Authors: Rachel Ann Nunes
If he had known Belle’s real reason for accompanying them, he wouldn’t have let her come. “I don’t want to be left at home with Rebekka,” she explained in the car. “Besides, she’s waiting for another phone call from Samuel.” She leaned forward in her seat belt to eye her father’s face. “He called earlier today, but she couldn’t take the call. He said he’d call back tonight. I think she’s in love with him.”
“What gave you that idea?” Tanner asked quickly. “I mean, just because he likes her doesn’t mean she’s in love with him.”
The irony of Tanner’s words made Damon smile.
“You just want her to love you!” Belle taunted.
“Do not!”
“Kids!” Damon warned. “Bekka will love whomever she pleases. But remember, I’m the one she has agreed to go out with this Friday.” He met Belle’s glare briefly as he paused at a stoplight. “And no pulling a stunt like you did last Friday, young lady. I’ll be watching you!”
“Maybe I should have stayed home with Rebekka!” Belle clamped her mouth shut, stuck her chin in the air, and stared out the window. She was quiet the rest of the fifteen-minute drive to the Hansen home in American Fork.
Damon felt nervous as he thought about the impending conversation. From Brionney’s description, Mickelle Hansen hadn’t been too impressed with their meeting the night before. Had he really been so stern and unfeeling as she had perceived? He remembered how beautiful she had looked in the rain, mascara smudges and all, and how he had wanted to free her hair from its clasp.
They drove up in front of the small house, and he immediately recognized the gold station wagon. “It’s such a tiny house, Dad,” Belle observed.
Tanner slid out of the car. “Yeah, that whole thing could fit into our living room and the piano room.”
“It doesn’t need to be big to be comfortable,” Damon reminded them. The outside of the house was brick and clapboard, covered with peeling paint. The shingles on the roof were curling, and the cement walk was severely cracked. But even though the house had seen better days, the yard had obviously been cared for. There were no fancy cement or rock borders, but flowers—mostly roses—lined the walkway and filled the flower beds. Much of the work looked recent, as though the occupants of the house had weeded and trimmed the flowers within the past week.
No one answered their knock, but Damon knew from Brionney that the Hansens had no other car. “They must be in the backyard,” Tanner said. “I hear voices.” The boy sounded nervous, but no more nervous than Damon. What was it about this woman? He’d faced much stiffer business opponents before.
She’s not an opponent,
he reminded himself. Aloud he suggested, “Let’s go around the back.”
Damon followed the children down the walk to the cement slab where the station wagon was parked. Stopping to look at the front fender on the driver’s side, he saw where the complete front side panel of the fender had been shoved toward the tire. The paint was also peeling and cracking, but wasn’t too noticeably different from the rest of the car. He bent for a closer look and noticed that the paint was completely peeled away where the door rubbed against the misplaced panel. Forcing it open had most likely caused the broken door handle.
He shook his head and sighed. The car wasn’t really worth repairing, in his opinion, but if that was what she wanted . . .
“Dad, come on.” Belle tugged on him, as impatient as ever. Damon let her pull him to the opening in the old wood fence that led to the backyard. Once there had been a gate, but now even the hinges were missing.
He saw her at once, sitting in the middle row of a garden that ran along nearly the entire length of the back part of the yard. In her black T-shirt, she nearly blended in with the rich color of the earth as she carefully dug around a vine-type plant with a gardening tool, stopping occasionally to pick out the uprooted weeds and throw them into a pile on the grass. Her shoulder-length hair was loose today, and the honey-blond locks gently lifted and swirled in the slight breeze.
Suddenly a soccer ball hit her shoulder, and two boys came running toward the garden. “Sorry, Mom,” they chorused.
“Oh, yeah?” she called, grabbing the ball. In an agile movement, she was on her feet and jumping over the rows to the grass. She set the ball on the ground. “Try and stop me!” She dribbled the ball along the grass as the two boys laughingly tried to steal it from her. She feinted with one foot and kicked with the other, causing the youngest boy to kick air instead of the ball. Back and forth she went, dodging and kicking, the boys and a yellow Labrador following her. Once the older boy succeeded in taking the ball, but a few seconds later she had it again. Finally, she kicked hard and the ball slammed against the wood fence.
