Love Inspired May 2015 #2 (48 page)

“Do you want white cake, lemon cake or chocolate?” the young man asked.

“Let's do white cake with chocolate icing,” Rachel said.

“I'd recommend the buttercream icing. We can do that in chocolate.”

“That sounds delicious. And on the top, could you write—”

Rachel took the slip of paper the young man offered her and wrote the message for the top of the cake. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the door to the kitchen opening, and a thin man with small wire glasses came out, a baker's hat tucked under one arm.

“So you think there's room for another oven?” the man asked someone behind him.

“As long as you leave those twenty-four inches before that door, you'll be fine. But measure carefully, if you want to stay within fire regulations.”

Rachel glanced up, recognizing Matt's voice immediately. He seemed to notice her at the same moment, and their eyes met in mutual surprise. Matt's dark blue shirt was open at the neck, his blue eyes meeting hers from under the rim of his formal hat. A smile teased the corners of his lips.

“Hi,” Matt said.

The smaller man looked from Matt to Rachel, curiosity written on his face. He wore the bakery smock as well, and he carried himself with quick, efficient movements.

“Doug, this is Rachel Carter. She's new in town. Rachel, this is Doug, the owner of this bakery.”

“And his cousin,” Doug added with a grin.

“And my cousin.”

“Nice to meet you.” Rachel smiled and shook the man's hand. “I was just ordering a cake.”

“Special occasion?” Matt sauntered around the display case to her side. She inwardly winced. Had he noticed that he hadn't been invited?

Matt leaned against the counter, his strong, warm arm brushing hers. As he glanced down at the paper in front of her, the musky scent of his cologne tugged at her, and she stoically ignored it.

“Chris turned seven last month, but since we were getting ready to move, I thought we'd take another swing at a birthday cake tomorrow. The first one was a homemade disaster.”

“Doug's cakes are great. You'll start celebrating Tuesdays as an excuse to have one.”

Rachel smiled. “I have no doubt.”

Rachel turned back to complete her order. She needed to have the cake ready for that evening, which she was assured wouldn't be a problem. She even had the option of having the cake delivered, which she gratefully accepted. As she finished up with the details, Matt ambled over to the display case and selected a few treats. When they had both paid, Matt angled his head toward the door, a white paper bag in hand.

“Can I walk you out?” he asked, lowering his voice to keep their conversation just between the two of them.

“Sure.”

“See you later, Doug,” Matt called over his shoulder. Rachel smiled her thanks and followed Matt out the front door, leaving the cool air-conditioning behind them as they sauntered out into the summer heat.

The street wasn't busy this time of day, and Rachel paused to breathe in the scent of begonias from the planters that hung dripping from a fresh watering. Down the street, a pickup truck crept along, a big water container in the back, and a teenage girl leaned out with a sprayer, watering each hanging planter as she passed. Rachel watched the process for a moment, then turned her steps after Matt.

They stopped at a corner and waited for a car to pass before they stepped out into the street and crossed to the other side. Matt paused next to the vehicle and bounced his keys in his palm.

“Look, Matt—” she began. “I'm sorry I didn't invite you to the party.”

“It's okay. It's understandable. You need Chris to settle in on his own, with the people who will be part of his life here.” He shrugged. “It's okay. I get it.”

She sighed. “Okay. I'm glad. If things were different—”

“It's okay,” he repeated. “Did you drive?”

“No, I walked,” she replied. “I wanted the exercise.”

“You seem to do that lot.” A smile tickled the corner of his lips.

“It's good for me.”

He nodded. “Can't argue with that. Do you want a lift back?”

Rachel considered for a moment, then shrugged. “I do need to get back and get organized for the party.”

Matt pulled open the passenger-side door. He handed her up into the seat and deposited the bag of treats into her lap. “Help yourself.”

Inside, there was a selection of pastries, and she plucked out an apple turnover and sank her teeth into the flaky pastry, her mouth watering.

“Good?” he asked as he hopped up into the driver's side.

“Hmm.” She nodded, chewing.

“Doug's the best, all right.” He pulled out a chocolate-covered doughnut and took a bite. Then he started the truck and eased out of the parking spot.

“You don't normally attend church, do you?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Did you used to?”

