The Virgin and Zach Coulter. Lois Dyer Faye
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“We weren’t sure how long it would take you to get here, but as soon as you called from Nepal we put clean sheets and blankets on the bed in your old room,” Cade said. “Why don’t you head upstairs? We can talk later.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Zach agreed. “Nice to meet you, Mariah. Will I see you later?”
“I’ll be around when you wake up,” she told him.
“Good.” He nodded and turned away. “Good night, you two.” He lifted a hand in farewell, their echoes of “good night” following him down the hall. He paused at the front door to collect his duffel bag and then climbed the stairs to the second floor. The door to his old bedroom stood open and he turned on the bedside lamp, dropping his duffel on the bed before closing the door.
He was too tired to do more than give the room a cursory inspection but did register that while the furniture was the same, someone had hung new curtains. The room was clean, the top of the pine wood dresser where he dropped his wallet and assorted clutter from his pockets dust-free.
He shucked off his boots and jeans, pulled his shirt off over his head and clad in only his boxers, slid between the sheets.
Just before he fell asleep, he thought about how Cynthia Deacon had fit into his arms as if custom made just for him. And he wondered how long it would be before he could see her again.
Chapter Three
Cynthia couldn’t stop thinking about Zach Coulter. She’d felt his gaze burning into her as she’d walked to her car, and hadn’t been able to resist checking him out in her rearview mirror as she drove away. He’d stood on the sidewalk without moving, staring after her.
He wasn’t shy about letting a woman know he found her attractive, she thought, her lips tilting upward at the corners as she remembered the interest in his green eyes while they’d talked. She’d met a lot of good-looking men at the hotels where she’d worked over the past few years and more than a few had made passes at her. But Zach raised “handsome and charming” to a whole new level.
At dinnertime she pulled open the refrigerator door in her kitchen and took out red leaf lettuce, a slim English cucumber, tomato, avocado and a red bell pepper. Standing at the counter, she rinsed and, with practiced, efficient movements, quickly chopped, sliced and diced.
She wondered how long he would be in town.
She paused, knife in hand, and looked out the window above the sink at the backyard, lit by late afternoon sun. The big elm tree in the far corner was in full leaf, the spreading branches shading the white picket fence and at least six feet of elderly Mrs. Riley’s yard next door. The snowball bush along the back fence was covered in fist-sized clusters of green buds that would pop into circles of white flowers.
Neatly edged in brick, the flower beds along the one-car garage in the corner opposite the elm tree were raked, fertilized and seeded.
The old house and the gardens her great-uncle Nicholas had loved were ready for summer. She vividly remembered working beside him, her small hands next to his gnarled fingers as they tucked the roots of green living plants into warm black soil. The gentle elderly man, his garden and home had been a haven of peace and sanity in a childhood threatened by her mother’s chaotic lifestyle.
How long will I be in town, Cynthia wondered. She’d sent out résumés immediately after her arrival, but she’d been back in Indian Springs and the welcoming old house for almost two weeks. She’d readied the flower beds and seeded them, aired out the upstairs bedrooms and folded away winter bedding, trimmed and fertilized the roses along the front porch. She’d certainly been busy. But she hadn’t received any response to her résumés, nor to any applications online.
Cynthia opened a cupboard door and took out a rose-colored Depression-era glass salad bowl and a matching stemmed glass. Long before she and her mother had come to live at his house, Nicholas had lost his beloved wife, Min. He’d continued to care for her lovely glass, crystal, silver and the house’s antique furnishings as if doing so had somehow kept a part of her with him. He’d taught Cynthia a deep appreciation for fine old things and given her one of her great-aunt Min’s handmade quilts when she’d left Indian Springs to go to college. The quilt had traveled with her ever since and was currently spread out over the foot of her bed upstairs.
As she filled the bowl with tossed salad, layered chilled shrimp atop and drizzled balsamic vinegar and oil over all, she considered what to do with Nicholas’s cherished home and furnishings.
The question had plagued her over the weeks since Nicholas had passed away. He’d been ninety-two and although his body had become frail, he’d always been spry and fit with a sharp mind. On some level, she knew she’d simply refused to think about him ever being gone. But now, he was. And here I am, she thought as she carried her salad, glass of water and silverware into the adjoining dining room.
Her work required her to travel and she’d always loved that aspect. But it also prevented her from settling in any one spot, limiting her ability to create the kind of home with treasured furnishings that Nicholas had entrusted to her.
She glanced around the room with its long, graceful table and tall sideboard. The table had room to easily accommodate eight people and she knew there were additional leaves and chairs that allowed the table to expand and seat twelve.
Nicholas should have left his home to someone with a big family, she thought as she sipped her water and ate her salad. I’ll never fill these chairs with a husband and children.
Not that she didn’t want to marry and have children. She’d always dreamed that someday she’d find the right man and fall in love. But given her trust issues, she wasn’t sure that was possible.
Cynthia sighed, frowning. She’d never been particularly fond of any of her mother’s boyfriends, but it wasn’t until she was twelve years old that she’d learned to fear men. That was the year the man who’d been dating her mother had caught her alone in the house. By the time Nicholas arrived and pulled the man off of her, she’d been bruised and terrified, her lip cut and her blouse torn. Her mother had been furious—at her, not the boyfriend. And despite counseling during college, Cynthia had never been able to move past the suffocating panic when a male acted aggressively.
Which is why I’ll probably never marry, she thought, staring at the empty chairs ranged along the sides and the far ends of the table.
She had an unexpected, instant mental image of Zach Coulter, eyes alight with amusement as he smiled at her, sitting at the head of the table on her left.
“Not likely,” she said aloud in the silent room. She shook her head, popping a pink shrimp into her mouth. “He’s out of my league. If I ever consider looking for a husband, I should probably start with a basic small-sedan-level guy. Zach’s more like a high-performance-sports-car-level guy. Still,” she mused with a sigh, “a girl can dream.”
Her voice seemed loud in the hushed room.
“I’m talking to myself,” she muttered. “Definitely time to find a new job with real people to talk to.”
She rose and walked back into the kitchen to switch on the radio on the shelf just inside the door. When she returned to the table, the muted strains of Memphis blues followed her, filling the hushed, waiting silence.
Determinedly, she turned her attention to finishing her dinner and her thoughts to job hunting and considering whether to tweak her résumé.
But when she turned off the light and settled into her bed later that evening, her last drowsy thought was of Zach’s green eyes smiling down at her.
Zach didn’t wake until six o’clock the next morning.
By the time he’d showered, shaved and dressed to head downstairs, his stomach was growling. The aroma of coffee teased his nostrils and he followed it down the hallway.
“Morning.” He nodded at