Anything for Her(14)

Nolan didn’t understand what drove him. A solitary man, he didn’t make a habit of intruding. But he hadn’t liked anything he’d seen between these two.

“You okay, son?” he asked.

The boy didn’t turn around, although he did stop. He shrugged, a miserable sight if Nolan had ever seen one. His jeans were too short, Nolan noticed, exposing bony ankles in sagging socks. His hair was dirty.

Nolan laid a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not an answer,” he said, in his quiet way.

The boy looked at him. The sheer desperation on his face tore something open in Nolan’s chest.

“He doesn’t like me.”

“Your father?”

The boy all but erupted in fury. “He’s not my father!”

“Then who is he?”

“He’s...” The shoulders sagged again. “He’s my foster dad,” he said dully. “I’ve lived with him and his wife since December, when my grandma died.”

“If they took you in, they must have wanted you.”

Another shrug. “They said they did.”

“Sean?” the foster father called from the next aisle. There was that hateful snap again. “What are you doing?”

“I’m coming,” Sean said, and started to trudge forward.

“Wait.” When the boy paused, Nolan asked quietly, “Does he hit you?”

“Nah.”

That was when Nolan did something even more out of character for him—he took out his wallet and removed a business card. “Sean.”

The boy stopped again and looked back.

“Take this. It has my number on it. If you need someone, call me.”

He took it, his fingers closing tightly on the card. He looked down at it, then up at Nolan’s face. Back to the card. He didn’t get it. Nolan could tell. Nolan didn’t get it, either. All he knew was that he’d recognized something in the boy, a smoldering resentment and unhappiness he’d felt at about the same age. Different causes, but enough the same that he couldn’t suppress the empathy he felt for a boy he didn’t even know.

After a long minute, Sean had ducked his head in a sort of nod and disappeared after his foster father.

At the end of May, he’d called.





CHAPTER THREE



ALLIE’S MOTHER SMILED perfunctorily when Allie told her the date had gone great and she and Nolan were going to see each other again. Without commenting or asking more about him, she began chattering about the Friends of the Library and how someone had suggested she run for president when elections came around at the end of the year.

“Goodness, I’d never considered it,” she said, “but of course I do organize the book sale, and it seems as if more and more often people are turning to me.”

She sounded really pleased, Allie thought, which made her guess her mother needed more recognition than she’d been receiving. It wasn’t hard to see why; her boss might appreciate her, but her job kept her tucked away in the back room. Who gave a thought to the bookkeeper, unless your paycheck was late? For so many years, Allie’s and her mother’s entire lives had required them to keep a low profile. It had been a long time since Allie had chafed at that, but maybe it had bothered Mom all along.

I never realized. The fact that she was surprised made her feel self-centered. When was the last time she’d wondered what made her mother happy?

“You’d do a great job,” she assured her. “You ought to run.”

Mom had stopped by the store just before closing and suggested dinner, surprising Allie. After all, they’d eaten together the night before last. But she’d agreed even though she really wanted to go home and work on the Burgoyne Surrounded quilt. She’d set it up in the frame but had had very little time to start on it. Sort of like high school, she thought ruefully—I’m such a social butterfly.

Now, if it had been Nolan calling and suggesting they get together...

She would definitely not let her mother know that she’d rather be spending this evening with him.

Allie never did quite figure out why Mom had suggested they get together so soon after the last time. She clearly wasn’t interested in hearing about Nolan, and she didn’t have any significant news of her own beyond the possibility of becoming president of the Friends.

Bemused, Allie escaped as soon as she could after dinner and did manage a peaceful hour of hand-quilting before getting ready for bed. She loved starting on a new—or, in this case, very old—quilt. She used a tiny needle and averaged twelve stitches to an inch despite the thickness of the three layers. It was the quilting that added stiffness and wondrous texture. Admiring the block she’d completed, she remembered the sensual way Nolan had fingered the Lady of the Lake quilt she was working on at the store.