Stand-In Father (Intimate Moments) (6 page)

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Authors: Pat Warren

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What had their marriage really been like? Alex wondered. Had Neal been so charming she’d overlooked his job difficulties? Had Megan loved him enough to forgive his shortcomings as a family man? And what about the insurance money? Had $275,000 not stretched enough to pay off all the bills? Could Megan no longer afford to finish renovating? Was that why the place had a slightly shabby air about it and why Megan had to do baking on the side?
A lot of questions, Alex thought. And he meant to find some answers.
 
“Not bad, Ryan, but the second one’s wrong,” Megan told her son. “How do you spell
impossible
?”
Seated at the kitchen table, Ryan wound his feet around the chair legs and screwed up his face thoughtfully. “
I-m-p
-
o-s-i-b-l.
Impossible,” He gazed up at his mother hopefully.
Removing freshly baked cookies from the sheet with a spatula, Megan looked over her shoulder at him. “Not quite. Two
s’s.”
“Two? Why two? Why do they double letters anyway? It just confuses everyone.” Reluctantly, he stuffed in another s. “I’ll mention that the next time Webster rewrites his dictionary . One more thing. There’s a silent
e
at the end.”
Clearly exasperated, Ryan bent his head and propped it in one hand. “That’s another dumb thing. What good are silent letters?”
Lips twitching, Megan thought the kid had a point. “I don’t know, but we have to learn them. Erase the word and write it over.”
“Ah, Mom...”
“Ryan.” She watched until he blew out a frustrated breath before picking up his pencil. Perhaps
impossible
ought to be spelled
R-y-a-n
, Megan thought. Hearing the swinging doors open, she glanced over.
“Hi,” Alex said, smiling. “I hope I’m not intruding. I was wondering if I could have a glass. There isn’t one in my room.”
“Oh, sure.” Megan set aside the cookie sheet and spatula, reached into the overhead cupboard and got down a glass for him. “Sorry about that.”
“Thanks.”
Gazing about, Alex noticed a warmth to the kitchen that had nothing to do with the heat from the ovens. The floor was covered by hand-painted Spanish tiles, the walls pale blue, the curtains a sunny yellow. Pictures obviously drawn by her son and a variety of reminder notes were attached to the large refrigerator door with assorted magnets in the shape of mushrooms. Half a dozen African violets lined the windowsill above the double sink. A kitchen witch in gingham was next to the stove and a wooden plaque declaring this to be Megan’s Kitchen hung on the opposite wall.
Homey
was the word that again came to mind.
Alongside the table, he glanced down at the boy painstakingly printing on a smudged paper. “Homework, eh? I used to hate homework.”
Recognizing an ally, Ryan nodded his agreement. “Me, too. Were you good at spelling?” Anything to put off working.
“So-so. Do you need help?”
“He’s just finishing, thanks,” Megan told him. She set the cookie sheet and spatula in the sink and stepped to the table, wiping her hands on a towel.
Looking over the boy’s shoulder as he carefully wrote a word, Alex smiled. “I always had trouble with
impossible
, too. I never knew if I should double the
m
, the
s
or the
l
.”
One hand on her hip, Megan cocked her head at him. Had he been listening on the other side of the door. “Is that a fact?”
“Maybe we should double them all, just in case.” Ryan giggled at his own joke.
Alex couldn’t help noticing the four loaves of some kind of nut bread, the two pies and the three boxes of cookies stacked on the long counter. He turned to find Megan’s frankly assessing gaze on him. “I had dinner tonight at the Cornerstone. Emily speaks very highly of you and your baked goods.”
“Emily’s very kind.” But she had a tendency to talk too much, Megan thought, wondering what all she’d told this stranger. The woman meant well, but gossiping was second nature to her.
Finished finally, Ryan wanted back in the conversation. “You’ve got a really neat car. What’s it called? I’ve never seen one like it before.”
“A Porsche 930 Turbo.”
