Rainbow's End (3 page)

But as an image of the woman's shattered face flashed once again across his mind, he knew he had to at least try.

 

Inside the house, Jill stirred the simmering pot of soup she'd made at the crack of dawn, struggling to contain the tears that threatened to leak out the corners of her eyes.
Don't cry!
she admonished herself fiercely. As her sister, Deb, used to say, she'd already cried enough tears to sink a ship. Too bad Deb wasn't here now. In her no-nonsense way, she'd always helped Jill regain her balance when the world began to tilt. She'd done that a lot during the weeks and months after the fire, through the surgeries and treatments and rehab, always an anchor to hold on to when the pain and the grief became unbearable. If it hadn't been for her older sister, Jill was sure she'd have given up and let the suffocating sense of loss overwhelm and destroy her.

She tried to imagine what Deb would say if she
were
here. “Get a grip,” no doubt. She'd point out that the man's shock had been a normal, human reaction, and that he hadn't intended to hurt her. That once he got to know her, he'd forget about the scars that served as a constant reminder of the tragic night that had forever changed her world.

Yeah, right.

Although Deb meant well, Jill knew better. Oh, sure, people tried to act nonchalant once their initial shock passed. But they were never able to get past the scars. Even here, after two years. The islanders she saw on her trips to church or into the villages were nice. Too nice. That was the problem. They smiled too much, kept up a stream of chatter about inconsequential things, wished her a good day with bright smiles. They tried to act as if they enjoyed seeing her, but in truth they were glad when she left. She made them uncomfortable.

That was just the way it was. The way it would always be. Jill thought she'd accepted that. Thought she'd learned to deal with it. Nowadays, when people stared at her, she felt nothing beyond a twinge somewhere deep in the recesses of her heart. It had been a very long time since anyone had managed to evoke even the hint of tears. Yet this man, a stranger who would soon slip out of her life as suddenly as he had slipped in, had managed to awaken a sadness that she'd long ago subdued. And she had no idea why.

Yes, you do,
a little voice whispered at the edges of her consciousness.

Startled, she stopped stirring the soup and grasped the edge of the counter with her free hand, trying to suppress the answer that kept bubbling to the surface much as the herbs in her soup pot were doing. But the little voice wouldn't be stilled.

Because he's a man.

It was a truth Jill couldn't dispute. Her tenant's reaction disturbed her because he was a man. A scruffy one, no question. Not the kind of man she'd ever have looked at twice in years past. But he was close to her age. And his expression of shock, horror, pity and revulsion had clarified for her, if she'd ever harbored any secret hopes otherwise, that no man could ever look at her again as a desirable woman.

Nevertheless, the strength of her response shook her. Jill had assumed that any romantic yearnings had died along with Sam. After all, she hadn't thought about love once since then, not on a conscious level. Yet, if the reaction of an unkempt stranger could reduce her to tears….

Taking herself in hand, Jill resumed stirring the pot with vigor and swiped the tears out of her eyes. This was just an aberration. Brought on by too little sleep during the storm-tossed night, she rationalized. As soon as he finished repairing her siding, the man would be gone. Peace would once more descend on her world. She'd have a little breakfast, pay a few bills, then spend the next few hours painting in her sunny studio upstairs. It would be a typical, quiet morning. The kind she always enjoyed and looked forward to.

Except for some odd reason, thinking about her solitary plans didn't lift her spirits at all. Instead, it depressed her.

 

The aromas wafting through the kitchen window were driving him mad.

As Keith banged the final nail into the siding, his salivary glands went into overdrive. Chicken soup. That's what it smelled like. Homemade chicken soup. The kind his mother used to make, its enticing aroma greeting him when he came
home from school. To this day, that simple meal always evoked happy memories of home and love and security.

Too bad he'd botched the conversation with his landlady this morning, Keith thought, finding yet another reason to regret his rudeness. He'd have loved to wrangle a sample of whatever was cooking in that pot. But given the woman's reaction to his insensitive gawking, the odds of that happening were slim to none. Even after the apology he still planned to offer.

Once he double-checked the board to ensure it was secure, Keith descended the ladder, then headed toward the front door and knocked. As he waited for her to answer, he tried to think of how to frame his apology. But when she cracked the door open, he hadn't yet found the words.

