Читать книгу Operation Soldier Next Door - Justine Davis - Страница 16

Chapter 8

Lacy stirred the sauce, her nose telling her she had the blend close to right. She wondered if it needed a bit more basil, so she lifted out a tiny bit in the spoon. She blew on it to cool the hot sauce, then took a careful taste.

“Nope,” she said aloud, happy she’d hit the balance right off the bat. Everything had come together as planned, flavor and timing, and the afternoon-long project was done.

And this time she would put the portion for her neighbor in a storage container, one he could just throw away when he was done, since the pot had apparently caused too much trouble.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. He had his reasons for being less than sociable. He’d come here for peace and quiet and had gotten little of either so far. She would drop this off and then leave him alone. This would fulfill her ingrained instinct to help a neighbor—strengthened immeasurably by the fact that he was a wounded veteran—going through a rough patch.

Once the sauce was cooled, she portioned it out into containers, including one for next door, leaving some in the pot for her own dinner tonight. She limited her intake of her favorite pasta dish because it spiked the number on her scale if she went overboard. And although it would taste even better after it sat and the flavors mingled, the making of it had whetted her appetite and she couldn’t resist.

She’d just leave the sauce on his doorstep with a note, except she wasn’t sure how long it would take him to find it. So she would take it over, hand it off and leave quickly without bothering him too much.

She hoped.

And then she would spend what was left of this lovely, warm, late spring day in her garden, catching up on tasks she’d put off when the quiet had been so severely ruptured Monday morning. And tonight she would finish up her study plan for the book she had chosen for her newest student. After chatting online with the boy for nearly an hour last week, she’d picked a newly released story about a boy whose fascination with a world-building video game led him into a fantastical place where his game expertise had turned him into a hero. She had a good list of questions she hoped would result in her student reading more carefully, which would spark thoughts of his own.

When she stepped outside, the still-warm container in hand, she heard the whine of a power tool coming from the back of Martin’s house. His grandson was clearly determined to get the damage repaired quickly.

And just as determined, it seemed, to do most of it himself.

As she picked her way across the yard, she wondered if that was because he wanted to or couldn’t afford to do it otherwise. But he was surely going to have to have roofers and such come in, so perhaps that was where money was going. Martin had said he was leaving his grandson everything, including what money he had saved, but he couldn’t have foreseen anything like this. Either way, Tate clearly had no hesitation about diving in. It was clear he was used to tackling things himself, which she would have expected since he was—

Her breath jammed up in her throat as she rounded the corner of the house. He was there, all right, leaning into the damaged wall with some sort of long, narrow power saw, lit up by the afternoon sun shafting through the trees. And wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans, lace-up boots and a serious-looking black watch.

He hadn’t heard her over the sound of the saw so she had a chance to just look as she tried to regain her equilibrium. It made no sense, really; she’d certainly seen this much and more of him the night of the explosion when he’d been propelled outside in just boxers. But somehow it was different, seeing him like this, working, a slight sheen of sweat on his skin from the work and the warmth, the muscles of his arms and back and ridged abdomen all involved in the effort.

A sizable wood chip flew out from the cut he was making, and only then did she notice he also had on sunglasses, a wise bit of protection given that piece bounced off the side of his face. He barely flinched, she noticed. She probably would have dropped the saw on her foot and done untold damage, she thought wryly.

Stop gawking at him, she ordered silently. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself, then started to walk forward again.

The sound of the saw stopped. His head snapped around at her first step. She noted the instant the tension faded as he saw her, recognized her. He put down the saw, reached down and picked something up from the ground. A T-shirt, she realized as he shook it free of chips and sawdust and pulled it over his head. A sight she regretted, even as her gaze lingered on his flat belly as he did so.

Stop it! she repeated to herself, embarrassed to think she had been staring at him so blatantly he felt the need to cover up. She hurried over, set the container down on the board set across two sawhorses, making a temporary workbench.

“Spaghetti sauce,” she reminded him. He looked at the large container, then back at her. “This way you can focus on repairs, not cooking.”

He hesitated, then said only, “Thank you.”

“How’s it coming?” Well, that was inane, she thought instantly, seeing all the detritus around after he’d taken down what was left of the lean-to shed.

“Slow. He built well.”

“Yes.” She tried again. “But if he hadn’t, the whole thing might have collapsed.”

