Читать книгу Soldier, Handyman, Family Man - Lynne Marshall - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTen minutes later, Mark kept to himself as he tested the key that Laurel had given him in the stubborn front door lock. The scene with Peter had been unpleasant to say the least, and he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from butting in and telling the kid what he thought. Really thought—listen, punk, you don’t talk to your mother like that. Ever! But it wasn’t his place, and keeping it real, he’d heard a similar warning—without the punk part—from his father a long time ago. Disrespecting parents must be some teen rite of passage. From the way Laurel had mostly kept her cool, she’d probably been down that road with Peter before.
While he fiddled with the lock, Laurel went about distracting the little ones with a snack and a promise to watch one afternoon kid’s show. He was pretty sure “yay” meant they’d accepted her deal.
A minute later, he’d squirted powdered graphite into the keyhole, moved the key in and out a few times, then retested the sticky mechanism. The lock opened and closed just fine. For good measure, he repeated the process on the bolt lock, since her guests would most likely be using their keys after hours, and Laurel might appreciate their not waking her up to get in.
Before The Drumcliffe had switched to card keys, he and his brothers had become experts with fixing sticky locks. They’d learned the hard way that vegetable oil and WD-40 helped for the short term, but eventually made the problem worse. Then they’d discovered graphite, the non-gummy way to fix a lock.
On his knees with the door open, Mark surreptitiously watched Laurel wander his way, carrying a small plate of cookies. She sat on the nearest rocker in the row along the porch, stretching out her sleek legs, then offering him the plate.
“Do you barter?” she toyed, waiting for him to catch on.
“Work for chocolate chip cookies? You bet.” He took one and popped it whole into his mouth. Holy melting deliciousness, it was good. “Pretty sure I got the better deal, too.” He should’ve waited until he’d finished chewing and swallowing. He probably still had chocolate teeth.
She laughed gently. At least he’d done that for her. Made her smile. And a nice one it was, too, wide, straight and lighting up her eyes.
“You know he’s grieving, right?” she said, growing serious, her eyes seeking his, needing him to understand why her kid had shot off his mouth earlier.
“I figured something was going on. I get the impression a lady like you wouldn’t put up with that behavior otherwise.”
She put her head against the back of the rocker, nibbling on a cookie. “He blames me for everything. Sometimes I think he even blames me for his father getting cancer.”
“From what I recall, being a teenager is hard enough. Losing a parent on top of it, well, that’s got to bite. Hard.”
“He was only twelve when Alan died, but for so many years before that, Alan’s being ill was the focal point of our family. He missed out on a lot of things other kids his age took for granted. And the insecurity of it all, that I know firsthand. Must have been devastating for him, because it nearly killed me.”
Moved by her opening up so easily, Mark sat on his heels, wanting to give back, to make this an interchange somehow, but he was out of practice. “He’s, what, fourteen now?”
She gave a thoughtful nod without looking at him, taking another small bite of cookie. “Who invented adolescent angst, anyway?”
Mark made one quick laugh. “He probably doesn’t know how to move on. Maybe he’s in a rut and needs a nudge or something.” This conversation had edged into familiar personal territory. He could say the same thing about himself—not sure how to move on, feeling in a rut—but for the sake of Laurel he focused on her problem and her son.
“We’ve tried therapy. He went to a teen grief group for a while. Then he stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to force him to go.” She glanced at Mark for understanding. He assented. “I think he’s afraid of his feelings. He’s hurt so much for so long, he can’t imagine going over everything again, examining the pain of losing his dad.” She sighed. “I don’t know.” Now she looked at him, really looked at him, her eyes searching his, waking up some dark and forgotten place. Did she sense his pain? “And you probably never thought you’d get sucked into my family problems when you offered to help fix my locks today, did you?”
He pushed out a smile, just for her, because he figured she could use a friendly face right about now. Sticking to the superficial, rather than let himself feel something, he concentrated on how her hair looked resting on her shoulders. “It’s okay. Every family has issues.”
She lifted her brows, in a prove-it kind of way, but soon exchanged that for a quizzical expression. “I have no idea why I’m telling you my life story.” She leveled him with a stare. “Just strike that part, okay?”
