Abby’s nose twitched. Guy smelled so nice.
Like lumber and leather and lemon oil. Which made perfectly good sense considering he spent most of his time in a store that sold those things.
Lord, please forgive me for letting something so mundane distract me from worship this morning. It just seems so long since the scent of a male meant anything to me besides Daddy’s foot spray and Dillon’s diaper-rash ointment.
She redoubled her effort to concentrate dutifully on what the visiting pastor was saying. She tried to focus on Ken Allen and the missions update he brought from the Houston congregation that had planted New Harvest two years earlier. His message was an important one; the best exercise of the heart was to reach down and help somebody else up. But her senses continued to betray her, so she resolved to pick up a recorded copy of the service so she could meditate on it during her drive to school that week.
Today she was no better disciplined than her first graders. She sniffed again, enjoying the pleasant distraction to her left. Her ears still rang from the singing that had been so terribly off key, it had been oddly pleasing. Guy had joined in the praise songs as though he didn’t have a clue he couldn’t carry a tune if it had a wooden handle on it. And her eyes were still moist from the tears that had threatened as she’d swallowed down a giggle over the loud case of hiccups he’d suffered during a moment of silent prayer. Her daddy had nudged her and made a pinching sign with his thumb and forefinger, reminding Abby of her mother’s way of showing disapproval when her daughter fidgeted even the least bit in church.
Abby shifted in her seat, twisted her back to Guy, blocking him from her peripheral vision. She reached her right hand across the low arm of the wooden pew where her daddy’s wheelchair was positioned in the aisle beside her. He smiled and wrapped her fingers with his, winked and mouthed, “I love you.”
From her vantage point she could see through the tall, narrow row of windows that lined the walls of the small sanctuary. Beyond the recently planted beds of blooming day lilies, their playground effort was visible. There was a metal frame donated by the salvage shop where new swings would eventually hang, a dome-shaped network of monkey bars that needed sanding and fresh paint, and a low fence surrounding a two-year-old pecan tree planted in Phillip’s memory.
An embarrassing flush seeped throughout her body. Her palms grew moist as her face went hot with shame. She was within fifty yards of the spot that would be dedicated to her late husband. The playground would be a tribute to the selfless young man who’d willingly given his very life so the children in another country might experience the freedom his son would likely take for granted.
Phillip, her dearest friend, had made the ultimate sacrifice and here she was, admiring the scent of another man.
What is wrong with me, Abba Father? I have enough shortcomings without adding lustfulness to the list.
She drew in a deep breath, blew it out through her lips and squeezed her daddy’s hand for strength.
Guy heard Abby’s sigh, leaned forward the smallest bit and noted the way she held tight to Shorty. Something stirred inside Guy. He didn’t want to call it envy. Envy was longing for what someone else had, and it was a deadly sin. He had a close relationship with his own parents so that couldn’t be it.
Was it protectiveness? No, he’d felt that for the gaggle all his life. Was used to it, had been defending a sister’s honor or helping out a wannabe girlfriend for as long as he could remember. That wasn’t it. Still, something niggled at him, something to do with Abby.
She was different from the women he’d casually dated or the Hardy girls who were self-confident and secure. They’d had their share of worry what with their mom’s Parkinson’s and their dad’s bypass surgery, but there were a slew of them to stick together. Abby was alone, vulnerable in ways that a big family couldn’t relate to. But she appeared not to notice, even determined not to let him help her the way most women in his life naturally did.
It had been “Guy to the rescue!” for as long as he could remember. It was gratifying, like his habit of giving blood once a month. He liked it, took pride in doing good deeds. And he realized with a wry smile that it was bugging him no end to accept that Abby Cramer didn’t much want his services or advice. In fact, she was still questioning his motives as the store owner, no matter what he’d said to reassure her. Smart cookie. Guy’s gut stirred again, this time with guilt. She had reason to remain suspicious but he was on a mission to change that.
He folded the outreach brochure and tucked it into the pocket of his crisp, white dress shirt. He glanced down at the freshly buffed toes of his boots, his mind casting back to the previous evening. Abby had been on the telephone when he’d returned for Shorty. She hadn’t even looked up from the notes she’d been taking on a yellow pad by the kitchen sink, had just waved over her shoulder and continued her phone conversation when her father had called goodbye.
The trip to the rehab center had been an enlightening one, but all time spent with Shorty was informational. The irascible old fella had been confined to his wheelchair with limited access to his own house and community for so long that he was starved for conversation. Well, you couldn’t exactly call it conversation since it was mostly one-sided, with Shorty sharing tales of his life and his two womenfolk. Guy had already heard more about Abby’s marriage to Phillip Cramer than he had a right to know. He cringed imagining how angry Kate or Andrea would be if their father rattled off personal stories about their husbands the way Shorty did about Phillip.
What had he said just last night about the boy being so shy he could hardly string three words together without stammering? “But being around my baby girl caused the knot to slip right out of that kid’s tongue. Why, he would talk for hours to Abby without tripping over a T or being snared by an S.”
