Saving Sara (Redemption #1) (6 page)

“Okay.” Jake hugged his aunt again. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us stay with you.”

She squeezed him tight before releasing him. “I get it. You both need some time to heal.” She glanced around the room fondly. “This place is perfect for that.”

He hoped she was right.

11.

F
or the next two days, Sara fell into a routine. She woke early, ate a bowl of porridge drizzled with maple syrup, strolled through the herb garden, and spent countless hours cleaning out Gran’s things, before having a light dinner of toasted cheese sandwiches, taking a shower and falling into bed, too aware of every single muscle in her body.

Cleaners had been through Gran’s place when she died, but Gran’s personal things had needed to be boxed, a job Sara needed to tackle and complete before she could feel like the house truly belonged to her.

Thankfully, Gran hadn’t been much of a hoarder. Sara had all the books, knick-knacks and clothes boxed for charity on the first day. She’d dithered on the second day because she’d spent hours sorting through Gran’s filing cabinet filled with paperwork and mementos, caught up in memories of times spent here.

She’d always wanted to live here, not be a gypsy like her mother, and thanks to Gran’s generosity, now she could.

But on the third day, when she sat at the dining table contemplating her empty porridge bowl, she knew she couldn’t avoid the inevitable.

She had to open the parcel.

It had arrived after she’d got home the other day and the largish brown box had taken pride of place on a sideboard ever since.

Sara had cited the clean-out as her excuse not to open the box but now that she had time, she still couldn’t do it. Crazy, considering she’d ordered new tools and materials online because she wanted to try pyrography again. So what was holding her back?

She knew. Fear. The same fear that haunted her every waking moment: that nothing she did would ever make her feel good again. It was like Lucy’s death had sucked all the hope out of her. That nothing was important anymore.

If pyrography, the art that had once been her world, failed to provide a spark, Sara would have to admit she’d hit rock bottom and nothing could save her.

She glared at the box and stood. She
would
open it today. She’d force herself to. After she took her morning walk.

A stroll through the herb garden couldn’t be classed as a walk so she ventured farther today, striding out toward the small dam. Sure, it was an avoidance technique but hopefully the clear air would help her headspace and make her face that box on her return.

She followed the path along the hedge that bordered her
property
and Cilla’s. She liked having no fences, liked the feeling of freedom that came with having trees and shrubs rather than wooden palings.

Sunlight dappled the ground and she was so busy studying the patterns it made she didn’t see the child until it was too late. Too late to pretend she hadn’t seen him and avoid any contact, which is what she would’ve done if she’d been more aware.

She couldn’t face kids. Not yet. The pain was too raw, the
gaping
wound in her chest from losing Lucy unfixable.

“Hey,” he said, his big, brown eyes fixed on her. “Whatcha doing?”

Sara swallowed, trying to ease the tightness in her throat. She couldn’t speak.

The child didn’t seem fazed by her lack of response. “I’m Olly. I live over there.” He jerked his thumb toward Cilla’s. “My mom’s sick and my uncle Jake isn’t very good at taking care of me, so he brought me here to stay with Cilla.” He stopped, and clapped his hand over his mouth. “I mean, Aunt Cilla. Uncle Jake said I have to call her that, even though she’s not my real aunt. She’s too old. She’s Jake’s aunt.” He rolled his eyes. “Uncle Jake, I mean.”

The kid talked. A lot. Listening to him should’ve been painful, but as he rambled, the tightness in Sara’s throat eased. She remembered Lucy talking like that, like she couldn’t get the words out fast enough, tumbling over one another in a rush to be heard.

“You’re quiet.” Olly tilted his head, studying her. “What’s yo
ur name?”

Sara cleared her throat. “Sara.” It came out a squeak but it wa
s a start.

Olly giggled at her high-pitched voice. “Do you have any kids I can play with?”

Sara felt her face crumple at Olly’s innocuous question and tears filled her eyes as a man appeared through the hole in the hedge where Olly had wriggled through.

“Olly, why don’t you head back? Aunt Cilla has a snack waiting for you.” The man stood and dusted off his jeans, staring at the kid like he was as terrified of him as she was.

“Okay,” Olly said, his gaze solemn as he looked up at the man. “Don’t be mad, but I made Sara cry.”

The man turned his attention to her and damned if she didn’t want to cry harder.

He reminded her of Greg.

Something in his clear blue eyes . . . an inner confidence, a knowing, like he could take on the world and still come out on top.