“Every week.”

She nodded. She didn't need the explanation of why he'd stopped. She glanced at him, wondering what he was thinking. His gaze flickered in her direction, and then he signaled for a turn.

“I'm sorry things got weird at the church with Wendy Martin. I didn't mean for you to see that.”

“Don't worry about me,” she said. “But I think I get it. She's Natalie's mother. What are you supposed to say to her?”

“It's a bit more than that.” He stopped at a corner, waiting for a couple of teenagers to cross before he made the turn. “When Natalie died, Wendy was a mess. We all understood that. But she needed someone to blame.”

“And she blamed you?” Rachel asked cautiously.

He shrugged. “I was the obvious target. I hadn't gotten her daughter out in time.”

The truck rumbled past an auto-body shop and a gardening store on one side of the street, a hardware store on the other. A warm breeze whispered through the open window, and she took another bite of the apple turnover, the flaky pastry melting in her mouth.

“What about the man who started the fire?” she asked. “He seems like a better target to me.”

Matt shook his head. “Grief does what it does. It's not always logical.”

“You seem to understand that,” she said softly. “She doesn't blame you still, does she?”

“No.” He popped the last of his cream puff into his mouth. “She and her husband came down to the firehouse and apologized for it. She said she was wrong and after that she became my biggest champion.”

“So why the tension?”

Matt was silent for a long moment, and then his big shoulders lifted in a sigh. “Because she was right. It was my fault.”

“No.” Rachel shook her head adamantly. “How could it have been?”

“Whatever happened in there, it's on my shoulders. I was in charge,” Matt went on. “When Wendy decided she didn't blame me after all, it didn't change the facts.”

“I read the newspaper articles,” Rachel admitted. “Everyone started focusing on the heroic firefighter who'd done his best.”

The muscles along Matt's jawline tensed. “Something like that.”

“You don't want to be a hero, do you?”

“It isn't about what I want. I'm not a hero,” he said, glancing toward her. “A hero would have saved her.”

He stopped at a four-way stop and waited as another car cruised past in front of them. He eased forward again, his broad palm moving over the top of the steering wheel.

“They don't mean to make it harder on you,” Rachel said. They were nearing her street.

“I know. I get that.” Matt shot her a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

A delivery truck lumbered by and the driver flicked his hat in a salute to Matt, who nodded in return. He shouldered too much responsibility for one man to carry on his own, and sadness welled up inside her at the thought of all he'd been through, all he kept hidden. She'd wanted Chris to bond with family at his party, but she couldn't just leave Matt alone, either. Maybe she'd been a little overprotective—it wouldn't be the first time, and certainly not the last.

“You should come,” Rachel said softly.

“Where?” He glanced at her.

“Chris's birthday party.”

“Oh...” Matt cleared his throat, then shook his head. “Isn't it better for me to give the kid some space?”

“Sounds like you've had to keep too much personal space lately,” she said.

An amused smile tugged at his lips, and then he reached into the bag and pulled out a jelly doughnut. “I'm fine, Rachel. You don't need to rescue me.”

He turned onto her street and slowed and parked in front of the house. He was distancing himself from her, and that hurt.

“I'm not rescuing you. I'm inviting you to a birthday party.”

“You've asked me to give Chris a little space, and I think that's a good idea. Let's just continue with that.”

Rachel nodded, irritation simmering inside her. For a man who didn't want to be called a hero, he sure liked to act as if he could handle everything on his own. Even the toughest person needed someone to lean on—she knew that for a fact.

“I'm not trying to rescue you, Matt,” she repeated.

“Aren't you?”

Rachel shook her head. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn.”

“Yes. Constantly.” He caught her eye and for a brief moment, something tender smoldered in his gaze; then he sighed. “I've got a good chance of getting that job, Rachel.”

“Oh...” Her voice sounded breathy in her own ears. “Of course.”

“It's probably smart for us to keep things—” He didn't finish the thought.

Keep things professional? Keep things distanced? She knew what he meant—it was what she'd been saying all along, but it felt different coming from him.

He nodded to the bag of treats in her lap. “Keep those.”

Rachel opened the door and hopped down, slamming it behind her. The window was still open, and when she looked back, Matt was eyeing her cautiously.

“Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the pastries.”

His eyes crinkled up into a smile, and he raised two fingers in a partial wave as he pulled away from the curb.

Rachel stood there for a long moment, looking the way he'd left. The truck rumbled down the street; then he signaled and turned and was out of sight. She heaved a sigh. Maybe she did want to rescue him—a tiny bit. She still felt that it was possible for Matt to be kind to Chris without giving him false hope, but just because it was possible didn't mean it was a tightrope that Matt wanted to walk, and Matt had already made his position more than clear—he was on his way out.

She headed toward the house. She had a party to pull together.

Chapter Eight

“C
ome on, Matt,” Doug urged. “Do me this favor.”

“Why can't you drop the cake off yourself?” Matt changed his cell phone to the other ear and glanced at his watch. It was already nearly five, and he was about to leave the firehouse for the day.

“I got a huge order for a funeral tomorrow. Their caterer fell through, and I promised that I'd make up the difference. You know where she lives, right?”

“This is a bit complicated, Doug.”

“I noticed that.” Doug chortled good-naturedly. “I thought you might thank me for the excuse to go see her.”

“I'm trying to keep things professional,” Matt replied. He leaned over and logged out of his computer.

“Why?” Doug retorted. “It's high time you found someone, Matt.”

Matt shook his head. What was it with every person in the family wanting to get him into a long-term relationship? Besides, he had the kids' day camp presentation the next day, and he needed to brush up on his notes. He reached for the papers Rachel had given him about working with school groups, but they weren't on his desk. Then he remembered where he'd left them—at Rachel's place. He grimaced.

“Fine, fine.” At least he'd get his papers at the same time. “I'll drop it by for you. But you owe me one.”

Hanging up the phone, Matt dropped a couple of files into a file cabinet and headed for the door. If he was trying to keep things professional with Rachel, this was not the way to do it, but what could he do? His one consolation was that if all went well, in a couple of months he'd be far enough away from his well-meaning family that they wouldn't be able to pester and pressure without a long-distance phone call.

Twenty minutes later, Matt found himself with a boxed cake on the passenger seat, parked in front of Rachel's house. Summer evening sunlight slanted through the trees, casting long shadows across the lawn. The screen door was propped open with an old brick, and the sound of voices and laughter filtered out onto the street. The party appeared to be in full swing.

Matt hopped out of his truck and came around the other side to retrieve the large cake box, then headed toward the front door. His shoes clunked against the wooden stairs, and he poked his head in the front door.

“Hello!” he called.

Several seniors sat around the living room, and they looked up in interest.

“Is that you, Matthew Bailey?” an old woman asked. She had short, permed white hair and wore a crocheted sweater that reminded him of a doily.

“Hi, Mrs. Geiger.” He stepped inside. “How are you doing?”

“Very well, thank you. I see you still have wonderful manners.”

Matt smothered a grin. What was it about an old lady that made him feel like a ten-year-old all over again?

“I come bearing cake.” His lifted the box aloft in one hand as proof.

“Just bring it on through to the kitchen. That's where Rachel is,” she replied with a wave of her knobby hand. She raised her voice a quavery octave and hollered, “Rachel, that cake has arrived!”

Matt paused and inwardly winced. After his refusal of the party invitation, he wasn't looking forward to Rachel's reaction to seeing him standing in her kitchen. He didn't have much of a choice, though, so nodded his thanks and headed on through.

Rachel didn't see him at first. She stood with her back to the doorway, three drawers pulled open, and she was rooting through one of them. Matt cleared his throat.

“Thanks, just—” Rachel turned, and when her eyes landed on him, she stopped short.

“Doug asked me to drop it by. He got caught up with another order,” Matt said by explanation. “Sorry to crash the party.”

“Crash it?” She smiled. “I'm glad you're here. Would you—”

“I'm not staying,” he interrupted, sliding the cake onto one side of the table. The other side was occupied by a large metal tub, filled to the brim with ice and cans of pop.

“Just do me one favor?” She looked at him pleadingly, her dark eyes pinned on him. “Then I'll let you go. I promise.”

“What do you need?”

