Читать книгу Soldier, Handyman, Family Man - Lynne Marshall - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe attractive brunette juggling a cardboard box and a plastic trash bag filled with who knew what needed help. Mark Delaney had first noticed her yesterday when her bobbing ponytail had proved to be very distracting. Now, seeing disaster about to happen, he sprang from the ladder, where he painted the underside of The Drumcliffe Hotel roof trim, nearly rolling an ankle. Then he jogged across the street attempting to hide the limp.
“Need help?”
“Oh.” She tossed him a flustered glance, the box precariously slipping from her grasp. “Yes, please.”
He rushed in and grabbed it, surprised how light it was.
“My favorite English tea set’s in there.” She used her head to signal the delicate nature of the contents. “Should’ve thought this through more.” She stopped, took a breath and made an obligatory smile. “I’m Laurel Prescott, by the way, and you are?”
“Mark Delaney.” With his free hand, he gestured across the street. “My family owns The Drumcliffe.”
Her honey-brown brows, a few shades lighter than her hair, lifted. “Ah, so we’re neighbors.”
He deposited the box on the porch as she came up beside him, then noticed the eyes that were light hazel and shaped like large almonds. He liked that. “Guess so. When are you planning to open the B&B?”
Another inhale, this one deeper. “Good question. My goal is next week, but there are so many last-minute things I need to do, and of course hadn’t even thought of.” She shook her head rapidly. “Don’t know what I was thinking doing this final move the week school started.” She hoisted the trash bag over her shoulder. Something clanked inside. “Oh, yes, I do—I’d finally have a few hours to myself!”
He couldn’t help but laugh with her even if it was over impending hysteria. “Anything else you need carried in?”
Her downright attractive eyes sparkled, signaling he may as well have been sent from heaven. Which felt good for a change.
“Are you sure you have the time? I mean it’s obvious you’re in the middle of painting.”
He glanced down at his black T-shirt and jeans, both splattered with the eggshell paint his mother had meticulously picked for the trim. “I was ready for a break anyway.” Then he looked across the road where he’d left the lid off the paint can. “Just give me a second, okay?”
“Of course!” She continued up the steps to the grand Queen Anne‒styled Victorian house, which had been sitting empty, according to his mother, for ages. Some nice old couple used to live there when he was a kid, right up to the time he’d left home. He remembered once having the best apple pie he’d ever eaten in that kitchen.
He crossed the street heading back to the hotel. For the last several months, he’d seen crews inside and out bringing the gem back to its original beauty and then some. By the extensive upgrades, he knew his mother had been right about the old home being turned into a bed-and-breakfast. The workers had finished a few weeks back, making the steeply pitched roof with the dominant front gable and oddly shaped porch look picture-book perfect. Once a blah blue with ho-hum white trim, chipped and peeling from years of neglect, now the house was sage green with cream trim and forest green detailing between the cornices, and Mark had to admit it looked classy. Like her. That had been his first impression of his new neighbor last week when she’d stopped by to check on the finishing touches.
The lady was way out of his league, so today, when she was dressed in work clothes—faded straight-legged jeans with slip-in rubber-soled shoes, and a stretched-out polo shirt that’d seen better days—it made him smile. She fit right in with his style. And for the second day in a row she’d worn a ponytail. Not that he was keeping tabs or anything, but man, the ponytail was distracting.
Mark replaced the lid on the paint can.
“Little early for a break isn’t it?” Padraig Delaney chided his middle grandson, while he had no doubt just finished a Monday morning round at the city course judging by his loud patterned golf slacks and a salmon-colored shirt. His daily routine at eighty-five kept his craggy face tanned and his blue eyes bright, not to mention the notorious toothy grin pasted in place. Which he was currently flashing since noticing where Mark had come from and the lady across the street waiting for him.
