Angel Lane (7 page)

“Oh, kitty. Why aren't you home and out of the rain?” she cooed.

The cat explained with another yowl, this time softer, like it was now too low on energy to cry for help.

Now here, indeed, was an act of kindness waiting to happen. “Oh, poor thing.” She bent over and held out a hand. “Come here, sweetie.”

The cat backed up with a growl.

“Of course you're afraid,” she explained to both of them. She unlocked her door and opened it. “You want in?”

The cat didn't respond. Its mama had probably told it never to talk to strangers.

Emma sighed. It was hard to be kind when the animal you were trying to help wanted no part of you. “Okay, wait there,” she said. She went inside, ran to the kitchen, and found a can of tuna in the cupboard. She opened it, then went back to the porch and set it down on the welcome mat. “There you go. Maybe that will help.”

Sure the cat wouldn't come out of hiding until she was gone, she stepped back inside and shut the door. She couldn't see from the peephole in the door or her front window. She hoped the cat was enjoying its feast. One thing she knew for sure, she'd enjoyed offering it.

She washed up, threw on her pajamas, and climbed into bed. She was just drifting off when she remembered that Tess was supposed to pay for the land she won in her latest land auction.

Tess could wait.

 

 

 

 

S
arah took weekends off. Sweet Somethings Bakery was closed on Sundays, and on Saturdays she left the bakery in the capable hands of Chrissy Carroll and Amber Howell. Amber would come in at five and turn herself into Sarah, baking up a storm. Then Chrissy would arrive at seven and together they'd handle the morning breakfast rush of Heart Lakers looking for quiche and Sarah's famous scones—a rush that started the second they opened their doors at eight. And while things were humming at the bakery, Sarah and Sam, who managed to be home at least part of the weekend, would enjoy a quick bout of middle-aged sex, followed by Sam's breakfast specialty: scrambled eggs and toast. It was the only thing he could make, but it was something, and Sarah never discouraged him.

Except this Saturday. This Saturday she was as disgruntled
with scrambled eggs as she was with middle-aged Saturday-morning sex. It might have had something to do with the fact that another Saturday tradition was suddenly lacking: no granddaughters coming over in the afternoon to bake cookies.

“It wouldn't hurt you to learn how to make coffee cake,” she grumped to Sam. “Or pancakes. Pancakes are easy.”

He frowned. “Eggs are good for you. They stick with you all day.”

“They especially stick to your arteries,” Sarah informed him without so much as a smile. She watched as he randomly shoved the plates into the dishwasher. Without rinsing them, even though she'd told him a million times over the last thirty-five years that, no matter what the manufacturer told you, you really had to rinse the dishes first or the food would bake on. They'd married young. He should have been trainable, for crying out loud.

She got up from the washed-oak kitchen table, scowling, and trudged to the dishwasher. “Here. If you're not going to do it right I may as well load the dishes.” Maybe some good, old-fashioned guilt would motivate him to respect the Sarah Goodwin Dish Loading Method.

She supposed she could just load the dishes and shut up and let it be her good deed for the day, but she'd already faked an orgasm. That should count for a whole week's worth of acts of kindness.

Sam scowled back at her. “What is with you? I haven't seen you this grumpy since Kizzy beat you out in the Fourth of July pie-baking contest.”

“I am not grumpy,” she snapped, and then burst into tears. “Yes I am. I'm sorry.”

Sam pulled her into a big bear hug. “I know you miss the girls, babe, but it'll be Christmas before you know it and they'll be back.”

“Only for a visit.” Sarah sniffled. “I'm grandchildless.”

“No you're not. They're just in a different location.”

“The house is so empty,” she continued.

“So, let's go to the pound and get a dog,” Sam suggested.

“Oh, leave it to a man who is gone half the week to suggest getting something to housebreak,” Sarah said in disgust ending their embrace. “And how can you compare a dog to a grandchild?”

“They both make messes?” he guessed.

“That is not funny, and it's not funny that the girls are growing up without their nana.”