“No worries. You feel like talking, go right ahead.” A long moment followed where they quietly assessed each other, and she must have decided she’d spilled her guts enough for the day. She took another bite of her cookie, which, for some crazy reason, looked sexier than it should. He couldn’t take the intimacy of watching her mouth, or sharing concerns and feelings, especially if she expected him to open up about himself or his family in return. So he deliberately changed the topic. “And if you give me another cookie, I’ll throw in checking all the guest room locks.”
As though relieved, she smiled, pushing the plate toward him. “It’s a deal.”
As he went through the rest of the house, he noticed all six of the guest rooms were on the second floor. Laurel and the kids must have taken up residence on the first floor, in the back part of the house.
Out of the blue he wondered what she’d look like with that top layer of stress erased from her pretty face. And then he stopped himself from going a single thought further. What was the point? She had her hands full, and the last thing he needed was to pursue a woman with kids.
He grabbed his small workbag, went downstairs and found Laurel in the kitchen slicing apples and carrots. He stopped for a second to enjoy the view.
“I’m all done here.” He set the small bottle of graphite on the long central island. “If you have any more problems with locks, just use this.”
She stopped slicing. “Thanks so much.”
In rushed the twins. “We’re hungry,” Claire, the spokesperson, said.
“Yeah, my tummy’s qweezin’,” said Gracie.
She tossed them both a piece of carrot and apple. Surprisingly, they accepted her offer and scuttled off for the backyard like contented bunnies. Intuition must be part of the job description for a mom. Another thing about her that impressed him.
“You may be wondering about Gracie’s speech.”
“She does have an interesting way of saying things.”
Laurel sighed as she leaned forward, elbows and forearms resting on the kitchen island countertop. The pose shouldn’t be appealing, but it was. “During Alan’s illness, I was so caught up in his needs, I didn’t realize that Gracie’s unusual speech was a sign she had fluid in her ears. I thought it was baby talk. It wasn’t until after Alan died I snapped out of my trance and took them both to the pediatrician. Gracie needed tubes in her ears, and Claire flunked her three-year-old vision test. I didn’t have a clue about either of them.”
She looked defeated, and it bothered him. “You had a lot on your plate. The main thing, nothing was life-threatening and you fixed the problem.” Listen to me, Mr. Logical. He stepped closer to her end of the island. “Maybe quit being so hard on yourself?”
She blinked and sighed. “I might have to hire you as a life coach.”
“Ha! First you’d have to find me one.”
“And what’s your story?” Her inquisitive stare nearly pushed him off balance.
“Ten years in the army. Tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Need I say more?”
She looked horrified at first. That was the only way Mark could explain her expression, then it changed.
They gazed at each other, her manner seeming sympathetic, understanding. Mark was almost positive she thought the same thing—they were two people who’d come through tough times humbled and haggard. He’d worked out a drill to deal with his, but had she?
Mark’s usual routine was to work all morning and through the early afternoon, then grab his board and head down to the beach to catch a few waves. What used to be his passion had now become his solace, better than a doctor’s prescription or a cold beer. Funny how time changed things like that—passion to solace. He figured the PTSD had a lot to do with needing to be alone, at sea, man against nature, at least once a day. Plus, other than the noisy seagulls, it was amazingly quiet out there, and was the perfect place to shut down all the clatter in his life. Whatever it was, surfing was still a lifeline for him and he needed it. Especially today.
She wiped the counter with a sponge, and he was ready to leave, but something made him stop. It was like his body had quit listening to his brain. Don’t get involved. “Just call if you need anything, okay?” Now his mouth had gone rogue. Seeing a notepad on the adjacent counter, he scribbled out his cell phone number, then left.
“You might be sorry!” she teasingly called after him.
He already was. Why walk in on someone else’s life as a fix-it guy, when he’d yet to fix his own mess? He really didn’t need the frustration.
But when he hit the street, he grinned. Like an idiot. Because he’d just given a woman his phone number for the first time since getting discharged from the service.
* * *
A half hour later, dressed in red board shorts and an old stretched-out, holey T-shirt, with surfboard under his arm, Mark strode toward the beach where the sun cast a golden orange tint on the ocean. Being the middle Delaney brother, he’d opted out of the role of peacekeeper by default early on. Instead, he’d elected to become an attention-getting surfer. It’d paid off in spades, too. Popularity. Girlfriends. Respect.
