Читать книгу Everything She's Ever Wanted - Mary J. Forbes - Страница 10

Coffee mug in hand, Breena stepped onto the front porch of Earth’s Goodness at eight-thirty the next morning. The wind from the night before had faded and, under a soft sun, the quiet spice of fall crisped the air. She didn’t miss Frisco. Didn’t miss the snarl of traffic, the bitter smog, her joyless marriage.

She’d make it in this Oregon town, yes, she would. The next twelve months would prove it in ways the last thirty-five years in California hadn’t. If worse came to worst, Misty River was still a good place to hole up until she mended her heart.

The sound of a motor turned her head. Her Blazer, the sun glinting off its maroon roof, stopped in front of the shop. A young man climbed from the driver’s side.

“G’morning,” she called.

He gave a short wave and came around the hood as she went down the steps. They met at the gate. “You people work fast.” The name Tristan and The Garage Center were stitched in orange above the left pocket of his jade coveralls.

“Yep.” Under a Red Sox ball cap, the boy—no more than eighteen—grinned. “Bill opens at seven.”

Breena studied the truck. “Does he always deliver?”

“It’s policy,” Tristan said with pride, “if we can’t give the owner a courtesy vehicle.”

Possibly it was more Seth Tucker’s policy, but she wasn’t about to argue the fact. She took the clipboard the boy offered. “What was wrong with it?”

“Busted fanbelt.”

She checked the total at the bottom of the page and her mouth opened, then closed. In the city, the tow alone would cost triple. “Did Mr. Tucker have anything to do with this?”

“Uh…which Mr. Tucker?”

“Seth. Seth Tucker.” She held out the form, pointed to the low figure. “Did he have anything to do with this?”

“Don’t think so, ma’am.” Tristan’s forehead scrunched. “Bill’s the one did the tallying. Is there a mistake?”

None. None at all. “I haven’t had such—” Generosity? Decency? “—a nice surprise in a while.”

The teenager spruced his shoulders. “Glad we were of service.”

“Would you like to come in while I write out a check?”

“Hey, sure.” A wide grin.

Inside, she offered him coffee. He declined the brew but chose one of her home-baked sugar cookies sitting in a pretty clothed basket beside the till. One of her alms to the store.

“Nice place,” he called when she hurried to the back room for her checkbook.

“This your first time here?”

“Yep. Never had the need before.”

She signed the order copy and the check while Tristan remained rooted to the welcome mat as if walking across the floor in workboots would sully the varnish on the planks. She returned his clipboard. “Can I give you a lift back to the shop?”

“Nah. We’re just around the corner a ways. I’ll jog.”

Just around the corner. In a town of a thousand, a forty-minute walk encompassed the entire municipality. Friends and neighbors, greeting each other at every corner.

They stepped back into the sunshine.

“It was nice meeting you Miss—”

“Hey, there, Tristan.”

The boy turned. His smile faded. “Hi, Mr. Owens.”

Pot belly leading the way, Delwood Owens swaggered across the street. “Truck’s all fixed, I see.” Pursing his lips, he sized up the vehicle. Eyed Breena. “Saw Seth bring you home last night.”

What else is new? Old turd likely had an astronomy telescope on his bedroom balcony. “Yes,” she said. “He did.”

“Know him well, do you?”

She clamped her tongue.

Owens went on, “Upstandin’ citizen, Seth is. Damn hard worker. Has a wife.”

A wife. Of course he has a wife.

“Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea, know what I mean?”

“No, Mr. Owens, I don’t know what you mean.” He knew she lived in the rear rooms of the shop, had seen her coming and going for over three weeks. If he wanted to mark her as Misty River’s streetwalker, she’d deal with it. But he had no right to smear Seth in the process. “My truck broke down and Seth was the gentleman who saw me home safely. That’s all.”

Owens thrust out thick lips. “Wanted to make sure you knew.”

Liar. You thought I’d gasp and sputter at your news.

So Seth Tucker had given her a ride home. So he had a wife. He and every man on the planet did not interest her. In the least. “Would you excuse me, I have a shop to open. Take care, Tristan.” Careful of the walkway’s heaves and gouges, she headed for the porch.

“Um, Miss?” Behind her, the gate creaked. “You forgot your keys.” Tristan trotted back up the walk.

“Oh.” She felt like an idiot.

Owens walked around her truck, the veritable car dealer he was. Tristan glowered at the man. “Don’t pay him no mind, ma’am,” he murmured. “He used to be Seth’s father-in-law. Guess he figures he’s still got a say in his life.”

