meetings on the chance that he’d see her again.
* * *
“But I don’t want to stay here,” nine-year-old Nathan grumbled, glaring at his mother through his wire-rimmed glasses. They were too small for his face, reminding Carissa that he needed to have his eyes reexamined. All the more reason for this visit. She just had to have some uninterrupted work time. Otherwise, she was going to lose her job.
Selling technical service over the phone from home wasn’t the perfect job. For one thing, it didn’t pay particularly well. For another, when home was a two-bedroom apartment shared by two adults and three children, chaos was the norm, and that made it difficult for her to meet her monthly quota. On the other hand, working from home meant that she didn’t have to pay for child care. Still, no quota, no job—which was why she had finally accepted her aunt’s offer to babysit. She just hoped that her mother didn’t get wind of it. The last thing she needed was for Alexandra to show up, offering her limited, strings-attached services.
Carissa looked at the stately building. Chatam House, where her uncle Chester and aunt Hilda lived and worked, was a mansion. Old and elegant, it was fronted by a deep, cool porch supported by majestic white columns, with redbrick walkways and steps. Well, she had no time to moon over tall windows, many rooms and dark, loamy beds bursting with flowers.
“I have to work today, Nathan, and Grandpa’s doctor says he needs some peace and quiet so he can rest. You’ll have fun with Uncle Chester and Aunt Hilda today.”
Holding each of the younger children, Tucker and Grace, by the hand, Carissa led the way around the house. She’d been told to park in front to keep from blocking the carport, or porte cochere, as Chester called it. They stepped off the walkway and into gravel, trudging along beside the mansion and past a bronze Subaru Outback to the side door. While she knocked on the bright yellow door with the old-fashioned fan-shaped window above it, the kids crowded onto the porch behind her, bumping against big terra-cotta pots spilling over with flowers.
“Hang on!” called a muffled voice after a moment. “I’m coming.”
Carissa backed up as far as she could and folded her arms to hide the empty hole in her simple white blouse where the button was missing. The door opened, and a tall man stepped up to the threshold. Make that a very tall man.
A smile in place, she spoke as she tilted her head back. “Hello. I’m—”
“Carissa Hopper,” he supplied, grinning.
At the same time, she exclaimed, “Phillip?”
They both followed with “What are you doing here?”
He chuckled. “I live here.” While she blinked at that, he thrust his hand forward. “It’s Phillip Chatam, by the way.”
She shook hands with him, remembering only at the last instant to leave one arm folded across her middle. “I—I didn’t realize.”
He held her hand in his big, hard one. “You came in late to the meeting last night. I guess Hub didn’t say my last name when he introduced us.” Pulling free, she grasped her elbows, hiding the empty hole in her blouse and separating herself from Phillip’s warmth. “What can I do for you?” he asked, rocking back on his heels.
“My aunt offered to watch my kids today.”
“Your aunt?”
“Hilda Worth. Chester Worth is my father’s brother.”
Phillip Chatam’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. “Chester and Hilda are your family? So, they’re the ones who sent you to the—”
“Yes,” she interrupted. She didn’t want the kids to know where she’d been. Grief was a word they’d heard too often in their young lives.
“I see. Knowing them, I’m sure they’ve cleared this with my aunts.”
“Yes, um, assuming your aunts are the Chatam sisters.”
“Yup. And Pastor Hub is my uncle.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
He flashed a stunning smile. “I’m sure it does.” Dropping his gaze, he asked, “And who do we have here?”
Stepping back, she pushed the children forward. “This is Nathan,” she said, dragging him in front of her. “He’s nine.” He shrugged and wiggled out of her grasp. She then placed both hands atop his brother’s slender shoulders. “Tucker. He’s seven. And last but not least...” Reaching down with one hand, she cupped her daughter’s cheek as the girl’s head pressed against her leg. “This is Grace, who’s four.”
Phillip gave the children a smile and lifted his gaze to Carissa once more. Typical, she thought sourly. No man had any interest in another man’s children, as she had learned the hard way.
“Well, come in. Hilda’s in the kitchen.”
Cautiously, Carissa followed him, sweeping the children along in front of her so that they formed a buffer between her and this too-attractive Chatam. She’d long ago decided to keep her distance from such men. Several times since her husband Tom’s death, she’d let herself be drawn to men with the same rough masculine appeal as her late husband, only to find herself unceremoniously dumped as soon as they realized that she wasn’t going to settle for anything short of marriage. She’d finally learned her lesson when the last guy had informed her that a man might marry a woman with one kid or even two, but never three. That very day, she had resigned herself to the realities of widowhood and resolved to keep temptation at a safe distance.
If she hadn’t been running late, she would never have taken the chair next to Phillip. Only as the brief introductions had been made had she realized her mistake. Those copper eyes, set deeply into a lean, bronzed face heavily shadowed with a dark beard and carved with dimples and a cleft chin, had taken her breath away. Hair the color of coffee and a nose that showed signs of having been broken at some point added the very type of ruggedness that appealed to her. Combined with his long-limbed height—at least three or four inches over six feet—and broad shoulders, he was definitely one of the best-looking men she’d ever met. She’d decided right then to forget all about grief support, no matter what her family said—only to find herself face-to-face with the man this morning.
He led them down the hallway to a swinging door, which he pushed wide, calling out, “Hilda, you have company.”
A clatter of metal heralded her aunt’s appearance in the doorway. Swathed in a damp apron over a voluminous dress made of some small, gray-brown print almost the exact color as her thin, straight, ear-length hair, Hilda exuded the aromas of a bakery.
She reached over the children to envelop Carissa in her hefty arms. Stooping, she did the same with the children, all three at once. “I’ve set up the sunroom for the kids. But first, how was the meeting last night?”
Phillip Chatam shifted beside Carissa. She felt his interest, and that made this discussion all the more difficult. Managing a tiny smile, she recalled the words that she had prepared earlier in anticipation of this moment.
“You’re right, Aunt Hilda. Pastor Hub is a very wise man. I especially liked what he had to say about helping others.”
“As a way of getting our minds off our