Shorty had grumbled aloud on several occasions over the past couple of weeks that he hoped his daughter would find a “grown man” to take care of her and Dillon the next time around. Then he’d leveled dark eyes at Guy and added, “But not anytime soon.”
The unnecessary warning was loud and clear.
But Guy had dodged entanglements for thirty-eight years and had no intention of a committed relationship at this juncture in his life. There were stores to open, board members, foreign investors and stockholders to answer to, plenty of family to care for without being saddled with one of his own. In short, his life was full and he was happy. No matter how much he sympathized, a woman wasn’t part of the plan. And certainly not one so young, caught in the vise between a small child and aging parents.
No, Shorty’s cautions weren’t needed. Guy had a plan, and work to do that would protect Hearth and Home. He’d made progress with Shorty and even Sarah had invited him to sit in the chair beside her bed and tell her all about his family. That just left Abby.
He’d win her over if it was the last thing he did. And he had to do it before Casey showed up and started crowding him.
As usual.
Abby’s committee meeting seemed to drag on forever. It was almost noon when she’d called to say she was free. Then after he’d arrived at the house, she’d kept him waiting in the driveway while she no doubt gave a long list of instructions to the H&H employee who’d volunteered to spend the afternoon with Dillon and Shorty.
Finally, with the sun high overhead in a brilliant blue Texas canopy they headed northwest, left the traffic-congested city limits of Austin behind and picked up the trail of the Colorado River. According to Abby, Travis was the longest of the Texas Highland Lakes, winding its way for over sixty miles through the famed Hill Country. The drive was leisurely and breathtaking, as they marveled over views of the pristine water and surrounding hills.
She hugged the passenger’s door of the SUV, her window rolled down, a glow of pleasure on her face. Her head was poked out, wild curls flapping in the breeze reminding him of a blond cocker spaniel. The thought of making that comparison out loud zipped through his mind and he squashed it like a bug on the windshield.
“Mansfield Dam is over there.” She turned to him long enough to motion several miles across the view. “Travis was created in the late 1930’s when they dammed up the Colorado. She has almost three hundred miles of shoreline, just over two hundred feet at the deepest point.” Abby continued her travelogue, ticking off facts about the manmade system.
“You know a little something about this place, don’t you?” He stated the obvious.
“I know a lot about it. I did an environmental project on the lake system while I was at the University of Texas.”
“So you researched all that information?”
“I already knew most of it.” She swept her arm, palm up, toward the waters before them. “This is my neck of the woods. Daddy and I love it up here and he taught me the history of the lake while we sat in a boat together for hours on end.”
“You must miss it.”
“Mostly I miss Daddy the way he used to be,” her voice dropped, so low he barely heard the next. “But I miss a lot of things.”
She was quiet for a long while, her gaze fixed on the sparkling surface of the lake, probably remembering better days before the insidious disease had claimed Shorty’s mobility. More than likely thinking about those other things she missed.
Her husband. Phillip.
Guy felt a twinge of jealousy. He dropped his left elbow to the open window ledge, squeezed the wheel with his right hand, feeling like pond scum at the thought. What kind of jerk would be even the least bit envious of a woman’s late husband? Especially since that jerk had no interest in the woman, even if she did seem more appealing each time he was with her.
“But all of that was a long time ago.” She sounded resigned. “Life goes on whether we want it to or not.” She turned her face his way and offered him a small smile that did little to disguise the sadness in her eyes.
His chest tightened. They needed something to lift the somber mood threatening to settle between them like a stone dropping through the crystal waters. As much as the women in his life complained about the calorie consumption afterward, food was always a good distraction. He slowed as the road drew to a fork. There was a gas station to the right where they could get bottled water and maybe some fruit.
“I could use a snack, how about you?”
She studied the road ahead as she nodded agreement, then pointed to the left. “There’s a little mobile unit not too far up that way. I haven’t been there for a couple of years but it’s always been a favorite spot on this side of the lake so I’m sure it’s still there. You game for a most excellent corn dog? You might even have heard of the owner. He did a little track and field back in his day.”
Guy’s interest was piqued, but it also happened that as a kid he’d choked on a bite of corn dog and hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of the deep fried excuse for meat on a stick in years. But if the lady wanted one…
“Sure,” he agreed.
Mobile unit was a fancy way of saying vintage, no, make that decrepit, Airstream trailer surrounded by a gosh-awful multicolored picket fence. The menu, painted in sprawling red letters on a sheet of white plywood boasted Curbo’s Fine Dining! The Fastest Food South of the Mason-Dixon! Since everything about Texas was purported to be the biggest and grandest, it was often difficult for an outsider to know what was the real deal and what was tongue-in-cheek. As Guy cut the engine of the truck, he suspected the latter description was about to be applied to this roadside dining experience.
Abby jumped to the ground and slammed the passenger door as a wave of déjà vu crashed over her senses. How many times had she stood in this same spot, felt the afternoon sun on her face, the constant lake breeze stirring her curls? Her stomach growled for a greasy corn dog or a paper cup overflowing with chili cheese fries. She tucked her fingers into the hip pockets of her tight Levi’s and strode toward the window.
