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Perhaps Wade preferred more modern decor, but this was an old house. With the exception of a few upgrades, it wore its age like a dowager who was well past her prime.
Feeling like an innkeeper, Pauline removed a folding suitcase stand from the tall wardrobe and set it next to the wood-burning fireplace. Faced in Minton tile, the hearth was bare for the summer behind the brass screen.
“Bathroom’s in there,” she indicated. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”
If he expected maid service, too, he was headed for disappointment. This wasn’t a full-service rooming house, and she had neither the time nor the interest in pampering him.
“Right now the carpet would probably seem comfortable,” he muttered, smothering a yawn.
“I’ll bring you up some towels so you can get settled,” she said. She’d forgotten them earlier.
His somber gaze softened into a smile, silver eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. His beard shadow gave him a rakish appearance. “Thanks again,” he said, dismissing her. “Perhaps we can talk more in the morning.”
Pauline was already having major second thoughts about the situation, but it was too late now. She slid her hand into the pocket of her pants, her fingers touching the generous check he’d given her. The moment she had given in to her greed, he’d scrawled a rental agreement on the back of Wallingford’s worthless lease. Dolly, ever helpful, had offered to witness his and Pauline’s signatures.
“I leave for work at nine,” she warned, aware of how small the bedroom seemed with both of them standing in it.
“I’m sure I can manage to be up by then.” His grin displayed his even white teeth. If he had flaws, poor dental hygiene didn’t appear to be one of them.
“Fine.” She was irritated to realize she had been staring for a millisecond too long—and that his smile had widened just enough for her to be sure he had noticed.
Heat scorched her cheeks. “I’ll get those towels.”
It had been several years since Wade had experienced the momentary disorientation from waking up in unfamiliar surroundings. The big difference this morning was that he was alone in the bed.
He lay motionless, staring at the god-awful wallpaper with its blobs of color that reminded him all too clearly of a food fight back in his college frat house. Reality hit him with all the subtlety of the bright sunlight pouring through the drapes he’d forgotten to close before falling face-forward into bed. The last few months hadn’t been a bad dream after all.
He was tempted to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend that he was back in his elegant condo, French doors open to the breeze from the bay and his wife cuddled up beside him.
Ex-wife, he reminded himself, and good riddance to her. It was pointless to hang on to the fantasy of what his life had been; time instead to face the reality of what it had become.
He sat up with a groan, squinting at the mirror-topped dresser on the other wall. “Toto, we’re not in San Francisco anymore,” he muttered wryly, rubbing a hand over his face. Automatically he reached for the expensive watch Sharon had given him, but then he remembered that he’d sold it to a friend for half its value.
Flipping back the covers, he noticed an inexpensive clock radio next to a brass lamp with a fringed shade. If he was going to get downstairs before his landlady’s departure, he’d better get his butt in gear.
He grabbed the shaving kit from his bag, stepped over his dirty clothes and stalked naked into the bathroom. Skidding to a stop, he stared at the old claw-foot monstrosity with disappointment. Tub baths were for kids and dogs.
As he tossed his kit onto the sink counter, he noticed a roomy shower stall behind a glass-block wall.
Hallelujah.
After he allowed the spray head to pummel him awake, he showered and shaved in record time. When he was done, he dug old jeans and a CBGB T-shirt from his bag and shook out the wrinkles.
Moments later he locked the door behind him as a clock from somewhere below chimed the quarter hour. Before he reached the landing, another door opened and out stepped Pauline, wearing a blue dress with a rounded neckline and matching sandals that showed off her long legs. Some kind of clip held back the top of her honey-blond hair, but the rest hung loose, barely brushing her shoulders. She carried a laptop and a purse.
It occurred to Wade that he had no idea whether she worked as an attorney or a stripper. Even though he suspected that she had the body for the latter hidden beneath her outfit, the cut was too conservative and she was way too uptight.
Like a neglected house or an outdated stock portfolio, she had potential, which always intrigued him. The day was looking brighter.
