That Certain Summer (7 page)

“More of that health food stuff.”

“It's good for you.”

“But I'm losing weight.”

“Also good for you.”

“As far as I'm concerned, you could take a few culinary lessons from your sister. She knows how to cook real food.”

Dorothy picked up her purse. “Well, I'd better be on my way. I'm going to stop by the Ramseys' with a pan of lasagna.”

In light of all the negativity pinging around the room, Val didn't blame their guest for making a fast exit.

Too bad she couldn't join her.

“Lasagna. Now that's real food.” Margaret directed the comment her way.

Before she could respond, Dorothy jumped in. “I make it with turkey.”

Margaret's jaw dropped. “You put turkey in lasagna?”

“You can't tell the difference, and it's much healthier than ground beef.”

For once, Margaret was speechless.

Val was tempted to give their guest a high five.

“How's your son doing, Dorothy?” Karen draped the clothing over the back of a wing chair.

A shadow passed over the older woman's face. “Thank you for asking. It's been tough for him. His physical progress is slow, and the accident left a lot of invisible scars I suspect will take even longer to heal.”

“I'll keep him in my prayers.”

“Maybe we'll see him at church.” Margaret folded her hands in her lap—meaning she was about to issue one of her platitudes. “The Lord gives great comfort in times of trial.”

“Yes, he does.” Dorothy pulled her keys out of her purse.

Margaret shifted her attention to Karen. “Are you planning to go with me next Wednesday to that travelogue Mary Nissan is doing at the library, about her trip to Africa? I have to call in a reservation.”

“No, Mom. I have choir practice that night, remember?”

She huffed out a breath. “I don't know why you bother. Val got all the vocal talent in the family. I'm sure you wouldn't be missed if you took the night off to spend a few hours with your mother.”

As a flush rose on Karen's cheeks, Val's blood pressure spiked. That crack had been downright mean.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her sister beat her to it.

“There may not be many more practices, anyway. Marilyn told us at the last practice that her husband has been transferred. They're moving in two weeks.”

“Really?” Dorothy sent Karen a surprised look. “I hadn't heard that.”

“There hasn't been an official announcement yet. I think Reverend Richards is planning to let everyone know at services tomorrow.”

“Does he have anyone in mind for the music director job?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I hope he finds a replacement soon.” Margaret leaned over to the coffee table and wiped up a nonexistent speck of water with a tissue from her pocket. “Services won't be the same without music.”

“That's true.” Dorothy stood.

Val took the hint, leading the way toward the foyer as she fought the temptation to walk the woman to her car—and keep walking.

“I'll keep you on my prayer list.” Dorothy paused on the threshold and spoke once more to Margaret.

“Thank you. I can always use a prayer or two.”

Val lifted her eyes to the heavens as she closed the door behind their guest.

Amen to that
.

At the sound of a key in the kitchen door, Scott set his empty water glass on the counter and turned to greet his mother. “You're late. I was getting a little worried.”

Dorothy closed the door behind her, crossed the room, and dropped her purse on the table. “I stayed a little longer than usual to talk with Reverend Richards after the service. Did you eat anything yet?”

“I wasn't hungry.”

“I could make some pancakes. Remember how we used to have them every Sunday after church?”

“Sure. That would be fine.” Though he tried to put some enthusiasm in his voice, the words came out flat.

She opened a drawer and withdrew a mixing spoon. Dropped it on the floor. A moment later, a plastic bowl met the same fate.

At her uncharacteristic jumpiness, Scott frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course.”

“You seem a little on edge.”

She measured the flour. “I suppose it's related to my conversation with Reverend Richards. You'd like him, Scott. His sermons always offer practical advice about how to put faith to work in everyday life.”

“What did you two talk about?” Scott homed in on her first comment and dismissed the rest as he began to set the table.

For a brief second his mother's hands stilled. Then she resumed beating the eggs she'd cracked into a bowl. “You.”

