Roz Fox - A Mom for Matthew

Because she was feeling rocky, Grace pulled out her wallet when the waiter brought the check. “Since I’m causing you and Mr. Kemper grief,” she said as sweetly as possible, “I insist on paying my share. As you said when you phoned my room, I had to eat dinner anyway. I would never have tried this great restaurant if you hadn’t brought me here.”

Zeke scowled, raising his eyes from the folder where he’d already plunked down the company credit card. “Put your money away. I invited you, I’m paying. It’s final.”

“I want to confirm that there’s no obligation on my part,” she said stubbornly.

“I got your message loud and clear.” Zeke left an edge of his credit card sticking out as he closed the padded folder and set it on the edge of the table.

Flushing, Grace shut her wallet and returned it to her purse. “I just don’t want your boss to have any misconceptions.”

“Out of curiosity, what’s so damned important about this plane? I know you said it belonged to your grandfather, but what’s in the salvage for you? Did he go down with gold on board?”

“Not everyone is motivated by money,” she said stiffly.

“Okay. So, it’s an historic plane. Now what?”

Grace studied him for some time, then finally said, “My grandmother’s doctor told me her heart’s in bad shape. It’s giving out. He say’s she’s overtaxing weak artery walls—because she’s obsessively trying to set my grandfather’s war record straight before she dies. I wasn’t aware until recently how much time she’s devoted to writing letters and petitioning the navy to give her husband his due. He’s listed as missing. She needs remains or medals or something to bury beside her. Think what it’s like for her. He left to fly a wounded naval officer to Pensacola, Florida, and then a storm cut off his communication. The navy searched the waters off the Florida coast at his last coordinates. My research turned up reports from about that time of a plane crashing in Galveston Bay. The Coast Guard read my notes and they agree it’s possible the storm blew Albert Dugan’s Grumman Duck this far off-course.”

“But nothing’s certain? You’re riding on a hunch?”

She clutched her purse. “A hunch that’s strong enough to interest the Pentagon. Which is why I received authorization to dive here. If I’m right, it’ll close the books for the navy, for Grandmother and the family of the wounded officer Grandfather was transporting.”

“I have to hand it to you, babe, for a teacher, you’ve got guts.”

“You have something against teachers?” Her chin rose and she thrust it out pugnaciously. “And kindly don’t call me babe.”

“Sore spot, huh? Okay, so no one ever accused me of being a teacher’s pet. I was referring to the fact that your field generally takes brain, not brawn, like salvage.”

The waiter scooped up Zeke’s credit card, saving Grace from having to further defend her abilities in either area. And because Zeke told the man they’d follow him to the register in front, they didn’t return to the subject.

Grace put on her sweater and waited by the door until Zeke had signed his credit slip. When he joined her, she began to open the door, but he was faster and reached around her to hold it open. His warm breath whispered against her left ear and cheek and made her shiver.

“Cold?” he asked.

She clasped her sweater under her chin. “It’s the contrast between the warm restaurant and the sudden night air.” She stepped onto the sidewalk, then stopped to let Zeke catch up. “The shops are still open,” she said, gazing longingly at the Strand spread out ahead. “I assumed everything was closed by now.”

The last thing Zeke wanted to do was escort a woman with shopping on her mind in and out of the largely touristy shops that lined the Strand. But who knew if Grace Stafford might get it in her head to wander around alone? The business district was by and large safe. But the side streets she’d have to take to get back to her wharf hotel weren’t. Zeke had witnessed some incidents in the past. “I could stand to walk off that pasta. I don’t mind taking the long way if you’d like to window shop. The stores won’t close for another hour.”

“You don’t mind?”

He did, of course, but the smile she flashed him left Zeke wondering how he’d ever considered her drab. His tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. Rather than stammer out something that might ruin his tough-guy image, he clamped his teeth together and set off down the street.

Soon, her window-shopping pace had Zeke shortening his stride, and finally dropping back to trail along behind her.

“Oh, look! This shop sells music boxes. May I pop in for a look? My grandmother collects them. I feel so guilty for not spending my summer with her when it may be her last. I didn’t dare confide what I’m really doing in Galveston in case I’m not successful. She thinks I’m taking a summer class.” Grace shrugged lightly. “A music box would tell her that she’s very much on my mind.”

“I’ll wait here. Glass doodads make me nervous. I’m always afraid I’ll knock something off a shelf.”

She turned from the window to look at him. “You do have broad shoulders,” she remarked, continuing to gaze at him. “And those aisles are awfully narrow.” She sighed and moved away from the window. “I can come back another time. No sense holding you up. You probably want to get that food back to your family while it’s still warm.”

“It’s okay. They’ll have eaten,” he said quickly. “Please, go, browse all you want.” Zeke had to get rid of her so she’d stop staring. He’d never met anyone before who had ocean-colored eyes, now blue, now green. Grace Stafford’s eyes made him long for things he’d put behind him. Very little unnerved Zeke, but Grace’s big eyes sure did.

“I’ll be quick,” she murmured, and hurried up the steps, disappearing into the brightly lit shop. Zeke released his breath.

True to her promise, he’d barely settled a shoulder against the rough brick wall to take up people-watching when out she dashed, swinging a package. Her smile spread from ear to ear.

“Found something, did you?”

“It’s so perfect. Want to see?” Not waiting for him to agree, she pulled a box out of the bag, opened it and removed a block of packing foam.

To see better, Zeke had to bend his head near hers. Again her sweet perfume clouded his senses. “That’s a music box? Looks like a miniature white bench with garden gloves and a basket of flowers on the seat.”

“Exactly. It’s almost a replica of a bench in my grandmother’s garden. Better yet, when I wind up the music box it plays ‘I Will Wait For You.’ Grandmother wore out her old record of that tune. I bought a CD she plays over and over. I think the song speaks to her feelings about waiting for news of Grandpa Albert.”

Zeke expelled a loaded, “Oh,” right before he drew back. That one word couldn’t have stated more plainly his feeling on such romancey schmaltz. Grace didn’t care.

Shrugging, she restored the filler and closed the lid. She refused to let Zeke’s cynicism spoil her pleasure over having found the perfect gift for her grandmother.

They walked briskly toward the hotel. Zeke roused himself to comment on the crowded streets that signaled the beginning of summer tourism. Moments later, he pushed open the heavy door and followed Grace into the lobby. She stopped beside a cluster of chairs. “There’s no need for you to see me up. I, uh, thank you again for a lovely dinner.” She thrust out her hand, forcing Zeke to clasp it awkwardly.

“My pleasure,” he mumbled, dropping her fingers as if he’d grabbed a hot potato.

Grace headed for the elevators and entered an open car without glancing back. Zeke didn’t linger, either. He wanted to get home to give his mom a break from Matt.