Coming Home (15 page)

At the sound of an approaching vehicle she shut down the shower and left off her inspection. After switching off the lights and generator, she shut the door behind her and walked down the hall to the great room.

The front door opened and she heard the stamping of feet and smiled a second later when Theo Draper, her contractor, walked into the great room. He stopped, surprised to see her there, and then shook his head.

“I thought for sure, with the nasty weather, that I'd beat you here this morning,” he said in his slow, soft-spoken way. He sniffed the air. “And coffee already done, too.”

She grinned. She liked Theo. He was cagey about his age, but his thick thatch of white hair and sun-wrinkled face made it apparent that he was no spring chicken. The best estimate anyone came up with was that he was somewhere between sixty-five and eighty.

He was a small, quiet man, built like a piece of barbed wire, all tough, wiry strength, and indefatigable—as Roxanne knew to her cost. She'd observed him working men half his age into the ground and more than once he'd done the same to her. What she found amazing was that the next day she'd be dragging around, while Theo would be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to do it all over again. So far, she'd never seen him in a hurry; he worked at the same slow steady pace in the morning as he did at the end of the day. She'd been at the site just about every day since construction had begun and over the course of the months, she and Theo had become friends. She had been surprised to find out that Jan, his wife, dead these past five years, had been a valley girl, related to the McGuires, and that Theo was very familiar with Oak Valley. “We'd even planned to retire here,” he'd told her once. His face had grown sad. “But then Jan died and I just didn't have the heart. Still own the property though, so who knows, maybe one day I'll get tired of living in Ukiah and build myself a house and move up here. I feel as at home in the valley as I do there. Jan's relatives are always after me to do just that.”

Motioning toward the kitchen, she said, “There's a fresh pot waiting for you … and I even baked some cinnamon rolls last night after I left here.”

His gray eyes gleamed. Heading in the direction of the kitchen, he said, “You know you've about got me spoiled for any other job. After working for you, I'll expect to be served snacks and coffee on a regularbasis.” He pursed his lips, but his eyes were dancing. “And my men will, too, that's the hard part.”

“Life's tough,” Roxanne said teasingly, following behind him. “You'll just have to endure.”

Pouring himself a mug of coffee and selecting one of the rolls, he took a bite. Closed his eyes in bliss and chewed. Swallowing, he grinned at her and said, “Yes, ma'am, I think in my next contract, I'll have it written in that refreshment has to be served or I just can't do the job.”

They could hear the sound of the rest of the crew arriving and a few minutes later the kitchen was filled with half a dozen men. And ten minutes after that, the plate of two dozen cinnamon rolls was empty and a second pot of coffee had been put on and they had all dispersed and Roxanne had disappeared into her bedroom.

She spent the morning happily unpacking the boxes and unrolling the rug. The boxes contained some clothes, towels, sheets, blankets, and items for the bathroom, and she tackled those things first. Stacking the empty boxes out in the hall, she turned to the rug. It was oriental in pattern, woven in shades of gold, ruby, and emerald against a sapphire-blue background. Flexing her toes in the thick, almost velvety weave, she glanced around the room, visualizing how it would look with furniture. The furniture for the bedroom was scheduled to arrive later in the week, but the mattress and box springs were
supposed
to be delivered this afternoon. She stared out at the rain and sighed. But that, she reminded herself, was before the storm. She grimaced. Another night at home wouldn't kill her. …

It wasn't that she didn't adore her parents and that she wasn't grateful for their unstinting hospitality, it was just that it had been a long time since she'd lived with anyone or had had to consider other people in her plans. Her parents didn't pry or intrude … very much … or make terrible demands on her, at least no more than was normal, it was just that sometimes she felt like a teenager again, making certain Mom and Dad knew where she was, who she was with, and when she'd be home. She realized it was only polite to give them some idea of her comings and goings, but after so many years of being answerable only to herself, it grated. She desperately wanted her own space. Having her own space again, being able to arrange her own life in her own way, had become an urgent priority. She adored her parents. She loved her parents. But she could hardly wait to get away from them. And Ilka. She sighed. She and Ilka were getting along—sort of.

