The Carpenter's Wife. Lenora Worth
“You came from Savannah?”
“Yes. We lived out from Savannah, near Fort Stewart. My parents still live there in a house on the Canoochee River. Tara—that’s my sister—and I attended college at Savannah State.” She stopped, took a breath. “I was a senior when she was a freshman. She got married a year later and never finished college. After I graduated, I moved to Savannah to work in the art gallery.” She lowered her eyes, stared at an aged spot in the floor, memories as rich as the lacquer on the wood coloring her mind. “Anyway, now I’m here. I’m moving forward, even if I do like things from the past.”
Ana quieted, thinking she sounded as if she were trying to convince herself of this. And maybe she was. She still had hurtful memories from her college days, memories that had colored her whole adult life and her rocky relationship with her younger sister. But she was determined to make a new start, with both her life and her sister.
“The past can be good,” Rock said, his keen eyes sweeping over her face. “As long as we keep it in perspective.”
“Oh, I keep it in perspective, all right. I don’t want to ever go back there.”
“Bad memories?”
Ana looked up at him, saw the sincere curiosity in his beautiful eyes. “Some.” Lots. But she wasn’t about to tell him any of that. She ruffled her hair with her hand. “Do you want to see the kitchen?”
“Sure.”
She started toward the back of the house, heard him behind her, then willed her heart and her head to stay calm. Ana reminded herself that she’d given her heart to a man once, only to have it returned bruised and battered.
She would never make that mistake again. Even if this handsome preacher named Rock did cause her to think of romantic things like strolling on the beach at sunset and intimate dinners by candlelight.
Ana would stick to her art, her cooking and her books. Those were safe, tangible things.
Love wasn’t safe. That “tender grace,” as Rock had quoted, would never come back to her again. She was all business now. And all on her own.
If only Rock Dempsey’s eyes would stop looking at her with that anything-but-business gaze.
This woman meant business.
Rock had measured, suggested, tested, rearranged, gauged and decided on what could be done for the beautiful old cabinets in the long, sunny kitchen. A good stripping of old paint, some new hardware and a lot of wood restorer and varnish would make them shine like new. That part had been easy.
But testing and gauging Ana Hanson—ah, therein lay the challenge of this assignment.
She had been hurt somewhere in the past. Maybe during her childhood, maybe during her college years. But something had left her unsure and unsteady, even if she did try to present a calm, capable facade to the world.
Rock had no doubt she was capable. She seemed as intent on making her tea room a popular tourist attraction as his mother did on creating intriguing artifacts from rocks and stones. That ability to focus should serve as a warning to Rock. Ana held many of the traits he’d seen too many times in his mother—that tendency to shut everything out, that need to finish the work, create the next sculpture piece, or, in Ana’s case, create a haven for fine art and good food.
There was nothing wrong with that. But Rock wondered if Ana was pouring all of her strength into this new venture because she was running from the past. Running from herself, just as his mother had done most of her life.
Turning to see where she’d flittered off to this time, Rock found Ana standing on a footstool wiping one of the big bay windows in the front parlor. He almost called out to her, but then the way the last of the sun’s rays were gleaming all around her from the open west window on the other side of the room caused him to stop and just watch.
She stood in the soft wind, her dark red hair shining in the soft afternoon sun. Her skin was glistening with a golden creaminess. She’d changed clothes since this morning and now her long floral skirt moved around her like a flower garden.
Rock took this picture in, and realized it had been way too long since he’d been out on a date with a pretty woman. And taking old Miss McPherson to the seafood market once a week didn’t count.
“You hungry?” he heard himself saying.
Ana turned, almost too fast. She nearly fell off the stepstool. Rock wasn’t fast enough to catch her, and he was glad. That would have been a classic romantic way of getting her into his arms—too obvious.
But since he didn’t want to look unchivalrous, he did step forward. “Steady there.”
“I’m fine,” Ana said, stepping down from the stool to turn and stare at him as she pushed her hair away from her eyes. “I must have misunderstood you, though. I thought you asked me if I was hungry.”
“No misunderstanding. I did—ask you that, I mean.”
She stood there with her hands on her hips, an almost doubting glare on her pretty face. “Why did you—ask?”
So she was the suspicious type. “No particular reason, other than it’s getting dark and…I only had a sandwich for lunch. I was thinking about fried catfish out at the Sunken Pier. Ever been there?”
“No.”
“No, you’ve never been there, or no, you aren’t hungry, or just plain ‘no, I don’t want to have dinner with you, Rock’?”
“No to the first, yes to the second, and…I’m not sure to the last part.”
He crossed his hands over his chest, his trusty pocket notepad clutched in one hand. Then he leaned forward, offering up what he hoped was his best smile. “Why aren’t you sure? It’s just a meal. We can go over the cabinet plans again.”
She frowned, looked around. “I guess we do need to finalize everything—set your hours, your fee, things like that.”
“Exactly. A business dinner.”
“Strictly business.”
“Wouldn’t dream of having it any other way.”
He liked the trace of disappointment that had scurried through her green eyes. But he wouldn’t dare tell her that since she’d walked into his shop this morning, he had at least thought of having things another way—besides the strictly business way, that is.
“I’ll freshen up and get my purse,” she said, clearly as confused and unsure as she’d been two minutes ago. “We won’t be late, will we? I have so much paperwork—contracts with food vendors, inventory sheets to check over—”
“I’ll have you home at a reasonable hour, I promise.”
“Okay, then.”
“Okay, then.”
“You know, Mark Twain said principles have no real force except when one is well fed.”
She rewarded him with a smile. “And you are clearly a man of principle.”
“That I am. And manners. My mama taught me both.”
“That I can believe,” she said, her expression softening. “I trust your mother’s opinion and her good judgment of character, even if you are her son and she has to recommend you on that basis alone. I think I’ll be safe with you.”
“Completely.”
But as Rock watched her hurry up the narrow staircase, he had to wonder how much he could trust his mother’s judgment. After all, Eloise had brought Ana and him together for her own maternal reasons.
And now Rock was worried about those reasons and about how being with this shy, old-fashioned woman made him feel.
The real question was—would he be safe with Ana Hanson?