Used to be. “Thanks, Tristan. Seth seems like an honorable man. He doesn’t need to be humiliated by gossip because of me.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Never, ma’am. You’re like—you’re a lady.” He blushed. “And the gossip, well, it’s ’cause you’re new and—-and sort of a hottie. For an older woman. I mean…” Deeper blushing. “Oh, hell.”

“An old hottie, huh?”

“Sorry. Junk tends to come out of my mouth.”

“No,” she said, grinning. “I like it.”

“You do?”

“Hey, I’d rather be an old hottie than an old hag.” She patted his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Tristan.”

“Same here, Ms. Quinlan.” He secured the cap on his head, nodded. “You take care now.”

“I will.”

Humming, she went up the porch steps. The morning held favor after all.

With a Cape Cod roofline, the small house Delwood Owens had bought for his daughter when she’d married Seth—then had rented out when she moved to Eugene—appeared the same. Tiny yard, overgrown shrubs, flowers that needed winterizing. Melody was no gardener. That chore she’d left up to Seth in those early years.

Turning the pickup into the driveway Saturday morning, he said to Hallie, “Looks like your mother’s home.” Under the yellow maple guarding the left corner of the house, Melody had parked her sleek silver Mazda Miata. Delwood still came through when his daughter wanted new wheels. Too bad he didn’t hire her a gardener.

Hallie grunted. “Usually she doesn’t get home before lunch the next day when she’s with Roy-Dean.”

Anger sucked away his breath. Melody would consider Hallie old enough to stay alone for a night and half a day, but not old enough to go to a movie with a boy her own age.

He climbed out of the truck. “Want me to come in?”

Her head jerked around in surprise. The last time he’d stepped inside this house had been shortly after their divorce, when Melody complained about the living room TV going wonky and begged him to fix it after he dropped Hallie off.

“That’s okay.” She slipped from the seat. “I can handle it.”

He believed she could. She’d been “handling” it since she’d been five, since he’d moved out, since Melody had relocated them to Eugene. The anger dissipated and guilt claimed its stake.

“You should go, Dad,” Hallie said when he simply stood between the two vehicles, mulling over his conscience. “Mom’ll be anxious. She always is after visits. It’ll be worse this time because I went without her permission.”

Anxious? He wanted to ask what that meant, but Hallie headed up the drive, toward the backyard. She disappeared around the corner of the house, to the rear entrance.

For a moment, he debated whether to leave or follow. With visitations, he always stopped at the curb to pick up or drop Hallie off, the chronic delivery man, then drove away with his heart bumping along behind.

Yesterday, she’d changed that. Yesterday hadn’t been a court-assigned day. Hallie had come on her own.

Anxious. The word spurred him into the small rear yard.

For the first time since his divorce, he saw what years could do to a plot of ground. The old pine that had towered above the single-car garage in his day was gone, a two-foot stump in its place. Along the back, the wooden fence tipped and heeled in a patch of fireweed. Once the place had been home—small-scaled, but neat and tidy and wholesome.

The ideal place to raise a little girl.

Dispirited, Seth turned from the deterioration and started for his truck.

The back door squeaked. Melody stepped barefoot onto the cracked cement stoop. She hooked the screen with one hip, then let it whap closed.

Had he caught her in the guise of sleep? Or…in the guise?

A faded red robe matching her dyed hair skimmed the base of her butt. He wondered if she wore underwear. Knowing his ex, he figured not. Where was Roy-Dean, boy wonder? Behind the door? Ready to stumble out, frown matching hers on his Brad Pitt face?

Melody plucked a lighter and cigarette from one big pocket; lit up. Seth’s brows jammed together. Lunn’s influence?

“Well, now.” Her mouth spoke clouds of smoke. “Look what the puppy hauled home. Fixing to leave already?”

“’Lo, Mel.”

She jacked an elbow on her folded arm, gusted a blue ring. His stomach clenched.

“Whaddya want?”

He thought of the Quinlan woman. Gentle, easy on the eyes. Damned easy. A thousand-light-year gap separated her from this woman who’d once been his wife. Tough as a pavement compactor, that was Melody. A toughness, he knew, that in the past few years had begun stifling Hallie. “When’d you start smoking?”

“A while ago. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“What affects my daughter is my business.”

“Don’t worry.” Melody cocked a hip, levered the robe higher. “I don’t smoke inside. Kid won’t let me.” She eyed him. “So. What is it you want?” she repeated.

