Delivered with Love (5 page)

Claire wrapped her arms around her pillow and blanket and followed Tom into his home.

"Nancy?" Tom dropped her duffel bag in the entryway. "I'll be right back." He left her standing inside the doorway.

Claire continued to hold tight to her bedding as she looked around the front room. A brown sofa and love seat sat against two walls. A red candle, matching the color of the pillows on the sofa, and a couple of magazines were perched on top of a black coffee table. Wrought iron lamps with gold shades stood next to the sofas. The home definitely had a woman's touch. It was warm. Inviting. Cozy.

"Claire, this is my wife, Nancy." Tom's hand rested on Nancy's shoulder.

A slender middle-aged woman with short brown hair peered through sleepy eyes, as though Tom had merely awakened her. "Nice to meet you, Claire."

"Sorry to wake you." Claire hugged her pillow and blanket a little tighter. "I appreciate this so much."

"Let me show you to your room for the night. We can get better acquainted in the morning. I bet you're exhausted."

Claire followed Nancy down the hall. A photo on the wall caught her eye. A much younger Tom smiled at her from beneath a full head of dark hair. Claire stopped and studied the picture of the bride and groom on their wedding day. Nancy, in an off-the-shoulder dress, held a beautiful bouquet of pink and yellow roses as she looked tenderly at Tom. A picture of a newborn baby hung right beside the wedding photo. Claire strolled down the hall and tried to catch up with Nancy, who'd seemed to disappear.

"Mrs. Daniels?" She passed a master bedroom and then a bathroom on the right.

Nancy poked her head out into the hallway from a room farther down on the left. Her mouth formed a straight line. "I'm sorry, I thought you were right behind me." Were those tears in Nancy's eyes?

"I was following until I got distracted by the photos." Claire hurried into the bedroom and stared. It looked like a picture straight out of a home decorator magazine. The walls were painted a shade of sage green, the same color as the quilt that lay at the edge of the queen-size bed. A picture of a meadow hung on the wall above the wrought iron headboard, and a blanket lay casually over the armrest of a chair tucked in the corner. Wispy curtains flowed from black metal rods, and floral rugs graced the hardwood floors.

Claire sighed. "This is beautiful."

"Oh, thank you." Nancy turned down the bed. "You can use the bathroom you passed on your right, and I'll come get you for breakfast in the morning. Do you need anything?" She sniffed and rubbed her nose.

Claire shook her head no. "Thank you so much."

"Well, good night, then."

"Good night."

Nancy walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Strange.
The woman's distracted manner gave Claire the feeling she was going through a difficult time in her life. She hoped her staying the night didn't add to Nancy's burden. Claire dropped her pillow and blanket on the floor, and she sat on the bed. It had been an overwhelming day—she left L.A., saw Geraldine at the gas station, ran into Harry and Pearl, met the Andersons, and finally had to rely on a tow-truck driver and his wife. She lay back, exhausted. Could life get any crazier?

Yes, the room was beautiful, but it couldn't take away the dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her car needed repairs and she didn't have much money to fix it and she depended on strangers to take care of her basic needs of food and shelter. How was she going to make it on her own?

A knock on the door startled her. Her stomach tightened. Claire jumped up and opened the door.

"Everything all right?" Tom stood in the hall still wearing his blue pants and work shirt.

A shiver ran down her spine.
What does he want?
He seemed like a nice man, but so did her brother-in-law a long time ago. She wouldn't let her guard down around any man, especially a complete stranger. "Yes, thank you." Claire made a move to shut the door.

Tom thrust his foot in the opening to prevent the door from closing.

H
alf of Tom's shoe protruded into the guest bedroom. What did he want? Claire sucked in a breath.

"Nancy got paged. Shortage of nurses tonight at the hospital. "Tom leaned forward. "She has a twelve-hour shift."

Claire's pulse jumped.
I'm alone with Tom.
Tae Kwon Do might come in handy. She planned her defense in case he moved closer. "Thanks for letting me know." Her voice sounded shaky. She cleared her throat. What was it about this man that set her on edge?

"I'll knock at 7:30 a.m. I need to be in Monterey by nine. "Tom took a step back. "Good night." He turned and walked across the hall to his room.

Claire closed the door, locked it, then leaned against the doorframe. The ticking of the small clock on the nightstand caught her attention. 2:45 a.m. Without Nancy home, every minute until the sun rose would seem like forever. Claire grabbed her pillow and blanket off the floor, flicked off the light, and lay on top of the bed. She punched her pillow a few times before settling into her usual sleep position. Would Tom come back again? The door was locked. She was safe. Wasn't she?

Her body relaxed and her eyes drifted closed.

