Читать книгу A Gift for All Seasons - Karen Templeton - Страница 9

Patrick saw Lilianna’s face crumple and thought, It’s too damn early for this. And the thing was, the morning had gone reasonably well so far. She hadn’t given him grief over what he’d picked for her to wear—blue tights, green tutu, the first hoodie he put his hands on. Or the scrambled egg and OJ he’d plunked down in front of her while she watched Sesame Street from his sister’s cast-off bistro table in the funky little apartment on the top floor of an equally funky little carriage house in town, not far from his parents. Except then she’d asked for a Toaster Strudel and it all went south.

Because, in his hurry to get the kid fed and over to his mother’s before his crew started wondering where the hell he was, he accidentally let a ribbon of frosting dribble onto the plastic Tinkerbelle plate.

“Baby, baby … it’s okay,” Patrick said over the resulting wail. “Just scoop it up with your finger and suck it off, no biggee.”

“I c-can’t.” Tiny arms clamped over little chest. “You r-rooned it.”

Patrick sighed, knowing the dramatics had far less to do with his sloppy frosting technique than it did Natalie’s in-and-out visit the day before. For hours after his ex’s departure, Lili had clung to him like a little monkey, thumb in mouth, bursting into inconsolable tears when he finally had to put her down to visit the john. To be fair, he knew Nat felt bad about the arrangement, but the support system and Patrick’s job were here in St. Mary’s, and Nat’s school was in Philly, and they’d both agreed Lili needed the stability more than she needed her yet-to-get-her-act-together mother. But how did you explain that to a little kid?

However, even though he hated seeing Lili so miserable, his own mother would smack him into next week for indulging the tantrum. So he squatted beside her at the table and said softly, “Eat it or not, makes no difference to me. But sometimes things don’t turn out the way we want them to.” He cupped her curly head, leaned over to kiss her puckered brow before standing again, crossing to the coffeemaker to fill his thermos. Giving her some space. “All you can do is deal with it.”

Although whether any of that made any sense or not to a four-year-old, God only knew. Especially since he was still feeling his way with this daddy thing. Heck, he barely saw her until she was three, and even then he wasn’t around all that much, since his life at that point still revolved around seemingly endless, and often excruciating, therapies and treatments. And when he was with her, he was constantly battling both frustration and guilt that he couldn’t be the kind of hands-on parent he’d envisioned.

Not to mention husband.

Patrick skimmed a hand over his close-cropped hair—since the burns had eaten half his scalp, there was no point trying to grow out the hair on the side that still functioned properly. No wonder Natalie left him. Not what she’d signed up for, either. Yeah, you could go on about how nobody gets to choose what life throws in their path, but the fact remained that some people handled the crap better than others. That was life, too. So while, sure, it’d hurt that Nat hadn’t been able to cope, neither had he been surprised—

“All done.”

Thermos in hand, Patrick turned to see his grinning daughter holding up her empty plate, pink cheeks smeared with blueberry filling and frosting, and his heart melted more than the frosting. Then he chuckled.

“Guess you were hungry, huh?”

“Yep,” Lili said, giggling, all signs of Cranky Baby vanished. Patrick grabbed a wet paper towel to clean her up, plunked her dish in the dishwasher, then hauled her out of the chair to let her do the baby monkey thing, more determined than ever that nobody was gonna hurt his little girl.

Ever.

Despite his best efforts, Patrick still arrived at the job site after his crew. Good thing, then, he’d reviewed the plans with them well enough that they’d already begun prepping the site, yanking out dead trees and bushes, grading the lot in order to lay the walkways and driveway Blythe and he had codesigned.

Speaking of whom … in jeans and some baggy, drapey thing that made her look like a large blond moth, April’s cousin traipsed across the muddy yard, reaching his truck as he got out.

“Sorry I’m late,” he muttered, grabbing his thermos from the cup holder before slamming shut the door.

“Not a problem, your guys seem to have everything under control.”

Patrick grunted, then said, “April around?”

“No, she’s at her folks for a few days, she’ll be back later in the week.”

He’d been right that Natalie’s visit, and the resulting fallout, had more or less shoved thoughts about April Ross to the back of his brain. Except the minute he got back in his truck after dropping Lili off at his mom’s, it was like the floodgates opened. The whole way out here, in fact, all he could think about was April. In ways he had no right to think about a married woman. It’d been years since he’d been to confession—figuring, he supposed, that since he’d already been through hell, God would cut him some slack—but even Patrick had to admit he’d probably have some serious atoning to do with this one.

So it’d been with a mix of trepidation and anticipation that he’d pulled up to her house, expecting to see her. Hear her voice. See her smile. That light in her eyes that seared straight through him. Gave him, for lack of a better word, hope.

Only she wasn’t here. And for some reason his brain was having a real hard time processing that information.

