My Sunshine

by Catherine Anderson

  “Oh, Isaiah, I feel so awful.”

  “Good. You should. The next time you get an itch to interfere in my life, remember how bad you feel right now. Matchmaking never pays, and it’s always, always a bad idea.”

  “Does this mean you won’t go talk to Laura?”

  “Give me one good reason why I should.”

  Long silence. Finally Mary replied, “Because she’s a sweet, wonderful girl, and you’re a good man.”

  Isaiah held out the phone, glared at it for several long seconds, and then broke the connection. Damn. Would his mother never learn? The last time she’d pulled this stunt, he’d found himself sitting across the supper table from a woman with three chins and a hopeful look in her eyes.

  He didn’t need or want his mother’s help to find a wife. News bulletin: He didn’t even want a wife. More important, when and if he ever decided to find one, he wanted to do his own looking. Why couldn’t she get that through her head?

  A deep gray gloaming heralded the end of another busy day as Isaiah mounted the exterior stairway to Laura Townsend’s residence, the top story of a two-level garage that had been converted into an apartment. From the outside it didn’t look like much, a white clapboard rectangle with blue trim and a small porch. But, living on a fixed income as she did, she probably couldn’t afford anything nicer.

  Isaiah knew firsthand how costly housing was nowadays. A run-of-the-mill one-bedroom apartment ran from seven to eight hundred a month. He and Tucker had paid twice that for the town house that they’d shared for over two years. Now, thank God, they both had their own homes. Isaiah had found a piece of land out on Old Mill Road near Zeke’s place and built a log house. Tucker had purchased an old farmhouse on a large acreage on the other side of town. Their days of paying rent were over.

  When Isaiah reached the landing, he stopped for a moment to admire the porch decorations. Planter boxes filled with trailing greenery lined the deck rails. Within the sphere of illumination cast by the porch light, two large terra-cotta pots filled with ivy flanked a dark blue door that sported an ornate brass knocker. Under the eave, safe from rain, an old rocker held a trio of stuffed toys—a bear wearing a satin vest and cummerbund, a yarn-haired doll in a pinafore that he guessed was a Raggedy Ann, and a pig in patched denim overalls. The effect was homey and welcoming.

  Isaiah straightened his shoulders and dragged in a bracing breath before rapping his knuckles on the door. From inside he heard the clatter of metal followed by fast footsteps. He stepped back just as Laura opened the portal. She looked nonplussed and charmingly tousled, her hair in an attractive stir around her lovely face. Her eyes went wide when she recognized him.

  “Isaiah,” she said. And then her face turned scarlet.

  He tugged on his ear and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Hi, Laura. Can we talk?”

  With the back of her wrist, she brushed a streak of what looked like flour from her cheek. Then she retreated a step to allow him entry. The instant he stepped over the threshold, his senses were bombarded, first with color—bright throw rugs, colorfully draped furniture, artfully arranged pillows—then with delicious smells—pumpkin and cinnamon, roasted meat, and fresh coffee.

  His stomach growled. He could only hope Laura didn’t hear the rumble, for in that moment he wasn’t sure what appealed to his senses more, the smells or the woman. She wore a red gingham bib apron over a red knit top and snug blue jeans. As he trailed his gaze downward, he noticed that her feet were bare. Normally he wasn’t into feet, but hers were small, delicately made, and oddly cute, the tips of her toes as pink as rose petals.

  Pushing the door closed behind him, Isaiah found himself at a loss for words. He settled for, “It would seem that my mom and your grandmother have been up to mischief.”

  Laura’s face reddened even more. She rubbed her palms over the front of the checkered apron. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know. Really, I didn’t.”

  Isaiah took a quick breath and plunged in. “It’s not your place to apologize.” He tucked his hands under the hem of his old leather jacket to rest them on his hips. “It was undoubtedly my mother who came up with the idea. She has a history.”

  “Oh,” she said softly.