He’d intended to sign up for the army right after high school, but his father and mother had convinced him to try the local community college first. He did, without an inkling of what he wanted to major in, for two years, but didn’t get a degree because the classes he took didn’t add up to one major’s requirements. Then that faraway Middle East war got personal. A good friend since grammar school had been killed in Iraq. It might not have been logical thinking, but after that he felt called to serve, so, without his parents’ blessings, he’d enlisted. After voting in a presidential election for the first time, signing up for the army had been his next major life decision. And he was still re-adjusting to civilian life.
A predictable afternoon breeze had kicked up and the water was choppy, but he smiled at the swelling of sets forming in the distance. A few of the usual guys in wet suits were out there, most of them half his age. They’d probably been there all day. One with long sun-bleached hair caught the next wave, road the crest, then wiped out.
Halfway down the beach, he passed a group of loud teenagers talking trash to someone. He turned his head to check things out. Five guys ranging from tall and buff to short and heavy, wearing board shorts and brand-name skateboarder T-shirts, were getting their jollies by bullying someone much smaller. He looked closer, saw the shaggy brown hair, the nose he was still growing into and that oversize T-shirt with Bart Simpson on the front. It was Peter with a frown cast in iron on his face, staring at his flip-flops. Obviously hating every second, he let the jerks taunt and tease him, but what choice did he have, one against five?
Mark dropped his board and headed their way. “Hey, Peter, I was lookin’ for you, man! It’s time for your surfing lesson.”
Peter looked up, surprised. So did the other kids.
He walked right up to the group as if everything was A-OK, but making eye contact with the leader let him know he understood what was going on and it was ending right now.
One perk—or pain, depending on what kind of mood he was in—of being Sandpiper’s very own surfing champion was the whole town knew him. His first-place regional championship trophy and a larger-than-life picture of him at eighteen with awful peroxided hair, at the height of his competition days, were on display at the local high school. He’d been the captain of the Sandpiper High surf team—hell, he’d been the guy to organize the team—and had led them to regional victories for two years. Then he’d moved on to statewide and a few national competitions where more was at risk, but with respectable success. From the reaction of these losers and tough-guy wannabes, even they knew who he was. Or used to be.
“We wus just horsin’ around with the new kid.”
“Didn’t know he knew you.” The tallest nudged Peter toward Mark.
“Yeah, I’m mentoring Peter. He’s a natural. See you boys around,” he said, making sure the kids understood he’d be watching them, and escorted Peter toward his board. So much for not getting involved.
“Want to tell me what was going on?” he asked when they’d retrieved the board and, out of earshot, were heading toward the ocean.
“I was just sitting on the beach, reading a book on my phone and they came out of nowhere. Started giving me a hard time. Bully a-holes.”
“Punks are always gonna be punks.”
“Nah. They think I’m a nerd because I’m different. I’m skinny and I’ve got a big nose.” His anger radiated toward Mark, making the ocean air seem thicker. They walked on.
Mark also understood, since talking to Laurel, that Peter was still grieving and working through the stress of losing his father, which also made him an easy mark. For some reason, jerks had special radar for vulnerable kids. “Hey, first off, they should talk, if that’s the reason. Did you look at them? Listen, it could be something as dumb as the fact you’re the new kid and they know you don’t have any friends yet to stick up for you, which will change soon enough.”
“And I keep getting stuck watching my sisters. It’s not exactly cool to hang out with four-year-olds.”
So that was why he’d put up such a fight earlier with Laurel. Mark figured it was worth mentioning to her. In the meantime, he’d practice treating the boy like a young friend.
“Yeah, but I bet girls love that, in an ‘aw’ kind of way.”
Peter screwed up his face, like Mark had said the dumbest thing in the world.
“What’s with the Bart shirt, man? He back in style?”
“It was my dad’s.” Peter looked at his chest as if reconsidering the meaning.
What was he supposed to say to that? The kid still missed his father. They continued on, quiet for another few moments, watching the waves as they strolled.
“Well, now that I’ve announced you’re my student, I guess we better get started. Take Bart off. You got trunks under those cargos?”
Peter nodded.
“Wearin’ sunscreen?”
He nodded again, but Mark suspected it was a fib, so he grabbed the small bottle from his back pocket. They both put it on.
“Let’s hit the waves.”
Whether it was because Peter was shaken up from what had just transpired and was grateful, or the kid had always secretly wanted to learn to surf, Mark hadn’t a clue, but highly out of character, from what Mark had witnessed of Peter so far, he did what he was told. And gladly!
