A Gift for All Seasons. Karen Templeton
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What do you need me for?”
Patrick had learned a lot since coming on board almost a year before, but he was still a rookie. And it was his dad’s business. “It’s looking to be a big job. I can design it, sure, but you’re the expert at discussing time frames and giving estimates. Besides, people trust you—”
“That’s a load of bull and you know it.”
“About people trusting you?”
His father gave him a hard look. “No.”
“Only trying to keep you in the loop,” Patrick said, focusing again on his lunch.
“That’s what cell phones are for—”
“I remember those girls as all being such pretty little things,” his mother said, rising to clear Lilianna’s bowl and cup. “The one who’s sticking around—she grow up okay?”
“For God’s sake, Kate,” his dad said with a heavy sigh.
“What? I’m just making conversation, honestly! And you’re the one pushing the boy to handle this on his own!”
Shoveling in another bite, Patrick let them bicker. Really, God love them for encouraging him to put himself back out there, to find a girl smart enough to appreciate him for who he was, for their refusal to accept his appearance as an impediment to that goal. Too bad he had no intention of following their well-intentioned advice. He’d taken enough risks—and suffered the consequences—for a lifetime, thank you. But it wasn’t until he’d stopped fighting so hard to prove to himself, and everyone else, that nothing had changed that he’d finally learned to accept that everything had.
And with that acceptance came a kind of peace, one that had barely begun to release him from the guilt and the self-pity, the nightmares he’d thought would choke him for the rest of his life. That first morning he’d awakened and realized he’d slept through the night he’d wept with gratitude. So for damn sure he’d hang on to that peace with everything he had in him. Not only for his sake, but for his daughter’s, who deserved at least one coping parent.
One with both feet firmly planted in what was, not what should have been.
Or might be—
Patrick’s cell rang. He dug it out of his shirt pocket, only to frown at the unfamiliar number before bringing the phone to his ear. “Patrick Shaughnessy—”
“Mr. Shaughnessy, it’s April Ross.”
His stomach jumped; there was more Southern in her voice than he remembered, something sweet and smoky that tried its damnedest to get inside him.
And letting his parents listen in to the conversation was not happening. He pushed away from the table to stalk out of the kitchen and down the hall.
“Ms. Ross. What can I do for you?”
“Would tomorrow morning work for you to come out? It occurred to me, what with it already being the end of October, we should probably get going as soon as possible. Don’t you agree?”
This said as though her bolting like a scared rabbit had never happened. Interesting.
“Tomorrow would be fine. Around nine?”
“Perfect. We’ll see you then.”
We.
Replacing his phone, Patrick continued into his parents’ jam-packed living room where Lili sat in front of the brick fireplace, holding a one-sided conversation with a bevy of beat-up dolls. At his entrance, she grinned up at him, and, as usual, his heart swelled. God, he loved this kid.
For her sake, he’d forced himself to smile again. To laugh. To appreciate the good in life and not give the bad the time of day. Trying to set a good example, like his parents had done for him. He squatted beside her, cupped her head. “Gotta go, munchkin. Give me a hug?” She scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around his neck. “You be good for Grandma, okay?”
He saw the flash of sadness in her dark eyes when she pulled away, but she only nodded and said, “‘Kay.”
Patrick called his goodbyes to his folks, then let himself out the front door, where the cold wind wreaked havoc with his face grafts, even for the short sprint to his truck. Sure, the idea of being around April Ross produced a kick to the gut the likes of which Patrick hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. But after the hell he’d been through? A little lust was the least of his worries. Especially since this was a nonstarter. What with her being married and all.
And thank God for that.
Chapter Two
“That’s not what you had on five minutes ago.”
Shooting daggers at her cousin Melanie, April selected a coffee from the carousel on the gleaming, brand-new quartz counter and plopped it into the Keurig maker. The old kitchen, although huge, had been so outdated it nearly qualified for historical preservation status. And not in a good way. Now it was a chef’s dream, with miles of countertops and cabinets, double ovens and a massive, stainless-steel-topped island, and—the pièce de résistance—a six-burner commercial-grade stove … in pink. Just for Mel. Who, now that true love had brought her back to St. Mary’s after more than ten years away, had agreed—after much haranguing on April’s part—to bring her mad cooking skills to the inn.
“I was cold,” April said. “So I put on a heavier sweater.”
“And changed your pants. And your headband—”
“Shut. Up.”
“And that’s your fourth cup of coffee this morning.” The brunette grinned, her own mug of coffee nestled against her generous bosom, not so generously covered by a hot pink velour hoodie. Underneath long bangs, her gray-green eyes glittered. “That much caffeine and you’re gonna sound like a chipmunk on speed. Although I do like that shade of purple on you.”
Their other cousin, Blythe, an interior designer in D.C. who was there for a few days to check on the remodel’s progress, wandered into the kitchen, yawning, a study in drapey grays and silvers. Tall, blond and impossibly chic, she frowned at April.
“Weren’t you wearing something different at breakfast?”
Melanie poked Blythe as she bit into one of her own homemade cinnamon rolls. “I remember Patrick Shaughnessy. If vaguely. Dude’s definitely worth the wardrobe crazies.”
Her coffee brewed, April grabbed the porcelain mug, watching the sunlight dance across her rings before she turned and caught sight of the clock, a big, old-fashioned schoolroom thing Blythe had found in some antiques store. Ten minutes. Sighing, she leaned against the counter and looked at Mel. Time to reveal a detail or two she’d left out when she’d told them he was coming to give the estimate.
“I take it he was pretty good-looking back then?” she asked her cousin.
“In a craggy, Heathcliffian sort of way, yeah. All the Shaughnessy boys were.”
“So his face … it wasn’t scarred?”
“Scarred? You mean, like … a cut that didn’t heal properly?”
“No. Worse. Like … I don’t know. Burned, maybe?”
“What? Ohmigod, are you serious? Is it … bad?”
April nodded. “Although it’s only one side of his face, so I didn’t notice at first. But when I did …” She grimaced. “I sort of … freaked out.”
Mel frowned. “Freaked out, how?”
“I ran. Like some frightened little twit who thought she’d seen the bogeyman. And yes, he saw the whole thing.”
“Ouch,” Blythe said.
“Exactly.” April’s gaze drifted out the new kitchen