Читать книгу Return to Rosewood - Bonnie Winn K. - Страница 10

By late afternoon, Bret had left the nursery in Peter’s less-than-capable hands. Not that he wanted to, but he needed to make his daily run to his parents’ home to check on his father.

Robert’s health had been delicate since his heart transplant. So much so that he’d retired when Bret graduated from Texas A&M. Over the years, Bret had transformed the old family nursery. Robert had approved of the changes, understanding the need to grow native species that didn’t require watering. Not that Robert wanted to stop selling traditional bedding plants, too.

And although he couldn’t work at the nursery any longer, Robert kept busy growing orchids, a process as delicate as his health.

Bret quickly walked up the weathered brick driveway, nearing the garage, which was actually an old carriage house. It went with the age of the house, which had been built around the turn of the last century. It wasn’t a fancy house, but one that always said home. Welcoming, warm, comforting. Thick ivy grew up the brick exterior, framing the front door, outlining the windows, wrapping the house in a protective green layer. Each flower bed was laid out with loving care so that something bloomed most all year.

Bret passed beneath heirloom roses that climbed the arched trellis leading to the backyard. The glass greenhouse where he was headed was nearly as old as the house. His parents said it had been a deciding factor when they’d purchased the house. The Victorian greenhouse had fallen into disrepair with the previous owners, but his parents, then young and healthy, had lovingly restored the building.

The arid conditions in the Hill Country weren’t a good match for Robert’s exotic orchids, but the greenhouse was equipped with steam-driven humidity. Back in the early 1900s, the lady of the house no doubt had kept her most treasured plants in the large, adjacent conservatory.

Bret paused, glancing at the huge old magnolia tree that shaded the back porch. Dinner-plate-sized blossoms nestled amidst glossy, deep-green leaves, perfuming the entire yard.

Hearing his father humming, Bret stepped into the moist air of the greenhouse. “Hey, Dad.”

“Bret!” Pleasure filled his father’s voice. Then he looked closely at his son. “Something wrong?”

“I must be completely transparent.” Bret dropped on a stool near his father.

“It’s a parent thing.” Robert laid down his pruning shears, then pulled off his gloves.

“Samantha’s back in town.”

Eyebrows lifted, Robert pursed his lips. “Been awhile.”

“Yeah.” Bret hooked one boot over the stool’s railing.

“Something special bring her home?”

“She had a bad accident. Her legs are paralyzed.”

Shocked, Robert stared at him. “Permanently?”

Bret shrugged. “She thinks so.”

“Her parents must be frantic.”

“They don’t know she’s here.” He explained Sam’s reasoning. “Sam knows they’ll find out. She’s just hoping to put it off for awhile.”

Robert scrunched his brow in concentration. “I saw something in the paper about a grease fire at the Shaw home. Nothing about Sam in the article, though.”

“That’s because she was already in the Carruthers house by the time the kid from the paper came to take pictures. And the neighbors repeated what Sam had said about it being a small fire.”

“Hmm.”

“She didn’t even have a ramp put in. Lucky she didn’t roast herself.”

Concern etched deeper lines in Robert’s face. “Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing today, making sure…building a ramp, putting in threshold adapters.”

Robert waited.

“I’m going to talk to Matt Whitaker. See if he’ll build some new cabinets—try and replicate the originals. That, and round up some more volunteers.”

“Wish I were stronger. I’d help.”

Despite everything his dad had endured, he still reached out to help others. He donated his prized orchids to be auctioned off for charity, supplied cut flowers to the church for Sunday services. And he never felt sorry for himself. Something Sam needed to learn. “You help, Dad. Listening.” Exhaling, Bret flipped his keys.

“Something else, son?”

“Peter. Put him on probation today.”

Robert frowned. He hadn’t been happy that employees who had been with him since the start of the business had retired, but he’d understood. “That boy doesn’t belong in a position where he deals with people.”

“I know. Maybe I can find someone else. Budget’s still tighter than a bale of cotton.”

“I hadn’t wanted to say anything, with all you’ve got on your plate, but Herb got laid off.”

“When?”

“Last week. Your mother and sister insist on sounding positive all the time about how he’ll get another job. I guess they’re afraid I’ll wilt under the strain.”

Herb, Bret’s brother-in-law, had worked for an independent oil man, heading the local office. “How are they going to manage the office without Herb?”

“They’re not. Decided to close it, consolidate it with operations in East Texas.”

