of her living room, Rachel had finally allowed herself a good cry. Crying always made things better.
The doctor had said Maxwell was doing fine and could be released tomorrow. Rachel had been able to stay overnight because the hospital rooms featured a pull-out sofa bed for parents and family.
This morning she’d had a house closing at a mortgage office just down the street from the hospital, so had slipped out at seven-thirty. Maxwell was an early riser, and probably woke not long after she’d left. She hoped he hadn’t felt too alone without her here, but also knew her son was industrious and enjoyed mornings on his own, puttering about the house, making toast with strawberry jelly for breakfast, doing homework out on the patio, and generally starting the day quietly.
The closing had run an hour longer than she’d expected. Had she really left her son alone in the hospital? Bad mother.
Bad mother who was trying to support a family and pay medical bills, she reminded herself. She forced a smile for Maxwell’s sake. Of course, it wasn’t hard being cheerful around her son. And she had always possessed an innate cheeriness that sometimes drove even her bonkers. She wished Maxwell had inherited that particular gene. He was such a serious child. Not depressing serious, just…astute for his age.
Rachel paused outside Maxwell’s room when she heard sniffling.
“Oh, my baby.”
She had wondered how long Maxwell would be able to hold up without showing some sign of pain or defeat. He’d led an enchanted life up until now. He’d been sick only once or twice, and had never injured himself. The doctor had assured her it wasn’t uncommon for children to undergo surgery once in their lifetime, but she hadn’t wanted it for her son.
It hurt her to know he was crying. He did it rarely, and over the most incredible things, such as finding a dead butterfly in the backyard, or hearing that a friend’s dog had died. Briefly, she wondered if he’d want her to see him crying, but she couldn’t stay outside and let him suffer alone.
Surprised at the sight of the handsome man who rose from the chair beside Maxwell’s bed, Rachel immediately looked to her son, who was wiping a tear from his eye. The television was on, and that, even more than finding a stranger in Maxwell’s room, set her off.
“You’re watching a movie?” she said to her son, trying to keep the accusatory tone from her voice. She turned her frustration toward the adult in the room instead. “And who are you?”
He extended his hand but refused to shake it.
“Sam Jones,” he said. “I was delivering movies when I happened to see your son sitting alone and looking bored. Me and Maxwell found one to watch we both liked.”
“I see. I suppose Maxwell neglected to tell you he’s not allowed to watch movies without my permission?”
“Oh.” The man—Sam—raked his fingers through his sandy brown hair, which Rachel noticed looked even better when tousled, save for the flakes of what she now figured was sawdust that sprinkled the air. He was covered with the stuff. “Sorry. I didn’t know that.”
“I imagine not.” She shot Maxwell the evil eye, but wisely, he avoided looking at her. “So, Mr. Jones, do you often enter children’s rooms and entice them with movies when they should be doing their homework?”
“No, I… Don’t make it sound like that. Maxwell is a good kid. I just wanted to see him smile. Which he did.”
Sam twisted to high-five Maxwell, and her son moved to meet the man’s palm with his, but stopped when he caught Rachel’s condemning glare. Sam slid the offending palm down his sweatshirt, which was splashed with unidentifiable stuff she assumed must be related to the sawdust.
A carpenter? If she wasn’t so angry, she’d consider her luck at meeting the one person she could really use right now.
“Anyway,” Sam said, “the toaster saved the day, and the blanket got back home, along with the vacuum and the radio.”
“I…” Rachel didn’t have a clue what to say. While the man was disturbingly sexy, and certain parts of her were softening and wanting to stand there and take him in, the dedicated mother who protected her son at all costs was outraged. “I think you should leave, Mr. Jones, or I’ll have to report you to Security.”
“Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”
Sam glanced at Maxwell, and Rachel caught her son’s fading smile. The man had just wanted to see him smile?
“He’s okay, Mom,” Maxwell finally said. “Even if he does have a bad case of dandruff.”
Sam brushed off his shoulders. “It’s sawdust, buddy. Hazard of the trade. I’m a carpenter.”
“You are?” Her son’s own shoulders lifted. “But we need—“
“For you to get some rest,” Rachel interrupted, before Maxwell could explain the disaster in their garage that was in desperate need of elbow grease and new lumber. “I’m sure Mr. Jones has work to get back to.”
“Right. I do have a job this afternoon. Handyman stuff, mostly.”
“Oh.” Now that he’d said the word handyman, she remembered hearing about him. At least, she’d heard about the sexy guy who wielded a hammer and an easy smile. Seemed the entire female population in the neighborhood absolutely hummed when he was anywhere in the vicinity. “You’re Handy Sam? I’ve heard of you,” Rachel said, before she could tamp down her growing interest.
“Really?” He hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and straightened proudly. “Good, bad or otherwise?”
She shrugged and made a show of considering the options. “Otherwise. I know some of the neighborhood mothers break things on purpose so they can call you over.”
And she completely understood that wacky compulsion now that her anger had subsided a bit and she could look at the man with a woman’s eye.
“No way. They break stuff?”
“Mrs. McTavish told me she shoved a Reader’s Digest down her toilet just last week, and blamed it on her three-year-old.”
Sam winced. “I thought it seemed a little suspicious when she greeted me at the door with martinis.”
“Yes, well, you said you had work to do,” Rachel insisted.
Sam got the hint. Grabbing the box of DVDs from the end of the bed, he strode to the door. “Nice to meet you, Maxwell. We had a good time with the toaster. And again, I’m sorry, Mrs. McHenry.”
Rachel was about to correct him that it was Miss—always had been—but instead she nodded stiffly and moved to close the door behind him. Sam Jones smelled like sawdust and looked like a man she would love to tuck in her purse and take home with her, just to watch the neighborhood ladies’ tongues wag.
She did have a legitimate reason to invite him over, so why hadn’t she?
“He was nice,” Maxwell commented, his attention focused on his homework.
Rachel
