier the better."
Claire nudged Blake's arm. "Good, then I'm sure you'll love Blake's 'hot' enchiladas."
Blake winked. "You two need to get out of the kitchen so I can cook. I don't want any distracti
ons." He placed his hands on Geraldine's shoulders and turned her around to face the family room. "Why don't you have a seat in that recliner? I'll have this ready in no time."
"If you're sure you know what you're doing." Geraldine sauntered to her chair, pushing boxes out of the way with her walker. "I don't want to hear the smoke alarm."
"I've cooked for myself for a long time. I had the best teacher in the world—my mother. And I'll make sure I turn the burners off when I'm done. The only things I need are a cutting board, knives, and pots and pans."
"Oh heavens, we should have thought about that sooner, Claire." Geraldine scooted herself around the room looking for the necessary tools for Blake.
"I think I found them." Claire motioned to a box under the oak coffee table.
"Here, I'll get that." Blake strode across the room, and picked up the box with ease. "Now I'm in business."
While Blake cooked, Claire went into her room to unpack. Nancy had let her borrow an air mattress. It would do for a while, but she hoped to purchase a queen-size bed soon. She made up her bed with her favorite sheets and comforter, then hung up her clothes. The room looked sparse. Why hadn't she brought a few things from Haley's house, such as the small nightstand and lamp? Oh, well. It wouldn't be long before she'd make money of her own and buy furniture.
The scent of Mexican food wafted through the air. A knock sounded on her door, and Blake's voice called her to dinner.
"I'll be right there." Claire pulled out the antique Victorian picture frame holding a photo of her mother, sister, and herself from her duffel bag and set it next to her bed. So this is home. She let her gaze circle the room. It wasn't much to look at, but it was hers. A feeling of contentment swept over her.
Geraldine was already seated at the table when Claire approached. "Are you going to make us a dinner every night?" Geraldine batted her eyelashes at Blake.
She's flirting. Claire covered a laugh with her hand. "The agreement was for Blake to use the kitchen, not make us dinner every night."
"It's more fun to cook for three than it is for one." Blake carried a platter of enchiladas to the table and set it down. He tossed the oven mitts on the counter and took a seat next to Claire. "If I'm not working, I'd be glad to cook."
"If you're cooking, then I'm doing the cleaning." Claire grabbed a handful of chips and put them on her plate.
"I won't argue with you on that one." Blake held out his hands. "Shall we pray?" Geraldine winked at Claire and bowed her head. Claire peeked at Blake as he prayed. Before she knew it, the prayer was over and Blake's eyes opened. He caught her staring straight at him!
"Pass the rice, dear." Geraldine's voice interrupted the awkward moment. "My, the dinner smells good."
She picked up the serving bowl and handed it to Geraldine.
The enchiladas, rice, and beans rivaled any Mexican restaurant. The smell of corn tortillas, beef, and cheese made her mouth water. Claire savored each bite as conversation flowed nicely around the table.
"I hear you're going to fix Claire's car." Geraldine took a bite of her enchilada.
"I'm going to try. I like old cars. It's a challenge to find the parts, but I'm up for it." Blake leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his lap.
"I can't wait to drive again. It's like my left arm has been cut off." Claire stood to clear the table.
"Especially that old car. So many memories—"
Memories? Claire turned to Geraldine. "What memories are you talking about?"
Geraldine nudged Blake. "Hand me my walker, dear. I need to unpack my room."
Blake sat up straight. "What's your hurry?"
Geraldine looked flustered— as if she had done something wrong. "I . . . I don't know why I said that. It must be the enchiladas. You two will have to excuse me. Thank you for dinner, Blake." Geraldine stood and shuffled down the hallway.
Claire shrugged. She didn't understand what Geraldine's comment meant about her VW holding so many memories— memories for whom? Michael? His reaction to the letter had bothered her all day. It was obvious by the way his jaw muscles had flexed that he knew more than he was letting on. Claire let out the breath she was holding.
"Hey, Claire. You seem to be a million miles away." Blake stood and put the cover on the sour cream container.
All impulses told her to show Blake the letter. Claire wanted to tell him everything—about her mother's death, living with Haley, and what propelled her to move to Capitola. Instead, she stacked the dishes. "Do you want coffee?"
"I doubt that's what you were thinking." Blake chuckled. "But sure, I'd like a cup." He gathered the extra food and put it in the refrigerator.
"Should we sit outside?" Claire glanced over her shoulder and down the hall.
Blake opened the dishwasher and started loading. "How about Mr. Toots? They have the best coffee in Capitola Village."