“Goal!” she shouted, collapsing in a heap. The boys piled on top of her, and all three began laughing and shouting and tickling one another. The dog ran in circles around them, barking wildly.
Damon found himself wanting to laugh and shout with them. At the same time, tears came to his eyes. This was the life he’d wanted with Charlotte. Not that he and the children didn’t have a good life now, but sometimes it was so hard forging on alone. And yet, wasn’t that what this woman was doing?
Tanner and Belle were staring almost enviously at the scene. With a start, Damon realized that neither child had ever played that way with a woman. Charlotte had always been too ill, except when Tanner was very young, and the nannies had been more sedate types, except for Rebekka—and Damon couldn’t imagine Tanner or Belle wrestling with her. Tanner was too much in love with her, and Belle was too angry.
Damon could have watched the Hansens forever, and had he an ounce of artistic ability, he would have wanted to paint them. But impatient Belle pulled him forward. “I know that boy, Dad,” she said. “He goes to my school. He’s Camille’s cousin.”
The yellow lab bounded toward them, growling in its throat. Belle clung to his hand in fear.
The woman looked up, and their eyes met across the wide expanse of lawn. Damon couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, but remembered them from the previous night as being blue. Not like Brionney’s sky-blue eyes, but more the darker blue of a stormy day. She had an adorable smudge of dirt on her cheek.
“Come here, Sasha,” she commanded the dog, but Damon sensed a reluctance in her voice. The dog turned and went back to the two boys, wagging her tail, her canine eyes still alert.
“Hello,” he said quickly, detecting no welcome in the stormy eyes. “I’ve come to say I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mickelle met Mr. Wolfe’s bold stare with surprise, barely noticing the two children accompanying him. Slowly, she separated herself from the boys and stood, self-consciously brushing dirt from her black jeans.
Mr. Wolfe wore a tailored dark suit with a matching patterned dress shirt. His shoulders were broader than she remembered, tapering to a narrow waist. His amber eyes gleamed, but held none of the hardness she had glimpsed the night before.
He actually looks sorry,
she thought. Well, this was a much better start than at their previous meeting. She waited for him to continue.
“Bri didn’t call you?” he asked. “She knew I was coming.”
Mickelle shook her head, wondering what Brionney had to do with this man. Had her sister taken it upon herself to call him? She was about to ask when she glanced at the little girl who held onto the man’s hand. She looked so familiar! But where . . .?
Then it hit her. She
had
seen this little brown-haired beauty before. She had seen her in a dream.
No! It couldn’t be!
“Is this your daughter?” she asked through the tightening of her throat.
A coincidence,
she told herself.
That’s all it is. She just looks like the girl in my dream. It was so long ago, maybe I’ve forgotten.
Mr. Wolfe chuckled. “Yes. This is Belle.”
Belle? Where had she heard that name before? Mickelle’s heart raced, and she prayed silently,
Not a panic attack now. Please, dear Father. Not now. She’s not the girl in my dreams.
She took a deep breath. “Hello, Belle,” she managed.
The girl smiled, showing a dimple on each cheek. “I know that boy,” she said, pointing at Jeremy. “He’s Camille’s cousin.”
Jeremy looked at her. “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen you before. You go to my school.”
Mickelle tore her gaze away from Belle. “How do you know my sister?” she asked Mr. Wolfe.
He didn’t flush, but by the sheepish expression on his face Mickelle would bet he was embarrassed. “I guess we ought to properly introduce ourselves. I’m Damon Wolfe, Jesse’s business partner.”
“You’re the . . . the, um, guy Brionney and Jesse are always talking about?” Mickelle had been going to say the “good-looking guy,” but stopped herself in time. “The one they say turns everything he touches to gold?”
He rubbed his chin. “I guess that’d be me.”
Mickelle didn’t know what to say, so she introduced herself. “I’m Mickelle Hansen.”
“Tell her, Dad,” Tanner urged, smiling at her tentatively.
Damon Wolfe nodded. “We’d like to talk to you about fixing your car. I’ve spoken to my son, and in reviewing the facts, uh—” He cleared his throat. “We’ve decided that Tanner really was at fault, and we would like to make it right.”