“Good morning,” he called out cheerfully. “It seems that I’m right on time.”
When she turned, the tiny gold hoops in her ears winked in the light. “Did you sleep well?” she asked with a smile that softened her stern expression and stubborn chin. The transformation made him blink.
She had worked some female magic to play up her full lips and thick lashes. The scent of wildflowers—or what he imagined wildflowers would smell like—ensnared him.
“Like I’d been shot in the head,” he replied.
“That’s an image I’ll try to forget.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “After all that rest, you’re probably ready to get started on my roof.”
“I’m rarin’ to go,” he drawled, realizing that he was famished. He would have to buy breakfast somewhere and then find a grocery store. Assuming he had kitchen privileges, he knew enough about cooking to keep himself fed.
“We can talk over breakfast, which Dolly usually fixes because she likes to cook,” Pauline explained over her shoulder. “Lunch is on your own and dinner is potluck, depending on who’s here and feels like fixing something. Or you can eat on your own, of course, if you’d rather.”
“Sounds fine to me,” he replied. “I’ll be happy to kick in for groceries or go to the store. Just let me know.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” she assured him.
At the bottom of the stairs, she led the way through the archway into the dining room he’d seen last night. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling above a dark wood table surrounded by matching chairs.
He followed her into the kitchen, which, like his bathroom, had obviously been modernized at some point, although the black-and-white-tiled floor looked original. The aromas of coffee and frying bacon made him realize how little he’d eaten in the last couple of days.
His attention went straight to Mrs. Langley, standing at the stove in a flowered apron over her purple sweat suit. On her feet were athletic shoes with fluorescent stripes, but he didn’t care if she wore snowshoes as long as she fed him.
Mouth watering, he echoed Pauline’s greeting.
“Good morning, you two,” their cook responded gaily. “I hope you’re hungry, because I’m making sourdough pancakes.”
“Mrs. Langley, you’ve found my weakness,” Wade replied, patting his empty stomach for emphasis. “I may just have to marry you.”
With a girlish giggle, she waved him away with her spatula. “In that case, you’d better start calling me Dolly.”
She opened the oven door, and Wade had to swallow hard in order to keep from drooling like a dog. “I’ll set the table if you tell me where things are,” he offered. Anything to hurry the process!
“In that drawer and the cupboard above it.” Pauline pointed, then grabbed oven mitts. While he arranged the dishes and silver, she and Dolly brought over the food. He held out Dolly’s chair as Pauline seated herself.
“If you wait, you lose,” Dolly warned him as she reached for the coffeepot. “Help yourself.”
They passed the food and filled their plates, though Pauline skipped the bacon and only took one pancake. It was all Wade could do to not grab everything in sight and cram it into his mouth.
“I must say, you look better than you did last night,” Dolly told him as she stirred sugar into her coffee.
“I feel like a new man,” he replied after he had swallowed his first bite of the best pancakes he’d ever tasted. A few trendy restaurants in Frisco would have killed for the recipe.
“These are fantastic,” he added, reloading his fork.
“It’s the starter,” Pauline replied as she cut her pancake into neat, even pieces. “It was passed down from my grandmother.”
“The what?” he asked blankly. Surely food that old couldn’t be good.
“It’s a mixture of flour, water and yeast,” Dolly explained. “You keep adding to it so that it never runs out.”
“I never knew that.” He attempted to appear captivated, but Pauline distracted him.
In the light from the tall window, her hair was a mixture of shades from palest gold to rich, dark honey. He could almost feel it sifting through his fingers like warm silk.
“Something wrong?” she asked with a frown.
Feeling foolish for getting caught staring, he focused on his coffee. “I’m just enjoying the food and company.”
“Will you be able to start on the repairs today?” she pressed.
He hoped she wasn’t the type to stay on his back until the job was done, questioning every break he took and every penny he spent. “Absolutely,” he replied.
