Читать книгу A Question Of Love - Elizabeth Sinclair - Страница 13

The rumble of his truck’s motor filled Matt’s ears, but the noise couldn’t block out the childhood memories tripping through his mind. Memories that had begun buffeting him the minute he’d pulled into the driveway of his former home. Gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, he stared at the weathered building that had haunted him for seven years.

The ghosts had assembled like a ghoulish welcoming party. The dogwood tree he and his mother had planted on his fifth birthday. The porch swing where he’d presented that handmade tie rack to his father, who had merely grunted and set it aside, reaching for the Giants tickets Matt’s older brother, Jamie, had given him.

Matt managed to combat most of them, but one persisted. Before him, as if projected on the landscape by an invisible camera, his father and he stood on the lawn. His father threw a baseball, and Matt strained to catch it in the oversize mitt. He missed.

“Put your glove in front of you. Remember the way Jamie taught you? You can do it,” his father had instructed in a gruff and impatient voice.

“I’m trying,” Matt had replied.

“You’re not trying hard enough. Don’t be afraid of the ball.”

Holding the glove exactly as he remembered Jamie had instructed him, he waited for his father’s pitch and put every ounce of effort he had into catching the ball. Again he missed. He could still hear his father’s words as he’d thrown his mitt to the ground, glared at his young son and then stalked off in disgust. “You’re not even trying. You’re never going to be able to do it if you don’t concentrate.”

What Matt heard was You’ll never be your brother.

No one had to tell him he’d never take the place of the older brother he’d loved and admired, sometimes hated and envied, and missed to this day. In an effort to fill the gaping, empty spot in Kevin Logan’s heart, Matt had lived through a repetition of that day, trying against all odds to live up to his father’s expectations. But Matt had been fighting a losing battle. No matter how much he wanted to please his father, he would never be his brother. Finally, he’d just stopped trying.

With a heavy sigh, Matt reminded himself of his vow not to let the past ruin his homecoming. He climbed down from the truck, then headed toward the one place that had brought him the small measure of true happiness he’d known as a kid—his mother’s greenhouse. As he made his way toward the back of the house, tall weeds snagged at his jean legs, leaving dried burrs clinging to the material. A rabbit scurrying from the recesses of the vine-covered woodpile startled Matt, then hurried out of his way.

As he neared the rear of the house, the annoying racket of a machine coughing and sputtering to life shattered the silence. Curious, Matt slowed his pace and peeked around the corner. The back lawn spread out before him, mowed and neatly trimmed. A portly man in bib overalls guided a gas-powered weed-whacker around the foundation of the small greenhouse, its recently cleaned glass glittering in the morning sun.

Matt studied the man’s stooped body. When he’d paid the back taxes, not an hour ago, the clerk had told him the house belonged to him. So who was this guy?

Just as Matt opened his mouth to call to the man, the weed-whacker went silent. The man turned. His ruddy face, half hidden beneath a Yankees baseball cap, broke into a broad grin. Matt immediately recognized Sam Thatcher, his neighbor and old friend.

“Matt, my boy. When they told me you was comin’ home, I couldn’t believe it. I figured I’d be dead and buried before you showed your face around here again.” He propped the weed-whacker against the side of the house, then extended his thick hand. His smile melting into a serious expression, he stared deep into Matt’s eyes. “How you been, boy?”

Matt grinned and took the offered hand, gripped it firmly, then shook it. “I’m fine, Sam, but what on earth are you doing?” He gestured around at the mowed lawn.

The older man adjusted the cap on his bald head. “Oh, you know Alma. Soon as she heard from Mildred Henderson that you was back, she insisted I come over and start gettin’ the place tidied up for you.” He glanced around at his handiwork. “Even though I had my doubts, Alma always said your roots were here and, when you got the itch outta your shoes, you’d make for home.” He removed the cap, scratched his bald spot, shook his head, then set the cap back in place. “In over forty-six years, she’s never been wrong. Makes a man damned uncomfortable to live with a woman who’s right all the time.”

He grinned, telling Matt what he already knew: Sam loved his wife and wouldn’t change a hair on her head. A pang of envy coursed through Matt, then disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Content to let Sam talk, Matt allowed pleasant memories to wash over him, memories of sitting in Alma’s fragrant kitchen on a cold day, drinking hot chocolate and eating her oatmeal cookies. Memories of the Thatchers’ good-natured bickering. Memories of the love they shared with every glance.

