Lenora Worth - Because of Jane

The room wasn’t very big, but the soft mattress on the four-poster bed seemed to float like a flying carpet each time she sank down on the yellow chenille bedspread. The pillows were covered in lacy white cases embroidered with dainty yellow roses and ribbons. The room smelled of sunshine and fresh air. A high-backed chair with a cane seat sat in one corner near a beautiful ornate armoire. A tall white bookcase brimming with all sorts of literature bespoke someone who loved reading. All the classics were there—from Little Women to Pride and Prejudice to the Brontë sisters and Flannery O’Connor, as well as several bestselling women’s fiction books. And displayed all over the room on every available tabletop and armoire were beautiful porcelain dolls of all shapes and sizes. Someone certainly was a hopeless romantic.

Or had been. Bertie?

Marcus had told her about Lenny’s grandmother. Bertie had died of Alzheimer’s in February, a week after the Super Bowl game. The game Lenny and his team had lost.

That’s all she knew at this point. Lenny valued his privacy a lot more than he seemed to value his public image. Or maybe he had just valued his grandmother’s privacy.

Thinking about Bertie’s influence over this house and her grandson, Jane tried to imagine Lenny running through the halls of this dainty, overstuffed cupcake of a house. Wondering if Lenny actually ever read anything other than the sports section of the paper and the back of cereal boxes, Jane shook her head.

“Can’t wrap my brain around that one,” she said as she got dressed in khaki pants and a blue cashmere sweater.

But she did need to wrap her brain around why Lenny was living here in seclusion. He’d spent a lot of time here growing up, so this place had to have a special meaning to him. Obviously, he’d taken his retirement seriously, even if his goofy, hyped-up agent and the rest of the sports world hadn’t.

Then she thought about Bertie and the memories Lenny must hold for her and his grandfather. Memories he wasn’t willing to let go of. While it was natural to mourn a loved one, it wasn’t healthy to refuse to touch anything that loved one had left behind. It would be hard to make him see that this place needed to be put back in order so he could get his own life straight, too. Jane knew hoarding usually began with a traumatic event in a person’s life. What had happened to Lenny?

He loved his grandmother. Was that why he’d told her he didn’t intend to leave, ever? Or could the real reason be so very private and very hurtful that he refused to even discuss it. What had happened to Lenny’s parents?

Lenny Paxton had given up on his career and fame to come home to Arkansas and the one place where he felt safe. But why? Had he really lost his confidence? Did he feel useless and used up? And why was it that way with athletes? Why did they seem to think that winning a game was the most important thing in life?

“Oh, Lenny, you can’t do it on your own,” she whispered, all sorts of thoughts rushing through her head. “You can’t heal. Not until you work through this meltdown everyone keeps talking about.”

And why had he put her in this room that seemed so sacred and silent and yet so alive with his grandmother’s memory. Why?

We made a deal, Jane thought. And she intended to stick to that deal even though she knew he would put her through her paces. But right now, she had work to do before the Warthogs big game two days from now.

Somehow, in spite of Lenny’s need to find some solace, Jane had to show him he’d been looking for it in the right place, but in the wrong way. It wouldn’t be easy. Because from what she’d seen so far, Lenny Paxton wasn’t going to budge. The man had stubborn written all over his handsome face.

Deciding she’d try to get him to talk more when he got home, Jane headed downstairs. It was nearly dark now, and the old house glowed with a golden thread of light that looked like spun silk falling out across the wide hallway. Dust particles moved through the last of the sun’s rays, dancing with abandonment in the still, crisp air. The whole house had the illusion of home and hearth, but Jane could also sense a forlorn kind of sadness floating through those sun rays, too. The house, probably much like the woman who’d once lived here, was trying valiantly to remain prim and proper in spite of certain deterioration.

And her grandson was trying to salvage the memories and the comfort of her love to fill a void in his heart.

She could make this place shine, Jane thought. And she could help Lenny decide what he wanted. Then she remembered falling into his arms in the mud, a delicious shiver radiating throughout her body. Such eyes the man had. No wonder supermodels and housewives alike fell all over him. And in spite of the reports that he’d grown complacent and out of shape, Jane remembered nothing but hard, sinewy muscles and a sense of strength that took her breath away. Which was silly, of course. She wasn’t one to get all fluttery and breathless around men. Maybe because she didn’t take the time to be around men unless they were in crisis. She didn’t date clients, so that was that.

But when she heard Lenny’s truck growling up the drive, she did a save of all her notes and tidied up her work space, anxious to talk to him. Her phone vibrated against the oak dresser.

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