Which might account for why he then said to Blythe, “Her husband go with her?”

The blonde frowned. “Her husband?”

“Yeah. Not that I’ve ever seen him, but …” He pointed to his own left hand, the base of his ring finger still slightly indented. “Her rings?”

“Oooh.” Blythe pressed her lips together, like she wasn’t sure what to say next. “I forget not everyone knows. April’s husband passed away, Patrick. Several months before she returned to St. Mary’s.”

“What?”

Blythe smiled. Gently. “Yep, she’s a widow.”

And if he’d thought he was having trouble processing things before … “But she’s still wearing her rings.”

“Yeah. She is.” Blythe briefly squeezed his shoulder, then walked away, and Patrick’s brain finally kicked in enough to remind him if there was one thing worse than fantasizing about a married woman, it was fantasizing about one still mourning her dead husband.

There weren’t enough Hail Marys in the world.

Later that week—after Blythe had given her the all clear—a small but potent thrill shimmied through April as she pulled onto the road that led back to St. Mary’s Cove.

Back home.

Wow. What a concept. She’d never fully realized how much she’d always thought of the tiny town in that way, even as a kid. Especially as a kid, when visiting her grandmother’s house each summer had been the only constant in a life that was always starting over.

And now she never had to leave again, April thought as the Lexus purred down Main Street, past quaint shops and quirky cafés, mom-and-pop businesses that somehow kept chugging along despite recessions and suburban sprawl. Unless she wanted to, that is. And, boy, was she done with starting over. As exciting as watching the house’s resurrection had been, she couldn’t wait for it to be finished so she could get on with living. Instead of … waiting. As if her life thus far had been a series of canal locks, and she’d finally passed through the last one before the open sea.

Several minutes later, she squinted as the house came into view, glowing peach in the setting sun, and she spotted one of the Shaughnessy and Sons trucks parked off to the side, like a hulking black bear having a snooze. And, yep, her insides flinched. In that “Oh, goody,” but not, kind of way.

Sigh.

Because although April had nothing against family traditions per se, some of them—like, say, being a blamed fool—really shouldn’t be upheld. Logic kept neatly laying out all the reasons why fantasizing about a certain dangerous-looking landscaper was the bad idea to end all bad ideas. Yet this screechy little voice kept whispering: Screw logic and Go for it and What have you got to lose?

Heh. Good one.

Batting away the whisperings like gnats on a summer’s night, April climbed out of the car … and her mouth fell open. Was that the same yard she’d left less than a week before?

A new driveway snaked around what clearly would be a formal garden, complete with some sort of sculpture/fountain in the center that was elegant and whimsical and cutting edge, all at once. Lots of angles, lots of curves. Copper, maybe? Thin, graceful evergreens flanked the porch, giving way to all kinds of bushes and things she couldn’t even begin to identify. It wasn’t entirely finished, of course—she could see large patches of dirt where she assumed more plantings would go, the beginnings of several stone pathways winding through the flower beds—but what was there was spectacular.

“So what do you think?”

Patrick’s low voice behind her nearly made her piddle her pants. She turned, wondering what it was about the half light that turned dangerous into downright delicious. She didn’t even see the scars anymore—well, she saw them, sure, but she also saw past them. More to the point, she felt him. His presence or aura or whatever the heck he exuded, like a bonfire threatening to consume her.

This was beyond bad, wasn’t it?

“I love it,” she finally got out, fingering her rings as she ripped her gaze from his mouth. “Y’all got a lot accomplished in such a short time.”

“There’s bad weather forecast for the weekend. I was trying to beat it.”

Hmm. Sounded friendly enough, but—she glanced back—no smile, no light in the eyes, nothing. Was it her, or was she the only one here being attacked by the lust demons? Nasty wee beasties. Then again, given the hard time she was having catching a breath, maybe not so wee—

“Daddy? Where are you?”

“Out front, baby.”

A moment later, little footsteps pounded on the porch, down the steps, curls bouncing as a visual cacophony of stripes and florals and a half-dozen colors catapulted into her father’s arms, sending the demons scattering to the four winds.

Although the fire … not so much. True, the warmth shifted north to spread through April’s chest, to the base of her throat. But the ache of seeing him hold his little girl consumed her every bit as much as what, moments before, had produced some very imprudent thoughts. Then Patrick gave April a look over his daughter’s head, not of fear, exactly, but certainly wariness.

Don’t take it as a challenge, don’t—

Mel rushed outside, hair a fright, hoodie unzipped, jeans hugging curves April could only dream of, whooshing out a breath when she saw Lilianna in her father’s arms.

“You little scamp,” her cousin mildly scolded over the little girl’s giggles, and April thought, Huh? “You got away from me! Man, I’d forgotten how slippery little kids can be! April!” A grin spread across Mel’s face. “You’re back! Good! Dinner’s almost ready—”

“We’d better be going, then,” Patrick said as a few more Huhs? pinged around in April’s brain.

