A Gift for All Seasons Page 5

  “Yeah, sure,” the little girl said, then wriggled out of her daddy’s arms to bounce off after Mel, while Patrick watched her as though worried she’d vanish through a magic portal into an alternate universe. And wasn’t that cute as all get-out? Although, when puberty came calling? She wasn’t sure who to pity more, Lili or Patrick.

  Looking away, April felt the house’s warm glow curl around her, the smells from the kitchen bringing tears to her eyes. A lot had gone on inside, as well, during her absence. Serious miracle worker, that Blythe. April couldn’t wait to get photos up on the Rinehart’s new website, although too bad there wasn’t a way to let potential guests experience the aromas, as well. Tears threatened again. If it hadn’t been for Clayton...

  “You okay?”

  Not alone. Right. April nodded, clearing her throat, trying to ignore the beasties tiptoeing back. Beasties too dense to realize the man didn’t want to be here.

  “If you’d told me four years ago,” she said, not looking at him, “that I’d be getting ready to open my own business, that this place would be mine...” She turned, taking in the refinished floors, the warm colors and inviting overstuffed furniture, the framed watercolors Blythe had bought from a local artist. Sigh. “We really can’t predict what life has in store for us, can we?”

  Long pause. “We sure as hell can’t.”

  Oh, Lord. Speaking of dense. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t. It’s okay.”

  She hazarded a glance. Met his gaze. Blushed in places she didn’t normally blush, a sensation simultaneously pleasant and unsettling. “You also don’t have to stay.”

  Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets, clearly not realizing what that did to the front of his jeans. “There’s a kid in your kitchen who might beg to differ. Not to mention your cousin.” Another pause. “And whatever your cousin’s making is bound to be better than packaged mac and cheese.”

  Wow. Were they having an actual conversation? “That’s really pathetic.”

  “It’s one of a handful of things Lili will eat.”

  “And the others are?”

  “Toaster Strudel, broccoli, sometimes an egg. And my mother’s vegetable soup.”

  April laughed, confusing the heck out of the beasties. Not to mention herself. “You have a very strange child.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. Deadpan. Which was not making him less sexy. “By the way,” he added, “I haven’t been bringing her every day. But both my mom and my sister are dealing with some kind of bug. Your cousin was here and she kind of...” He frowned. “Took over.”

  “That’s Mel. Not that I wouldn’t have done the same thing.” She shrugged. “Lili’s a sweetheart. You’re welcome to bring her any time you want.”

  He nodded, muttering, “Thanks,” almost as an afterthought.

  April cleared her throat. “So...Lili’s mother...?”

  “We’re divorced.”

  And, oh, there were questions she was dying to ask. Like how young were they when they got married, why he appeared to have full custody of his daughter, if Lili even ever saw her mom, that sort of thing.

  The very sort of thing smart cookies knew to tiptoe right past.

  * * *

  Patrick tried to act normal during dinner, at least for Lilianna’s sake, even though it was bugging the life out of him that he hadn’t taken advantage of April’s not-so-subtle prying to ask her about her husband. You know, give her the chance to come clean?

  But he hadn’t, and she hadn’t, so best simply to let the whole thing drop, right? After all, what did it matter in the big, or even small, scheme of things?

  Still, he could not wait to get out of here. To take his child and book it back to their little apartment, where things were safe and predictable and he couldn’t hear April’s laughter. Or see those blasted rings sparkling in the candlelight.

  Ever since discovering April was a widow, Patrick had redoubled his efforts to give his untoward musings the boot. A task that should not have been the bear it seemed determined to be, given that he was hardly a stranger to disciplining his thoughts. Otherwise he’d probably be dead by now. And, fool that he was, he’d actually thought he’d succeeded, keeping his focus on Lili, on the job, on working out, on Lili, so there was no room for anything else.

  Until there April was, again, and now he understood the shadows in her eyes, which weren’t making things better. See, realizing he had to love Lili enough for two parents—before he was even sure he knew how to love her enough for one—had been a kick in the butt to his basic humanity, too. That he couldn’t love Lili, not the way she deserved to be loved, without having empathy for his other fellow beings.

  No matter how much he’d wanted to shut himself off.

  “Okay, cake!” Mel said, duck-walking with outstretched arms behind Lili as the little girl carried in the three-tier concoction, her pleased grin nearly splitting her face in two, and April’s gaze snagged Patrick’s just long enough for him to catch something else in her eyes.

  Not to mention the blush sweeping up her neck.

  Well, hell. How had he missed that?

  It may have been a while, but unless he was mistaken the gal had the hots for him. Embarrassed as all hell about it, too, was his guess. Which he should have found gratifying, if not flattering. Or at least highly amusing. Since she was obviously channeling her grief in...other directions, there was no way in hell he was letting either of them go there.

  Because he’d amassed enough regrets for one lifetime already. And she’d get over it. Especially once the inn opened and—he took a bite of the cake, which he had to admit was crazy good, even if he wasn’t a huge chocolate fan—word got out about her cousin’s cooking. Yep, April was going to be far too busy to think about...whatever she was thinking about.