“The girls have been gone a week, and you've talked to them on the phone every day.”

“It's not the same as having them here.” Sarah threw up her hands in frustration. “What is the point of surviving parenthood if you don't get to enjoy being a grandparent? And what's the point of having all this baking knowledge if I don't have someone to share it with?” She turned back to the sink and scowled out the kitchen window at the gray sky hanging over the lake.

“You share it with me,” Sam said, hugging her from behind. “In fact, it's kind of nice to have the house all to ourselves, dontcha think? Like being newlyweds again,” he added, a hand sneaking up toward her breast. “I might get to see more of my
wife now that she's not always running off to babysit and bake cookies.”

Sarah squirmed away. “You are not listening to a word I'm saying.”

“Yeah, I am,” he insisted. “But maybe we're headed into a new phase. Let's just relax and see where it leads.”

She crossed her arms. “I already don't like where it's leading.” She was going to be a stranger to her grandchildren at this rate.

Sam frowned. “So, go find some kid to bake with. Aren't you looking for ways to pay it forward? You shouldn't have trouble finding a kid somewhere in this town who likes oatmeal cookies,” he added, pulling the half-read copy of the
Heart Lake Herald
from the kitchen table and making for the living room.

“Where are you going? What happened to doing the dishes?” she called after him.

“I'm saving you the trouble and firing myself,” he called back.

“You are not funny. Not even remotely.” She abandoned the dishes and left the kitchen. If he thought she was even going near a dish on her day off he was delirious.

But what was she going to do? She decided to work on her quilts. She went to her craft room and pulled out the fabric she'd bought at Emma's shop.

Fabric wasn't the only thing she'd gotten. Quilting was a hungry hobby that ate lots of money. She'd also purchased batting, a cutting mat, fabric-marking pencils, a quilting hoop, a quilting thimble, safety pins, and a rotary cutter. But it had been worth the cost. The girls would have special quilts to curl up under and remember their nana. She sighed and set to work
measuring and making her squares. Emma had suggested starting with something simple, so Sarah was putting together two twin-sized quilts made with the traditional four-patch blocks. She should have them done by Christmas.

But Christmas of what year? Two hours later, she straightened up, cracking half a dozen vertebrae in the process, and looked at the pile of squares in front of her. “You're making progress,” she told herself. Slow progress, but that was the way of all artistic creations. Whether they were made from flour, sugar, and eggs or out of fabric, works of art took time.

They also gave a girl an appetite. She needed fortification. She went to the kitchen in search of coffee and a cookie. She could hear the sound of hammering coming from the garage, which meant Sam was working in his shop.

She filled a mug and wandered over to the living room window. The early-morning clouds had moved on and now the sun was out and making the lake sparkle like a gigantic sapphire. When she was a child her parents had owned a cabin on the water. They sold it after the first permanent residence made its appearance, trading the place in on some property at the ocean. But Sarah always loved the lake, and when she and Sam married, they moved there. They couldn't afford to be on the water, so they wound up across from it, and because the houses on her side of the street were slightly uphill, they still got a view. The neighborhood was friendly and the street was quiet, except for the occasional noisy barbecue. And she and Sam were usually present for those, contributing to the noise, so who cared?

Today Anna Grueber was out walking her schnauzer, Otto. Across the street the Morioka boy was raking leaves. And a
U-Haul moving van was pulling up in front of the corner lakefront rambler that she and Sam had considered buying. They'd been too slow, so she'd heaved a mental shrug and reminded herself that she was perfectly happy with her lovely view.

Still, she'd been curious to see who beat her to the punch. She'd heard the new people were supposed to move in after the first of November. They must have fudged the moving date a little. She craned her neck for a better look.

Another car pulled up behind the U-Haul—an old beater of some kind. American made. Sam would know the make and model in an instant. Out spilled two young men who looked to be somewhere in their thirties. Another young family. Great. But where were the women?

The U-Haul cab door opened now and out stepped a middle-aged man. He was short and square with salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing jeans and a leather bomber jacket. He walked over to one of the young men and clapped him on the back, and for a moment all three stood surveying the house. Where were the women?

