Lakeside Sweetheart (4 page)

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

“W
hat 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?”

He gave her that blue-eyed stare that left her feeling light and heavy at the same time. “Yes.”

“I don't need a lot of help,” she replied, panicking. The cold ice cream burned at her stomach. She imagined him being here every day, watching her, checking on her, asking her pointed, preacher-type questions. “I can handle this, Preacher.”

He didn't speak. He kept munching on his cone. Finally, he finished chewing and nodded. “I don't doubt that, but why should you have to do this alone?”

“Why are you so determined to make sure I get help?”

He seemed to accept that she was turning ugly again, and Vanessa felt ashamed at herself. “I'm sorry. I guess I need some more time to process this.”

“Okay.” He finished his ice cream and went to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “And I should leave you alone to do this in your own way.”

If he noticed the dishes everywhere or the half-eaten sandwich she'd left on the counter, he didn't blink. Instead, he dried his hands on a butterfly-embossed dish towel and walked over to where she stood holding a melting ice cream cone.

“Appetite gone?” he asked, taking the cone from her.

“Yes.”

He took her ice cream and went back to the sink and dropped the dripping cone inside and washed his hands again. Then he came back to stand near her. “You do what you need to do. We're all here, though. Remember that. Miss Fanny next door—she knew your mom. She's willing to help, and she's willing to listen.”

“I don't need anyone to listen to me,” Vanessa retorted, needing him to leave. Needing to be away from his soft, sweet gaze. “I... I'll figure this out.”

“I believe you will.”

“But you'd like it better if I opened up and told you all my troubles and my fears?”

He started backing toward the door. “No, I wouldn't like that better. I wouldn't like that at all. But what I would like is for you to stop seeing me as the enemy and let me be your friend.”

“I can't do that,” she said, tears burning at her eyes. “I don't think you're the enemy, but I can't be your friend, Rory.”

He held a hand on the doorknob. “Or you can't let
me
be your friend? Because I'm what you consider a pushy minister?”

“That's part of it. That especially, and you being so nice and
not
being a pushy minister in the way that I know, is really messing with my head.”

“I wish you'd reconsider things,” he said, “but I understand. I'll see you soon, I guess. You know where to find me if you need me.” He opened the door, but turned back. “But
you
need to understand, I didn't come over here today to badger you. I came because I saw someone in need. That's my nature as a human being, not only as a minister. Sometimes, people tend to overlook that I'm as human as they are.”

And then he was gone, just like that.

For a split second, Vanessa wanted to run after him and tell him all of her troubles. But she had to be strong. She had to fight that notion with all her being. She'd told a minister her innermost secrets before, and that man had used her fears and her insecurities against her. Never again.

She'd been taking care of herself for a long time now. Why should that change? Why should she believe a sweet-talking preacher who brought her ice cream and made her feel safe?

She rushed to the sink and turned on the hot water and watched as the caramel-vanilla ice cream melted into nothing. Her confusing thoughts about Rory had to melt into nothing, too. Because growing close to him would be a bad idea all the way around.