  Isaiah rubbed his jaw. “Normally I can just shrug it off. She’ll invite me over for dinner or throw a party, and when I arrive there’s some lady she wants me to meet. It’s uncomfortable, but no real harm is done. This is the first time she’s ever gone this far. I’m as embarrassed as a cougar chased off by a ground squirrel.”

  Her lovely hazel eyes filled with incredulity. “You?” she said softly.

  “Wouldn’t you be embarrassed? It’s not like she’s done this only once. She’s a repeat offender, continually trying to find me a wife.” He glanced down at himself. “Is there something so wrong with me that she doesn’t think I can find one on my own?”

  She gave a startled laugh. Then she caught her lower lip between her teeth, studied him for a time, and shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with you that I can see.”

  Isaiah could see nothing wrong with her, either. No acne, no double chin, no irritating personality quirks. For once his mother had chosen someone who was actually appealing. And wasn’t that just his luck? What went for Belinda went for every female employee at the clinic: No workplace romances. It was a hard-and-fast rule, instituted before he and Tucker had opened their practice. If Laura came to work for him—and he sincerely hoped she would—she would be strictly off-limits.

  She gestured toward the kitchen. “I was about to eat, and I always make way too much. Would you like to talk over supper?”

  Isaiah was starving, and the smells drifting to his nose were almost too tempting to resist. “Oh, no, I shouldn’t. You weren’t expecting a guest, and you probably have plans for the leftovers.”

  “No.” She shook her head and smiled. “I can’t change the amounts in the cookbook to make less of something. Counting is one thing, real math another. I have trouble with divide and subtract.”

  Most people would have said division and subtraction. It occurred to Isaiah that she constantly had to choose her words to avoid stammering.

  She lifted her hands in mock appeal. “Please save me from having to eat the same food all week.”

  “No man can resist an invitation like that,” he said with a grin. “I’d love to talk over supper.”

  She gestured to a coat tree next to the door. “Take off your jacket and come on in. I only have a little left to do.”

  As she turned toward the adjoining kitchen, Isaiah trailed his gaze over the small living area. Overstuffed furniture draped with slipcovers vied for space with mismatched end tables, a battered old trunk that served as a coffee table, and a hodgepodge of knickknacks, wall hangings, and stuff sitting on the floor in all the corners. Everywhere he looked, his eye was caught by something—a wreath made out of what looked like hay and bedecked with ribbons and flowers, little hand-painted plaques, braided rugs, vases of all shapes and colors, and family photographs, which particularly piqued his curiosity. Were her parents still together? Did she have siblings, and if so, how many?

  He shrugged out of his jacket, hung it up, and slowly followed her, pleased to note that her decorating scheme included animals, a gold-framed painting of a dog, a plaque depicting a trio of kittens at play, and all kinds of critter figurines. Her love of animals was clearly genuine, a trait that would serve her well in a veterinary clinic.

  Her kitchen, open to the living area, continued the warm, country feeling. A hickory hutch and china cabinet displayed a mismatched collection of blue-and-white dishes. A writing desk along the wall was surrounded by practical yet decorative stuff—a hanging shelf full of cookbooks, a teacup rack, a cottage-scene calendar, and a clock with a rooster painted on the face.

  Without being directed, Isaiah sat at an odd-looking dining table, which was small, rectangular, and had drawers under the top lip. None of the four chairs matched.


  “Yard sales,” she explained as she filled two goblets with dark red wine. “I moved out on my own only six months ago. My folks gave me a few things. The rest I picked up here and there. That’s an old pastry table. The drawers held rolling pins.”

  “Ah.” Isaiah’s gaze went to the adjacent wall, which had been covered halfway up with synthetic rock capped by a thick, shelflike ledge to hold baskets and more doodads. “I should hire you to decorate my house. It’s as empty as a beggar’s pocket.”

  “I couldn’t take money. I’m not that good.”

  Isaiah thought she was. He liked the warm, cozy feeling she had created. Somehow she’d transformed a small, rectangular living space into a home with character and appeal.

  As she set down the glass of wine, she inclined her head at a basket of fruit at the center of the table. “If you’re hungry, help yourself. It’ll be a few more minutes.”

