The Orchard at the Edge of Town (27 page)

The only thing his family had ever competed for was the title of laziest homeowner.

They'd won hands-down every day of every year for as long as there'd been Jeffersons in Benevolence. That had been nearly as long as the town had been a town.

Not that that mattered to Sinclair. Not the way it had when he'd been the kid that teachers pitied, the one who received hand-me-down clothes from well-meaning church ladies every Christmas.

They hadn't understood the truth.

He hadn't wanted slightly used mittens, boots, coats. Hadn't really needed faded jeans and cotton T-shirts. Grandpa was pretty adept at picking those things out of trash cans and Dumpsters.

What he'd wanted, what he'd longed for, what he'd needed about as desperately as he'd needed air to breathe and water to drink, was a home. The kind that friends could visit. The kind that smelled like good food and furniture polish. The kind his friends lived in.

No church lady could have brought him that.

So, he hadn't really wanted anything at all.

Except to escape. Which he had. Thank you Uncle Sam and the good old Marine Corps! Seven years. Three tours. A bum knee and an honorable discharge, and he'd taken the money he'd saved, put it into restoring a row of painted ladies in San Francisco. He'd turned those around for a profit and continued on, building the kind of business his grandfather had always talked about having—using reclaimed materials from condemned buildings to bring at-risk properties back from the brink.

That was the difference between Sinclair and most of the men in his family. He didn't just dream. He did.

Maybe he could teach Gavin to do the same before he left Benevolence.

He doubted it, but he'd give it as good a try as he'd given his relationship with Kendra. He'd put his all in it. If it didn't work out, he'd walk away with a clear conscience and no regrets, go back to his life and his business and his clean, quiet apartment.

The empty one.

Which hadn't ever bothered him before.

The last couple of days, he'd been thinking about all those old childhood dreams. The ones where he'd come home and smell cookies in the oven- or fresh-baked bread. Where there was someone waiting for him with a smile and a “how was your day?”

Maybe it was coming back to Benevolence that had made him think about those youthful fantasies. Probably it was.

All the more reason to get out of Dodge as soon as humanly possible.

“Sinclair?!” Janelle called, her high heels tapping on the wood floor. “I've got the agreement.”

Good. He was ready to sign it.

He might have to be in a town he hated, but he didn't have to spend his nights in a cluttered and dirty single-wide trailer listening to his brother complain.

That was the beauty of working hard.

It paid off. Gave a man the ability to do what he wanted when he wanted. Gave him the freedom to make decisions about where he wanted to be and when.

It couldn't warm his bed at night, couldn't fill a house with warmth and make it a home, but Sinclair would be happy for what he had.

That was part of his life plan. Contentment. Something his father hadn't had, his grandfather had never found, his brother longed for.

Elusive as mist on the water.

As difficult to find as water in the desert.

After Sinclair had nearly been blown to bits in Iraq, he'd realized that was all he really wanted. To be content with his life. He was, and when he wasn't, he found a way to make himself be.

Right now, that way was this apartment over a chocolate shop. Not one of the posh hotel suites he was used to staying in when clients flew him in to oversee restoration projects, but it was quiet, clean and close enough to the homestead to make for an easy commute.

“Good enough,” he muttered as he walked out into the hall and went to sign the rental agreement.

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Copyright © 2015 by Shirlee McCoy

 

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