  Even so, much later, after he and Lili had returned home and he’d read Go, Dog. Go! three times before she finally conked out, after the unseasonably warm night had enticed him out onto the staircase clinging to the side on the brick building, he felt the darkness that had never completely left inside him stir, and stretch, and shift into something that felt an awful lot like yearning.

  Which would never do.

  * * *

  April’s mother had always been big on that whole “see the glass as half full,” thing. “Count your blessings,” she’d say. “Look on the bright side.” And April’s personal favorite, “It could be worse.” Although heaven knew there were times, when they’d been reduced to eating grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup five nights out of seven, when she’d spot the pawn ticket and realize her mother had hocked her engagement ring—again—that April wanted to shake the woman and yell, “How could it possibly be worse?”

  Only she never had, partly because she knew Mama was doing her best, and partly because they’d never actually gone hungry. Came darn close, more times than April wanted to remember, but there’d always been food of some description on the table. And they’d always, somehow, climbed out of whatever hole her father had put them in. Occasionally they even went out to eat, if only to Denny’s or Long John Silver’s.

  And eventually Mama got her engagement ring back for good.

  So despite April’s inclination as a kid to think her mother’s irritatingly positive outlook was a lot of hooey, it’d somehow taken root in her own psyche. Maybe because they had always landed on their feet, maybe because despite everything her parents had never stopped loving each other, she didn’t know. But now, as her gaze drifted away from her computer and out her office window to watch Patrick working alongside his men—literally, on his knees in the dirt, tamping down the earth around a freshly planted bush as he joked with Duane, one of his crew—that whole “count your blessings” refrain started up again in her head.

  Because yesterday—just as a for instance—she’d heard him inquire after someone’s mom, apparently recovering from gall bladder surgery; the day before that she’d noticed
him hand a small wrapped package to another guy for his kid’s birthday. Witnessed the way he listened to his crew and their obvious respect for him—real respect, not some deferential attitude because of his injuries. He was the first one there in the mornings and the last one to leave at night, but not until he checked in with April, gave her an update, asked if she had any questions, wanted any changes. For that, she should be—and was—more than grateful. Professionally, he’d filled her glass to overflowing, and she’d be delighted to sing Shaughnessy and Sons’ praises to anyone who asked. Clearly the man was a decent human being who truly cared about others.

  But he’d also stopped meeting her gaze during those update sessions, or giving her even a sliver of opportunity to steer the conversation away from pavers and gravel and green things. Oh, he’d nod and say Lili was fine, when she asked, maybe even share an anecdote or two—he was a proud papa, after all—but beyond that, nada.

  And frankly, she thought as she slammed shut her laptop lid and slipped her blazer over her cotton tunic, his continued reticence was getting on her last nerve.

  April picked up the check she’d written earlier and let herself out onto the porch, shivering in the sudden chill. It’d been bizarrely warm these past few days, but the minute the sun went down, so did the temperature. Over by his truck, Patrick glanced up and spotted her, giving her a nod before crashing shut the tailgate. Muscles bulging underneath his long-sleeved Henley, he shrugged into his canvas work coat as he started toward her, juggling his clipboard from hand to hand as he walked. It wasn’t a particularly graceful gait, but it was solid, the stride of a man who knew what he was about.

  Or at least wanted the world to believe.

  * * *

  Before he even reached the steps, Patrick saw April hold out something. A check, looked like. “Your next payment,” she said, her voice as crisp as the evening breeze.

  Patrick looked at it, frowning. “Not due ’til tomorrow—”

  “I know. But this way you can deposit it first thing. So here.”

  Eyes still on the check, he took it, a half smile denting the unscarred side of his face as he clamped it to the board. Never mind that the bank didn’t open until after he would’ve been here an hour. “Thanks.” Then he turned, scanning the yard. “So. You still good with everything?”

  “Your work? Couldn’t be happier. You? Not so much.”

  He didn’t turn back. Not right away. Partly because the annoyance in her voice caught him up short, partly because he had a pretty good feeling he wasn’t going to like what came next. Whatever that was. He’d forgotten how women wanted things spelled out, even when there weren’t enough letters to do that.

  But eventually he did, finally doing the one thing he’d refused to let himself do these past few days: look straight at her. He’d hoped she wouldn’t notice. Or if she did, wouldn’t care. Wrong on both counts, apparently.

  “Not sure I understand,” he said, which was true enough.

  She crossed her arms, as a strange—and strangely arousing—combination of hurt and mad duked it out in her eyes. “Did I do something to tick you off?” she said, and he heard himself say, “You really want to have this conversation?” and over the sound of his words detonating in his head she lobbed back, “Implying that there’s something to have a conversation about?” and longing and anger collided in his gut in a spectacular explosion.

  Obviously trying to ignore this...this buzzing between them wasn’t working. For either of them. At which point it occurred to him that, sometimes, in order to do the right thing, you had to be the bad guy. Whatever was going on underneath all that soft, silky, sunset-colored hair, it needed to be stopped, now.

  So Patrick climbed the steps, watching her eyes pop wide open when he grabbed her left hand and gave it a little shake, a hundred colors flashing in the faceted stones, even in the waning light. “Why are you still wearing these?”

