What a view.
“You’re not working.”
He whirled to find Mrs. Fitzgerald standing with her flower-encased walker near the sidewalk, her hat today black straw with red cherries around the rim.
“I’m taking a thankful break,” he explained with a grin.
“Can I come and take it with you?” she asked. “I’m thankful and I have corn fritters.”
Rory brushed his hands against his old jeans. “Bring yourself on over to this picnic table,” he said. “How did you know I had a hankering for corn fritters this morning?”
She gave him a mock scowl, her wrinkles folding against each other, her gray hair as straw-like as her hat. “Since when have you not been hankering for something to eat? I declare, I don’t know how you stay so fit.”
“I pick up limbs and trash all the time,” he said with a deadpan expression.
“Yes, you do. And you ride that bicycle and carry that board thing out to the water.” She moseyed over to the table and fluffed her yellow muumuu. “You swim and fish and surf and jog all over the place. When do you rest, Preacher?”
“I’ll rest when I die.”
She shook her head. “Oh, I doubt that. The Lord will put you straight to work when you reach the Pearly Gates.”
They both laughed at that notion. Then she pulled out the still-warm corn fritters that were her specialty. Part hush puppy and part corn bread, the fat mushy balls were filled with real corn nuggets and tasted like nectar to Rory.
“So good,” he said. “I think I’ll be able to finish this mess before lunch, thanks to you.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald chewed on her food and studied the water. “Nice sermon yesterday. I think you impressed that newcomer.”
Miss Fanny, as she liked to be called, took impish pleasure in stirring the pot.
Rory played coy. “We had a newcomer?”
The older woman playfully slapped his arm. “I saw you looking at her. And I’m pretty sure she was looking back.”
“Don’t you have cataracts?”
“Not since that fancy eye doctor up on 98 did some sort of surgery on me. I can see a feather caught in a limb up in that tree yonder.”
He glanced at the tree and squinted. “Feathers are a bit different from watching me and making assumptions.”
“I know what I see,” she replied on a prim note. “It’s springtime. Love is in the air.”
“Well, aren’t you the poet.”
“I used to be, you know.”
“You? A poet?” Miss Fanny was full of surprises.
“Me.” She pointed to the houses lining the lake. “See that Craftsman cottage with the blue shutters?”
He nodded and grabbed another fritter. “The one near your house that’s in need of serious repair?”
She lived in a small Cape Cod style two-storied house across from the church.
“That’s the one. I used to run around with the woman who lived there. We were artists. She dabbled in mixed media and men. I dabbled in poetry and one long and loving marriage.”
“You don’t say?” He’d heard about how much Miss Fanny loved her husband, but she was already a widow when he met her. “So what happened to your friend? That house has been vacant since I’ve been here.”
“That was her home at one time, but after she remarried, it became a vacation home. The last man she married also had a home in Birmingham, Alabama, and they used to travel back and forth. But...she died recently.” Fanny took off her hat and gave him a direct stare. “That woman you’re pretending you didn’t notice in church yesterday, that’s her daughter. She’s come back here to fix up and sell the house.” Putting her hat back on, she added, “Vanessa hated her mother. And I might as well tell you she’s not too fond of preachers either.”
Chapter Three
Rory stood up to stare over at the rambling one-story house with the blue shutters. Well, the shutters used to be blue. Now they were a peeling, weathered blue-gray mess. The whole place wore a facade of neglect even though the neighbors kept the yard mowed and the flower beds pruned and trimmed, as a courtesy and in keeping with the pretty factor that Millbrook Lake prided itself on.
So that was the house Vanessa had mentioned the other day. And Miss Fanny had been a friend to her deceased mother.
“I’ve often thought someone needed to buy that place and fix it up,” he said. “So that’s where Vanessa Donovan used to live?”
And now she was back.
“Her mother lived there for years, but Vanessa only lived there for a couple of years after Cora and Richard got married and moved here. She finished high school and then she left. To my knowledge, this is the first time she’s been back.”
Rory thought about how long the house had sat vacant. “But somebody kept up with the place. I mean, it’s still full of furniture and belongings.”
