Dreaming of Home. Glynna Kaye
are sopping wet.”
Bill glanced down at her feet, illuminated in the light spilling from the open door. “Davy, run and get a pair of my socks. Clean ones. And a towel.”
“Dad—” Joe’s voice warned again.
“Can’t have her catching her death of cold right on my doorstep.” Bill cast an obstinate look in his son’s direction as he pried the laundry hamper from Meg’s fingers and set it inside the door. “Come in, come in.”
“No, really, I—”
“We’re having fish sticks,” Davy called as he paddy-footed to do his grandfather’s bidding. “You can have some. I’m only having one.”
“Thank you, but I—”
“Of course you can have some.” Bill reached for her hand and tugged her inside. “Unless you’ve already had dinner?”
She hadn’t eaten yet, but she doubted anything on the bachelor buccaneer menu would match her dietary restrictions. Her gaze collided once more with Joe’s across the room. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. Big lunch.”
“Nonsense. You’d blow away in a strong breeze.” Bill handed her the towel and socks Davy had retrieved. Motioning to the kitchen area of the open-planned house, he leaned over with a confiding whisper. “I’ll be right back. Keep Joe company. Make sure he doesn’t burn anything else.”
Joe shook his head and turned back to the stove, but not before she caught a twitch of a smile. Thank goodness. She’d barely towel dried her feet and pulled on Bill’s socks when Davy grasped her hand.
“Dad burned the potatoes.”
“Are you sure? I thought maybe that lovely aroma was his aftershave.”
Grinning, Davy pinched his wrinkled-up nose.
Joe glanced over at them. “Wash up, Davy. And ditch the hat, please.”
“But Dad—” The boy rolled his eyes and gave Meg’s hand a squeeze before releasing it to skip from the room, his enthusiasm at the prospect of her company apparent. An enthusiasm his father evidently didn’t share.
After a moment’s hesitation, Meg approached the tiny kitchen. Stuffing her hands into her sweatshirt pockets, she leaned against the counter. “I’m sorry for interrupting your dinner.”
“Hope you’re into packaged seafood.” He motioned with a spatula to the box of frozen fish sticks. “Not exactly fresh from the Pacific.”
“Catch of the day is highly overrated, don’t you think?”
Joe flashed a smile that once again sent Meg’s heart skittering, and it was with more than a little reluctance that she pulled her gaze away to take in her well-worn, rustically furnished surroundings. Black iron woodstove. Heavy oak pieces. Leather upholstery. A Navajo-patterned, throw-sized blanket tossed across the arm of the sofa. Masculine without a doubt, with no evidence of a woman’s touch. She knew Bill was divorced. Quite some time ago, if the house bore true testimony.
Her gaze continued around the room until, with a stab of recognition, she glimpsed teaching certification application forms spread out on the coffee table. With some effort, she turned to Joe. “This is nice. Cozy.”
He nodded as he scattered the fresh batch of cubed potatoes around the frying pan. “It’s home. Or used to be thirteen years ago.”
“Nice,” she repeated, then took a quick breath and lowered her voice. “Look, I want to apologize about this afternoon.”
Joe cocked his head. “And this would be for—?”
“For making that flippant comment about Davy’s mother. About her being relieved that you didn’t want to get the girl. I didn’t know—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Davy looked confused when I said that. I’m usually more careful about making assumptions.” She didn’t mention that the ring on his left hand contributed to the misunderstanding.
“No harm done. He hasn’t mentioned it. I didn’t think twice about it.”
“Nevertheless, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about the loss of your wife. Sharon Dixon told me.”
He kept his eyes on the stovetop. “Thanks.”
“Has it…been long? I mean, as Davy’s Sunday school assistant it might help if—”
“He doesn’t remember her.” Joe jabbed at the sizzling potatoes. “Not much, anyway. Except for what he’s been told. Photos. Videos. He wasn’t quite three when…you know.”
Meg nodded, not wanting to pry further, and was grateful when she heard the front door open as Bill returned. A gust of fresh, crisp air permeated the room.
“The laundry’s a mess all right. I’ll get someone out here on Monday to take a look at it.” He pulled off his shoes as Davy reentered the room. Together they set the table, and Meg caught the older man in a momentary pause as, lips pursed in concentration, he looked around in search of something. Then with a few quick steps to an overstuffed bookcase, he pushed aside a piece of native pottery and plucked up a vase filled with faded red silk flowers. Dusting them off with a sleeve, he returned to the dining area and plopped the container in the middle of the oak table with a satisfied grunt.
Davy’s eyes approved as he placed folded paper towels under mismatched silverware. “That’s cool, Grandpa.”
Bill patted the boy’s shoulder, his gaze meeting Meg’s. “We have a lady joining us tonight.”
Her heart warmed as he pulled out a chair for her. Within minutes Joe placed hot pads on the table, one for the skillet of browned potatoes and another for a pan of oven-baked fish. A chipped yellow Fiesta dinnerware bowl cradled canned green beans. Another, canned pears. Davy contributed a bottle of ketchup and stepped back to view his handiwork. He looked every bit as satisfied as his grandfather did upon locating the flowers.
No, the meal didn’t fit the dietitian’s recommendations, but one night wouldn’t hurt. Meg shared a smile with the excited boy.
Once seated at the oval table, across from Joe and between Davy and Bill, Meg bowed her head as Joe’s dad offered thanks. Then upon Davy’s hearty “Amen,” the boy leaned forward to address Bill.
“Grandpa, can I have a sleepover at Miss Meg’s?”
What? Stunned, she could only hope she hadn’t gasped aloud.
“Davy.” A coffee mug halfway to his lips, Joe’s appalled tone echoed through the room. He cast an apologetic glance at her.
“I’d say that would be up to her, young man,” Bill interceded on behalf of his grandson. “Did she invite you?”
Davy slumped for a moment in his chair, shaking his head. Then he perked up, turning a beaming smile on her.
“Will you invite me?”
“David William Diaz!” The timbre of Joe’s voice registered displeasure at his son’s chutzpah. “We don’t invite ourselves to other people’s houses.”
“It’s not a house, Dad,” Davy whispered in an aside, as if embarrassed by his father’s misunderstanding of the situation. “It’s an RV.”
“It may not be a house, but it is Miss Meg’s home.”
All eyes turned to her for confirmation.
She wet her lips. Yes, as weird as it might seem to most people, the RV was her home. A retreat where she could be alone with her thoughts. A hideaway to shut out the world. A refuge when life’s realities became too overwhelming.
“A sleepover is—” She took an uncertain breath as she looked from father to grandfather to grandson. “Is…fine with me.”
What