Читать книгу Baby Talk and Wedding Bells - Brenda Harlen, Brenda Harlen - Страница 11

Chapter Four

When Cassie left work later that afternoon, she headed to Serenity Gardens to visit Irene Houlahan. Almost three years earlier, the former librarian had slipped and fallen down her basement stairs, a nasty tumble that resulted in a broken collarbone and femur and forced her to sell her two-story home and move into the assisted-living facility for seniors.

The septuagenarian had never married, had no children and no family in Charisma, but once upon a time, she’d changed Cassie’s life. No, she’d done more than change her life—she’d saved it. And Cassie knew that she’d never be able to repay the woman who was so much more to her than a friend and mentor.

Since Irene had taken up residence at Serenity Gardens, Cassie had visited her two or three times a week. The move had been good for Irene, who was now surrounded by contemporaries who encouraged her to take part in various social activities on the property. And then, just after the New Year, Jerry Riordan had moved in across the hall.

His arrival had generated a fair amount of buzz among the residents and staff, and Cassie had overheard enough to know that he was seventy-two years old, a retired civil engineer and widower with three children and eight grandchildren, all of whom lived out of state. He was close to six feet tall, slender of build and apparently in possession of all of his own teeth, which made him the object of much female admiration within the residence.

But far more interesting to Cassie was her discovery that the newest resident of the fifth floor was spending a fair amount of time with the retired librarian. One day when Cassie was visiting, she’d asked Irene about her history with Jerry. Her friend had ignored the question, instead instructing Cassie to find To Kill a Mockingbird on her shelf. Of course, the woman’s personal library was as ruthlessly organized as the public facility, so Cassie found it easily—an old and obviously much-read volume with a dust jacket curling at the edges.

“You’ve obviously had this a very long time.”

“A lot more years than you’ve been alive,” Irene acknowledged.

Cassie opened the cover to check the copyright page, but her attention was caught by writing inside the front cover. Knowing that her friend would never deface a work of art—and books undoubtedly fit that description—the bold strokes of ink snagged her attention.

Irene held out her hand. “The book.”

The impatience in her tone didn’t stop Cassie from taking a quick peek at the inscription:

To Irene—who embodies all the best characteristics of Scout, Jem and Dill. One day you will be the heroine of your own adventures, but for now, I hope you enjoy their story.

Happy Birthday,

Jerry

She closed the cover and looked at her friend. “Jerry—as in Jerry Riordan?”

“Did someone mention my name?” the man asked from the doorway.

“Were your ears burning?” Irene snapped at him.

Jerry shrugged. “Might have been—my hearing’s not quite what it used to be.” Then he spotted the volume in Cassie’s hand and his pale blue eyes lit up. “Well, that book is familiar.”

“There are more than thirty million copies of it in print,” Irene pointed out.

“And that looks like the same copy I gave to you for your fourteenth birthday,” he said.

“Probably because it is,” she acknowledged, finally abandoning any pretense of faulty memory.

“I can’t believe you still have it,” Jerry said, speaking so softly it was almost as if he was talking to himself.

“It’s one of my favorite books,” she said. “Why would I get rid of it?”

“Over the years, things have a tendency to go missing or be forgotten.”

“Maybe by some people,” the old woman said pointedly.

“I never forgot you, Irene,” Jerry assured her.

Cassie continued to stand beside the bookcase, wondering if she was actually invisible or just felt that way. She didn’t mind being ignored and she had no intention of interrupting what was—judging by the unfamiliar flush in her friend’s usually pale cheeks—a deeply personal moment.

Years ago, when Cassie had asked Irene why she’d never married, the older woman had snapped that it wasn’t a conscious choice to be alone—that sometimes the right man found the right woman in someone else. Of course, Cassie hadn’t known what she meant at the time, and Irene had refused to answer any more questions on the subject. Watching her friend with Jerry now, she thought she finally understood.

“Are you going to sit down and read the book or just stand there?” Irene finally asked her.

Cassie knew her too well to be offended by the brusque tone. “I was just waiting for the two of you to finish your stroll down memory lane,” she responded lightly.

“I don’t stroll anywhere with six pins in my leg and I wouldn’t stroll with him even if I could,” Irene said primly.

“Thankfully, it’s just your leg and not your arms that are weak,” Jerry teased. “Otherwise you’d have trouble holding on to that grudge.”

Cassie fought against a smile as she settled back into a wing chair, turned to the first page and began reading while Jerry lowered himself onto the opposite end of the sofa from Irene.

