Getting Lucky Page 11

He offered it back, but Lynda didn’t take it. “It’s got her cell phone number as well as her home number. In case … in case you want to get in touch with her.”

  Slowly, he began moving again, stopping only when he drew even with her. “I imagine I’ll see her again next time she comes for a visit. Other than that, I can’t imagine wanting to get in touch with her.” He looked for a place to put the card, then reached for her hand and folded it into her palm.

  His fingers were strong, warm, most assuredly talented. Standing there on the sidewalk in downtown Bethlehem on a warm May evening, she wouldn’t protest if he wanted to touch any other part of her with those long, calloused fingers.

  But he released her hand and slid his hands into his hip pockets. “You never answered my question in there. Are you afraid of me, do you dislike me, or do you think I’m too fresh for a mere employee?”

  “N-no.” That was all she could say, all she could think.

  “Then why don’t you give me your number, Lynda? In case I want to”—his emerald gaze drifted down from her face, then back up again —“get in touch with you?”

  She tried to swallow, but her throat had gone dry, tried to treat it as a joke, but her sense of humor had disappeared. “You—you have my number.”

  His laughter was sudden, unexpected, charming, “I certainly do, darlin’,” he said, brushing his fingers lightly over her arm as he walked past her to his car. There he looked back. “Why don’t you go to work at a decent hour some morning and have breakfast on the porch before you go? I’ll be on my best behavior. Promise.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but got in his car and started the engine. He didn’t leave right away, though, not until she’d locked herself inside her own car and backed into the street.

  As invitations went, she’d had more interesting ones, certainly more flattering ones, but none more tempting. I’ll be on my best behavior. Promise.

  But she didn’t want him on his best behavior. She wanted him at his smuggest, wickedest, Southern bad-boy best. She wanted to be bad.

  And she wanted him to make it so good.

  It was the first Monday of summer vacation, and the weather was suitably warm. Corinna Winchester Humphries sat in a creaky wicker chair on the front porch and watched her sister and the Dalton children playing in the yard. Sometimes it was difficult to tell who looked forward to summer more—Agatha or the children.

  Beside her, Emilie Bishop looked up from her snuggling-with-Michael-before-leaving-for-work. “Are you sure the kids aren’t too much trouble?”

  It wasn’t the first time she had asked the question, or Corinna had insistently responded, “Absolutely. They’re no trouble at all, Emilie. You know that.”

  “But aren’t there times you’d like to do things with your friends? Play bridge at Mrs. Larrabee’s or attend the Ladies Society meetings over at the lodge?”

  Corinna chuckled. “Heavens, why would we want to spend our time with stuffy old women when we could be having fun with the children instead? They’re like grandbabies to Agatha and me both. They’re fond of us, and we’re crazy about them.” That was a masterpiece of understatement. She and Agatha loved the Dalton/Bishop brood dearly, and the children loved them, too. They were woefully short of family, and Corinna hoped the children thought of them as the grandmothers they’d never had.

  “They’re crazy about you, too,” Emilie said with a smile. “We all are.” The smile slowly faded as she watched them play. “Has Josie said anything about seeing her mother?”

  “She says Berry told them she would come to Bethlehem this summer.”

  “I’ve asked Berry not to say things like that. If she can come, she should do it and surprise us all. But when she tells them she’ll come, then doesn’t … The disappointment is so hard for them to bear.”

  Corinna understood that Berry had problems. Being abandoned by her father after the death of her mother, then growing up in foster homes, had led to a less-than-exemplary lifestyle. But the woman was a mother, for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t put herself ahead of her children and expect to gain more than a twinge of sympathy from Corinna.

  “It’s easiest on Brendan,” Emilie went on. “I’m not sure he knows exactly who Berry is.”

