Saving Grace (Madison Falls) (16 page)

“Plus, I hate to tell you this…”

A dull throb thumped at Grace’s temple. Nobody liked to hear that phrase.

Sam’s eyes crinkled as he continued. “You have a nice little mote forming near the outside corner of your house.”

“Oh no.” She cringed. “A
second
leak?”

He smiled. “No. I’m sure it’s part of the same problem. It might even be a clue to the source. Listen,” his eyes softened. “At least let me run to the truck and get my shop vac. That ought to help alleviate the flood damage in the kitchen, and I can tell Bob to check in on you when he gets off work.”

Her chest felt tight. This definitely extended beyond her home repair know-how. “Fine. I mean…” She held out the crowbar and took a step backward. “Since you’re here, you might as well get it started.”

“If you’re sure.” He took the tool, a teasing glimmer in his eye. “Look, if it’s the money you’re worried about, let me check the damage and then we can talk cost.”

“The money.” Her mind raced as she forced back that annoying guilt. The floor would only get worse if she didn’t deal with it, and the sooner the better if she wanted to rent out the house. Besides, at the rate she was going, she might wake up to find piranhas swimming around the periphery of the house. “Okay.”

His smile was sympathetic. “I might even throw in a free look at that bathtub. Is the pipe still leaking in there?”

A jolt shot down her back. “It’s fine.” She hadn’t meant to sound so abrupt.

He looked as though he’d just dodged an arrow. “Okay then. One room at a time.” He turned and proceeded into the flood zone.

Grace perched on her camp chair and locked her fingers over her knees. A small scratch at the door forced her to shift her attention to her other unwanted guest, who stood in the doorway looking hopeful. She sighed. All that stood between her and her old life was a few phone calls. Why was she letting herself get so distracted?

Chapter 21

“Unusual place to install a hot tub.” Devon barely restrained a laugh as he stood in the doorway of Grace’s still-soppy kitchen.

“You think?” She chuckled, stepping carefully around the stripped-naked area of the floor and maneuvering toward the stove. “Remember I told you the house was undergoing surgery? Well, welcome to the O.R.”

“Nice.” He moved around the damaged area with such poise, it almost looked choreographed. Once safely over the swamp, he held up his hands like a camera frame. “I see a beautiful fountain going in right about there. Maybe a replica of the Trevi.”

Grace gave a pot of boiling fusilli a quick stir. “Nice, but don’t you think that’s a little showy?”

He considered. “Not if you put the Piazza del Popolo in the living room.”

“Hmm. A theme. I like it.” She picked up the pot and emptied it into a strainer she’d set over the large plastic tub that was acting as understudy for her sink till the pipes got fixed. Carefully, she set the pot down and reached for a bowl of sauce on the counter. Studying it, she gave its contents a stir, hoping she looked more culinarily confident than she felt.

Devon leaned in. “So, what’s on the menu?”

Grace proudly held up the bowl. “I’m making honey chicken, and pasta salad.”

Devon dipped a finger into the sauce. “Wait a minute. You said you couldn’t cook.” He slid his finger between his lips.

She beamed, setting down the sauce. “That’s what I said.”

He made a sour face. “Apparently, you were right.”

She playfully walloped him with an oven mitt.

“You know I’m kidding,” he said. “Actually, I’m very impressed.”

She poured the pasta into the bowl and swirled it with a spoon. “Would you mind grabbing this?” She took a step to the fridge and removed a dish of chicken, which had been marinating in salad dressing all afternoon.

“Of course.” He angled his forehead toward the floor. “You know, you are a little handicapped by your work space.”

“It’s challenging not being able to use the sink.” She headed to the sun porch, indicating that he should follow. “Which is why we’re going to cook in the great outdoors.” They moved through the porch, and she pulled open the back door.

Devon reached out to hold it open for her, then gazed out at the patio. “You bought a barbeque?”

“No.” She set the chicken down on the edge of a grill the size of a golf cart.

Confusion colored his handsome face.

She grinned. “I
borrowed
a barbeque.” She held her hand over the grill, pleased that she had succeeded in getting it to heat.

“Ah.” He stepped out to join her. “So nice to have helpful neighbors.”

“True.” She thought about Bob pulling this monstrosity across the street three minutes after she’d hung up with Lucy. “They said I could use it till the floor’s done.”