He froze. “What about me?”

“About how you'd be the perfect temporary replacement for our music director, who just resigned.” She said the words fast, in one rush of breath.

Scott stared at her back as she added milk to the mix and stirred with more force than necessary. “You're kidding, right?”

“No. I'm dead serious. He is too. The job is yours if you want it.” She cut a slab of butter to melt on the griddle.

“I'm not ready to even
think
about going back to work yet.”

“It's not like digging ditches. I doubt your doctors would have any issue with this, but you could check with them if you're concerned.”

“Doesn't the music director have to play the organ?”

The griddle was beginning to sizzle, and Dorothy spooned batter onto the surface. “We don't have an organ. Just a piano.”

“Okay. A piano.”

“Yes. And direct the choir.”

“What about my hand? The one that doesn't work right, remember? I can't play the piano.”

“I'll bet you play better with one hand than most people do with two. You were always good on the keyboard. Besides, the congregation doesn't expect concert quality, and playing might help restore some dexterity to your fingers.”

A one-handed church music director—who didn't attend church. The whole thing was ludicrous.

“Does your pastor know I'm not the most religious guy around?”

“I discussed it with him.” Dorothy flipped the pancakes. “He said the Bible is filled with stories about how the Lord sought out those who had fallen away.”

Checkmate.

But even if that description fit him to a T, he had no interest in being a music director.

“It wouldn't work out, Mom.” He placed the utensils on the table and retrieved the orange juice from the fridge. “Besides, I'm not ready for anything like that.”

“Consider it from a practical perspective, then.” She slid the pancakes onto plates and joined him at the table.

“What do you mean?” He upended the syrup container and squirted a generous amount on top of his pancakes.

“The job will provide some income until you decide what you want to do. I know the truck driver's insurance company is taking care of all your medical bills, but it might be nice for you to have some discretionary income.”

That was a harder argument to fight. He'd done okay when he was playing full-time, but music wasn't the kind of career that made you rich unless you hit it big. His meager savings were already taking a hit.

Only the faint ticktock of the clock on the wall broke the silence as he watched the widening pool of syrup reach the edge of his golden pancakes and ease over the sides. His mother had always made good pancakes—and given good advice. Often over meals like this one.

The truth was, he could use the money. And after all her support, it wouldn't kill him to do something that made her happy.

He raised his head to find her watching him, her own food untouched.

“Okay. I'll fill in until they find someone else.”

Her smile was gratifying . . . but it didn't counter the sudden panic that swept over him.

Because he wasn't ready to take this step yet. To venture back into the world. To interact with people. To act as if everything was normal when it wasn't, and never would be again.

But she'd pushed him into a corner.

And he couldn't think of a way to back out.

“Val? Could I speak with you for a moment?”

At David's summons, Val set aside the Hollywood gossip magazine she'd been flipping through. “Sure. Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I just wanted to discuss a few updates to your mother's program while she works on one of the pieces of equipment.” He stepped aside to let her pass, gesturing toward his office. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“That would be nice, thanks.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Black.”

“A woman after my own heart—straight and strong. Sit tight. I'll be right back.”

They parted at the door to his office, but in less than sixty seconds he was back with two steaming disposable cups. After handing her one, he picked up a folder from the top of a file cabinet and dropped into the chair beside her. “I added two more exercises to your mother's routine, and I wanted to run over them with you. How's she been doing with the program at home?”

“She doesn't like the exercises, and she's very vocal about letting
me know it. But I have a secret weapon that always deflects the complaints.”

“What?”

“You.” When he tipped his head and sent her a questioning look, she smiled. “All I have to say is that you'll be disappointed if she slacks off, and she buckles down. You must have the magic touch.”

He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Hardly. I have plenty of patients who grumble at me.”

“None of them women, I bet.”

Much to Val's surprise, a flush rose on his neck. How endearing was that? A man who was actually embarrassed by a compliment.