  While she returned to the stove, Isaiah took her up on the offer, selecting a big red apple, rubbing it on his shirt, and then taking a crunchy bite. She put on mittens, opened the oven, and withdrew a blue-speckled baking pan. When she removed the domed lid, the smells that wafted across the room almost made him groan.

  “I hope you like roast.”

  “I love roast.”

  She smiled, plucked the meat from the pan to put it on a waiting platter, and then began spooning carrots and potatoes into a serving bowl. As she busied herself making gravy from the meat drippings, she glanced over her shoulder. “And pumpkin tarts. Do you like those?”

  “I like pumpkin pie.”

  “Good. These are little pumpkin pies. I made oodles, and they’re never as good after I freeze them.”

  Isaiah settled back to munch on the apple, sip the wine, and enjoy watching her work. She did everything with an economy of movement, indicating that she not only knew her way around a kitchen, but also enjoyed cooking.

  When she’d set the table and put out the food, he stared incredulously at the side dishes, which included fluffy homemade biscuits. “My God, this is a feast.”

  She dimpled her cheek as she unfolded a dark blue napkin and spread it over her lap. “Crazy, huh? I ate frozen dinners for a while, but that gets old. Now I cook and freeze what I can’t eat. My food bill is huge, and my freezer is crammed. I take stuff to Gram and the people on my street, but I can give away only so much.”

  Isaiah started to dig in. Then he noticed that she’d folded her slender hands and bent her head. He quickly followed suit, feeling like a dunderhead. At home his family always blessed the food at mealtime, but he’d fallen out of the habit.

  “Dear Lord,” she said softly, “thank you for this nice day, and thank you for blessing us with plenty. Amen.”

  “Amen,” he mumbled.

  She glanced up. “I’ll let you slice the meat.”

  Great. His father always did that. Reminding himself that he was a surgeon and could surely handle carving a roast, Isaiah drew the platter toward him. While he applied himself to the task, she dipped some food onto her plate and buttered a biscuit.

  When they had both served themselves, she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t show up at the clinic this morning. After talking to Gram, I just couldn’t.”

  Isaiah searched her beautiful eyes. “I’m not clear on why, Laura. My mom and your grandmother were trying to set us up, and we found them out. I admit that it could be an uncomfortable situation if we allowed it to be, but why should we? Let’s just laugh it off and continue as planned.”

  “I only wanted the job if you thought I’d be good at it,” she said. “For someone like me, that’s very im-portant.”

  “I do think you’ll be good at it.”

  She flicked him a dubious look. “You’re a smart man. You say your mom has done this before. I think you knew all along and were only being kind. There’s nothing wrong with that, mind you. But I can’t take a job I didn’t get on my own merit.”

  So that was it. Isaiah rested his fork on the edge of the plate and leaned back in the chair, which creaked in protest under his shifting weight. “I’m a busy man, Laura. Smart, maybe, but hopelessly absentminded, too. I have way too much on my mind to keep track of my mother’s matchmaking schemes. Maybe I should have known, but I honestly didn’t.”

  She still looked unconvinced.

  “Okay,” he said. “You want the actual truth?”

  She nodded.

  “I never suspected a matchmaking scheme because my mother told me you had brain damage. I pictured a shuffling, overweight lady with blank eyes, a lax mouth, and drool on her chin.” He paused to let that sink in. “Mom has tried to set me up a number of times, but never with anyone like that.”

  Stomach knotted and hands clenched into fists under the table, Isaiah waited for her reaction, half-afraid she might be hurt and burst into tears. Instead her mouth quirked at the corners, and then she giggled. “Drool?”

  Relieved, Isaiah grinned. “Bad of me, right? I shouldn’t stereotype people, but that’s honestly what I expected. When I saw you in my office and realized who you were, I was so surprised—pleasantly so—that I never gave my mother’s motives a thought.”

  “On my chin?”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not all people with brain damage are like that,” she informed him.

  “Intellectually, I knew that,” he confessed, “but I wasn’t wearing my thinking hat or trying to call up clinical images the afternoon she told me about you. I was worried about a sick cow.”

