Soldier, Handyman, Family Man

She quietly inhaled, then took another sip of lemonade. “Yeah. It’s been rough.”

That was something he could relate to, the rough part. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing, sympathy or empathy or whatever it was called, but he honestly felt bad for her. She had a lot going on, and a big project like opening a B&B all alone was probably as stressful as it got for a person. There went that nudging sensation again. “If you need any help, I’m around.” What happened to being too busy?

“Thank you.” She looked sincere and grateful. “I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.”

Good. A decisive and wise woman. But, out of character, he’d just opened a door he wasn’t sure that (a) he had time for or (b) he wanted to go through. Yet. She might be single, but she had a family, for crying out loud.

Her appreciative eyes suddenly widened. She frantically looked at her wrist. “Oh, no! It’s time to pick up the girls.” She grabbed her purse and rushed for the door. “It’s their first day at school. Kindergarten! I can’t be late.”

He followed, then noticed she had to work extra hard to get the front door locked. “I’ll come back later and have a look at that lock, if you want.”

She flashed another earnest gaze, this one accompanied with a pretty smile, which caught him off guard. “That’d be great!”

Then off she ran for her white minivan, where identical car seats were installed in the back—such a total mom.

Man, he must be completely out of his antisocial mind, because somehow, he found the whole entrepreneur—and multitasking-mother bit—sexy as hell. And that was way off course for his current game plan—keeping a low profile and figuring out where he fit in life...or even if he wanted to.

* * *

Laurel kept to the speed limit, but barely, trying desperately to get the image of Mark Delaney out of her head. Did he have any idea how gorgeous he was? Dark brown hair combed straight back from his forehead and just long enough to curl under his ears, clear blue eyes, a two-day growth of beard with the hint of red in the sideburn whiskers. His black T-shirt stretched across a broad chest and shoulders, with a peekaboo tear along his sleek abs, and arms that qualified for a construction worker calendar. His faded black jeans had matching tears at the knees from hard work, not superficial fashion, and fit his slim hips and long legs like he’d been born in them. Damn he was hot! Whether he realized it or not was the question. He certainly didn’t act “all that.” In fact, there was something dark and tender about him that put her at ease. And that ease put her on edge.

Laurel glanced at her face in the rearview mirror, horror soon overtaking her. She’d been looking like that? Her hair in a messy ponytail, not a stitch of makeup. Not even lip gloss. The man probably thought of her as a poor, struggling aunt.

She slammed on the brakes, nearly missing a red light. Woman, get a hold of yourself! You’re thirty-five, obviously older than him, and not to mention the mother of three. It doesn’t matter how you look, he’s not interested. Still, there was much to appreciate about Mark Delaney, and she wasn’t blind—or dead—in that department. Yet. Sometimes she thought she might be, so he was a pleasant surprise, after all she’d been through. She tugged the elastic out of her hair and let it fall to her shoulders.

Pulling into the parking lot, she prayed she hadn’t cut it too close and that her kids wouldn’t be the last ones there. They’d dealt with enough abandonment issues losing their father two years ago, and having to live as if the hospital was their second home for a year before that. Now was their time to get back to living a regular life, and nothing would get in Laurel’s way of giving that to her kids. A quick thought of her fourteen-year-old son, Peter, made her chest pinch, but now wasn’t the time to go there. She had to pick up her girls.

She parked and jogged into the kindergarten classroom. Gracie and Claire were happily playing puzzles with the little girl they’d met on Welcome to Kindergarten night, who wore a cast. Anna was it?

“Can Anna come home with us? Her mom’s late, too.” Claire, the oldest by twelve minutes, and clearly the bossiest, spoke first.

“I don’t think the school lets kids go home with just anyone.” Laurel used her diplomatic-mother voice.

“Stranger danger!” Gracie piped up.

“We’re not strangers,” Claire corrected, as she always did with Gracie. “Remember, we played together before.” She used her middle finger to slide her pink glasses up her tiny nose.

“I pre-member. Do you, Annie?”

“It’s Anna.” Claire the clarifier simply couldn’t help herself. “And re-member.”