It made her bristle and she clamped down on the urge to yell at him to follow the kid and to not come back.

“Run along, Olly, it’ll be okay.” The man gave Olly a gentle nudge toward the hole in the hedge. “See you soon.”

“Sorry, Sara,” Olly said, before scrambling through the hedge and disappearing from view.

For someone who hadn’t wanted to converse with the child, Sara suddenly wished he’d hung around. For now she had time to study the man who, in turn, was staring at her with a little curiosity and a lot of caution.

On closer inspection, he was nothing like Greg beyond the same self-assured gaze. He was tall, a good five inches taller than her, with wavy light brown hair the same shade as her favorite caramel. He had incredible eyes, the kind of blue that was digitally altered for advertisements of the Caribbean. Tanned, with light stubble
covering
his jaw, he exuded the rugged handsomeness associated with sports stars. With the body to match, if her quick glance at his chest and the way the navy cotton molded to it was any indication.

The fact she noticed how damn
physical
he was annoyed h
er anew.

“I’m Jake Mathieson.” He held out his hand. “I’m staying next door with my aunt for a few months. Olly’s my nephew.”

“I know. He told me,” she said, managing a brief shake before releasing his hand, disconcerted by how warm it felt. “I’m Sara Hardy. This was my gran’s house and I moved in a few days ago.”

If he noticed the past tense, he didn’t say so and she was glad. Last thing she needed on the heels of Olly’s devastating question was to discuss how she’d inherited the house after Gran’s death.

“I’m sorry if Olly upset you,” he said, eyeing her the same way he would a jittery filly, like he expected her to kick him before
bolting
. “He’s a good kid but going through some tough stuff at the moment.”

“Aren’t we all?” she said, the response slipping out before she could censor it.

“Yeah, you got that right.” As he continued to eyeball her with that same hopeful yet wary expression, she wondered what had made him so sad.

Because he was. Sad. He wore it like an invisible cloak, draped around his shoulders, too heavy to bear. She recognized it because she felt the same way.

Disgruntled, not wanting to empathize or have anything else in common with him, she crossed her arms and glowered, hoping he’d get the message to leave her the hell alone.

“Anyway, sorry to intrude.” He backed away, almost having to bend double to squeeze through the hole. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe.”
Like never
.

Sara had no intention of following through and didn’t know why she said it, but when Jake smiled, a tentative smile that lit his face and transformed him from handsome to gorgeous, she couldn’t help but think
maybe
wasn’t so bad after all.

As she headed back to the house, she pondered her reaction to him. That jolt she’d felt when he smiled had been sexual. The flush of warmth. The odd tingle. Reactions she hadn’t felt in a long time.

When was the last time she’d had sex? She’d been separated for twelve months—and was officially divorced as of yesterday. Before that, Greg had been too busy chasing partnership in his firm and she’d been too tired at the end of each long workday followed by caring for Lucy to even think about it. Eighteen months, maybe? Longer?

If she couldn’t remember, it had clearly been too long. And while she had no intention of doing anything about the lack of
intimacy
in her life, she couldn’t help but appreciate a fine male when he looked like Jake Mathieson did.

For a split second, when he’d stared at her and smiled, she
wondered
what it would be like to
be
with a man again.

She clomped indoors, kicked off her boots at the back door and spied the box. It still taunted her, beckoning with its crisp brown paper wrapping and shiny label featuring a pyrographed feather and inkpot. She liked the analogy, associating etching and burning into wood with old-fashioned writing. What she didn’t like were the nerves making her stomach churn with dread.

“This is crazy,” she muttered under her breath, stomping across the kitchen to lift the box off the sideboard and place it on the table.

She rummaged in the junk drawer, found scissors, and carefully slit into the paper and tape. Opened the box flaps. Inhaled.

She’d always loved the smell of wood. Birch. Maple. Cherry. Each unique in its own way. It had been so long since she’d touched a piece of specially prepared wood that her hands shook as she lifted several pieces out of the box and laid them carefully on the table.

When her fingers wrapped around the solid-point tool, some of the tension in her stomach dissolved. She pulled it out of the box, staring at the state-of-the-art, electrically heated implement, whose temperature could be adjusted to produce a greater range of shades. Subtle. Bold. Various tones achieved by changing the temperature, pressure, type of wood and tool point.

After her earlier reticence, she couldn’t wait to get started.