“Generous.” He drew a leisurely gaze across the yard. “What’s that over there?”

She followed his line of sight to the corner of the house, where Sam had dug a trench to expose her problematic pipes. “Oh, that’s my outdoor pool.” She poured a tall glass of lemonade from a Tupperware pitcher she’d borrowed with the grill.

Devon took the glass. “I had no idea you were so aquatic.”

She poured a second glass. “Seriously, it started out as part of the kitchen problem, but it turns out a big root is about to break through the pipe.” Raising the glass to her lips, she took a pleasing taste of the tart liquid. “We made an appointment for the Roto Rooter guy to come from Missoula, but apparently you have to book him almost as far in advance as Placido Domingo. Why, Sam says—”

“Sam?” Devon’s neck snapped like a cadet doing drills.

Her stomach lurched. She knew how he felt about Sam. Why had she mentioned his name? “Yes. He’s fixing my floor.”

“Why?” His eyes flared.

Hoping to soften his reaction, she smiled coyly. “Because the fountain really isn’t practical.”

Agitation tinted his skin a rosy pink. “Grace, I just don’t think it’s very smart.”

She kept her tone steady. “I know you’ve got a problem with Sam, and believe me, he’s not my favorite person in the world either, but—”

“He’s trouble.” His voice was stern with warning. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I have some idea.” Her stomach listed. Finally, someone else who had judged Sam’s true character. “What do you think I should do?”

“Just…” He waved a hand in the air as if discarding the dilemma. “Find somebody else to finish the job.”

A twinge curled her insides. “Well, there really
is
nobody else. I mean, have you seen the Madison Falls Yellow Pages? It’s not exactly Angie’s List. “

“What about Hank? Or Carl?” Devon’s eyes held a soft concern.

“Hank or Carl? Devon, they’re farmers, not handymen.” She quelled an all-too-familiar sense of dread. “I could call them if I needed my barn door fixed.”

“Lucy’s husband.” He snapped his fingers repeatedly like he’d suddenly turned into Frank Sinatra. “What’s his name?”

“Bob. He’s working sixty hours a week right now on some ranch remodel. Besides, they’ve done so much for me. I couldn’t possibly—”

“You’ve got to do something.” His brow was sweating, which seemed totally out of character.

“Okay. I will.” With an awkward twist of her wrist, she picked up a piece of chicken and plopped it onto the grill. “What’s Sam’s problem, anyway?”

“I just don’t want you around him.” His eyes sharpened on her face. “Have you…
talked
to him much?”

“No…” She shifted the chicken, recoiling when a drip of dressing ignited a sizzle underneath it. “He seems nice enough when he’s here to work.”

“Meaning?” His eyes suddenly turned as icy as the drink he held.

“Meaning…I don’t know.” Had she said something wrong? The conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn and her thoughts addled.

Devon searched her face with his eyes. “Meaning, you’ve seen him
otherwise?
”

She drew back at the intensity of his tone, nearly dropping the second piece of chicken onto the patio. “No, of course not. I bought paint from him. Lucy knows him, that’s why he came over to do the floor. It’s not like I’d socialize with someone like him.”

Guarded relief replaced the urgency that had cloaked his features. “Good. Keep it that way.” He took a sip of lemonade. “Actually, I’d prefer you didn’t even talk to him.”

Discomfort at his implied control over her personal interactions gnawed at her. No doubt another overreaction to her experience with Kirk. She shook it off. “Fine by me.”

“Good.” His eyes sparked. “Let me tell him, n’est pas?”

“Okay…?”

“I just don’t want you to deal with him at all. Ever. Got it?”

She swallowed hard. “This seems really important to you.”

“It is, believe me.” His piercing gaze intensified.

“Okay, whatever you say.” She subtly relaxed her stance. “I trust your judgment.”

“I’m glad. Trust is critical.” At last his face softened. “So, let’s not waste any more time on that topic. Let’s talk about books, or movies, or—”

“Shoo!”

“Or
shoes
.” He turned, following her gaze around.

The stray dog had just rounded the corner of the house and stood there watching them intently.

“Friend of yours?” His voice wavered with uncertainty.

“He seems to think so.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Why do you keep showing up?”

