On Lone Star Trail (17 page)

“Like I said, a pretty bird.” James clapped TJ on the shoulder. “You're a first-rate photographer. Ever think about selling your pictures?”

It was a question Gillian had wanted to ask the night TJ
had shown his pictures of the national parks, but it had been forgotten after the revelation that he was a widower.

He nodded. “My wife used to tell me I should, but I haven't done anything about it. Too busy taking the pictures to think about marketing them.” He looked from James to Andrea. “If you show me which ones you'd like, I'd be happy to send you prints.”

“That's very generous of you,” Andrea said with a warm smile, “but I wonder if you'd send us electronic files instead. James bought me one of those electronic picture frames. I was hoping to make a slide show of all of our birds.” She glanced at the camera in TJ's hands. “Your pictures are better than the ones I've taken.”

Though TJ said nothing, Gillian noticed that his shoulders straightened and he held his head a bit higher. Was it possible he didn't realize the extent of his talent? She found that hard to believe, and yet his reaction seemed as if he weren't accustomed to praise. That was a shame. Gillian knew firsthand how important recognition was and resolved to make a special effort to let TJ know just how special he was.

While Andrea and James scrolled through the pictures, making notes of the ones they'd like, they sampled the bar cookies, lemonade, and sweet tea Gillian had brought. Carmen had included an assortment of blondies, chocolate chip squares, and Gillian's favorite, oatmeal raisin bars.

“These are especially good,” Andrea said, pointing to the oatmeal raisin bars. “Did you make them?”

Gillian shook her head, noting that the men seemed to prefer the chocolate chip squares. “I'd like to take credit, but they're Carmen St. George's work. She's an extraordinary cook. Carmen tweaks an ordinary recipe a little and turns it into something special.”

Gillian made a mental note to send Andrea a copy of the Rainbow's End cookbook. She'd already purchased half a dozen copies to share with some of her college friends.

TJ and James exchanged looks before shrugging. “All I know is that these chocolate things taste mighty good,” James said. “You're welcome to come back anytime.”

Andrea gave her husband's arm a playful swat. “Now, James, you're making it sound like they need to bring food.” She turned toward Gillian and TJ. “You're welcome anytime. No strings attached.”

When they'd eaten the last of the cookies and emptied the thermoses, TJ and Gillian said their farewells and climbed back into the car.

“That was fun,” Gillian said as they bumped down the rutted drive. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“I thought you might like a rest after yesterday.”

“That was fun too, just a different kind of fun.”

TJ tapped his fingers on the armrest, keeping time to the music. When he'd asked if she minded if he played the radio, Gillian hadn't protested, although she was thankful he hadn't chosen classical music. It was easier to listen to something that didn't bring back memories of her former life.

“The senior center is a great idea,” TJ said. “I hope you're proud of the way it's turning out.”

She was. “It fills a need, and that makes it important to me. It would be nice if my dad approved, but that's not going to happen.” Why had she shared that with TJ? There was no reason for him to know how Dad had reacted when she told him what she was doing.

TJ turned and stared at Gillian, not trying to hide his surprise. “Why wouldn't he approve? Doesn't he believe in philanthropy?”

“Oh, he does indeed, just a different variety. Dad and my brother serve on the boards of charitable foundations, and every time there's a charity gala, they're there. For them, philanthropy is about writing checks, not getting your hands dirty.” And then there was Dad's insistence that she should spend her time with younger people, searching for a husband.

TJ's expression said he didn't understand. “Every endeavor needs both.”

“You don't need to convince me.” Though she'd been tired last night, she'd also been filled with satisfaction. Not only was the senior center taking shape, but she and TJ had given the Firefly Valley kids a chance to contribute to the town. It had been a good day. A very good day, even if Dad did not agree.

“I'm sorry to have dumped that on you. I guess no family is perfect.”

“I still can't believe your dad wouldn't approve. You're finding a new direction for your life.”

Gillian sighed. That was part of the problem. She wasn't going in the direction Dad wanted. “I wish that were true. Everything I'm doing here in Texas feels good, but I know it's temporary. I'm not sure what I'll do when I leave.”

Unbidden, the image of herself holding a baby in her arms flitted through Gillian's mind. Where had that come from? Surely it wasn't because she knew that was the one sure way to gain Dad's approval. Nor could it be because of the dreams she'd had of herself and TJ sharing tender moments. There was only one logical explanation: she had been spending so much time with Kate.

S
o, what do you think, Marisa? Am I right?” Kate shifted in her chair, the smile that followed her quick grimace telling Gillian the baby's latest kick had been harder than expected. When Gillian saw Kate enter Marisa's office after breakfast, she'd joined them, wanting to give them both a quick update on her plans for the center.

“Are you right about what?” she asked.