Her hands drifted over the wood until she settled on a piece. Birch. And as she waited for the tool to heat, she flipped open her wallet and extracted the picture she would attempt to burn into the
wood.

Lucy, with her chin resting on her hands, smiling at the camera, fairy wings protruding over each shoulder in the background. It was Sara’s favorite picture. Whimsical and cheeky and happy. Lucy a
ll over.

Tears slid down her cheeks as she picked up the tool and swept it across the wood. Again and again and again. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. All her pent-up helplessness and frustration and sorrow flowing through the soldering iron onto the wood until she sat back, exhausted.

She stared at the piece of birch, stunned. She’d captured Lucy’s likeness in a way she’d never thought possible after being away from her craft so long.

The quirk of her lips. The tilt of her head. The glint in her eye.

Lucy
.

Drained yet exalted, she rested her forearms on the table, laid her head on top, and bawled.

12.

I
met Sara,” Jake said, helping Cilla hoist two baskets brimming with herbs onto the bench in her work shed. “What’s her story?”

Cilla cast him a funny sideways glance as she slipped off her gardening gloves. “If she has a story, it’s hers to tell.”

She turned her back on him, busying herself with firing up the burners to simmer or boil or do whatever she did to the herbs to make her concoctions.

Her evasiveness piqued his curiosity. “She definitely has a story, then?”

“Don’t we all?”

Eager to learn more, he propped himself against the workbench so he could see his aunt’s face. “She got pretty upset when Olly asked if she had any kids he could play with.”

Cilla dropped the pipette in her hands and it hit the bench with a clatter. “Olly was with you?”

Jake nodded. “We were exploring the garden. He found a hole in the hedge and climbed through. I was content to let him go ’til I heard him talking to someone. When I followed, that’s the question I heard him ask and she looked like she was about to burst into tears.”

Cilla sighed, rested her hands on the bench top and hung her head. “Sara had a daughter, Lucy, who died about a year ago. Sara’s
grandm
other Issy owned the place. Then Issy died last month and left the house to Sara, and she moved in earlier this week.”

When Cilla raised her head to look at him, her sharp gaze skewered him. “That girl needs time to heal. Seeing Olly probably isn’t the best thing for her, so keep your distance.”

Jake gaped at his aunt. Was she warning him off Sara because she sensed his hidden motives for asking questions?

If so, then damn, she was good. Because Jake did have other reasons for asking about the ethereal blonde who had captured his attention from the moment he’d poked his head through that hedge and caught sight of her staring at Olly like she’d seen a ghost.

Losing her daughter must’ve been tough. But the stark fear h
e’d gli
mpsed in her eyes spoke to other demons and he’d felt a
connection
. Tenuous at best, but still there, linking them in th
eir . . 
. sadness?

Because that’s what he felt every day when he opened his eyes, an all-pervading sadness that tainted everything he did. Food didn’t taste the same anymore. Jogging had lost its appeal. Reading or movie marathons did little to distract. But he did them all anyway, moved through his life by rote, unable to dodge the constant guilt that gnawed away at any potential he had for happiness.

As for women, his deliberate dating drought suited him fine. If he couldn’t muster enthusiasm for much in his life, he’d be useless with a woman. Until he dealt with his guilt, he couldn’t move on.

When Sara had looked at him with that mix of fear and sorrow, a certainty in his gut told him she knew the feeling.

“Is there a husband in the picture?”

“No.” Cilla’s eyes narrowed, fixing him with a disapproving glare. “Issy didn’t think much of him. Said she’d only seen him once, at the wedding, that he never came to visit. An uptight city type, according to Issy. More in love with his cell than with anyone else, apparently. Didn’t have much time for Sara or their daughter.”

Jake couldn’t fathom the relief at Cilla’s pronouncement. He had no intention of starting anything while he was in town, least of all with a grieving mother. “Then she’s better off without him.”

“Issy agreed.” Cilla picked up a bunch of thyme and tied it with a string. “What about you? Anyone special in your life?”

Jake shook his head. “Relationships aren’t my thing.”

Cilla frowned. “Never been close to marriage?”

“I’d need to be in a long-term relationship for that to happen, so no.” Increasingly uncomfortable with discussing his lack of interest in forming a lasting bond with a woman, he pushed off the bench. “Give me a holler if you need help in here.”

Thankfully, she accepted his abrupt change of topic.