Mark smiled at his grandda with the Guinness-soaked voice and tendency toward magical thinking. They had an understanding since both had known how it felt to be young, far away from home, frightened and lonely—though one in peacetime and the other, well, in that hot mess known as the Middle East. Yet that was their unspoken bond, and nothing would break it.
Everyone knew Padraig Delaney’s history. As a young Irish immigrant in the 1950s, he’d been brought over to work the new and lush golf courses along the central California coast. Cheap labor for sure, but he’d also had the foresight to scrimp and save money and buy the small patch of land in Sandpiper Beach. As his jobs and responsibility advanced, he saved more and worked like the devil to build the humble hotel back in the late sixties and early seventies. If it weren’t for that hardworking dreamer’s spirit, who knew what the Delaney clan would be up to now? So he’d cut him some slack over playing golf every morning. The man had earned it.
As Mark always did, he also tolerated the supernosy man’s inclinations. “I’ll get ’er done. All of it. By the end of the day. Have a good game?”
“Every game’s a good game, Marky my boy, ’cuz I’m alive.”
Mark had heard a similar statement from his grandfather at some point every single day since he’d returned from Afghanistan last year. He understood it was a less-than-subtle message, but most of the time he couldn’t relate to it. Though today, glancing across the street to the lady with the ponytail, his personal outlook struck him as somewhat optimistic. “That it is, Grandda. That it is.” He stood, ready to set off again for the B&B and the woman who needed some serious help.
“Fraternizing with the competition are ye?” Ah, he wasn’t going to let this slip by.
Mark laughed, knowing Grandda was making a joke. His mother was the one and only person in the family fretting about the B&B opening. Padraig Delaney understood different types stayed at a place like that than their modestly priced hotel. The B&B wasn’t about competition, it was about revitalizing the town, which would be good for everyone. “Just helping out a neighbor.”
“A mighty attractive neighbor I might add.” The old man winked.
Mark returned a let’s-not-go-there stare, though Grandda already had.
“Have you thought more about taking over the hotel?” So he’d gotten Mark’s hint and changed the subject.
“You know I’m not ready to do that.” He placed the paint can next to the hotel wall, then folded the ladder and put that next to it. “Besides, Mom and Dad really don’t want to retire yet.” At least he hoped so.
“Could fool me, the way they talk about it mornin’ till night. Besides, you’re the only one who loves this hotel the same way I do.”
Mark couldn’t deny that he was the logical person to pick up where his parents left off, if they retired like they kept threatening to. With Daniel being a doctor with his own practice and Conor a deputy sheriff for the county with plans for advancement, neither brother showed the slightest interest in running the place. But since being honorably discharged from the army last year, he’d wanted nothing to do with responsibility. For now, being a handyman every morning and surfing every afternoon was about all he thought he could handle. Still he did have a vision for The Drumcliffe, which he’d talked to his parents about under the condition that they would give him time, and postpone any immediate plans to retire. If Grandda caught on, he might insist Mark take on more responsibility right away. But he flat out wasn’t ready. Yet.
Mark kept his head down, rather than pursue the pointed conversation about the future of the family hotel. Grandda cleared his throat in resignation, but Mark knew there would be future dialogue on the subject. The man would probably hound him until he gave in. It might even be for his own good.
“Well, I’m off, then.” Padraig set out heading up Main Street for his daily visit with the other local business owners, using an ancient wood putter as a cane. “Remember the selkie, lad,” he said, not bothering to look back for Mark’s reaction, knowing it would be annoyed.
Would the old man ever let go of the notion Mark and his brothers had saved a selkie the day they’d gone deep-sea fishing together? First off, it wasn’t a selkie, it was a seal that was being hunted by a pod of orca. Foolish or not, the brothers had used the fishing boat to interfere with the obvious training session for a young orca on how to catch a snack. Turns out they’d distracted the pod just long enough for the seal to escape. Their biggest mistake, after risking getting their boat flipped by ticked-off orcas, was repeating the story during the Sunday night family dinner in the pub. You’d have thought they’d saved the king of the little people judging by their grandfather’s reaction. The seal was a selkie, he’d said. The selkie now owes each of you a favor. As if he knew the selkie rulebook backward and forward.