During Alan’s long remission from the first bout of leukemia, and nearly a decade since Peter had been born, no one had been more shocked to discover she was pregnant with twins than Laurel. But life had always been crazy that way.

When Alan relapsed with a vengeance when the girls were a year old, everyone had been so distracted that Gracie’s chronic ear problems had gotten way out of hand before Laurel had taken her to the pediatrician. She’d been walking around with fluid in her inner ears, which had affected her hearing. It was like listening to people speak underwater and had slowed her speech, while Claire seemed to have been born chatting, and now speaking for and chronically correcting her twin. Since having tubes inserted, Gracie’s hearing had improved, but she still often got words wrong. Claire never let her forget it, either.

“Oh, there you are, Anna.” A breathless voice with a distinct accent spoke from behind. “Sorry I’m late, sweetness.”

“That’s okay, Mom, these are my friends.”

The woman introduced herself to Laurel as Keela. “Thank you for staying with Anna. I don’t want to be accused of running on Irish time, but we had a walk-in at the clinic and it threw things sideways.”

Delighted by Keela’s Irish accent, Laurel grinned. In the week she’d been in town, she’d already heard about the Delaney Physical Medicine Clinic from one of the women at the local farmers’ market, who’d told her, after chatting and discovering Laurel’s B&B was right across Main Street from The Drumcliffe, about Daniel’s recent marriage to an “Irish girl.” Small town. News traveled fast.

“I just got here myself. Honestly, I don’t think the girls missed us a bit.”

“Probably right.”

“We should set up a playdate some afternoon,” Laurel suggested, keeping in mind Keela worked full-time.

“T’would be grand. Maybe a Saturday would be best.”

Ms. Juanita, the young teacher not much taller than her students, wandered over. “Are we all ready now?” she asked diplomatically, dropping the major hint it was past time to leave. So they did. But not before exchanging phone numbers.

* * *

As promised, later that afternoon after he’d finished painting the trim and had gotten a good start on the arbor, Mark headed back over to Laurel’s B&B with his toolbox in hand. He planned to fix her lock. One of the benefits of being raised around a hotel was learning to be a jack-of-all-trades. Otherwise we’d go bankrupt, as his father used to say when he and his brothers griped about spending their Saturday afternoons working around the hotel. It’d always been extra torture when the surf was up and he’d been itching to hit those waves.

Laurel was in the front yard, and two young girls in matching striped leggings and navy blue tops sat on the porch steps, though one wore glasses. Looking stressed, Laurel faced off with a scrawny kid by the yard gate who was somewhere in the early teen stage and who hadn’t yet grown into his nose. He wore cargo shorts and an oversize, ancient-looking T-shirt with a picture of Bart Simpson on the front. Shaggy dark brown waves in an obvious growing-out stage consumed his ears and partially covered his eyes. He leaned forward, confronting her, his mouth tight and chin jutted out.

Mark thought about turning around, leaving them to their personal business, but their heated interchange, and the fact her hair was down and blowing with the breeze, prodded him to keep going. Maybe she could use some backup.

“Peter, I’ve got too much on my plate right now.”

“I’m sick of having to drag those pests around.” His voice warbled between boy and man, cracking over those pests.

“We’re not pests!” The little one with glasses sounded indignant.

“Not pets!” the thinner of the two incorrectly echoed, garnering a confused glance from her twin.

“I need you to watch the girls while I do some errands. Is that too much to ask?”

“I’m sick of being their babysitter.”

The fair-haired girls looked like twins. Identical twins, but with the help of one wearing glasses and one being slightly smaller, to tell them apart. The glasses girl took it upon herself to move in on the ongoing argument. “Sing with us, Peter. Please?” A future peace activist, no doubt.

“Pleee-sio?” Little Miss Echo being creative?

Without waiting, they started singing “Where Is Thumbkin” using their fingers and acting out the verses, oblivious, while Laurel and Peter continued to square off.

“You know it’ll take me twice as long if I bring them.”

“Don’t care.”

What should he do now? Just walk right up and pretend he didn’t have a clue they were fighting? He slowed down. That seemed lame.

“Okay, I’m not asking, I’m telling you to stay here.”

