Karen Templeton – A Gift for All Seasons (страница 9)

Even so, much later, after he and Lili had returned home and he’d read Go, Dog. Go! three times before she finally conked out, after the unseasonably warm night had enticed him out onto the staircase clinging to the side on the brick building, he felt the darkness that had never completely left inside him stir, and stretch, and shift into something that felt an awful lot like yearning.

Which would never do.

April’s mother had always been big on that whole “see the glass as half full,” thing. “Count your blessings,” she’d say. “Look on the bright side.” And April’s personal favorite, “It could be worse.” Although heaven knew there were times, when they’d been reduced to eating grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup five nights out of seven, when she’d spot the pawn ticket and realize her mother had hocked her engagement ring—again—that April wanted to shake the woman and yell, “How could it possibly be worse?”

Only she never had, partly because she knew Mama was doing her best, and partly because they’d never actually gone hungry. Came darn close, more times than April wanted to remember, but there’d always been food of some description on the table. And they’d always, somehow, climbed out of whatever hole her father had put them in. Occasionally they even went out to eat, if only to Denny’s or Long John Silver’s.

And eventually Mama got her engagement ring back for good.

So despite April’s inclination as a kid to think her mother’s irritatingly positive outlook was a lot of hooey, it’d somehow taken root in her own psyche. Maybe because they had always landed on their feet, maybe because despite everything her parents had never stopped loving each other, she didn’t know. But now, as her gaze drifted away from her computer and out her office window to watch Patrick working alongside his men—literally, on his knees in the dirt, tamping down the earth around a freshly planted bush as he joked with Duane, one of his crew—that whole “count your blessings” refrain started up again in her head.

Because yesterday—just as a for instance—she’d heard him inquire after someone’s mom, apparently recovering from gall bladder surgery; the day before that she’d noticed him hand a small wrapped package to another guy for his kid’s birthday. Witnessed the way he listened to his crew and their obvious respect for him—real respect, not some deferential attitude because of his injuries. He was the first one there in the mornings and the last one to leave at night, but not until he checked in with April, gave her an update, asked if she had any questions, wanted any changes. For that, she should be—and was—more than grateful. Professionally, he’d filled her glass to overflowing, and she’d be delighted to sing Shaughnessy and Sons’ praises to anyone who asked. Clearly the man was a decent human being who truly cared about others.

But he’d also stopped meeting her gaze during those update sessions, or giving her even a sliver of opportunity to steer the conversation away from pavers and gravel and green things. Oh, he’d nod and say Lili was fine, when she asked, maybe even share an anecdote or two—he was a proud papa, after all—but beyond that, nada.

And frankly, she thought as she slammed shut her laptop lid and slipped her blazer over her cotton tunic, his continued reticence was getting on her last nerve.

April picked up the check she’d written earlier and let herself out onto the porch, shivering in the sudden chill. It’d been bizarrely warm these past few days, but the minute the sun went down, so did the temperature. Over by his truck, Patrick glanced up and spotted her, giving her a nod before crashing shut the tailgate. Muscles bulging underneath his long-sleeved Henley, he shrugged into his canvas work coat as he started toward her, juggling his clipboard from hand to hand as he walked. It wasn’t a particularly graceful gait, but it was solid, the stride of a man who knew what he was about.

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