The Matchmakers' Daddy. Judy Duarte
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he a mechanic?”
“By necessity. He’s actually a trucker.”
Zack nodded, as though it made perfect sense. But it merely made him realize how very little he knew about the widowed mother of two. “What brought you out to California?”
Before she could answer, Jessie spoke up. “Mommy worked at a ranch. She counted all their money. But we had to move.”
Had she lost her job? Been falsely accused of something, like he’d been? God knew he didn’t like people digging into his past. Of course, that didn’t make him any less curious about hers.
“Becky,” the soft-spoken mother said to the older girl, “why don’t you and your sister set the table out on the patio. It’s a bit warm to eat inside.”
“Cool. Jessie and I like it when we eat outdoors. Can I light the bug candle, too?”
“Not until I’m there to supervise.”
The girls dashed off, and Diana took a seat on a worn plaid recliner. She sat at the edge of the cushion, leaning forward slightly, hands on her knees.
She looked ready to bolt.
Silence stretched between them until she said, “You start work pretty early each day.”
Okay, so she’d turned the conversation away from her reasons for moving to California. He took the hint and let it drop. “I start at seven o’clock. In the next few days, the rest of the crew will join me. And I’m afraid the equipment will only get louder.”
“That’s all right. My alarm goes off about that time. And the noise from your bulldozer just reminds me to get in the shower.”
Zack doubted he’d ever fire up that engine again without glancing in the direction of Diana’s house and wondering if she was awake.
And headed for the shower.
He envisioned the shapely brunette taking off a white cotton gown and stepping under the gentle spray of a warm shower. Naked. Water sluicing over her.
“So,” he said, trying to squelch the sexual curiosity that seemed sinful in the case of a widowed church secretary and the mother of two. “Do you like living in Bayside better than Texas?”
“Yes, but we really miss our friends, the Merediths. They were like family to us.”
“What made you move?” Okay, so he was prodding her, when turnabout wasn’t fair play.
“We were living with my father and…” She glanced in the direction the girls had run. “He’s a good man, but critical to a fault. And I had to put a little distance between him and the girls. I didn’t want them to grow up in a harsh environment.”
The kind of environment she’d grown up in, no doubt. But she seemed to have come away unscathed.
“Well,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I have to check something on the stove.”
“Sure.” He watched her walk away, unable to ignore the gentle sway of her rounded hips. He blew out a pent-up sigh, hoping to shake off the attraction that brewed under his surface.
He glanced at the lamp table, spotting a framed photograph of a smiling man and woman.
A groom and his pretty, brown-haired bride.
Diana and her husband.
The girls had said their father passed away. They seemed to be okay with the loss. But how about their mother?
Was she still grieving? Still brokenhearted?
He hoped not. Diana was too young, too sweet, too perfect to be hurting.
And too damned young to be sleeping alone.
Again, he cursed his sexual attraction to a woman who was way out of his reach.
Chapter Three
Diana stood at the stove. As spaghetti sauce simmered over a low flame, she stared at a large pot of water, wondering if it would ever boil.
On the way home from the bus stop, she’d thought about fixing canned soup and sandwiches for dinner—something quick and easy. But she couldn’t very well serve a light meal like that to a construction worker the size of Paul Bunyon and with, she imagined, an appetite to match.
So she’d used the hamburger she’d set aside for meat loaf and added a jar of store-bought marinara she kept on hand for emergencies like this.
But she couldn’t very well let Zack wait alone in the living room, without even the girls to entertain him. So she left the pots, one simmering and the other on high, and headed back to her guest.
He sat on the worn, tweed sofa, studying a photograph of her and Peter on their wedding day.
When he heard her enter the room, he returned the silver frame to the lamp table, tossed her a half smile and nodded at the twelve-year-old picture that spoke of another time, another life. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.” She’d left that picture out for her daughters’ benefit, along with a couple of others down the hall.
“The girls told me your husband…their dad…passed away.”
She nodded. “About two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Most people felt awkward discussing death and loss, and for some reason, Diana wanted to make it easy on Zack. And easy on herself. “Time heals. And we’ve adjusted pretty well. At least, I think the girls are doing all right.”
Compassion spread across his face, and she realized he assumed she hadn’t gotten over her loss. But that’s not what she’d meant.
She took a seat in the easy chair that had, along with the other furniture, come with the house. “I’m doing all right, too.”
And she was. Her husband had been one of the kindest, gentlest men she’d ever known, but she’d gotten over his death easier than her daughters had.
She’d loved him, of course. How could she not? But she’d never really felt his love in return. His focus had always been on the church rather than on her and the girls. And, after a while, she’d grown to resent the time he spent trying to nurture everyone else in the small, struggling congregation.
So after holding down the home front by herself for what had seemed like forever, she continued to do the same after his death. And if truth be told—
Oh, God. It sounded so terrible to admit, but there hadn’t been a lot for her to miss.
At times, she wondered if she’d bypassed a step in the grieving process. But in reality, she’d probably been so busy trying to keep the wolf from the door that she’d passed through it all without a backward glance.
“What was his name?” Zack asked.
“Peter.”
“How did he die?”
“From a heart attack. And since he was only thirty-four, he probably overlooked any symptoms he might have had.” She fingered the frayed, braided edge on the armrest of the chair. “Late one evening, the church janitor found him slumped over his desk.”
“Wow.” The word came out as a solemn whisper.
She didn’t want Zack feeling sorry for them. It happened; they’d survived. End of story.
“Peter was a good man,” she told him. “And he’s in a better place.”
“Better than being with a beautiful wife and two great kids?” He frowned. Then he softened. “Sorry. Just my cynical nature busting loose.”
Over the past few years, Diana had grown a little cynical, too, although she usually hid