“I'm finished. Where would you like the ladder?”

“Just leave it. I'll put it away later.” She started to close the door.

“I'd rather finish the job. That means putting away the tools.”

Hesitating, she gave him an uncertain look. “There's a shed around back. It goes in there.”

Before he could say another word, she shut the door.

So much for the apology, he thought, as he headed back around the house, located the surprisingly well-equipped toolshed and slid the ladder into a slot inside. Someone around here knew tools. And since the woman at the house seemed to be the sole occupant, it must be her. Impressive.

When he stepped outside, a curtain fluttered at the back window. She was continuing to keep tabs on him, it seemed. Not that he blamed her, considering his disreputable appearance. For all she knew, he was some derelict who was up to no good. What surprised him was his reaction. It bothered him that she might consider him dangerous or unsavory. In light
of the fact that for the past couple of years he hadn't cared a lick what people thought about him, his reaction was odd. But for whatever reason he didn't want this woman to think ill of him—or to regret her kindness to a stranger. All of which brought him back to his apology. It was time.

Combing his fingers through his too-long hair in a futile effort to tidy it, he strode toward the house, stepped up onto the back porch and knocked on that door.

When she eased it open, the delicious aroma that wafted out almost did him in. But he did his best to focus on the reason he'd come to the door instead of listening to the pleas of his stomach.

“I'll be heading out now, ma'am. I wanted to thank you again for your kindness last night. I don't know what—” A flicker of movement across the field caught his eye, and he turned just as a small boy darted behind a boulder. “Looks like you have a visitor.”

Curious, Jill opened the door wider, enough to peer in the direction Keith was looking. “Where?”

“Over there, behind the rocks. A little boy. He moved back when he saw me. Is he a friend of yours?”

Leaning farther out, Jill scanned the boulders. It was the same place she'd spotted the boy. “I don't know who he is. I saw him for the first time yesterday.”

She continued to look toward the rocks as Keith shifted his gaze back to her. She still wore the floppy hat, but he could see the concern etched on her shadowed face.

“Maybe he'll come out when I leave.”

“No. It's not you that's holding him back. He ran away when I tried to talk to him, too.” Her attention remained fixed on the far edge of the field.

This was the time, Keith thought, taking a deep breath. “Before I go, I'd like to apologize for staring earlier. It was a rude thing to do, and I'm sorry if I upset you.”

Startled, Jill turned back to him. Then did a double take. The man was doing something no one except her family—and her doctors—had ever done. He was looking right at her scar, without flinching, without skittering past it. He didn't try to ignore it, as most people did. Instead, he traced it from end to end—at least what he could see of it beneath the wide, protective brim of her hat. She wanted to turn away, wanted to hide her face. But there was a compelling expression in his eyes that held her motionless.

“I also want you to know that I'm sorry for whatever happened to cause that.” His voice was gentle, his eyes kind. “And that I'm sorry for whatever trauma you've had to endure since then. If I added to your pain in any way, I ask your forgiveness.”

The man's direct approach, along with his sincere remorse, left Jill speechless. Not only was he looking at her scar, he was talking about it! She had no idea how to respond.

When the silence between them lengthened, he shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I better be off. I wonder if you could direct me to the nearest place to get some breakfast?”

Food. The man was asking about food. It took Jill a few moments to collect her thoughts, but when she did it occurred to her that he must be starving. He'd had no dinner that she was aware of, and there wasn't a dry cracker to be found in the cabin. She started to open her mouth to direct him to Olga, the closest village, when that persistent little voice in the back of her mind spoke once more.

You could feed him instead.

Again, though she tried to suppress it, she met with little success. The man had fixed her siding, after all. And from the looks of him, he could use a good meal. His jeans sat low on his lean hips. Too low. And she didn't think it was a fashion statement. Rather, she suspected his spare frame was the result of too many missed meals. It wouldn't hurt her to give him some food before sending him on his way. It was the hospitable thing to do. The Christian thing. Didn't the Lord feed the multitudes with loaves and fishes when they were in need?

Besides, there was something about him that drew her, that made her want to find out more about what made him tick. To discover why this stranger seemed able to look past her scars, past the brokenness, and see the whole person underneath. And giving him a meal would buy her a little time to do that.