“I’m really sorry,” Tanner added, his brown eyes soulful.
Mickelle felt emotion well in her breast. How glad she was that she had prayed for this little family instead of throwing rotten eggs at their windows!
“Come on into the house,” she said. “I have the estimates inside.” She looked at the boys. “Put Sasha back in her run, please.” She paused a few seconds to make sure the boys were heading toward the large dog run she had constructed of chicken wire in the back corner of the yard.
Instead of taking them through the kitchen door, where Mr. Wolfe might see the dinner dishes she had left in the sink, Mickelle headed around to the front. She saw Mr. Wolfe’s eyes move to the station wagon and guessed at what he was thinking. “I know she’s not much, but the Snail is all we have.”
His deep and ready chuckle showed genuine amusement. “Snail, huh?”
“Yep. The Snail gets us where we need to go.” She kicked the car as she passed.
Parked in front next to the curb, she saw a sleek blue car which looked as new and modern as hers did old and archaic. She laughed to herself.
He drives a blue streak. Wonder if he talks it, too.
Aloud she said, “Nice car.”
“What is it?” Bryan asked as he and Jeremy caught up to them in the front yard.
“Mercedes,” Tanner answered. “Can I show it to ’em, Dad?” He looked at Bryan. “It’s got a cool stereo setup.”
Mr. Wolfe reached into his pocket and threw his son the keys. “Turn it one click. Don’t start the engine.”
“I won’t.”
All three of the boys took off toward the car while Mickelle led Belle and her father into the house, glad she’d been motivated enough after Jim Lowder’s visit to clean and dust the living room. The old newspapers were gone, too, and this morning she had canceled the gift subscription to the paper to wean herself from her fascination with the obituaries.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Thank you. But, please, call me Damon. I can just see Bri laughing about me letting you call me Mr. Wolfe.”
“Then you must call me Mickelle.”
“Mickelle,” he repeated, seating himself on the sofa. “A beautiful name. Unusual.”
“Damon is unusual, too.” She paused, feeling awkward in her dirty jeans in front of this handsome, well-dressed man. She was about to excuse herself to wash her hands and to find the estimates for the car when he spoke again.
“My son really is sorry.” He glanced out the large front window at the boys, who were now inside the car. “He’s agreed to spend his savings to repair your car and then wait until he earns more to have his own fixed.”
“He seems like a good boy.”
“He is—most of the time. I plan to help him out—with the repairs, I mean. I always give them a generous sum for their birthdays.” He turned from the window, and his eyes widened at something behind Mickelle. “Belle! Don’t touch!”
Mickelle whirled around and saw that the little girl had thrust her hand into the glassless curio cabinet and was reaching for one of the roses in her collection. “It’s okay,” she told the startled child. “As long as you are very gentle. Besides, there’s not much left to break. As you can see, the glass is already gone.” At Mr. Wolfe’s surprised expression, Mickelle realized she had let bitterness enter her voice.
She quickly changed her tone. This precious little girl had nothing to do with Riley and his vengeance. “Here, let me show you this one.” She took out a carved wooden rose that Bryan had made in scouts. “See how smooth the wood is? And it’s tough, too. It wouldn’t break if you dropped it.”
Or if someone purposely tipped over the cabinet.
“It’s very soft,” Belle said. “I’m mean, it’s hard, but it feels soft.”
“I know exactly what you mean. It’s more than smooth. It’s almost silky.”
Belle smiled up at her, and Mickelle had a strange feeling of déjà-vu. How could this child so resemble the little girl in her dream? None of it made sense.
Belle had to hold or gently stroke each rose in the collection, and not for the first time, Mickelle lamented the loss of the roses Riley had destroyed. Belle would have liked them.
Mickelle helped the girl put back the last rose. “I’ll just wash my hands now,” she said, looking at the particles of dirt imbedded in the small lines and creases on her hands. “And find the papers.”
Damon looked up from where he was studying the ugly crack along the side of the cabinet. “Take your time. I should have called first, but I was afraid you’d hang up on me.”
“I might have,” she answered with a teasing smile.
While washing her hands, Mickelle also brushed her hair and noticed an embarrassing spot of dirt on her cheek. She rubbed it off impatiently.
Why do these things always happen to me?