Miss Fanny sat staring across at the house. “Cora, Vanessa’s mother, went to a nursing home in Alabama near where her last husband had property, right before you came to town. After Vanessa graduated high school, Richard and Cora split their time between Birmingham and here. Then after he died, Cora came back here. But she got sick and that ended, so she moved to a retirement home that had around-the-clock nursing. We all tried to keep the house ready for her to come back, but she never recovered from her first stroke. She had another massive one about a month ago and died. Buried in Alabama beside the one man she truly loved.” Miss Fanny’s shrug was eloquent. “Maybe because he left her a ton of money. She never talked much about the men in her life, but Richard was very special to her.”
Suddenly, Rory understood a lot of things. “So Vanessa came back to...settle things?”
“That’s an understatement,” Miss Fanny replied. “The girl inherited the house and probably some money and other property, too. But I’m thinking she won’t want to live here. She’ll probably sell out and leave again.” Miss Fanny leaned close. “Vanessa loved her mother’s last husband, Richard Tucker. He was like a true father to her after so many other men, but Vanessa and Cora did not see eye-to-eye about anything. Too many bad memories.”
Rory thought about the woman he’d first noticed in church last Sunday. Afraid and unsure and wound as tight as fishing line on a reel. Yeah, he could see a lot of settling things needed to occur.
And he had to ask. “Why does Vanessa dislike preachers, Miss Fanny?”
Miss Fanny got up and adjusted her hat. “I’ll give you one guess.”
Rory closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Which husband was it?”
“Number three,” Miss Fanny said without missing a beat. “Vanessa was around thirteen or fourteen, I think, when her mother married a minister from Atlanta. They moved here since she already had this house. He served a church out on the highway for a couple of years. Neither his assignment nor the marriage lasted. But while he was here, he tried to reform Vanessa but in the worst sort of way.”
Giving Rory a pointed glance, she started pushing her walker toward the street, Rory following while he kept his gaze on the house. “Her mother sided with the preacher, of course.”
The rich fritters Rory had woofed down now felt like lead inside his stomach. He had to wonder what Vanessa had been through, how much she’d suffered. He didn’t ask. Miss Fanny probably knew, but he wouldn’t ask her to tell him.
Vanessa would have to be the one to do that.
If she ever trusted him enough to tell him anything.
“Let me walk you to your door,” he told Miss Fanny. He needed to think this through. He checked the driveway next door to see if Vanessa’s little blue car was parked there.
“She’s not there,” Miss Fanny said, already reading his mind. “I think she went to the lawyer’s office to take care of some business. Probably the reading of the will.” The older woman turned when they reached her front porch steps. “But she’s planning a big estate sale sometime soon. She’ll need help...sorting through all that clutter.” She shrugged. “And since you’re also planning a rummage sale at the church...”
Rory nodded. “I’ll be glad to help.”
Miss Fanny nodded, her work here done.
“Thank you for the corn fritters,” Rory said after he’d made sure she was safe back inside her house. “Go take your afternoon nap.”
Miss Fanny waved him away and shut the door.
Rory hurried back down the steps, but he stopped on the sidewalk and glanced over at the long, sprawling house to the left of Miss Fanny’s place.
He hadn’t said this to Miss Fanny, but Rory had often thought he’d like to buy the old Craftsman cottage and fix it up.
But now, he also had the added challenge of trying to help repair the woman who’d come to town to sell this house. He’d have to pray hard on how to manage that without scaring Vanessa away for good. And he’d have to pray hard for her to forgive the minister who’d obviously damaged her for life.
* * *
“What did you say?”
Vanessa stared at the studious gray-haired lawyer sitting across from her in the elegant conference room situated in an old Georgian-style building across town.
Charles Barton leaned up and studied Vanessa’s face, his bifocal glasses low on his hawk-like nose. “I said you have inherited the bulk of Richard Tucker’s estate. Mind you, after your mother’s care and expenses over the last few years, a fourth of it is gone. But you have the Millbrook Lake cottage and you have the holdings in Alabama, namely a house in Birmingham and several commercial rental properties in that area.”
Vanessa sat staring at the man across from her, unable to comprehend what he was telling her. Finally, she swallowed and spoke. “I knew Richard left my mother comfortable, and I was grateful that she had constant, around-the-clock care at the nursing facility, but I had no idea about something such as this happening.”