After the initial “how to” lesson, and a discussion of strength and balance exercises Peter needed to do to get into shape for surfing, Mark used the time waiting for waves, both sitting on the board, to get to know a little about Peter. “Where’d you go to school last year?”
“Paso Robles Middle School.”
“What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art, I guess.”
“Are you good at it?”
“Kind of.”
“Have a girlfriend?”
He got a killer “as if” glare for that.
“Who’s your best friend?”
Peter stared down at the board, silent.
“No friend?”
“My dad was sick all the time, okay?”
Mark didn’t react to the kid spitting the words at him. He could only imagine how hard it would be to maintain a friendship when his world was wrapped tight with worry and a fatally sick father. Or maybe parents were hesitant to let their sons sleep over at Peter’s house, like cancer was contagious or something. Who knew. “Must’ve been hard.”
“I hated it. I mean I loved him, but everything was so crappy all the time.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Peter’s guard was coming down. “I hear ya. Must have been a bitch.”
“They made me go to some stupid group. We were all a bunch of losers.”
“You mean you’d all lost someone you loved?” He needed to reframe it for Peter—something Mark himself had learned when he went into group therapy—because he couldn’t let Peter get away with the negative opinion of himself and other grievers, or anyone in therapy.
The kid’s mouth was tight, in a straight line, and he looked on the verge of crying.
“This anger you’re feeling all the time is real. It’s part of grieving. When we lose someone we love, we grieve for them. Sometimes it makes us angry as hell.”
“How do you know?” He spit out the words, challenging Mark.
“I lost more military buddies than I care to count in Iraq and Afghanistan. I know what I’m talking about.” His grief had been the single hardest part of coming back to Sandpiper Beach, because he no longer had the distraction of fighting a war. He was faced head-on with all the loss and horrifying memories. They’d crashed against him every single day and knocked him down. Made him want to either strike out or withdraw, so he chose to pull back, lie low, until he felt fit enough for society again. When it came to anger, he knew what he was talking about. Yet dealing with Peter, he already felt in over his head.
He saw a flicker of something in Peter’s gaze—maybe understanding, or firsthand experience grappling with fury. He’d also become more attentive.
“It’s hard, man,” Mark said. “Really hard. I get it.”
“I’m never gonna stop being mad. I hate death!”
The statement made him think about Laurel and all she’d had to face alone. They had that in common. Since they’d met that morning, she’d popped into his head a dozen times, which worried him. He remembered how she didn’t smile easily—but when she did, wow—and how cautious she seemed with him, insecure. Then the next thing he knew, she was spilling her life story over chocolate chip cookies.
Though she looked way too young to be a mother of a fourteen-year-old, she was still bound to be a bit older than Mark. Why was he even thinking this stuff? He wasn’t going to get involved.
He liked her hopeful attitude, trusted her instincts about the B&B and decided she was nothing short of an inspiration the way she refused to let loss and grief—being a widow, a single mother of three kids and overloaded with responsibility—drag her down. Not to mention how tough it must be dealing with a hurting and grieving teen like Peter.
Ah, hell, he already was involved. The kid was still staring at him.
“You have a right to your anger, but your mom isn’t the one who deserves it.” Mark glanced up to see a perfect-sized swell for a newcomer. He jumped off the board, leaving Peter on his own. “Okay, catch this one. Paddle. Paddle. Paddle!”
And Peter paddled as if his life depended on it. Mark bodysurfed alongside him, keeping up as best he could as Peter first attempted a time or two to stand, then finally got up on one knee, stood for the blink of an eye, then fell off. When he resurfaced, Mark met him with a smile and praise.
“Hey, that was the best you’ve done yet!”
Surprisingly, considering the topic they’d just been tossing around, Peter smiled, too. “I’m starting to get the hang of it.”
“Then you’ll just have to keep taking lessons until you’ve got it.”
“Can we catch one more?”
“That’s the spirit.”
An hour and a half later, the wind picked up and Peter was visibly chilled—his skin was pink-and-white blotchy to prove it—yet he didn’t complain, just kept trying to stand up on the surfboard. He’d come close a couple of times, but never quite pulled everything together. Still he never gave up. Mark discovered he liked something about Peter—he wasn’t a quitter.
“Lie down and I’ll push you in,” Mark said, treading water beside Peter and the surfboard.
For the second time that day, Peter didn’t argue.