Taking a step back until she hovered on the edges of the interior shadows, her fingers tightened around the door. “I can give you some breakfast.”

Now it was Keith's turn to be shocked. The last thing he'd expected from this woman was an invitation to dine. But if the aromas that continued to waft through the door were any indication of her culinary abilities, he was in for a treat. That alone would compel him to accept.

Beyond that, though, he knew that her invitation also meant she'd accepted his apology. And that fact, even more than the thought of a good meal, lightened his heart.

“Thank you. I'd like that very much.”

“Come back in twenty minutes. I'll have it ready by then.”

As Jill shut the door, cutting her off from the man on the other side, she drew a long, shaky breath. Already she was having second thoughts. Why on earth had she impulsively
offered a stranger breakfast? It could be a huge mistake. One she might very well live to regret.

Yet even as that dire warning flashed across her mind, in her heart she somehow felt that she'd made the right decision.

W
hat in the world was she going to feed the man?

Hands on her hips, Jill scanned the contents of her refrigerator. Too bad she hadn't gone to Olga two days ago, as she'd planned, to stock up on perishables. She was down to her last two eggs, and there was no breakfast meat of any kind. Nor much of anything else. At one time, she'd enjoyed cooking. But solo meals held little appeal. These days she got by on cold cereal, sandwiches, dairy products and fruit. Homemade soup represented her sole foray into the culinary arts, and she almost always had some on hand—like the pot of chicken-rice soup now simmering on the stove, flavored with the herbs she'd plucked from the pots on her kitchen windowsill. But even though it had once earned rave reviews from family and friends, it didn't qualify as breakfast fare.

Closing the refrigerator, she turned her attention to the cabinets. At least she had all the basics on hand—flour, sugar, salt, spices. When a bottle of maple syrup—a leftover from her sister's last visit—caught her eye, she thought of the blackberries she'd picked last season at their peak of juicy
sweetness, preserved in her freezer. Inspiration hit…blackberry pancakes!

In no time, Jill was whipping up a batch of batter. Though she seldom made pancakes anymore, the recipe was etched in her mind. Sam and Emily had loved them so much they'd become a Saturday-morning tradition.

Her hand slowed. Funny. She hadn't thought about that once-a-week ritual for months. Hadn't
let
herself think about it. Like so much of her previous life that was gone forever, it was too painful to remember. And now wasn't the time to start, she reminded herself, resuming her measuring and stirring.

Once the batter was ready and she'd poured three generous circles on the griddle, Jill set a single place at the small table on the back porch, adding a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. Then she returned to the house to flip the fluffy pancakes. When her unexpected guest reappeared at the far end of the meadow, she transferred the pancakes to a plate. After dusting them with powdered sugar, she tilted the maple syrup that had been warming on the stove into a small crockery pitcher and arranged everything on the table. By the time he arrived, she was back inside, working at the sink where she could catch a glimpse of him through the large window in front of her.

In the past hour, the morning had warmed quite a bit, and the northeast-facing back porch was bathed in sunlight as Keith ascended the two steps. In spite of his hunger, he stopped when he saw the carefully set table and the appetizing plate of food waiting for him. It had been a long while since anyone but a fast-food worker or a short-order cook in some diner had prepared a meal for him. Longer still since anyone had cared to provide him with any of the niceties of
dining. Like a cloth napkin, with crisp, precise folds. Or a woven placemat. Or the cushion on the wooden chair, added since his earlier visit. Not to mention the small vase of wildflowers that now graced the center of the table.

All of those touches registered in a flash as Keith scanned the setting. So did the single place setting. But it was the plate of mouthwatering pancakes that caught and held his attention.

“Go ahead and eat before they get cold.”

The woman's husky voice came through the open window in the kitchen, and Keith moved forward. He didn't need a second invitation. “Thanks.”

Seating himself at the small wooden table, he dived in, making liberal use of the maple syrup and washing down the feather-light pancakes with long swigs of strong, black coffee. In minutes, the plate was empty.

“Would you like some more?”

Glancing up, Keith saw his hostess hovering at the back door. A smile tried to lift the corners of his mouth but his lips balked at the unaccustomed tug, as stiff and resistant as a painter's brush that had gone too-long unused. “Do I look that hungry?”

“I expect you could manage another serving.”

