One Perfect Spring Read online

  Claire closed the car door, wincing as her forearm brushed against the edge. The bruise she’d gotten last night freeing the stuck garage door hurt a lot worse. “Not as much.”

  “What are we having for dinner?”

  “Chicken.”

  Haley wrinkled her nose. “I had chicken last night.”

  “McNuggets are fried. Baked chicken tastes a lot different.”

  “Yeah, but I like fried better.”

  What kid didn’t?

  Claire unlocked the door that led from the garage to the kitchen and gestured Haley inside. “I’m going to grab the mail while you put your school things away.”

  “Okay.”

  On her trek down the driveway to the box at the curb, she inspected the peeling surface and the gouges beneath her feet. The harsher-than-usual winter had done a number on the asphalt. No way could she put off a sealing job until next year.

  Another unbudgeted expense to add to her growing list.

  Worst of all, it would eat up the funds she’d earmarked for paint to brighten up the drab, coffee-colored walls in Haley’s bedroom that had bothered her ever since they’d moved in last spring. A little girl deserved happy colors.

  Maybe she should have made a more modest down payment and kept some discretionary funds on hand, instead of opting for a smaller monthly mortgage bill. But who knew the economy was going to tank and derail the ambitious schedule she’d set to rebuild her savings?

  She toed off a loose piece of driveway coating. She could always seal it herself. How hard could it be?

  Toying with that possibility, she pulled the mail from the box and riffled through it. A preponderance of bills, as usual. Looked like she was going to have to be a do-it-yourselfer for a long time to come—whether she wanted to or not.

  But owning a house was a far better investment than paying rent. She was building equity, and that was a smart, logical thing to do.

  She needed to keep reminding herself of that.

  With a sigh, she glanced at Maureen’s house and started back up the driveway. At some point she needed to let her neighbor know about Haley’s letter, but there wasn’t a whole lot of urgency. Maureen wouldn’t hold Haley’s unintended indiscretion against her, and as far as McMillan Construction was concerned, her daughter’s note was surely in the dead letter file by now, no harm done.

  When she entered the house, Haley was having an animated conversation on the phone—and it took Claire only a moment to identify the caller. The man who’d been her rock since the day she was born might live in South Carolina, but he made it his business to touch base at least twice a week. And his calls always brought an extra spark of animation to his granddaughter’s face.

  “Yeah! That would be fun! Mom just came in. I’ll let you ask her.” Haley held out the phone. “Cap wants to know if we can come visit this summer.”

  Claire gave her daughter’s French braid a gentle tug. “We’ll discuss it.”

  “That means no.”

  “It means maybe.”

  “Same thing.” She huffed out a breath and put the phone back to her ear. “Make her say yes, okay, Cap?”

  Whatever her father said generated a giggle from her daughter. “Yeah. Here she is.”

  “Start your homework while I talk to your grandfather.”

  “Oh, Mom! I just got home from school.”

  “Better to get it done right away. Then the whole rest of your evening will be free.” Turning her back on Haley’s grumbling, she wandered over to the window that looked into the backyard. “Hi, Dad. How’s the fishing business?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  He never did. No matter what hand fate dealt him, he kept plugging along. But the languishing economy and consequential belt tightening must still be having an impact on his charter business, as it had for the past several years.

  “Are you getting some bookings?”

  “It’s still early in the season.”

  That meant no. Or not enough.

  Her stomach clenched. Worrying about her own finances was bad enough without adding her father’s woes to the mix.

  As if he’d read her mind, he spoke again. “I had a profitable job yesterday, though. A group of businessmen from Nashville wanted to try some inshore fishing. Came away with a nice catch of bass, trout, and mackerel. I’m hanging in, Claire. You don’t need to worry about your old man. I have food to eat and a roof to sleep under and a fine boat to spend my days on in the sunshine and fresh air. What more could a man want? Now how are you and Haley doing?”

  A section of sagging gutter caught her eye, and she leaned forward to examine it. When had that happened?

  One more job to add to her to-do list.

  “We’re fine.” She turned away from the window—but it was hard to escape reminders of the work that needed doing. A piece of peeling wallpaper near the ceiling fluttered in an air current, almost as if it was waving at her.

  She’d gotten the house at a great price, though. All the fundamentals were sound, and the neighborhood was charming. With some judicious cosmetic work, the place would look good as new. She was fortunate to have found it.

  For some reason, her usual mental pep talk didn’t lift her spirits much tonight.

  “So what do you think about heading my direction over the summer for a couple of weeks? I could take Haley out on the boat. She loved that the last time. And there’s plenty of room at the house. It would just be a matter of gas money.”

  Except given the astronomical price of gas, that money could pay for some of the repairs she needed to do—or paint for Haley’s room.

  Still, summer visits were the only chance for Haley to see her grandfather. He couldn’t afford to close up shop in the busy season, such as it was, and come to St. Louis. And the weather between St. Louis and the coast was dicey in the winter, when Haley was off school for Christmas. As for spring break—it was hardly worth the long drive for such a short visit.