“Wow! My dad used to have a red Corvette convertible, but we had to sell it when he died. Can I have a ride one day?”
“Sure thing,” Alex said before Megan could comment. “If it’s all right with your mother, that is.”
“Can I, Mom?” His eyes were dancing with excitement.
“We’ll see. It’s time for you to go up and take your shower. Tomorrow’s a school day.”
“One more cookie, please?” He looked over at his ally. “Mom makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the whole world.”
“So I’ve been told.” He, too, looked expectantly at Megan. “They’re my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” Ryan answered. “And peanut butter.”
A smart woman knows when she’s outnumbered and outmaneuvered. “All right, but just one.” She handed Ryan a cookie in a napkin. “Now scoot—and remember, the dirty clothes go in the hamper, not on the floor.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He turned to Alex and caught the wink, then grinned. “Bye.” Already chewing, he marched up the stairs.
Turning to the co-conspirator, Megan held out the plate. “Would you care for a cookie?”
“Thanks.” Alex took one and noticed it was still warm. He remembered eating cookies warm from the oven before his mother died. Later, Maddy had made cookies often, but always when he was at school, so they were cooled by the time he got home. He took a fragrant bite and almost purred. “Emily’s right. You bake like an angel.”
Megan raised a brow at that. “She’s a bit prejudiced, I think.” She turned to the sink, then filled it with soapy water. She never liked putting her baking things in the dishwasher.
Alex felt he had to say something. “I apologize for coming in if the kitchen’s off-limits to paying guests.”
She spoke over her shoulder as she worked. “It’s not. Our guests have the run of the first floor and the grounds. As long as you don’t mind if I finish up here.” She rinsed a muffin pan and set it on the counter. She wasn’t used to a man in her kitchen. For that matter, few guests took up her offer to freely roam about except in the lounge off the lobby.
“Go right ahead.” Alex glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly eight. She would have had to be up by at least six to start serving breakfast at seven. Yet she looked as fresh as when he’d arrived, her yellow slacks and blouse spotless. She’d taken off her shoes, though, and he saw that her toenails were painted a bright pink. “You put in some mighty long days, what with the inn and doing all this baking.”
“I don’t mind.” She set another pan to drain, cocked an ear and heard the shower upstairs go on. Good. Ryan was following orders without being reminded for a change.
Finished with his dessert, Alex walked over and grabbed the towel he spotted hanging on a hook, then picked up a pan and began drying it.
Surprised, Megan paused. “Oh, no. You can’t do that. You’re a paying guest, for heaven’s sake.” She reached for the towel.
He wouldn’t let her have it. “Listen, I’m a guy who can’t sit still. I don’t feel like going anywhere or watching TV. Please, let me do this.” Up close to her, he caught her scent, a light floral, perfectly suiting her, mingled with the baking smells. He also noticed a flour smudge on her cheek just under one eye. He almost reached up to dust it away, but stopped himself. After all, he hardly knew this woman. And he had the feeling she wouldn’t welcome his touch.
Megan glanced toward the swinging doors, wishing Grace hadn’t gone out tonight. “This is really unusual. I feel awkward having you helping out in the kitchen.”
Alex set the first dry pan aside, picked up another. “Please don’t. I can’t sit back and watch someone work and not pitch in.”
Megan forced herself to relax. He was awfully nice and easy to talk with. But he still made her nervous.
“What about your husband? Didn’t he help out in the kitchen?” Watching her expressive face, he saw her mouth tighten slightly and her eyes lower.
“No.” Neal hadn’t been fond of kitchens. Or of work, period. But she wouldn’t think about Neal right now. She was certain chatty Emily had told this man that her husband had died last year. No secrets in small towns. Well, not many anyway.
Alex wanted to keep the conversation rolling, so he searched his mind for a more comfortable topic. “Are you familiar with the parcel of land at Grayson and Thomas? I believe the Parsons family owns it.”
Megan’s features relaxed. “Yes, I know where that is. Is that the land you’re here about?”