Ever since, Padraig Delaney, a wise and intelligent man on many other levels, but obviously not this one, insisted each brother would find true love.
Right. And there’s always a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Anyone ever find it?
His oldest brother, Daniel, hadn’t helped Grandda’s notion a bit when he’d hired Keela and, after a few months, started dating her. Now they were newly married with a baby on the way, and calling that proof, Grandda had doubled down on his woo-woo predictions. Especially after he’d had a Guinness or two. He’d gaze over his glass and give Mark, the middle brother, and Conor, the baby, meaningful glances meant to convey they’d be next. What a load of malarkey.
“Remember the selkie, my ass,” Mark mumbled, watching the old man stride up the street without a care. What had made him bring that up again, anyway?
Because their new neighbor was a knockout, that’s why. Mark smiled to himself. So Grandda had noticed, too.
And with that undeniable thought, he grinned and cleaned his hands with the rag hanging on the ladder and headed back across the way, even though she wasn’t likely to give him the time of day after he’d finished helping her. He was still just a fix-it guy.
* * *
Laurel walked back to her car and secretly watched Mark reseal a paint can when an old gentleman approached him.
Here she was, thirty-five, a widow second-guessing her every move. Being the mother of a teenage boy dealing with grief and anger on top of the usual teen angst, and twin four-year-olds just beginning their journey with school, only added to the doubt. Buying the old house with one of Alan’s generous insurance policies had been a risk, for sure, but it had also been her way of beginning again. Lord knew she needed a fresh start. They all did. The last five years had been hijacked by Alan’s cancer, then remissions, praying the worst had been over, followed by the nightmare two years later of those demon cells’ return. If anyone deserved a do-over it was the Prescott family. Though Alan never got the luxury of a second chance.
She swallowed a hard and familiar lump. Life had been difficult without him the past two years, and may have kicked the wind out of her, but now she wanted to move on. What choice did she have, really?
She retrieved a few small items from the trunk of the car and subtly watched on the periphery, the conversation going on across the street at the hotel between the old golfer and Mark, her disturbingly attractive neighbor. The fact she’d noticed him was progress, wasn’t it? He was good-looking. There, she’d admitted it. But so what?
Before the move, she’d been walking around in a trance, dealing with the lowest rung on the Maslow hierarchy of needs—excluding sex, of course. That rarely entered her mind, except on those nights when she missed Alan’s touch so badly she cried. All she wanted to do was build a new life for her family, to keep them safe and fed, healthy, while wondering if this B&B had been the best idea she’d ever had or the craziest.
Regardless, she owned the Queen Anne‒styled house in Sandpiper Beach and planned to become a small businesswoman. A full-time job outside the home would provide a paycheck, but it would also keep her away from the ones she wanted to look after. This solution, buying and running a B&B, was the next best way she knew how to provide for her kids.
She glanced across the street. Why was that man so distracting? She had a world of other things to think about, didn’t need a single distraction, yet there he was, tall, dark hair, intense blue eyes, totally Irish American. Younger than her.
She walked back to the house, trying not to look over her shoulder. What could be the harm in allowing a tiny, secret attraction for someone who lived across the street? Could she go so far as labeling it a crush, or merely an interest? Whichever, she’d felt something the very first time she’d spotted him. Why now? Could it be a signal that, after two years of living in limbo, she was finally ready to move on with life?
Maybe.
A half hour later, after passing each other with arms loaded on trips back and forth to the house, with nothing more than glances and respectful smiles, Mark carried the last of Laurel’s boxes up the porch steps.
The grand entrance and main sitting room were detailed and updated with fresh paint, crown molding, a traditional fireplace, ornate mantel and rich wood balustrades lining the otherwise modest staircase. But the impressive dining room with its long and grand oak table, antique print wallpaper and classic crystal chandelier was clearly the focal point. Visitors were going to love this old house.