The men sprang to life, opening the moving truck, letting down the hydraulic lift. She tried to get a better look at what might be inside and banged her forehead on the window. Maybe the missus was coming in another car. Maybe she'd be showing up any minute and wondering what kind of neighborhood she'd moved into.

This was a perfect opportunity to keep the small-town spirit alive. Sarah hurried to the kitchen and pulled out the recipe for her coveted huckleberry coffee cake from the old, wooden recipe box that had been her mother's. Then she got to work.

She was pouring batter into the pan when Sam ambled into the kitchen. “Looks like we've got new neighbors,” he said, peering over her shoulder into the bowl.

“Did you meet them?”

He looked at her like she'd suggested something ridiculous. “No. They're trying to get moved in.”

“You could go offer to help.”

“Nah. Looks like they're almost done.” He dipped a finger in the batter.

“I know you didn't wash your hands,” she scolded.

“Germs are good for you,” he retorted, and stuck his batter-dipped finger in his mouth. “When will this be done?”

“In about a half hour,” she said. “But don't get excited. It's not for us.”

“It figures,” he said, his voice frosted with disappointment. “Let me guess. It's for the new neighbors.”

“I thought it would be a nice way to welcome them to the neighborhood.”

“And to get inside the house and see what's going on,” Sam teased.

“Ha ha, very funny,” she said, pretending to be offended. “And that's not why I'm making this.”

“Right,” he said with a knowing nod.

Okay, so she did want to get in and see what was going on with the new neighbors. But she also wanted to be nice. Taking a little something to new neighbors was exactly what the Have a Heart campaign was about. It was a sure way to keep that smalltown friendliness.

So forty minutes later she was crossing the street, filled with
friendliness. It was a perfect fall day. The air smelled like freshly washed earth . . . and coffee cake.

A delivery van from the nearest Macy's was parked at the curb now, and two men were unloading a recliner. She followed them up the walk. The front door stood open. From inside she heard the sound of male laughter. No women yet? Hmmm.

The deliverymen disappeared inside, and as she approached the front porch she heard a velvet voice that sounded like a radio DJ say, “Just put it over there. That's great.”

She hesitated on the porch. Maybe this wasn't a good time.

Oh, that was silly. It was always a good time to deliver a gift. She rang the doorbell.

A moment later one of the young men was at the door. He was slim and cute, all-American fresh looking, the kind of boy a woman wanted for a son.

“Hi,” said Sarah. “I'm one of your neighbors. I thought you might like something to eat.”

“Hell, yeah,” he said, eyeing the cake. “Hey, Dad, there's a woman here for you.”

The older man came to the door. He had a smelly cigar in his mouth, and that made Sara think of George Burns. Except with his slicked-back hair and fake tan he looked more like George Hamilton.

He took a chew on his cigar and checked her out. “Well now, what have we got here? Is this something for me?”

The way he was looking at her made Sarah wonder if he was referring to her or the baked item in her hands. “Coffee cake,” she said, holding it in front of her like a shield. “I figured you and your wife and family might be hungry.”

His features took on an attitude of faux regret. “No wife, I'm afraid. It's just little old me.”

“Oh.” If she'd known that, she wouldn't have come hurrying over here with her coffee cake, looking like a fowl on the prowl. She shoved it at him. “I'm Sarah Goodwin. My
husband
and I live in the green house over there,” she said, pointing.

“That green one? Nice house. I'm Leo Steele. Nice to meetcha. I'm glad I moved into a friendly neighborhood. A guy gets lonely.” With that voice he should have been on the radio.

“Well, you'll love it here,” said Sarah. “All the neighbors are very friendly.”

“Yeah?” He smiled around the cigar, and words from an old poem suddenly popped into Sarah's mind.
“Step into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.

This man probably had a different definition of “friendly” than she did. She took a step back, nearly falling off the porch. “Well, it was nice to meet you. If you need anything my husband will be happy to help you.”