His pulse kicked hard. Some role models they were for their child. Him a taciturn father who worked 24/7; her a… What had Hallie said? A bar tramp? He wouldn’t go that far, but in this second he half agreed with his daughter.

“Am I making you anxious, Mel?” he asked, vocalizing Hallie’s term.

“You?” She laughed, but her hand shook when she brought the cigarette to her lips. “Why on earth would I be anxious?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Maybe because last winter when you forgot to give Hallie lunch money for a week,” he enunciated forgot, “I meant what I said.”

Melody scoffed. “Right. You’d take me to court and get back those custody rights you signed away ten years ago.”

“Not by choice.” Your old man took me to the cleaners.

“Whatever.”

“It would be a different story this time, Mel. I’m not scraping the bottom of the bucket anymore.”

“No, but you’re still working forever and a day. The judge would put her in foster care before he’d give her to you.”

He let the words settle and brand. Melody was good at branding. Foster care. Where he’d spent three long, lonely years bouncing around, after his mother burned his father to death in the shed behind his family’s home. He’d had enough of foster care and social workers to last ten lifetimes. They’d have to kill him before he’d let one near Hallie or have her humiliated by a court battle that could see her carted off to some unknown pair deemed “caring and responsible” by The System.

“You know damned well,” his ex was saying, “she’s better off with me than in one of those places.”

He did know. That was the crux of this whole situation. Had been for years. But he also knew her words were a lot of hot air. If Hallie moved anywhere, it would be into his house. He’d see to that.

“Anyway, if Hallie’d told me,” Melody went on, “you know I would’ve left her the money.”

His jaw ached from clenching. “Actually I don’t. But I do know this. Leaving our daughter alone overnight is wrong. She’s not all grown-up. If you can’t be there for her, I will.”

“Big talk from a guy who’s never home himself. Least I work a nine to five most days.”

Only because your daddy bought you Cut ’n’ Class hair salon.

He ignored his thumping blood, zeroed in on the reason he’d come to this door. “Hallie wants to go to a movie this afternoon without a chaperone. I don’t see it as a problem.”

“Sure you don’t. You’re a man. Men think—”

“Jeez, Mel, it’s an afternoon movie, not an orgy. What can it hurt?”

Melody flicked ashes into the flower bed beside the stoop. “Orgy. Now there’s a word and a half. For your information, a helluva lot can hurt if that boy starts pawing her.”

“No one’s going to paw her. They’ll go to the movie, watch it and she’ll come home. End of story.”

“Ha. I was fifteen once. I know what goes on in those back rows, in the dark.”

“Don’t judge our daughter by your standards.”

“Oh, aren’t we all righteous? Like you never copped a feel in the back of a theater, you and those bad boy brothers of yours.”

Not at fifteen. He’d been too busy working his ass off after school. Trying to sweeten the B in his hive of marks. As for Jon and Luke, they’d been men in their twenties and gone from home. What they did with women was their business.

He set his hands on his hips, let out a deep breath. “Cut her some slack, Mel. She’s a normal teenage girl, a good girl. She won’t get in trouble at the damn movie.”

Melody tilted her head, squinted against a stream of smoke. “Did she tell you how old this guy is?” She smirked at his silence. “Didn’t think so. He’s a senior. Seventeen. A MacAllister.” As if that said it all.

The MacAllisters of Trailer Trash Park.

Fifteen years ago, Delwood Owens had swept Seth into the same backyard barrel.

Melody went on. “He part-times at the Garage Center. You still want her to go alone?”

Dammit. If he didn’t support Hallie, he’d lose his one skimpy chance of truly bonding with her. If he disagreed with Melody, whatever connection still existed between mother and daughter would be shot.

He said, “Why not let her go, if she promises to be home within half hour of it finishing? That’s roughly three hours, Mel. You can trust her for three hours in the middle of the day in a public place, for Pete’s sake.”

“In a dark public place. With a man. At eighteen, I was—”

Pregnant. And she’d never forgiven him for it. Not for “messing up” her life. For damn sure, not for squashing her big dreams of becoming a model.

Seth pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. What if I made a point of meeting the boy first?”

“You’d do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” If it’ll help my child.

“Fine.” She stuck her head back inside, yelled, “Hallie, get out here.”

The girl had obviously hovered within inches of the door; she appeared at once.

