Lakeside Sweetheart (9 page)

Deciding to start with one corner of the big master bedroom, she planned to work her way around the perimeter. The dresser begged to be rescued from the weight of too many paperbacks and old newspapers. No telling what she'd find, but it would be good to have one clean surface.

After dragging a trash can over by the window, Vanessa opened the drapes wide and then pried the window up to let in some fresh air. Then she leaned against the windowsill and thought about Rory.

Why did he tug at her heartstrings so much?

Vanessa went over her usual checklist for men.

Kind. Cute. Steady income. Respectful to women and children. Good with animals. Hardworking and compassionate.

Rory fit the bill more than anyone else she'd ever come close to dating.

But he couldn't. He shouldn't. He was a preacher. So not her type at all. Plus, she hadn't come here to date anyone. She couldn't consider Rory as anything but a friend.

And what do you have to base that on besides an older man who had his own agenda
?

Rory had secrets. Now that he'd admitted that to her, Vanessa had one very good reason to avoid him. She didn't like secrets. She'd carried hers long enough to know how they could fester and destroy anything good.

But he's different. Rory is a good person
.

Vanessa turned away from the window and the view of the quaint church across the street. She'd never even noticed that church when she'd lived here. Nor did she remember Miss Fanny from next door. Probably because she had been so self-absorbed and so intent on making her mother miserable that she didn't have room in her heart for anything else.

“I'm paying for that now,” she said into the morning breeze. “And I'm praying about it, too. In case anyone is listening up there.”

Determination made her start digging through the rubble of this room. After about an hour of tossing magazines and sorting through clippings of projects her mother had never started, her hand hit on a leather-bound book. Dusty and worn, it looked like a notebook.

She turned it over and saw a lock on it.

A journal?

Her mother's journal?

She held it close, wondering if she should throw it away without trying to read it or if she should tear it open and find a quiet spot to pore over the whole thing.

When she heard a knock at the door, she jumped and tossed the journal onto the old faded-blue chenille bedspread. Thinking she should ignore the knock, Vanessa checked her hair in case it was Rory.

She looked like she'd just woken up, all smudged and unkempt. Well, he'd get to see the real Vanessa.

But it wasn't Rory standing at her door.

The older woman she'd met last night stood there, leaning on a cane, her big floppy straw hat covered with tiny plastic daisies. “Hello, Vanessa. Remember me? I live next door.”

“Miss Fanny, right?” Vanessa asked, surprised to see the woman. “How are you?”

“I'm good, darlin'. I baked you some braided bread. It's mighty good with butter and jam for breakfast.”

“Oh, how nice.” Vanessa took the foil-wrapped bread. It was still warm, the scent tickling at her nose. “It sure smells good.”

“I can assure you, it is good. I've been baking that bread for over forty years. My husband, Herbert, liked it with lasagna.”

Vanessa's stomach growled in glee. “I haven't had breakfast. Maybe I'll just have a nibble.” She gave Miss Fanny a smile and waited for the woman to leave.

Which she didn't.

“Do you have any tea?” Miss Fanny asked. “I have a hankering to sit out in the garden and drink some hot tea. You could join me, and we could slice up that bread.”

Vanessa couldn't say no. Miss Fanny had brought her food...and this woman had known her mother. Maybe they could compare notes. “You know, I've been going through my mother's bedroom, clearing out the junk, and I need a break. We could sit out in the sunporch. I have the windows open, and it's nice and shady. If you'd like to come inside, I'll make the tea and slice the bread.”

“I'd love that,” Miss Fanny said. “I know my way to the porch, suga'. Your mother and I used to sit out there a lot.”

Vanessa held the door while Miss Fanny took her time moving inside. Then she led the way to the back of the house. The French doors to the sunporch were open. “I did clean the porch the other day. I like it out here.”

“I'll find a chair and wait for you,” Miss Fanny said, her gaze settling on the pillow and blanket on the sofa. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Vanessa glanced toward the bedroom where the journal lay on the big bed. She itched to read that journal. But maybe she did need to wait a while.

