“Uh . . . yeah. I guess so.”
“Nana and me had tea parties.” Her face grew wistful. “They were fun.”
His brain began clicking.
If Molly liked tea parties, why not take her to one? See if that would help break down the wall she’d erected between them?
But a whole afternoon of delicate china cups . . . froufrou bites of food . . . lace and lavender and clusters of ladies nibbling and chattering?
He’d rather clean a toilet with a toothbrush.
This isn’t about you, West. It’s about bonding and helping a little girl through her grief. Suck it up.
Right.
Shoring up his resolve, he took a swig of milk and bit the bullet. “You know, I’ve never been to a tea party or a tearoom. Do you think we should go to tea at Ms. Mason’s?”
A tiny spark of animation lit up her eyes. “Will there be other little girls there?”
“I don’t know. It may just be ladies.”
She played with the crumbs on the napkin in front of her. “Do you think the cookie lady might have a little girl?”
“I doubt it. I haven’t seen anyone else around her place—and I don’t think she’s married.”
“How do you know?”
“She isn’t wearing a wedding ring.”
“Did you look?”
Was she kidding?
Any normal single man would do a ring check on someone like Jeannette within two seconds of meeting her.
However . . . the lack of a ring wasn’t conclusive. Some people didn’t wear rings these days—especially those who worked with their hands, as she did in the garden and kitchen.
“I noticed.” Not a direct answer to the question—but not a falsehood, either.
“I wish I had a friend next door, like I did at Nana’s.”
“I do too—but you’ll meet lots of boys and girls at the preschool I found for you.”
“Will they live by us?”
Doubtful, since the program he’d enrolled her in was forty-five minutes away.
Too bad Hope Harbor didn’t have anything like that for young children.
“I don’t know—but we’ll try to find some friends for you here in town too.”
“Where?”
“Maybe at, uh, church.”
She tilted her head. “Are we going to church?”
“Yeah.” He may not have been the most diligent churchgoer these past few years, but now that Molly was a permanent part of his life, he ought to get back in the habit. Children should have a solid grounding in faith—and his mom had taken her every Sunday, as Molly had told him early on.
Besides, it wouldn’t hurt him to reach out to the Almighty for assistance. He could use all the help he could get with this new life he was trying to create.
“This Sunday?”
“Yes.” No sense putting it off.
Toby, who’d been blessedly quiet while they ate their cookies, sidled up to his new friend, gave her a plaintive look, and began to whine.
“Can he have a cookie?” Molly petted the dog.
“No. They aren’t healthy for him. But you can give him a doggie treat if you want.” He fished one out of his pocket and handed it to her.
She held it out to Toby, who nibbled it from her fingers instead of snatching it away with his usual snap. As if he didn’t want to scare away his new buddy.
Nice to see some progress between his niece and his dog.
Too bad the same wasn’t true about the two of them.
Logan stood and began gathering up the remnants of their snack. “It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow. If it is, we could go to the beach again. How does that sound?”
“Can we take Toby?”
“Sure.” He psyched himself up for another game of tag with the playful pup.
She licked her finger and pressed it against the cookie crumbs. “Could we ask the cookie lady to come?”
Logan frowned.
Why would Molly want a woman she’d seen only twice to join them?
He tried not to take offense—but he’d been busting his behind for months trying to build some rapport with his niece. Why couldn’t she warm up to him like she had to his neighbor?
Get a grip, West. Be glad she warmed up to someone.
Prudent advice.
He adjusted his perspective.
“Like I said, she’s busy.” He picked up Molly’s empty milk glass.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
Pretty didn’t come close to doing Jeannette justice.
“Uh-huh.” And that was all he planned to say on the subject. “Do you want me to read you a story?”
She stared at him. “Now?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not bedtime.”
“I think we should have a lunchtime story today. Go pick out a book while I finish cleaning up.”
She slid off her chair, gave him a wary look, and disappeared down the hall, Toby on her heels.
Saved—for now.
But he had a feeling the subject wasn’t closed on his charming neighbor, who intrigued him as much as she intrigued the child who shared his home.
He rinsed out their milk glasses and set them on the counter.
Strange how little the woman had revealed about herself during their two encounters, though.
Like nothing.
He wasn’t the type to run off at the mouth, either, but compared to her he’d been almost garrulous.
Was Jeannette merely reserved by nature—or was there more to her reticence than temperament?
As he pondered that question, Molly returned to the kitchen and handed him a book about a fairy princess.
Surprise, surprise.
Not.
He dried his hands on a dish towel and took it from her.
“Let’s sit over there.” He motioned to the cushioned window seat in the breakfast nook that offered a view of the backyard.
She climbed up beside him, keeping her distance, while Toby settled in at her heels and rested his chin on his paws.
Psyching himself up for another tale of maidens in distress and handsome princes coming to the rescue, Logan opened the book.
But as he began to read, his attention strayed for a moment to the tall hedge that separated his property from Jeannette’s—and the words of an old, classic poem played through his mind.
Maybe good fences made good neighbors—but to paraphrase Robert Frost, what was Jeannette Mason walling in . . . or walling out?
6
“What do you mean, you aren’t going?” Mariam stopped brushing Elisa’s hair and gaped at her son from her seat on the twin bed.
Jutting out his jaw, Thomma propped a shoulder against the door frame and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You heard me. I’m not going. You and Elisa can represent our family.”
“The people of this town are throwing this welcome party for all of us. What will they think if you don’t come?”
“I don’t care.”
She resumed brushing Elisa’s hair, trying to control her anger as she untangled the silky strands and drew them into tiny twin ponytails. “I am ashamed of you, Thomma. I did not raise you to be rude—or ungrateful.”
Heavy silence filled the space between them, but she made no attempt to break it.
At last her son spoke, his tone a shade more conciliatory. “I don’t know their language anyway. You can speak for me.”