Last-Minute Marriage. Marisa Carroll
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“I know. I let a lady stay in the boathouse last night.”
Sam’s blue eyes widened. “A lady? I didn’t know you knew any ladies.”
Mitch laughed and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He doubted if Sam’s Sunday-school teacher, or Lily Mazerik, or Ruth and Rachel Steele would appreciate his son’s last remark.
“Who is she?”
Sam had been doing homework when Mitch brought Tessa Masterson to the boathouse the night before. He hadn’t heard her car drive in, of course. Neither had Caleb, who was dozing in his favorite chair in front of the TV with the volume so loud he was as oblivious to outside noises as Sam.
“Her name is Tessa Masterson. What were you doing looking out the window at dawn?”
“I wanted to draw the boathouse.”
The answer surprised Mitch a little. “I figured you were checking to see how foggy it was.”
Sam grinned. “I was doing that, too. School’s going to start two hours late. Tyler Phillips sent me an e-mail already. Can I come to the store with you?”
“Sure, tiger.”
Sam looked out the window again. He was still in his pajamas, his blond hair sticking up in spikes all over his head. Mitch glanced at the bedside clock. It was a little before seven. He was due at the store in less than half an hour. He opened early, because contractors and farmers started work early. “Damn,” he muttered, heading for the shower. He’d overslept because he’d forgotten to set his alarm. And he’d forgotten to set it because he’d had three beers before going to bed in an attempt to keep his thoughts away from Tessa Masterson sleeping fifty feet away in the boathouse. It hadn’t worked.
“It’s a good thing you remembered to set your alarm or we’d be late for work.” Sam’s alarm clock was connected to his bedside lamp. When it went off, the lamp flashed. There was also a vibrator under the mattress that alerted him it was time to wake up.
“What’s she doing in our boathouse?” Sam wasn’t going to be diverted from the subject he was most interested in. And his curiosity had saved Mitch from the indignity of rushing over to his bedroom window to see if she’d gotten up before dawn and left town without a thank-you or a goodbye.
“She was lost and needed a place to stay so she didn’t have to drive in the fog.” Mitch thought that was as good an explanation as any for a curious ten-year-old.
“How’d you find her?” Sam was looking out the window again.
Mitch clapped his hands sharply, bringing his son’s head around. “I’ll tell you all about it at breakfast. Is Granddad Caleb up yet?”
“He’s still snoring.” Sam grinned. Oddly enough, Caleb’s snores were one of the things, like the clap of Mitch’s hands, that Sam could hear. Probably because of the vibrations. His son wasn’t totally deaf, but his impairment was serious and affected every aspect of his life.
Mitch had come as close as he could to getting over his guilt about the illness that had caused Sam’s handicap. He and Kara had taken him to the doctor at the first sign of the fever that had escalated into a life-threatening infection. The doctor had prescribed the most effective antibiotic to treat it. But nothing had worked. And no one could be blamed. But Sam’s life had been altered drastically, and and that fact had to be lived with. And worked around.
“I’m starved,” Sam said. “Let’s get breakfast or you’ll be late opening the store.”
“How come this sudden urge to be the fifth generation of Sterlings to run a hardware?” Mitch asked.
“No reason,” Sam replied, trying to look innocent and angelic and missing both by a hair.
“Come on—spill it,” Mitch demanded, sticking his head out of the bathroom so that Sam could read his lips. “What’s up?”
“I want a new basketball, and you won’t let me use my bequest to buy it.”
Sam wasn’t even close on bequest, but Mitch didn’t correct him. “We agreed the money was to be used for special things. A basketball—”
“—isn’t special. I know. But practice for fifth- and sixth-grade teams starts in two weeks. Tryouts are only a month away.”
“I thought you were going to wait until Christmas to get a new basketball.”
The glint in Sam’s eyes intensified. “I’m going to make the team this year. The first team, Dad. Coach Mazerik said I was a hundred percent improved from the beginning of summer. I know to keep my eyes on the other guys. And I can hear the whistle sometimes if the ref blows it loud enough.”
It was hard to take a stand against such determination. If Sam wanted to try out for the team, then Mitch would do everything he could to facilitate that. If his son made it, Mitch would cheer the loudest. If his son failed, he’d be there to pat him on the back and give him the encouragement he needed to try again the next year.
“Okay. It’s a deal. Now hop in the shower and then we’ll go invite our guest to breakfast.”
“You’d better tell Granddad about her first.”
“Good idea.” Mitch’s grandfather was as sharp as a tack and just about the most outspoken old coot in Riverbend. There was no telling what he’d say to Tessa if he thought he could get away with it. His nosiness was, in Caleb’s words, “just being neighborly.”
Mitch wanted his son and grandfather to make a good impression on Tessa Masterson. He knew it was foolish to care what she thought of the three of them, or what she thought of him. It wasn’t as if she was going to make Riverbend her home. In an hour, maybe two, she’d be gone from his life for good. And with any luck the allure she held for him would dissipate as quickly as the fog would burn away under the October sun.
TWO PAIRS OF EYES watched her intensely as she sipped her orange juice. One set was blue, friendly and unblinking. The other was brown, faded with age, and they studied her with wariness and reserve.
Mitch wasn’t watching her. He was standing and looking through the middle one of the boathouse’s three double-hung windows that faced out over the river. A couch and a reading chair sat at right angles to each other a few steps behind him. To his right was the tiny kitchenette where she sat. It had white metal cupboards, a round-shouldered refrigerator and a stove and sink, both as old as the refrigerator. Against the outside wall was an equally small bathroom, and directly across from it, in a small alcove, was the bed, separated from the living area by a curtain hanging from a wooden pole. Above the head of the bed was another window, which didn’t have a view of anything but Mitch’s woodpile.
“More toast, Miss Masterson?” Mitch’s grandfather asked politely. Caleb was a little stooped with the weight of his years, but in his youth he would have been as tall and broad-shouldered as his grandson. And as good-looking.
“More pancakes?” Sam added, watching his grandfather speak. Mitch’s son was a slender boy, as blond as his father was dark. His blue eyes were fringed with long, luxuriant lashes. And because his smile was infectious and he looked so anxious to please, she intended to eat every morsel of overdone pancake and leathery egg on her plate.
Twenty minutes earlier the Sterling men had arrived at the tiny apartment over the boathouse bearing a breakfast tray loaded with food.
“Good morning,” Mitch had said. “I’m glad we didn’t wake you, but my son and grandfather wanted to meet you before we left for the store.”
“I’ve been up for an hour,” she’d told him. That was true. She’d been awake long before dawn. Twice she’d almost gotten in her car and driven away into the foggy darkness. But she’d made herself stay. Mitch had been right last night, and driving would still have been dangerous. It was foolhardy to put herself and her baby in harm’s way for no better reason than to avoid seeing Mitch again.
He