Читать книгу The Drifter's Gift - Lauryn Chandler - Страница 11

Leaning back in a desk chair barely large enough to support his big frame, Joe Lawson pointed a finger at his old buddy Sam and nodded. “You look good in a full beard. The white tended to age you, but…” He shrugged and a slow, deliberate grin spread across his amiable features.

Closing the door behind him, Sam entered his friend’s office with an expression more befitting the Grim Reaper than Santa Claus.

“Now, Sammy—” Joe held up a hand as Sam limped into the room “—if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were peeved. And that can’t be, because Old St. Nick is a jolly old soul.” Clasping his hands behind his head, Joe kicked his feet up on the desk and frowned. “Or is that Frosty the Snowman?”

One hundred percent certain now that the Santa job had been Joe Lawson’s pathetic attempt at a practical joke, Sam shook his head.

“Neither,” he corrected, approaching the desk. “Old King Cole was a merry old soul.” Smiling, he cocked his head. “I don’t suppose you remember the one about Humpty Dumpty?”

“Humpty Dumpty?” Joe looked bemused.

“Yeah. How did that go?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.” Resting his cane against the desk, Sam folded his arms. “Recite it.”

Shrugging at his friend’s sudden interest in nursery rhymes, Joe recited, “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great—Hey!”

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, but not as great as the spill Joe took when Sam lifted his feet off the desk and shoved him backward. The cushy leather chair in which Joe liked to rock back listed all the way, right down to the floor, with Joe in it.

The big man’s hard belly bounced. Laughter rolled from his barrel chest.

Sam took a seat in a chair on the opposite side of the desk and let a genuine—albeit reluctant—smile curve his lips. “I should have known better than to put that suit on this morning. When they said you wanted me to play Santa, I thought it was a real job offer. I didn’t want to insult your sorry carcass by refusing.”

“It was a real job offer.” Joe climbed out of the fallen chair, righted it and sat down. “Our regular Santa has the flu.” When he grinned, his full mustache hugged his mouth like an upside-down U. “Good to see you, buddy.”

Sam shook his head and smiled. “Yeah, good to see you, too.”

“Seriously,” Joe said, “I know you’re ticked, but you did a good job today. I hid behind the canned pears display and watched. You’re good around kids. You want to do it again tomorrow?”

Sam grimaced. “I’d rather face a court-martial.” Tossing a paper bag on the desk, he said, “Here. Some kid’s mother actually made cookies for Santa. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah? What kind?” Joe reached for the bag. “My sisters always put a plate of oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk near the chimney on Christmas Eve.” Humor pushed his cheeks into rosy apples. “I left M&M’s. I didn’t think he could get them at the North Pole.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Didn’t you ever do that when you were a kid?” Unrolling the top of the bag, he peered inside. “Don’t tell me you didn’t try to stay up all night to catch Santa when he came down the chimney, ’cause everyone I know did that.”

“Sure. Of course.”

Watching Joe inspect one of the large cookies Timmy’s mother had made, Sam wondered why he’d just lied. He was not dishonest by nature, but suddenly he’d had such a strong image of Joe and his sisters secretly awaiting Santa’s big entrance, of their parents peering in from a doorway, smiling in the background, that a myriad of confusing feelings rumbled through him—envy, regret and a strange, discomfiting inadequacy, ludicrous but powerful. Sam couldn’t remember even believing in Santa Claus.

“Not bad.” Joe nodded after taking a bite of cookie. “But we’re running a special on iced molasses bars—one dozen for a dollar ninety-nine in the bakery. Now that’s a good deal, my friend.”

Sam frowned. “These are homemade,” he said, incomprehensibly annoyed that Joe would compare store-bought to the cookies the redhead had made.

Joe shrugged. “You want homemade? My sister Carol is a whiz in the kitchen. She bakes all the time.”

“Hmm.”

“Carol’s smart, too, and funny. You’d like her. Did I ever show you her picture?”

Sam quirked a brow at the man who had been his first friend way back in boot camp. “Are you trying to set me up with your sister?”

“Sure.” Joe grinned. “That’s what big brothers are for. Are you interested?”

Sam grew hot and prickly with the sudden urge to escape. He opened his mouth to decline, then closed it without speaking. He met Carol Lawson years ago and liked her. But she had Family written all over her even then, and Sam had the ethics not to start something he had no intention of finishing.

He shifted on the hard chair, both his leg and his conscience making him uncomfortable. If he was being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he’d come here looking for more than a job. He remembered the Lawson family, their boisterous meals, their easy way with one another, Joe’s comfortable home.

Family.

He wanted to be around it. For awhile. But as a spectator, not a participant. He could close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to sit at a table that wasn’t part of a mess hall. A small table, maybe, small enough to reach across and pour a drink for somebody else. Working together to set the places, smiling and laughing as you handed around the plates. There would be evidence of caring in the simplest ways. Did you get enough potatoes? Yeah. Do you want more gravy? Sure.

Looking out for each other. Appreciating that someone had bothered to make potatoes just because you liked them. Appreciating that someone knew you liked them.