"Oh, no, you don't. You cooked, remember? It's my job to clean." Claire grabbed him around the waist and pulled him back. The feeling of his tight abs sent a rush of adrenaline through her. What is with me?
Blake spun around and grinned—their faces inches apart. "If we both do the dishes, we'll be done faster." He snatched her hand and gave her the sponge. "Let's hurry. I'm ready for that cup of coffee!"
When the kitchen was clean, Claire walked down the hall and peeked her head in Geraldine's room. She was already in her pajamas and tucked in bed for the night. Claire smiled. She closed the door and turned to go into her room to grab her jacket. She opened her handbag to make sure the letter was there. She needed a good heart-to-heart talk, and Blake was the perfect person to share what was on her mind.
Perfect. Now that was one word she had never used to describe a man. She didn't know one existed. Her father had disappeared from her life, and her mother's boyfriends turned out to be flakes. Claire would need to be careful. She didn't want to give her heart away only to be crushed.
"Claire." Blake stood outside her bedroom. "I'm sorry, I've got to run." He raked a hand through his dark hair. "I'm on call tonight and just got paged."
She was sure her disappointment showed on her face. "All right. Another time." Her mind raced with all she had wanted to say to him. "See you in the morning?" Her pulse quickened when he stepped closer to her.
"Depends on the call." Blake leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. "I was looking forward to our time alone." He squeezed her hand, then slipped away. The soft click of the door echoed down the hall.
A few minutes passed before her heart rate returned to normal. She could walk to Mr. Toots to enjoy a cup of coffee by herself. Life didn't have to stand still because Blake had to go to work. Then why did she suddenly feel so lonely? Claire strolled to the family room and sat down in the recliner. She needed to talk to someone.
Samantha. She rummaged through her purse and found her camping friend's phone number. Claire grabbed her cell phone and punched in the seven digits.
"Claire?" Samantha squealed. "It's so good to hear your voice. I didn't know when I'd ever get to talk with you again. Did you find the writer of the letter?"
Claire reclined back in the chair. Boxes filled the room. "No. Maybe. I don't know. The person that I thought it was denied writing it."
"I'm sorry. Say, how did you get to Capitola? When I woke up, you were gone. My parents talked with Harry and Pearl the other night. They were so concerned for you when they heard both you and your car had vanished."
"Did Harry and Pearl's daughter have a boy or a girl?"
"A boy. They named him John Jr. But back to you . . .where'd you go?"
"I called a tow truck. It wasn't the smartest thing to do in the middle of the night, but it worked out all right. I met the nicest couple—Tom and Nancy. They gave me a roof over my head until I found a place. You won't believe where I'm living."
"I'm dying to know . . ."
"The return address of the letter."
"No!" Samantha's voice grew louder with enthusiasm. "How did that happen?"
"Did you find a job?" asked Samantha.
"I'm living with an elderly woman as her caregiver. She's the owner's mother."
"I'm excited for you. You're doing it, Claire. You're living on your own."
"Then why do I feel so disappointed? I thought for sure Michael Thompson wrote the letter. He was at my mother's funeral. So, when I found out he owned this house—"
"Don't give up, Claire. This means too much to you. "Samantha's words were like honey to tea. Sweet. Comforting. And what Claire needed to hear.
"I have a handsome neighbor—" Claire shifted in her chair.
"Do I detect a woman in love?" Samantha teased.
"I wouldn't say love, but a strong attraction." Claire took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She could visualize Blake's handsome face and the way his eyes had penetrated her own before he left.
"Claire, my date's at the door. I've got to go . . . but thanks for calling. And please, call again."
Claire said goodbye and snapped her cell phone shut. Her muscles were sore and tired from the move. After locking the front door, she wandered down the hall to her room. That's funny. Geraldine's door was ajar. Claire thought for sure she had shut it. She tiptoed across the hall and peeked into the room. What she saw sent shivers down her spine.
18
Claire crept into Geraldine's room. The lamp on her nightstand cast an eerie glow. Geraldine was lying in bed clutching a picture frame. She looked dead—as if she were in a coffin. Slowly, Claire stepped closer until she was standing next to the elderly woman. To her relief, she saw the steady rise and fall of Geraldine's chest. She was asleep.
Claire turned to leave when she saw it—the same rare Victorian picture frame that matched the one in her room. She leaned forward to take a closer look at the photo inside. The woman, possibly Geraldine in her younger days, wore a double-breasted shirtwaist dress with a hat to match. The young boy resembled Michael with his wavy blond hair. And Claire assumed the man in the picture to be Geraldine's husband. All three were smiling.