Melody exhaled smoke. “I’ve decided to have your father check this Tristan out first. Then I’ll decide if you can go to the movie.” She turned to Seth. “Can you be back here…” A glance at Hallie. “What time’s the movie, one-thirty?”

Hallie stared at Seth as if he’d dumped a load of fish at her feet. “You’re checking Tristan out like he’s a piece of—of machinery? That’s so lame! Never mind, okay? I’m not going.” With a whack, the inside door shut in their faces.

Melody sighed. “Well. Seems we’ve solved the problem.”

Seth wanted to rush after his daughter, hold her, protect her from the harsh gusts of reality. She’d come to him. Eager for his help, for his trust.

And he’d fouled up. I’m sorry!

To Melody he said, “There never was a problem.”

“No?”

“No.”

She snorted, arced the half-smoked cigarette onto the cement driveway, several feet from where he stood. “Shows how much you know, or care, about your daughter.”

He studied the woman who had borne his child. Aging like a sour apple. “I may not know her the way you do, but I care. More than you could ever imagine.” He walked away. His heart flayed his ribs.

“Wait a minute.” She hurried down the drive after him. “Where you going?”

“To work.”

“Aren’t you coming back?”

“No.”

“But what about that boy? What am I supposed to do if he shows up this afternoon?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“Oh, isn’t this like you,” she sneered. “Always running off when the going gets tough.”

Hand on the door handle of the truck, Seth paused. “Tough? You don’t know the meaning of the word. I busted my back to make a home for you. What did it get me? Ten years of hell. Ten years of seeing my little girl wait on a curb so I could drop her off a day later. Well, things are about to change, Mel. Hallie’s old enough to make her own choices now, and I’m not the poor schmuck you divorced.”

Her mouth turned ugly. “You jerk. This isn’t finished, you know, not by a long shot.”

“Oh, it’s finished, all right. It was finished the day our daughter was born and you and your daddy decided a construction man wasn’t good enough for the family.”

Heart hurting for his child, he climbed into the cab and drove off, leaving his ex-wife glaring after him, in a robe showing enough leg to make a racehorse jealous.

Hallie curled on her bed and hugged Sunny, her favorite fuzzy bear, to her chest. The furry little creature had been a gift from her dad when she was born. Love-tattered, missing an eye, Sunny held a treasured place on her bed, in her heart. This minute, he hid her tears, muffled her sobs.

If she hadn’t opened the window…hadn’t been so impatient to hear her dad’s voice one more time, his boot heels smacking the cement driveway, his truck door slamming…

Last night, it’d taken every ounce of courage to walk to his place, to seek his help. She wasn’t used to asking for help. Once he’d lived in this very house and laughed and teased and tugged her pigtails. She’d ridden his shoulders out to his truck where he’d swung her down, cuddled his hard, lean face into her neck, blown raspberries. Every day. Before he drove off to work.

Then he moved out, into another house.

She used to cry at night until she fell asleep.

She used to blame herself for his leaving.

She’d believed she’d done something wrong.

Now she knew the truth, why his trips to Eugene had waned. Once she’d thought it was his work and the long drives. It was finished the day our daughter was born…

Confusion swirled in her mind. She tried, truly tried to be the worthy daughter, doing all she could to please her parents. Getting straight A’s, joining the school jazz band, babysitting for her own money. She knew her dad was proud; he’d told her so. And her mom was proud—sort of—the way Hallie cleaned the house, mowed the grass, did the laundry, got groceries. She didn’t tell her dad about the chores, though. Somehow, she didn’t think that would please him the way it did her mom.

Her mom. What was up with her lately? She’d always been a little eccentric, but since returning to Misty River she was living in a time warp or something, wanting to be Hallie’s age again. Acting sillier than some of the eighth grade girls.

Last week, she’d said she was getting a lip stud. A lip stud. Her mother. Gross!

Even the jewelry wouldn’t be so bad, if her mom would just lay off the questions and not ask about everything. Like Hallie wanted to hop onto any old back seat and get preggers. Not!

The only good thing about her mom seeing Roy-Dean Lunn was that she had loosened her choke hold a bit. Not because Melody believed in Hallie, but because Roy-Dean wanted her mom to himself.

The freedom should have felt great, except she felt more lonely than ever. And now her dad, saying that it was finished when she was born…

She burrowed her hot face into Sunny’s furry curves. Her dad had cared! Last night. Years ago.

You were little. What did you know then?

She shivered under the drafty window.

Daddy.

The name fluttered like a butterfly around her heart.

