“Thanks for delivering this and, like I said, welcome to Sweetwater. I hope I see a lot of you.”
“I’m sure you will,” Jayne said as she left a tip for the waitress, then helped Lucy into her coat.
After all, the diner’s only competition in town was a hot dog at the gas station.
Country music played on the stereo, nothing but a distant hum until Tyler shut off the sander. While running his hand over the surface, he hummed a few bars, but humming was as far as it went. The last time he had sung a song, his mother had remarked that he sounded just like his father, then burst into tears. That had been the end of singing for him.
This piece was the final door to the entertainment armoire he’d been working on for the past few weeks. It was his own design, built of walnut and carved with a rising-sun pattern on the upper two doors. It had turned out better than he’d expected—good enough to offer to the same pricey shops that sold Daniel’s work. But it was going into his living room, where few people besides him would ever see it.
He’d begun working with Daniel when he was fifteen. Life had been tough then—his mother away, adjusting to Sweetwater after Nashville, trying to fit in when kids talked about his family both behind his back and to his face. All the adults had agreed that he needed something constructive to occupy his time. Since Zachary couldn’t train him in the legal trade, his good friend Daniel had offered to teach him carpentry. They’d meant to keep him busy and out of fights, but instead he’d found a career.
He might never get rich at it, but his house was paid for, he had money in the bank, and he liked going to work every day. That counted for a lot.
A shadow fell across the open door, catching his attention an instant before Lucy Miller stepped into sight. She was carrying a grocery bag, clutching it to her body with both arms, and her eyes were wide as she looked all around. Disappointment curved the corners of her mouth. “You can’t even tell it’s s’posed to be a barn. Where’s the hay? Where do the horses go? Where do the cows go?”
His muscles tightened as he picked up a tack cloth and began wiping down the door, removing the bits of dust that inevitably escaped the sander’s vacuum bag. He didn’t like interruptions, especially from a talkative neighbor whose mother was pretty and needful. “Where’s your—”
Before he could finish, Jayne appeared behind her daughter, her cheeks flushed. “Lucy, I told you—wow.” Stepping around Lucy, she came farther into the room, to the table where the finished door was lying. She reached out, almost touched the carving, then drew back. “Did you do this?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow,” she murmured again, then turned to look around. He didn’t have to look to know what she saw—neatness that bordered on compulsion. A place for everything and everything in its place. He’d learned at an early age that there was hell to pay for disorder—and usually someone else paid it. Now that he lived alone, there was no one to care whether he put something in the wrong place, but it was a hard habit to break.
Jayne walked around the room. A stranger in his workshop was even more disruptive than in his house. He wanted her to leave—even if some small part of him appreciated the way she trailed her hand along the counter. The way she sniffed the fresh lumber stacked against one wall. The pleasure she took in studying the few finished pieces.
“This is gorgeous,” she said, ending up back at the armoire door. “Are you going to sell it?”
He shook his head.
“But you could.”
The comment made his cheeks warm and made him feel…flattered. But hell, hadn’t he just acknowledged that to himself before Lucy had come in? And he had the expertise to make that determination. So what did it matter that she agreed with him?
It didn’t.
“How long have you been doing this?” she asked, stopping on the opposite side of the table where he worked.
“Thirteen years.”
“Since you were a kid.” She sounded impressed.
He didn’t argue that thirteen years ago he’d lived through more than most people did in their entire lives but merely shrugged.
“Mom, this is cold,” Lucy complained, shuffling forward as if the weight of the paper bag was almost more than she could bear.
“I told you to let me carry it.” Jayne took it from her, then set it on the table next to the newly sanded door. “We met your sister while we were in town. She asked us to bring you this.”
Tyler gave the bag a suspicious look. It wasn’t the contents that made him wary—Rebecca gave him food from the diner once or twice a week, as if he would starve if left on his own—but the fact that she had already managed to meet Jayne and roped her into playing errand girl. He would have seen Rebecca the next day or definitely the day after that. The handout could have waited until then, except that she hadn’t wanted to wait. She’d wanted to send Jayne Miller knocking on his door.
She wanted him to have a life.
“There’s a letter on it,” Lucy pointed out, stretching onto her toes to see over the top of the workbench. “Don’t’cha wanna read it?”
Not particularly, and not with an audience. If her mother had asked, he could have pointed out that letters were private. But she wasn’t her mother. She was a nosy little kid.
He unclipped the envelope, tore one end and slid out the paper inside. It was taken from a notepad advertising the annual fall Harvest Festival in Sweetwater from the previous year, and Rebecca’s loopy writing covered the sheet. She’s pretty, she’s smart and she has a nice laugh. Invite them to dinner. I’ve packed plenty to share.
Great. His sister was trying to fix him up. Just what he needed.
“Well? What does it say?” Lucy prompted, and Jayne hushed her. “But, Mom—”
Jayne began backing toward the door, pulling Lucy with her by the collar. “Sorry to have interrupted you. And sorry she’s so nosy. As you know, she comes by it naturally. Guess we’d better get back home and cleaning again. Thanks again for the firewood and the phone and—and everything.”
Tyler watched them go, then looked down at the note again. She has a nice laugh. Only Rebecca would find that a reason to try to hook someone up with her brother. But she was one up on him. He hadn’t heard Jayne laugh yet. Those few minutes when she’d been looking around the shop were the most relaxed he’d seen her. The rest of the time she seemed nervous and talked too much or not at all.
He tossed the note aside, then looked inside the bag. Usually she sent him servings for one or two, but not this time. There was a large pan of lasagna, ready for the oven, along with a frozen pie made with apples from his own trees, a container of vanilla ice cream and a loaf of Italian bread, no doubt already sliced and spread with garlic butter. She’d definitely packed plenty to share, and had even sent him someone to share it with.
As if it was that easy.
He took a break to carry the bag to the house. After putting away the food, he filled a glass with water from the tap, then stood near the kitchen island and listened. Except for the heavy breathing from the dogs asleep on the sofa, the house was quiet. Always quiet. He told himself he liked the peace. Fourteen years of screaming, angry shouts and sobs had given him a fine appreciation for silence.
But it was a little less fine lately than it used to be.
Invite them to dinner. It might not be the friendliest invitation, but he could do it. And then what? They would expect conversation—at least Jayne would. Lucy would be happy to talk all by herself. He wasn’t very good at making conversation and never had been. Maybe it was just his nature or maybe it came from all those warnings he’d been given as a kid. From his mother, usually whispered while smiling through tears: Promise you won’t tell anybody,