“The heck you will, I’ve made enough food for half the town. No arguments. Besides, I’m sure Lili wants to taste the cake she helped bake. Wouldn’t you, sweetie?”

Cue vigorous head shake. Big eyes and soft “Uh-huh.” April melting into puddle of goo. Granted, children had been known to get the goo flowing for some time already, but this one …

“Now how could you possibly say no to that?” Mel asked Patrick, and April thought, How, indeed? And, indeed, the big, buff man holding the itty-bitty girl in his big, buff arms made light of things and said in that case, of course they’d stay. But with definite only because it’s not worth the fight undertones.

Undertones which her cousin either didn’t pick up or chose to ignore. April was betting on the latter. “I’ve been experimenting,” Mel said. “Still getting used to the stove. Ryder should be here momentarily—” And yes, at the mention of her fiancé, her cousin went a bit gooey herself. “He’s fetching Quinn from her piano lesson. Well, just don’t stand there. Come on in.”

So everyone trooped through the enlarged entryway leading into the new-and-holy-cow-improved gathering room. “Blythe said she was sorry she couldn’t be here,” Mel went on, oblivious to Patrick’s decided lack of enthusiasm, “she had some kind of ‘emergency’ appointment back in D.C. But she said to let her know if she needs to change anything in your suite.” Then she grinned at Lilianna. “Hey, cutie-patootie, wanna come help set the table?”

“Yeah, sure,” the little girl said, then wriggled out of her daddy’s arms to bounce off after Mel, while Patrick watched her as though worried she’d vanish through a magic portal into an alternate universe. And wasn’t that cute as all get-out? Although, when puberty came calling? She wasn’t sure who to pity more, Lili or Patrick.

Looking away, April felt the house’s warm glow curl around her, the smells from the kitchen bringing tears to her eyes. A lot had gone on inside, as well, during her absence. Serious miracle worker, that Blythe. April couldn’t wait to get photos up on the Rinehart’s new website, although too bad there wasn’t a way to let potential guests experience the aromas, as well. Tears threatened again. If it hadn’t been for Clayton …

“You okay?”

Not alone. Right. April nodded, clearing her throat, trying to ignore the beasties tiptoeing back. Beasties too dense to realize the man didn’t want to be here.

“If you’d told me four years ago,” she said, not looking at him, “that I’d be getting ready to open my own business, that this place would be mine …” She turned, taking in the refinished floors, the warm colors and inviting overstuffed furniture, the framed watercolors Blythe had bought from a local artist. Sigh. “We really can’t predict what life has in store for us, can we?”

Long pause. “We sure as hell can’t.”

Oh, Lord. Speaking of dense. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay.”

She hazarded a glance. Met his gaze. Blushed in places she didn’t normally blush, a sensation simultaneously pleasant and unsettling. “You also don’t have to stay.”

Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets, clearly not realizing what that did to the front of his jeans. “There’s a kid in your kitchen who might beg to differ. Not to mention your cousin.” Another pause. “And whatever your cousin’s making is bound to be better than packaged mac and cheese.”

Wow. Were they having an actual conversation? “That’s really pathetic.”

“It’s one of a handful of things Lili will eat.”

“And the others are?”

“Toaster Strudel, broccoli, sometimes an egg. And my mother’s vegetable soup.”

April laughed, confusing the heck out of the beasties. Not to mention herself. “You have a very strange child.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. Deadpan. Which was not making him less sexy. “By the way,” he added, “I haven’t been bringing her every day. But both my mom and my sister are dealing with some kind of bug. Your cousin was here and she kind of …” He frowned. “Took over.”

“That’s Mel. Not that I wouldn’t have done the same thing.” She shrugged. “Lili’s a sweetheart. You’re welcome to bring her any time you want.”

He nodded, muttering, “Thanks,” almost as an afterthought.

April cleared her throat. “So … Lili’s mother …?”

“We’re divorced.”

And, oh, there were questions she was dying to ask. Like how young were they when they got married, why he appeared to have full custody of his daughter, if Lili even ever saw her mom, that sort of thing.

The very sort of thing smart cookies knew to tiptoe right past.

Patrick tried to act normal during dinner, at least for Lilianna’s sake, even though it was bugging the life out of him that he hadn’t taken advantage of April’s not-so-subtle prying to ask her about her husband. You know, give her the chance to come clean?

But he hadn’t, and she hadn’t, so best simply to let the whole thing drop, right? After all, what did it matter in the big, or even small, scheme of things?

Still, he could not wait to get out of here. To take his child and book it back to their little apartment, where things were safe and predictable and he couldn’t hear April’s laughter. Or see those blasted rings sparkling in the candlelight.

