Mending Her Heart

“How did you and my grandmother meet?”

“Through my cousin, who reroofed the house a year ago. She called him when she was looking for help with the renovating and he suggested me. I went uptown for supplies. I’m on my way to Hope House to work right now,” Will said. “Do you want to come back with me?”

“I’d like that. I’ll be right back.” She could feel Will and Emma watching her as she left the kitchen. It was as if they were worried about her. Especially Will.

That was puzzling. She’d just met the man and knew very little about him other than he was a very handsome man. And, of course, Abigail had liked him. She hoped Gram was right to put her faith in him.

She returned wearing the same jeans and T-shirt with a powder-blue sweatshirt. She’d pulled her long tumble of hair into a knot at the base of her neck. On her feet was a pair of her favorite flip-flops.

It occurred to her that for the first time in months she felt free.

No power suit and low-heeled pumps today. No arm-taxing briefcase full of legal papers, no court dates, no judges or bailiffs and no guards at courthouse security. And no way to mess up someone’s life. She was free. Even the tragedy of the moment couldn’t erase the relief she felt.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she said, “Sorry I’m so casual today.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re a beautiful woman, Catherine. Most ladies would give anything to look like you.” Then, to her delight, he blushed.

Catherine kept her eye on him as they said good bye to Emma and crawled into his pickup truck. He was extremely appealing, with that day-old growth of stubble on his cheeks. His dark hair was thick and rumpled and his eyebrows dark and straight over his remarkable eyes. He was tall and leanly muscled, dark-eyed and exuded an aura of strength—both physical and mental. No wonder her grandmother had been so cavalier when Catherine had asked about work around the house. Will had been her secret weapon against quickly growing grass and wood decay.

The thoughts of her grandmother brought tears to her eyes again. Abigail had been her entire family. Her absent aunt and uncle hardly counted. It was all gone now—Gram, her job, her condo…. Only Hope House remained to be dealt with.

This was a fresh start, something she’d been wanting for a long time. She was eager to take on a new opportunity but not when she was feeling guilty about it. About selling Hope House.

Pleasant was just what its name implied. As they drove down Main Street, Catherine watched the picturesque storefronts go by. The Nook, part gift shop and part quilt shop, had a colorful banner flying from the eaves that announced a sale. Across the street was an antiques store called Becky’s Attic, which was owned by a high-school friend of Catherine. Because it was near lake country, Pleasant had a steady flow of visitors all summer long that supported the shops and during long winters for ice fishing and sledding. A feeling of stillness washed over her as she viewed the unchanging storefronts and recalled shopkeepers who had been behind their counters since she was a child.

She also had a growing awareness of the man beside her. His physical presence was compelling.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“There are a lot of memories for me here,” she said softly as she shifted more closely to the truck door. Her attraction to him was disconcerting.

“Good ones, I hope.”

“Very.” She studied his profile as he drove. There was gentleness about his features that surprised her. She liked it. Maybe she was too accustomed to hard-edged attorneys. Even if her coworkers had had soft sides, they tried never to let them show.

“You’re lucky—about the good memories, I mean. I would have given anything to have grown up in a place like this.” He said it so emphatically that she stared at him quizzically.

“This is a perfect place for a child,” he explained. “He can have freedom to roam and yet enough people watching out for him that he can’t get into much trouble. You know that stuff about it taking a village to raise a kid? This is that kind of place.”

“A kid like you were?”

“Me? No. I was a little wildcat according to everyone who knew me. It would have taken an entire metropolis to do much with me. I was thinking about my nephew, Charley.” He smiled slightly. “You met him yesterday.”

“Ah, yes, the one who threw a dump truck on top of me.”

“Charley lives with me now, although my brother and sister-in-law would like to change that. His mom, my sister, Annie, had cirrhosis. She died about five months ago.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He looked pained. “It was difficult to watch someone throw her life away, but my sister couldn’t quit drinking.” He strained to get the words out, as if he didn’t want to talk about this but couldn’t help himself. “Charley had a tough life growing up with an alcoholic mom. My sister loved him, but she couldn’t keep her act together, even for him.”