When Mr. Barton had stated the exact amount of the inheritance, Vanessa had almost fallen out of her chair. Growing up, she’d often dreamed of that kind of money. Now, she was content with her shop in New Orleans and the online boutique full of eclectic clothes and artisan wares from hundreds of vendors. She wasn’t rich by any means, but she made a good living, selling quirky items to quirky people. Vanessa’s Vintage had taken off in the last year or so. The boutique in New Orleans had become popular with both locals and tourists, and the online store kept up a steady business.
“You are now a wealthy young woman,” the lawyer stated. “Of course, we’ll deal with probate and a few other minor details, but all in all, since Richard had no other close relatives, this should be an easy transition.”
“I’d planned to clean up the cottage and sell it,” Vanessa admitted, still numb. “I thought that was the only thing I needed to worry about.”
“You can decide what to sell off and what to keep once this sets in,” Mr. Barton said. “After a death, I always tell my clients who are left to take over estates not to make any rash decisions. Give it some time. You’re still working through a lot of emotions.”
The older man’s soft-spoken advice calmed Vanessa. “You’re right. I have a lot to do back at the cottage. Getting the place cleaned up and renovated to sell will give me time to decide where I go from here.”
“Do you think you’ll want to keep the mansion in Birmingham?” he asked.
Vanessa thought about the stately Tudor-style house sitting up on a remote bluff. “It’s a beautiful house, but I never actually lived there. I visited a few times, but I can’t see me living in that big, old house.”
Mr. Barton’s assistant began gathering files and folders. He stood, too, and waited for Vanessa to do the same. “Take your time. The money and holdings won’t be going anywhere and there are trustworthy people in place to take care of things.”
Vanessa thanked the lawyer and left, thinking she wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while either. She now had a lot more to take care of than she’d ever imagined.
But for now, she’d focus on the cottage.
She drove around the lake and circled back toward Lake Street, where all the quaint Victorian houses sat next to the few Cape Cod homes and the other one-story Craftsman cottages that were scattered throughout. The view across the water was breathtaking and beautiful.
Until she spotted her house.
The cottage looked sad and lonely, neglected.
That mirrored how she’d felt most of her life. This house held a strong pull over her, one that she needed to resist and one she’d managed to avoid up until now.
Ironic that now she had the security and wealth she’d always craved but she didn’t have anyone to share it with.
Her mother had finally found her fairy tale with Richard Tucker, but it hadn’t lasted. He’d died a year after Vanessa left to go to college.
Vanessa had never wanted a fairy tale. She’d only wanted a family. They’d had that with Richard. He’d been kind and gracious and so patient with her mother’s temperamental mood swings and crazy impulsive nature. He’d also taken time with Vanessa, showing her proper decorum and giving her instructions on manners and how to win over even her worst critics. But he’d done it all in a caring, loving way that made Vanessa feel treasured and special.
Not ashamed and embarrassed.
Still in shock from the lawyer’s news, she drove on around the lake and pulled up into the driveway of her house. When she got out of the car, she glanced toward the church and wondered what Rory was doing. Marla had told Vanessa that he lived in a small garage apartment behind the church. Maybe he would be a good person to talk to in confidence about her situation.
But then again, maybe not. She was leery of showing him any signs of weakness even if he didn’t seem the type to take advantage of her.
She wouldn’t be pulled into something she’d regret. She couldn’t be fooled into getting too close to organized religion again. She believed in God, but she was afraid of putting too much trust in people. The pain of her last encounter with a man of God still gave her nightmares.
She couldn’t go through that again.
No matter how much she needed a friend.
* * *
Rory went on with his day. It was nearly sundown now, so he finished up the yard work behind the church, careful to stay out of sight of the house across the street. But it hadn’t been easy to stay away after the heavy hints Miss Fanny had dropped regarding Vanessa’s past.
Usually when a visitor came to church, some of the welcome committee members would take over a basket full of books, cookies, gift certificates to local establishments and ground coffee from Marla’s place with a cute Millbrook Lake Church mug sporting a pelican sitting on a pew with the caption Don’t fly by. Come on in.
Sometimes, he’d tag along on these welcome visits.
