waited to see if Peter would save him the trouble and quit.
Instead, Peter picked up his scruffy backpack and stalked off toward the office.
Bret remembered his promise to Sam that he’d pick up breakfast at the café. “Just a minute.”
Peter slowed down, but didn’t come to a complete stop.
“I’m going out for awhile. Anything comes up, you can reach me on my cell.”
“Whatever.”
Regretting hiring the man for the thousandth time, Bret turned the sign on the door and headed to his apartment over the shop via the outside stairwell. Employing Peter had been a favor. One of his older customers, Val Gertenstal, had convinced Bret that although Peter wasn’t a people person, he was a genius with plants. When they’d been fully staffed, Peter’s odd ways hadn’t mattered, since he worked in the cultivating area. Now that he was expected to help on both sides of the business, every ugly thorn was showing. And sticking into Bret’s hide.
Once inside his apartment, Bret grabbed a cooler. Neighbors would eventually deluge Sam with casseroles and anything else she needed. Just as soon as the truth came out about the extent of the fire.
Frowning, he wondered if she really had changed that much. She’d always been as honest as they came. Even though it had ripped out his heart, Sam had been truthful about why she’d left years earlier. Their priorities hadn’t meshed. Words he would never forget.
By the time Bret got back to her house, Sam was staring out the large bay window in the living room. Always independent, she had to be chafing at all the constraints.
He moved the dining room chairs away from one side of the table so Sam would have easy access. “You’d better get over here if you don’t want cold eggs.”
She continued to stare out the window.
“Let me rephrase. I don’t want cold eggs, so get a move on.”
Startled, she pivoted, then stared.
“Chair isn’t going to roll over here on its own.” He set the Styrofoam cups of coffee on the table. “You still take sugar?”
“Uh, yeah. One.” She reached slowly to move the wheels.
“Eggs are all scrambled. Thought that was easier. Della put in bacon, sausage and I don’t know what all.”
“Della’s still at the café?”
“Yep. And still telling me to eat my vegetables.”
That edged out a smile as Samantha neared the table. “Guess she thought we ought to eat something besides French fries.”
“A potato is a vegetable.” Watching, he saw her glance at the food.
The arms of Samantha’s wheelchair fit easily beneath the century-old mahogany table. Although the house was Victorian, the furnishings were Edwardian and simpler in nature. They had been passed down along with the house. Samantha’s mother, Joyce, had added her own touches—particularly her love of collectibles, lots of collectibles. Still, the house hadn’t changed that much since it was built, aside from updates to the kitchen and bathrooms. But Bret suspected it was far different from Sam’s New York style.
The waitress had sent along a stack of real plates and silverware. “Della said we can return this stuff whenever.”
“So she knows?” Samantha asked in a small voice.
“Have to start somewhere. How ’bout calling your uncle later?”
Samantha ducked her head. “It would hurt his feelings if he heard from somebody else.” Her father’s brother, Uncle Don, and his family had always been close to hers. Joyce, an only child, didn’t have as many relatives. “I’ve made a real mess of things, haven’t I?”
“Not yet.”
The self-pity faded from her eyes. “Gee, don’t hold back. Say what you think.”
“You already know what I think.”
She sniffed the delicious aroma of fresh biscuits. “Hard to miss.”
He handed her a biscuit on a small plate. “We have enough condiments to open our own café.”
Her fragile hand shook as she picked up the biscuit and took a bite. Even though Sam had always been petite, she’d also been physically strong and active. It shocked him that she was so thin it looked like the breeze from a hand-held fan would blow her over. As she concentrated on her biscuit, Bret took the opportunity to scoop some eggs onto her plate.
“I’d forgotten how good these are.” Sam took a second tiny bite of the warm, buttery biscuit. “Almost as good as my mom’s.” She glanced down at the eggs on her plate. “I can’t eat all that.”
“Then how do you expect to get better?”
Sam lifted her chin. “I don’t.”
“Yeah.”
“I made my peace with it.”
“Right.”
She drew her eyebrows together. “Don’t trip over your empathy.”
“Don’t intend to. You have to want to get better.”
Her eyes suddenly blazed, something he remembered well. “You think I want to be in this chair?”
Bret reached for the bacon. “You’re not doing much to get out of it.”
She gulped back a deep breath. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You never used to be a quitter. The Samantha I knew would be doing everything she could to walk again.”
The blaze faded. “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t know me anymore.”
“So that’s it? You can’t afford rehab so you’re just giving up?”
“What do you suggest I do? Rob a bank? Might be a little problem with the getaway.”
The old Samantha was still there. She just didn’t know it.
Samantha twisted her hands together as she waited nervously for her Uncle Don. He’d been shocked to hear she was back in Rosewood, but he’d also sounded excited.
Bret had stayed to work on the ramp. He had told her flatly he wasn’t leaving until the ramp and a temporary threshold adjustment were finished. She’d almost forgotten how bossy he could be. Sam wished he would stay until her family came and give her a little moral support. Which was totally stupid, since he was clearly trying to leave as fast as he could. He’d been pounding in nails as if he had a tornado at his heels.
Not wanting to sit in front of the large bay window looking like a waif, she’d chosen to wait in the living room. Still, she could hear the rumble and lift of voices outside. Her uncle hadn’t