They pulled into the driveway of Hope House before she could respond. Today she looked—really looked—at the yard and gardens. The lawns were lush green carpets, so soft-looking she yearned to walk over them barefoot. Not a leaf or a twig marred the expanse. The variegated hostas had tripled in size since her last visit and the beds of moss roses were bright and colorful as bags of jelly beans. What had this man put the plants and grass on? Steroids?

“The yard is spectacular. You’ve done an amazing job with the whole place.” The old porch swing she’d loved as a child had been restored and was piled high with yellow, blue and white floral pillows. Even the white wicker furniture, which had been hidden away in the storage shed, was now inviting instead of decrepit. “It’s as if you gave the whole place a facelift. I could really enjoy this spot if…” She paused.

“If your grandmother were here to enjoy it with you?” he asked perceptively.

“Yes.”

“If it’s any comfort to you, your grandmother is here. She walked me through every decision and every repair she wanted me to make. This place is Abigail.”

That wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear.

But the house wasn’t all she had of Gram, Catherine reminded herself. Abigail was still alive in her heart after all, and wasn’t that where it counted most? Surely she didn’t have to own Hope House to keep Gram’s memory alive.

Chapter Four

On the way past the mailbox, Will plucked the daily paper out of the cubby designated for the news. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring and opened the front door with a familiar hand. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was the owner of this house.

But inside, the house fairly crackled with her grandmother’s personality. It felt even more so today without all the people milling about.

Abigail Stanhope was colorful and her taste eclectic. There were original oils by American artists hung next to Catherine’s handprint from first grade and a collage of leaves she’d collected for a science class. Abigail had made sure their frames were every bit as elaborate and prominently displayed as the other paintings.

Tearing up, Catherine turned quickly away only to run face-first into Will’s warm, broad chest. He smelled like fresh air and wood shavings, a surprisingly pleasant combination. His compelling brown eyes flecked with gold were kind, compassionate and questioning.

“I’m so sorry.” She backed away from him, the stranger who, for some reason, didn’t feel like a stranger at all. “Thank you for bringing me home….” Even though it didn’t feel much like home without Gram present.

At that moment the front door opened and Charley raced in. “I saw you from Mikey’s house. His mom said I could come over as long as you were here.” He slipped his hand into Will’s. “Is it okay, Uncle Will?”

The expression of unadulterated love on Will’s face made Catherine’s own heart race. This, she thought, was how a child needed to be loved.

“Sure, kiddo, but you have to find a way to entertain yourself while I show Ms. Stanhope what Abigail and I have been up to.”

Will saw to it that Charley was ensconced with the box of toys Abigail kept there for him, then he beckoned her toward the stairs. “We started up here.”

She followed him up the long curving arc of the stairs, curious to see what her grandmother had hatched with this guy. A little paint, probably, and some new light fixtures. It was unrealistic to hope he’d repaired the claw-footed cast-iron tub in the hallway bath. The porcelain had been chipped ever since she was a child…and those awful, sticking windows…

When she got to the top of the stairs, Catherine stopped dead in her tracks. Jaw gaping, she stared at the chaotic mess before her.

Two-by-fours lined one side of a hall partially blocked by a table saw. There was a black, gaping hole in the plaster at chest height, and that old monster of a claw-footed tub was sitting upside down in the hall like an upended turtle.

“Watch your step. It’s a little crowded in here right now. As soon as the tub restorers come to pick it up, we’ll be able to maneuver better. I needed it out so I could tear up the bathroom floor.”

She glanced, horrified, at the gaping hole in the hallway wall. “Tear it up? Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

“You have to make things worse to make them better,” he said cheerfully. “The wood is soft around the tub from a leak. I’m replumbing, too. Those pipes are showing their age. Remodeling and restoration are always a mess, but when the results are good, it’s worth it. Sometimes life works out that way, too, you know. You think you’re in a real mess and it turns out to be the best thing for you.”

“If that’s the case, ‘better’ should be right around the corner for me,” Catherine muttered. She couldn’t imagine things getting much worse. She pointed at the maw in the wall. “What on earth have you done there?”