It had been a bit bumpy after their conversation that night, but Helen had been right. After the anniversary of the tragedy, Ilka became less moody and touchy, but it bugged Roxanne that her sister still made no effort to get on with her life. It was beyond her comprehension, no matter how wonderful their parents were, that Ilka could actually be happy living at home. And, of course, she admitted wryly, I just can't seem to keep my big mouth shut about it either. She sighed. Whatbusiness of mine is it anyway if Ilka wants to hide at home and become a crabby old spinster?

OK, she'd admit it wasn't any of her business, but it still bugged her. Ilka had so much to offer. She was smart. Funny. Warm. Loving. Roxanne's face softened. Ilka had been a great mom—when Bram had been born, she'd flown home to see her sister and the baby and she remembered vividly the expression on Ilka's face as she had looked down at her son. Maybe Ilka had dragged her feet when it had come to facing up to Delmer, but no one disputed that Ilka had adored her children and had tried to do her damnedest for them. It wasn't that Roxanne necessarily wanted Ilka to run out and marry and have more children, although she suspected that being a wife and mom was probably what suited Ilka best, she just wanted her sister to have a life again. To
do
something that was separate from their parents, even if it was nothing more than showing and raising yippy little schnauzers like Sam did. She grinned. Oh, and wouldn't her parents love that! They loved animals, dogs included, but Roxanne didn't think they'd be exactly thrilled to have a pack of always-looking-for-trouble schnauzers underfoot all the time. Her grin faded and a steely glint entered her fine eyes. Whether it was any of her business or not, somehow, she was going to shake Ilka out of her shell.

She brooded over Ilka as she moved about the room. She'd invited her to see the progress on the house several times, half hoping that seeing the house would spark some desire to have a home of her own. It hadn't. She'd even torn herself away from the house and endured a couple of overnight trips to San Francisco, dragging a reluctant Ilka along with her. They'd spent the time shopping and wandering around downtown, finally eating lunch at the Japanese Tea Gardens, staying that time in Sausalito across the bay from the city. Roxanne had made plans with a couple of male models she liked and knew in the area and had invited them out for dinner. Ilka's date, Charles Blackman, had been utterly smitten. But had Ilka been the least bit flattered or interested in one of the most eligible bachelors, and nicest, that Roxanne knew? Nope. Ilka had been totally unfazed to be the object of interest of such a charming, stunningly handsome man. Poor Charley, Roxanne thought. He'd tried several times after that to see Ilka but her sister always said no. Politely. But no. The next time they'd stayed in San Francisco itself, at the Top of the Mark, browsed through the museum, and lunched at Fisherman's Wharf, then explored Pier 39 before dining in regal splendor in the hotel. Ilka went along, but didn't seem to care one way or another. Desperate, Roxanne had suggested they spend a weekend in the Napa Valley. Ilka dutifully accompanied her, but seemed happiest when they were heading home. It wasn't that Roxanne really thought any of those things would necessarily set Ilka on fire. She was just trying to find her way, trying to understand her sister, working at getting to know Ilka and trying to find a clue, a hint of something that interested her sister other than living quietly at home with their par ents. She'd hoped that spending time together exploring all the little shops, that she would have discovered some topic, some activity, that would put a spark in Ilka's eyes. Nothing had. Ilka seemed perfectly content to live with Mommy and Daddy and arranged her life around theirs. It drove Roxanne nuts. Ilka had her stumped.

The rumblings of her stomach interrupted Roxanne's thoughts. Looking at her watch, she realized it was long past lunch, almost two o'clock. She took one more glance around the room and decided she'd done what she could for the present.

Shrugging into her jacket, she said to Theo, who was busy putting up the last of the sheet rock in the great room, “I'm gone for now. There's supposed to be a furniture delivery this afternoon. Tell them the mattress and box springs go in my room and the other stuff in the spare bedroom for now.”

“Will do.” He cocked a brow. “You still planning on staying out here tonight?”

“Yes. Mattress or not. If it doesn't arrive I'll sleep on the floor. Another night at home will probably drive me 'round the bend.”

He chuckled. “You know what they say—you can't go home again.”