Suddenly he wanted it so badly, he felt almost embarrassed, as if he’d been caught with his fly down. The muscles in his jaw tightened with resentment. He was like an ex-smoker who had to breathe the aroma from someone else’s cigarette to get through the night. When he’d decided to come to Idaho, in the back of his mind had been the notion that he could be around Joe’s family for a brief time and take the experience with him, like a secret, when he left—one final deep inhalation of someone else’s smoke to store up for the years of deprivation that lay ahead.

Sam gave a sharp, reproachful shake of his head. The fact was, no matter how much he craved a glimpse of that life, he wasn’t about to mislead anyone to get it.

To Joe he said, “I’m a bachelor. You know what they say about old dogs.”

Joe grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I’m an old dog myself.” Finishing the cookie, the big man brushed his hands. “Where are you staying tonight, Fido?”

“The Park Motel, outside of town.”

“That dive? I wouldn’t let my pet spider stay there.”

With a brief smile, Sam said, “It’s fine.”

Joe pointed a finger. “You’ve been living with men too long. So listen, you’ll come to dinner tonight Tomorrow you can move your gear to the house. We have plenty of room.”

Sam held up a hand. “Thanks, but I—”

“No, don’t give me any crap.” Pulling a piece of paper from the mess he called his in box, Joe muttered, “Besides, you’ll be doing me a favor. My mother’s all over me to get married. Give her someone new to torture.” He grabbed a pen. “Here, I’ll give you directions.”

“Thanks, you’ve convinced me. I’ll stay at the motel.”

“What? Naw, seriously—”

“Seriously, Joe, I’ve got plans tonight. But soon.” Sam reached for the bag of cookies, rolled the top of the paper sack and stood, relying on the cane more than he wanted to after a long day of sitting. And he did have plans. He just hadn’t realized it until this moment.

Wanted, man to work on small organic farm…room, board… Plus, he amended silently, the kind of cookies Santa likes. And no strings.

All they wanted was a worker. Testing his bum leg, he decided that as a worker, he could come through just fine.

Rising, Joe held up a sheet of computer paper. “I had personnel print up a list of the jobs available in the store.”

Leaning on his cane, Sam raised a brow. “What are they?”

Joe snapped the paper with a flourish, then cautioned, “Remember, this is only a preliminary list.”

“Uh-huh. Is there anything on that page that involves wearing a giant crow costume and waving people into your parking lot?”

Eyes widening, Joe lowered the list. “That’s not a bad idea. Not a crow, though. What’s that Froot Loops bird?” He fished around for a pad of paper. “We could do a tie-in with breakfast cereals. Sugar-sweet savings. How does that sound? I—Hey, where’re you goin’?”

“Get the elf to do it. She’d make a great bird.” Sam tossed the words over his shoulder on his way to the door. He knew where he was headed. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“What about dinner?”

Raising the bag of cookies, Sam smiled. “All I need is a quart of milk. I’ll call you.”

“You’re going to break my sister’s heart?” Joe put a hand over his chest.

Grasping the office doorknob, Sam paused long enough to answer. “No. I’m not going to break anyone’s heart.”

Moving carefully, Dani lifted a steaming apple-raisin pie from the oven. She could feel the heat of the deep-dish Pyrex through her oven mitts and saw that some of the juice was still bubbling up through the heart-shaped vent she’d cut into the crust.

Setting pie number twelve atop a baking rack on the crowded counter, she tallied her creations—four apple-raisin, two cranberry-pear and six pumpkin pies, dozens of cookies, cooled and ready for boxing, in five varieties—molasses-ginger, milk chocolate chip, honey-nut peanut butter, the oatmeal-coconut crunch she’d given Timmy yesterday for Santa Claus, and the buttery Russian tea balls that sold so well around the holidays.

Sweet Dreams, the baking business she ran to earn extra money during the winter, was doing surprisingly well for a home business, but she was pooped. She’d been baking since four this morning. It was now one in the afternoon, and she still had a half dozen sour cream banana breads and her popular cinnamon-streusal orange coffee cake to go.

She would be up most of the night tonight, baking and packaging, but Pop would make the deliveries for her tomorrow and Timmy would be in school, so perhaps she’d grab a nap then.

Closing the oven door, Dani decided to give the reliable old workhorse a twenty-minute breather while she sat down with a cup of coffee. It was warm in the kitchen, pleasantly so, given the chill outside. Pouring a mug of coffee from the pot she’d been nursing all day, Dani felt her stomach contract with hunger.

Bypassing the fresh cookies that represented her profits, she helped herself to one of the giant oatmeal-coconut crunch cookies she’d made yesterday and plunked herself into a chair at the table. Every muscle in her shoulders and back groaned in protest at the change in position, but her legs, relieved of the pressure from standing so many hours, thanked her.

Working so hard made her body feel old before its time, but in some ways she didn’t care. She was working for her son, so a sore muscle was no more resented than one of the permanent silvery stretch marks she’d acquired during her pregnancy.

These things—sore muscles, stretch marks—were just battle scars. As long as she won the war, who cared if she emerged a bit dog-eared? And the war in this case was raising a happy, well-adjusted child on her own.

