Sharon Mignerey - Small Town Secrets

“I’m not.”

He issued another of those noncommittal sounds that was evidently a disagreement.

“Really.” To prove her point, she sat down on the top step of the porch, tucked her feet under her, and set the shoes on her lap. She couldn’t be afraid, she thought. Not of this man, not of Foley, and certainly not of the dark street in a town where she had lived all her life. All she had to do was sit here for a minute or two to prove it to herself.

“Aunt Sadie told you I was just released from pr—”

“Yes,” Léa interrupted.

“And if you’re scared—”

“I’m not.” I’m not, she repeated to herself. And she wasn’t. Not in the way he probably meant. He was simply a big, tough-looking man. She supposed he’d have to be to survive prison, a thought that gave her an inward shudder. She couldn’t even imagine what that must have been like.

She sighed, then, to break the uncomfortable silence, latched on to the first thing that popped into her head. “I just planted petunias, so I’m glad that it’s not going to freeze tonight. I probably planted them way too early. Gram told me I should wait another couple of weeks since we could still have another frost, but I’m hoping we won’t. Still, you never can tell. It snowed on Memorial Day a couple of years ago. And that’s a month away.” Babbling, the way she always did when she was nervous. And proving that she wasn’t as relaxed as she wanted him to think. Annoyed with herself, she said, “Sorry. You probably don’t care about the weather and all.”

“Weather is fine.” He gave her an unreadable look, then followed her gaze to the neat plantings that lined both sides of her walkway. He draped an arm over the porch railing. “What’s with the clown get-up?”

“I own a café, and since I’m not open for dinner, I cater parties.”

“Ah, Rangeview’s answer to Ronald McDonald.”

She smiled. “Something like that, I guess, at least for birthday parties.”

He made a point of looking her up and down. “You mean this isn’t your usual attire for a formal affair?”

“Not hardly. Tonight was Gayla Foster’s eighth birthday.” She shook her head. “And you wouldn’t believe the mess that eleven little girls can make. The next time her mother wants to hold the party at my café instead of her own house, I’m going to charge double.”

This time Zach chuckled, and Léa found herself liking it—and him—in spite of herself, especially after he said, “I suspect little Gayla Foster was fortunate to have you. So, why aren’t you open for dinner?”

“Not enough business,” she said. His appreciation soothed her, pleased her, and was all the more bittersweet because she had felt like a grouse for being frustrated with the mess after the children went home. “Anyone who wants dinner goes to Sandy’s Steak House. For a business as small as mine, dinner isn’t profitable.”

A dinner crowd, though, sounded good compared to the party she had given tonight. Once she had looked forward to dressing up to make the kids laugh. Lately, though, she had found herself thinking about the children she would never have and the birthdays she would never celebrate with them. It was far too easy to feel sorry for herself and angry with Foley for the accident that had resulted in the too premature birth of their daughter. In an instant Léa’s life had changed. Her baby had died and she’d had an emergency hysterectomy. Now, she put on birthday parties—fabulous parties—for other people’s children.

Too many times over the last year she had been told that what had happened was God’s will. The thought always made her instantly angry.

She rubbed the side of her nose, the greasepaint beginning to itch. God’s will or not, it was long past time to stop obsessing about what could never be. One thing she knew for sure—she was supposed to be a mother, so she had started the process to adopt a child. Tomorrow she would have her home inspection, and she’d be one step closer to her goal. God willing, she thought, coming as close to prayer as she ever did these days.

The petunias she had been staring at clouded. Léa lifted her gaze to Zach, realizing she had been silent for too long. When something in his gaze softened, she realized her face was wet with tears. Somehow he was sitting on the step next to her, though she had no recollection of him moving. Next to her shoulder, she could feel heat radiate from his body.

“That’s a good thing you do, Léa Webster.” As if offering an extra measure of assurance, he clasped her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.

A simple touch that made her turn her head and look at him. She wasn’t at all sure what she had expected to see within his eyes. Pity maybe. Instead there was a depth of understanding that completely unnerved her.

“Yes…well.” She sniffed and withdrew her hand from his, pulling her house keys out of her pocket. “Just what you need. A neighbor who makes a pest of herself and then makes things worse by crying.”

“I’m not complaining,” he said.

She separated her house key from the others, and Zach took it from her. He stood, and a second later, she heard the screen door open, then the snick of the lock. He pushed the door open. When she stood and joined him at the door, he pressed the keys into her hand.

“Want me to come in? Make sure there’s no boogeyman in the closet?”

She shook her head. “I had the locks changed yesterday, so I should be okay.” She swallowed and looked over at the driveway. “I’d just gotten home and saw him go around to the back of the house, and…well…I probably overreacted.”

“Don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what?”

“Belittle yourself like that.” He dipped his head a little so he could meet her gaze. “Sure you don’t want me to check?”

“It’s fine.” She was sure of no such thing, but she could only imagine the ruckus she’d have on her hands if Zach came in and Foley was somewhere watching. Lately, he seemed to know more about her whereabouts than she did. She shook her head against that thought. “Really.”

“Suit yourself.” Zach let go of the screen door and turned toward the edge of the porch. “Good night.”

“’Night,” she said. He was off the porch before she called his name. When he turned around to face her, she said, “Come for breakfast. My place—the Pine Street Café. It’s at the corner of Main and Pine.”

He nodded. “I saw the sign.”

Deciding she had lost her mind, given her vow to keep her distance, she watched him cross the street. She locked the door and went through her house, turning lights on in each room as she headed for the kitchen.

Once again, the stupid melancholy hit her, weighing her down like a heavy coat. She had tried so hard to overcome it, but here she was again. Her footsteps echoed as she crossed the kitchen and turned on the back-porch light. It flooded her yard clear to the small old barn at the back of the property. She visually searched the lit area a moment before turning off the light. Feeling exposed, she methodically pulled the curtains closed on all the windows, though doing so made her feel like the proverbial ostrich.

She couldn’t wait to wash off the greasepaint and go to bed. She’d get a scant four hours of sleep since she had to be at the café for breakfast prep two hours before it opened. After double-checking the new lock on the front door, she turned off lights and headed upstairs.

And found the door to the nursery open.

Since she kept the door closed—always—her heart lurched. She reached inside the room, and flipped on the light.

The lamp in the corner bathed the yellow walls in a cheerful glow. Everything looked as it had this morning when she’d dusted. As always happened when she entered the room, she remembered the excitement she had felt when she had found out she was having a little girl. She had refinished furniture and made bed linens and had planned to name her baby Eleanor after her mother and grandmother.