“Patrick, are you in there?” She called.
A physically fit fifty-something man with close-cropped gray hair appeared at the opening. A wide smile spread across a ruddy face as he angled his head back and squinted through the rimless glasses balanced low on the bridge of his nose.
“Well, as I live and struggle for breath. Sport, would you look at what the tide washed up?” He reached to open the trailer’s small door and a long-legged, Italian greyhound bounded down the three wooden steps. Abby knelt, one knee pressed to the crushed-shale surface of the parking lot, as the aging pet smothered her cheek with wet greetings.
“Abby Reagan, is that really you?”
“It’s me, Patrick. But it’s been Abby Cramer for a while now.”
“Don’t tell me that shy Cramer boy actually worked up the nerve to talk you into marrying him,” Patrick teased as he took the steps in a single stride and moved toward her, arms outstretched.
She continued to smile as she stepped into his gentle hug, knowing what was coming next but not wanting to dampen the mood of their reunion. “Yes, he did but Phillip and I were only married for a few months before his active reserves unit was deployed to Iraq. He was killed in an insurgent attack outside of Baqouba almost two years ago.”
The older man stilled, folded her tight and she felt him press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “I’m so sorry for your loss, little girl.”
“Thanks,” she murmured against his chest, aware of how long it had been since her own father had been able to hug her with such comfort. “But we have a beautiful son to show for our short marriage so Phillip will always be part of my life.”
Boots crunched on the road nearby and Abby remembered Guy. She gave Patrick a quick squeeze before stepping away to make introductions.
“Guy, this is Patrick Curry, known to the locals as Curbo.”
“And the reason for that is duly noted,” Guy said with an easy grin as he extended his hand. “Sir, I’d know Curbo the Turbo anywhere!”
“You’re too kind. That was a lot of years ago.” Patrick dipped his chin modestly.
“Not long enough to forget the Texas Turbo that was on my Wheaties box in seventy-six.”
The running phenomenon was the pride of the U.S.A. team at the Montreal Olympics with his three gold medals and world record-setting time in the eight-hundred-meter event.
“It’s an honor to meet you. Guy Hardy of Hearth and Home.”
“You must be Keith Hardy’s son. You’re a long way from Iowa.”
“Ahh, you’re familiar with us.” Guy nodded, the crinkle of a smile at the corners of his eyes indicating he was clearly pleased by the name recognition, especially in this company.
“I’ve had H&H in my stock portfolio since you went public,” Patrick confirmed. “Glad to see you expanding into the South.”
“We’ve just opened our first Texas super center, near Barton Springs and South Lamar.”
“Nice piece of real estate.” Patrick’s eyes widened. “You should do well there. I need to get into town soon to check it out. I could use some new patio furniture.” He gestured beyond the trailer. Guy followed the direction Patrick pointed and sucked in a breath at the sight of an enormous home built of limestone block, set well back off the road. Miles of white fence surrounded the lakefront acreage, a well-appointed boat dock visible from their vantage point.
“I see corn dogs are a booming business!”
Abby grinned behind her hand, enjoying Guy’s response to the humble front Patrick placed on his thriving entrepreneurial business and his senior partnership in the Emerald Point Marina.
“I can’t complain.” He turned to her. “Tell me the latest on your folks. You and your dad used to be weekend regulars and we haven’t seen you up here in a coon’s age.”
“That’s because Dad’s confined to a wheelchair, now.”
“The MS?”
“Yep.” She nodded. “The bad days began to outweigh the good ones and he couldn’t trust his legs anymore, so he had to accept full-time use of the chair. He’s adjusted about as well as you’d expect.”
Patrick snorted. “That old coot, adjust to life in a wheelchair? Bet that went over like a rock in the butter beans.”
“Exactly!” She laughed at the native Texan who was also known for his command of Southern colloquialisms. “But we’ve made some minor alterations to the house so he gets around pretty well.”
“I’m guessing if you’re not fishing then you don’t get to rodeo much these days either.”
Guy’s attention shifted from the sight of the incredible lakefront property before him back to Abby.
Rodeo?
What was that all about? He watched her soft curls bob as her chin dropped and she shook her head.
“There hasn’t been time or money for barrel racing in years.” She tilted her head back to see into the taller man’s eyes; a wistful smile flickered at the corners of her lips. “But it’s nice that you remember.”
“It’s not likely I’d forget after all the bragging your dad used to do about your rankings. He thought you could have gone pro. And I always suspected you were an urban cowgirl at heart. Matter of fact, I thought maybe this hardware-store cowboy was your beau.” He angled his head downward and cocked an eyebrow, obviously a reference to Guy’s boots. Boots in Texas seemed to be a functional thing. Guy was starting to feel guilty that his were only about fashion and comfort.
“Oh, no.” Abby shook her head vigorously, a little too much so for Guy’s ego. Was it that bad having somebody think she might actually be with him voluntarily?