One Perfect Spring Page 6

  This guy’s lips didn’t budge.

  Curious.

  And what was with those stiff shoulders?

  “Nice to meet you, Haley.” Then he shifted his attention to her. “Claire Summers, I presume?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “I’m Keith Watson.” He extended his hand. “David McMillan asked me to introduce myself if I got the chance while I was visiting Dr. Chandler.”

  Keith Watson—McMillan’s executive assistant?

  The guy with the attitude?

  She gave him another once-over. Yeah, it fit. Preppy clothes, sporty car, expensive shoes, take-charge attitude.

  Her assessment of him morphed from hot to hotshot in a heartbeat.

  But ignoring his hand would be rude.

  She gave it a quick squeeze and retracted her fingers.

  Haley bounded down the two steps from the kitchen door and joined them, her eyes sparkling. “Are you going to help us with Dr. Chandler’s birthday present?”

  “We’ve made the offer. Now it’s up to her. She and I met this morning to discuss it.”

  Since when had Maureen decided to move forward with this whole thing?

  Apparently God had given her the guidance she’d been seeking sometime since Thursday night.

  “This is so awesome!” Haley did a little happy dance and clapped her hands. “Mom said a big company wouldn’t help just one person, but I prayed and prayed—even harder than when I wanted a new bike last year. And this time God listened!”

  “He always listens, honey.” Claire repeated the same words Maureen had said to her two nights ago, wishing she had as much confidence in them as her neighbor did.

  “Yes, but sometimes I think he’s too busy with other stuff to answer.”

  Before Claire could respond, the phone trilled from inside the house and she gave Haley a gentle push toward the door. “That might be Cap.”

  “Okay.” She called over her shoulder to Keith as she trotted toward the door, “Will you be back?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I hope so.” With that, her daughter disappeared inside.

  “I guess I’ll be on my way.” Keith inclined his head toward the tub of sealer. “Good luck with this.”

  “Thanks.”

  He flicked another glance at her bare left hand, so fast she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been focused on those brown eyes.

  “Look . . . isn’t there someone who could help you with this? Even tipping a container that heavy can be tricky.”

  “No. There isn’t.” She lifted her chin a fraction. “And now I’m sure you have better things to do with your Saturday than talk about sealing a driveway.”

  A hint of pink colored his cheeks at her dismissive tone, and for a moment she was tempted to apologize . . . until anger sparked in his eyes and he gave a haughty nod.

  “As a matter of fact, I do—and reviewing balance sheets will be far more pleasant.”

  He turned on his heel, stalked to his car, slammed the door behind him, and accelerated down the street without a backward look.

  Well.

  That had gone really well.

  Claire shoved back a wisp of hair that had escaped from her haphazard ponytail and scowled after him.

  What was it with that guy, anyway? Was it so hard to be civil?

  Wait a minute—isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle black?

  At the reprimand from her conscience, Claire huffed out a breath. Okay, fine, she hadn’t been Miss Congeniality, either. But she had her reasons. That guy might not have looked like Brett, but he was her ex-husband’s clone in other ways—same arrogant, superior attitude; same fancy clothes and car; same ambitious leanings; same focus on business and balance sheets. And he might be the same in a lot of less pleasant ways too.

  What was his excuse for being rude?

  Maybe he has one too.

  Maybe.

  No matter. There wasn’t much chance they’d be seeing a whole lot of each other, even if Maureen decided to continue with her quest.

  As she began prying the lid off the drum of sealer, her daughter reappeared in the doorway. “Is that man gone?”

  “Yes. Who was on the phone?”

  “Somebody doing a survey. Is he coming back?”

  “I don’t think so.” She lifted the lid and eyed the tarry gunk inside.

  “We might see him again if Dr. Chandler decides to let him help her, though.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “He was nice.”

  Nice? Claire retrieved the squeegee and set it on the asphalt beside her. What had her daughter seen that she’d missed? “How do you figure?”

  “He helped you carry that stuff, didn’t he?”

  “That was a polite thing to do—but nice is different. He never even smiled.”

  “You don’t smile much, either, and you’re nice. Nice is different than happy, I guess.”

  At her daughter’s matter-of-fact comment, Claire froze. She smiled a lot—didn’t she?

  Maybe not.

  The worry and stress that came with single-handedly trying to keep her and Haley’s lives on an even keel had robbed a lot of the joy from her days. Nor did her residual bitterness help—though until today she thought she’d dealt with most of the garbage from her past.

  Given her reaction to Keith Watson, however, she might have to reexamine that conclusion.

  “After I finish my homework, may I watch the DVD we got at the library?”

  At the query, she refocused on her daughter. “Yes. I’ll be out here awhile.”

  “Do you want me to help?”

  “No, that’s okay. No sense both of us getting dirty.”

  The door closed.