When he saw the relief on her face, he felt a twinge of remorse. She had every right to be concerned about her roof. He remembered from vacation visits to his grandfather that this area was no stranger to summer rain.
“A buddy of mine is bringing my stuff up in a rented truck this afternoon,” he added. “When I put it into storage, I’ll unpack my tools. I’ll write up a supply list after I buy groceries this morning.”
Pauline actually grinned at him before glancing at her watch. “I’d better get going,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Thanks for breakfast, Dolly.”
“Do you have an account somewhere?” Wade asked as he got to his feet. Seeing Pauline’s puzzled expression, he added, “So I can buy materials.”
She nibbled on her full lower lip, sending a jolt of awareness through him. “I guess I could call the manager of the building-supply store and set it up,” she murmured while he speculated on the softness of her mouth. “Greg and I went to school together, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’d better meet you there,” he suggested quickly. “When we’re through, I’ll buy you lunch.” Getting to know her better would be no hardship.
From behind her back, Dolly gave him a thumbs-up.
Pauline fiddled with a tendril of her hair. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” Her tone couldn’t have been any prissier if he’d suggested a make-out session in the building supply parking lot.
Instinct warned him to proceed with caution. “I was just trying to avoid any delays,” he said innocently. “But I can probably manage on my own.”
Pauline carried her dishes through the arch to the kitchen and deposited them on the counter. “I’ll give you my cell number,” she said as Wade did the same. “You can let me know when you’ve got the list together.” She opened her purse and handed him a card.
Uncommon Threads was printed in purple script. Needlework supplies and classes, Pauline Mayfield, proprietor. In smaller print was an address on Harbor Avenue, followed by phone and fax numbers. On the last line was an e-mail address.
He was impressed. “I’ll look forward to seeing your shop,” he said, tucking Pauline’s card into his pocket.
Pauline finished her coffee at the sink, frowning at him over the rim of her mug. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with my roof?”
“I worked summers as a carpenter when I was in college,” he replied confidently.
“Any questions before I leave?” she asked as she put her mug into the dishwasher. “I’ve got to finish getting ready for work.”
“If anything comes up,” he replied, “we can discuss it at lunch.”
She turned away without bothering to reply. A moment later he heard her footsteps on the stairs.
“Don’t mind Pauline,” Dolly told him as the two of them began cleaning up the kitchen. “Besides the repairs to the garage and managing her business, she’s hoping to fill a vacated position on the city council.”
“She’s got a lot of irons in the fire,” Wade replied thoughtfully as he loaded the dishwasher. “Breakfast was terrific. Since you cooked, I’ll clean up the kitchen.”
Dolly glanced at the clock on the front of the stove. “You’ll do no such thing. I’ve got time before my soaps start, so you just go about your business and leave the kitchen to me.”
“Okay, thanks.” Wade drained the last of his coffee. “Could you point me in the direction of the nearest grocery store?”
After parking her SUV in its usual spot in a private lot behind one of Crescent Cove’s old hotels, Pauline deposited Wade’s rent check in the bank on the corner and then continued down the street to her shop.
Uncommon Threads was tucked into the heart of the historic business district, which ran for several blocks along the waterfront. At one end was the ferry terminal. At the other, a small park with benches and a fishing dock that jutted into the bay.
Even though Pauline had probably walked down Harbor Avenue thousands of times, the flavor of the bygone era never failed to draw her attention. She glanced up at the tall buildings with their elaborate architecture and blank upper-story windows. Today they failed to distract her, as did the colorful hanging planters suspended from the old-fashioned streetlights.
Absently she waved at the city worker who watered the baskets and window boxes each morning, and at the meter cop who cruised by on her scooter. When the shops opened in less than an hour, the parking spaces along both sides of the street would all be taken. During theArts Festival this weekend, the sidewalks and streets would be jammed with tourists from Seattle and beyond, who came to visit the galleries, buy souvenirs and tour some of the restored Victorian homes along the top of the bluff.