Seth drove straight to the Garage Center. He greeted Bill and asked for Tristan. Twenty seconds later, a tall blond teen—-wiping his hands on a rag—came through the door.

“You Tristan?” Seth asked.

“Yeah,” the boy said carefully.

“Let’s go outside for a minute.” Seth strode through the door and headed for the rear of his pickup. There, he grabbed the tailgate with both hands and sized up the kid dressed head to toe in green coveralls. “I’m Seth Tucker. Understand you want to take my daughter out to a movie this afternoon.”

The boy had stopped a few feet away. Good. Showed the kid had some wits.

“I know who you are, Mr. Tucker. And, yeah, I’d like to take Hallie to a movie.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, almost eighteen.”

“She’s fifteen. Barely.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The boy aligned his shoulders. “I have a sister Hallie’s age. Anyone touched a hair on her head, I’d kill ’em.”

Seth scrutinized the boy’s brown eyes. “We’re not talking about your sister.”

The kid didn’t waver. “I know.”

“Good.”

“Mr. Tucker, I don’t—”

Seth stepped away from the truck. “You have her home within a half hour of the movie ending.”

Visibly relieved, the boy nodded. “Yessir.”

“Don’t want her mother getting upset.”

“Or you, sir.”

Kid was no slouch. “Or me,” he agreed and walked to the truck’s door. Tristan hadn’t moved. “Better get back to work, son, before Bill takes our gab session off your pay.”

He drove to work, whistling.

“When a woman stares into her cup without taking a sip, I’d say she’s got a purse full of man trouble.”

Breena raised her head, smiled at the owner of Kat’s Kafé.”

“Hey, Kat.”

The elderly waitress replaced Breena’s tepid coffee with steaming black. “Guy has a downright immoral heart, yes?”

“Shows that much, huh?”

“Honey, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve carried the same purse.”

“You? But you’re…”

“A granny? Doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of man ache. Ought to be man-iac, if you ask me.”

Breena laughed. “From a woman who understands.”

“You got it. Birds of a feather and all. Anything else I can get you, hon?”

“Yes. A contractor.”

“Planning to build something?”

Breena pushed aside her half-eaten toast. “I’m trying to win over Aunt Paige and get her to fix the shop’s walkway.”

“You go, girl,” Kat said, gray curls bouncing. “I’ve been nagging her about it for the last five years.”

Breena didn’t doubt it. Kat made sun-catchers in her spare time for Earth’s Goodness. A special bond existed between the waitress and Aunt Paige.

“There are some in this town,” Kat bent to Breena’s level, voice soft, “who’d love to see that little place torn down. They think it’s dozer bait and a fire hazard.”

Delwood Owens. Breena had heard him heckle Paige about retiring, about selling the house to a “real resident.” The old toad. Wait until he learned of her stake in the place.

Still, the walkway was a mess. Someone could get hurt, someone like Delwood Owens. Breena pictured pudgy legs flying, wide rump landing hard. She could envision the headlines in the Misty River Times: Shop Owner Takes Chev Olds Owner For A Loop.

She said, “The place is not going anywhere, Kat. So if you know a good contractor, one who won’t rip Paige off, I’d appreciate it.”

“Leave it with me.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” A pat to Breena’s shoulder and she was gone.

No, it’s not, but I’m glad you are. Twenty-eight days ago, the waitress had served Breena her first Misty River breakfast and had since spread her ample goodwill wing over her whenever Paige wasn’t available.

Sipping her coffee, Breena admired the world outside the window. Wednesday’s dawn crept across the thick timber range west of the river. Several dusty, work-worn pickups were angle parked in front of the café. First Street, she realized, sponsored a variety of local merchants. At this hour, traffic was spotty. Ah, such a prize, this sleepy-eyed ambience of Misty River.

She’d recognized its goodness that initial morning, after falling into bed at the Sleep Inn Motel, exhausted from the weighty war of Leo’s betrayal. And discovering he’d filched a portion of their accounts the day after she’d kicked him out….

How stupid she’d been.

For seven years, she’d loved him. And for seven months hated him. Now, shame ate her because, God forgive her stupidity, she hadn’t detected the nuances of those nonspeaking, nonsharing, nonneeding moments. While warding off the failings of others— Joan of Arc wielding the sword and shield of therapy—she hadn’t the sharpness or cleverness or astuteness to see the ashes of her own marriage.

Dr. Breena Quinlan, Crackerjack Counselor.

How callow she’d been.