He looked insulted that she’d had to ask. “I’m putting the dumbwaiter back where it belongs.”

“What dumbwaiter?”

“The one that was in the house originally and was likely removed before you were born. The pulleys are still in the wall. I’ve got the architects’ original blueprints and I’m restoring things to their previous condition.”

Catherine looked around, stunned. “This will take forever to put back together!”

“Abigail gave me as much time as I needed to finish this. I figure a couple years, at least. That’s how long the lease runs on the guesthouse, too. We planned it that way.”

Catherine sat down on an overturned bucket. A splash of cold reality hit her. What had Gram been thinking, committing to him and to this project for that long? She hadn’t been thinking about dying, that was for sure.

But things had changed radically. Catherine didn’t want to be the bad guy, that was the very thing she’d thought she’d left behind with her career as an attorney. But she didn’t need this monster of a house once she decided how to move on with her life. Unfortunately, if she decided not to keep the house, it meant that she would have to fire Will Tanner and break the lease on the guesthouse.

But for now it was a moot question. This place couldn’t be sold now anyway, not in this condition. Any potential buyer would run screaming in the other direction the way the house’s second floor looked. She gazed at the wreckage. Will needed to put this house back together ASAP. It had to be done before she could move on with her life. That meant the sooner the better.

Obviously Catherine and Abigail hadn’t discussed the house much at all, Will thought. And from the look of it, the house was much more Abigail’s passion than her granddaughter’s. Still, Catherine looked as if she’d been slapped with a paintbrush when she’d seen the hall. And she’d never even heard about the dumbwaiter. Maybe that was a conversation Abigail had saved for him. They’d certainly spent enough hours talking about the house and their other favorite topics—God, faith and salvation.

Abigail had been the one to introduce him to Christ. She’d said He was her best friend and would be his, too. Will was in need of a friend right then, with his sister dying, Charley wandering around like a lost waif and his own brother and sister-in-law questioning his ability to raise the boy.

Faith was what had ultimately gotten him through Annie’s passing. Better yet, before she died, Annie had accepted Christ as her Savior, as well. The peace of knowing that was enormous for Will. It hadn’t been easy, her dying, but at least he knew they’d meet again. And she’d be free of the addiction that had haunted her.

Until he’d met Abigail, he’d known little about Christianity except what he’d read on signs outside of churches. Now it was alive to him and it had breathed new life into his soul. He couldn’t believe the blessing sometimes. Will felt humbled and grateful every day for his heavenly inheritance—and for Abigail, who’d pointed him in the right direction.

Then he glanced at Catherine. She was looking small and vulnerable in the wide, high-ceilinged hall. From the moment he’d met her he’d felt a little off-kilter.

She certainly wasn’t Abigail. She was considerably more reserved, almost cool, and didn’t seem nearly as impressed as he’d hoped with the work they’d done. Some sort of affirmation would be nice—or was it reassurance he wanted? Now that Charley had come to live with him, he was determined to provide the child with the home he’d been missing. Will wanted nothing more than to put down roots for a few years in the guesthouse. This sad but beautiful woman held the reins now. Could he trust her to do the right thing? He didn’t want to believe she’d stand in his way or suggest he leave the guest cottage… Surely not!

“I also tore out part of the wall in this bedroom,” he said, more to fill the silence than anything.

Catherine poked her nose into the wrecked and dusty space. “Why on earth would you tear out the wall of my bedroom?” The furniture was covered with tarps.

“Originally this was the master bedroom.” Will stepped into the room and began gesticulating with his hands. “Back in those days, however, the master suite was often made up of two adjoining rooms with a door or even a dressing room between them. The larger of the two rooms was where the woman of the house slept and her husband slept next door in the smaller room.”

“No kidding? I didn’t know that.”

“We checked some diaries Abigail found and we think that was the arrangement Obadiah and his wife had. Abigail wants…wanted…me to put the door back in so it is like the suite it was.”