While Rosewood was a wonderful place to live, a mecca of new jobs it wasn’t. “Do you think Herb would want to work at the nursery? I know it’s not as high-tech as what he’s used to, but maybe it would help in the interim.”

“You just said the budget’s—”

“Herb’s family. How are Janie and the kids going to make it without his income? It’d be a cut in salary, but more than unemployment. And, maybe, if he’s around, it’ll light a fire under Peter.”

“A tanker full of gasoline wouldn’t do that.”

They both laughed.

“Or Peter might get mad enough to quit.” Bret shook his head. “Of course, knowing Peter, he’ll stay on just to get under my skin.”

Herb and Janie’s small house sat on the end of a quiet lane. His sister had the family green thumb and their yard was the prettiest on the street.

He rang the bell. The sounds of his niece and nephews running and shrieking poured out when Janie swung open the door.

“Wow. You never come at dinner time. What’s up?”

Sibling shorthand made it easy for them to get straight to the point.

“Don’t want to eat. Thanks anyway. Herb around?”

“He’s out back.” Janie frowned. “Something wrong?”

“Yep. You could have told me about his job.”

Her face fell. “We didn’t want to worry you.”

“First Dad, now me?”

She trailed him as far as the kitchen. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

The conciliatory gesture made him smile. Especially since Janie hated cooking.

Out back he found Herb trimming the already precisely edged shrubs lining the back fence.

“Hey.”

Seeing that it was Bret, Herb smiled. “Not like you to brave the rugrats during the week.”

“Actually came to see you.”

Herb gestured to the padded lawn chairs surrounding a wide, planked table. “What’s up?”

“Hoping you can help me out.” Bret outlined Peter’s behavior the last few months, ending with the disastrous morning. “So I’m wondering if you’re interested in working at the nursery.”

Herb’s expression was knowing. “A pity job to keep me employed?”

“Nope. I know it’s not ideal for you. And I’d expect you to keep on looking for something better—something like you’re used to. And no problems if you find a job and have to leave without notice. But I almost fired Peter today, which would leave me with no one. I probably shouldn’t have let him off with probation. I’m really hoping he’ll quit.”

Herb rubbed his forehead, pushing back short, light hair. “If it’s really not a pity offer, I’m grateful for the work.”

“Can you start tomorrow?”

“You are serious.”

“Peter’s good with the plants. But he treats people like they’re just another root vegetable. With the falloff in business, I need someone who’s good with the customers, especially to push our living Christmas trees. We’ve been setting them up for seniors—bringing them in, taking them out after the holidays. Now, I’m thinking we ought to make the same offer to any customers. It’s not just for business. You know how I feel about living Christmas trees.”

Herb grinned. “One less tree needlessly chopped down.”

“I’ll meet you there at eight.” Bret thought about the breakfast he needed to bring over to Sam. “Make that eight-thirty. Peter should have the nursery open by then, but I’m not counting on it.”

“Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

Bret grinned. “The way Janie was waving that spatula at the kids, I’m sure it’ll be a gourmet feast, but I’ll pass.”

“Coward.”

“You betcha.”

“Hey, Bret.” Herb’s gaze turned soberly sincere. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

The next morning Bret took a critical look at the crude porch ramp at Sam’s house. It wasn’t very attractive, but it was sturdy. The temporary threshold adapter he’d fashioned out of a few pieces of wood worked. And it would do until the one he’d ordered from the hardware store arrived.

He rang the bell, then tried the door. Since it was unlocked, he walked in. “Sam? I’ve got your breakfast.”

Dropping the breakfast on the dining room table, he headed into the kitchen. Wasn’t any easier to look at.

Charred black, the remains of the cabinets no longer resembled their original design. He could replace them with something easy that wasn’t nearly as beautiful, but he was fond of Sam’s parents. When he and Sam had dated, they’d treated him like a son. And they were always kind when he saw them at church, or anywhere in town. He sensed they felt guilty about the way Sam had ended the engagement.

Rolling toward the table, she looked at him tentatively when he walked back into the dining room.

“Do you know if your parents have any pictures taken in the kitchen?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Sam glanced at the ignored food. “I imagine there are some pictures. We always had lots of suppers at the kitchen table.”

“Where do you think the pictures are?”

“Um. Good question.” She turned toward the built-in bookcases flanking the tall, wide fireplace, craning her head to see. “Mom has some albums there.”

Knowing she couldn’t reach that high, Bret searched the shelves.

“The leather-bound album to your right,” Sam directed. “That one should be full of pictures.”

He pulled the volume down, then carried it to the dining room table. “Let’s take a look.”