Pauline probably shouldn’t even consider meeting Wade when she had so much stock to unpack and put out, but getting him started on the roof before another storm front blew through was important, too.
She paused in front of Uncommon Threads to admire the display of colorful pillows in the front window. Each one had been embroidered by a member of the local needlework guild using supplies from the shop. Because there was always room for improvement, she studied the grouping with a critical eye while she dug her keys from her shoulder bag.
When she opened the door, the scent of peach potpourri welcomed her into the shop’s cozy interior. An old-fashioned glass display case and a service counter ran along one wall of the deep, narrow space that she had brightened with sunny yellow paint. On the other wall were shelves and pigeonholes full of fabric samples and threads from all over the globe. A row of circular display racks holding pattern charts and kits filled the middle of the main floor. Every bit of wall space was covered with a variety of finished projects: cross-stitched pictures, bell pulls, afghans, bookmarks and everything else that could be decorated with threads. Stairs led up to an overhead half loft she used for classes and extra storage.
The solid wood floor and the high ceiling were original. The water pipes in back rattled like chains on Halloween. The furnace was cantankerous. Summer business was crazy, winter nearly dead, ordering the right stock a crapshoot and staying in the black an ongoing challenge. Despite everything, Pauline dreamed of expanding.
After she put her purse and laptop in the tiny office tucked behind the staircase, she called Bertie Hemple-mann, an older woman who worked part-time in exchange for floss and fabric. Bertie agreed to fill in for a couple of hours so Pauline could leave.
With that problem solved, she counted money into the register and finished unpacking a carton of British cross-stitch books. While she worked, she hummed a jingle that had lodged into her brain on the way to work.
For the last five years, Uncommon Threads had been hers. She loved every square inch of space and each moment she spent here. With each sale she made and each month she turned a profit, she took another small step toward regaining her self-respect and putting the past further behind.
At ten o’clock sharp she unlocked the front door and flipped the hanging sign from Closed to Open. When she wasn’t helping the customers who trickled in, she unpacked cartons of kits, restocked the swivel racks and opened her morning mail. Along with a stack of invoices and bills was a brochure from a big needlework show in the Midwest that made her salivate. Someday, she promised herself as the bell over the door jangled merrily, signaling a new arrival.
“Hi, Paulie,” called out the tiny woman who owned the import shop next door. Lang, whose name meant “sweet potato” in Vietnamese, had elbowed open the door while she’d balanced a cardboard holder with two steaming lattes.
“Is it that time already?” Pauline asked, startled. She and Lang had gotten into the habit of sharing their morning break while Lang’s husband, Dao, minded their shop next door.
Pauline bit her lip. “I’m going to be gone later, so I shouldn’t take a break,” she said after she’d thanked Lang for the hot drink.
“You want me to leave now?” Lang asked. “You need Howie to mind the store for you?” Howie was her American-born son who helped out in the family business part-time when he wasn’t in school.
“No, stay,” Pauline replied, blowing on her coffee to cool it. “It’s okay. I called Bertie.”
“You aren’t unwell, are you?” Lang asked, perching on the spare chair behind the counter. It seemed as though the only times she or her husband ever missed work were to see the doctor or, once in a while, to watch Howie play baseball for the local high school team, the Bobcats.
Pauline was tempted to say she was going to see the insurance agent, since Lang knew about the damage to her garage roof. Instead she explained as briefly as she could about her new boarder.
Lang tipped her head to the side like a bird, her black eyes twinkling with mischief. “And this Mr. Wade, is he handsome?” she teased.
The heat that warmed Pauline’s cheeks had nothing to do with the steam from her latte. “Um, I suppose.” Her attempted nonchalance was ruined when she shrugged and almost spilled the contents of her cup onto her dress.
“You didn’t notice?” Lang shook her head. “What am I going to do with you?” She refused to believe that Pauline enjoyed the independence of being single. For Lang, family was everything.
