But Rory didn’t mention what had to be obvious. Instead, he said, “So...are you going to sell off everything in here?”
“Not everything all at once,” she said. “I have my online vintage store, so I’ll place some of the items there.” She ate more ice cream, the cold sweetness making her feel better. “And if you’re serious about me having the estate sale when you have the church rummage sale, then I’ll probably get rid of a lot of the bigger pieces there, since shipping them is kind of costly.”
“Of course I’m serious. If you don’t mind staying a week or so longer than you planned. We hope to hold it sometime in May, but I’ll pin the committee people down on an exact date.”
“That would help,” she replied. “A deadline will force me to stop procrastinating and get this over with.”
And what could a few more weeks hurt? She could handle this. She had to get this house on the market, and she couldn’t do that until she had it cleaned up and spruced up.
“Then it’s settled. We can go over the details in the next week or so,” he said. “The church members will appreciate having the draw of an estate sale next door.” He walked around, studying the house. “This place has good bones, you know.”
And a few good memories. She needed to focus on those, instead of the bad ones she’d experienced here as a teenager.
“It is a classic house,” she admitted. “It needs someone to love it enough to save it.”
“I think you’re right,” Rory said, his warm, sunny gaze moving over her face.
Vanessa tried to ignore how his nearness made her feel kind of gooey inside, so she forced herself to see it from someone else’s perspective. Her mother had been an artist, dabbling in collages and mixed media. Cora Donovan Tucker never threw anything away. So every nook and cranny, every shelf and table, held what her mother had considered treasures. A feather here, an old button there. Tarnished jewelry with missing rhinestones, old purses with worn handles, books of every shape and size, yellowed with age. Clothes, dishes, trinkets. Cora had collected husbands in much the same way. Tarnished, washed up, broken people. Losers, except for Richard. He’d been a true Godsend.
Her mother had always been a work in progress. But even ravished by two strokes and unable to speak, Cora had died with a peaceful look on her face. Thankful that she’d made it to the nursing home in time to be with her mother at the end, Vanessa wondered what she’d left unsaid.
Rory picked up an object here and studied a piece of art there. “Interesting collection.”
“A lot of stuff, huh?” she said, wondering what Rory really thought. Wondering why she’d let him in. Really let him in.
“Yes.” He munched on his waffle cone. “But that’s not your fault. And you don’t have to go through it alone.”
“Do you mean clearing away this clutter or grieving?”
He gave her that blue-eyed stare that left her feeling light and heavy at the same time. “Yes.”
“I don’t need a lot of help,” she replied, panicking. The cold ice cream burned at her stomach. She imagined him being here every day, watching her, checking on her, asking her pointed, preacher-type questions. “I can handle this, Preacher.”
He didn’t speak. He kept munching on his cone. Finally, he finished chewing and nodded. “I don’t doubt that, but why should you have to do this alone?”
“Why are you so determined to make sure I get help?”
He seemed to accept that she was turning ugly again, and Vanessa felt ashamed at herself. “I’m sorry. I guess I need some more time to process this.”
“Okay.” He finished his ice cream and went to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “And I should leave you alone to do this in your own way.”
If he noticed the dishes everywhere or the half-eaten sandwich she’d left on the counter, he didn’t blink. Instead, he dried his hands on a butterfly-embossed dish towel and walked over to where she stood holding a melting ice cream cone.
“Appetite gone?” he asked, taking the cone from her.
“Yes.”
He took her ice cream and went back to the sink and dropped the dripping cone inside and washed his hands again. Then he came back to stand near her. “You do what you need to do. We’re all here, though. Remember that. Miss Fanny next door—she knew your mom. She’s willing to help, and she’s willing to listen.”
“I don’t need anyone to listen to me,” Vanessa retorted, needing him to leave. Needing to be away from his soft, sweet gaze. “I... I’ll figure this out.”
“I believe you will.”
“But you’d like it better if I opened up and told you all my troubles and my fears?”
He started backing toward the door. “No, I wouldn’t like that better. I wouldn’t like that at all. But what I would like is for you to stop seeing me as the enemy and let me be your friend.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, tears burning at her eyes. “I don’t think you’re the enemy, but I can’t be your friend, Rory.”
He held a hand on the doorknob. “Or you can’t let me be your friend? Because I’m what you consider a pushy minister?”
“That’s part of it. That especially, and you being so nice and not being a pushy minister in the way that I know, is really messing with my head.”
“I wish you’d reconsider things,” he said, “but I understand. I’ll see you soon, I guess. You know where to find me if you need me.” He opened the door, but turned back. “But you need to understand, I didn’t come over here today to badger you. I came because I saw someone in need. That’s my nature as a human being, not only as a minister. Sometimes, people tend to overlook that I’m as human as they are.”
And then he was gone, just like that.
For a split second, Vanessa wanted to run after him and tell him all of her troubles. But she had to be strong. She had to fight that notion with all her being. She’d told a minister her innermost secrets before, and that man had used her fears and her insecurities against her. Never again.
She’d been taking care of herself for a long time now. Why should that change? Why should she believe a sweet-talking preacher who brought her ice cream and made her feel safe?
She rushed to the sink and turned on the hot water and watched as the caramel-vanilla ice cream melted into nothing. Her confusing thoughts about Rory had to melt into nothing, too. Because growing close to him would be a bad idea all the way around.
Why should she believe him? Why did she want to believe him?
Because Rory was different. She could tell that. He’d never been through the type of horrible, mortifying things she’d endured. He was happy and settled and well-rounded and content.
He didn’t know the kind of pain she knew.
Did he?
Rory sat behind his desk, a spot he tried not to occupy very often. He much preferred being up and about, talking to people one-on-one. Paperwork always made him antsy and tired, but today was Monday.
Paperwork day.
He signed a few more checks and went over some notes for the committee meeting he had to attend later in the week. Then he checked his watch. Blain and Rikki were coming in today to go