seven

There was no way she was waiting outside in this rain. Hannah lifted the pot of long-dead geraniums by the door and snatched the key, faint whimpering of the dog greeting her from the other side. She edged the door open and paused. The dog stared at her and tilted his head to one side. Was he still Lassie or was today the day he went Cujo? The pup walked over and licked her hand. Lassie it was.

“I’ve got to stop thinking of you as Lassie.” Or Cujo. Hannah carried the water dish to Luke’s kitchen sink. Did the guy not know how to wash a dish? After filling the dog’s bowl she set it down and filled the sink with hot, soapy water.

“What should I name you?” Hannah debated several names as she washed, rinsed, and dried. She knelt and rubbed the dog’s ears. “Don’t worry, we’ll find the right name.”

The dog yawned and leaned into the scratch. See, owning a dog was fun.

According to the chart on the wall, Luke hadn’t given him medicine yet today. She could do that. She was the owner, after all. Hannah opened the bottle and dropped a large brown pill in her hand. The dog’s ears sank back and he turned his face away. The vet had just placed the pill in the back of his throat. She reached a slow hand out toward his snout, but he scrambled to his feet and bolted up the stairs.

Great. Now what? Hannah had been in this house countless times, but she’d never ventured up the stairs. Mrs. Shoemaker had strict rules when they were growing up, and after the woman had died, keeping that boundary seemed the right thing.

“Puppy. Doggy-dog.” She had to come up with a name. She placed her foot on the first step. “Rover,” she tried with a firmer voice. Nothing.

The wood creaked with each step. She wouldn’t be sneaking up on the dog. At the top of the stairs, the narrow hall had four doors, only two of which stood open. That helped narrow the options. She peeked in the first room. Nope. Just tools, small pieces of insulation, and a stack of new windows resting against one wall.

She made her way to the second room. A sheet had been nailed over the lone window, casting a soft blue light around the room. It had to be Luke’s—the scent of his body wash lingered in the air. With her big toe, she poked at a pair of sweatpants puddled on the floor and resisted the urge to hang them up. She didn’t want him to think she’d been rummaging around his bedroom.

A gray T-shirt had been tossed across the unmade bed. Other than the sweatpants and his bed the room was tidy. The guy wasn’t much for clutter. An old, dusty Bible sat between his alarm clock and a handful of Stephen Lawhead novels on his nightstand.

She trailed her fingers across the navy stripes in his comforter as she moved to his desk. A loose photo of her and Luke leaned against a Little League trophy. It had been taken their senior year, a week or so before Luke had kissed her. A week before everything had fallen apart.

She lifted it and brushed away the dust. Luckily her style had simplified. But Luke hadn’t changed at all. He still wore gray T-shirts. Still had those same soulful eyes. And he still had that lock of hair that didn’t want to stay tamed.

She shook her head. She needed to find the dog and get out.

She glanced under the bed. A bundle of blond fur lay tucked about as far back as he could go.

Maybe she could lure him out. If only she had one of those tennis balls—or bacon. She scanned the floor and paused. A file lay facedown next to the bed with the contents spilling out. The dog must have knocked it off the night table as he rushed under.

Hannah picked it up to set it back on the nightstand, but something slipped out. Grabbing the runaway paper, she started to slide it back into the folder but stopped.

It was a photo of a man holding a little boy about age four. It was slightly yellowed with age, but she could easily make out the boy’s familiar curly brown hair and that dimple in the left cheek.

She opened the file to set the photo inside when Luke’s scrawled note stopped her.

Who was my mother?

“What are you doing in here?”

Hannah jumped to her feet as Luke entered the room. His tone was casual, but Hannah’s gut still coiled like it had in the fourth grade when she’d gotten caught peeking at the Christmas presents. Sure, for him the steps didn’t creak.

Adrenaline flooded her as she took in his soot-covered face and the acrid odor of charred wood. He’d been to a fire. His eyes, red from the smoke, blinked at her.

The dog popped out from under the bed and went over to greet Luke.

He knelt down and scratched behind the pup’s ears. “What are you doing under there?”

“Had to chase him. He needed medicine. Ran under there.” Why did she sound like a robot?

“I hide it in bologna.” His eyes shifted from the dog to her hands then hardened.

Right, the file. “Luke, what’s—”

“I need to take a shower.” He strode over, pulled the file out of her hand, and slid it into a drawer, slamming it shut. He turned toward his closet without another word.

“What?”

“S-H-O-W-E-R. Water shoots from above. Washes away this stink.” He sat on his bed and pulled at his boots. He chucked them in the closet, where they landed with a thud.

“Not a ‘what did you say’ what. What in the world was that about?”

He stared at her, his jaw twitching.

“Seriously? You’re going to pretend I didn’t see that and you want me to play along? Is honesty so hard?”

“Me?” He pushed off the bed and took a step toward her. “How was your date last night?”

