to look twice at a woman with Rose’s reputation, but she knew that what men said in public and did in private were often very different things. Sixteen years ago, no one had believed that Rick Lindstrom, star athlete and the most popular boy of the senior class, could possibly be interested in awkward, unsophisticated Wild Rose Robbin.
She pushed the thoughts away. Flying under the radar was the only way to survive.
“Well, you know…” She coughed. “The trees are alive.”
Evan laughed, carving grooves into his cheeks. “Please don’t tell Lucy that. I had to cut a branch off the oak beside our house. It was scratching her window-pane.”
“She has imagination.”
“Too much, I think.”
“Uh.” Rose was feeling all choppy again. “Nice kid, anyway. I guess.”
Evan glanced over his shoulder. “I should leave.”
Rose couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to get on her about spying on the practice.
“I promised Lucy we’d go to the diner to pick up some takeout and have our dinner at the picnic tables by the harbor. Maybe you want to come with us?”
Rose had been ready to take off. Instead she froze. The man had to be kidding. Or he was a kindly soul throwing her a pity invitation. She got them occasionally, from the motherly owner of Bay House B and B, or Pastor Mike’s do-gooding wife. Rose almost always said no.
“No,” she croaked, not looking at Evan. “No, thanks. I have work soon. Night shift at the Buck Stop.”
“But don’t you have to eat before you go on?”
“I get something at the store.”
“Shrink-wrapped burritos. Twinkies. That stuff doesn’t make a good dinner.” He smiled at himself. “Listen to me. Lecturing you like you’re my daughter. Who is sure to insist on deep-fried, unidentifiable chicken bits and Mountain Dew.”
Rose was too unnerved to play along. “Do I look like a health nut?”
He was too nice a guy to take the opportunity to check out her boobs in a tank top that had shrunk in the dryer. His gaze stayed on her face, but that was bad enough. She had to meet his eyes. And he had warm, charismatic eyes—not confrontational. Not judgmental.
Which was confusing to Rose. She had little experience in being affable. Her fringe role in the community was established. Nothing much was expected from her, and she liked it that way. If feelings of desolation began creeping in, she always had Roxy Whitaker, who could be called a friend in a casual way. They’d gone berry-picking just a month ago.
“Next time,” Evan said with a shrug. He turned to go.
Rose exhaled. “Yeah.”
Tickled with shivers, she untied the hooded jacket from around her waist and pulled it on. There wouldn’t be a next time if she could help it.
CHAPTER TWO
“DADDY? DADDY…”
Lucy’s high-pitched voice woke Evan from a light doze. He reacted before his brain was at full speed, lurching up from the easy chair and stumbling over the ottoman that had skidded out from beneath his feet. The yammer and glitz of a familiar late-night talk show filled the room. Around midnight, then.
Evan shook his bleary head, coming awake enough to stop and listen, hoping that Lucy would settle on her own. As much as he wanted to reassure his daughter’s every fear, the clinginess and anxieties hadn’t abated as he’d been told they would. Her mother, Krissa, had been gone for a year and a half. More. Nineteen months. Roughly a third of Lucy’s life.
Nineteen months and the worry that his fumbling efforts were hurting Lucy more than helping her still sat in Evan’s gut like a leaden weight. With a tired exhale, he found the remote control and Sports Illustrated he’d dropped when he stood, then clicked off the TV.
Lucy’s call escalated to a panicky howl. “Dad-deee!”
Evan’s foot crunched down on a bag of pretzels as he hurried from the living room. But he didn’t stop. “Coming, Lucy.”
Her bedroom door was directly across from his in the modest single-story house. Butterfly night-lights were plugged into outlets in the hall and in Lucy’s room. They’d helped some, but she continued to wake during the night, frightened of dreams, of shadows, of trees, of thunderstorms, of being alone.
Lucy was a small, huddled shape in the bed. Tears glistened in her eyes. Although Evan’s heart went out to her, he kept his tone matter-of-fact. “What’s up, honey? You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“There’s a m-m-monster in the corner.”
And in the closet. Under the bed. At the window.
“You know monsters aren’t real. Why didn’t you turn on your lamp to see?”
Lucy drew in a shuddery breath. “I was too scared to move. The monster would eat me.”
“Go ahead and do it now.” According to the book he’d found in the library, Comforting the Timid Child, he should try to get Lucy to take her own proactive steps to combat the fears.
Reassured by his presence, she pushed aside her covers and leaned over to reach the bedside lamp. He’d bought her a new one recently, easy to turn on by a switch in the base.
Click. Light flooded the room.
“See there?” Evan said. “It’s just a lump on the chair from the extra blanket and your jacket. Hey, little girl! Weren’t you supposed to hang that up?” Lucy was usually orderly. Too much so, he thought. He’d like to see her noisy and laughing, barreling around the house, even breaking things.
But that was how he’d grown up, with three brothers and parents who only threw up their hands in cheerful surrender as they rounded up their sons like bumptious sheep. Raising a little girl like Lucy was a different matter. There were times he felt that he’d never get it right.
“I’ll do it just this once,” he said heartily, taking the jacket to her closet. Lucy watched with big eyes, probably thinking a witch would jump out when he opened the door.
As Evan put the jacket onto a hanger, he felt something in the pocket. He pulled out a piece of stiff paper. “What’s this?”
Lucy held out her hands, suddenly smiling and happy. “My picture!”
He glanced at the small painting, finding it innocuous enough. Yet it had made Lucy forget her fears, at least for the moment.
“Rose gave it to me. She painted it.”
“Ah.” Evan approached the bed, studying the picture more closely in the lamplight. He’d have expected Rose’s artwork to be bold and graphic. This was soft, romantic. She’d painted a stone house, covered with climbing vines and pink flowers, surrounded by trees.
Lucy took the painting. “It’s a fairy-tale house.”