“I’ve been doing this on my own for a while, but thanks.” She turned back to her mint and basil and rosemary, effectively dismissing him. “But remember what I said: Sara needs time to heal.”

According to the shrink he’d seen at work to debrief, the day of the crash, he did too.

No one understood the darkness he struggled with on a dai
ly basis.

Who knew—maybe he and Sara could heal together.

Mentally chastising himself for being foolish, he bounded up the back steps and into the kitchen, to find Olly hunched over the dining table, crayons scattered across it.

For the first time since he’d taken custody of Olly, his nephew’s face lit up at the sight of him.

“Uncle Jake, check this out.” Olly bounced up and down in his chair, brandishing a folded piece of paper with a giant red balloon on the front. “I’ve made a card for Sara to cheer her up.”

Jake’s chest ached for this incredibly intuitive boy who wanted to make someone else happy, when he still must be feeling disoriented himself.

He crossed the kitchen to crouch next to Olly. “That’s great, buddy.”

Olly grinned. “Want to see the inside?”

“You bet.”

Olly opened the card with a flourish. “I hope Sara likes sharks. Because that’s what I drew. And seaweed. And some fish. See?”

Jake looked at the colorful drawings and his chest constricted further. “It’s brilliant, Olly. Really great.”

“Thanks.” Olly shrugged like Jake’s praise meant little. “But I think you should give it to her. I might make her cry again.” Olly’s smile waned. “Mom cries sometimes too. At night, when she thinks I can’t hear her, but I do. It makes me sad.”

Jake wanted to bundle Olly into his arms and squeeze him tight. But Olly rarely tolerated more than a hair ruffle the last few days and he didn’t want to push the tentative bond they’d formed.

He straightened and slid onto the chair next to Olly. “You know, buddy, we all get sad sometimes. And crying is a way to express that sadness. It’s normal.”

Olly studied him with solemnity. “Do you cry?”

Jake nodded, remembering the night of the plane crash, when he’d barely made it through his front door before breaking down and sobbing like a baby. Compared to the tears he’d shed in private as a kid, after another of his dad’s brutal putdowns, it had been a doozy of a crying jag.

“Yeah, when I’m really sad.”

“Me too,” Olly whispered, glancing over his shoulder like he didn’t want anyone else hearing. “When Mom’s sad, I get sad, and sometimes I cry.” He scrunched up his eyes. “And that time I fell off the swing and hurt my leg. And when the class guinea pig died when it was my turn to take it home. And that other time . . .”

Olly glanced away, furtive, and Jake didn’t know whether to encourage him or leave well enough alone.

When Olly started pushing the crayons around roughly, Jake felt compelled to ask. “What other time?”

Olly pushed the crayons harder until one tumbled off the table onto the floor and he glanced up, fearful. “That first night at your house. Because I missed Mom and didn’t like that seaweed stuff for dinner and I was scared.”

“It’ll be okay.” This time Jake didn’t hesitate in wrapping his arms around Olly and hugging hard. “I know being in a new place is scary but you can always count on me.” He rubbed his cheek against Olly’s curls and battled the burning rising in his chest. “Always.”

“Thanks, Uncle Jake.” Olly slid his arms around him, tentative, but when he squeezed back Jake knew they’d made serious progress.

When Olly wriggled free, he grabbed the card and thrust it at him. “Can you give Sara my card now please? Because if she has no kids to give her a hug, she won’t have anyone to make her feel better like we just did.”

The kid was a genius. “Okay, I’ll deliver it to her now.”

“And tell her I said hi.” Olly scooped crayons into a pencil case. “Is it okay if I watch TV ’til you get back?”

“Sure. I’ll be back soon.” This time, when Jake ruffled Olly’s hair, the kid beamed.

A hug might not be much in the grand scheme of things but it was progress in their relationship. And Jake knew he had Cilla to thank for it. She’d been a gentle buffer between them the last few days, getting them to help her with simple things, from weeding one of her many herb gardens to cleaning windows.

Olly had been hesitant at first—city kids didn’t get to do stuff like that—but Cilla had been patient and encouraging, and soon Olly had been splashing soap suds and hoeing like a kid enjoying himself.

He’d been wary around Jake, as if he blamed his uncle for
taking
him away from his mom. But Cilla had advised to give it time, not to rush the boy, and Jake valued her opinion.