He glanced at the huge hole. “Maybe,” he said. “It was quite a blast.”

“Better you than Martin.” His head snapped back, and realizing how that sounded she hastened to explain, “I only meant he would probably have been in the bedroom, and might not have been able to get out. He wasn’t moving quite as well the last few months.”

“Better me than him, in any case,” Tate said. And she could both see and hear that he meant it. He would take a lot worse than some cuts and a singeing if it would have protected his grandfather. Yes, Tate McLaughlin might be gruff and a bit surly, but there was much to admire about him.

An echo of the heat that had hit her when she’d come around that corner shot through her again at her own thought. She needed to change the subject, and fast. Or just turn tail and run. The latter appealed, but she’d never been much of a runner.

“I still don’t believe Martin left a valve open. He was never, ever careless. Especially with dangerous things.”

“I know.”

“Besides, even if it was true that he did, and even if he did suddenly get a second tank I never saw, what are the odds that it would happen to leak enough but not so much it emptied itself, and that there would just happen to be a spark, or whatever, the very night you arrive?”

“I hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly.

“But it’s a good point, isn’t it? It just sits there leaking, with nothing happening until you get here?”

He stared at her for a moment. “What exactly are you suggesting? That I set it off?”

Her brows rose in shocked surprise. That hadn’t even occurred to her. Oddly, he looked relieved at her reaction, as if he’d really thought that was what she’d been hinting at.

“No, not at all,” she said with a fervent shake of her head. “I just meant it seems impossible to be just a coincidence.”

“They happen. That’s why there’s a word for it.”

“I’m not some conspiracy theorist, if that’s what you mean. I’m just saying it doesn’t figure, doesn’t make sense, no matter what way you twist it. Martin wasn’t careless, but even if he was, the timing is suspect. No way it could have been leaking all this time unnoticed, and yet still have enough left to explode like that. It’s been three months, after all.”

He winced at that, and she felt instantly contrite. The man had just lost his beloved grandfather. Three months was no time at all when it was someone you loved that much.

“I’m sorry. I should go.” And stay away, since I apparently can’t stop making things worse.

She hurried back to her house and went in through the back door without even glancing at her garden. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it.

Even spaghetti wasn’t going to cheer her up tonight.

* * *

Of course it was an accident, Tate thought as he rolled over onto his other side of his makeshift bed on the floor of the shop. He’d hit it early, trying to catch up a little more on sleep, but the moment he’d closed his eyes the rabbit warren of his brain had opened up full force and he couldn’t find the off switch.

Sometimes I wish brains had an off switch, Tate.

But Gramps, if it’s off, how would you switch it back on?

He smiled into the darkness. He always smiled when that childhood memory came to him. Mostly of how Gramps had roared with laughter, as if Tate’d said the most clever thing ever spoken.

I’ll not worry about you, boy. Your brain works just fine.

It was working overtime now. But it had to be an accident. What else could it have been? He was no longer in the world where any explosion was assumed to be enemy action until proven otherwise.

Unless...

What if she really had meant she thought he’d somehow set it off himself and just hadn’t wanted to admit it?

He closed his eyes, remembering her startled reaction. It had seemed genuine. So genuine he’d been relieved to see it. Not that that had done anything to ease the tension he felt every time she was around.

She made good spaghetti sauce, though. Really good. And if it hadn’t been for that huge tub in the fridge, he probably would have ended up eating odds and ends of unbalanced stuff instead of a full, satisfying meal.

You owe her, he told himself. And frowned. He wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t like owing anyone, or because he didn’t like owing her. Because owing her meant more contact, at some point.

She lives next door, you’re not really going to be able to avoid her all the time.

His common sense told him that, but the inward discomfort he felt at the thought made him wish he could. Which in turn made him frown again, at himself, because she’d been nothing but nice and helpful.

Really nice neighborly young woman, sweet, thoughtful and helpful.

Yeah, Gramps. The beautiful part was just frosting, right?

You admire the pretty ones, but you marry the real ones. If you’re smart.

Smart? Well, Gramps, there’s book smart and then there’s life smart.

And if you’re as lucky as I was, you get both in the same package.

Tate shook his head. Not many are that lucky, Gramps. And I think you and Gram may have used up all the McLaughlin luck in that arena.