She had little time to spare, but talking to someone who might actually shed some light on her mother's strange but colorful life could be a step toward forgiveness and understanding. And besides, Miss Fanny was safe and comfortable and easy to talk to.

Not like the preacher across the street. He was easy to talk to, of course. Too easy. Too tempting. But he deserved someone special in his life. A woman who'd be willing to help him serve the people he loved.

Vanessa needed to get to know a few more people while she was here. Just for variety. And for her sanity.

Because having bread and tea with a lonely but considerate old woman had to be safer than standing in the moonlight with Rory Sanderson.

Chapter Nine

T
he weekend stretched out before Vanessa like a welcoming beach blanket. The sun was shining and the humidity was low for a change. Spring popped out on every corner and in every color, bringing the fragrances of a thousand blossoms wafting out over the warm breeze.

Standing at one of the open windows, Vanessa inhaled the scents of jasmine, honeysuckle and gardenias. Her mother had always loved gardenias. When Richard had heard Cora talking about the sweet-smelling plants, he'd ordered several from the local nursery and had them planted by both the front and back doors.

“When you sit on either of the porches, darlin',” he'd told Cora in his cultured Alabama voice, “you'll be able to enjoy your gardenias.”

Why couldn't Richard have come into their lives earlier? Vanessa thought how different things might have been. Stability, love, hope, contentment, joy. All of those things could have been theirs. But instead, Vanessa had been pulled from pillar to post, and Cora had been used and abused by men who didn't care about or respect women.

Not even when one of those men had been a so-called minister.

Turning from the window, Vanessa stared at the racks full of clothes and the card tables covered with knickknacks she planned to display at the estate sale.

Making a mental note to check one last time with the newspaper about the ad, Vanessa walked through the house again. So much left to throw out, give away or sell. But she had found some gems.

Gorgeous retro dresses from the sixties and seventies and beautiful pieces of costume jewelry, several shelves of books and cabinets full of old china and valuable ceramics.

Her mother had collected odds and ends for her art, but she'd also collected designer shoes and handbags and exquisite Hull vases and Roseville pottery. Each husband or boyfriend had bought Cora things, hoping to make her love them.

Cora had loved Richard. But Vanessa had to wonder if he hadn't died a few years after they'd gotten married, would Cora have turned on him, too?

This house was a gold mine.

But Vanessa figured the real jewel would be her mother's journal. She'd only found the one. Could there be more, hidden somewhere else? Would she find out anything about her absent father in there?

I'm too afraid to read it.

She shook her head, hoping to get back on track. She'd learned not to ask Cora about her father, so why start wondering now? She had too much to do.

Vanessa would keep some of the items and sell the rest on Vanessa's Vintage. She'd already taken photos and cataloged those and put them up on the site. Those items would be shipped to buyers or to the small warehouse she rented in New Orleans. She could sell the jewelry and clothes in her boutique, but she'd wait until after the estate sale to see how much was left.

She'd read that journal when she was done here. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to do so until she'd cleared up this house. But with each room, a new revelation came. She'd found some of her mother's artwork tucked away in a big closet.

Cora had been a talented artist. Her mother had created whimsical pieces out of mixed media. Big metal flowers stuffed with bits of fabric and button faces. Pretty picture frames made from old jewelry and exotic materials. Purses and hats covered with feathers and flowers. She'd have to save a couple of those for Miss Fanny. Their talk yesterday had helped put some of the pieces together.

“Your mother was a good person, honey. She stumbled a bit.”

Vanessa could certainly vouch for that. “I wish I could have really known her,” she told Miss Fanny. “The way you did. I watched her work, of course, but she didn't share her artistic side with me very much.”

“She didn't share that with anyone,” Miss Fanny said. “I had to force her to share with me. She was afraid someone would steal her ideas.”

“She always was possessive.” Of her art and her men. But not her only child. Cora would shut herself away in the old garage out back—her studio. Even now, Vanessa expected her mother to bark, “Go away, I'm working,” when she entered the doors.

Miss Fanny took a sip of tea. “She had a jealous streak.”

