Second Chances. Valerie Hansen
be a trick of his imagination. Or a singing burglar with a high, sweet voice, he countered, purposely mocking himself.
He reached the doorway. There was no need to look. Now that he was close enough to hear every word of her gospel song, he was certain his visitor was Belinda Carnes. But why? What was she up to? And why give herself away by making unnecessary noise?
Frowning, Paul leaned against the doorjamb, silently watching her. She was poking around in the refrigerator, a no-man’s-land if he’d ever encountered one. Open bowls, cups and plates were stacked on the closest end of the counter. Wrapped packages of food were piled high on a chair she’d pulled over beside her and she was cautiously sniffing the contents of a large Mason jar, apparently checking them for freshness.
He waited until he thought she was about to step back, then calmly said, “Hello.”
Belinda screeched, jumped and whirled around, all at the same time. The quart jar she’d been holding slipped out of her grasp. It hit the floor flat on its bottom, broke and spurted spaghetti sauce straight up in the air like a garlic-flavored geyser. What didn’t get on her splattered all over the chair, cabinets and floor.
Heart pounding, she confronted Paul. “What did you do that for!”
“Me?” It was all he could do to keep from bursting into laughter. “I’m not the one who got caught raiding somebody else’s refrigerator.”
“I wasn’t raiding it!”
“Oh? It looks to me like you were.” He gestured toward the food she’d spread out. “What’s all that?”
“It’s…” Her anger increased when she saw the runny red splotches dotting everything, from the floor to the top of the counter and beyond. “A mess.”
“That’s true.”
“This is not funny, Paul.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” A broad grin was spread across his face. “It looks pretty funny from over here.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, it doesn’t from where I’m standing, and I’ll thank you to butt out.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Okay. If that’s what you want. I suppose it won’t hurt the floor much more if you walk over to the sink to get the paper towels yourself.” With a chuckle he added, “You might want to slip your shoes off first, though. I hope they were red to start with.”
“No. They were white,” Belinda snapped, disgusted. “White linen. And new. I’ll probably have to throw them away now.”
“Not to mention chucking a lot of the stuff on the chair,” he said, pointing.
“I can’t do that. It’s not mine.” Worried, she surveyed the chaos, unsure where to begin.
“Well, I can,” Paul said firmly. “I’ve been looking for a good excuse to dump a lot of those scraps before my aunts make the mistake of eating them and wind up with food poisoning. Wait there. I’ll go get a big trash can from outside.”
He returned almost immediately and set a black rubber trash can at the perimeter of the exploding sauce circle. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Belinda’s conscience was really starting to bother her. She’d snapped at Paul and told him she didn’t want to even talk to him, yet here he was, volunteering to help. “It’s really nice of you to pitch in like this.”
“I beg your pardon?” Arms folded across his chest, he stood back and stared at her.
She didn’t like the shrewd look in his eyes or his posture of authority. “You were going to help me.”
“I don’t think I said that, exactly.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a sly smile. “I believe I said I’d bring you a can. I did. I trust you to decide what’s worth keeping and what should be tossed out.” He raised one hand as if administering an oath. “I hereby promote you from refrigerator raider to garbage sorter. Go for it. Get busy. I’ll just watch.”
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