Thank goodness for the trust fund her dad had opened on her eighteenth birthday, money to which she’d added over the years.

Money Leo couldn’t touch.

Forty-three thousand dollars.

Enough to keep the howlers at bay.

Enough to put a portion into another business.

And, quite possibly, into her dream of rambling roses around a deep porch. Of baked bread. Of homegrown vegetables.

Her rose-colored bubble dream—-the one of a loving man and sweet-faced children—-Breena had waved goodbye to long ago.

A smile to greet her at the end of the day was pure fantasy.

As were gummy, little hands and chubby cheeks and pug noses to kiss. Bedtime stories, homework, proms. Father of the bride, mother of the groom. All of it, fantasy.

Four years they had tried, she and Leo.

And then?

Then Leo defected to her sister.

Lizbeth, who already had a child from a previous relationship. Lizbeth, who was spontaneous, funny, beautiful, unattached, fertile.

Whose morals, when it came to her little sis, qualified a shrug of the shoulder. “He doesn’t love you, Bree,” she said over the phone a month after that hideous night seven months ago. “Let him go. Let him be happy.”

God. Such an unconditional gift, her sister’s love. And so typical. Whatever Lizbeth wanted, Lizbeth got and damn the messy aftermath—or that it was Breena’s husband.

How could you cross that line, Lizbeth? How?

Considering her wasteland womb and her skill in keeping a man’s interest and love, Breena’s second chances were over. Not that she wished for a man—hell could freeze like a frappé before she’d offer her trust again—but still…

“Got your contractor.”

Breena jerked around. “What?”

“Renovations, girl,” Kat said. “The walkway.”

“Oh!” She straightened.

With a wink, Kat hiked her chin at Breena’s sunny window. “Don’t blame you, doing a bit of daydreaming. Be raining like a monsoon before long. Hold on.”

She headed down the aisle, to three men in a booth four up from Breena. A policeman and a suit faced her. A big-shouldered worker type in red and gray plaid faced them. She studied his profile as he listened to Kat.

Seth Tucker? Who drove her home last week?

And, here she sat, by a day-lit window, in a gray hoodie, navy sweats, sneakers…sans makeup. Wonderful.

The worker stood, and followed Kat down the aisle.

“Breena Quinlan. Seth Tucker,” the tiny grandma said. “He built communities in the sandbox, and today is the master.”

Amusement shaded his eyes. “Now, Kat.”

“Now, Seth.” She patted his arm and left.

“So,” he said when they were alone. “We meet again.”

His voice, deep as a Nevada crater.

“Yes. Again.”

He slid into the booth, set the sheepskin vest he carried on the bench. A whiff of aftershave passed her nose. Like autumn air. He regarded the window—her. A smile flickered.

He’s shy, she thought. The man who drove King Kong trucks was shy. A ripple hit her heart. Leo had never been bashful.

They both spoke at once.

“Your truck’s—”

“Did you—”

She said, “You first.”

“I see your Blazer’s up and running.”

“The Garage Center did a great job. Thank you for recommending them.”

Kat returned with a fresh carafe of coffee. When she left again, he toyed tough, brown fingers along the mug’s handle. His nails were cut straight, his hands scar-pocked. A Band-Aid was wrapped around one forefinger.

“Kat said you’re looking for a contractor.”

“I am. The shop’s walkway and back steps need replacing.”

“Likewise for the stone wall out front of the place.”

Of course. A construction man would recognize all kinds of impairments even in the dark. “It can wait until spring. Can you install moon lights along the walkway?”

“Sure. You want it done tomorrow?”

He was teasing her. She glanced away. “I didn’t mean…” Warmth fanned over her skin the way a breeze shifts leaves.

“I could fit you in every couple days, between other jobs.”

He had mythical eyes. Charcoal auras around Dakota-blue. She smiled into them. “Thank you. I, uh, I assumed you were a trucker, not a contractor.”

He sipped his coffee, watched her. “I haul. But I own other equipment as well.”

“I see.” She had no idea what the other equipment might be, or what “I haul” meant. “Can you give me a ballpark estimate for the walk and steps?”

He quoted a figure. She reserved her pleasure; her savings could handle the cost. Definitely a standard deviation between city and town. Here, expenses remained low-cost and agreeable to her budget. If she wanted a future in Misty River, she needed both feet on the ground for secure financial investment, which meant calculating her pennies, learning to be an employer instead of an employee. “Sounds reasonable,” she said. “You’re hired.”