He scowled a little, which did nothing to harm his looks. “I don’t know why people thought that was such a good idea. What’s the use of being married if you live in separate spaces? That’s an idea I’m glad we improved on.”

Catherine left Will and hurried downstairs to gather her thoughts. The house, the mess, Abigail’s wishes and her own confusion made her head spin. At the bottom of the steps she nearly tripped over a small army of soldiers assembled on the hand-tied silk foyer rug.

“Be careful, lady,” a small voice piped. “You’re knocking down the rebel army!”

She avoided as many of the rebels as she could but came down hard on a miniature cannon, twisting her ankle. To catch herself, Catherine reached for the nearest thing available, a free-standing coatrack where one of Gram’s straw hats hung. It and Catherine both teetered for a moment before falling into an ungainly pile right on top of the entire defending militia.

Miniature sabers and rifles poked into Catherine like needles, and as she rolled away to escape them, she managed only to embed herself on the rebel camp. Some of these soldiers were metal instead of plastic, and she felt as if she were rolling around on a bed of prickly jacks, the kind she’d played with as a child. “Ouch!”

“Kaboom!” Charley roared happily. “And a meteorite from Planet Zeus landed on them all, crushing the rebellion and killing a whole bunch of dinosaurs besides. Double kaboom!”

Then a small face with brown eyes, rosy cheeks and a fringe of dark hair appeared over her. “Are you okay, lady? You made a great meteorite.” The cherubic-looking little boy frowned. “But I think you broke the rifles off a bunch of my men.”

Then he brightened. “They need to go to the…the….” He looked quizzically at Catherine.

“The infirmary?” she suggested, struggling to keep a straight face. This was one cute, huggable kid.

“Yeah, that’s it. The in-fur-mary.” He scooped up a handful of the injured and swept them into a basket. Making a passable sound as an ambulance siren, he raced out of the room.

Catherine turned to the sound of pounding footsteps on the stairs and soon it was Will’s concerned face that peered down at her. “Are you hurt?”

“Not so much that I have to go to the in-fur-mary,” she said, struggling to her feet.

Will reached out a hand to help her but turned his head toward the back of the house. “Charley, you get in here and apologize to Ms. Stanhope right now!”

Silence.

“If you don’t, these toy soldiers are going MIA, now,” Will ordered in a passable chief commander’s voice.

A squeak in the floor was the only sound of movement. Catherine got to her feet, wiped off a couple plastic soldiers that had imbedded themselves in the folds of her shirt, and waited.

Charley’s tousled head peeked around the corner of the dining-room door. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes danced despite the inevitable scolding that was about to come.

Catherine fought her urge to smile.

Will seemed to have no such trouble. He was fuming. “Please come over here and apologize. I told you not to set up camp where you’d be in the way.”

“I didn’t think anyone would mind now that Gram isn’t here,” the child said, looking repentant.

Gram? There he was again, referring to Abigail as his grandmother.

Charley scuffed the soles of his battered tennis shoes on the highly polished floor. “I’m sorry, lady. I didn’t mean to trip you. I’ll pick ’em up and take them outside.”

Will put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Charley, did you know that Ms. Stanhope owns this house now?”

The child’s eyes grew wide. “Gram gave it to you? You’re lucky…”

Catherine expected him to add “so now you much be rich” or some other childish leap of logic.

Instead he added, “…because you’re Gram’s real granddaughter. You’re not like me. I’m just her pretend grandson.” Longing filled his eyes.

Her heart melted in her chest at the child’s earnest statement. “Thank’s for reminding me of that. I had Abigail as my gram for a long time.” She reached out to touch the boy’s silken hair. “You’re a very sweet boy, Charley. Thank you.”

Will cleared his throat. “Charley, get this mess out of sight, will you? You can set up in the kitchen.” As Charley busied himself on the floor, Will took Catherine’s arm and led her into the sunroom off the main living room.

“Are you okay? Any puncture wounds from your battle with the soldiers?”

When she shook her head, he continued. “You’ll have to excuse Charley. He and Abigail really clicked when he came to live with me. He asked her if he could call her ‘Grandma,’ but she told him her favorite grandchild in the whole world called her ‘Gram’ and that he should, too. He has the same first name as her husband and she liked that. I hope you don’t mind.”

