I was the one without a wall. The thought stuck with me all through the rest of dinner and niggled at the back of my mind as I dried the dishes Ryan then put away. By the time I’d promised to have breakfast with Nancy and the evening drew to a close, I realized there was no way I’d be sleeping tonight. My brain had worked itself into overdrive.
Ryan walked me to my door, even though it was only one driveway away. I unlocked the front door and shoved the key back into my pocket.
“Hey, I wanted to thank you for hanging out with my mom. That means a lot to me.” Ryan leaned against the side of the house, his relaxed manner always in direct opposition to my own stiffness. I tried to push my shoulders down from where they bunched up to my ears.
“I like her.” I glanced toward his house. “She’s hanging out with me more than the other way around. I think she feels sorry for me.”
Ryan laughed. “Mom’s not the type to hang around people out of pity. Cook them a huge meal maybe, but not hang out with them.”
She’d done both, actually, so I wasn’t sure he’d necessarily made his point. Not that I would call him out on it. I opened the door and hesitated on the threshold. “You didn’t have to do everything you’ve done. The tree, the tarp, all of it. But I appreciate it.”
He pushed off the wall. “It’s nothing. Any one of the guys at church would have done it.”
Right. Nothing special. Just a preacher man helping out people around town. Same as he’d do for anyone else. The idea both needled and relieved me, though I couldn’t exactly say why. “Thanks again.”
“No worries. You can pay me back on Sunday.”
Church. Teens. Ugh. I did owe him that much, even if my helping him didn’t make the first lick of sense. “Right. I’ll be there.”
Ryan grinned. “Good night.”
I echoed his words and slipped inside. I turned the lock, though it wouldn’t matter with a hole in the wall. Anxiety shifted another gear as soon as the bolt clicked into place. Every breath pulsed with seclusion, every heartbeat a reminder that I occupied this big house alone. My nerves tingled with energy. My mind raced with endless scenarios, none of them pretty.
Letting my mind run rampant wouldn’t do me any good. I’d need to keep busy until exhaustion demanded my brain take a break from spinning horrific illusions. Might as well put this energy to good use and have something worth showing Nancy tomorrow.
I gathered my material, thread, and an old plug-in radio from Ida’s laundry room. I scanned the channels and finally found one without commercials. Christian music. Not my usual, but I could try something new. Besides, these songs wouldn’t taint Ida’s house.
The upbeat melody flooded the room, and my nerves unwound.
At least I had something to do to keep me occupied. And if anything rattled that tarp, I knew exactly where Ida kept the chef knife.
16
The Finished Product
Something heavy and—hairy?—pooled across my face. Sleep scattered from my senses. What in the world? I bolted upright and sent the object flying off my head.
Kitty landed in a splash of gray fur on the bed. She pinned her ears at me and swished her tail. Clearly, she’d been jarred awake as well and wasn’t thrilled.
“What?” I wrinkled my nose at the offended cat. “You were the one sleeping on my face.” I brushed cat hair off my eyes. Seriously? She couldn’t find anywhere else? Maybe she’d been trying to commandeer my pillow and I hadn’t yielded, so she’d settled for stubborn, passive-aggressive tactics.
Or maybe I personified a cat too much.
I rubbed my eyes and swung my feet off the bed. What time was it?
9:07.
Oh no. Nancy would be here soon. I darted to the bathroom, dressed quickly, and scrubbed my teeth. Looked like it would be another no-makeup, ponytail day. When had I let sloppiness become a habit? Derick would be appalled at my lack of primping.
Another reason not to worry with it. There was something almost freeing about not being obsessed over the curl of my eyelashes, the circumference of my waistline, or the style of my hair.
I bounded down the stairs and swept into the kitchen. Coffee. I needed lots of coffee. I measured out the fragrant grounds and dumped them into the filter. I’d stayed up until four this morning, but I’d finished. I hadn’t added the hand-stitching that many of Ida’s quilts featured, but the fact that I’d sewn the entire thing with a foot-pedaled, century-plus old machine felt like enough old-fashioned success to me.
The bright blue tarp mocked me from the dining room, but I averted my gaze. I couldn’t do anything about the hole, the damage, or the repairs right now, so no point fixating on it. The coffee pot gurgled, and soon the uplifting aroma of coffee swept away the lingering sawdust smell.
The doorbell rang. I checked the clock on the stove. Nine-thirty. Right on time. I sauntered into the foyer, slid the deadbolt, and opened the door to Nancy’s smiling face.
“Oh, wow.” I reached for the huge tray in her hands. “Let me get that.”
Nancy relinquished the serving tray topped with an embroidered white hand towel and brushed her hands on her cotton pants.
I closed the door with my foot. “How many people are eating breakfast with us?”
Her tinkling laugh filled the foyer. “None, silly girl.”
Did she think the two of us needed a smorgasbord? This thing was heavy. “You should have told me. I would have carried it for you.”
“Nonsense. I’m not an invalid.” She gestured toward the tray as she bustled toward the kitchen. “And that’s not all for breakfast.”
I set the wooden tray on the kitchen counter and pulled the towel off the top. Nancy had packed eight different plastic containers with food. I lifted my eyebrows in silent question.
“It’s been two weeks since my last treatment. Time for me to head home again.” She grabbed three of the containers and headed toward the fridge. “These will tide you over for a few days until I can set up the ladies circle.”
“Ladies circle?”
Nancy grabbed four more containers and placed them in the fridge next to the others. “They’ll set up a schedule to bring you meals.”
I shook my head emphatically. “That’s not necessary.”
“It’s not?” Nancy helped herself to a coffee mug and poured a steaming cup. “So you have a stockpile of food you’ve been hiding somewhere else in this house?”
Sarcasm?
She laughed, taking the edge off her words. “Don’t be prideful, dear. You’re going through a rough time. And the ladies practically live for providing meals.”
Dubious, I shook my head again. No one “lived for” making meals for other people.
Once again reading my thoughts, Nancy playfully wiggled her eyebrows. “Clearly, you’ve never met a gaggle of retired Baptist women.”
Maybe she had a point. And I did need the food. “That’s really kind of them. But I don’t want to put anyone out.”
“Nonsense.” She stirred a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “Whenever someone in the church has a baby, goes to the hospital, or has a major life crisis”—she thumbed a gesture toward the blue tarp—“we bring casseroles. It’s what we do.”