She read three chapters before she was interrupted by voices in the hall as the residents started to make their way to the activity room for Beach Party Bingo. Irene professed to despise bingo but she was fond of the fruit skewers and virgin coladas they served to go with the beach party theme.

When Cassie glanced up, she noted that Jerry had shifted on the sofa so that he was sitting closer to Irene now. Not so close that she could find his ribs with a sharp elbow if the mood struck her to do so, but definitely much closer. Apparently the man still had some moves—and he was making them on her friend.

“I think that’s a good place to stop for today,” she decided, sliding a bookmark between the pages.

“Thank you for the visit,” Irene said, as she always did.

Cassie, too, gave her usual response. “It was my pleasure.”

She set the book down on the coffee table, then touched her lips to her friend’s soft, wrinkled cheek.

Irene waved her away, uncomfortable with the display of affection.

“What about me?” Jerry said, tapping his cheek with an arthritic finger. “I’d never wave off a kiss from a pretty girl.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Irene muttered under her breath.

Cassie kissed his cheek, too. “Good night, Mr. Riordan. I’ll see you on Friday, Irene.”

“There’s a trip to Noah’s Landing on Friday,” her friend said. “We’re not scheduled to be back until dinnertime.”

“Then I’ll come Friday night,” Cassie offered.

“That’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Jerry protested. “You can’t ask a beautiful young woman to spend her Friday night hanging out with a bunch of grumpy old folks.”

“I didn’t ask, Cassandra offered,” Irene pointed out. “And she comes to visit me, not any other grumpy old folks who decide to wander into my room uninvited.”

“Well, I’m sure Cassandra has better things to do on a Friday night,” he said, glancing at Cassie expectantly.

“Actually, I don’t have any plans,” she admitted.

He scowled. “You don’t have a date?”

She shook her head.

“What’s wrong with the young men in this town?” Jerry wondered.

“They’re as shortsighted and thickheaded now as they were fifty years ago,” Irene told him.

“And on that note,” Cassie said, inching toward the door.

“I’ll see you in a few days,” Irene said.

“Don’t come on Friday,” Jerry called out to her. “I’m going to keep Irene busy at the cribbage board.”

“I have cataracts,” she protested.

“And I have a deck of cards with large print numbers.”

Cassie left them bickering, happy to know that her friend had a new beau to fill some of her quiet hours. And eager to believe that if romance was in the air for Irene, maybe it wasn’t too late for her, either.

Of course, if she wanted to fall in love, she’d have to be willing to open up her heart again, and that was a step she wasn’t sure she was ready to take. Because what she’d told Braden about her struggles with chemistry was only partly true. About half of her experiments had fizzled into nothingness—the other half had flared so bright and hot, she’d ended up getting burned. And she simply wasn’t willing to play with fire again.

* * *

While Braden wouldn’t trade his baby girl for anything in the world, there were times when he would willingly sacrifice a limb for eight consecutive hours of sleep.

“Come on, Saige,” he said wearily. “It’s two a.m. That’s not play time—it’s sleep time.”

“Wound an’ wound,” she said, clapping her hands.

He reached into her crib for her favorite toy—a stuffed sock monkey that had been a gift from her birth mother—and gave it to Saige. “Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.”

She immediately grabbed the monkey’s arm and cuddled it close. Then she tipped her head back to look at him, and when she smiled, he gave in with a sigh. “You know just how to wrap me around your finger, don’t you?”

“Da-da,” she said.

He touched his lips to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her baby shampoo.

She was the baby he and Dana had been wanting for most of their six-year marriage, the child they’d almost given up hope of ever having. In the last few weeks leading up to her birth, they’d finally, cautiously, started to transform one of the spare bedrooms into a nursery. They’d hung a mobile over the crib, put tiny little onesies and sleepers in the dresser, and stocked up on diapers and formula.

At the same time, they’d both been a little hesitant to believe that this time, finally, their dream of having a child would come true. Because they were aware that the birth mother could decide, at the last minute, to keep her baby. And they knew that, if she did, they couldn’t blame her.

But Lindsay Benson had been adamant. She wanted a better life for her baby than to be raised by a single mother who hadn’t yet graduated from college. She wanted her daughter to have a real family with two parents who would care for her and love her and who could afford to give her not just the necessities of life but some extras, too.

Within a few weeks, Braden had begun to suspect that he and Dana wouldn’t be that family. For some reason that he couldn’t begin to fathom—or maybe didn’t want to admit—his wife wasn’t able to bond with the baby. Every time Saige cried, Dana pushed the baby at him, claiming that she had a headache. Every time Saige needed a bottle or diaper change, Dana was busy doing something else. Every time Saige woke up in the middle of the night, Dana pretended not to hear her.

