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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?”