She woke to raindrops beating against the windowpane. She looked at the clock. It read 9:56. Sucking in a breath, she bolted out of bed and ran into the hall.

"Mr. Daniels?" She passed the master bedroom. The bed was made. "Anyone here?" She approached the family room. A cat skittered past her and raced down the hall and into the couple's bedroom.

She walked into the kitchen. It was bright and cheery despite the rain outside. A red toaster and coffeemaker on the countertop made a nice contrast to the warm yellow walls. She spotted a note by the telephone.

Claire,

I couldn't wake you. Eat breakfast.

I'll check on your car and call around 10 a.m.

Tom

Just then the phone rang. Claire reached over the counter and answered it.

"Hey, you're up." Tom's voice indicated he was a morning person, something she was not.

"Sorry I slept so long." Claire held the phone between her neck and shoulder and lifted the lid to the coffeepot. There were at least two cups left. She poured the dark liquid into a mug she had pulled out of the cabinet.

"I'm down at Mike's Auto Repair on Main Street. The guys can't work on your car without your signature and form of payment." Tom sounded matter-of-fact.

Form of payment?
Claire flinched. "How long will they hold my car?"

"I'll talk with Mike and let you know."

She'd have to find a job before she could afford the necessary repairs. She hung up the phone while her coffee heated in the microwave. Rummaging in the refrigerator, she found a package of cinnamon bagels. When she and Haley were kids, her mother bought bagels every Wednesday, half-price days at the bakery down the street. She missed her mom—everything about her, except when she scolded her for sleeping in late. Claire slathered a thick layer of cream cheese on her bagel, grabbed her coffee and sat down at the table. How she wished her mom was still alive. She'd be able to tell her who wrote the letter.

Claire hurried to the guestroom and pulled the envelope from her purse. She brought it to the kitchen and reread the words from her mom's admirer as she ate her breakfast. How far was Depot Hill from Tom's house? She had to find out.

Claire gulped down the last of her coffee, tidied the kitchen, showered, and straightened the guest room before setting off on foot. A bright green umbrella covered her head and rain boots kept her feet dry. She hoped Nancy wouldn't mind that she had borrowed her umbrella, but her hostess had said to make herself comfortable—and it was perched in the corner next to the door. Claire stuck the letter into her tote bag, and then hung it on her left shoulder, tucked close to her body so it wouldn't get wet.

After a fifteen- minute walk, she stopped inside Mr. Toots coffeehouse in Capitola Village. The aroma of coffee and baked goods filled the building.

A short woman, about Claire's age, stood behind the counter straightening a stack of napkins. She looked up as Claire approached. "May I help you?"

"Yes." Claire dug in her purse for the letter. "Can you tell me where I can find Saxon Avenue? On Depot Hill?"

"Sure. Are you driving or walking?" The woman grabbed a napkin and a pen.

The closed umbrella in Claire's hand dripped water on the floor. "Walking."

"No problem." The attendant drew a map on a napkin. "It's easy. And close by." She slid the paper across the counter.

Claire glanced at the napkin. Each street was clearly marked.

"Any questions?"

"Point me in the right direction?"

The woman chuckled. "Once you're out the door, head right."

"Thanks."

Claire hiked through Capitola Village before coming to Monterey Avenue. There she found the steep stairs the attendant had drawn next to the small, boarded-up theatre. She panted as she climbed the mountain of steps before reaching the top of Depot Hill, a neighborhood that overlooked Monterey Bay.

She admired the houses in the neighborhood. An eclectic mix of contemporary, old Victorians, and ranch-style homes graced the streets. She walked down Grand Avenue a couple of blocks. The view of the ocean and the coastline, even on a rainy day, was the reason she loved California. The waves crashed against the shore and the salty air penetrated her senses.

Suddenly there it was—the street she'd been looking for. Claire picked up her pace. She searched for the house among the small, older ranch-style homes. Halfway down the street, she came to an abrupt stop. Number 216. The return address of the letter. An older home with dark blue shutters stood in front of her. Claire walked up the sidewalk, her insides quivering with each step. A
For Rent
sign hung in the window. She climbed the few steps to the porch and set the umbrella down. Leaning up against the window, she peeked in. The front room was empty.

"You interested?" A male voice called from behind.

Claire spun around. A dark-haired young man wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a flannel jacket stood at the bottom of the steps.
Wow, he is good-looking.

"Are you the owner?"

"No. I'm Blake Coombs, the neighbor." He pointed to the house directly on her left, joined her on the porch, and extended his hand.

Claire shook it. His hand felt warm, nice. "I'm Claire James. "She looked up into his steel blue eyes . . . and realized she was still holding his hand.
Neighbor, huh?
Her cheeks heated. She pulled her hand free and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Good to meet you, Claire. I told the owner I'd keep watch over the house until it was rented. Would you like to see the place?"