“I can patch the wall as well. For a minimal fee.”

He’d do that? “Mr. Tucker—”

“Seth.”

“Seth. I don’t think that would be—” Fair? Proper? Compared to California landscapers, his price was a godsend. “That’s very generous of you.” Her cheeks warmed.

“When do you need me?”

Forever. She rolled her lips inward. “Monday?”

“Monday’s fine.”

The bandaged finger roved the mug’s rim. “How come you’re doing the hiring? Paige sick?”

“She’s fine.” Breena reckoned her choices and went with instinct. She needed someone to understand, to recognize what she’d done and why. I need a friend. “I’ve bought into the shop.”

His nod encouraged her. “Paige is thinking of retiring come January. She’ll continue as a silent partner. We’re keeping the information confidential for now.”

Another nod. He sat back, set an arm along the bench. “You planning to stay, then?”

“Maybe.” She studied the idle morning outside. “Probably.”

“What’d you do in San Francisco?”

A black crew cab with five young men pulled up to the curb. “I was a family therapist and a marriage counselor.” A half laugh. “Dumb, huh? I couldn’t see the problems in my own marriage till it was too late.”

Everything about him stilled. “You’re a social worker?”

“Psychologist.”

“But you work with Social Services.”

“If a patient is referred, yes.” She studied him. He’d gone from warm and congenial to cool and cautious. “You don’t like therapists, Mr. Tucker?”

“No.”

His response stung. Her profession shaped her. Someone, somewhere, had twisted his perception. “Perhaps you’d rather not fix our store.” She said it kindly. With empathy. Or maybe not.

The arm left the bench. “I’ll do it. And I’ll leave my opinions at home.”

As long as she kept her career and her thoughts hidden. She could do that. “I’m not here to counsel anyone, Mr. Tucker. Unless it’s my finances and your costs.” She offered a smile and shook inside. “This is my home now. I may never go back to Frisco. I don’t know if I could deal with…deal with…” Her throat hurt. He wouldn’t understand. How could he, when she who lived with the deceit, the betrayal, the agony, couldn’t make sense of it?

His eyes were quiet. “The chance of seeing them again?”

Around her heart, tightness eased. He understood. For the first time in months, someone—and a virtual stranger at that—someone grasped the bitterness fogging her corner. She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Most of all, that. I kept thinking if I ran into them…”

Somewhere dishes clinked above the murmur of patron voices.

“Your relationship,” he said, “a divorce?”

“And a regular carousel ride.”

He lifted his cup, didn’t drink. “On a feral beast.”

“It was like eating live slugs on Fear Factor.”

His cheek creased. “Or crossing a river full of alligators on Survivor.”

Their eyes caught, held. A long while. His features were harsh, tough. His eyes—she could wander under those skies and never feel lost. She observed her hands clenched in her lap.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” She essayed a smile. “Sometimes reminiscing gets a little crazy.” They were talking like old friends, comparing tragedies, lives. Did you know my husband slept with my sister?

He remained silent.

She sighed, needing to explain. “I’ll get over it.”

The smell of bacon, grits and grease aromatized the room.

“Sorry for getting tight-assed about your career.” His lashes were sooty, thick as lawn grass. “There have been things— Never mind.” He took a sip of coffee. “Living in a new town, changing jobs, it’ll help.”

“If it doesn’t, I’m in trouble. Well. Enough of the maudlin. What time can I expect you Monday? We open at nine-thirty.”

“I’ll be there at one o’clock.”

She nodded, grateful he hadn’t quit on the spot, what with all her blubbering. “Do you need us to prepare the yard before you arrive? Mow the grass? Move shrubs?”

She caught it again, the amusement playing in his eyes, on his lips. As if he envisioned her and old Paige spading up the cement blocks, tossing them into a neat pile on the perimeter.

“No,” he said. “But I’ll need to take some measurements. Six tomorrow okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

And she would be. Her shop, her town. Maybe next September—depending how the shop fared under her management—she could buy Paige out. Leftovers from the sale of the house in Frisco might even mortgage a rambling-rose cottage near her aunt.

Wishes and dreams, peaches and cream.

Like Seth Tucker’s somber mouth. How would it feel on hers?

“Where—” She cleared her throat. “Where is your office?”

“A couple blocks that way.” He inclined his head.

“I’d like to discuss some details about the work.”

He set aside the mug. “Why not go over them now?”

“I should talk to Aunt Paige first.”

“Sure. We could meet back here for lunch.”