  “He’s lived more of his life in your care than his mother’s. As far as he’s concerned, ‘Aunt Emilie’ is just another way of saying ‘Mama.’ ”

  Emilie smiled bittersweetly. “Josie gets hurt, she cries, she pouts, she gets over it. But Lannie …”

  “Alanna is getting tired of excuses.” Corinna had noticed the subtle changes in the girl. She no longer indulged Josie when she wanted to talk about Mama. She refused to discuss the promised visit. She treated all mentions of her mother as if they were of no consequence and often used the occasion to cast Emilie in a mother’s light instead. And who could blame her? Emilie had been willing to sacrifice everything for them—her job, her home in Atlanta, her money, even her freedom. She’d been willing to face life in prison for them. They should love her more.

  Emilie nodded in response to Corinna’s observation. “Until I moved in with them, all the obligations Berry couldn’t or wouldn’t handle fell to Alanna. At six years old she was more a mother to Josie and Brendan than Berry ever was. She had so much responsibility for a child.… If Berry doesn’t get herself under control soon, I think Alanna will write her off. Berry will lose her for good, and I don’t know how to stop that from happening.”

  “You can’t stop it, dear,” Corinna said, watching as Alanna swung a laughing Brendan in circles. “You’ve done all you can. You’ve been honest with the children about their mother. You’ve acknowledged her problems, and you’ve helped them deal with the effects. I suspect you’re right, that Berry is losing Alanna. She has no one to blame but herself. And let’s be frank, Emilie. The loss is Berry’s, not Alanna’s.”

  “True. I just can’t help but wonder what these kids did to deserve a mother like Berry and fathers who are just as bad or worse.”

  Corinna smiled serenely. “And the children can’t help but marvel at how blessed they are to have surrogate parents like you and Nathan.”

  Emilie gazed at Michael, who looked more like his father every day. “We’re all blessed to have Nathan. And on that note, I’d better get to work.” She kissed Michael and handed him over, then kissed the other children on the way to her car.

  As she drove away, Alanna slid into the empty chair. “Were you and Aunt Emilie talking about my mother?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “It’s the look Aunt Emilie gets. All worried and upset and angry. The look she used to get when Mama didn’t come home for days at a time, or when she’d get sick from the drugs and booze she bought with our grocery money.”

  “Yes, we were talking about your mother.”

  “She still says she’s coming to visit, but I don’t care whether she does.” Alanna’s look was filled with defiance. “I really mean that. She can stay away forever for all I care. We don’t need her here. I wish Aunt Emilie was my mom and Uncle Nathan was my dad. They are in every way that counts, and I wish more than anything they were for real, and then we could be a real family.”

  Corinna laid her hand on Alanna’s arm and squeezed gently. Families, and the feelings about them, were a complicated thing. She had always been surrounded by family and treasured them. Emilie, who’d been five when she was placed in the foster-care system, had grown up on the outside looking in. She’d always been alone until she’d taken over the care of her nieces and nephew, and now she wouldn’t know how to live without them. Berry, a product of the same upbringing, cared only for herself, and the children’s fathers apparently felt the same, since none of the three had ever been a part of their lives.

  “You are a real family, dear,” Corinna gently stressed. “It doesn’t matter that Emilie and Nathan aren’t your birth parents. You know too well that it’s possible to give birth to a child and feel no love or responsibility for him, jus
t as it’s possible to never give birth and love someone else’s child as if you had.”

  It was a difficult lesson, one that no child should ever have to learn, regardless of age. But if great quantities of love could lessen its effect, then Alanna would be all right, because she was certainly well loved.

  Breathless from a game of ring-around-the-rosy, Agatha dropped down on the porch steps. “Alanna, how would you like to go on a picnic today? Bud tells me there’s a lovely place along the stream that runs through Dr. J.D.’s property and is perfect for snacking on sandwiches and brownies and wading in the cool water.”

  The cloud that had descended over Alanna’s features lifted in an instant, and she smiled her prettiest smile. “Sounds like fun, Miss Agatha. Can I help you with the food?”

  “You certainly can. In fact, if you’re willing, I believe I’ll let you fix it all, and I’ll supervise. Everyone will be impressed by your talents.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”

  As the screen door banged behind Alanna, Corinna gave her sister a dry look. “I suppose a picnic at J.D.’s will include the Brown/Grayson bunch—and, of course, Bud.” Hence Agatha’s silly grin. “Let me tell you a little secret, Agatha. Caleb’s not the least bit interested in Alanna’s picnic-making abilities, and Bud’s not the least bit interested in yours. You could take a loaf of store-bought bread and a package of bologna, and they both would be perfectly satisfied as long as they shared it with you.”