  “I’ll see if I can work it out, Dad. We’d both like to see you, but I’m trying to line up some tutoring jobs for the summer.”

  “Are things that tight, sweetie? I know it was a stretch for you to buy that house, even though it seemed like a great buy. But did you overextend?”

  Maybe.

  “No. We’ll be fine. I’m just watching our pennies until I get a few cosmetic improvements taken care of.”

  “I wish I could help you out with those—and that I could have helped after the divorce too. But I can’t seem to get much ahead with my cash reserves these days.”

  She knew all about the difficulties of saving despite the best of intentions—and it was worse for her dad. He might never complain about money, but her mother’s extended battle with early-onset Alzheimer’s had drained his savings. Insurance only paid for so much.

  “I wouldn’t have let you help back then, anyway. I got myself into that mess; I needed to get myself out.” Haley looked over at her, a question in her eyes, and Claire lightened her tone. “As for coming out, I guarantee Haley will keep working on me. She’s already giving me that ‘please, can’t we go?’ look.”

  Claire hoped he got her message that youthful ears were listening and that a change of subject was in order.

  He did—although the new topic wasn’t much better.

  “How’s the social life?”

  “About like yours.” She moved over to the refrigerator and pulled out a package of chicken breasts.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Not bad at all. Haley and I make a great team.” She winked at her daughter, who grinned back.

  “There’s room on most teams for more than two people.”

  Odd that he’d bring this subject up when only yesterday she’d had that fleeting yearning for a touch of romance in her life.

  “Not this one.”

  “You know, sweetie . . . not all men are like Brett. Take yours truly, for instance.”

  “Ah, but you’re one in a million. I think God broke
the mold after he made you.”

  “Not true. You’re just not giving yourself a chance to do any fishing.”

  “That’s your specialty.”

  “You spent enough time on the Molly Sue growing up to learn a thing or two. Fish in the right waters. Know what you’re looking for. Throw back the ones that aren’t worth keeping. It’s a big ocean out there. I have to believe your social life would improve if you tossed in a line.”

  She propped the phone on her shoulder while she opened the package of chicken. “There are too many sharks in the sea for my taste—and I have other priorities these days. One of which is fixing dinner for a hungry little girl.”

  “Fine. I get the message. I guess you’ll have to find your own way. But think about a trip out. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she froze. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No.” His voice was firm. “I’m hearty and hale and expect to be taking the Molly Sue out for a long time to come—but life has a way of throwing us curveballs. It’s important to live each day and not put too much off until tomorrow.”

  He had a point. Everything might be fine today, but things could change overnight. Like they had with Mom—and Brett.

  “I’ll give it some serious consideration.”

  “You do that. And tell that granddaughter of mine to watch for a surprise in a couple of weeks.”

  More gifts he couldn’t afford.

  “You don’t have to do that. We know you love us.”

  “Never hurts to demonstrate that once in a while in a concrete way. It’s a grandfather’s duty to spoil his grandchildren. Listen . . . if gas money is the issue about coming out, I can always—”

  “No.” The refusal came out more terse than she intended, and she softened her tone. “Thank you, but I’m not taking your money.”

  An annoyed grunt came over the line. “Are you ever going to outgrow that stubbornness?”

  “Did you ever outgrow yours?”

  “Point taken. I’ll call again Friday night—unless you have a date.”

  “Dad . . .”

  “I’ll assume that’s a no. Take care, sweetie. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  As Claire put the phone down, Haley rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin in her palm, her expression hopeful. “So do you think we can go visit Cap this summer?”

  If she sealed the driveway and repaired the gutter herself, and if she bought the bedroom paint on sale—maybe.

  “I hope so. We’ll talk about it again in a few weeks, when school is winding down. In the meantime, focus on your homework. What do you want to work on first?”

  Haley withdrew a notebook from her backpack and flipped it open. “The paper I have to write for English.”

  “What’s the topic?”

  “It’s supposed to be about a person you like a lot. I think I’ll write about Dr. Chandler.” Pencil poised over the lined sheet of paper, Haley tipped her head. “Do you think she’ll ever find her son?”

  Not based on what their neighbor had told her the night she’d broken down in this very kitchen.

  No sense making Haley sad, however.

  “That’s hard to say. Tracking down children who’ve been adopted can be very difficult.” She dipped the chicken in milk, then in bread crumbs, and placed the pieces in a baking pan.

  “I bet Mr. McMillan could have found him. Are you sure Dr. Chandler wouldn’t want him to try and help?”

  “I’m sure.” Claire opened the oven door and slid the chicken in. “But we’ll think of something else nice to do for her birthday.”

  “It won’t be the same.”

  Maybe not.

  But even if she’d agreed to present David McMillan’s offer to Maureen, there wasn’t much chance the man would have succeeded in his quest. Why raise false hopes—and put her neighbor in the position of having to deal with that Keith Watson, who’d seemed annoyed by the whole affair?

  It was better to let the matter rest.

  And she had a feeling David McMillan’s assistant would agree.

  3

  Maureen Chandler had cancer.