Rachel jutted her chin toward the metal tub. “I need to get that thing out to the backyard. I can't lift it, and if I let the uncles at it, they'll get hernias.”

Matt chuckled. “Sure. For the uncles' hernias.”

Rachel flashed him a grateful smile. “My cousin very helpfully put it all together for me on the kitchen table and then took off for a date.”

“Thoughtful,” he said with a grin.

“Very. Two of my uncles already offered to carry it, and I was told in no uncertain terms that if those old men end up broken, I'll pay for it.”

“You have a lot of family in the area,” he said, glancing out the kitchen window. Some older men—the uncles, he assumed—stood around a dartboard, and on the other side of the yard, a few younger couples chatted. Kids wove their way around everyone else in joyful abandon.

“No better way to catch up with everyone,” she said, turning back to the drawers.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“A black plastic slotted spoon—” She snatched it up in a victorious swoop and banged the drawers shut. “Aha. Shall we?”

Matt hoisted the heavy tub, grimacing with the weight of it, and Rachel opened the back door ahead of him, holding it open as he stepped through. The tub was ridiculously heavy, but his male pride wanted to hide that fact from Rachel. There was something about her sweet smile and grateful eyes that made him want to show off like a high school kid. He put the tub down next to a table of food, repressing the grunt as he stood up again.

“I'm so glad you came when you did,” Rachel said, putting a cool hand on his arm, her touch lingering only for a moment before she pulled away again. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

She looked up into his face, hesitant. “Do you have other plans tonight?”

He'd been pretty determined to steer clear of this birthday party, if that counted as plans.

“I forgot those notes here when I fixed the drain for you,” he replied. “I need to brush up a bit before I do a kids' summer camp presentation tomorrow at the library.”

“Chris is going to that day camp tomorrow,” she said. “Did you want me to come see you do the presentation so I can give you some tips?”

If only it were just another presentation.

“Actually this is the one where I'm being observed by a member of the hiring committee, so...” He shrugged. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“Oh...” She was silent for a moment. “You'll do well. You're good, Matt—better than you give yourself credit for.”

“You've helped more than you know,” he said, grappling for the words to express what was inside him, but he couldn't quite grasp them. “Thank you,” he concluded gruffly.

“Let me get you those papers,” Rachel said. “They're on top of the fridge.”

Rachel led the way back into the house and then headed back into the kitchen. As the screen door banged shut behind them, Chris came around a corner, a fistful of cookies in one hand.

“Hi, sweetheart. Having fun?” Rachel asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Do you know Uncle Walter? He knows lots of stuff!”

Rachel blanched and put her hands on her son's cheeks, tilting his face upward. “Sweetie, don't listen too closely to what Uncle Walter says, okay? We'll talk about him later on, after everyone's gone.”

“Okay,” the boy replied uncertainly, and then he shot Matt a grin. “Hi, Mr. Bailey. It's my birthday again.”

Before Matt had a chance to answer, the boy was off again. Rachel shot Matt a rueful smile. “Uncle Walter has dementia, and he's been known to say some pretty inappropriate things. I'm hoping he wasn't telling Chris about his air force days, because otherwise...” She made a face.

Matt chuckled. “He'll probably survive it.”

“I'm more worried about him repeating it in Sunday school,” she said with a laugh and pulled down a bag of balloons and the papers from the top of the fridge. She handed him the papers with a grateful smile. “I'm sorry. I noticed them earlier and put them up there for safekeeping.”

“Thanks.” He took the papers and rolled them into a tube. “You're a good mom, Rachel.”

Color tinted her cheeks. “I forgot the balloons.”

Matt nodded out the kitchen window. Chris stood next to one of the uncles, a smile sparkling in his eyes. The boy leaned over to look at a pocketknife the old man held out for his inspection, and he said something they couldn't hear—something that made the old man laugh in good humor. “See that?”

Rachel's gaze followed his, and she paused.

“He's happy,” Matt said. “You're doing a good job. He doesn't need a hundred balloons, or streamers, or whatever else. He needs this—family. His mom.”

Rachel's eyes misted and she met Matt's gaze. “Thank you.”

“Go on,” he said. “Go enjoy this with your son. A pile of balloons isn't going to make a bit of difference to that kid. Trust me.”