  “I know. Isn’t that a wonder?”

  It was no wonder at all. Agatha had much to offer a man, even though she’d chosen to remain single until now. Corinna had always known it, and Bud Grayson had needed only a few seconds to realize it. He’d fallen head over heels in love with her, and she with him. Corinna wished them all the happiness in the world and, honesty forced her to acknowledge, envied them a little, too. It had been so long since her Henry had died. So many years that she’d loved him, so many years that she’d missed him. Sometimes she felt as if her life were behind her and Agatha’s was just beginning, and in a sense, she was right. So was her sister.

  Agatha had fallen in love. Was there anything in the world more worthy of wonder than that?

  The Mercedes was gone when Ben arrived at work Monday morning. He wasn’t really surprised … just a little disappointed. Even that was uncalled for. Lynda was his boss. Period. His presence in town was temporary. He wasn’t looking for any kind of emotional entanglement—needed to avoid them, in fact, in case he decided he wanted to meet Alanna. Even if he were looking, she wasn’t his type, and he for damn sure wasn’t hers.

  All that acknowledged and understood, he was still a little disappointed.

  The morning was half passed and he was setting the table saw near the foot of the steps when the kitchen door opened and Mrs. Martin, came out, apron tied around her middle, handbag over one arm. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning, Mr. Foster?” she called in a voice that boomed with friendliness.

  He gave her a curious look. In the past week, he was fairly certain she hadn’t said more than ten, maybe fifteen, words to him, consisting mostly of Coffee’s ready and Lunch is ready, and even those had been grunted rather than spoken. He hadn’t imagined that she could actually sound human, or that she could smile, or that she ever had a pleasant thought. “Yes, ma’am, it is,” he replied as she came down the steps. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “To Trenton. I just got a call from my son-in-law. My daughter’s gone into labor. Her first child. My first grandchild. I’ll be gone for a week or two, maybe four. Heavens, if I like being a nana well enough, I just might stay!”

  No matter how he tried, he couldn’t picture the staid, sour woman as a doting grandmother willingly answering to “Nana.” It just wasn’t possible. “Does Lynda—Ms. Barone—know you’re leaving?”

  “Everything’s all taken care of. My replacement is inside. She’s quite suitable. She knows the schedule and has the key, and she knows to fix lunch for you and Sophy. By the time I get to Trenton, my grandbaby will have been welcomed into the world!”

  Ben watched her leave, then gazed at the back door. What exactly constituted “suitable” in Mrs. Martin’s mind? Another unsmiling, prison-matron type?

  Oh, no. There was nothing harsh or stern about the woman who appeared in the doorway. Motherly, yes. Matronly, no way. As for smiling, her face was split by a broad grin. “Good morning, Ben Forester.”

  He couldn’t help but grin back. “Good morning, Gloria.”

  “What would you like for lunch today? I’ve got the makings for my special chicken salad with walnuts.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “And how about a pecan pie?” She pronounced it pee-can, the way Emmaline always had. “I can stir one up in no time.”

  “You’re a woman after my own heart,” he teased, but she took him literally.

  “Oh, no. I think someone else has her sights set on it. I’ll give you a holler when lunch is ready.”

  Great. Another matchmaker type. Just what he needed.

  As she closed the door, Sophy climbed down the scaffolding to join him. She wore overalls and a sleeveless T-shirt, with a baseball cap over her curls and paint splatters everywhere. She painted enthusiastically, if not neatly. “Did I hear Gloria’s voice, or was I imagining things?”

  “No, you heard her. She’s filling in for Mrs. Martin, who’s gone to be with her daughter in Trenton.”

  “Oh, yes, the grandson. Today’s his birth date. So Gloria’s filling in. That’ll be fun. I like working with her.” Before Ben could ask any of several questions—how did she know the baby would be a boy, what had she meant by that birth date remark, and when had she worked with Gloria before?—she went on. “I’m finished with the fascia boards. What’s next?”