“Looks great,” was all he said.
“Thank you,” she said with an earnest gaze. “I’m petrified. After all the money I’ve sunk into it, what if it’s a big bomb?”
“Have you done this before?” He also wondered if she was married, which bothered him. Why should he care?
“Never.” Something close to panic flashed in her eyes, but she recovered quickly. “Can I get you some lemonade? It’s the least I can do for all your help.” Maybe she’s divorced.
He wasn’t the type to stick around and chat. In fact, he’d kept mostly to himself in the year since he’d been back from Afghanistan, skipping socializing outside of his family, but something nudged him to accept her offer. “Sounds good. Thanks.”
He followed her into the modest-sized kitchen for a house this big, and took in the view from the updated double-paned back window. The beach and ocean weren’t far off, and he assumed most of the guest rooms would have views of the same. “I wouldn’t worry too much about bombing out. Unless you overprice the rooms.”
“I’ve done my homework on pricing,” she said, opening the double-wide stainless steel refrigerator and grabbing a pitcher of lemonade. He also noticed she’d gone the modern route with the appliances and the long marble-covered island. Seemed like an efficiency decision, if she planned the usual serving of breakfast for her guests. “I’m right in the middle of the current going rate. Except for the honeymoon suite, of course.” She gave a flirty wistful glance. “It’s beautiful and well worth the price.”
He didn’t get what the deal was with rooms that were supposed to enhance romance—seemed to him you either had it or you didn’t—but figured Laurel was depending on other people who did. Whereas The Drumcliffe appealed more to families and seniors on budgets. So he was content to leave the “lover’s weekend packages” for her B&B. More power to her. Though Mom adamantly voiced the need for their hotel to have broader appeal, and she’d been on a quest to start wedding packages maximizing the gorgeous view and their large lawn area right along the ocean. An idea popped into his head: Why not turn the biggest room with the best view at the hotel into a honeymoon suite? Maybe he could get some ideas for decorating from Laurel. Of course, that would only mean more on his ever-growing to-do list. Which reminded him he was supposed to start building an arbor today, and a gazebo after that.
She handed him a dainty hand-painted glass of lemonade. So instead of gulping like he’d intended from thirst, he took only a sip of the fresh lemon and hint-of-mint liquid. “This tastes great.”
“Thanks. I made it myself using the Meyer lemons from the side yard.”
“Really good.” The yard, he’d noticed, needed some serious trimming and weeding. But she’d probably already made plans with a gardener for that, so he didn’t offer his services. Why would he? Besides, he had enough going on with the hotel.
He sensed she had all kinds of extra-special tricks up her sleeve where the B&B was concerned, like this homemade lemonade, and figured her guests would return because of those extra-special touches. That was if they found the house in the first place. “You have plans for a grand opening or something?”
She took a drink, her lashes fluttering. “I plan to run some ads and have an open house.”
“That’s a good idea.”
She looked gratefully at him. “I grew up in Pismo Beach, so I know we have a long season. Does it ever get really dead around here?”
“I’ve only been back the past year, so I’m not a great resource. I’ll check with my parents, if you’d like.”
“Oh, sorry, I just assumed you—”
“—I was in the service for ten years. My parents run the hotel. I’m still getting used to being back.” Would that matter to her, that he wasn’t the guy in charge? Again, he chided, why should he care?