“Yes. I’ve got an appointment tomorrow with a representative of Mr. Parsons. First, I want to go take a look at it, walk the area, so to speak.”
Finished with the last pan, she rinsed and dried her hands before moving to the table to begin packaging the loaves. “And what would your firm be building on this land?”
“I’m not sure. I have to go to the courthouse and check on the zoning, maybe hire someone to do a feasibility study. Twin Oaks is kind of a sleepy little town. Do you think it could handle more housing in that neighborhood?”
Megan measured plastic wrap and worked as she considered his question. “There’s a lack of middle-income housing here, I think. There are plenty of big homes, older ones, along the cliffs. Most have been in the same family for generations. And there’s some low-income housing on the far side of town near the railroad tracks. Nothing much in the middle.”
Alex set down the last pan and dangled the towel in his hands. He was fascinated by her eyes, a deeper shade of sapphire blue tonight. He’d noted that they crinkled at the corners when she’d gazed at her son and almost glowed. What kind of a fool had Neal Delaney been not to be a good husband to this woman, nor a good father to that sharp little kid? Maybe the guy had married before he’d been ready. Alex could relate.
Clearing his throat, he returned to the subject. “But if we build that kind of housing, will they come? Will enough middle-income families migrate to Twin Oaks?”
Megan shrugged. “Good question. I don’t know the answer.”
“You’ve lived here all your life, or so Emily said. What made you stay while others have left?”
Blowing her bangs from her forehead, Megan shook her head. “Another good question. Lots of reasons, none very interesting.” His questions were bordering on the personal, on things she didn’t want to discuss with him or anyone else. She wrapped the last loaf and put the roll of plastic wrap away, then moved to the back door. “Want to check out our gardens?” she asked, slipping bare feet into her sandals.
She was back to talking in the plural again, Alex realized, as if Neal were still alive and they were a couple working this little inn together. That sort of thing was hard to turn off, he supposed. As he stepped outside with her, he also realized she was good at changing subjects without seeming to.
The air was mildly cool and fragrant with the scent of shadowy purple wisteria vines along the stucco fence. There were two nearly overgrown paths between the rows of rosebushes and marigolds and azaleas. The dew was heavy on the leaves as Alex followed Megan along one trail to a large smooth rock at the end.
A night bird called to a mate as Megan sat down on the rock, gazing up at a half-moon playing hide-and-seek among the clouds. “Looks like we’ll have rain again tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Alex was busy studying the plantings, noticing that the rosebushes needed propping up with sticks, that the alyssum needed thinning and that weeds had all but taken over the ice plants. Hands on his hips, he stood surveying the garden. It was obvious that Megan didn’t have time to keep this up along with everything else she did. He wondered if she’d welcome his help. It wasn’t much, but it was one thing he could do to lighten her load. And lighten his conscience.
“I like gardens,” he began. “My mother loved flowers. I used to help her all the time. She’d explain each variety to me, tell me whether it would do well in the sun or the shade, how much water it needed, how much sun it could handle. After she died, I kept up our garden until I went away to college.”
A strange admission from a man she’d thought was probably a well-to-do businessman who’d hire such things done. She watched him bend, pick a daisy and hand it to her with such casual ease you knew he’d done it many times before for many other women. He looked like a California surfer with that tan and that flashy car and that killer smile, more interested in fun than flowers. Still, a man who spoke sentimentally about his mother and enjoyed gardens couldn’t be one of the boys in black hats, could he? However, bad news came in many shapes, she’d learned.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s rough. I lost my dad when I was ten.” That’s how Megan always thought of her father’s departure. To say he’d walked out on his entire family made her too angry.
He caught the small lie and didn’t blame her for it. It was hard to admit that a parent had chosen to leave. Stooping, Alex tugged at a weed that lifted easily out of the moist ground. “Maybe tomorrow, after my meetings, I can come out here and do a little pruning and weeding. I had surgery not too long ago. Gardening’s good therapy.”

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