kitchen. Though the room was dated, she liked its warmth. Yellow curtains added a bright spot of color, and a pine table for four was tucked into a windowed alcove that offered a view into the backyard and the sea beyond. Although she spotted some dust on the lower cabinets, the countertops were clutter free and the sink had been wiped clean. A dishrag was draped over the chrome faucet, and a neatly folded towel had been tucked into the handle of the oven.
A framed photo on the wall near the table caught her attention, and Marci moved closer to examine the scene of Henry’s backyard. The gazebo was still in place, its weathered patina the color of driftwood. A slim older woman, abasket of cut flowers in hand, a pleasant smile softening her lips, stood at the entrance below a band of lattice.
“That’s my Marjorie. I put that picture there so I can look at her while I eat. I never did like to eat alone.”
At Henry’s wistful tone, she shifted toward him. “Do you have any children, Henry?”
His expression grew melancholy. “A daughter. She lives in Boston. Doesn’t get down this way much.” He gave her a smile that seemed forced. “How about we get to work on that garden? With the clouds rolling in, I expect this will be a short day.”
“Okay by me.”
“Let me find those gloves Christopher bought. Mighty thoughtful of him. But that’s the kind of man he is.” He rummaged through the bag as he spoke. “Last winter I had a nasty bout of pneumonia. Was weak as a kitten for weeks. Christopher came over to see me twice a day and brought me food every night. Watched a lot of old movies with me, too, even though he had better things to do.” He withdrew the gloves and handed them over.
Marci took them, fingering the soft leather. No cheap cloth gloves for Christopher Morgan. These were good quality. Expensive.
In other words, too nice for her.
She knew what J.C. would say about that sort of thinking. But even though her self-esteem was improving, her first reaction to such acts of kindness still tended to be that she wasn’t worthy of such generosity.
For once, however, she didn’t mistrust the gesture, as was her typical reaction with gifts from men. Christopher hadn’t made her feel she was in his debt for the house call. Nor, she suspected, would he expect anything in return for this considerate gesture. His motives weren’t suspect.
He seemed, as Henry had indicated, to simply be a good man.
The kind of man she’d always dreamed of finding.
But those dreams weren’t likely to be fulfilled.
Because she didn’t think she would ever feel worthy of someone like Christopher Morgan.
“So, where have you been keeping yourself? We’ve hardly seen you since we got back from our honeymoon.” J.C. passed a bowl of mashed potatoes to Marci.
She took it and scooped a generous portion onto her plate, then handed it to Heather. “Do you know Henry Calhoun?”
Heather propped her elbows on the small oak table in the corner of The Devon Rose kitchen. “Isn’t he the older gentleman in ’Sconset, J.C.? The one with the white picket fence that the church youth group painted last summer when my nephew was here?”
“Yeah. That’s Henry. How do you know him?” J.C. asked Marci.
“He came to tea while you were gone, and we hit it off. He invited me to visit him, and while I was there we got to talking about how overgrown his garden was, and how his wife used to take such good care of it, and one thing led to another. Now I spend my mornings on the beach and my afternoons at Henry’s playing in the dirt. He’s a great guy. Eight-five years old. Taught English at the high school until he retired, and he still tutors. He’s a trustee at the Lifesaving Museum, too.”
“Wait a minute. Back up. You’re doing yard work?” J.C. shot her a disapproving look. “This is supposed to be a vacation.”
“Relax, J.C. It is a vacation. I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to sling hash at
A framed photo on the wall near the table caught her attention, and Marci moved closer to examine the scene of Henry’s backyard. The gazebo was still in place, its weathered patina the color of driftwood. A slim older woman, abasket of cut flowers in hand, a pleasant smile softening her lips, stood at the entrance below a band of lattice.
“That’s my Marjorie. I put that picture there so I can look at her while I eat. I never did like to eat alone.”
At Henry’s wistful tone, she shifted toward him. “Do you have any children, Henry?”
His expression grew melancholy. “A daughter. She lives in Boston. Doesn’t get down this way much.” He gave her a smile that seemed forced. “How about we get to work on that garden? With the clouds rolling in, I expect this will be a short day.”
“Okay by me.”
“Let me find those gloves Christopher bought. Mighty thoughtful of him. But that’s the kind of man he is.” He rummaged through the bag as he spoke. “Last winter I had a nasty bout of pneumonia. Was weak as a kitten for weeks. Christopher came over to see me twice a day and brought me food every night. Watched a lot of old movies with me, too, even though he had better things to do.” He withdrew the gloves and handed them over.
Marci took them, fingering the soft leather. No cheap cloth gloves for Christopher Morgan. These were good quality. Expensive.
In other words, too nice for her.
She knew what J.C. would say about that sort of thinking. But even though her self-esteem was improving, her first reaction to such acts of kindness still tended to be that she wasn’t worthy of such generosity.
For once, however, she didn’t mistrust the gesture, as was her typical reaction with gifts from men. Christopher hadn’t made her feel she was in his debt for the house call. Nor, she suspected, would he expect anything in return for this considerate gesture. His motives weren’t suspect.
He seemed, as Henry had indicated, to simply be a good man.
The kind of man she’d always dreamed of finding.
But those dreams weren’t likely to be fulfilled.
Because she didn’t think she would ever feel worthy of someone like Christopher Morgan.
“So, where have you been keeping yourself? We’ve hardly seen you since we got back from our honeymoon.” J.C. passed a bowl of mashed potatoes to Marci.
She took it and scooped a generous portion onto her plate, then handed it to Heather. “Do you know Henry Calhoun?”
Heather propped her elbows on the small oak table in the corner of The Devon Rose kitchen. “Isn’t he the older gentleman in ’Sconset, J.C.? The one with the white picket fence that the church youth group painted last summer when my nephew was here?”
“Yeah. That’s Henry. How do you know him?” J.C. asked Marci.
“He came to tea while you were gone, and we hit it off. He invited me to visit him, and while I was there we got to talking about how overgrown his garden was, and how his wife used to take such good care of it, and one thing led to another. Now I spend my mornings on the beach and my afternoons at Henry’s playing in the dirt. He’s a great guy. Eight-five years old. Taught English at the high school until he retired, and he still tutors. He’s a trustee at the Lifesaving Museum, too.”
“Wait a minute. Back up. You’re doing yard work?” J.C. shot her a disapproving look. “This is supposed to be a vacation.”
“Relax, J.C. It is a vacation. I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to sling hash at
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