He’d left home at twenty-one an accomplished surfer, surf bum as Grandda often teased. Then he’d come back after a few tours in the Middle East, mostly Afghanistan, but also in Iraq, someone he didn’t recognize anymore. He’d dealt with his mood swings in his own way, spending the last year withdrawn, just trying to get his bearings in the real world again, while working on the hotel. And surfing. It had all been part of his healing journey, as the VA therapist had suggested. That was the reason he and his brothers had been fishing the day of the “selkie” incident. A bonding trip, they’d called it. But in truth, Daniel and Conor were worried about him and had wanted to help him over the slump he’d slipped into. Some trip that’d turned out to be. He still wasn’t 100 percent past PTSD. Still had occasional nightmares, hated being in big crowds, but he was on the road back to being a combination of the guy he used to be and the man he’d become. Less outgoing, more inclined to think things through before acting. Less lighthearted, grimmer. Someone he’d have to get used to. Maybe all thirty-one-year-olds went through the same thing?
Laurel studied him, those caramel eyes subtly moving around his face, her mind probably wondering what his story was. Well, she wasn’t the only one with questions. “What brought you here?”
“Oh.” Obviously unprepared for him to turn the tables. “I missed the beach. After college I got married and moved inland to Paso Robles to raise my family. Then I lost my husband a couple years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” And he meant it, even though he could only imagine how horrible it would be to lose someone you loved.
She quietly inhaled, then took another sip of lemonade. “Yeah. It’s been rough.”
That was something he could relate to, the rough part. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing, sympathy or empathy or whatever it was called, but he honestly felt bad for her. She had a lot going on, and a big project like opening a B&B all alone was probably as stressful as it got for a person. There went that nudging sensation again. “If you need any help, I’m around.” What happened to being too busy?
“Thank you.” She looked sincere and grateful. “I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.”
Good. A decisive and wise woman. But, out of character, he’d just opened a door he wasn’t sure that (a) he had time for or (b) he wanted to go through. Yet. She might be single, but she had a family, for crying out loud.
Her appreciative eyes suddenly widened. She frantically looked at her wrist. “Oh, no! It’s time to pick up the girls.” She grabbed her purse and rushed for the door. “It’s their first day at school. Kindergarten! I can’t be late.”
He followed, then noticed she had to work extra hard to get the front door locked. “I’ll come back later and have a look at that lock, if you want.”
She flashed another earnest gaze, this one accompanied with a pretty smile, which caught him off guard. “That’d be great!”
Then off she ran for her white minivan, where identical car seats were installed in the back—such a total mom.
Man, he must be completely out of his antisocial mind, because somehow, he found the whole entrepreneur—and multitasking-mother bit—sexy as hell. And that was way off course for his current game plan—keeping a low profile and figuring out where he fit in life...or even if he wanted to.
* * *
Laurel kept to the speed limit, but barely, trying desperately to get the image of Mark Delaney out of her head. Did he have any idea how gorgeous he was? Dark brown hair combed straight back from his forehead and just long enough to curl under his ears, clear blue eyes, a two-day growth of beard with the hint of red in the sideburn whiskers. His black T-shirt stretched across a broad chest and shoulders, with a peekaboo tear along his sleek abs, and arms that qualified for a construction worker calendar. His faded black jeans had matching tears at the knees from hard work, not superficial fashion, and fit his slim hips and long legs like he’d been born in them. Damn he was hot! Whether he realized it or not was the question. He certainly didn’t act “all that.” In fact, there was something dark and tender about him that put her at ease. And that ease put her on edge.
Laurel glanced at her face in the rearview mirror, horror soon overtaking her. She’d been looking like that? Her hair in a messy ponytail, not a stitch of makeup. Not even lip gloss. The man probably thought of her as a poor, struggling aunt.
She slammed on the brakes, nearly missing a red light. Woman, get a hold of yourself! You’re thirty-five, obviously older than him, and not to mention the mother of three. It doesn’t matter how you look, he’s not interested. Still, there was much to appreciate about Mark Delaney, and she wasn’t blind—or dead—in that department. Yet. Sometimes she thought she might be, so he was a pleasant surprise, after all she’d been through. She tugged the elastic out of her hair and let it fall to her shoulders.