Ever since discovering April was a widow, Patrick had redoubled his efforts to give his untoward musings the boot. A task that should not have been the bear it seemed determined to be, given that he was hardly a stranger to disciplining his thoughts. Otherwise he’d probably be dead by now. And, fool that he was, he’d actually thought he’d succeeded, keeping his focus on Lili, on the job, on working out, on Lili, so there was no room for anything else.

Until there April was, again, and now he understood the shadows in her eyes, which weren’t making things better. See, realizing he had to love Lili enough for two parents—before he was even sure he knew how to love her enough for one—had been a kick in the butt to his basic humanity, too. That he couldn’t love Lili, not the way she deserved to be loved, without having empathy for his other fellow beings.

No matter how much he’d wanted to shut himself off.

“Okay, cake!” Mel said, duck-walking with outstretched arms behind Lili as the little girl carried in the three-tier concoction, her pleased grin nearly splitting her face in two, and April’s gaze snagged Patrick’s just long enough for him to catch something else in her eyes.

Not to mention the blush sweeping up her neck.

Well, hell. How had he missed that?

It may have been a while, but unless he was mistaken the gal had the hots for him. Embarrassed as all hell about it, too, was his guess. Which he should have found gratifying, if not flattering. Or at least highly amusing. Since she was obviously channeling her grief in … other directions, there was no way in hell he was letting either of them go there.

Because he’d amassed enough regrets for one lifetime already. And she’d get over it. Especially once the inn opened and—he took a bite of the cake, which he had to admit was crazy good, even if he wasn’t a huge chocolate fan—word got out about her cousin’s cooking. Yep, April was going to be far too busy to think about … whatever she was thinking about.

Even so, much later, after he and Lili had returned home and he’d read Go, Dog. Go! three times before she finally conked out, after the unseasonably warm night had enticed him out onto the staircase clinging to the side on the brick building, he felt the darkness that had never completely left inside him stir, and stretch, and shift into something that felt an awful lot like yearning.

Which would never do.

April’s mother had always been big on that whole “see the glass as half full,” thing. “Count your blessings,” she’d say. “Look on the bright side.” And April’s personal favorite, “It could be worse.” Although heaven knew there were times, when they’d been reduced to eating grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup five nights out of seven, when she’d spot the pawn ticket and realize her mother had hocked her engagement ring—again—that April wanted to shake the woman and yell, “How could it possibly be worse?”

Only she never had, partly because she knew Mama was doing her best, and partly because they’d never actually gone hungry. Came darn close, more times than April wanted to remember, but there’d always been food of some description on the table. And they’d always, somehow, climbed out of whatever hole her father had put them in. Occasionally they even went out to eat, if only to Denny’s or Long John Silver’s.

And eventually Mama got her engagement ring back for good.

So despite April’s inclination as a kid to think her mother’s irritatingly positive outlook was a lot of hooey, it’d somehow taken root in her own psyche. Maybe because they had always landed on their feet, maybe because despite everything her parents had never stopped loving each other, she didn’t know. But now, as her gaze drifted away from her computer and out her office window to watch Patrick working alongside his men—literally, on his knees in the dirt, tamping down the earth around a freshly planted bush as he joked with Duane, one of his crew—that whole “count your blessings” refrain started up again in her head.

Because yesterday—just as a for instance—she’d heard him inquire after someone’s mom, apparently recovering from gall bladder surgery; the day before that she’d noticed him hand a small wrapped package to another guy for his kid’s birthday. Witnessed the way he listened to his crew and their obvious respect for him—real respect, not some deferential attitude because of his injuries. He was the first one there in the mornings and the last one to leave at night, but not until he checked in with April, gave her an update, asked if she had any questions, wanted any changes. For that, she should be—and was—more than grateful. Professionally, he’d filled her glass to overflowing, and she’d be delighted to sing Shaughnessy and Sons’ praises to anyone who asked. Clearly the man was a decent human being who truly cared about others.

But he’d also stopped meeting her gaze during those update sessions, or giving her even a sliver of opportunity to steer the conversation away from pavers and gravel and green things. Oh, he’d nod and say Lili was fine, when she asked, maybe even share an anecdote or two—he was a proud papa, after all—but beyond that, nada.

And frankly, she thought as she slammed shut her laptop lid and slipped her blazer over her cotton tunic, his continued reticence was getting on her last nerve.

April picked up the check she’d written earlier and let herself out onto the porch, shivering in the sudden chill. It’d been bizarrely warm these past few days, but the minute the sun went down, so did the temperature. Over by his truck, Patrick glanced up and spotted her, giving her a nod before crashing shut the tailgate. Muscles bulging underneath his long-sleeved Henley, he shrugged into his canvas work coat as he started toward her, juggling his clipboard from hand to hand as he walked. It wasn’t a particularly graceful gait, but it was solid, the stride of a man who knew what he was about.