Taking Timmy to see Santa yesterday had made her aware all over again how lucky she was. Watching her little boy poke at Santa’s white beard, seeing him politely hand over the cookies he’d asked her to bake, her heart had swelled with love. How could a father not want to be there? She would never understand it, not if she lived to be a hundred, not if she had twelve more children!

Obviously Brian had regretted his relationship with her, but that shouldn’t have precluded a relationship with his child. Her ex-Mr. Right hadn’t cared about either of them. He’d never even seen his son.

Timmy had an eager little heart and arms that hugged like nobody’s business. He deserved so much more than a father who was nothing but a name.

Dunking the cookie into her coffee, Dani took a careful bite.

Pop had dropped her ad off at the newspaper office yesterday. She’d experienced a few trickles of anxiety since then over what she was about to do, but she wouldn’t let fear stop her. Placing that ad gave her hope. It gave her a chance, at least, to ensure that the next time her son wanted a daddy’s kiss, it wouldn’t have to come from a toy father.

She glanced out the window, where the world seemed to be moored permanently in winter. Somewhere out there was a man who knew how to love a little boy, how to make him feel special and safe and strong in his own right. A man whose hugs were given free.

Just one decent man with the heart to stick around. That’s all she needed.

And who cared if they never had a lot of money? If she had to, she would work hard every day of her life. As long as he pulled his own weight, fine.

She doubted he’d be especially handsome, but that was okay, too. Timmy’s father had been ambitious, smart and charming. Especially charming. His attention had made her feel special. Being in a relationship with him had made her feel…

So alone she’d thought she might die.

She and Brian—and this had occurred to her only recently—had never really talked, not about anything important. She had tried too hard to please him, terrified of rocking the boat, shutting her eyes to the fact that it was already sinking. Then she’d gotten pregnant, and Brian had jumped ship.

Now she knew she would never again beg for a man’s attention, and she would never, ever let anyone hurt Timmy. When she chose a man to join their lives—if she did—it would be someone who needed and wanted them as much as they wanted him.

The peal of the phone jolted Dani to attention. Break time was over. Finishing the cookie, she crossed the kitchen and grabbed the receiver before the machine could pick up. “H’lo?”

“Hello. May I speak with Gene, please?”

“He’s not—” She covered the mouthpiece, finished chewing and swallowed. “Excuse me. He’s not here right now. May I take a message?”

There was a pause during which Dani brushed her fingers on her apron, plucked a pen from the cup next to the phone and held it over the scratch pad, waiting.

The next time the deep voice rumbled, she leaned on her elbow and just listened.

“I’m calling in regard to the position you have open. My name is Sam Mclean.”

The voice on the other end of the line was measured, rich as a truffle, smooth as caramel.

“Position?”

“A want ad was posted—”

“Want ad? Oh!” Dani straightened, her attention sharpening. Good heavens! Had the ad appeared in the Sunday paper already? Pop had only dropped it off yesterday. She’d expected to have several days, a week….

“You, um, asked for. my father?”

“If your father’s name is Gene.”

She frowned. “The notice gave his name?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Yes, ma’am. He said it politely, automatically, in a voice comfortable showing respect.

Dani clutched the phone in a death grip, using her other hand to draw dozens of tiny boxes on the pad in front of her. He was calling about that ad, but why had the paper listed Pop? Someone must have messed up and used the name of the person who dropped the materials off, or…

Or her father had deliberately used his name so he could screen-prospective sons-in-law himself. Pop! she groused silently, I’m not a little girl anymore.

Taking a breath, Dani spoke with all the authority and confidence she could muster.

“I placed the ad, Mr.—”

“Mclean. Sam.”

“Sam. I’m doing the—” she couldn’t call it hiring “—interviewing.”

Another pause, more brief this time. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, forgive me. It’s Dani. Dani Harmon.”

“I’d like an interview, Ms. Harmon. That is, if you’re agreeable.”

Such a reverently polite tone. Dani twined the telephone cord around her fingers. Was she agreeable? She longed to rely on her instincts, but instinct was a hard thing to trust when you had no track record. And this was happening so quickly!

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, crossed her fingers and prayed for intuition. “I’m agreeable,” she said after a protracted moment.

“Good. I realize it’s Sunday, but I’m free today if—”

“Today?”

Swiftly, she scanned the kitchen. Every inch of available counter space was covered with pies, cookies, pans and utensils. Glancing at herself, Dani realized she wasn’t in much better shape than her kitchen. Jeans, an old fuzzy sweater, her hair pulled back in a riotous ponytail—the editors of Cosmo would never approve.

On the other hand…

A candidate for husband and father might as well see right up front what he was getting. This was a working kitchen, and she was a working mom. Back in the days when she’d been a well-paid legal secretary in Los Angeles, she would have worn a skirt and heels for a daytime appointment, silk pants and sandals for evening. Now she was a twenty-eight-year-old single mother with a cesarean scar hiding beneath her jeans and no time.for makeup. The last time she had used mascara, it was to fill in a chip on her coffee table.

So she had a choice. She could either put Sam Mclean off until tomorrow, scour the house, run out to buy a tube of lipstick and pretend she was Jane Seymour—Who, me, perspire? It was only twins