Not this time.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to reach out to Vanessa. But he’d counseled enough members of the military to know that when someone didn’t want to listen, it was hard to talk to them. Rory had his ways of helping people to find their faith, and those ways didn’t involve being pushy and too in-your-face. He’d have to bide his time with Vanessa Donovan. He’d seen people hurt by those who used their own agenda in the name of the Lord.
It was never pretty.
So now, he raked and prayed and raked some more and tried to think about what he could have for dinner. Maybe he’d go to the Back Bay Pizza House and order a takeout meatball sub. Or maybe he’d swing by the Courthouse Café and get a big hamburger and fries before they shut down for the day. Or he could pull out his bike and ride around the lake and stop at the Fish Barrel, the new alfresco dining truck that offered up some really good grouper sandwiches, shrimp baskets and other local fare.
He was leaning toward the bike ride and the grouper sandwich when he heard a low, feminine groan echoing out over the street. Then he heard a thump and a crash, followed by another groan and the word “Ouch.”
Dropping his rake, Rory peeped around the corner of the storage shed behind the church and saw Vanessa standing in the front yard by an old wheelbarrow full of trash. He watched as she tried to move the wheelbarrow, but one of the wheels had obviously gone flat. The weight of the trash wasn’t helping matters.
That old thing wasn’t going to go anywhere except—
Onto its side.
It toppled over with a shudder of regret, causing another loud crash to reverberate up and down the street. Old glassware, plates, cups and other knickknacks spilled all over the driveway and sidewalk. And another groan of frustration followed.
Okay, now he had to walk over there because he had to be gallant and helpful, didn’t he?
“Need some help?” he called, to show he was only trying to be a gentleman.
She glanced around, surprise brightening her shimmering eyes. Surprise, followed by what might be dread. “I’m beyond help.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he told her, his hands on his hips. “But...this wheelbarrow is beyond anything. I hope these dishes weren’t important.”
She stared at the shattered mess lying at her feet. “No, not really.” But she picked up what looked like a children’s cup that had colorful princess characters on it. “Just stuff my mom had shoved into the garage out back. She was a bit of a hoarder.”
Rory heard the pain behind that comment. And saw that pain reflected in Vanessa’s eyes while she moved her fingers over the faded little plastic cup. “Was that yours?” he asked as an opening.
She nodded. “Once, long ago.”
“Where were you taking these things?”
“Out to the curb.” She tossed the cup back onto the pile. “I thought someone might come by and take them.”
He gave her time to get past what she had to be thinking. It must be hard to let go of so many memories. “Let me help you get this cleaned up.”
She waved him away. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I have nothing else to do,” he said. “I’ve been doing yard work, and I was about to quit for the day.”
She glanced at the church and then back at him, the struggle in her mind evident in her brooding expression.
“I guess I could use some help,” she said. “I have to clean this place up, and that shed is just the beginning. I want to put a lot of the items from the estate sale out there, on display.”
“Are you hiring an estate-sale manager?”
Her dark eyebrows shot up. “I hadn’t planned on that since this is what I do for a living.” She stopped and stared at the little cup.
“You work as an estate-sale manager?”
“No, but I run a vintage shop in New Orleans and an online shopping site. Vanessa’s Vintage.”
“Then you do know what you’re doing. We’re planning a rummage sale at the church in a few weeks, and one of our members used to be an estate-sale manager. She offered her services free to us. But we could coordinate things with your sale. Maybe hold them on the same day since we’re neighbors.” He stopped, waited a couple of beats. When she didn’t scowl at him, he added, “That is, if you’re okay with that idea.”
She glanced at the church, and then she looked down at the old wheelbarrow. “I don’t know. I hope I’ll be gone in a few weeks.”
“Forget I suggested it,” Rory said. “You have too much on your mind to add a church rummage sale to the mix.”
“It’s okay,” she replied, pushing at her shoulder-length wavy bob. “I don’t know what I’m doing, really. I mean, I know vintage and collectibles, but I’ve never done this before. But I always managed to figure things out on my own.”
He picked up the princess cup. “Well, now you’re not on your own. You have help. Starting with me.”
She stared over at him, her gaze moving from his face to the pile of broken dishes. “And what’s in it for you, Preacher?”
Chapter Four
“What do you mean?”
Rory tried the tactic he used whenever someone asked him a disconcerting question. And prayed it would work on Vanessa.
