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The Dad Next Door
Stephanie Dees
A Place to Call HomeLawman Joe Sheehan is desperate to bond with the daughter he’s just discovered he has. But as a virtual stranger to twelve-year-old Amelia, the task seems impossible. Until Claire Conley moves to town. A social worker renovating a mansion into a foster home, Claire is the first person to get through to Amelia. Falling for the single dad was not on Claire’s to do list. But with Joe and Amelia around, the house finally starts to feel like home. Claire’s ready to fight to convince Joe that together they’ve done more than fix a house…they’ve built a family.
A Place to Call Home
Lawman Joe Sheehan is desperate to bond with the daughter he’s just discovered he has. But as a virtual stranger to twelve-year-old Amelia, the task seems impossible. Until Claire Conley moves to town. A social worker renovating a mansion into a foster home, Claire is the first person to get through to Amelia. Falling for the single dad was not on Claire’s to-do list. But with Joe and Amelia around, the house finally starts to feel like home. Claire’s ready to fight to convince Joe that together they’ve done more than fix a house…they’ve built a family.
A splash and a scream echoed off the main house.
He ran toward the pond as Claire surfaced, spluttering and laughing.
“Come on in.”
He gave her his best “you’ve got to be kidding me” look.
Laughing, she splashed him. “It’s just a little cold water.”
Joe took a deep breath and dived in, surfacing beside her.
“Are you worried about the meeting?” he asked when his breath had regulated.
“Yes.”
“Don’t give up. I don’t know if you’re that good with all kids, but if it wasn’t for you, Amelia and I would still be deadlocked in the silent treatment.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I needed the reminder of why it’s so important.”
“I have the feeling that you’re too stubborn to give up, anyway.”
“Oh, you do know how to sweet-talk me, Joe Sheehan.” She clambered out of the pond.
As he watched her, he realized he really liked her and he hadn’t felt that way about someone in a long time. The doors to his heart had been firmly closed. Seemed now there was just a crack in the door, enough to think…maybe.
Dear Reader (#ud4035c3f-0453-5e81-9f47-566a17668af3),
Thanks so much for spending some time in Red Hill Springs, Alabama! The name of my fictional small town is inspired by real-life springs, where the waters have been flowing—and providing respite and relief for weary travelers—for hundreds of years.
Each of the Sheehan siblings is facing challenges, but through faith and with love, they will learn that sometimes broken dreams lead to family blessings. If you liked The Dad Next Door, please join me back in Red Hill Springs in October for the next book in the Family Blessings series.
I’d love to hear from you! I can be reached at my website, stephaniedees.com (http://www.stephaniedees.com), or via email at steph@stephaniedees.com.
Stephanie Dees
Award-winning author STEPHANIE DEES lives in small-town Alabama with her pastor husband and two youngest children. A Southern girl through and through, she loves sweet tea, SEC football, corn on the cob and air-conditioning. For further information, please visit her website at stephaniedees.com (http://www.stephaniedees.com).
The Dad Next Door
Stephanie Dees
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Yet still I dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is His faithfulness; His mercies begin afresh each morning.
—Lamentations 3:21–23
For Melissa Endlich and Melissa Jeglinski
Thanks for keeping the faith.
Contents
Cover (#u8af012d4-b5ab-581c-9bb2-c8f4639b7bea)
Back Cover Text (#u60c83cc9-474a-5092-9d21-0968ab4f661f)
Introduction (#ub6fa0695-ea60-5398-859d-92b950c34d4d)
Dear Reader (#ua11a55fe-8711-5151-999a-e4b4812d51a3)
About the Author (#u57a3f4a6-8a65-5aa9-94b6-1dde2277b1bc)
Title Page (#ue7d495c6-abd7-54c9-99a5-9e23b6b6578f)
Bible Verse (#u23c30307-837d-5b1a-943c-e8008c1d34f1)
Dedication (#u244bf356-6171-508e-b1bb-87714c16c518)
Chapter One (#u589f7764-22db-5f41-ac01-21de7bdb044d)
Chapter Two (#uee121d0a-bff2-560e-a6bc-ae1def06b8ec)
Chapter Three (#ue3009d1a-8158-5f7e-b6db-53d4d46ac1a4)
Chapter Four (#ud4b954db-2e10-5b78-ab7e-c60326a46bd0)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ud4035c3f-0453-5e81-9f47-566a17668af3)
Claire Conley stood on the overgrown lawn—the Alabama humidity wilting her hair, flies circling—as she confronted her legacy. The antebellum plantation house she’d inherited from her father looked nothing like the pictures the lawyer had sent her. Well, to be fair, there was a porch. And it did have huge columns. But that was where the similarity ended. What had looked like pristine white paint in the photo was gray and peeling. The yard was a tangle of weeds.
Tears stung in her eyes. She’d sold everything she owned and driven fourteen hours on coffee and adrenaline, dreams buzzing in her head. For this?
This worn-out, falling-down piece of...history?
She tried to push the long, shaking sob back to where it came from and failed. She didn’t know what she’d been hoping. Her biological father had never given her a thing. This was just more of the same.