Last night she didn’t have a date. Last night she’d—oh, Derek. Her stomach plummeted. How did he even know?

“Meeting? Really, Hannah?” He reached into his drawer for a clean T-shirt and then slammed it shut. “Your boyfriend was too happy to let me know all about it on the way to the fire.”

Boyfriend? She crossed her arms over her chest. “Derek isn’t my boyfriend. He was helping me with the town project. Which is more than I can say about you.”

He stood up straight, losing any remaining softness from his features. “Then I guess he’s perfect for you.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” She pushed past him as she stepped out of the room. “I’m taking Rover for a walk.” She called the dog but it didn’t move.

“Rover? His name is Spitz.”

“What? It’s my dog, I’ll name him what I want. Besides, what kind of name is Spits? Like, he drools?” She clapped her hands and beckoned the dog. “Come here, Rover.”

“No, with a Z. Like Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimmer. He loves water. It’s better than Rover.”

The dog barked and sat by Luke’s feet.

“Spitz?”

The dog darted a look at Hannah and barked again.

“Why not just name him Phelps?” She crossed her arms in front of her and wrinkled her nose.

“Phelps is a dumb name for a dog.”

“And Spitz isn’t? It’s my dog. I’ll name him.” Hannah stomped her foot. “And why won’t you talk about that file?”

He leaned against the door frame and stared at her. “Why won’t you talk about your date?”

“It wasn’t a date.” Her hands shot in the air.

“Fine.” He mimicked the gesture. “It wasn’t a file.”

“Really?” Hannah tried to go back into the room, but Luke still stood in the doorway. Why did his shoulders have to be so wide?

“Let it go. This isn’t something you need to fix.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t even be questioning these things if you hadn’t insisted that I open that stupid box.”

“You said the box was just old papers of Mrs. Shoemaker’s.” Hannah took a step back.

“It was . . . mostly.”

“What else?” When Luke didn’t answer, Hannah stepped toward him again. “You’re always pushing.”

“And you wonder why when you break into my house and go through my stuff.”

“I didn’t break in. I used the key, and I came to feed the dog, not go through your stuff. The file was an accident.”

“Were the dishes an accident? Or did you do that to lessen the guilt for your date?”

“Why would I feel guilty about a date? We’re only friends . . . right?” She marched toward the stairs.

“So it was a date.” He followed her down the hall.

Hannah growled and turned back at the bottom of the stairs. “You know what? Perhaps it’s time for a little space between us.”

“Fine.” He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Enjoy your non-date tonight.”

“I will. You enjoy your secrets. And maybe I’ll find someplace else for my dog. Come on, Rover.”

The dog whimpered and laid his snout on Luke’s foot.

“Rover,” she tried again, but the dog didn’t move. She cast a final glare at Luke before she let the door slam on her way out. It seemed the key to Luke letting you close was having fur and a tail.

Let him have his private little world. Let him have the dog. She was done trying.

He should have told Hannah about his past long ago, but shutting people out had become his default. Luke wedged the crowbar between two aged boards of Chet’s porch and leaned his weight into it. The squeak of nails protesting the movement filled the crisp afternoon air. His hand flexed against the ache in his fingers. Not quite cold enough to turn numb, but cold enough to object to the hard work in the wind. Whoever said spring started the twentieth of March didn’t live in Michigan. He tossed the broken board to the pile he’d started in the yard and tapped his hammer on different boards, testing for any other bad spots.

You can’t offer Hannah what I can. Derek’s words bounced back and forth in his head. But Derek was wrong. Sure, Luke didn’t have a lot, but he had a house, and once he had it fixed up they could build a life together.

The look on her face as she’d stomped out of his house flashed through his mind. He’d screwed that one up good. Whether she liked Derek or not before, he might have just pushed her toward him.

Maybe he’d overreacted to Hannah and the file—okay, there was no maybe about it—but it hadn’t helped that it all came on the heels of listening to Derek spout off. He’d never liked the guy, but the idea of him and Hannah . . . ugh. Luke slammed his hammer down, sending a spike of pain up his arm. That board was still good.

The phone in his pocket vibrated and he snatched it out. Unknown number. Not Hannah. He sighed and slid it back in his pocket. When the voicemail chimed he picked it up again and tapped the screen to listen. Cindy? Great, she’d tracked down his number after all. He tapped Delete but saved the number. He’d keep screening his calls if she was trying to get ahold of him.

Shoot, he was supposed to call to follow up on Spitz after ten days. Maybe he’d leave a message after hours.

The front door squeaked as Chet emerged, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. “Need a break?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Luke tossed the hammer aside and accepted the mug.

“Hear anything about the job?”

“I turned in my paperwork and now I wait for an interview.” Luke took a long swig of his coffee. Strong and bitter. Man coffee, Chet called it. Maybe a dose of man coffee was just what he needed. “I’m not sure what you put in that letter, but I swear—ever since I dropped off that paperwork, Dan Fair, Tim Lacy, and a few of the other guys on the team look at me differently. Talk to me differently.”