Instead of responding, David leaned forward to put his coffee cup on the edge of the desk. To hide the blush, perhaps?

Even more endearing.

As he changed position, a loose sheet of paper on top of the folder slipped to the floor. They both bent to retrieve it, their heads colliding with a jarring bump.

“Ow!” Val jerked back and clapped a hand to her forehead.

“Sorry about that. Are you okay?” David touched her shoulder.

One side of her mouth hitched up as she rubbed her temple. “I have a hard head. I'll live.”

“Let me see.”

“It's fine.”

“Let me have a look anyway.”

He leaned over to move her hand aside, and the warmth of his fingers against her cool skin sent a bolt of heat ricocheting through her.

What in the world . . . ?

Val stared at him. At this proximity, she could see tiny flecks of gold in his vivid green eyes and faint lines etched at the corners that told her he smiled often. As for those supple lips that looked eminently kissable . . .

Don't go there!

With a supreme effort, she lowered her gaze.

Big mistake.

His taut T-shirt was stretched across his muscular chest, and those impressive biceps she'd noticed at their first meeting were now mere inches from her face.

All at once, she had to fight the urge to fan herself.

Had someone turned on the heat in here?

He tugged at her hand, his touch gentle. “Come on, Val. Let me see. You might need some ice on that.”

She looked into his eyes again, and his hand stilled. A mere fraction of a second passed . . . but long enough for her to suspect he was experiencing a reaction to their nearness that was very similar to hers.

Her suspicion was confirmed when he abruptly dropped his hand and cleared his throat.

In the charged silence that followed, Val searched for something . . . anything . . . to say. Drew a blank.

What was wrong with her, anyway? Vocal Val, as her high school yearbook had pegged her, was never at a loss for words—except the moniker wasn't fitting so well at the moment.

Shifting in her seat, she tucked her hair behind her ear, leaving her forehead exposed.

“Wow!” David's eyes widened. “You do have a bump! Let me get some ice.”

“I'm fine.”

“It'll just take a minute.” He was already half out of his chair.

She opened her mouth to protest. Closed it. A brief time-out would give her a chance to regain control of her emotions.

As he disappeared through the door, she collapsed back in her seat and let out a long, shaky breath.

Talk about being blindsided.

Sure, David was attractive—but she'd been around plenty of attractive men in her theater work and had long ago learned to steel herself against their charms.

Trouble was, her mother's physical therapist had launched a sneak attack.

Except attack wasn't quite accurate. There had been nothing deliberate in his actions. No intent to make her hormones go haywire, even if that had been the outcome.

So why had his closeness had such a dramatic effect on her?

Frowning, Val tapped a polished nail against the arm of her chair. Could it be that she'd simply been unprepared? After all, she hadn't expected to have to protect her heart from anyone in Washington—especially her mother's therapist. A man with a wife and child.

Yeah, that had to be it. He'd caught her off guard.

But why? With his boy-next-door looks, David was 180 degrees away from the dark, brooding sort of man she'd always found appealing. Plus, he seemed grounded, certain of his place in the world, a man whose values were solid and who had a clear sense of direction.

In other words, he was her polar opposite.

So what was the appeal?

The answer eluded her.

All she knew was that she needed to get her reaction under control. Fast.

Wrapping her fingers around the disposable cup, Val took a fortifying sip of the strong brew and gave herself a pep talk.

You'll be fine. Now that you're aware of the problem, you'll be on guard in the future. Just remain calm, cool, and aloof—and keep reminding yourself he's married and off-limits. This is just some weird chemistry thing.

Right.

She took a deep breath. Let it out. Took another.

Okay. Better. She had it under control.

Yet as she set the cup back on the desk, she noticed her hand was trembling.

Just like her heart.

And there didn't seem to be a thing she could do to stabilize either.

Juggling the ice pack in his hand, David paused outside the door to his office. Wishing he could avoid going back inside.

