A Wedding in Apple Grove (6 page)

“You might need to replace the switch again; that half-horse motor should be good for another couple of years.”

“But, Pop, it's the third switch this year.”

“Those pumps are workhorses; they just can't seem to build a switch that'll last as long. Mark my words, there's still life in that motor.”

“Yes, Pop. I'll talk to you later. Bye.” She always listened to her father. No one knew as well as he did how to keep things running long after a sane person would have given up. Joseph Mulcahy would magically coax just a bit more life out of whatever he was working on, whether it be an aging refrigerator or a finicky sump pump. He had passed on his gift to his daughters: Meg had inherited his way with plumbing, Caitlin his carpentry skills, and Grace his innate charm and good business sense.

Together the sisters had been keeping the family business going, despite Grace's daily grumbling that she was being wasted working in Apple Grove, Ohio, when she could have gone off to Columbus and landed a job as an executive assistant. Caitlin insisted that she really wanted to build things, not repair them, but at least Cait hadn't talked about moving away. Meg loved every minute spent working in their town to rebuild, and when that wasn't possible, replace, whatever the good citizens of Apple Grove needed to keep their lives moving forward.

She had never doubted that she and her sisters would grow up and learn how to be handymen. Gender had nothing to do with it; they were Mulcahys, and in their small town, their name had always been associated with the family business their great-grandfather had built and kept going through good times and bad.

They didn't always receive payment in monetary form; there were a few customers who bartered whatever they could, and the Mulcahys always accepted trade in exchange for whatever repair work was needed. Meg's personal favorite was Mrs. Winter's home-baked cherry pie. She'd gladly continue to sweat the pipes or crawl through spiderwebs in the basement of Mrs. Winter's house in exchange for the pie. Caitlin was fond of Mr. Weatherbee's wind chimes. He used bits of metal and glass to create musical whimsies that her sister treasured and accepted in trade for replacing his linoleum floor.

The phone rang, startling Meg back to the present and the fact that the clock was ticking. “Mulcahy's,” she answered, “no job is too small, Meg speaking.”

“Hi, I need help,” a familiar deep voice rumbled. “The power just went off in my house, I can't find the circuit breaker, I'm late for work, and it's the first day of my new job.”

Meg listened to the frustration building in the baritone on the other end of the line and couldn't hold back her smile. The image of the man who'd brought a spark back to her life filled her mind and then her heart. “Well, Dan, let's see what we can do for you.”

The heartfelt sigh had her fighting the urge to chuckle. It was definitely a challenge; just the idea of not knowing where your circuit breakers were located was too funny.

“How did you know it was—did you say Meg?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “This is Meg. I recognized your voice first of all,” Meg told him, “and then the clue about the first day of your new job, unfamiliar house, blah, blah, blah.”

“So you probably know where I live too, don't you?”

“Yep: 32 Elm Street, the old Saunders place.”

There had been a lot of talk in town about the new phys ed teacher and high school varsity soccer coach. A few people had seen him when he came to town for the interview a few weeks ago. According to Honey B. Harrington, head of gossip central at Honey's Hair Salon, he had a physique to die for—or in Honey's younger sister's words, he was a “hottie!” After meeting him Saturday and then seeing him again yesterday at church, Meg could testify to the fact that he more than lived up to the gossip. He was totally hot.

“You don't have a circuit breaker box, just fuse panels.”

“I know where to locate the fuses under the dashboard of a car, but heck if I'd know what to do with one in a house. Don't all homes have circuit breakers for power these days?”

“Depends on the age of the house and whether or not you have 120 or 220 volts of power coming in off the pole.”

“I… uh… listen, I'd love to learn more, but right now I'm seriously going to be late and I've only got one chance to make a good first impression.”

She knew exactly what he meant. Her heart went out to him and had her shifting her schedule around. “Tell you what, why don't you head on out to work and I'll squeeze you in between Miss Trudi's sump pump and Mr. Weatherbee's broken back door latch.”