As he swam closer to shore, with the help of a wave pushing them the rest of the way, Mark wanted to ask a favor of Peter while he still had him on his turf. “When we get back, tell your mom you’re sorry. She loves you, and it’s got to hurt when you treat her like that.”
Peter’s lips curled inward as he put on his flip-flops and covered up with his father’s Bart Simpson T-shirt. “Okay,” he mumbled, reluctantly.
At 5:55 p.m., they walked back to where Main Street curved into the cul-de-sac, the B&B on one side, The Drumcliffe hotel on the other. Like Grandda always said, they really did own a little piece of heaven. “Good first lesson. I’ll see you tomorrow at four for the next, okay?”
Peter nodded, seriously tired, but still interested.
“And start those exercises I showed you.”
“Okay. My legs are kind of sore, though.”
Mark grinned, leaving the kid at his front gate. “Get used to it. Later, man.”
Peter smiled. “Later.”
“I’ve been worried sick about you!” Laurel said from the porch.
“I was surfing with Mark.” He rushed by her and toward the house like he hung out with Mark all the time.
“Mark?” He turned, and there was a near-shocked expression on her face. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Maybe Peter was saving the apology for dinner.
* * *
Tuesday, when Mark delivered Peter back to the B&B after his second surf lesson, Laurel was waiting.
“Will you join us for dinner?”
Did he want to do that? After spending his morning finishing up painting the hotel trim, then working more on building the arbor, truth was, this was the most appealing offer he’d had all day. “Sure, what time?”
“Forty-five minutes?”
“Sounds good. Thanks.” His spirits lifted by the invitation, Mark was struck that Laurel was the first woman he’d been drawn to since coming home to Sandpiper Beach.
A widow with three kids. Seriously, Delaney?
* * *
“One time I was on a fwing an—an a pider came an—an—an, I queemed!” Gracie said an hour later, as the girls took Mark on a tour of their living quarters. She must have felt obligated to entertain him while Laurel put the finishing touches on their meal. The unusual speech pattern was sweet, and knowing the history of her ear problems from Laurel yesterday—thinking she’d fallen down on the Mom-job—made him feel protective of both girls. And Laurel. He couldn’t forget Peter, either. He wasn’t sure what to make of that protective feeling, but he wouldn’t deny it. Though it did make him uneasy.
“I fell off a swing once.” Claire jumped in with a long and drawn-out story about exactly how her accident happened, the injuries she’d obtained, how her mother had cleaned her up, and on and on and on, while they walked down the hall toward their family room. Since he was the guest, for the sake of the little girls, he did his best to appear fascinated.
During the never-ending story, he also managed to assess the Prescott family living situation. The kitchen and in-dining breakfast area, downstairs bathroom and apparent three bedrooms with a medium-sized study, which they’d turned into their family room, was the section of the grand old home where they lived. About the size of a medium apartment. Unlike the foyer, the front sitting room and the dining room, or the six upstairs bedrooms, it was furnished with modern, wear-and-tear-styled furniture, which made sense with the kids. Laurel Prescott knew how to be practical.
“And this is my mommy’s room,” Claire said. “She has her own bathroom, but we all have to share that one.” She first gestured to the largest of the three bedrooms, probably once meant for the staff when the house was built. Or an in-law suite? He glimpsed a humble room with a comfortable-looking bed with tall bedposts reminding him of her flair for antiques, and immediately felt like he’d invaded her privacy. Would she want him gawking at her room? Then Claire pointed across the hall to the main bathroom, and he was grateful for the distraction. The main bathroom was spacious and still had, what looked like, original tile in small white hexagon shapes. The pedestal sink and bear-claw tub also looked original, though the shower curtain encircling it was covered with colorful safari animals. Yeah, he bet Peter liked that, all right.
“We share, but Petie gwipes,” Gracie added.
“That’s Petie’s room,” Claire continued by pointing to a closed door toward the end of the hall.
Since he’d arrived ten minutes ago, he hadn’t seen “Petie,” but Mark had new understanding for why the kid shut himself off.
The girls saved what they felt was the best for last. Their room. Pink! White! Blindingly so. Frilly little girl stuff throughout. Putting him completely out of his comfort zone.
“Dinner’s ready,” Laurel called out. Thank God!
“Come on, awah-bubby! Dinner,” Gracie said, taking off first.
“She means everybody,” Claire quietly clarified, then made a beeline for their family dining room in the kitchen alcove.