How was he supposed to deal with all the electricity zinging between him and Val—especially when he had no idea what had prompted it?

It wasn't her lovely face or great figure or the honey-blonde hair that called out to be touched, that much he knew. He'd run into plenty of attractive women in the past few years who'd sent clear signals about their interest, yet none of them had knocked him off balance like this.

And he didn't like this slightly out-of-control, unsettled feeling.

At all.

His fingers started to grow numb, and he switched the ice pack to his other hand. Even as a teen with raging hormones, he'd kept his emotions on a tight leash and stuck to the principles of his faith. Unlike a lot of his buddies, he'd never gotten carried away and done things he later regretted.

But he had the distinct feeling Val could easily carry him away and leave him with regrets.

The question was, why?

He transferred the ice pack again and raked his fingers through his hair.

This didn't make sense.

He hadn't even thought about her since their first encounter. Settling into life in Washington and worrying about whether Victoria was adjusting had required his total focus.

But today those deep blue eyes had sucked him in again, just as they had at their first meeting. And like that first day, he sensed that beneath the confident facade she presented to the world, Val was vulnerable. Searching. Scared. Unsure of her future. Alone.

As he was.

Could loneliness have prompted that buzz of attraction?

Maybe—on his end, anyway. Victoria's exuberant joy and boundless love might soothe his soul and give meaning to his days, but it couldn't take the place of love shared with a special woman. The kind he hoped to find again someday.

But not yet.

And not with Val.

She was only here for a few weeks, and he wasn't interested in a summer fling.

Bracing himself, he twisted the knob, reentered the office, and handed her the ice pack.

“Thanks.” She gave him a polite but distant smile as she took it, careful not to let her fingers come into contact with his.

The tension in his gut relaxed. They seemed to be on the same page about how to deal with the unexpected high-voltage electricity between them. Good.

“No problem.” He picked up his file and moved behind his desk.

She pressed the pack to her forehead while he explained the changes to her mother's program. Thanked him again when he finished. Politely shook his hand before she exited the office and disappeared down the hall.

But as he picked up the file for his next patient and stood, David realized she'd left something behind.

A faint, appealing fragrance that was a little exotic. A touch alluring. And hard to forget.

Just like the woman herself.

“Tell me how Mom liked the ratatouille.” Karen dropped a box of low-fat, low-sodium, whole wheat crackers into her shopping cart as Val read the label on the package in her hand.

“She said it was edible. Trust me, that's high praise in light of some of the comments my culinary efforts have prompted.”

“It smelled delicious. Is it hard to make?”

“Piece of cake. I jotted down the recipe for you, plus the ones for the stir-frys I mentioned on our first outing in case you want to try them too.” Val withdrew several index cards from her purse and handed them over.

As Karen perused them, she pushed her cart past a cookie display. Val was right. The recipes were neither difficult nor time-consuming. “These sound very healthy.”

“And they're good too. A winning combination.”

“I wonder if Kristen would like them. She's developed some weird eating habits lately. For a while, she wouldn't eat meat. Next, she was off carbs. Desserts were on the restricted list for several weeks too. And it's not like she needs to lose weight. She's thin as a rail.”

“Sometimes people focus on food because it's one of the few things they can regulate when other parts of their life are out of control.”

“Like the divorce?” Karen tried to keep her voice nonchalant as she checked one of the stir-fry recipes and put a bag of brown rice in her cart. Even after a year and a half, it was hard to talk about the mess she'd made of her life without getting emotional.

“Could be. I deal with teenagers every day. They try to act cool, but most of them are insecure. They can behave in unacceptable ways for all kinds of reasons—to get attention, or to exert control over their lives when things at home are in an uproar, or it can just be a simple cry for help. That's why I enjoy teaching drama. If I can help them channel some of those energies through theater, act out some of those emotions on stage, maybe they won't feel the need to do things in real life they might later regret.”