“You’re talking to the dog, I hope.” A jittery chuckle didn’t quite mask his unease. “Whose is he?”

“Nobody’s. I mean, look at him.” She lifted a hand. His scruffy coat had only gotten rattier since their initial encounter a couple of weeks before.

Devon tentatively approached the animal, who sniffed his hand and emitted a low rumble.

“Whoa.” Devon retreated back a few steps.

Grace rushed forward and knelt down. The brown tail swished from side to side as the dog offered his head for a pat. She spoke in a low voice. “What are you trying to do, ruin this for me?”

His rough tongue lapped her cheek.

Devon held his distance. “It looks like you learned a trick or two working at that pet store.”

She startled at the reminder of her little web of deceit. “Yes, I’m a real pro.” She tipped her head close to the alert ear of her uninvited guest. “Whatever you do, don’t blow my cover.”

She stood, allowing the dog to follow her back to the grill to check on the progress of dinner. She smiled demurely at Devon and blew a stray hair off her forehead.

He smiled and she recalled his words.
Trust is critical
. Now was definitely not the time to let him know that Grace Addison was really a fictional character.

Chapter 22

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Bob inclined his head toward Grace.

She clutched the folds of her gabardine skirt and angled her head to get a better view of Lucy, seated at the piano onstage. Grace smiled her concurrence at Bob, who beamed from his place next to her on the pew.

“She’s
very
talented.” Much to Grace’s surprise, the simple hymn Lucy played revealed genuine skill.

Fiddling with her church bulletin, Grace felt like a lighthouse, unable to keep her head still. The number of familiar faces around her was no surprise—she’d been in Madison Falls for three weeks, after all. There was Spritz, leaning on the shoulder of a dashing red haired gentleman. Joanie nattered with the waitress from the Country Kitchen—probably an exchange of work stories. Hank, Carl, and Ruby were there too, with not a bib overall in sight. She even spotted the man who had helped her open her checking account.

Warmth bathed her senses. She’d never really been a churchgoer, and had hesitated to accept Lucy’s invitation. Now that she was there, she felt surprisingly at ease.

A thought flitted across her mind. She craned her neck to see the front rows, immediately identifying Nancy by her bobbing strawberry blonde plait. She casually scanned the room again, then faced forward with a frown. Of all the people she’d met in town, she would have pegged Mr. Roberts as a dedicated churchgoer. He was so much like her father, who had, according to her mother, picked up the habit of prayer in his final months. She sighed. It would have been nice to have seen Mr. Roberts there.

The song ended to a rousing round of applause, and Grace inclined her head toward Bob. “Before I forget, who do you know who can fix my kitchen floor?”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Is this a riddle?”

“No, I’m serious. Sam started it, but I need someone else to finish.”

Bob rotated toward her in his seat. “It’s not like Sam to leave a job half-done—”

“Oh no, it’s not that. He could do it, it’s just that…”

Bob’s brow creased. “You’re unhappy with his work?”

“No, not at all. As far as I can tell he’s done fine.”

“Then why—”

“Well…” Confusion pressed at her temples. How could she make her reasons sound reasonable?

He seemed to sense her discomfort. “Let me put it this way. All my guys are pulling overtime right now. Sam’s the best man for the job anyway.”

There had to be an alternative. “Well, I hear there’s a plumber in Victor.”

“There is, but he’s not cheap. Sam can handle the whole job for less than what you’d pay that guy just for the plumbing. I’d stick with him.” Seemingly satisfied, he returned his attention to his bulletin.

“But—”

The opening notes of the high voltage, well-amped band startled her. Everyone around her stood and she halfheartedly followed suit. What was she supposed to do now?

The music pulled her mind from her concerns. She started to tap her foot, but shirked a little when a twenty-something man took a step toward the microphone. The band was good, but they really shouldn’t press their luck by adding vocals. She looked down, embarrassed for the poor guy as he took a breath and let out his first phrase.

Her head snapped back up. He wasn’t wretched. In fact, he had talent. He wasn’t Pavarotti, but then again neither was Pavarotti toward the end. This man sang with such joy that the audience energy instantly escalated.

People sang along, buoyed by the supra-titles on the screen behind the band. Grace hummed in sympathetic vibration. She put her hand on her throat, trying to force the lump of emotion back down. This was not going to be easy.