The Thatchers had never had children and had more or less adopted every kid they came in contact with, no matter who. A couple of cookies and a glass of milk or a cup of hot chocolate had always been readily available at the Thatcher house. While the kid enjoyed the repast, Alma had handed out large doses of her wisdom and love.

Matt had spent a lot of hours at their kitchen table, wondering what his life would have been like if he’d been born to these gentle, loving people instead of to Lois and Kevin Logan. Now he wondered if he’d ever know the love and happiness the Thatchers shared.

“Greenhouse needs some glass replaced, but for the most part, it’s just like your mama left it.” Sam’s voice cut through Matt’s musings. “What do you plan on doin’ with it?”

Matt’s gaze drifted to the greenhouse. “I’m not sure. I’ve got a couple of ideas, but nothing definite yet.”

Sam patted his arm. “Well, whatever it is, the missus and I are behind you all the way, and we just know you’ll do good.”

Rather than making him feel good, Sam’s confidence in Matt served to underline once more how little faith his own father had had in him.

“Matthew Logan! Bless my soul. Is that you?”

A woman’s excited, high-pitched voice drew their attention. Hurrying through the overgrown grass separating Matt’s house from the Thatchers’, a woman in a pale pink dress and a matching pillbox hat headed toward them. He didn’t need to see her face to know it was Alma Thatcher. She drew close, then stopped. Clutching her hands to her heaving breast, she stared up at Matt.

“My word, Matthew, but you did grow up nice.” Then, before Matt could respond, she launched herself at him, wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. Tears gathered in her sparkling blue eyes. “Good to have you home. This house has been empty far too long. It needs a family in it.” She stepped back a little and glanced around, as if looking for that family.

Grinning, Matt squeezed her hands. “Well, the family part is going to have to wait a bit.” Suddenly, an image of Honey and Danny filled his mind. He shook it away.

“Everything in good time.” She turned to her husband. “Sam, your lunch is ready, and I’m late for my book club meeting. You best get yourself over to the house before the cat eats your tuna sandwich.”

“No need nagging, woman, I’m going.” Sam tempered his words with a kiss to his wife’s rosy cheek, then turned to Matt. “Nice to have you back, boy. Now, don’t forget to drop in on us, when you got the time. I’ll be back later to finish up this yard for you.”

Knowing it wouldn’t do any good to protest Sam’s offer, Matt merely nodded. “I’ll do that, Sam, and thanks for doing the lawn.”

“Pshaw!” Without turning back, Sam acknowledged Matt’s words with a wave of his hand, then started across the yard, dragging the weed-whacker behind him.

“I’ll be along in a minute, Sam,” Alma called after him, then turned back to Matt and studied him for a moment.

Matt avoided the questions he saw in her face by moving his gaze back to the greenhouse. Alma came to stand beside him. The scent of Roses in May perfume drifted up to him on a soft breeze. He’d bought her a bottle of it for her birthday the year he’d left Bristol. The scent anchored him to this place more than anything else could have.

The silence stretched out, then Alma laid her hand on his arm. “Anger’s like a weed in a garden. If you let it grow, pretty soon it chokes out the love. If you’re going to be settling here and you plan on being happy, Matthew, you must let go of the anger and the hurt.”

Frowning in confusion, he let his gaze rest for a few moments more on his mother’s greenhouse. He turned to ask Alma what she meant, but her surprisingly quick step had already carried her across the lawn and out of earshot.

HONEY FOUND HERSELF driving down Thatcher Lane. That wasn’t what the county maps called it, but everyone had known it as Thatcher Lane for so long, she wasn’t sure anyone remembered the real name. She hadn’t been in this part of town for a long time and, truth be known, she wasn’t sure why she was here now.

Then she saw Matt’s black truck parked in the driveway of his old house. Had she come here intentionally hoping to see him? She shook her head and started to push harder on the accelerator, determined to pass the house and head for home. But seemingly of its own free will, her foot hit the brake, slowing the car, allowing it to veer off the paved road and into the gravel drive, stopping within inches of Matt’s back bumper.

Now, what?

Playing for time, she stared at Matt’s house. Rundown and badly in need of some TLC, it hadn’t really changed much. Nor had its effect on her. The warm feeling she’d known as a young girl came rushing back. For reasons she could never explain, the house had always called to her, beckoning with a warmth her own home had never offered.