So that hug had been huge. A monumental step forward. Jake hoped the peace would continue. But he wasn’t a fool. While Cilla had agreed to letting them stay, what happened if she grew tired of having them around? What if Jake had to head back to New York City and care for Olly alone in his sparse apartment? There were no gardens to explore or hedges to crawl through or
vegetables
to pick there. He had a feeling Olly would revert to being sullen and scared.

Cilla’s kindness knew no bounds but the key to staying around was to make himself useful. He was good with his hands. Whatever she needed doing, he’d do it. Maybe see if he could help out in to
wn too.

Satisfied with his plan, he slipped out the front door, wanting to bypass Cilla and a potential lecture if she knew where he was heading. It took a brisk two-minute walk to reach Sara’s front door. Her house wasn’t as large as Cilla’s but appeared upkept, wi
th the shutte
rs painted a pristine white, stark against the red bricks. The garden looked tended too, a riot of color with flowers of different shades. The place looked cozy. Like a home. Something he’d never really had and had always coveted.

For him, home conjured up visions of roaring fires in winter, a hammock on a sundeck in summer and a kitchen filled with food and laughter. Happy people to love and support and nurture.

The closest he’d ever had to it growing up was when he visited next door and Cilla served up her baked goodies. Laughter had been at a premium. The rest had been a pipe dream.

Shaking off his maudlin memories, he knocked at the door. He didn’t want to intrude, not after Sara had been upset earlier, but Olly had asked him to do this and at the moment, with their tentative bond slowly solidifying, he’d do anything for his nephew.

The door swung open and Sara stared at him like he’d delivered a pile of horse manure on her front step.

“What are you doing here?” A tiny frown line appeared between her brows as she half hid behind the door.

“Olly was concerned that he upset you earlier so he made you this.” Knowing this could be a bad idea he thrust the card at her. “It’s his way of saying sorry.”

When she stared at the card in growing horror, he said, “He also asked me to say hi.”

Almost as an afterthought, he added, “He’s a good kid.”

Sara didn’t speak, her eyes downcast and expression dismayed, but she finally reached for the card. She opened it as if in slow motion and when she glanced at the drawings, a lone tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek.

Hell.

“Anyway, I just wanted to drop it off . . .” He trailed off as more tears followed the first, and Sara stumbled back with an anguished cry, before pressing her fist to her mouth.

Jake’s gut went into free-fall. This was bad. Really bad. He’d stirred up a hornet’s nest of emotions when he should’ve left well enough alone.

She didn’t slam the door and he felt awful leaving her in this state, so he followed her into the house, concern and discomfort making him feel gauche. What did he do in a situation like this? He barely knew the woman so he had no right comforting her, but as the card slid from her hands and she cried harder, he instinctively reached for her.

Surprisingly, she let him hold her. Let him smooth her hair, stroke her back, and whisper trite things like “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. At least, not for him. Because as he held her, he started to notice things. The way she fit perfectly against him. The way her hair smelled: like vanilla and coconut. The way she snuggled into him and clutched at his shirt, like she never wanted to let go.

At that moment, the hug morphed from comforting to something else for him and he slowly disengaged, not wanting to scare her off completely if she felt exactly how much he liked holding her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, swiping at her eyes with her fingertips. “You must think I’m an idiot for blubbering all over you like that.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot.” He glanced at the card on the floor, unsure whether to pick it up or not.

She followed his gaze and her lips compressed, as if she struggled to fight back tears again. “My daughter Lucy died a year ago. I’m coping okay but there are days . . .” She squatted, picked up the card, and straightened. “It’s rough.”

“I’m so sorry about Lucy.” He shook his head, powerless to do anything but offer trite condolences. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through.”

“Not many can,” she said, staring at the card with a glimmer of interest. “Olly seems like a sweet kid. Especially to do this for me when he thought he upset me.”

“He is,” Jake said. “If seeing him makes things worse for you, I’ll make sure he stays out of your way.”

To her credit, she didn’t offer false protest. Instead, she headed down the hallway and beckoned for him to follow. “Let’s see how it goes.”

As he followed her, the walls caught his eye. Or more precisely, what covered them. Beautiful pictures burned into pieces of wood and leather. Exquisite drawings made by a very talented artist.

“These are amazing,” he said, gently tracing the outline of a rose etched into a pale wood. “Was your grandma an artist?”

Sara paused in the kitchen doorway, shuffling her weight from side to side, uncomfortable. “Actually, I did those.”

“Wow, you’re good.” He stepped closer to another piece of wood, depicting the house. “Exceptionally good.”