had thought she was asking for trouble, and had cautioned her against it.
But Hattie had just shrugged. “Let him have a chance.”
“You mean it?” Sam remembered the old man saying.
Hattie had nodded. “I could use a man around to help out.”
Benjamin stayed. Being needed—really needed—did something that all the well-meaning programs he’d tried couldn’t do. Benjamin grabbed the chance Hattie gave him with both hands and hung on for dear life. Sam didn’t think he’d ever taken a drink again. He’d certainly never turned up drunk as far as Sam had ever heard. From then on, Benjamin kept the plumbing in perfect running order, installed whirlpool baths in four of the rooms, and definitely earned his keep.
Later that year, when Hattie bought a little house halfway down the bluff, intending to use it for long-term rentals, Benjamin had helped her restore it, then moved into the bottom floor as an on-site caretaker. A little over a year ago Hattie had deeded the house to him. He was taken care of.
Which was probably, Sam reflected, the only reason he hadn’t got left Benjamin in the will.
Or Cletus, another of Hattie’s “projects,” who came ambling up the walk now. Cletus was perhaps seventy-five to Benjamin’s eighty, and he, too, had been aimless when Hattie had met him at the soup kitchen. They’d talked about how nice the lilacs were that year, and Hattie had invited him up to see hers.
He’d arrived on a bicycle, looking a bit shabby but clean in a threadbare navy blazer and khakis, with a distinctive sprig of lilac in his buttonhole.
He thought hers needed pruning. “Have to do it in the fall,” he’d told her. Then he’d surveyed the lawn and gardens critically. “Got to get wire props for those peonies,” he had told her. “And a better arbor for the grapes.”
“Can you make an arbor?” Hattie had asked.
Cletus had made the arbor and had been here ever since.
Now he set the wheelbarrow full of potting plants down and stood looking Sam up and down.
“How you doing, Cletus?” Sam offered his hand.
Cletus grunted and took Sam’s hand, but the shake he gave it was little more than a jerk. “Took you long enough.”
Sam frowned. “I got here as soon as I could I was in the Orient when Hattie died. I couldn’t get back in time for the funeral.”
He got another grunt. Two in fact. One from each of them.
He frowned. “I’m here now. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I’ll get things sorted out.”
Cletus looked stern. “Damn right you will.”
“I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.” Benjamin gave Cletus a satisfied nod.
Sam was glad someone had faith in him. “Of course I will,” he said stoutly. He looked at Clews to see how he’d taken Benjamin’s support. The glance netted him an uncompromisingly steely stare.
“We’re counting on you,” Cletus said at last. What the hell was going on here? Did they think he was going to sell the place out from under them?
“I’ll see that you’re both taken care of,” he promised.
“Tain’t us we’re worried about,” Cletus said. “It’s Josie.”
“I’ll take care of Josie,” Sam promised.
It was apparently the right thing to say. Both men beamed.
“Knew it,” Benjamin said.
“Good lad,” Cletus agreed, and clapped him on the back.
Sam allowed himself a moment to bask in their approval, then asked, “Where is she?”
“In the kitchen. She didn’t say you were comin’.”
Sam shifted from one foot to the other. “I didn’t call.” And he wasn’t explaining why. But there was one thing he wanted to know before he saw her. “Is...she married?”
Benjamin stared at him. “Married?”
Cletus took off his spectacles and wiped them. Then, setting them back on his nose, he looked squarely at Sam. “Not yet.”
Sam sighed. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d never had much appreciation for Kurt’s finer qualities. He might be God’s gift to deep thinkers everywhere, but he seemed entirely too cavalier about the woman he loved for Sam’s taste.
“I’ll go talk to her now.” He started around the house toward the back door.
He could have gone to the front, but that would have meant ringing the bell and waiting for Josie to let him in. It would have meant she could see him before she opened the double leaded glass doors. The advantage would have been hers.
He wanted the advantage to be his.
He saw her through the kitchen window. There was a long island counter just inside the door and she was behind it, arranging flowers. Josie was tall, a good four inches taller than Izzy, with long, lush brown hair that had always glinted red in the sun. Sam remembered wanting to run his fingers through her hair from the first day he’d met her when she was barely more than a child. He’d always restrained himself until—
He jammed his hands in his pockets.
She could have seen him coming if she’d been looking up. But she was concentrating on putting flowers in a variety of vases. Daffodils, baby’s breath, carnations—bright fresh bouquets that brought the outdoors into each room, as she’d once told him. Sam remembered the drill.
She’d been doing it the day of her birthday, the day Kurt had stood her up, the day he’d invited her to his room for a drink, the day—
Hell! The only thing now was to apologize, admit he’d made a mistake—that they’d both made a mistake—then, like the civilized individuals they were, they could put it behind them. And go on.
He opened the door.
Josie looked up over the vases, a smile on her face. It faded at the sight of him. All the color in her face faded, too.
Sam’s jaw clenched. He drew a careful breath. “Josie,” he said, with what he hoped was the right blend of distance and camaraderie.
She swallowed. “Sam.”
He felt as if he’d been slapped.
He was used to seeing Josie’s face light up when he came in the room. He was used to a sparkle in her eyes, a grin on her face. There was no grin now, no sparkle. The look she gave him was shuttered. As remote as if she were standing behind a steel wall. He wasn’t even entitled to the cheerful innkeeper persona that so endeared her to The Shields House clientele.
Well, fine. Sam pressed his lips together, then gave a curt jerk of his head,