Rachel nodded and pulled her hair away from her face. “I think I will. Thanks. And I hope tomorrow goes well.”

“Thanks.” Their eyes met for a moment, and he found himself thinking about stepping closer, but he knew better than that. “Take care.”

Matt paused for a moment, watching her as she headed out the back door. Her dark hair swung around her shoulders, and the melodious tinkle of her laugh filtered back into the kitchen as she bent down and gave Chris a squeeze.

She was a beautiful woman, that much Matt had to admit, and as he watched her standing with her family, he pushed away the image that popped into his mind—a picture of himself standing there with her, an arm around her waist as they asked the uncles if they wanted another soda from that massive metal tub of ice that was likely now melted down into a solid brick in the warm afternoon.

“You the boyfriend?”

Matt glanced down at an old man who peered up at him questioningly.

“No. Just a friend.”

“Oh, sorry.” The old man shrugged. “You never know. She might look your way if you stick around long enough. I'm Walter.”

“Uncle Walter.” Matt shot him a grin. “Nice to meet you.”

“You play checkers?” the old man asked.

“I actually have to get going—” Matt began.

“Come on. One game.” Walter waggled his bushy white eyebrows comically. “I'll even let you win. Say, are you a military man?”

I'm not getting out of here, am I?
Matt thought ruefully and followed Uncle Walter back into the living room. One game with an old-timer. Then he was leaving.

* * *

Rachel looked around the house at the paper cups, the wadded napkins and the scattered pieces of birthday wrapping paper and heaved a happy sigh. The party had been a great success. Everyone had fun, most of all Chris, who lay on the couch, snoring softly. He clutched a book, a birthday present from an aunt, under one arm, and she bent over him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead.

“Do you want help cleaning up?” Matt asked.

Rachel shook her head. “I'll do it tomorrow.” She shot him a tired smile. “Thanks for staying. I feel bad. You were supposed to be at home brushing up on your presentation.”

“I couldn't have left if I tried,” he said with a laugh. “Your uncle Walter wouldn't let me out of his sight.”

“Oh, Walter...” Heat rose in her cheeks. “I hope he didn't say anything too inappropriate.”

“Well, I now have a working knowledge of a bomber jet,” he replied with a soft laugh. “And I've been schooled in checkers.”

“That's a relief. It could have gone worse.”

Matt opened the front door and Rachel followed him, taking a quick peek back at her sleeping son on the couch. As they stepped out onto the porch, a warm breeze circled around them, lifting Rachel's hair away from her face.

“Walter sure is a character,” Matt said, humor flickering in his eyes.

“Oh, you have to tell me what he said,” she groaned. “I'll imagine something much worse. Put me out of my misery.”

He laughed. “It wasn't that bad. He seemed pretty focused on teaching me how to formally court a woman.”

“Formal courting?” She raised her eyebrows. “Huh. I didn't see that coming.”

“What does he normally talk about?”

“Don't ask.” She felt the blush in her cheeks. Uncle Walter normally told stories from the war—the sorts of “adventures” that men hid from their wives once they got back on American soil again. In Uncle Walter's case, that was all before he met his wife, but in his declining years, Uncle Walter's memories were back in his bachelor days.

“I feel bad that I didn't bring Chris a gift,” Matt said.

“Oh, don't worry about that.” She shrugged and leaned her back against the porch post. “He was swimming in presents.”

“I guess so.” He looked down at his feet, his brow furrowed, then raised his eyes to meet hers. “I've got something, though.”

“Oh?”

Matt reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out what looked like a Polaroid picture. He looked at it for a long moment, then passed it over.

“What is it?” she asked, but as she looked closer, she knew exactly what it was. It was a photo of Matt holding Christopher on the night that he was found. Matt looked mildly panicked with the baby in his arms, but there was also a certain amount of satisfaction in those dark eyes, as well. His muscled arm supported the slight weight of the newborn, and Chris snuggled against his rescuer's broad chest, sound asleep in the same position he used to sleep on her chest when she brought him home.

“Oh, Matt...” she whispered, tears rising in her eyes. “I didn't know you had this.”

“One of the guys gave it to me today,” he admitted. “I thought Chris might want it.”