She gave him a surprised glance, her brow furrowing. “It’s a simple question. You’re offering to help me. You must have a reason.”
“Wow. Does there have to be a reason?” Not sure how to handle this kind of skepticism, he leaned his head down and gave her a smile. “Part of my job is to help others. Part of my nature is to be sincere about it.”
She actually blushed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve had a trying day and I have trust issues.”
He widened the smile. “You think?”
She shook her head and shot him a wry grin. “I guess I should loosen up, right?”
“No. Don’t do anything on my account. This ain’t my first rodeo.”
She laughed at that. “You look too young and carefree to be a preacher.”
He thought of the man who’d obviously hurt her. “Ministers come in all shapes and sizes. And personalities.”
“Yeah, you can say that again.”
He stuffed the cup inside one of the deep pockets of his baggy work shorts and started picking up the broken dishes in an effort to distract her. “Hey, if you find me a broom and a dustpan, I can get this done a lot quicker. And then I’ll be happy to buy you a cup of coffee or a cold drink.”
“So you can work me over?”
That skeptical imp again, hiding serious pain. “Work you over?”
She started walking backward toward the big shed beyond the open gate to the backyard. “You know, telling me that God loves me and that He can make things better for me?”
“Of course,” Rory said, stooping to pick up the bigger pieces of shattered porcelain. “That’s part of my job, too.”
She turned and hurried. “At least you’re not trying to slip it under the radar.”
“Nope. I’m not that kind of guy,” he called after her. When she kept walking, he called louder. “What you see is what you get with me. It’s pretty much the same with God, too.”
He glanced up to find an older couple across the street with their dog watching him with a curious regard.
“Oh, hi,” Rory called. “Nice day, don’t you think?”
They nodded, waved and hurried away. The little dog, however, woofed a quick reply.
No wonder they’d moved on. He seemed to be talking to himself.
Worried that Vanessa had run off in the other direction, he stood and checked the open gate. Maybe she’d gone inside the house to find the broom and dustpan.
Rory cleaned up a bit more and then decided to check on Vanessa. He strolled through the open wrought iron gate and searched the big backyard. Lots of vintage patio furniture and nice palm trees and old oaks, but no Vanessa.
Turning toward the big shed she’d talked about, Rory went to the open French doors. “Hey, Vanessa, you in here?”
He found her standing at a table, her hand on an open book. A photo album from what he could tell.
When he moved toward her, she whirled, her gaze locking with his. “I’m sorry. I...I can’t find the dustpan.”
Rory walked over to where she stood. “Do you want me to leave?”
She nodded and then she shook her head no. “I...I don’t want you to leave but...I can’t... I’m not ready for this.”
“Not ready for me and my poor attempts to comfort you? Or not ready to clean out this house?”
“Not ready for...accepting that my mother is gone,” she said. Then she sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “I’ll clean up the mess out front later. You...you don’t have to hang around.”
Rory wasn’t going to leave her like this. “Nonsense. You go in the house and have a good cry or make yourself a cup of tea or eat ice cream. I see the broom over there, and I can use the lid off this old box as a dustpan. I’ll clean up the broken things out front.”
She gave him a confused stare, her eyes misty with a raw-edged pain. “You don’t have to clean up my mess.”
Rory wondered how many times she’d said that to other people. “I don’t mind.”
She nodded, grabbed the photo album and pushed past him for the door. But she turned once she was outside. “Thank you, Rory.”
He nodded and smiled at her. “Hey, listen. Grief is a sneaky thing. One minute you’re doing fine and the next, you want to punch something. Or...break dishes.”
She smiled through her tears. “I guess I’ve done that already today.”
She turned and ran toward the house, her flip-flops hitting against the steps up to the back porch. He watched her until he heard the door slam.
Rory tore off the box top and took it and the broom back up to the sidewalk and began to clear away the debris. But in his heart, he wanted to go inside that house and help clear up the debris of Vanessa’s broken heart. Because he didn’t have enough prayers to give her the kind of comfort she craved and needed.
And yet, he knew the comfort of God’s love.
So he prayed anyway, until he had the yard clean again.
He’d have to keep working on the woman sitting inside, crying over an old photo album. And he’d have to do it in a gentle way that would help her to heal.