Miss Fanny told Vanessa stories of their time together, which happened mostly during the hours when Vanessa was at school. Sweet stories that showed a side of Cora that Vanessa had never noticed. They went to the beach together and shopped and ate meals together. Miss Fanny's husband tolerated these outings since he was a professor and was always buried in a textbook. And Miss Fanny tolerated Cora's mood swings and constant self-doubts.

“We were back and forth across the yards. We'd go to art fairs and sit all day, hoping to sell one or two pieces. It wasn't a profitable life, but it was a good life. Your mother gained some notoriety as a local artist. After she married Richard, she was happy here until—”

“Until I left and then Richard died.”

“Yes. She missed both of you terribly.”

They'd talked a bit more before Miss Fanny went back home. But so much had been left unsaid. Vanessa wondered if her neighbor knew the truth, knew everything. Didn't good friends share such things? Had Cora walked across to the little white chapel and asked God to forgive her?

The phone rang, jarring Vanessa away from the dark memories.

“Hi, it's Marla. How's the sorting going?”

“Slow,” Vanessa said. “How are you?”

“Busy,” Marla replied. “A lot of birthday parties and anniversaries. Everyone wants cupcakes or a big cake. And graduations and Mother's Day are coming up. Busy blessed.”

“You are blessed,” Vanessa replied. “I'm preparing for the big sale and shipping things out for my online site.”

“Need any help?”

“No. It's easier to take my time and do it by myself.”

“Well, you also need a break. We're having a cookout Saturday. Want to come over?”

Vanessa glanced at the things still left undone. “That's tempting. A lot of people?”

“No. Just a few.”

Would Rory be there?

She couldn't keep doing this. “I don't know—”

“Yes, Rory will be there,” Marla said, her intuitive nature shining through. “Is that a deal breaker?”

“I'm not sure. I mean, he's nice and interesting and...kind.”

“But?”

“But I...I want to get this over with and go back to my life.”

And she needed to run away from Rory. She would only make him miserable.

“Is it that hard, going through her things?”

“Yes. And no. It's soothing in one way but horrible in another. I found her journal.”

“Wow. Did you read it?”

“Not yet. I'm too chicken.”

“It's yours now, Vanessa. And it might give you some answers.”

“Or it could make things worse.”

“You need to hear the good and the bad,” Marla said. “Or you'll always wonder.”

“I think you're right. I'll read it once I have things in order here.”

They talked a few more minutes and then Marla asked, “So, do you want to come over for burgers or not?”

“I'll think about it and let you know. Thanks for inviting me.”

She'd put down her phone when the doorbell rang.

Thinking she might not ever get back to work, Vanessa hurried to the door.

And opened it to find Rory standing there.

“Hi,” she said, feeling like a guilty kid for having just talked about him. He wore casual clothes, as usual. A button-up shirt and jeans, dock shoes, no socks.

Again, so different from the image of a minister she held in her memories.

“Hi.” He gave her that dazzling smile. “Uh... I was supposed to tell you that we're having a meeting about the rummage sale tonight. Barbara, my adorable and organized barracuda of a secretary, said you need to be there since you'll be having your estate sale at the same time. We'll do flyers to advertise both so people will expect to find both, if you agree. She likes everything neat and tidy with no surprises.”

Vanessa had to smile at that. “And you kind of go with the flow, right?”

“Right.” He gave her a hopeful stare. “Can you come?”

He looked like a little boy, all grins and excitement.

Contagious.

He was contagious. And she was catching it bad.

“I guess that might be wise. I'll share the cost of the ads. I don't mind paying as a contribution.”

“No, oh, no. We take care of such things with an army of stoic volunteers who take their jobs very seriously. Ad cost has been donated already. We might get a healthy competition going between us, though. So be warned.”

“You're on,” she replied with a smile. She'd give part of her final tally to the church. “What time is the meeting?”

“Six tonight.” He glanced behind her. “Hey, you've made progress.”

“Yes.” She lifted a hand and ignored the warning bell inside her head. “Come in and take a glance.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She wasn't sure at all, but she liked being around him. “I've managed to get through a couple of rooms.”