Pulling into the parking lot, she prayed she hadn’t cut it too close and that her kids wouldn’t be the last ones there. They’d dealt with enough abandonment issues losing their father two years ago, and having to live as if the hospital was their second home for a year before that. Now was their time to get back to living a regular life, and nothing would get in Laurel’s way of giving that to her kids. A quick thought of her fourteen-year-old son, Peter, made her chest pinch, but now wasn’t the time to go there. She had to pick up her girls.
She parked and jogged into the kindergarten classroom. Gracie and Claire were happily playing puzzles with the little girl they’d met on Welcome to Kindergarten night, who wore a cast. Anna was it?
“Can Anna come home with us? Her mom’s late, too.” Claire, the oldest by twelve minutes, and clearly the bossiest, spoke first.
“I don’t think the school lets kids go home with just anyone.” Laurel used her diplomatic-mother voice.
“Stranger danger!” Gracie piped up.
“We’re not strangers,” Claire corrected, as she always did with Gracie. “Remember, we played together before.” She used her middle finger to slide her pink glasses up her tiny nose.
“I pre-member. Do you, Annie?”
“It’s Anna.” Claire the clarifier simply couldn’t help herself. “And re-member.”
During Alan’s long remission from the first bout of leukemia, and nearly a decade since Peter had been born, no one had been more shocked to discover she was pregnant with twins than Laurel. But life had always been crazy that way.
When Alan relapsed with a vengeance when the girls were a year old, everyone had been so distracted that Gracie’s chronic ear problems had gotten way out of hand before Laurel had taken her to the pediatrician. She’d been walking around with fluid in her inner ears, which had affected her hearing. It was like listening to people speak underwater and had slowed her speech, while Claire seemed to have been born chatting, and now speaking for and chronically correcting her twin. Since having tubes inserted, Gracie’s hearing had improved, but she still often got words wrong. Claire never let her forget it, either.
“Oh, there you are, Anna.” A breathless voice with a distinct accent spoke from behind. “Sorry I’m late, sweetness.”
“That’s okay, Mom, these are my friends.”
The woman introduced herself to Laurel as Keela. “Thank you for staying with Anna. I don’t want to be accused of running on Irish time, but we had a walk-in at the clinic and it threw things sideways.”
Delighted by Keela’s Irish accent, Laurel grinned. In the week she’d been in town, she’d already heard about the Delaney Physical Medicine Clinic from one of the women at the local farmers’ market, who’d told her, after chatting and discovering Laurel’s B&B was right across Main Street from The Drumcliffe, about Daniel’s recent marriage to an “Irish girl.” Small town. News traveled fast.
“I just got here myself. Honestly, I don’t think the girls missed us a bit.”
“Probably right.”
“We should set up a playdate some afternoon,” Laurel suggested, keeping in mind Keela worked full-time.
“T’would be grand. Maybe a Saturday would be best.”
Ms. Juanita, the young teacher not much taller than her students, wandered over. “Are we all ready now?” she asked diplomatically, dropping the major hint it was past time to leave. So they did. But not before exchanging phone numbers.
* * *
As promised, later that afternoon after he’d finished painting the trim and had gotten a good start on the arbor, Mark headed back over to Laurel’s B&B with his toolbox in hand. He planned to fix her lock. One of the benefits of being raised around a hotel was learning to be a jack-of-all-trades. Otherwise we’d go bankrupt, as his father used to say when he and his brothers griped about spending their Saturday afternoons working around the hotel. It’d always been extra torture when the surf was up and he’d been itching to hit those waves.
Laurel was in the front yard, and two young girls in matching striped leggings and navy blue tops sat on the porch steps, though one wore glasses. Looking stressed, Laurel faced off with a scrawny kid by the yard gate who was somewhere in the early teen stage and who hadn’t yet grown into his nose. He wore cargo shorts and an oversize, ancient-looking T-shirt with a picture of Bart Simpson on the front. Shaggy dark brown waves in an obvious growing-out stage consumed his ears and partially covered his eyes. He leaned forward, confronting her, his mouth tight and chin jutted out.