  Bracing herself, Claire gripped the edge of the tub and tipped it forward. Sealer flowed out, splashing on the driveway and spattering her shoes and the legs of her jeans. She’d expected that. But she didn’t expect the gunk to slosh backward when she lowered the tub to the asphalt too quickly. It rolled over the edge, coating not only her fingers but one of her shoes.

  Meanwhile, rivulets of the stuff began flowing down the driveway.

  She snatched up the squeegee to corral the liquid. Pull, don’t push, according to the directions that came with the sealer. Establish a rhythm. Let gravity work in your favor.

  It had all sounded so simple.

  But as her shoulders began to ache, as more and more sealer found its way onto her clothes and into her cuticles, as the promised rhythm proved elusive, she resigned herself to the reality.

  This job was a lot harder than she’d expected—just as Keith Watson had predicted.

  She’d get through it, though. Claire Summers wasn’t a quitter. She knew how to roll with the punches, to plow ahead when things got tough, to take responsibility for her own life and trust no one but herself.

  Brett had taught her that.

  And it was a lesson she didn’t intend to forget.

  5

  Keith wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his T-shirt, jockeyed the lawn mower into its place in the garage, and joined his mother in the kitchen.

  She turned from the stove as he entered. “All done?”

  “Yes. I can’t believe the zoysia is green and growing already.”

  “Me, either, given the cold winter.” She took the lid off a pot, releasing an aroma that jump-started his salivary glands.

  “Is that pot roast?” He crossed the room and leaned over her shoulder.

  “Your favorite.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

  “It’s never trouble to do things for people you love.” She replaced the lid, wiped her hands on her apron, and rose on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Why don’t you clean up and we’ll have a catch-up session on the patio. I missed you last Sunday.”

  “Trust me, I’d rather have been here than in Cedar Rapids. A fast-food burger can’t hold a candle to yo
ur cooking.”

  “So it was my food you missed, not me.”

  “You know better.” He gave her a hug. “You’re my favorite lady.”

  “I’m flattered—but I’m willing to cede that title to the right woman when she comes along. Any rivals on the horizon?”

  For some reason, an image of Maureen Chandler’s prickly neighbor flashed through his mind.

  Weird.

  “Trust me—your position is secure.”

  “Must be because you’re not trying very hard to replace me.”

  “No time. Work keeps me too busy.”

  “Hmph. That’s a convenient excuse, at any rate. Well, go freshen up. I’ll meet you on the patio.”

  More than happy to end a conversation his mother had been initiating with increasing frequency, Keith hustled down the hall. It wasn’t as if he’d written off marriage. But the professional women he met at business gatherings were as career oriented as he was and had no time to devote to developing a relationship, either. As for the women he met during his occasional happy hour forays—good for a few laughs, but not white-picket-fence material.

  In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and sudsed his hands, his mother’s final comment replaying in his mind.

  Was he using his busy career as an excuse to shy away from commitment?

  It was possible.

  Dealing with numbers was a lot more cut-and-dried than dealing with people.

  Twisting off the faucet with more force than necessary, Keith studied the reflection in the mirror. A successful, fast-track businessman who had his act together stared back.

  What a sham.

  Peel away the façade, and that illusion would evaporate, leaving a driven man who’d been plagued as far back as he could remember with the need to prove himself—and his worth. A man who never felt quite good enough or secure enough or confident enough.

  All because his birth mother hadn’t wanted him.

  How sad was that, after all these years?

  Keith dried his hands, scrubbed the nubby towel over his damp face. There was no reason for his lingering feelings of inadequacy, for his fears of abandonment, for doling out trust in miserly increments. His adoptive parents had been wonderful—loving him unconditionally, sacrificing to give him the best possible education, putting him at the top of their priority list.

  How many times had Dad come home after a long day at work and patiently walked him through his math homework or cheered from the stands at his basketball games? How many times had Mom shuttled him to extracurricular activities and sat with him after school, listening to the events of his day as he ate homemade cookies?

  Carl and Alice Watson couldn’t have done more for him.

  Yet neither their loving care nor the counseling sessions they’d taken him to had been able to compensate for his first three traumatic years.

  But he’d learned to suppress those memories, to relegate them to such a dark, remote corner of his mind that they rarely escaped to the light.

  Tossing the towel over the bar, he frowned. So why was he thinking about that whole can of worms now?

  Maureen Chandler.

  As the woman’s name flashed through his mind, giving him his answer, his mouth flattened into a hard line.

  Dealing with her was dredging up all the old garbage.

  One more reason to resent the assignment David had yoked him with for reasons known only to his boss.

  Today, however, was not the time to hash all that out. Sunday afternoons were reserved for his mom.

  She was waiting on the patio, as promised, the sun silvering her hair. At seventy-one, she was active and healthy, and there was no reason to think she wouldn’t be around for many more years.

  Yet he’d thought the same thing about his father until a stroke had taken him at seventy-three, just two years ago.

  He needed to do his best not to miss any more Sunday visits, despite the demands of his work.