“I need time by myself!” Peter pounded his fist on his chest while his voice cracked again. “You’re the one who told me to get out and explore the neighborhood! Meet kids my age.”

Ten feet away from the picket fence and gate, Mark stopped. If anyone could understand the need to be by himself, Mark could. Hell, he’d been the king of withdrawal when he’d first come home. The girls continued singing and gesturing—“Where is pointer, where is pointer...?”

“I need your help.” Laurel wouldn’t back down.

“I’m leaving!”

Mark figured it must be damn hard to lose a father when a boy needed him most, but it still bothered him the kid was taking his anger out on his mother. He decided to step in, offer Laurel some support. “Is this a bad time?”

“Oh, Mark.” Laurel looked flustered and frustrated, her cheeks flushed. Those soft hazel-brown eyes from earlier now dark and tense. Edging toward the street side of the gate, Peter stepped backward, gearing up for his escape.

“How are you today, sir?” the twins sang louder.

Mark stepped closer, giving Peter a forced but friendly smile, hoping to keep him from taking off. “I’m Mark. Nice to meet you.”

In response, he received a death glare. It was clear the kid was furious, not just about Mark butting in, or his mother demanding he pull his share of responsibility, but about life in general. About how sucky it must be when a dad dies.

Unaware, the girls kept singing their nursery rhyme. “Run away. Run away.” Their way of coping with stress?

Still glowering, Peter spoke verse three. “Where is tall man?” He added the middle-finger gesture for the sake of his mother and Mark, made sure they both saw it clearly, then took off running, flip-flops flapping, down the street toward the beach.

“Peter!” Laurel yelled, anger flashing in those eyes.

He thought about running after Peter and straightening him out, but stopped the urge. It wasn’t his place.

It took guts, or total desperation, to flip off a complete stranger in front of his mother, he’d give Peter that. He didn’t envy Laurel’s having to deal with that on top of opening the B&B. Guests didn’t go to places like this to hear family arguments. Yet Laurel was a widow with three kids to take care of, and the proprietor of an about-to-open business. After he fixed her lock, he’d steer clear.

Laurel called after Peter again. When Peter didn’t stop or turn around, she dug fingers into her hair, obviously torn about whether to run after him or let him go. The girls had stopped singing, now zeroing in on their mother and gathering close to her. She put a hand on both of them, giving a motherly rub and pat, which immediately eased the tension in their sparrow-sized shoulders. Then she steered them back toward the porch.

Looking downcast, but not defeated, Laurel glanced back at Mark. “Welcome to my world.”

Chapter Two

Ten minutes later, Mark kept to himself as he tested the key that Laurel had given him in the stubborn front door lock. The scene with Peter had been unpleasant to say the least, and he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from butting in and telling the kid what he thought. Really thought—listen, punk, you don’t talk to your mother like that. Ever! But it wasn’t his place, and keeping it real, he’d heard a similar warning—without the punk part—from his father a long time ago. Disrespecting parents must be some teen rite of passage. From the way Laurel had mostly kept her cool, she’d probably been down that road with Peter before.

While he fiddled with the lock, Laurel went about distracting the little ones with a snack and a promise to watch one afternoon kid’s show. He was pretty sure “yay” meant they’d accepted her deal.

A minute later, he’d squirted powdered graphite into the keyhole, moved the key in and out a few times, then retested the sticky mechanism. The lock opened and closed just fine. For good measure, he repeated the process on the bolt lock, since her guests would most likely be using their keys after hours, and Laurel might appreciate their not waking her up to get in.

Before The Drumcliffe had switched to card keys, he and his brothers had become experts with fixing sticky locks. They’d learned the hard way that vegetable oil and WD-40 helped for the short term, but eventually made the problem worse. Then they’d discovered graphite, the non-gummy way to fix a lock.

On his knees with the door open, Mark surreptitiously watched Laurel wander his way, carrying a small plate of cookies. She sat on the nearest rocker in the row along the porch, stretching out her sleek legs, then offering him the plate.

“Do you barter?” she toyed, waiting for him to catch on.

“Work for chocolate chip cookies? You bet.” He took one and popped it whole into his mouth. Holy melting deliciousness, it was good. “Pretty sure I got the better deal, too.” He should’ve waited until he’d finished chewing and swallowing. He probably still had chocolate teeth.

