He had too, during their brief, unplanned conversation. The tremor he’d picked up had been subtle but unmistakable.
“I don’t have a—”
At a knock on the sliding door that led to his deck, he leaned sideways to see around Stephanie.
She swiveled too—and dismay etched her features as she lowered her volume. “After I had tea with Kat, I told her to drop by anytime. I’m sorry. This isn’t an opportune moment.”
“It’s not a problem.”
On the contrary. A quick chat with his neighbor could help defuse the stress of the past few minutes.
He rose, crossed the room, and pulled the door open, doing his best to force up the stiff corners of his mouth. “Hi.”
As Stephanie joined him, Katherine looked between the two of them. If he appeared as shell-shocked as he felt, she was probably regretting her impulsive visit, whatever the impetus.
“I didn’t mean to intrude, but I decided to deliver this in person rather than drop it in the mail.” She leaned past him and held out an envelope to Stephanie.
“You’re not intruding.” His aunt took it. “We’re getting ready to go work on the Hope House project I told you about while we were at tea. I see painting and wallpaper stripping in my immediate future.”
“I won’t keep you, then.” She started to turn away.
“If you’re not busy, why don’t you join us?”
As Stephanie issued the invitation, Zach flashed her a silent drop it message. “I’m sure Kath—Kat—has more interesting things to do.”
“Do you?” Stephanie ignored him as she directed the question to their visitor.
“Um . . . I don’t know much about wallpaper stripping or painting.”
“It’s easy. I learned everything I know from YouTube.” Stephanie gave her a bright smile. “Why don’t you come along? It should be a companionable group, and you could pick up useful skills for the future. You’re already dressed for the job.”
Zach gave his neighbor’s outfit a quick scan.
That was true—but she wouldn’t want to expose herself to a group of strangers, in case someone recognized her . . . unlikely as that was in her present grub state.
“Aunt Stephanie . . . I don’t think—”
“If you could use another pair of hands—”
As their comments overlapped, a soft flush bloomed on Katherine’s cheeks. “On the other hand, I’m not a Hope Harbor resident. Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“I don’t live here either, and I’m volunteering.” His aunt waved the comment aside as she cut her off. “Many hands and all that. Right, Zach?”
An elbow jab from Stephanie kicked his vocal cords into gear. “I don’t think anyone will complain if we bring along another helper.”
“Of course they won’t.” Stephanie glanced between the two of them. “And donating a few hours to a charitable project is a perfect activity for a quiet Wednesday afternoon. Doing work with the hands often frees the brain to think.”
“Are you leaving now?” Katherine took a tiny step back.
“Yes. Zach’s driving.”
She moved farther away. “I, uh, have a few chores to finish first. I could meet you later if I get them done. What’s the address?”
Zach recited it.
“I’ll do my best to come.” She turned and hurried back toward her house.
Hands on hips, he watched her. If he was a betting man, he’d lay odds she’d never show. Whatever had prompted her to latch on to Stephanie’s invitation—loneliness, a sudden yearning to do a good deed, boredom—common sense would prevail in the end.
Given her desire to remain under the radar, immersing herself in a bunch of strangers wouldn’t be smart.
But as she disappeared from view, he couldn’t quell a surge of disappointment.
After everything Stephanie had unloaded on him in the past fifteen minutes, he could use the distraction of female companionship—of the romantic variety—to take his mind off the decision looming in front of him.
Should he go to Atlanta to be with his dad during the surgery and risk an abrupt and ungrateful dismissal—or stay here in Hope Harbor, where life was simpler and devoid of the tension and angst that would most certainly await him in the city of his youth?
16
Was that Stephanie?
Frank set the brake on his car two doors down from Hope House and peered at the woman in safety goggles on the front lawn. Manning a miter saw, she motioned toward a piece of crown molding—as if she was instructing the people clustered around her how to cut it.
Nah.
It couldn’t be her.
What were the chances a woman like Stephanie would know how to cut or install crown molding?
Minuscule.
But from this angle, it sure looked like her.
He slid out from behind the wheel and approached the small group on the lawn, the woman’s voice drifting toward him.
“Corners are the hardest to cut. Remember that for an inside corner, the bottom of the molding should be longer than the top. For an outside corner, the top will be longer. A coping saw is your best friend for corners.”
It was Stephanie.
Jaw dropping, he halted and gave her another scan as she proceeded to demonstrate how to use the saw.
She was as dressed down as he’d ever seen her, in broken-in jeans, an untucked shirt, and sport shoes.
Demonstration finished, she raised her head—and their gazes met.
Surprise registered in her eyes . . . quickly followed by pleasure, unless his skills at reading body language weren’t as polished as he thought they were.
The hesitant smile she sent him, however, confirmed his take.
Close your mouth and stop staring, Frank.
Following that sensible advice, he clamped his jaw shut and returned her smile.
He waited until she finished fielding questions, then met her halfway as she walked toward him.
“I didn’t expect to see you here today.” She brushed sawdust off her jeans and removed her safety goggles, mussing her stylish coiffure.
She didn’t appear to notice—or care.
“That goes both ways. Zach didn’t mention you’d signed on for the painting crew—although it appears you’ve been commandeered for a different job.” He motioned to the saw and crown molding.
“A temporary reassignment. The guy who was supposed to lead the woodworking team got hung up. I was doing a basic introduction to get them started until he arrives.”
“How did you acquire a skill like that?”
“YouTube.” She grinned. “I renovated my whole apartment in New York on my staycations.”
“You stayed home and rehabbed on your vacations?” He tried to wrap his mind around that piece of news.
“Yes. I have a long-term lease, and the landlord was more than happy to let tenants make agreed-upon improvements. After all my travel, it was bliss to sleep in my own bed during my brief—and infrequent—days off.”
A gust of wind whipped several strands of hair across her face, and she lifted a hand to brush them aside.
Three things registered.
Her fingers were long and graceful.
The nail polish on her pinkie was chipped.