“You're right. Thanks.”

While Keith waited, he sipped his coffee, noting that the little boy had returned, still hiding behind the boulders on the other side of the field. When the woman reappeared a few minutes later with another overflowing plate and hesitated at the back door, he figured she wanted him to come and get his food. That way, she could stay in the shadows. Instead, he inclined his head toward the rocks. “Your friend is still here.”

That caught her attention. Jamming her hat farther down
on her head, she pushed through the door. As she focused on the far side of the field, she gave him a shaded view of her classic profile. “I don't see him.”

“He was there a minute ago. I have a feeling he's been watching the house for some time.”

Frowning, she deposited Keith's plate on the table and refilled his mug from the pot she carried in her other hand, keeping one eye on the distant boulders. “When I saw him yesterday, he didn't look very well cared for. He might even be hungry. If I could figure out a way to coax him closer, I'm sure I could find out. I used to be pretty good with kids.”

Her concern for the little boy had overridden her self-consciousness and reticence, and Keith marveled at the change in her. For a brief moment he had an intriguing glimpse of the engaged, self-assured woman she must once have been.

But that window into her past closed the instant she realized he was watching her. Turning abruptly, she started back to the house.

“Aren't you having any?”

His question stopped her, and she half turned. “I don't eat much breakfast.”

He wasn't surprised. Now that she'd ditched the bulky jacket, there was no question about her gender. Her lithe figure was rounded in all the right places. A soft chambray shirt hinted at the curves beneath, and her unpretentious jeans encased her long legs like a second skin.

It had been a long while since Keith had noticed a woman's physical attributes, and years since he'd taken such a detailed inventory. He had no idea what had possessed him to do so now. And he wasn't inclined to analyze it. Better to move on to another—safer—topic.

“If you won't join me, at least let me introduce myself.” He rose and extended his hand. “My name is Keith Michaels.”

He wasn't sure she would respond, but after a brief hesitation, she dipped her head, stepped toward him and took his fingers in a grip that displayed surprising strength. “Jill Whelan.”

As the stranger held Jill's hand, he also held her captive with his compelling blue eyes. They seemed to delve into her heart, searching, seeing things she had never given voice to. Of course, such fanciful thoughts were no more than the product of an overactive imagination, she chided herself. But it was an odd sensation nonetheless.

The sudden ringing of the phone broke the spell, and with a slight tug, she reclaimed her hand and turned toward the house. “You'd better eat those while they're warm. Some things taste just as good cold, but pancakes aren't one of them.”

Hurrying toward the phone, Jill left the back door ajar instead of closing and locking it, as she had up until now. There was something in the man's face—character and integrity, certainly, but also a distant sadness as if he, too, had suffered some terrible tragedy—that told her she had nothing to fear from him. Nothing physical, anyway. Her emotions were another story. He'd disrupted those already. But she had a feeling no wooden door would protect her from that kind of danger, anyway.

When she answered the phone, she was a bit out of breath—which didn't escape her sister's notice.

“Is everything okay? Did I catch you at a bad time?” Deb queried.

“No, no. I'm fine. I was outside.”

“At this hour? You're always eating your yogurt and reading the paper now.”

Goodness, was she that predictable? But the resounding answer was: yes! Deb called like clockwork at nine-thirty every Saturday morning, and like clockwork Jill would be reading the local weekly paper, which she saved for that occasion in order to differentiate the weekend from the workweek. Except today she'd forgotten all about the paper and her yogurt and even Deb's call—thanks to one Keith Michaels, now ensconced on her back porch eating her blackberry pancakes.

“We had a storm last night and a piece of siding got ripped off the side of the house,” Jill explained, redirecting her attention to the conversation.

“I hope you weren't climbing on ladders.”

“There's not much choice when the problem is on the second floor.”

“But you hate ladders. Look, I know you're handy, but can't you get someone to fix it for you?”

“It's already done, Deb.”

“That figures.” Her sister gave a long-suffering sigh. “You know, I ought to send my husband out there to take a few lessons from you. Tony is a wonderful provider, but when it comes to home maintenance he's as useless as a cell phone with a dead battery. You must have been at it at the crack of dawn.”

Before she could respond, the back screen door opened and Keith came in far enough to deposit his plate and juice glass on the counter. Then he retreated to the porch, the screen door banging behind him.