Mark made a point to knock twice on Peter’s closed door. “Dinner’s ready.” Just in case he hadn’t heard his mother’s announcement. Then he followed the girls.
Laurel looked great in tan capris and a pale blue tunic top, which brought out her hazel eyes. Maybe the touch of eye makeup she’d put on helped with that, too. Had she done that for him? He smiled, glad he’d combed his hair and dressed a little nicer than usual, wearing one of his best T-shirts, then waited for her to sit first. She looked a little nervous, so he didn’t linger on her eyes, instead casting his gaze down to her sandals and noticing her tangerine-colored polish. Yeah, definitely in over his head. He never should have accepted her invitation.
Peter clumped down the hall, his feet seeming far too large for those skinny legs. Before he sat, he acknowledged Mark with a nod and partial smile. Then Claire insisted on saying a quick grace.
“I should say it. I’m Gwacie!”
“I said it first,” and out went Claire’s tongue.
“Now, girls.”
Like so many family dinners at his own house, soon the plates were passed and the chaos began.
Mark wasn’t used to being around kids, especially the chatty Claire and her little echo Gracie. He figured Laurel rarely got a quiet moment with them in the house. At least Peter’s mood had lightened some since yesterday. His second lesson had gone about the same as the first, but Mark made sure he understood that everything worth learning took time.
Peter let his mom know she’d made his favorite—turkey meat loaf. Mark could tell by Laurel’s surprised and pleased expression a compliment from the kid wasn’t routine. She’d rounded out the meal with small baked potatoes, with several choices for toppings, and fresh green beans that smelled great thanks to lemon slices and a large sprig of rosemary cooked with them.
Conversation around the table had more to do with bargaining over how much each twin had to eat in order to call it dinner, and whether or not Peter had homework and had he done it yet, than getting-to-know-the-neighbor gab.
It brought back a slew of memories for Mark, of him and his brothers when they were young kids, squirming and trying to behave. And later when they’d all become touchy teens, ready to pounce on each other at the drop of one wrong word, or unwanted glance.
Other than Mark occasionally catching Laurel’s gaze, and a special zing that took him by surprise whenever he did, they weren’t able to communicate much at all. He was okay with that, since his goal was to keep the distance.
“So tell us about your surfing lessons, Peter,” Laurel asked.
The kid said just enough words to qualify for an answer, then shoved more meat into his mouth. He seemed to have a healthy appetite, and Mark assumed it was from the beating he’d taken in the ocean that afternoon.
“Have you been doing those exercises I told you about?”
“Some.” More eating, this time potato. “I’m gonna do more later.”
“After your homework, right?” Laurel added between bites.
“Can we be excused?” the twins said in unison.
Laurel made a big deal out of checking their plates to make sure they’d eaten enough. “One more bite each.”
They both crammed another tiny bite into their mouths, washed it down with the last of their milk and rushed off for the family room.
Peter had to be asked to clear the table, but he didn’t protest too loudly, which surprised Mark. Maybe he wasn’t such a problem all the time after all. Or maybe that was Peter on good behavior because of Mark being there.
Mark wanted to help, too, but Laurel wouldn’t let him. “I’ll clean up later. While the girls watch their TV show and Peter finishes his homework, I thought we could have some coffee or whatever you’d like to drink in the front sitting room.”
An invitation for time alone? No matter how complicated the Prescott family’s situation was, Mark couldn’t resist the chance to get to know Laurel a little better. “Sure. Coffee’s fine.”
“I’ll meet you in there,” she said.
So he meandered into the front of the house. Rather than sit on the pillowed-out and overstuffed couch, or the matching ornate curved armchair beside it, he chose the classic paisley upholstered straight-backed chair across from the sofa, and waited for Laurel.
After looking around the room, he glanced out the front window toward the decidedly vintage-styled Drumcliffe and smiled, a few more ideas for perking up the place popping into his head. He also thought about Laurel and how having a brooding teen must stress her out, especially while juggling the twins and the hundreds of duties of the B&B. And the place wasn’t even open yet. And once it was, would it even support them? He wouldn’t suppose her situation, but figured there was probably life insurance meeting some of their needs.
He wondered what profession her deceased husband was in.
Then stopped himself. Enough already.
She brought coffee on a tray, like they did in old movies, and he got a kick out of all the effort she’d gone to for him. But this was a B&B, and she was the proprietor. Of course she’d do this for the guests. In fact, she was probably practicing on him. That was all.