“I can't imagine having to do this. Each item must have a memory.”

She nodded. “But they're more her memories than mine. Every now and then I find something that makes me remember more and more, though.”

He trailed his fingers over an old leather jacket hanging on a rack. “Do you want to remember?”

“Not all of it, no. But it wasn't all bad. I can see that now.”

“I've said it before but I'm offering again. I can help,” he said, turning to her. “I want to help.”

Vanessa wasn't sure. She couldn't let him in too close to her heart. “You mean, with my memories or this house?”

His eyes went a soft, gentle blue. “With whatever you need.”

“Shouldn't you be out nurturing souls or comforting sick people?”

He actually snorted out a chuckle. “Yes, but wouldn't I be doing that by helping you?”

“Do you think I need nurturing or that I'm sick?”

He stepped closer, his blue eyes locking on her. “I think you're grieving and dealing with a lot. You don't have to do it all alone.”

“It's getting better,” she said, wishing that were true. But pushing him away shielded her from breaking down completely.

He wasn't buying it, however. “Let me help, Vanessa.”

Doubt clouded over her need to give in. Anger filtered through the tug and pull of his words. “Why do you want to help?”

“It's what I do. It's how I'm made.” He shrugged. “And besides, I like being with you. Keeps Barbara from badgering me.”

“Oh, so you came over here with an excuse about a meeting, but you really want to hide out from your secretary?”

“Yes, something like that.”

She knew if she said yes to his offer, this would be a turning point between them. If she said no, he'd go on about his business but he'd keep trying. He
was
made that way.

“Okay,” she said, the decision already set. Keeping her tone light, she added, “I do need a big strong man to do some heavy lifting.”

“I don't see one of those,” he quipped.

“I think you'll do just fine, Preacher.”

He winked at her and flexed his muscles.

And Vanessa had to admit, he looked strong and healthy and...good. Too good. She willed herself to a calm she didn't feel. “Let's get started then.”

“Lead the way,” he said, right behind her.

Too close. But having him close was a new kind of sensation. A pleasant one.

* * *

Rory groaned and collapsed on the grass near the open doors of the garage. “Remind me to never, ever ask you if you need help again.”

“You did keep after me.”

He glanced up at the woman grinning down at him, her fawn-colored hair flowing like a mysterious waterfall around her face. “I did offer, yes.”

And he would keep offering. This had gone from trying to get her back right with God to trying to find the courage to ask her out on a date. Could he witness to her over a candlelight dinner?

“I brought iced tea,” she said, holding the big plastic cup out over him. Her moods were as swift and unpredictable as the waters out in the Gulf.

A cold drop of condensation hit Rory square on the forehead. “Hey!”

She laughed and backed away. “You might be more comfortable in a chair.”

Rory got up and checked his watch. “Okay. A quick drink and then I have to report back, or Barbara will send out a posse.”

Vanessa gave him his tea and then took a sip of her own. “I didn't mean to keep you over here so long.”

“It's fine. We don't have a lot going on.” He shrugged. “Today is sermon day. I'm usually holed up in my office on Thursday afternoon, trying to decide what to say on any given Sunday.”

“How
do
you decide what to say?” she asked, her ever-changing hazel eyes shining with questions.

Rory felt that rush of joy he always got whenever someone wanted to know about God. “I pray about it and I search the Scriptures and I follow the calendar—the seasons.”

One of her eyebrows lifted while her eyes narrowed. “Ah, the seasons. You mean, like Christmas and Easter?”

“And a whole lot of other seasons,” he replied. He could tell her all about that, but now that he'd moved from ministering to possibly making the moves on her, he had to tread very lightly. “Right now it's spring and the flowers are blooming and it's the season of rebirth and new beginnings. Spring always gives me hope.”

“Hope?” She looked hopeful. She looked beautiful with the afternoon sun chasing at her.

“Yes, hope. We have to have hope, don't we?”

“I don't know,” she said, her smile dimming. “I've forgotten what that's like.”

“Well, then, we'll have to remedy that.” He stood and drained the sweet, icy tea. “I will see you tonight for the meeting. That's the first order of business.”