  As the professor rose from behind her desk to greet him, David paused in the doorway, trying to mask his shock. This was definitely the woman he’d googled, even if her wavy, shoulder-length russet hair had been replaced by the kind of ultra-short spikes that spoke of chemotherapy treatments in the not-too-distant past.

  “You must be David McMillan.” She held out her hand.

  He managed to get his feet moving and crossed to the desk. “Yes. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Despite her slender build, her grip was firm. And that killer smile—it lit up the large, startlingly green eyes that matched the hue of her silky blouse.

  “I must admit your phone call intrigued me.” She extracted her hand from his with a gentle tug and gestured to the chair across from her desk. “How can I help you?”

  He waited until she sat before taking his own seat. “First, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I hope I’m not disrupting your schedule too much.”

  Once again, she gave him that megawatt smile—making him wish he’d ducked into the men’s room at the office and dispensed with his five o’clock shadow.

  “My schedule, such as it is, tends to be in a state of constant disruption. Students have a habit of dropping in unannounced, and I learned long ago to give their crises priority over my calendar. As a result, I’m always behind. That used to bother me, but if nothing else, my bout with cancer taught me not to sweat the small stuff. Although I do have to admit I miss my hair.” An appealing dimple appeared in her cheek.

  Amazing that the lady could joke about what surely had been a traumatic experience.

  “So . . . what brings you to Manchester Christian today? I googled your company, and it’s rare for me to be visited by anyone interested in buildings that date past 1400 AD.”

  At her prompt, he finally managed to transfer his gaze from her dimple to her eyes. They looked amused.

  He cleared his throat. “That doesn’t surprise me, since your specialty is sacred art during the latter part of the Middle Ages.” Her eyebrows rose, and he hitched up one side of his mouth. “I did some googling too.”

  Rocking back in her chair, she rested her hands on the arms and crossed her legs as she waited for him to continue.

  He had a feeling she had great legs.

  Too bad they were hidden by her desk.

  On the other hand, he didn’t need any more distractions. He was here for one reason and one reason only—though having the chance to chat with a lovely woman was a definite bonus.

  Gesturing toward the door behind him, he stood. “May I shut that? The matter I have to discuss is confidential.”

  Her expression went from curious to surprised, but she nodded.

  After taking care of the door, he brought her up to speed on Haley’s letter, using his trademark cut-the-small-talk-and-get-to-the-point briefing style.

  By the time he finished, distress etched her features and her posture had stiffened. “I had no idea Haley overheard the conversation I had with her mother.”

  “That’s what Ms. Summers told my assistant. She said it was a private matter and asked us not to intervene.”

  “She’s right.” The professor linked her fingers into a tight knot. “Yet here you are.”

  “I have an ulterior motive.”

  She cocked her head. “I’m listening.”

  David studied her. This idea had been a gamble from the get-go, starting with his phone call to set up today’s appointment. He was still gambling, still winging the whole thing, letting his instincts guide him. So far, that was working out. The professor was as cordial in person as she’d been on the phone, and his gut was telling him to proceed with his proposition.

  On the other hand, he hadn’t expected to feel this unsettling adolescent zing in her presence. He was
sixty-four years old, for crying out loud. Shouldn’t he be past all that stuff?

  Apparently not—because when she leaned forward again, closing the distance between them to fold her hands on her desk and reveal a bare ring finger, another jolt of electricity zipped through him . . . followed by a rush of warmth.

  Keep breathing, David. Do not run your finger under your collar.

  “Let me back up a bit, if that’s okay.” Despite the high-voltage effect of her nearness—which seemed to be short-circuiting his brain cells . . . and perhaps his instincts—he tried to stay focused.

  “Start wherever you like.”

  “Two years ago, I lost my wife to a brain aneurysm.”

  Shock flattened her features. “I’m so sorry.”

  He hadn’t meant to begin with that piece of personal information—and he had no idea why he had.

  However, now wasn’t the time to analyze his motives.

  “Thank you. There are days it’s still hard for me to believe she’s gone. But the whole experience was a huge wake-up call. During all the years of our marriage, I was a workaholic. Carol knew my background, understood what drove me, and she put up with it, God bless her.”

  He could read the question in her eyes, but he pushed on. No need to provide the sordid details of his past.

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t love my family. I did—and I tried to demonstrate that by providing them with every possible material comfort. I achieved that goal . . . but along the way I missed a lot of the important moments in their lives, shortchanging both them and myself. Only in hindsight did I recognize a simple but profound truth—the things that matter most aren’t things at all. Which brings me to my ulterior motive.”

  Maureen Chandler’s demeanor had warmed while he spoke, and her shoulders were less taut.

  All encouraging signs.

  “My executive assistant, Keith Watson, reminds me of myself at his age. He’s a go-getter who eats, breathes, and sleeps his job. I can’t speak to his motivations, because he hasn’t shared a great deal about his background, but I’d like to help him find some balance in life sooner than I did. To understand that worldly success and money in the bank don’t take the place of loving relationships and memories in the heart.”