Kate shook her head slowly. “You always did have the worst timing. Or maybe your ears were burning and you knew we were talking about you. Before you so rudely interrupted us, I was asking Marisa if she saw the same things I did. I think you look—and act—like a woman in love.”

Gillian stared at her best friend. Not once in the more than twenty years she'd known Kate had she made that accusation.

“Me? In love? I don't think so.” It was true that she'd enjoyed her time with Mike and that she'd had a silly dream about TJ, but that wasn't love. That was the kind of thing that could be blamed on eating too many s'mores too close to her bedtime.

“You're definitely mistaken,” Gillian said, her voice a little
louder than she'd planned. It was ridiculous to be so flustered by Kate's speculation.

Marisa nodded. “Shakespeare was right. The lady doth protest too much.”

“She's always been slow to recognize her own feelings.”

“I thought you two were my friends.” Gillian looked from Kate to Marisa and back. “I wanted to discuss the center, not my nonexistent love life.”

Kate exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Marisa. “All right. Tell us how you're turning it from dingy to dynamite.”

As Gillian started to explain, she heard a cough and the sound of footsteps outside Marisa's office. “Should I close the door?”

Marisa, who'd had a clear view of whoever had passed by, seemed to be struggling to contain a smile. “No need. Now tell us . . .”

Thankful to be on familiar ground, Gillian did.

It was six hours later, and though she knew anyone who heard her would cringe, Gillian couldn't help humming while she painted. So what if she couldn't carry a tune when she sang or hummed? Days like this simply demanded a way to express her joy.

Once she'd diverted Kate and Marisa from the subject of romance, she'd had an exceptionally good morning. Not only was there a steady stream of customers at the bookstore, many of whom wanted to discuss the senior center, but Sheila and Linda had volunteered to babysit so the woman who used to run the store during the day could come in for the rest of the week. That meant Gillian could devote herself to getting the center ready.

“We told Marisa it's the least we can do since you're doing so much for us,” Linda had announced when she and Sheila
stopped by the store, telling her to expect Alexa. “Besides, we love little Nathan, and Alexa needs a break.”

And so Gillian had changed into her oldest jeans and an inexpensive shirt, arranged her hair in a bun, and covered it with what had to be the ugliest hat she'd ever seen. She would have taken her chances with paint speckles, but she couldn't disappoint Linda.

When she'd presented Gillian with the hat, Linda had insisted it was perfect for painting. Now, three hours later, Gillian stared at the ceiling, searching for any spots she might have missed. Though she suspected her face was as paint-speckled as her hands, her hair was protected, and the ceiling was a beautiful uniform shade of eggshell.

When she'd consulted them, both Kate and Marisa had agreed an eggshell ceiling would complement the light ecru walls she envisioned and would make the room seem light, no matter the time of day. Situated on the west side of the street, the building received morning sun but, thankfully, not the brunt of the afternoon heat.

Convinced she hadn't missed any spots, Gillian placed the roller in the pan and began to climb down the ladder.

“Ms. Hodge?”

Gillian turned, her heart pounding at the unexpected greeting. “I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.”

The woman who'd entered the building so quietly stood a good half foot taller than Gillian. Her sister-in-law would have declared her features coarse, her frame large-boned, and her hair carrot-red rather than a becoming shade of auburn, but Lisa wasn't here. What Gillian saw was intelligent gray eyes and a friendly smile.

“I didn't want to disturb you while you were on the ladder,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I'm Emma Ingersoll, Dupree's building inspector.”

Gillian frowned as she glanced at her right hand. “I don't think you really want to shake my hand right now. Let me clean up a bit
and we can talk.” A couple minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, her hands now free of paint, the ugly hat left behind.

“I'm glad to meet you,” Gillian said, giving Emma Ingersoll's hand a firm shake. “Your assistant said you'd be coming by to inspect.”

Emma nodded. “I read your application for a permit, and everything seems to be in order. The electrician will be in tomorrow to check the wiring and smoke alarms, but I doubt there'll be a problem. Sam had this building brought up to code when he upgraded the bootery.”

For what felt like the hundredth time, Gillian gave thanks for Sam Dexter's foresight. He'd saved the center a substantial amount of time and money.

Emma walked around the room, keying notes into her tablet. “You've made remarkable progress,” she said when she'd completed the circuit.

“I had a lot of help.”

“So I heard.” When she smiled, Emma was almost pretty. “Folks are excited about what's happening. They feel more involved with this than either the new apartment complex or Drew Carroll's buildings.”

“This is a much smaller project.” The others were major new construction, neither of which lent itself to amateur workers. And because they were big projects, their time frames were substantially longer. It was more difficult to maintain enthusiasm for a project that was a year from completion than one that would last only a week or two.

“True.” Emma opened the door to the bathroom and looked around. “You're fortunate this is ADA compliant.”

