the microwave hummed, he checked his voice mail and glanced through the day’s snail mail. Neither produced anything interesting or urgent to distract him from his restlessness.
Setup for the annual arts and craft fair, which he and Linda had been involved in starting, was going smoothly. The quality of work for sale was better than ever, publicity had gone like clockwork, and the weather was cooperating. His kids were getting along.
So what the hell was wrong with him?
Of course he knew. Something about Helen Schaefer’s big brown eyes had gotten to him. He’d loved her smile, her gurgle of a laugh, her puckered forehead when she concentrated on laying out the soap. His hand had itched to touch her hair, a shade of auburn that could be subtle or brash depending on the light.
He was pretty sure she’d worn no makeup to enhance her creamy skin. Her hair had been scraped back in a ponytail so tight it looked painful. Her gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans sure hadn’t been worn to entice. But something about her had punched him in the gut.
He scowled at the microwave, which beeped obediently as if he’d terrified it into finishing. About time. He didn’t like hanging around the kitchen.
Carrying a soda and his plate of pizza, he stopped in his tracks. Funny, it hadn’t occurred to him until this minute how uncomfortable he was out here.
He turned around and looked at the room he and Linda had redone when the kids were little. Small-paned windows framed a view over roof-tops of Puget Sound. Mexican tiles covered the floor, their warm russet color echoed in the smaller hand-painted tiles that formed the countertop and backsplash. They’d eaten most of their meals at the antique table in the center of the room. In those days, he had paid bills at the desk in a nook that had once been the pantry. A refinished armoire had held toys and games, and the kids played on rag rugs Linda wove on crude looms. She had always kept several vases filled with flowers in here. They’d loved the kitchen when they were done remodeling it. They had lived in here.
The kids still ate at the kitchen table when they gobbled breakfast or lunch, but when the three of them sat down for a meal together, it was in the dining room. He didn’t even remember what excuse he’d used to initiate the change. They were all probably too numb to notice.
He couldn’t stand the kitchen because it reminded him of his wife. As if he’d conjured her, he saw Linda turning from the stove, smiling at him. She had been a tall woman, only a couple of inches shorter than Alec, her Swedish blond beauty flawed only by a nose she claimed was too big, and by a tendency to be clumsy. The first time they met, she fell into his arms. Literally. Given her size, he’d barely kept her from crashing to the ground.
“Linda,” he whispered, and she faded, taking with her the clear memory of her face.
Turning abruptly, he fled the kitchen for his office. There, the photograph of his wife was too familiar to bring her to life.
Looking away from it, he had a flash of memory in which he saw another woman’s face, another woman’s smile.
And the glint of gold and diamonds on the other woman’s left hand.
As he lifted the can of soda to take a swallow, he eyed his own wedding ring.
There was undoubtedly a Mr. Schaefer, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it? There was something about Helen, who confessed to loving scents redolent of kitchen and home, that had given him hope he might love again.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he remembered the bar of soap still sitting on the seat in the car. He’d have to go get it. Start his day tomorrow with the pungent scent of eucalyptus.
CHAPTER TWO
“DO YOU HAVE the cash box?” eight-year-old Ginny asked, with the air of someone who constantly has to remind her mother how to drive, cook and tie her shoelaces.
“In my bag,” Helen confirmed, hiding her smile. She locked her car, parked on the gravel shoulder of a side street. “Ready?”
“Of course,” her daughter said with preternatural composure. A small, slight figure, she adjusted her day pack on her shoulder. “We’d better hurry.”
It was true, Helen saw with a glance at her watch. A minor accident on Aurora had slowed traffic to a crawl.
She and Ginny walked as fast as they could the few blocks to the elementary school field where the arts and craft fair had sprouted like a peculiar mushroom after a rainfall. Even first thing on Friday morning, tantalizing aromas drifted from the food booths that had sprung up around the periphery. Colorful flags fluttered above the red-and-white-striped tents. The juried art show was in the gymnasium, and another displaying children’s art filled the halls of the school. Banners were slung along chain-link fences.
Helen had just time to tie back the front flaps of her tent, say hi to her neighboring exhibitors and put money in the cash register before the first shoppers, a pair of women, wandered in.
“Ooh!” one exclaimed, lifting a bar of soap. “Smell this one.”
Ginny gave her mother a satisfied smile.
Kathleen was working at her day job today, but, with her daughter Emma, could handle the booth tomorrow. Jo, who had roomed with the two women until she married Kathleen’s brother, Ryan, had promised to spend a few hours here this afternoon to give Helen a break.
By ten-thirty in the morning, the grassy aisles between the rows of tents were clogged with mothers pushing strollers, fathers bouncing toddlers on their shoulders and grandmothers outfitted with walkers and flowery hats. Overshirts were vanishing into tote bags. Spaghetti straps and straw hats abounded. The day promised to be the hottest yet in July, which meant the mercury would top eighty. Given the humidity, Helen was glad to be in the shade most of the time.
Ginny’s shyness vanished at craft fairs. She gravely answered questions, helped people find particular soaps and assured them that the shampoo was “the best.”
“My hair is really clean.” She tilted her head so these particular women could see. “Some of the stuff from stores makes me itch. Mom says my skin is sensitive.”
One of the women hid her smile. “Really. Mine is, too. Heck, I’ll give it a try.”
“So’s Buster’s skin.” Her companion reached for a bottle of the pet shampoo. “That darn dog is allergic to everything!”
Ginny smiled her approval. “Auntie Kathleen doesn’t put anything artificial in her shampoos or soaps.”
Both women laughed. Ginny looked puzzled. Her solemnity and adult speech came naturally to her. Somehow, after her father’s death, she’d quit being a child. Once she came out of her shell, she was a miniature adult. She could never understand why real grown-ups found her amusing.
“What a doll!” The woman with the pet shampoo took bills from her wallet. “Is she yours?”
“Yes.” Helen smiled as she made change. “She’s eight going on forty.”
“And what a saleswoman.”
Helen laughed, too, although she worried about Ginny. An eight-year-old should be playing with Barbies or jumping rope with friends, not going to work with her mom. But this was almost always Ginny’s preference. She did have a few friends, which was an improvement over two years ago, but she would politely turn down offers to go to one of their houses if her mother was working a craft fair that day. Helen could never decide whether Ginny loved selling soap so much, or whether this was another manifestation of the way she’d clung after Ben died.
But if Helen argued, Ginny would gaze up at her with wounded eyes and say, “But aren’t I a help? You always say I am.”
What could Helen do but throw up her hands. “Of course you are! I just don’t want you to feel you have to come.”
“I want to.”
So here Ginny was, a skinny little