Mind? How could she mind an orphaned child, a child like she had been, seeking love?

“Charley came to me so eager for affection and Abigail liked having a child in the house. Frankly, Charley was fascinated with Abigail, and I took advantage of the fact. With his mother gone, Charley hasn’t had many women in his life and he adored her.”

“That’s fine, Will. He’s adorable. In fact he…” She’d almost said “looks a lot like you,” but stopped herself.

She didn’t even want to hint at the fact that Charley’s uncle was pretty adorable himself.

Chapter Five

The next morning the phone rang before Will had had his first cup of coffee. That alone was ominous.

“Hello?” he growled into the phone, hoping to frighten off whoever was calling.

No such luck. His sister-in-law Sheila’s voice came across the line. “How’s Charley?”

“Fine. Just like he was yesterday—and the day be fore.”

Will had to keep reminding himself that Sheila cared about Charley, too, even though she was making life miserable for everyone else. Maybe if she’d had a few kids of her own, she wouldn’t be so dead set on having Charley. But Charley wasn’t a toy for Sheila to play mother over…. Will reeled at that uncharitable thought. Maybe the reason he couldn’t understand Sheila was that she was a woman with a biological clock that seemed to have sputtered to a stop. Patiently he began to explain Charley’s day to Sheila, as she demanded to hear.

Later, Will glanced out the window of the mansion’s upstairs bathroom where he’d spent the past hour tearing out rotted flooring and his jaw dropped. Coming up the sidewalk was Catherine Stanhope. She was dressed in hiking shorts, a white T-shirt and tennis shoes. Catherine carried a lunch bucket and looked like one of the employees he managed on his construction crew—only prettier. Her expression was uneasy but determined, as if she were a round peg planning to insert herself into a square hole.

He suppressed a smile. That look of determination was one he’d seen on Abigail’s face quite regularly in the past weeks, ever since she’d made her final decisions as to what she would do with the house. Nothing and no one could get in her way when she wore that expression, and Will had a hunch that Abigail’s granddaughter was cut out of the same cloth. He hoped that he and Catherine would agree on the plans for the house. He didn’t care to butt heads with another force of nature like Abigail.

He was weary of women who didn’t understand his perspective—like his sister-in-law. Before Sheila had hung up this morning she had again harangued him about the fact that Charley was living with him instead of her and his brother, Matt, just as she had ever since Annie’s death.

To hear Sheila tell it, Will was utterly inept and ill suited to raise Charley. Sheila demanded custody of the boy, saying it was a travesty that the child didn’t have two proper parents—like her and her husband. Will didn’t consider Sheila a suitable parent. She was more like an absentee landlord.

They called him restless and a wanderer, which might have been true a few years ago, but now he was willing to be as rooted as a giant oak to keep his nephew with him.

Catherine, a big-time attorney, had practically landed on their doorstep, he thought. Maybe she could help him keep Charley. It had, at least, given him a sliver of hope.

Dream on. It’s never going to happen. She doesn’t have to bother with the likes of us. His fantasy was just that, a pipe dream. He redoubled his efforts on the floor.

Wood splinters flew as he worked and the squeal of nails releasing from old flooring filled his ears. It felt good to use his body rather than his mind. One of the things that he had found as a new Christian was the struggle to turn his concerns over to God and to leave them there.

“Trust Him, Will,” he could still hear Abigail say. “If you don’t trust Him, do you really believe in Him? Each time you experience a prayer answered, you’ll see His faithfulness and your trust will grow. Mark my words.”

Warm with exertion, Will wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his denim work shirt. He hadn’t needed to work out since he’d come to Abigail’s. She kept him so busy lifting, toting and digging that half the time he felt like begging for mercy.

He tested another board with the toe of his foot and grimaced. Another soft spot. That made it certain that the entire floor would have to go. He took a crowbar, wedged the flattened end beneath the end of the board and pried it loose. The visitor he’d spied out the window was forgotten for the moment.