She laughed gently. At least he’d done that for her. Made her smile. And a nice one it was, too, wide, straight and lighting up her eyes.

“You know he’s grieving, right?” she said, growing serious, her eyes seeking his, needing him to understand why her kid had shot off his mouth earlier.

“I figured something was going on. I get the impression a lady like you wouldn’t put up with that behavior otherwise.”

She put her head against the back of the rocker, nibbling on a cookie. “He blames me for everything. Sometimes I think he even blames me for his father getting cancer.”

“From what I recall, being a teenager is hard enough. Losing a parent on top of it, well, that’s got to bite. Hard.”

“He was only twelve when Alan died, but for so many years before that, Alan’s being ill was the focal point of our family. He missed out on a lot of things other kids his age took for granted. And the insecurity of it all, that I know firsthand. Must have been devastating for him, because it nearly killed me.”

Moved by her opening up so easily, Mark sat on his heels, wanting to give back, to make this an interchange somehow, but he was out of practice. “He’s, what, fourteen now?”

She gave a thoughtful nod without looking at him, taking another small bite of cookie. “Who invented adolescent angst, anyway?”

Mark made one quick laugh. “He probably doesn’t know how to move on. Maybe he’s in a rut and needs a nudge or something.” This conversation had edged into familiar personal territory. He could say the same thing about himself—not sure how to move on, feeling in a rut—but for the sake of Laurel he focused on her problem and her son.

“We’ve tried therapy. He went to a teen grief group for a while. Then he stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to force him to go.” She glanced at Mark for understanding. He assented. “I think he’s afraid of his feelings. He’s hurt so much for so long, he can’t imagine going over everything again, examining the pain of losing his dad.” She sighed. “I don’t know.” Now she looked at him, really looked at him, her eyes searching his, waking up some dark and forgotten place. Did she sense his pain? “And you probably never thought you’d get sucked into my family problems when you offered to help fix my locks today, did you?”

He pushed out a smile, just for her, because he figured she could use a friendly face right about now. Sticking to the superficial, rather than let himself feel something, he concentrated on how her hair looked resting on her shoulders. “It’s okay. Every family has issues.”

She lifted her brows, in a prove-it kind of way, but soon exchanged that for a quizzical expression. “I have no idea why I’m telling you my life story.” She leveled him with a stare. “Just strike that part, okay?”

“No worries. You feel like talking, go right ahead.” A long moment followed where they quietly assessed each other, and she must have decided she’d spilled her guts enough for the day. She took another bite of her cookie, which, for some crazy reason, looked sexier than it should. He couldn’t take the intimacy of watching her mouth, or sharing concerns and feelings, especially if she expected him to open up about himself or his family in return. So he deliberately changed the topic. “And if you give me another cookie, I’ll throw in checking all the guest room locks.”

As though relieved, she smiled, pushing the plate toward him. “It’s a deal.”

As he went through the rest of the house, he noticed all six of the guest rooms were on the second floor. Laurel and the kids must have taken up residence on the first floor, in the back part of the house.

Out of the blue he wondered what she’d look like with that top layer of stress erased from her pretty face. And then he stopped himself from going a single thought further. What was the point? She had her hands full, and the last thing he needed was to pursue a woman with kids.

He grabbed his small workbag, went downstairs and found Laurel in the kitchen slicing apples and carrots. He stopped for a second to enjoy the view.

“I’m all done here.” He set the small bottle of graphite on the long central island. “If you have any more problems with locks, just use this.”

She stopped slicing. “Thanks so much.”

In rushed the twins. “We’re hungry,” Claire, the spokesperson, said.

“Yeah, my tummy’s qweezin’,” said Gracie.

She tossed them both a piece of carrot and apple. Surprisingly, they accepted her offer and scuttled off for the backyard like contented bunnies. Intuition must be part of the job description for a mom. Another thing about her that impressed him.

“You may be wondering about Gracie’s speech.”

“She does have an interesting way of saying things.”

