Jeannie Watt - Always a Temp

Nate ran a hand over the taut muscles at the back of his neck. “So why don’t you tell me now, Callie? Why’d you take off like that, never to be heard from again?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly.

For a moment he simply stared at her. After all these years, this was her answer.

“I don’t know,” he mimicked. “Bullshit!”

Callie flinched and he realized he’d never raised his voice to her before. He took in a ragged breath, leaning his forehead against the door frame. Callie was one of the most intelligent women he knew. Intelligent women didn’t abandon someone without a reason.

So what was hers?

Dear Reader,

People often act in ways that they can’t explain. For instance, I have spent my life hopping from task to task, doing a little here, a little there, until the jobs are done. I thought I was a master multitasker—which I am. I also recently learned that ADD runs in our family and I’m a classic case. I adapted to my particular challenge without knowing what it was. Such is the situation with my heroine in Always a Temp.

Callie McCarran has a problem staying in one place long enough to put down roots. Like her father, she’s a traveler. She works as a journalist and takes temporary jobs when she needs additional income, moving from city to city, job to job. She avoids permanence in all aspects of her life and accepts this as part of her makeup. What she doesn’t know is that there may be other reasons she acts the way she does.

Nathan Marcenek, whom Callie had unceremoniously dumped the day after high school graduation, is a stayer—or so he thinks. He’s convinced himself, after suffering a devastating accident, that he’s happy living in his small hometown and editing the local paper. Then Callie comes back into his life and suddenly he finds himself questioning his decisions and the reasons he made them.

I hope you enjoy Nate and Callie’s journeys in Always a Temp. Please stop by my Web site at www.jeanniewatt.com or drop me a line at jeanniewrites@gmail.com. I love hearing from readers.

Jeannie Watt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Theater usher, gymnastics instructor, grocery store clerk, underground miner, camp cook, geologist, draftsman, executive secretary, groundskeeper, ball-field mower, janitor, teacher, artist, cowboy gear maker, writer. Jeannie Watt has worn many hats, some temporary, some more permanent, during her life. Because of this she knows how to politely ask a parent with a crying baby to step into the lobby without also making the parent cry, how to coax a cranky copy machine into operation, how to jack a loaded mine car back onto the tracks, and how to make breakfast for thirty in a wilderness setting. The skills learned from her many occupations have now become invaluable resources for her favorite job—writing.

Many thanks to Kimberly Van Meter and Victoria Curran for straightening me out on a number of journalistic points.

Any remaining errors are my own.

I also want to thank Victoria for her patience and insights during revisions.

I knew I needed something more in the story.

Victoria knew what it was.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE BOY SCRAMBLED UP and over the fence just as Callie McCarran opened the back door. Sun glinted off his short, silvery-blond hair before he dropped out of sight into the vacant lot next door.

“Hey,” Callie called, but it was too late. The kid couldn’t be more than seven or eight, but he was a quick little guy. It was the second time she’d seen him in the yard in the two days she’d been back in town, which seemed odd, since there was nothing of interest back here…. But then she noticed the baseball-size hole in the porch screen, which was quite possibly related to the baseball lying under the wicker chair.

Callie bent down to get it.

“I found your ball,” she called. Nothing. Shaking her head, she went out into the overgrown grass and set it on the empty birdbath.

“It’s on the birdbath,” she yelled, in case the kid was crouching on the other side of the fence. “I’m going in the house now.” She walked a few steps, then added, “And I’m not mad about the hole.” The entire porch needed to be rescreened before she could sell the house, so no big deal.

Callie went back into the classic 1980s kitchen, complete with country-blue ruffled curtains at the windows and cow-decorated canisters on the cream-colored countertops. She poured a glass of tap water and drank it all without setting the glass down. She’d cried a lot during the past few days and no matter how much water she drank, she felt dehydrated. But she had held up during the memorial service, thank goodness, because if she had broken down, the good townspeople would have added “hypocrite” to her list of epithets. They were already treating her like a leper.

Okay, leper was probably too strong of a word. People had been pleasant enough, offering the obligatory condolences, but she’d been aware of the undercurrents, the why-the-hell-weren’t-you-there-for-your-foster-mother-in-her-time-of-need undercurrents. And no one spent much time talking to her. A few murmured words, then off to join other more legitimate mourners standing in small groups near the buffet. Following the service, Callie had spent most of the time alone beside the podium, waiting for the moment when she could leave. Grace’s accountant had stood with her for a while, but Callie had a feeling that was only because she was paying him, or rather the estate was paying him, to take care of the final bills. Even he eventually drifted away.

Damn it, I would have been there for Grace, if I’d known how sick she was.

She hadn’t known…and she hadn’t exactly tried to find out, either. Instead she had stayed with her once-in-a-lifetime trip through Kazakhstan. Attached to a geologic field tour, she’d been chronicling the economic growth and environmental pitfalls since foreign companies had been allowed to mine there.

She was still quite angry with Grace for not telling her she was terminal. That while treating her for a chronic stomach disorder, the doctor had discovered an inoperable malignant growth. But really, Callie hadn’t wanted to know the truth.

She’d been afraid to know.

The worst part was that she’d ignored the biggest red flag of all: Grace had asked her to come back to Wesley when she returned to the States. She hadn’t been home in twelve years, and in hindsight, Callie could see that Grace wouldn’t have made such a request without one hell of a good reason—such as being in the process of dying.

Callie refilled the glass and walked to the back door, peering through the window. The ball was still perched on the birdbath. She wondered if the kid would come back or if this was the last she’d see of him. If he did come and get the ball, she hoped he’d play with it somewhere else.

Not that she’d be here.

But then again, maybe she would. For the first time in a long time, Callie felt no desire to move on. No need to find the next city to explore, the next story to write…maybe because she hadn’t written anything except her contracted Kazakhstan article since receiving news of Grace’s death.

Callie pressed the cool glass to her cheek. This was the second time she’d suffered such a loss, and it wasn’t any easier than the first. Just different.