“Jill? What was that?”

Typical Deb. She didn't miss a thing, Jill thought with a wry shake of her head. “The back door.”

“Who came in? Is everything okay?”

“Everything's fine. Look, it's kind of a long story.”

“I've got all day.”

“It's no big deal, Deb.”

“Then why don't you just tell me?”

Shaking her head, Jill let out a resigned sigh. “Did anyone ever tell you you're pushy?”

“Yeah. You do. All the time. But hey, that's what sisters are for. Now spill it. If you have a visitor, I want to hear all about it. This doesn't happen every day.”

Knowing Deb wouldn't let up until she got the information she wanted, Jill gave her a shorthand version. “I let a guy use the cottage last night. They sent him out from town because there isn't a room to be had over the holiday weekend, and it was raining cats and dogs. Turns out he's a carpenter, and he offered to put the siding back up for me. I gave him breakfast on the back porch as a thank-you. He just brought in his empty plate.”

Silence greeted her narration. When it lengthened, Jill spoke again. “Deb? Are you still there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. You took in a boarder? And you're letting him wander around your house?”

“He's not a boarder. He stayed for one night. And he's not wandering around my house.”

“Who is this guy?”

“I have no idea.”

“What does he look like?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don't know.” She turned to look out the door. Keith was standing by the porch railing sipping his coffee, his strong profile thrown into sharp relief by the morning sun. Angling
away from the door, she lowered her voice. “He's a little shaggy around the edges and a bit road-weary. But he looks honest.”

“How old is he?”

“What is this, the third degree?”

“Look, when some guy shows up on my sister's doorstep—my sister who avoids people like the plague, especially men—and she lets him wander around her house, I have reason to be concerned. So how old is he?”

Letting her sister's remark about avoiding people pass, Jill answered the question. “Fortyish, maybe.”

Another few beats of silence passed. “I'm not sure I like this, Jill. I love your place, but it's very isolated. I worry about you alone out there.”

“I'm fine, Deb. There's no need for concern. I was just being a Good Samaritan. He's been very polite and grateful. And he's leaving in a few minutes. End of story.”

“Hmm.” She didn't sound convinced. “Call me after he's gone, okay?”

“Deb.”

“Just call me, okay? Otherwise I'll worry about you. More than I already do.”

“Fine. I'll call. Now let's talk about more important things. Like your visit in two weeks. I can't wait to see you and Dominic.”

“We're looking forward to it, too. Dominic can't talk about anything else. It's Aunt Jill this and Aunt Jill that, and can we collect rocks at the beach again and go watch whales and climb that mountain, yada, yada, yada.”

“Tell him the answer to all of those questions is yes. Now let's talk logistics.” As they worked out the details, Jill realized that she was as excited about the annual visit as her sister and
nephew were. Much as she loved her life on her little corner of Orcas Island, it did get lonely on occasion. More so at some times than others.

Turning toward the porch again, her gaze once more sought Keith. He was standing with his back to her now as he looked toward Mount Constitution. In a few minutes, he would be gone, as she'd told Deb. And even though she knew nothing about him, even though his visit had been brief, she had the oddest feeling that his departure would initiate one of those “more so” times.

 

Only snatches of conversation drifted through the open screen door to Keith. But he heard enough to realize that Jill was discussing plans with a woman named Deb for a visit. And that pleased him. It meant there was someone who cared about her and gave her an occasional reprieve from her solitary existence.

He drew in a long, cleansing breath of the fresh morning air, enjoying the warmth of the sun against his face. To his surprise, the sense of peace he'd awakened with was still with him. He'd expected it to dissipate along with the wisps of mist that had hung over the field earlier in the morning as he'd trekked across. The feeling was so welcome, so calming, that he was loath to drive away and risk leaving it behind. But he had no excuse to stay. The woman in Eastsound had told him that Jill didn't lease her cottage. Besides, he didn't have enough money to pay rent for very long, anyway.

Yet, he wanted to stay. For a few days, at least. Long enough, perhaps, for the peace to soothe his soul and give him a chance to figure out where he was going to go from here. His finances could handle a short extension of his visit. The
trick would be convincing his reluctant landlady to prolong her hospitality.