“But I won't be home.”

Taken aback, Meg didn't know what to say. It wasn't as if they were strangers. He'd met her dad and had been to their home. Growing up in Apple Grove meant that you took care of your neighbors, no matter how irascible they might be. Trust was second nature here. Everyone knew everyone else, or knew someone who did. Apple Grove was a close-knit town—like a page out of the past.

She blew out a breath and said, “Since you've just moved to Apple Grove, you're a neighbor. Neighbors help each other out here.” When he didn't say anything, she added, “Technically we aren't strangers since we met at Edie and Bill's wedding, but I can have one of Sheriff Wallace's deputies accompany me if you're worried.”

“I'm sorry. I'm just not used to such a friendly, open environment. Where I'm from, we lock our doors and have security systems.”

Meg paused to let that foreign concept sink in. “I guess Apple Grove is a world away from that.”

“I guess it is. My aunt doesn't lock her doors and that makes me crazy.”

Meg sighed. “I can squeeze you in around three o'clock.”

“Great. Thanks!”

A little while later, she had just finished coaxing life back into a thirty-year-old furnace when her cell phone rang. Since she was at a stopping point, she answered.

“Oh my God, Meg!” her sister Grace squealed into the phone.

Switching to speaker, Meg set her phone down on the top of the battered toolbox that had been her great-grandfather's. “What now? Did Caitlin put a dead mouse next to your keyboard again?” Their middle sister was the family prankster and had the strangest sense of humor.

“Don't remind me and don't get me sidetracked,” her sister said. “You have got to swing by the high school on your way back to the shop.”

“Get real, Grace.” There were times when Meg felt so much older than the youngest of their Mulcahy brood.

“Would you just shut up and listen?”

Stunned that the normally calm one of the trio was getting agitated, she did.

“I'm talking about the new soccer coach. He's the first real eligible bachelor to hit town in three whole years! How could you not be paying attention? What is wrong with you, Megan?”

“Jeez, Gracie, you sound just like Pop. Besides, I already met him.”

“When?”

“At the wedding. You and Caitlin were busy flirting with Deputy Jones over by the cake.”

Her sister laughed and said, “You know we just can't resist a man in uniform.”

“You two were all over the poor guy.” Meg remembered watching her sisters flirting and feeling every bit of the seven-year age difference between herself and Grace.

“You could have called us over.”

“And interrupt when you and Cait were on a roll? No thanks. I've been on the receiving end of Cait's sharp tongue enough to know she'd have left me bleeding if I did.”

“I'm worried about you, Sis,” Grace confided. “You work all the time and have no social life. I can't remember the last time you wore a dress and went out on a date.”

“I wore a dress yesterday to church and Saturday to the wedding. Besides, I don't like dresses, and what does one have to do with the other?” Meg asked.

“Yeah, I know. You prefer your battered carpenter jeans, but, Meggie, you've got great legs.”

Meg laughed. “Standing next to you and Cait, who'd notice, since both of you have legs up to your eyeballs?”

“Hey, until senior year in high school it really sucked being taller than all of the boys in school.”

It was an old argument and neither one would ever win. They both had valid points. “Being short is worse,” Meg said, just to get under her sister's skin so Grace would hang up and let her get back to work.

“Give me a break, Meg.”

“OK, look, I've got to get going. My next stop is to replace a blown fuse at Dan's house; he doesn't have any power.”

“Oh,” Grace breathed. “That's excellent.”

Meg snorted. “Actually, it's a problem not having power.”

“You know that's not what I meant.”

“Look, Gracie, if you hang up now, maybe I'll let you talk me into another pedicure—my choice of color this time. But if I'm gonna make it to Dan's house and still get to all of the other calls you've scheduled for me, I've got to go now.”

“Oh, all right… Talk to you later, Sis.”