Would she like to see it?
Definitely. Her insides danced. "Please."

He produced a key from his jeans pocket and stepped toward the front door.

She hesitated for the briefest moment. Something about the man put her at ease. Her desire to go inside the house, the place where her mother's love interest wrote the letter, jumped ahead of her common sense. "I do need to find a place." She removed her boots at the door.

"Then come on in."

Michael's wipers smeared water across his windshield, giving him a hazy view of the street. He pulled his BMW over to the curb and slid out, sidestepping a puddle. Water spattered his face as he attempted to clean the wipers. He couldn't remember when it had rained last.

He jumped back in his car and headed toward his rental property. The small sign posted in the window of the house wasn't much in the way of advertising, but it had done the trick before. The last couple had lived there for a good three years. A job transfer was the only reason for their departure.

Michael turned down Saxon Avenue. The street was only a couple hundred yards long before it reached the bluff. He had bought the house before the market spiked. Light gleamed through the front window. Either Blake had shown the place earlier and had forgotten to turn off the lights, or he was there now with a potential renter. He cut off the engine and hurried to the front door.

Wiping his feet on the mat, he saw a pair of women's rain boots leaning haphazardly against the side of the house. He turned the doorknob and walked in.

"Hey, Michael." Blake rested his arm against the fireplace mantel. "I'm showing the house to a young woman. She's in the bathroom."

"Thanks. Not working today?"

"Even police officers get a day off now and then." Blake tucked his hands into his pockets. "Lately we've been busy cracking down on graffiti. It's been a huge problem."

"I'm glad the police are involved. Do you think it's street gangs?" Michael's eyebrows furrowed. "I've seen signs and walls vandalized. It makes me think twice about showing homes for sale in certain neighborhoods."

"It doesn't appear to be gangs, but I may be wrong. The best thing to do is call 9-1-1 if you see someone destroying property. Street gangs tend to be violent and may carry weapons."

"Thanks for the tip." Michael planted his hands on his hips as he inspected the new paint job. "How's it look?"

"Armstrong Painting does good work." Blake stood next to Michael and looked at the ceiling. "The cut-in line couldn't be any straighter."

"I had the carpets cleaned in the back bedrooms as well. With Julia's wedding around the corner, I'd like to rent the place soon."

Michael heard the water running in the bathroom. He turned when the door opened. A young woman approached. She was about the same age as Julia. Blonde wavy hair spread out like a fan around her shoulders. She was petite even in a raincoat.

"Michael, this is Claire."

"Nice to meet you." Michael held out his hand.

"I've seen you somewhere before." Claire's forehead creased as she shook his hand. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so." Michael laughed.
Was this woman one of Julia's friends?
"I'm the owner. Do you have any questions so far?"

"How much is the rent?" Claire bit her lower lip.

He named a price that made the woman's eyes widen. She wrapped her arms around her midsection and had a look of discomfort on her face.

"I'll need to collect first and last month's rent as a security deposit. And run a credit check." Michael walked over to the window and looked out. "I didn't see a car out front when I came in . . ."

"I walked."

"From where?" Blake piped in.

"Not far from here."

Michael could hear a hitch in Claire's voice. That's all he needed—a homeless woman who couldn't pay rent. But she didn't look homeless by the clothes she wore. "Do you own a car?"

"Yes, a '72 VW bug." Claire's eyebrows furrowed. "But it's in the shop."

Michael's heart skipped a beat. "A '72 VW bug?" He crossed his arms over his chest and chuckled. "The last time I rode in a VW bug was well over twenty years ago."

"I was working on a VW the other day." Blake leaned against the wall. "My cousin thinks
I'm
the repair shop."

Michael made a move to the kitchen. "So, what do you think about the place?"

Claire followed along with Blake. "I'd need to find a roommate."

"It's the right size for two people. It's nine hundred square feet, two bedrooms, one bath." Michael glanced from Claire to Blake. "You'd need to pay for utilities, and I'll take care of landscaping. I've had the same gardener for years."

Claire peered out the kitchen window. "The plants are nice. Especially the daisies along the sidewalk."

"If you're interested, you'll need to fill out this application. And after I check your references, it could be yours." Michael slid the paper across the counter.

Claire picked up the application and looked it over. "When can I get back to you?"

"Here's my business card. Call me anytime." Michael glanced at his watch. "Say, Blake, can you lock up? I've got a meeting in twenty minutes."

"Sure thing." Blake walked him to the door.

Michael grinned. "She'd make a great neighbor." He kept his voice low, almost a whisper.

"You're the one she's met before." Blake raised an eyebrow.