Yes, he’d seen the signs, but he’d still been optimistic that she would come around. That she just needed some more time. She’d suffered so much disappointment over the years, he was certain it was her lingering fear of losing the child they’d wanted so much that was holding her back. He refused to consider that Dana might be unhappy because their adopted daughter was so obviously not their biological child.

Then, when Saige was six weeks old, Dana made her big announcement: she didn’t really want to be a mother or a wife. She told him that she’d found an apartment and would be moving out at the end of March. Oh, and she needed a check to cover first and last month’s rent.

And Braden, fool that he was, gave it to her. Because they’d been married for six years and he honestly hoped that the separation would only be a temporary measure, that after a few months—or hopefully even sooner—she would want to come home to her husband and daughter. Except that a few weeks later, she’d died when her car was T-boned by a semi that blew through a red light.

He hadn’t told anyone that Dana was planning to leave him. He’d been blindsided by the announcement, embarrassed that he hadn’t been able to hold his marriage together. As a result, while his family tried to be supportive, no one could possibly understand how complicated and convoluted his emotions were.

He did grieve—for the life he’d imagined they might have together, and for his daughter, who had lost another mother. But he was also grateful that he had Saige—her innocent smile and joyful laugh were the sunshine in his days.

If he had any regrets, it was that his little girl didn’t have a mother. Her own had given her up so that she could have a real family with two parents. That dream hadn’t even lasted three months. Now it was just the two of them.

“Well, the two of us and about a thousand other Garretts,” he said to his little girl. “And everyone loves you, so maybe I should stop worrying that you don’t have a Mommy.”

“Ma-ma,” Saige said.

And despite Braden’s recent assertion, he sighed. “You’ve been listening to your grandma, haven’t you?”

“Ga-ma.”

“You’ll see Grandma tomorrow—no,” he amended, glancing at his watch. “In just a few hours now.”

She smiled again.

“And I bet you’ll have another three-hour nap for her, won’t you?”

“Choo-choo.”

“After she takes you to the library to play with the trains,” he confirmed.

She clapped her hands together again, clearly thrilled with his responses to her questions.

Of course, thinking about the library made him think about Cassie. And thinking about Cassie made him want Cassie.

The physical attraction was unexpected but not unwelcome. If anything, his feelings for the librarian reassured him that, despite being a widower and single father, he was still a man with the usual wants and needs.

Unfortunately, Cassie didn’t seem like the kind of woman to indulge in a no-strings affair, and he wasn’t prepared to offer any more than that.

* * *

Cassie had updated the bulletin board in the children’s section to suggest Spring into a Good Book and was pinning cardboard flowers to the board when Stacey found her.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” her friend and coworker said.

“Is there a problem?”

“Nothing aside from the fact that I’m dying to hear all of the details about your hottie,” Stacey admitted.

“Who?”

“Don’t play that game with me,” the other woman chided. “Megan told me you went for coffee with a new guy yesterday.”

Cassie acknowledged that with a short nod. “Braden Garrett.”

“As in the Garrett Furniture Garretts?”

She nodded.

“Not just hot but rich,” Stacey noted. “Does this mean you’ve decided to end your dating hiatus?”

“Not with Braden Garrett,” she said firmly.

“Because hot and rich men aren’t your type?” her friend asked, disbelief evident in her tone.

“Because arrogant and insulting men aren’t my type,” Cassie clarified, as she added some fluffy white clouds to the blue sky.

“Which button of yours did he push?” Stacey asked, absently rubbing a hand over her pregnant belly.

“He asked if this was my real job.”

“Ouch. Okay, so he’s an idiot,” her coworker agreed. “But still—” she held out her hands as if balancing scales “—a hot and rich idiot.”

“And then he apologized,” she admitted.

“So points for that,” Stacey said.

“Maybe,” Cassie allowed. “He also told me he’s attracted to me.”

“Gotta love a guy who tells it like it is.”

“Maybe,” she said again.

Stacey frowned at her noncommittal response. “Are you not attracted to him?”

“A woman would have to be dead not to be attracted to him,” she acknowledged. “But he’s also a widower with a child.”

“And you love kids,” her friend noted.

“I do.” And it was her deepest desire to be a mother someday. “But I don’t want to get involved in another relationship with someone who might not actually be interested in me but is only looking for a substitute wife.”

“You’re not going to be any kind of wife if you don’t start dating again,” Stacey pointed out to her.

“I’m not opposed to dating,” she denied. “I’m just not going to date Braden Garrett.”