  “What?” she squeaked out, frozen.

  “Blythe told me you’re a widow.”

  Mouth open, April snatched back her hand, holding it to her chest. “I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret.”

  “Then why—?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Patrick—plenty of widows still wear their rings! What’s the big deal?”

  “How about because people might assume you’re still married? Or at least, still feel married?” He crossed his arms. “Both of which seriously conflict with the messages you’re sending out.”

  Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Messages?”

  “Yeah, messages. Specifically of a ‘let’s get cozy’ nature.”

  She blinked. “I don’t—”

  “Like hell. You don’t really expect me to believe you have no idea how you’ve been looking at me?” He stepped closer, deliberately towering over her, ignoring the lust rearing its ugly, insistent head when he got a good whiff of her perfume. At how the breeze sifted through her hair, across her slender, very pink neck. God, that hair drove him crazy. Almost as crazy as that prissy little blue headband holding it off her face. “That I wouldn’t pick up on it?”

  Then she seemed to regroup, thrusting her hands into her jacket pockets and looking him smack in the eye, even though her voice shook. Barely, but it shook. “I was going to say, no, I don’t still feel married. Not that it’s any of your business, but—”

  “What?”

  “The rings...I’ve never owned anything this pretty in my life, okay? So maybe I just wasn’t ready to chuck them into a safe, never to be seen again. And anyway, you don’t think I noticed you looking at me exactly the same way?” Her eyes narrowed. “Even when you thought I was married?”

  Busted.

  “Fine. So I noticed you were hot. And my skills at keeping my thoughts under wraps might be a bit rusty. But that’s all they were. Thoughts. Doesn’t mean I had any intention of acting on ’em.”

  That soft-looking little mouth curved at the corners. “Before or after you found out I was single?”

  “Either. Both. And damn it, you’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

  Another blush washed over her cheeks. “Not intentionally—”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, April. Hell, you’re not even in the right forest.”

  “I wasn’t barking, for heaven’s sake! I was just...looking—”

  “Well, don’t. Because I’m bad news. And for God’s sake I don’t need some gal taking pity on me, wondering what it would be like to shag the freak.”

  Brittle silence stretched between them, pierced only by a hawk’s cry from behind the house. At last April opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again and said, “You honestly think that?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then you’re an idiot,” she said, before she stomped back inside, the door slamming shut behind her.

  Weirdly, Patrick didn’t feel nearly as good about that as he’d expected to.

  * * *

  “Done,” Blythe said, arms outstretched, her six-inch feather earrings a blur. “Done, done, done, done, done.” Then she did a strange little NordicTrack shuffle in her stiletto booties that made April laugh, despite still feeling like fish doody several days after telling Patrick he was an idiot. Not that he wasn’t. She just felt bad about it.

  Panting a little, Blythe slung one slender arm around April’s shoulders, surveying the finished gathering room. “You ready for this, sweetie?”

  April crossed her arms over her lambswool turtleneck and grinned, despite the trembling in her midsection. “I am so ready.”

  “Then let’s kidnap Mel, go to Emerson’s for lunch to celebrate.”

  “You’re on.”

  Her cousin strode off to get her things from the office, leaving April to revel. Absorb. Minutes before, they’d finished the final walk-through of the upstairs, the five bedrooms outfitted in a combination of antiques, repurposed pieces salvaged from their grandmother’s “collections,” and funky yard-sale finds. Windows sparkled, bathrooms gleamed, deeply piled rugs invited ba
re toes to squish.

  Yet April couldn’t shake the feeling that any minute she was going to tumble out of bed and realize it’d all been a dream. But it wasn’t. In fact, she’d been stupefied that morning to check the website and discover several booking requests for the festival, more for after the holidays. And she had to hire more staff and find a laundry service, set up accounts with various suppliers—

  It was happening. It was really, really happening.

  So this whole business with Patrick still hanging over her like a toxic cloud was patently unfair. He and his band of merry men—and two women—had finished up the day before as well, aside from the spring planting. She’d also paid for a year’s worth of monthly maintenance, so she’d never have to think about keeping it all pretty, they’d do it for her. But now that the bulk of the job was done—and since she seriously doubted Patrick was going to show up in May, clippers in hand, to trim her topiaries—in theory she supposed she never had to think about him again, either. Let alone see him.

  In a town the size of a peanut? Right.

  “I texted Mel,” Blythe said, wrapping a long, silver-threaded scarf around her neck as she emerged from the kitchen, the fringed ends gracefully blending into the folds of her cashmere cape. “She’s going to meet us there.”

  “Excellent.”

  November had returned with a vengeance, making both women scurry out to Blythe’s Prius, complete with a vanity plate that read WOWFCTR.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Blythe said as April buckled her seat belt. “You ever change your mother’s mind about coming up for Thanksgiving?”

  “Hah. Only way that’ll happen is if I blindfold her and toss her in a sack.” The Prius silently navigated the circular drive and out onto the road leading through the gently worn neighborhood of rambling, multistory houses set on spacious lots, the bare-branched elms and maples and oaks seeming to scrape the cloudless, brilliant blue sky. April frowned over at her cousin. “Does your mom still have issues about Nana?”