* * *
Vanessa wished she hadn’t fallen apart in front of the preacher. Now he’d really want to talk to her. She only wanted to sit here and stare into space. But she had so much to take care of before she could go back to New Orleans.
Her fingers touched on an old photograph of her mother with Vanessa on a beach blanket, forcing her to remember the good times. They’d been few and far between, but she had brief flashes of laughter and sunshine and a warm feeling.
A feeling of being loved. Had she forgotten the good and focused too much on the bad? The pictures in this album only showed smiling faces and what looked like good times.
Why were there never any pictures of the bad times? Never any proof of how she remembered things? No, those things had been hidden away, swept underneath the heavy carpet in a facade that was hard to pull away.
A soft knock at the back door brought her head up. Vanessa wiped at her eyes and shut the old photo album. Then she rushed to the door and opened it to find Rory standing there with two ice cream cones.
“The truck came by,” he said, smiling. “I like chocolate and I got you caramel-vanilla. But if you don’t want it—”
She grabbed the waffle cone and took a small nip. “Oh.”
“I take that as a yes.” He ate some of his and glanced around. “Nice house.”
“Come in,” she said, her mind still on the caramel-vanilla.
He stepped inside, and Vanessa realized no one had been invited inside this house in a long time. Shame and embarrassment hit at her with the same freezing intensity as the ice cream sliding down her throat. The built-in cabinets on each side of the enormous fireplace were true to the Craftsman style of the house. But the shelves were practically groaning with old books and side-by-side knickknacks. Not to mention stacks of newspapers and scraps of all kinds of fabric remnants lying here and there in front of the shelves.
“It’s a mess,” she said, lifting her free hand in the air. “One room at a time. I keep telling myself that’s how I’ll get it done.”
Rory glanced around, his gaze settling on the folded blanket and bed pillow she’d left on the couch. She didn’t want to explain that she’d slept in here last night.
But Rory didn’t mention what had to be obvious. Instead, he said, “So...are you going to sell off everything in here?”
“Not everything all at once,” she said. “I have my online vintage store, so I’ll place some of the items there.” She ate more ice cream, the cold sweetness making her feel better. “And if you’re serious about me having the estate sale when you have the church rummage sale, then I’ll probably get rid of a lot of the bigger pieces there, since shipping them is kind of costly.”
“Of course I’m serious. If you don’t mind staying a week or so longer than you planned. We hope to hold it sometime in May, but I’ll pin the committee people down on an exact date.”
“That would help,” she replied. “A deadline will force me to stop procrastinating and get this over with.”
And what could a few more weeks hurt? She could handle this. She had to get this house on the market, and she couldn’t do that until she had it cleaned up and spruced up.
“Then it’s settled. We can go over the details in the next week or so,” he said. “The church members will appreciate having the draw of an estate sale next door.” He walked around, studying the house. “This place has good bones, you know.”
And a few good memories. She needed to focus on those, instead of the bad ones she’d experienced here as a teenager.
“It is a classic house,” she admitted. “It needs someone to love it enough to save it.”
“I think you’re right,” Rory said, his warm, sunny gaze moving over her face.
Vanessa tried to ignore how his nearness made her feel kind of gooey inside, so she forced herself to see it from someone else’s perspective. Her mother had been an artist, dabbling in collages and mixed media. Cora Donovan Tucker never threw anything away. So every nook and cranny, every shelf and table, held what her mother had considered treasures. A feather here, an old button there. Tarnished jewelry with missing rhinestones, old purses with worn handles, books of every shape and size, yellowed with age. Clothes, dishes, trinkets. Cora had collected husbands in much the same way. Tarnished, washed up, broken people. Losers, except for Richard. He’d been a true Godsend.
Her mother had always been a work in progress. But even ravished by two strokes and unable to speak, Cora had died with a peaceful look on her face. Thankful that she’d made it to the nursing home in time to be with her mother at the end, Vanessa wondered what she’d left unsaid.
Rory picked up an object here and studied a piece of art there. “Interesting collection.”
“A lot of stuff, huh?” she said, wondering what Rory really thought. Wondering why she’d let him in. Really let him in.
“Yes.” He munched on his waffle cone. “But that’s not your fault. And you don’t have to go through it alone.”
“Do you mean clearing away this clutter or grieving?”