  “Doesn’t the lawn look pretty after it’s been cut?” His mother took a sip of her iced tea. “But I’d be happy to pay someone to do it so you wouldn’t have to bother.”

  “I don’t mind.” Keith dropped into a chair beside her and picked up the glass of tea she’d set at his place. “It gives me an excuse to visit.”

  “You don’t need an excuse. You might live in a fancy condo now, but this will always be your home—until you create one of your own. So how was your week?”

  “Busy.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. Anything out of the ordinary happen?”

  He swirled the ice in his glass. In the distance, a cardinal trilled. A dog barked. The voices of children at play drifted through the quiet air.

  All the comforting sounds of his childhood.

  The snarl of tension in his shoulders relaxed.

  “David gave me a rather unusual assignment.”

  The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Why on earth had he brought that up, when the last thing he wanted to think about was Maureen Chandler’s quest?

  “Tell me about it.”

  Too late to backtrack now.

  He gave her the condensed version, starting with Haley Summers’s letter.

  “That’s a little out of left field for you.” His mother sent him a keen look, the one she always wore while working a crossword or Sudoku puzzle—or trying to figure out what her son was up to.

  “Very.”

  “So what’s behind it?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  Trying to ignore the tension creeping back into his shoulders, he gave what he hoped came across as a nonchalant shrug. “David’s the boss. He gives the orders. But it seems like a waste of time to me—and not the best use of company resources.”

  “I meant, how do you feel about it on a personal level?” She laid her hand over his, concern sculpting a few more lines into her face.

  “It’s not my favorite assignment.” If he was lucky, she’d leave it at that.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  So much for luck.

  He braced. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Do you know anything about the Missouri Social Services Adoption Information Registry?”

  He blinked.

  Where had that come from?

  “No.”

  “It’s a place where adult adoptees and biological parents can register if they’d like to make contact with each other. It’s especially helpful in cases where the court adoption records are sealed.”

  “Why would I be interested in that?”

  She traced the circle of condensation left on the table by her iced tea glass. “Your father and I often talked about whether it might be helpful for you to learn more about the circumstances of your birth. The early years of a child’s life are so critical . . . we thought meeting your mother might offer some closure.”

  “You’re my mother.”

  “Thank you for that.” She patted his hand. “And you’re as dear to me as any child your father and I might have conceived together. But we’re all shaped by our backgrounds, and Carl and I always knew there were gaps we couldn’t fill and hurts we couldn’t heal, hard as we tried. I’m sorry for that.”

  Keith’s throat tightened. All these years, and they’d never said a word about the burden of worry they bore or their own sense of inadequacy.

  “Mom . . .” He took her hand. “You and Dad gave me more than I could ever deserve.”

  “But that’s just it.” She leaned toward him, earnest and intent. “You’ve always deserved more than you’ve allowed yourself to believe. That’s what we couldn’t overcome. And it’s why we thought if you connected with your birth mother, learned the reasons she did what she did, you might be able to move past that. We tried to broach the subject after you became an adult, but you brushed us off.”

  If that conversation had occurred, he’d blocked it from memory. Why would he want to meet the woman who ha
dn’t loved him enough to want to raise him, no matter the challenges she might face?

  When the silence lengthened, his mother spoke again. “Have you met this woman your boss agreed to help?”

  “Yes. Yesterday.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “She’s pleasant. Very successful in her career. Not married.”

  “Why is she pursuing this so long after the fact?”

  “She’s got cancer, and she told David that was a wake-up call. According to him, she claims if she had the decision to make over again, her choice might be different. Of course, that’s easy to say in hindsight.”

  “Or from the perspective of age and experience. Perhaps she’s learned a thing or two. Perhaps your birth mother has too.”

  They were back to that.

  “I hope so, in both cases. But that doesn’t change the past.”

  “Still, the timing of this assignment is odd. I’ve been thinking a lot about grandchildren lately—and all the reasons you work so hard to succeed but avoid serious relationships.”

  “Dr. Watson, psychologist.” He softened the comment with a quick quirk of his lips.

  “Hardly. Just a lot of decades living and learning and observing. You’re old enough to know your own mind and make your own choices, but I wanted to throw the adoption registry idea out in case you decided investigating your own background might be worthwhile. Now let’s go eat pot roast.”

  He followed her in, filling the water glasses and retrieving the butter and condiments by rote, as he’d done all the years the three of them had shared family meals in this homey kitchen.

  His mother didn’t bring up the subject again, chatting instead about the movie she’d seen with friends during the week and the new blankets-for-babies project at her church and her volunteer work at Missouri Botanical Garden.

  But she’d planted an idea he couldn’t pluck out. It followed him back to the sterile condo that possessed none of the charm of his childhood home and functioned more as a place to sleep than a place to live.

  Nevertheless, he had no intention of following up on her suggestion. He didn’t need to locate his birth mother to find closure on his early years. He just needed to get over them, forget about the past, refuse to let events from three decades ago have one iota of impact on his self-image or his life or the decisions he made now.