***

Dan couldn't believe he'd started the day without power. No power in his new home meant no water—good thing he'd showered the night before, or else he would have made a really bad first impression on the staff at Apple Grove High. He already had half of the Board of Education wondering if he'd last to the Christmas break. You'd think they'd never hired anyone from out of town before. Thank goodness his great-aunt had swayed the board to focus on his résumé and not where he came from.

He headed toward the locker room to change for practice. He had a team to get to know and a physical routine guaranteed to have the guys groaning before he sent them to the showers.

“All right,” he rumbled, standing in the middle of the field, looking at the eager faces surrounding him. “Line up on the end line in the order I call your names. Doyle, Hawkins, Weatherbee, Winter, and McCormack—are you related to the sisters who own the Apple Grove Diner?”

McCormack nodded and said, “First cousins.”

He took note of who was who on his clipboard so he would remember who they were by sight tomorrow. Scanning the rest of the group of, he called out, “The rest of you line up behind them so we can get started.”

“Doing what, Coach?”

He looked up from his clipboard and noticed it was the captain, Charlie Doyle, asking. Doyle was the tallest of the bunch with a lean runner's build and coal-black hair. He hoped there was speed to match the boy's build.

“Trips.” He chuckled at the sea of blank faces before him. “It was my coach's favorite drill. Now when I blow the whistle the first five run to the six-yard line—the edge of the goal box—bend down and touch it, turn around and run back. Then run to the eighteen-yard line—the edge of the penalty box—touch it, and run back. Then run to center field, touch the line, and run back. Finally, I want you to run to the other end line, touch it, and then run like you've got the ball and winning States depends on how fast you can go.”

“We can't go that fast if we have to keep bending down to the touch the lines.” This time it was Hawkins, who was as fair as Doyle was dark, but built like a football player. He hoped the kid could run. The way Hawkins and Doyle stood beside one another had him thinking the two were close friends. He'd find out soon enough.

Dan nodded. “That's true, but you'll be working on your abs and footwork.” Seeing that he had everyone's attention, he added, “A soccer player depends on the strength in his legs, ankles, and feet. Offensive players also count on the power of their lungs and their ability to keep running.”

“But Coach Creed—” one of the players began.

“Is recovering from a heart attack and I know you all wish him a speedy recovery, so let's make Coach Creed proud and see how fast on your feet you really are.”

The challenge had been thrown down, and from the eager expressions on the faces of the players lined up on the end line, they'd reacted the way he'd hoped. They were ready to show off for the new coach.

He blew the whistle and watched the first five off the line. Weatherbee and Winter were about the same height and equally matched, keeping pace with one another, but he'd remember who Winter was without taking notes—the kid had freckles and bright red hair that reminded him of Meg.

Focusing his thoughts on the team and getting to know the players, he watched them, evaluating as they performed the exercise. They weren't too bad, a little slow to start, but the short distances inside the penalty box and beyond were a definite challenge; once they got to sprint to center field, they started to show off.

As the first group made it to the other end line, he shouted, “The States are within reach and Apple Grove High will be the champs. If you want it, run for it.”

The group charged toward where he stood waiting. Every single face had a look of concentrated determination. He couldn't be more proud. As they crossed the line, he blew the whistle and the next group repeated the drill.

When everyone had gone at least once, he gathered them in a circle. “We've got our work cut out for us if we're going to beat Newark High on Friday.”

“We did last year,” Doyle said.

Dan nodded. “But they will be expecting our team to be unorganized with Coach Creed gone and an unknown coach stepping in.”

One look at the determined scowls on the players' faces convinced Dan they all wanted the same thing: to win. Apple Grove's varsity team wasn't that different from the last team he coached in north Jersey. “What is the most important skill a soccer player has?”

He waited a beat, staring at their faces, until someone called out, “Ball handling?”

He shook his head. Someone else called out, “Kicking?”

With a glance at his watch, he knew he didn't have time to waste, so he told them, “Running. You have to be fast, you have to think on your feet, and you have to be able to dribble the ball in a perfect three-sixty.”