Decision made.
No matter the consequences, he wasn’t walking away.
Psyching himself up for whatever awaited him on the other side of the door, he lifted his hand and knocked.
The sobs continued.
He tried again.
Silence descended in the house.
Thirty seconds ticked by.
Sixty.
Was she going to ignore him?
Just as he was about to give up, the back door cracked open barely wide enough to give him a glimpse of one puffy red eye.
“I heard you crying.” No sense pretending otherwise. She had to know the sound of her weeping had carried through the door.
She hiccupped a sob, and a tear trailed down her cheek. “B-Button died.”
He clenched his teeth, biting back a term he rarely used.
A woman who—according to Molly—had lost people she loved . . . who avoided relationships of all kinds . . . who then took a chance on an abandoned kitten . . . would be devastated by another loss.
“I’m so sorry. May I come in?”
“Why? There’s n-nothing you can do.”
Not for Button—but his neighbor was another story.
“I’d like to see him.” It was as valid an excuse as any.
She waited a few moments but finally swung the door open.
The full view of her face was like a punch in the solar plexus.
Both eyes were puffy and red rimmed, her complexion was pasty, and streaks of mascara trailed down her damp cheeks.
His first inclination was to pull her into a comforting hug.
But every taut muscle of her posture—not to mention the arms crossed tight over her chest—sent a clear keep-your-distance message.
He set the Sweet Dreams bag on the table and continued to the box.
“H-he was fine when I fed him before the tea.” Jeannette stayed where she was, near the door. Away from Button.
Logan bent and examined the limp kitten.
He was gone, no question about it.
And there could be dozens of reasons why—none of which had a thing to do with the care Jeannette had provided.
She needed to know that.
He rose. “This isn’t your fault, you know.”
“I know.”
Thank heaven she didn’t sound as if she had to be convinced. Taking the blame for what had happened would have compounded her misery.
“You did your best for him.” Small consolation, but what else was there to say?
“It didn’t matter in the end.” She sank into a kitchen chair and dropped her face into her hands. “Why does everybody and everything I love die?”
The broken question sent a jolt through him.
And what did she mean by everybody? Was that an exaggeration—or was she being literal?
If it was the latter, that would explain a lot.
He took the chair beside her. “Who else have you lost, Jeannette?” Asking the gentle question was risky. But she’d opened the door—and she might never do that again.
“My whole f-family.”
She’d meant her previous comment literally.
His stomach twisted.
Curious as he’d been about her background, now that he was on the verge of finding out, he wasn’t certain he wanted to know.
Because it was going to be bad.
Very bad.
As Charley had said, people didn’t cut themselves off from others unless they’d been seriously hurt.
But he wanted to hear her story. Knowing what had shaped this woman could help him figure out how to help her move on.
“What happened?”
“It was an a-accident.” She lowered her hands to the table. “Where’s Molly?”
The non sequitur threw him for a moment. “Um . . . spending the night with Elisa. I’m picking her up tomorrow morning before church. The Shabos were able to go back to their apartment yesterday.”
“I know. Why are you here?”
“I had a free evening, Molly was occupied, and I thought a cinnamon roll”—he tapped the bag—“and a walk on the beach would be a perfect Saturday night. I hoped you’d join me. I also wanted to get an update on Button.”
“I have to . . . to take care of him.” She glanced at the box, dread etching her features.
“I can do that for you, if you like.” Later. After she shared whatever had happened in her life to cause a major meltdown over the kitten. “Jeannette—would you tell me about the accident?”
Her face was bleak as she looked at him, the sadness in her brown irises as deep as the fathomless waters beyond Hope Harbor. “I haven’t talked about it in years.”
“It might help if you did.”
“That’s what everyone said at the time. I tried. It didn’t change how I felt.”
“Did you lose a husband? Children?” Considering the profoundness of her grief, the death had to be on that level of magnitude.
“No.”
Not what he’d expected.
“Then who did you lose?”
She appraised him. “Why do you want to know?”
Smart question. She was being cautious, protecting herself.
However . . . his interest had nothing to do with morbid curiosity, if that was her concern. It was driven by a much more personal component.
But how to express that without scaring her off—and shutting her down?
“We’re neighbors . . . and I’d like to think we’re also friends.” He didn’t rush his answer, choosing his words with care. “Friends care about each other. They share their histories, like I shared mine with you.” Reminding her of that couldn’t hurt. “Friends also trust each other to keep confidences. Whatever you tell me will stay between us.”
She frowned and bit her lower lip. “I don’t know . . .”
He let several seconds pass. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I collect Button’s things and take them—and him—over to my place while you think about it?” The delay was a gamble—but he’d rather not hear her story if she later felt she’d been coerced into telling it and ended up resenting him. “I’ll bury Button tomorrow, if you like.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to come?”
She shook her head. “I’ll help you collect everything.”
They worked in silence, packing a bag with the bottles and formula and other items. When they finished, he tucked the package beside Button and picked up the box.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
She nodded and opened the door.
He slipped through—and shifted into high gear. The longer he was gone, the higher the odds she’d stop him at the door with a “thanks for your help” greeting and send him home.
But that didn’t happen. As he crossed her patio nine minutes later, the aroma of coffee drifted through the window.
She opened the door as he approached.
During his absence, she’d done some repair work on her face. The pallor remained, but the mascara smudges had been erased and the tearstains wiped away. Her eyes weren’t quite as red, either, and the puffiness had subsided a tad.
“I put coffee on. I assume you prefer that over tea.”
“I like your tea.”
“Diplomatically put.” She offered him the ghost of a smile. “But I’ll have coffee too. Once in a while it’s a nice change of pace.”