She didn’t hear the truck coming up the drive until the door slammed behind her. She spun around.
He looked hard. Hard muscles, hard expression, head shaved military style, a shadow of stubble along his jaw. A hint of a dimple creased his face, but she couldn’t see his eyes.
Those were covered with silver aviator glasses.
She was suddenly, painfully, aware of the fact that she’d chosen to stay on the road instead of stopping to eat in Somewhere, Georgia, and had the evidence of it smeared on her comfiest—threadbare—jeans.
“I’m looking for Claire Conley.” He didn’t raise his voice, but still, it carried.
She nodded, not sure she could speak around the lump in her throat. “That would be me.”
“I’m Joe Sheehan.” The guy walked closer and dug into his jeans pocket, coming up with a key. “Your father’s attorney asked me to give this to you. He’s out of town for a few weeks.”
She narrowed her eyes, big-city self-preservation kicking in. “You local law enforcement?”
“I’m a cop, but not in Red Hill Springs. My mom owns the diner and the attorney asked me to meet you.”
“You sure he didn’t skip town because he was afraid to face me?”
“I’m sorry?” The hand holding the key dropped a bit and the look on his face changed from friendly to concerned. “Is everything okay?”
She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out. The internet told her cleansing breaths were supposed to be calming. Not so much. “Yes, it’s fine. I’m fine. I was just expecting the house to be in a little better condition. I’m opening... I have plans for this place.”
Joe looked skeptical. “Yeah? Bed-and-breakfast?”
“Kind of. You know, my pastor back in North Carolina tells me brokenness is a good thing.” She stared at the house, her voice trailing off. If that was true, she was golden. She’d been wrecked when her fiancé ditched her, but thought she could get past it. Her mother’s death from cancer had gutted her. And when her job with the county ended, she figured God was trying to tell her something.
Joe rubbed his shoulder. “I’m not sure about it being a good thing, but I think things that are broken can be fixed. At least I hope so.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe this old place could be renovated. She didn’t know if there was enough glue in the world to hold her life together, but she was going to give it a try. Her hard-won optimism resurfaced, at least briefly.
Claire mentally calculated what remained in her bank account, and...the moment of optimism was gone. “I don’t know if I can do this. I have six months of living expenses and what’s left of my mom’s life insurance to get this place running.”
Joe stepped closer. “Maybe you should go inside?”
She closed her eyes, realizing she’d been spilling her guts to a literal stranger. And why? Because she got the sense that he understood what rebuilding a home—a life—would cost her?
“I’ve heard it was a real showplace at one time.” Joe climbed the steps to the porch.
“That’s encouraging.” She followed him onto the wide porch and took a step forward. Her left foot went right through the wood plank.
Joe’s arm streaked out to wrap around her waist, keeping her from falling through. He was warm and solid and, just for a second, she wanted to lean into that warmth. Instead, a laugh bubbled to the surface. And then the rest of it billowed out.
He hauled her to her feet and she stared at her reflection in those silver sunglasses. Hair all wackadoo, no lipstick, a ketchup stain on her shirt. Another giggle rose to the surface and she shoved it back with a tiny little snort. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Joe slid the key in the lock. Despite the general disrepair, the key turned easily. He pushed the door open and stepped aside so she could go first.
It was like stepping into another time. The front hall had high ceilings, to combat the summer heat, and though the wallpaper was peeling, she could see that it would’ve been beautiful in its day. French doors to her right opened into a huge room, floor-to-ceiling windows sending long squares of golden light onto the wood floor. “What would this room have been used for?”
“I think it was the ballroom. The mayor and his wife had dinner parties here.” At her side, Joe pulled off the sunglasses, sliding them into his shirt pocket. There was an ugly, twisted scar streaking from the corner of his eye into his hairline.
She swallowed a gasp as he turned toward her, catching her staring. “Your eyes are blue,” she blurted.
“So are yours.”
“Right. Of course they are.”
Amusement deepened the dimple in his cheek and she glanced wildly around for a change of topic. “I can just see it, the room filled with tables covered in crisp white linen, sparkling crystal, heavy silver. What kind of food did they serve, do you think?”
Joe stepped farther into the room, a glint of humor in his eyes. “I’m not quite old enough to have come to the parties, but my mom told me about them. I think the governor was here a time or two.”
She nodded, turning slowly in the room, hearing the music that had once played. What would her life have been like if she’d grown up here with her biological family? Would she have had pretend parties with her friends in this grand room? Even thinking it made her feel guilty, like she was cheating on her real family, the family that raised her. But one day children would run and play, spin and twirl, in this room.
She turned back to him. “How in the world did they live in this place with it in this kind of shape?”
Joe’s brows drew together. “They didn’t. From what I understand, they moved to a house in town about ten years ago.”
Well, that explained a lot. And yet, there was something here, some sense of the past that was captivating. There were several rooms opening off to the right of the large hall, a parlor-type room, bedroom, bathroom. “Do you know where the kitchen is?”
“It runs along the back of the house. It used to be outside, but Mrs. Carter had one built inside the year she moved in.”