Laurel sighed as she leaned forward, elbows and forearms resting on the kitchen island countertop. The pose shouldn’t be appealing, but it was. “During Alan’s illness, I was so caught up in his needs, I didn’t realize that Gracie’s unusual speech was a sign she had fluid in her ears. I thought it was baby talk. It wasn’t until after Alan died I snapped out of my trance and took them both to the pediatrician. Gracie needed tubes in her ears, and Claire flunked her three-year-old vision test. I didn’t have a clue about either of them.”

She looked defeated, and it bothered him. “You had a lot on your plate. The main thing, nothing was life-threatening and you fixed the problem.” Listen to me, Mr. Logical. He stepped closer to her end of the island. “Maybe quit being so hard on yourself?”

She blinked and sighed. “I might have to hire you as a life coach.”

“Ha! First you’d have to find me one.”

“And what’s your story?” Her inquisitive stare nearly pushed him off balance.

“Ten years in the army. Tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Need I say more?”

She looked horrified at first. That was the only way Mark could explain her expression, then it changed.

They gazed at each other, her manner seeming sympathetic, understanding. Mark was almost positive she thought the same thing—they were two people who’d come through tough times humbled and haggard. He’d worked out a drill to deal with his, but had she?

Mark’s usual routine was to work all morning and through the early afternoon, then grab his board and head down to the beach to catch a few waves. What used to be his passion had now become his solace, better than a doctor’s prescription or a cold beer. Funny how time changed things like that—passion to solace. He figured the PTSD had a lot to do with needing to be alone, at sea, man against nature, at least once a day. Plus, other than the noisy seagulls, it was amazingly quiet out there, and was the perfect place to shut down all the clatter in his life. Whatever it was, surfing was still a lifeline for him and he needed it. Especially today.

She wiped the counter with a sponge, and he was ready to leave, but something made him stop. It was like his body had quit listening to his brain. Don’t get involved. “Just call if you need anything, okay?” Now his mouth had gone rogue. Seeing a notepad on the adjacent counter, he scribbled out his cell phone number, then left.

“You might be sorry!” she teasingly called after him.

He already was. Why walk in on someone else’s life as a fix-it guy, when he’d yet to fix his own mess? He really didn’t need the frustration.

But when he hit the street, he grinned. Like an idiot. Because he’d just given a woman his phone number for the first time since getting discharged from the service.

* * *

A half hour later, dressed in red board shorts and an old stretched-out, holey T-shirt, with surfboard under his arm, Mark strode toward the beach where the sun cast a golden orange tint on the ocean. Being the middle Delaney brother, he’d opted out of the role of peacekeeper by default early on. Instead, he’d elected to become an attention-getting surfer. It’d paid off in spades, too. Popularity. Girlfriends. Respect.

He’d intended to sign up for the army right after high school, but his father and mother had convinced him to try the local community college first. He did, without an inkling of what he wanted to major in, for two years, but didn’t get a degree because the classes he took didn’t add up to one major’s requirements. Then that faraway Middle East war got personal. A good friend since grammar school had been killed in Iraq. It might not have been logical thinking, but after that he felt called to serve, so, without his parents’ blessings, he’d enlisted. After voting in a presidential election for the first time, signing up for the army had been his next major life decision. And he was still re-adjusting to civilian life.

A predictable afternoon breeze had kicked up and the water was choppy, but he smiled at the swelling of sets forming in the distance. A few of the usual guys in wet suits were out there, most of them half his age. They’d probably been there all day. One with long sun-bleached hair caught the next wave, road the crest, then wiped out.

Halfway down the beach, he passed a group of loud teenagers talking trash to someone. He turned his head to check things out. Five guys ranging from tall and buff to short and heavy, wearing board shorts and brand-name skateboarder T-shirts, were getting their jollies by bullying someone much smaller. He looked closer, saw the shaggy brown hair, the nose he was still growing into and that oversize T-shirt with Bart Simpson on the front. It was Peter with a frown cast in iron on his face, staring at his flip-flops. Obviously hating every second, he let the jerks taunt and tease him, but what choice did he have, one against five?

Mark dropped his board and headed their way. “Hey, Peter, I was lookin’ for you, man! It’s time for your surfing lesson.”