He poured cream into his coffee and soon enjoyed the hint of vanilla and cinnamon. If this was only practice, he was happy to be her guinea pig, because it made their sitting alone together in a fancy room feel less intimate.
“I wanted to personally thank you for your help these last two days. Peter told me what happened at the beach yesterday.”
“No big deal. Those kids were up to no good.”
“It was a big deal. Who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up.”
“Well, I did, and Peter got some surfing lessons out of it.”
“I hope he keeps it up.”
“He says he wants to.”
She went quiet for a moment. “I never thought he’d get bullied simply for being the new kid in town.”
“In a perfect world, it shouldn’t make any difference, but...”
She primly sipped her coffee from a pink patterned cup that probably came from England. The one inside the box he’d first carried yesterday?
He didn’t want to, but couldn’t help noticing her mouth, how the top lip was slightly plumper than the bottom. Rather than get caught staring again, he took in how tonight her hair was tamed with a conservative hair band, and how she looked like a proper bed-and-breakfast owner. Then he glanced down at her bright tangerine toenails, enjoying the contradiction.
She caught him staring, too, and he didn’t even try to look away. Why pretend when he liked what he saw? So he smiled, and judging by the twitch at one corner of her mouth, she didn’t mind.
“So what are you going to call this place?”
“The Prescott Bed-and-Breakfast. I’ve got a sign, just haven’t put it up yet.”
“I can do it.”
“Would you?”
On impulse, he decided he might just help out from time to time. She was a widow with three kids and needed all the help she could get. Not because he found her attractive, and she interested him, and he felt good around her. But as backup. Only to help her out, as a handyman, because she could use it. That was the main reason.
Right. And Grandda didn’t believe in selkies.
“Sure. The sooner you start to advertise the better.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
He refilled his coffee. “Absolutely.”
For now, he’d buy the little white lie about helping her out because she needed it. Otherwise he might get uptight about making another excuse to see her tomorrow, and he didn’t want to be tense when having her all to himself in the sitting room right now felt so right.
* * *
Laurel sipped coffee and watched Mark’s big hands as he grappled with the teapot made for ladies. She hid her smile behind the antique china cup. He’d obviously ogled her pedicure, and she wondered if there was anything else he might like about her. It had been a long time since she’d seen appreciative gazes from a man, and, being honest, she’d missed it.
Was that why she kept asking him to come back?
Or was it because, beyond his all-man appearance, he was nice? He’d intervened on her son’s behalf. He was a man and her boy needed male mentoring? Lord only knew she was out of her depth on that one. She hadn’t a clue that Peter, gangly and new in town, would be the subject of teasing. From what Peter had said, the teasing had been heading in a much more serious direction when Mark showed up.
What kind of mother was she? One who seriously needed to make time to read some books on parenting teens. Maybe if he was more confident, hadn’t been devastated by losing his father...
Her mind drifted back to the present. Instead of required reading, she was sitting in the parlor with a man who emitted more sex appeal than the last three seasons of bachelors combined. Did he have a clue?
Yesterday he’d hinted at needing a life coach as much as she did, so that was something they had in common. With his time in the Middle East, and her husband’s losing battle with cancer, they’d both been through hell. There was one other, more positive thing they had in common, too: they’d both been raised in a small beach town.
She could hear him swallow. Deep in thought, it’d grown too quiet. “So tell me about the history of The Drumcliffe.”
An easy subject to tackle, he did so with ease, giving her the story from all the way back when his grandfather came from Ireland. As he spoke, she enjoyed the sparkle in his blue eyes, darkened by the parlor lighting, and how tiny the teacup looked in his hands. His lower lip curled out the tiniest bit, and she wondered how it would feel to kiss him.
What? She took another sip of her coffee. Maybe she was ready to...
Oh, the mere thought made her stomach knot and a hope chest of guilt crash over her shoulders. But there he was, sharing his family’s story, natural as could be, smiling with pride. What could be wrong with a little longing?
She took another sip, admiring every aspect of Mark Delaney. She’d caught him checking her out earlier, and knew how that felt. Good, by the way. Now the tables were turned, but she didn’t want to give the wrong impression, and the last thing she needed was to get caught. Taking yet another sip of her cooling coffee, she wondered how long she could hide behind her teacup before being obvious.