“I doubt I told them anything they didn’t already know. My guess is that the change isn’t in them, it’s in you.” The steam from Chet’s mug billowed up into the chilled air. “You used to show up, do your job, and then leave. But now I hear you’ve been arriving early and staying later. If people are treating you different it’s because you’re treating them different.”

Maybe community wasn’t so much about your pedigree but more about what you put into it.

Luke finished off the mug and set it aside as he reclaimed his hammer. “Did you ever notice that I whistle?”

“Who do you think taught you how to whistle?” Chet reclined a bit in his chair.

“Was there a specific song that I whistled more than others?”

Chet tipped back his mug to claim the last of his coffee. “Yup. Didn’t know the tune myself, but Lottie and I talked about it several times. Why do you ask?”

“Hannah mentioned it.” Luke reached for the next board and laid it in place. “The birth certificate I found in that box . . . I started looking for information on my mom.”

“Any luck?”

Luke claimed a nail and held it in place. “Nothing to give much hope. And a few days ago, Hannah found my research. She started to ask me about it and I . . . overreacted.”

“What’s the big deal? She knows your history.” He coughed and spun his empty mug in his hands.

Luke drove the nail in with three solid hits and reached for another. “That’s the crazy thing. It should’ve been easy to show her.”

“You think she’ll only like you if you have it all together?”

Luke lined up another nail and drove it in. “I don’t know if she’ll ever like me even if I can manage to get it all together. I failed one of my classes last semester.”

“I don’t think she’ll give a dag-gum about your class. But I’m guessing you didn’t tell her about that either.” When Luke didn’t comment, he stared him down. “Why the business degree?”

“Jon said when he got back from Europe he’d get me a job at Heritage Fruits.”

“And you want to spend your days behind a desk, typing in numbers?”

“You did.”

“And I loved it. But we aren’t talking about me. We’re talking about you.” Chet shook his head and focused his attention on Luke’s work on the porch. “I’ve got a feeling you’re much more comfortable with a hammer in your hand than a computer mouse.”

Luke dropped the hammer and stood up straight. “A few handyman jobs here and there aren’t really anything to raise a family on.”

“You are capable of more than being a handyman. You should get your contractor’s license. The work you’ve done on that house in a short time is nothing short of amazing.”

“That’s still—”

“—not as prestigious as a white-collar desk job.” Chet stood and stretched then tapped Luke’s chest. “That is all in your head.”

“Hannah deserves more.”

“Hannah deserves what she wants. And that girl wants you. I’d bet the house on it.”

Tell that to Derek and his two dates. “There may have been a time, but that was long ago. I messed that up too.”

“How?”

What was this, confession time?

Luke turned away. “We dated in high school . . . or almost did.”

“Almost dated?”

“We kissed in the treehouse, then stayed up talking for hours. When we went back to school on Monday . . . It was the way she was trying to fix me in subtle ways.”

“Fix you?”

“I told her I couldn’t afford a tux for prom and she said she’d pay for it. My car broke down and she wanted to pay for that.”

“But your pride wouldn’t let her.”

“It felt like I was almost the guy she wanted to date, but not quite. So we fought. Rumors started about another girl at school and me. Hannah called me a few names I won’t repeat. It was a bad summer. We did manage to patch up a semblance of friendship before she left for college, but it wasn’t the same.”

The pain from that time in his life resurfaced. He’d never known emptiness like that.

“Now you’re friends?”

Luke shrugged away the memory. “When she was home from college one summer, we mended some fences, but we’ve always avoided the dating subject.”

“What changed?”

He slid the next board into place and reached for his hammer again. “I thought I’d eventually get over her. I was wrong.”

Chet pointed a gnarled finger at him. “But you still believe you aren’t good enough.”

Luke shrugged. “I thought if I could fix up the house, then I’d have something to offer.”

“You’re making this too hard. You just need to answer one question. Do you love her?”

Did he love her? Luke stood with a stretch and stared at the distant woods. Could he let her in?

Chet shuffled to the door. “There’s more coffee in the kitchen if you want it.”

Luke set the hammer aside, gathered some stray nails that had spilled, and grabbed his mug. He pushed through the front door and headed toward the kitchen. The black box rested open on the dining room table with the contents laid out in careful piles.

Luke’s eyes skimmed the papers as he passed. His gaze paused on one of them. The Will and Trust of Lottie Shoemaker.

She had a will? Had Chet known about it?

He scanned the document but stopped at the words, I leave my house to the town of Heritage.

To the town. Not to Chet.

If Chet didn’t own it, then he couldn’t sell it to Luke.

If this was true, then that rent-to-own contract sitting at home was nothing better than fancy scrap paper.