Gillian nodded. “I couldn't believe my luck with that. More than almost any place in town, we need to be able to accommodate walkers and wheelchairs.” She made a mental note that the center's van had to be fitted with a wheelchair lift.

When they'd met this morning, Kate had said she and Greg
had discussed Gillian's idea of providing door-to-door transportation and wanted to buy at least one van for the center.

“If you need a second one, we'll pay for that too,” Kate had said. “Just make sure you buy only the best.” Like Linda and Sheila, Kate had claimed it was the least she and Greg could do to support a project that would benefit the town.

“Besides, Sally will get a kick out of riding in the van. She hasn't driven since she moved to Texas—claims she likes being chauffeured.”

Both Kate and Gillian had chuckled at the idea of feisty, independent Sally pretending to be a lady of leisure.

“You'll see plenty of walkers,” Emma agreed. “A few of our seniors have motorized carts, but they're no wider than a standard wheelchair, so you shouldn't have a problem once you get the ramp installed.”

Though the front door was only a single step above the sidewalk, that was one step too many for a person in a wheelchair. When she'd heard which building Gillian had chosen, Marisa had enlisted her father's help, and Eric—who seemed to be a wiz at everything from motors to ramps—had begun constructing a barrier-free entrance to the senior center.

“What are you planning to do here?” Emma asked as she and Gillian entered the kitchen. For the first time, the inspector appeared concerned.

“I thought we'd provide snacks and the midday meal, maybe an occasional dinner if we have a special evening event.”

The frown lines around Emma's mouth deepened, and she shook her head. “I'm afraid you won't be doing that without a lot of work.” She gestured, encompassing the whole room. “This doesn't meet the restaurant code. I don't want to discourage you, Gillian, but that's a big deal.”

She tapped her tablet and brought up a lengthy document. “If you want to provide meals, here's the list of what you can and cannot do.”

Though she knew Emma was only doing her job, Gillian felt as if someone had punched her solar plexus. “I really want to be able to serve food. You know it's hard for some people to get around. If they have to leave when they're hungry, they might not come back.”

In talking to the managers of other senior centers, Gillian had learned that some members spent the whole day there, using it as a substitute for the jobs that had once occupied their time. Others, particularly those who lived alone, came each day at noon for the camaraderie as well as the meal.

“I understand.” Emma scrutinized the kitchen before shaking her head again. “Unfortunately, this is not an area where I can be flexible. You cannot prepare food here.”

She looked around, frowning at the outdated appliances. “My guess is that you're looking at a substantial investment and at least two months' delay to bring this up to code.”

The money was not as much of a problem as the delay. Gillian knew Kate and Greg would pay for the renovation, but she didn't want to delay the opening by two months. In two months, neither she nor TJ would still be here.

There had to be a solution. As she replayed Emma's words, a glimmer of hope lodged inside Gillian. “Could I serve food,” she asked, stressing the verb, “if it was prepared elsewhere?”

Pursing her lips, Emma scrolled through the document. When she finished, she looked up at Gillian, a smile lighting her gray eyes. “That could work. Anyone who handles food will need to wear aprons, gloves, and hairnets; there can't be any overnight storage of perishables, and you shouldn't let anyone other than the servers use the kitchen. If you can live with that, I don't see a problem with serving meals. Of course, there's still the issue of proper preparation.”

Relief settled over Gillian, soothing her like yesterday's bird-watching adventure. “What you've outlined sounds reasonable. I'll hire someone who's already licensed to prepare the food.”

“Other than Carmen St. George, there's only one person in Dupree.”

“Russ Walker.” Gillian completed the sentence.

“Exactly.”

“That's who I had in mind. I think I'll pay him a visit. I wanted a milk shake, anyway. Can I interest you in one?”

Emma shook her head, switched off her tablet, and headed out the door. “Have fun with Russ.”

Gillian did. The milk shake was as delicious as the last one, and when Gillian told Russ what she had in mind, the man's face glowed as if she'd turned on a light somewhere inside him. It didn't take long to discover the reason.

“I've got a list of people who're looking for work,” he told her. “It's no secret that I couldn't afford to hire them, but now . . .” He poured the last of the shake into Gillian's glass. “Based on everything I've heard—and believe, me I've heard a lot—you'll have at least a dozen folks there every day, especially if they know they'll be getting a hot meal.” His smile widened. “I think I'll hire two part-timers. That way I'll have backup. So, when do you want to start?”

“Monday.” When Russ didn't react, Gillian added, “A week from today.”

“That soon?”

She shrugged and gave him a wide grin. “Why not? I'll want food for the opening ceremony—enough to feed most of the town—and then a meal for the seniors at noon. Can you do all that?”

Matching her grin, he slapped a hand on the counter. “I can't think of a single reason why not.” When they'd finished their discussion of the type of food to serve, he said, “I'll have those positions filled before the day ends, and by next week, the new staff will be trained. No problem. No problem at all.”