Although Sam wasn’t accustomed to navigating her wheelchair, after a few tries she got in place at the table. Bret picked up one of the dining room chairs and placed it next to her. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

As the pages of the book turned, the years fell away. Shots of Sam’s family were bittersweet memories. Many of the photos captured the closeness of brother and sister.

Sam gently touched a picture of Andy standing alone, proudly showing off his Eagle Scout award.

Bret swallowed. Andy had been an example to him as well. Three years older than he and Sam, Andy had been the golden boy, destined to do good. From early on, Andy knew he wanted to be a teacher so that he could improve the fates of underprivileged kids. While in high school, he’d volunteered for a summer in Africa. He fell in love with the land and its people. He decided to return, to build a school and make sure “his” kids had better lives. But five years earlier, a doomed flight during a monsoon had ended his life and his dreams. Until his parents stepped in to make them happen.

Glancing surreptitiously at Sam, he swallowed.

Head down, hands covering her cheeks, she was trying to hide her tears.

Remnants of feelings he’d long put aside stirred. Despite them, he couldn’t abandon her. Not until she recovered her once unstoppable tenacity. Then he could walk away, forget she’d returned.

Bret turned a page—to a photo of himself and Sam at college graduation with grins as wide as the state of Texas. The picture hit him like a fist to the gut. Back then, full of youthful optimism, he’d been sure she would reconsider leaving Rosewood. He’d believed it until she boarded the bus out of town.

“Were we ever that young?” she asked in a quiet voice.

Bret knew he couldn’t give in to his own emotions. “We’re not exactly approaching Methuselah time.”

Sam laughed, a humorless, brittle sound.

Silence blared between them. Feeling the tension in every muscle, Bret flipped another page in the album. The lone sound of it turning echoed. Unwilling to look at Sam, he studied the photos, then turned another page. And saw a picture taken in the kitchen. “Here’s one.” He tapped the photo. “We can get this enlarged for detail. It’s a good angle on the cabinets.”

She looked down. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And you’re right. I can’t expect people I haven’t seen in years to help me. It’s a massive project and—”

“Did your parents have any renovations done since this picture?”

“I don’t think so.” Distracted, she shook her head. “Mom was always talking about upgrading, but she didn’t want to lose her cabinets.”

Sitting close to Sam, he felt the brush of her arm, the accidental graze of her hands as she reached for the album. Not moving, his gaze slid sideways. Her creamy ivory skin was just as he remembered. And the way her dark hair fell forward, just brushing her cheek. Wanting to sweep it back, to feel the softness of her cheek, he stood up abruptly.

As soon as possible, he’d hand over the responsibility for the kitchen to someone in her family. They could find the volunteers, get the renovations going. Without worrying what Sam’s presence would do to them.

Startled by his sudden movement, Sam looked up at him.

Bret paced the floor, deliberately not looking at her. “I’ve talked to Matt Whitaker. He’s agreed to work on the cabinets.” Matt was a local artisan who designed furniture and other works of wood so remarkable he had a national following.

“His work is beautiful,” she agreed. “But since he’s become famous—”

“Nobody in Rosewood gets so famous they can’t help a neighbor.”

She swallowed.

Making himself study the photo and not Sam, Bret held it up to the light. “So, what did your mother not want that’s in the kitchen now?”

“A fire.”

Her wit had always captivated him. Nearly as much as the way her blue eyes could deepen, then capture him and not let go.

“Bret?”

He brought himself back to the planet with a jerk. “Yeah. Um, she still want a table in there or something more modern like an island?”

Samantha pushed the midnight-colored hair from her forehead. “She said something about updating, modernizing the kitchen, but not losing the integrity of the house’s time period. I know she wants a refrigerator that doesn’t stick out any farther than the counters and a bigger stove in an alcove sort of thing.”

Bret glanced at the destroyed appliances. “I think we can work new ones into the plan.”

“Seems like she had some magazines set aside with pictures of what she likes…”

Resisting an urge to look through the entire photo album and find more pictures of himself and Sam together, he dropped the photo on the table. “I’ve got to get over to the nursery.”

She looked confused. “But your breakfast…”

He grabbed the container. “I’ve got a new employee starting today—my brother-in-law, Herb. Can’t keep him waiting.”

“Well—”

“I’ll try to get by this evening to wreck out some of the kitchen.”

“Okay, I’ll—”

Fleeing, Bret didn’t wait to hear her reply. From the disquieting trickle of sweat traveling down his back, he knew he didn’t dare.