  She tipped her head questioningly. “If you thought my brain damage was that bad, why did you agree to meet with me?”

  Isaiah picked up his wineglass. “Because my mom seldom asks me for a favor. To make her happy, I said I’d interview you. I honestly didn’t believe you’d be able to do the work. But once I met you, I changed my mind.”

  She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “After I got hurt, not being able to talk was only part of the problem. My right arm and leg were almost useless, and I had motor problems.” A faraway look entered her eyes. “When I wasn’t in rehab, my parents had to look after me. When I started to get better and could do some things for myself, I swore I’d get well and never need help again.”

  Isaiah nodded. “Becoming self-reliant wasn’t easy for you, in other words.”

  “No.” Her gaze flicked to his and held. “I had to take it one day at a time. I’m as well now as I’ll ever be.” She gestured at their surroundings. “For this to work, I have to make it on my own. No special favors, not from my parents, not from you, not from any-one. It’s no good, other-wise. I’d only be kidding myself. Do you understand?”

  Isaiah understood better than she knew. His sister, Bethany, had expressed similar concerns after the barrel-racing accident that had paralyzed her from the waist down. I need to do it by myself, she had cried whenever anyone tried to help her. It had been frustrating for everyone in the family. But in the end, her stubbornness had paid off. She’d become self-sufficient, and now she was happily married to a wonderful man and had a normal life.

  “I do understand,” Isaiah replied. “No special favors, Laura. If I didn’t sincerely believe you could do the work, I wouldn’t be here. We desperately need good kennel people. They quit almost as fast as we can train them. I think you’ll do a great job, and I believe you’ll stay, not because you’ll have no other opportunities along the way, but because you’ll really like the animals.”

  She searched his face for a long moment. “All right then,” she finally said. “If that’s really why you gave me the job, I’ll be there in the morning.”

  “That’s really why.”

  She didn’t prompt him to offer her more reassurance. Taking him at his word, she simply resumed eating her meal. Isaiah released a pent-up breath, took a sip of merlot, and reclaimed his fork.

  After taking a few bites, he had to compliment her on the food. “The only time I get to eat like this is when I go home f
or dinner.”

  “What do you eat the rest of the time?”

  “Restaurant fare, TV dinners.” He shrugged. “Sometimes nothing at all. When I get home late, I’m generally too tired to dig something out of the freezer and nuke it. I’d rather go to bed hungry.”

  She shook her head. “You should keep things on hand—cheese, fruit, stuff like that. At least then you could grab something quick and easy.”

  Isaiah shrugged. “I would, but half the time I forget to go shopping.”

  She pushed the platter of meat toward him. “Have some more roast and taters. You’re too thin.”

  Taters. There it was again, her avoidance of words with more than two syllables. Little wonder she talked slowly. It would be difficult enough to learn to speak all over again without constantly having to choose words that were easy to say.

  By the time the meal was over, Isaiah had devoured three large helpings of meat and vegetables, four buttered biscuits, a generous serving of salad, and five little pumpkin pies topped with whipped cream. He was so stuffed that he groaned when he rose from the table.

  “You don’t have to help clean up,” she protested as he began scraping plates.

  “Sure I do.” He glanced up and winked. “After a meal like that, helping with the dishes is the least I can do.”

  They fell into a comfortable silence as they worked. Then the phone rang. Isaiah continued loading the dishwasher while Laura took the call. When she returned to the kitchen, she said, “That was Gram.”

  “My mother’s partner in crime?”

  She rolled her eyes and nodded. “I’d like to stay mad at her for a while, but she makes it hard.”

  “More like impossible, if she’s anything like my mom.” Isaiah ran a plate under the faucet before sticking it in the rack. “ ‘I’m so sorry, Isaiah,’ ” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “ ’Please, please, please forgive me. I’ll never do it again.’ After about six phone calls, I finally caved.”

  “Do you think she’ll keep her promise?”

  “To never do it again, you mean?” Isaiah considered the question. “Heck, no.” He flashed a quick grin. “But at least her taste has improved.”