Mark thought about turning around, leaving them to their personal business, but their heated interchange, and the fact her hair was down and blowing with the breeze, prodded him to keep going. Maybe she could use some backup.
“Peter, I’ve got too much on my plate right now.”
“I’m sick of having to drag those pests around.” His voice warbled between boy and man, cracking over those pests.
“We’re not pests!” The little one with glasses sounded indignant.
“Not pets!” the thinner of the two incorrectly echoed, garnering a confused glance from her twin.
“I need you to watch the girls while I do some errands. Is that too much to ask?”
“I’m sick of being their babysitter.”
The fair-haired girls looked like twins. Identical twins, but with the help of one wearing glasses and one being slightly smaller, to tell them apart. The glasses girl took it upon herself to move in on the ongoing argument. “Sing with us, Peter. Please?” A future peace activist, no doubt.
“Pleee-sio?” Little Miss Echo being creative?
Without waiting, they started singing “Where Is Thumbkin” using their fingers and acting out the verses, oblivious, while Laurel and Peter continued to square off.
“You know it’ll take me twice as long if I bring them.”
“Don’t care.”
What should he do now? Just walk right up and pretend he didn’t have a clue they were fighting? He slowed down. That seemed lame.
“Okay, I’m not asking, I’m telling you to stay here.”
“I need time by myself!” Peter pounded his fist on his chest while his voice cracked again. “You’re the one who told me to get out and explore the neighborhood! Meet kids my age.”
Ten feet away from the picket fence and gate, Mark stopped. If anyone could understand the need to be by himself, Mark could. Hell, he’d been the king of withdrawal when he’d first come home. The girls continued singing and gesturing—“Where is pointer, where is pointer...?”
“I need your help.” Laurel wouldn’t back down.
“I’m leaving!”
Mark figured it must be damn hard to lose a father when a boy needed him most, but it still bothered him the kid was taking his anger out on his mother. He decided to step in, offer Laurel some support. “Is this a bad time?”
“Oh, Mark.” Laurel looked flustered and frustrated, her cheeks flushed. Those soft hazel-brown eyes from earlier now dark and tense. Edging toward the street side of the gate, Peter stepped backward, gearing up for his escape.
“How are you today, sir?” the twins sang louder.
Mark stepped closer, giving Peter a forced but friendly smile, hoping to keep him from taking off. “I’m Mark. Nice to meet you.”
In response, he received a death glare. It was clear the kid was furious, not just about Mark butting in, or his mother demanding he pull his share of responsibility, but about life in general. About how sucky it must be when a dad dies.
Unaware, the girls kept singing their nursery rhyme. “Run away. Run away.” Their way of coping with stress?
Still glowering, Peter spoke verse three. “Where is tall man?” He added the middle-finger gesture for the sake of his mother and Mark, made sure they both saw it clearly, then took off running, flip-flops flapping, down the street toward the beach.
“Peter!” Laurel yelled, anger flashing in those eyes.
He thought about running after Peter and straightening him out, but stopped the urge. It wasn’t his place.
It took guts, or total desperation, to flip off a complete stranger in front of his mother, he’d give Peter that. He didn’t envy Laurel’s having to deal with that on top of opening the B&B. Guests didn’t go to places like this to hear family arguments. Yet Laurel was a widow with three kids to take care of, and the proprietor of an about-to-open business. After he fixed her lock, he’d steer clear.
Laurel called after Peter again. When Peter didn’t stop or turn around, she dug fingers into her hair, obviously torn about whether to run after him or let him go. The girls had stopped singing, now zeroing in on their mother and gathering close to her. She put a hand on both of them, giving a motherly rub and pat, which immediately eased the tension in their sparrow-sized shoulders. Then she steered them back toward the porch.
Looking downcast, but not defeated, Laurel glanced back at Mark. “Welcome to my world.”