She shook her head. “No. You can come home again—I'm proof of that. You just can't go home to your
parents
again.”

His laugh rang in her ears as she left the house and sprinted to the Jeep. A few minutes later, she was pulling into the parking area of The Blue Goose. When she'd left home, the place had been named The Stone Inn and had been in a state of disrepair. That was no longer the case. About six or seven years ago, Hank O'Hara and his sister, Megan, had bought the place, renovated it, and presently served breakfast and lunch.

Stepping out of the Jeep into the steady downpour, Roxanne scurried to the door of the restaurant. She'd noted that the rain had brought in several patrons and recognizing a couple of the vehicles, she wasn't surprised to discover the place half full and several people she knew seated at the big table in front of the wood stove at the side of the room. Her heart took a nosedive right down to her toes when she caught sight of the tall, dark man seated at one end, then returned to normal when she realized that it was Mingo Delaney and not Jeb. Thank God.

She had been doing a very good job of avoiding Jeb—she didn't think it was solely because of her efforts either that they hadn't run into each other. She'd be willing to bet money that he was doing his best to avoid her. Oak Valley was a small place, but it helped that she was out at the construction site most of the time or at home and that Jeb's work kept him out of the valley most days. Still, she never knew when their paths might cross and she'd gotten into the habit of always checking out vehicles before venturing into Heather-Mary-Marie's or McGuire's Market or any of the places she
might
run into Jeb. So far, she'd been lucky, but the sight of Mingo had given her a start.

Spying an empty table near the window, she scooted into it, waving to Mingo, Don Bean, who had done the tractor work on her place, Profane Deegan, who sometimes worked with Don, and Danny Haskell, one of the local deputies. She recognized the other three men, too. One was a local volunteer fireman named Monty Hicks; the other was a retired logger, Hugh Nutter, who was a friend of her parents'. The last man, wearing the ubiquitous baseball cap, was Hank O'Hara.

The moment she sat down, a wide smile on his comfortable face, Hank jumped to his feet. “I'm on my way, darlin',” he called, and grabbing a menu hustled over to her table.

Roxanne grinned at him. “You didn't have to leave your friends for me,” she said.

“Ah, now darlin', why would I stay with a bunch of raunchy men when I can have your charming company?”

There were some catcalls and hoots from the table containing the raunchy men. Hank laughed and said, “Just ignore them. What can I get for you on this cold rainy day?”

“What have you got that I'd like?”

Hank tugged at his gray goatee. “Megan cooked up a nice thick cream of potato soup for today. And a hearty stew—lots of meat and vegetables.”

“The soup sounds wonderful. I'll have a bowl of it and a green salad. Garlic dressing. And coffee to drink.”

Megan came out of the back room and seeing Roxanne greeted her through the glass divider that separated the cooking area from the main part of the restaurant. “How are you doing today?”

“Fine. I guess I'm glad to finally see some real rain. We need it.”

Megan nodded. Several years younger than her brother, Megan was small and blond, her hair worn short and tidy, and looked to be in her forties. Hank was probably on the shady side of sixty, a tallish, slim man with laughing brown eyes. Roxanne liked them both and thought they'd done a marvelous job with the restaurant. Food and decor.

The Blue Goose had a cozy air about it. A black wood stove at the far side of the room heated the place. The main room held perhaps ten tables of various shapes and sizes and was capable of seating about forty people. The tables were made of thick redwood slabs and the flooring was a bright blue carpet. The walls were white and white lace curtains hung at the windows; fat geese strutted and cavorted on pale blue wallpaper edging near the ceiling. And the food was great as far as Roxanne was concerned.

Her meal arrived and she busied herself with eating, only half listening to the bursts of laughter and teasing that were coming from the table containing Mingo and the others, her gaze on the weather outside. It was really pouring, the day becoming darker and darker. But not my mood, she reminded herself sternly. Tonight she would sleep in her own house—on the floor if necessary and despite any protests her parents might make. I just hope, she thought mournfully, that they don't get those “oh, but honey, we'll worry about you out there all by yourself … and we're hurt that you don't want to stay with us” looks on their faces. If they did, she'd just have to harden her heart or she'd be sunk. An Bka I am not going to be.