Her Small-Town Hero. Arlene James
M-my husband and I pretty much kept to ourselves.”
Holt battled with himself for a moment. His every instinct told him that she was lying to him. A stranger without references or an address, he knew absolutely nothing about her. But she needed the job, and he needed the help. Besides, hadn’t he just asked God to send someone? He looked at the baby on her hip and nodded, motioning toward the apartment door. He didn’t know how anyone could manage the workload around here with a kid in tow, but that issue could be addressed later.
“Let’s go talk it over with Hap.”
She walked toward the end of the counter, speaking softly to the boy, who crammed his fist into his mouth and chewed. She had a petite figure, as those slim jeans showed, and tiny hands and feet, but she moved like a woman.
Stepping past her, he reached for the knob on the door that led into the small apartment where his grandfather lived.
“This way.”
Holt Jefford pushed open the door to the apartment and stepped aside to let Cara and Ace pass. A tall, lean man with a ruggedly handsome face and intelligent, olive-green eyes, he made Cara nervous. Perhaps it had to do with the lies. Waves of suspicion had washed over her back in the lobby, but if he suspected that she’d lied, then why would he agree to let her speak to this Hap person?
Cara paused to look around, finding herself in a small private apartment. Unlike the warm, appealing lobby with its wood paneling and black leather furniture, this place appeared a bit dingy and cluttered, from the overstuffed bookcase against one wall to the old-fashioned maple dining set. Yet, it had a certain well-used hominess about it, too.
“Hap uses the front room as the main living area,” Holt said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the lobby. Three doors opened off the end of this room, which functioned primarily as an oversized dining area. “Bedrooms,” Holt supplied succinctly. “Bath in between.”
Cara nodded, uncertain why he’d mentioned this, before letting her gaze pick out details. A long narrow kitchen with incongruous stainless steel countertops opened off the wall opposite the door through which they had entered.
The acrid smell of burnt food permeated the air.
“Granddad,” Holt called. “Company.”
An old man limped into the open doorway, a spatula in hand. The faded denim of his overalls showed grease spatters, and his thinning yellow-white hair stuck up on one side. The two men shared a pronounced resemblance, although age had stooped the shoulders of the elder, whom Cara suspected had once been a redhead.
She found herself musing that this Hap must have been as handsome in his youth as his grandson was now. She met the welcome in those faded green eyes with smiling relief.
“And charming company it is,” the old fellow rasped. Cara dipped her chin in acknowledgment, readjusting Ace on her hip.
“Granddad, this is Cara Jane Wynne,” Holt said. “My grandfather, Hap Jefford.”
Hap Jefford nodded. “Ms. Wynne.”
“Cara Jane, please,” she said, determined to make that name wholly her own.
At the same time Holt spoke. “She’s applying for the job.”
Hap’s eyebrows climbed upward. “Well, now. That’s fine.” Hap limped forward, his left hip seeming to bother him some, and smiled down at the child chewing on his fist. “And who’s this here?”
Cara hitched her son a little closer. “This is my son, Ace.”
“Not a year yet, I’m guessing,” the old man said pleasantly.
“He’ll be ten months soon.”
“Fine-looking boy.”
Holt sniffed, and Cara felt a spurt of indignation—until she suddenly became aware of stinging eyes.
“Granddad, did you forget something in the kitchen?”
Jerking around, Hap hobbled through the doorway, Holt on his heels. “Land sakes! I done made a mess of our dinner. Again.”
Holt sighed. No wonder he’d asked if she could cook. Cara knew that she had an opportunity here, if she proved brave enough to take it. She lifted her chin and crowded into the narrow room next to Holt, feeling his size and strength keenly. She tamped down the awareness, concentrating on this chance to prove herself.
“Maybe I can help.”
Hap twisted around. “You can cook?”
“I can.” She looked pointedly to the skillet, adding, “But it’s been a while since I’ve even seen fried okra.”
“Charred okra, you mean,” Holt corrected.
Hap handed over the spatula with an expression of pure gratitude. “There’s more in the freezer.” He gestured at a large piece of sirloin hanging over the edges of a plate on the counter. “Do what you like with that. I set out some cans of sliced taters to heat in the microwave. Opener’s in this drawer here. Anything else you need, just nose around. Holt will set the table while me and Ace get acquainted.”
“Oh, no. Ace will stay with me,” Cara insisted, looking down at her son. Too late, she realized that might have sounded rude, as if she didn’t trust the old man. Then again, she didn’t trust anyone. How could she? “I—I’m used to working with Ace close by,” she said, hoping that would be explanation enough.
Hap traded a look with his grandson, and Cara held her breath until the old man nodded, smiled and said, “You and the boy will join us for dinner, of course.” He somehow managed to make it an order without it sounding like one. Cara breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“Thank you.”
“No need for that when you’re cooking. We’ll talk about the job later.”
Nodding, Cara told herself not to blow this. It had been months since she’d cooked a meal, but surely she could manage this. Hap hitched himself past her and out into the other room, while Holt remained behind to lean a hip against the counter. Ignoring him, Cara sat Ace on the floor in a corner near what appeared to be the back door and removed his knit hoodie and the sweater beneath it. She took a small wooden toy truck from her jacket pocket and gave it to Ace before looking around her.
The apple-green walls and cabinets of pale, golden wood contrasted sharply with the industrial-grade metal countertop, but everything looked neat and clean if an odd mixture of the old and new, the professional and the homey. Noting the lack of a dishwasher in the small, cramped room, Cara glanced hopefully at the solid door next to the refrigerator.
“That goes out to the laundry room,” Holt told her.
So, no dishwasher. She checked the sink. And no garbage disposal. Well, she’d survived a lot of years without those things.
“There’s a big coffee can for scraps,” he said, pointing to the cabinet beneath the sink. “It goes into the Dumpster out back when it’s full. There’s extra cans on a shelf above the dryers.”
Nodding, Cara got down to work. She went to the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, moving past the tall man who watched her like a hawk. She found the okra in a half-empty plastic bag and a small box of frozen green beans.
“Okay if I use these?”
Holt glanced at the box of green beans, then at the boy now tapping the truck on the floor. “Sure. Use anything you want.” With that, he moved to an overhead cabinet and began removing the dinner dishes, taking his time about it.
While Ace banged happily, Cara scraped the blackened okra and grease into the can under the sink, replaced the lid, cleaned the skillet and began looking in cabinets. Finally she asked, “Oil?”
Holt nodded at the tall, narrow cabinet doors across from the refrigerator. “In the pantry. Oh, and, by the way, there’s a chance my brother Ryan