Such a strong face. And those Dakota eyes— “How about five at your office?”

He extracted a napkin from the dispenser, flicked a pen from his shirt pocket. A map took shape. “Follow Main east to Chicksaw Lumber, then turn left on Peak Avenue. After you cross the railway tracks, turn left for a block. The office is on the corner. Old, red-brick building.” A circle marked the spot. “Can’t miss it.”

The napkin glided across the table under his hand. She took the paper; electricity zinged between their fingers.

Caching the map in her tote, she smiled. She could find the place blindfolded. Misty River was that kind of town, that kind of community. Simple, uncomplicated—the way she wanted her life. She held out a hand. “Thank you, Seth.” His palm was warm, calloused. Familiar.

A slow, slanted grin staged a chipped front tooth. “See you at five,” he said. Vest in hand, he slid from the bench.

She watched him walk away, long legs, lanky hips, trucker shoulders. Incredible. “Yeah,” she mumbled, trying hard to ignore her thumping heart and not succeeding. “Five.”

Seth stepped out of Kat’s Kafé into hazy sunshine and walked eight feet across the sidewalk to where his pickup was angle-parked. He set the heavy thermos of fresh coffee beside the lunch bucket on the seat, then climbed behind the wheel.

Through the country-paned window of Kat’s, he observed Breena paying her bill. One minute, a stranger bumming a ride, the next, his employer.

He reached for the metal clipboard, scanned the day’s jobs. Put the truck in gear, fool. Get the hell out of Dodge.

He had no business mooning over a woman running from a bad marriage. Not quite mooning, more like unable to stop dreaming about those eyes. Why hadn’t he noticed the other night? They were damn near purple, like the tiny pansies growing alongside his house. Brave things striving to stave off the approach of winter.

So, why didn’t he start the truck and drive away, instead of spying like a dumbass jock?

Did she dump the husband? Or vice versa? What about kids? So far, gossip said she’d arrived alone.

So was she divorced?

Oh, yeah. Her eyes told him before her words. “A regular carousel ride.” God help him, but he’d felt a pang in his heart at that moment. Hadn’t his own carousel sported fire-breathing dragons?

Oddly, he hoped she would make it in Misty River. Okay, she spelled Big City. Possibly old money. Elite education. Family therapist.

But her face was honest, her smile sweet.

She’d worked with Social Services.

“Find yourself a different woman to drool over, Seth,” he muttered, tossing the orders. A local woman like…

His mind blanked.

A rap on the window had him jerking around. A black-haired devil smirked through the glass. Seth rolled it down.

“Stick to trucking, bud,” his brother advised. “Surveillance isn’t your gig. She’ll make you the minute she steps out outside.”

“Go ’way.”

Jon threw back his head and laughed.

“Goof,” Seth muttered without offense as his brother sauntered down the sidewalk, the khaki police chief’s uniform impressive on his tall, rangy frame. Seth’s mouth worked up a half grin. There, with the love of a damn fine woman went a damn happy man. All the power to you, Jonny.

Rolling up the window, he contemplated the café again. Dammit. This was his town. Where he’d been born, married, had his child, divorced. Established his company. Culture and adventure he gleaned from the PBS or Discovery channels. Tending his own house, his own lifestyle was what he enjoyed.

He’d part with it all if it would give him back every missed year with Hallie.

Through the café’s windows, he saw Kat laugh with the Quinlan woman. As a Ph.D. in San Francisco, her nails would be clean and filed, even polished, her clothes fashionable, her hair styled.

Sighing, he reached for the ignition. He had to be hard up, squandering priceless time on a woman like Breena Quinlan. If he wanted a woman, why not someone like Peggy Whatshername? Or was it Kathy? No, Katie.

He couldn’t remember. Two, three years loomed as a century when it came to placing a woman he’d walked home once or twice.

For reasons he’d rather not contemplate, he knew he wouldn’t forget Breena’s face so easily.

He shoved in the clutch and maneuvered the stick shift to Reverse. She stepped through the door of Kat’s. Immediately, the sun sneaked into the blue-black curls of her hair.

Holding his breath, he watched as she slipped the receipt into the small athletic bag at her waist. She zipped it closed and lifted her head. Wide, violet eyes pinned him where he sat behind the windshield. Then she smiled.

Inside his chest, his heart did a goofy, schoolboy somersault. Ah, hell.

A brief clip of his head and he released both clutch and breath. Fast as the speed limit allowed, he fled Main.