  “Let’s do the porch—replace the rotted boards, tighten the railings.” When they were done, the porch would need a coat of paint, as would the entire house, and then there were the front steps to repair, but that wasn’t a priority. Far as he could tell, no one used the front door, anyway.

  He’d already moved his equipment to the grass near the back steps. With Sophy’s help, he carried a stack of wood over. When she saw the saw and the nail gun, her eyes lit up. “Can I cut the wood?”

  “Uh … we’ll see.”

  Her features were fluid, shifting from anticipation to pout in an instant. “I bet if I were a man, you wouldn’t say that.”

  “Darlin’, man or woman, if you were half as experienced as you told me you were, I wouldn’t say it.”

  “Aw, you didn’t hire me because of my experience,” she teased. “You felt sorry for me because I needed a job.”

  Ben’s cheeks warmed. “I hired you because I needed help. Experienced or not, you do help.”

  “Thank you. So teach me to use the saw.”

  “Sorry. I’m not that brave.”

  In addition to the spot where someone had broken through the floor, his inspection had turned up another five places where the wood was in sorry shape. Fortunately, the repairs were a simple matter of prying off old boards, cutting new ones to fit, and nailing them in place. By the time they were halfway through, he’d given in to Sophy’s wheedling and agreed to let her operate the saw. He had everything lined up, the cut clearly marked. All she had to do was lower the saw blade, cut through the plank, then raise it again. What could go wrong?

  He didn’t know, but if anyone could figure it out, it was Sophy.

  He gave her a pair of safety glasses, showed her how to start and stop the saw, then stood behind her, watching over her shoulder. When she shut off the saw, she flashed him a grin. “I think that one’s a tiny bit off. I probably need to do it again.”

  “It’s fine,” Ben murmured, his gaze on the car that had driven up while the blade was running. Wearing a blindingly white jacket and skirt with matching heels that made her several inches taller than him, Lynda unfolded from the vehicle and crossed the flagstone path that led t
o where they were working.

  “I’ll take this board around front.” Sophy traded safety glasses for board, nearly knocked Ben in the head, then bumped the rail on her way up the steps.

  Lynda stood silent until Sophy’s footsteps faded, then she came a step closer. “How is she working out?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “A little … clumsy?”

  “Most of us mere mortals are.” He glanced pointedly at his watch. “Has the world come to an end?”

  She acknowledged his meaning with a smirk. “Ross decided he wanted my proposal that was due next week today instead.”

  “And, of course, you just happen to have it ready.”

  “I just need to pick it up.”

  “When you were in school and the teacher announced at the beginning of the semester that you had a paper due at the end, I bet you started it right away, didn’t you?”

  She nodded again. “And I bet you waited until the night before it was due.”

  His response was a shrug. “If a carton of milk says Use by June 15, you do.”

  “And if a sign says Do Not Enter, you do, too.”

  “What can I say? I’m a rebel by birth.”

  “And I’m … what? A conformist?” She smiled faintly. “I’ve been called worse.”

  What? By whom and why? he wondered, but he didn’t ask. “What if you hadn’t had this proposal ready a week early?”

  “I did, though.”

  “But what if you didn’t?”

  “I’ve never failed to have something ready.”

  Failed. Interesting choice of words. How could anyone consider it a failure to not have work ready a week before it was due? At the very least, she’d deserved a day’s notice. “You should have told Ross you’d give it to him tomorrow or the next day or, hey, how about next week when it’s supposed to be ready.”

  “I’m not an obstructive person.”

  “Maybe you should be.” He glanced at his watch again. “As long as you’re here, why don’t you have lunch with us? Gloria is making—”

  “Gloria?”

  “Your substitute housekeeper.” When the blankness didn’t leave her expression, he went on. “Mrs. Martin’s daughter in Trenton is having her first baby, and she’s gone to help out. She said everything was taken care of, that Gloria was quite suitable. I assumed that meant she’d cleared it with you.”