Only Love Page 3

  He’d moved in four months ago, and I hadn’t seen one person come or go from that house in all that time. No wife, no kids, no family or friends … At first, it didn’t make sense to me at all. He was handsome as the devil, built nice and strong, and a real gentleman—he started taking care of my yard work whenever he did his own without my asking, and he wouldn’t take a penny for it!

  He was handy indoors, too. He was doing all kinds of work on that big old house next door, which had fallen into disrepair after the previous owner died a few years back and the family had been unable to sell it. Mary Jane at the beauty parlor told me she heard from her cousin Darlene, who’s married to the real estate agent who had the listing, that Mr. Woods—that’s the handsome fellow’s name—was only renting the house, and that he’d agreed to do some refurbishing on it in exchange for lower monthly rent.

  Mary Jane also heard that he’d gotten a job as a groundskeeper at Cloverleigh Farms, which used to be just a family farm but was now a winery, an inn, a restaurant, and a place for big, fancy weddings. (In my day, you went down to the courthouse in the morning, had a champagne brunch if you were lucky, and hooray, you were married. Now people have such elaborate weddings they have to take out loans to pay for them! But everything was simpler back then. Even boy meets girl.)

  Mary Jane said she didn’t want to spread gossip—since when, I nearly asked her—but she’d also heard that he was a former Marine who’d had trouble readjusting to civilian life, and his wife had left him. That’s why he’d moved up here all by himself.

  Well, once I heard that, things made more sense. No wonder he seemed so melancholy—the poor dear was lonely.

  I’d tried to draw him out a little, but so far I hadn’t had too much luck. Oh, he’d do any little chore I asked him to, but he’d be silent the whole time, and he never stayed for dinner, no matter how often I invited him. I’d taken to sending him home with cookies or brownies or some other little treat.

  But I knew what he really needed, and it wasn’t dessert. You don’t get to be my age without living through some tough times, and I’d known my share of shell-shocked men.

  What he needed was a sympathetic ear and a warm hug. Someone to tell him he was okay. Someone beautiful and kind, inquisitive but sensitive. Someone who understood the complexities of the human mind and could make him feel good about himself, war wounds and all.

  Someone like my Stella.

  She was all those things and more, and now she was single too. But I knew my darling granddaughter, and she wasn’t going to come running up here just to meet a man. She was far too sensible for that. She was far too sensible, period.

  But I’d fix that, even if I had to fake dementia to do it.

  Never underestimate a granny on a mission.

  Especially the matchmaking kind.

  Four

  Ryan

  It was warm for October, upper seventies. The late afternoon sun was beating down hard, and sweat dripped down my chest, dampening my shirt. I whipped it off, tossed it aside, and wiped my forehead on the back of my arm. Then I pushed the mower a little faster. The sooner I finished Mrs. Gardner’s yard, the sooner I could get home and crack open a cold beer.

  Twenty minutes later, I’d just shut the mower off when I heard my next door neighbor’s little old lady voice.

  “Yoo-hoo! Mr. Woods!” she called from the top of the steps just outside the back door. She waved excitedly. “Are you finished, dear? Could I ask you to come here for just a moment?”

  I nodded, pushing the mower over toward her driveway. On my way to the steps, I stopped to scoop up my sweaty shirt from the ground and shake the grass clippings from it before pulling it over my head.

  “My,” she said, fanning herself as I approached. “Sure is warm today, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank you so much for taking care of the leaves and the lawn again. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t moved in next door. You’re an angel.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’m sure you’ve got much better ways to spend your Sunday afternoon. And since you won’t take any money for all the things you do for me, I’ve made you some more cookies, and I have a nice tall pitcher of iced tea as well. It’s just inside.”

  I didn’t want to go in, not because I had anything against Mrs. Gardner, but because I wasn’t much for small talk. Or any kind of talk. “That’s okay. I—”

  “Now hush.” She came down the steps and took me by the arm, leading me up to the kitchen door. “You need a cold drink after your hard work, and I don’t have anyone around to eat the little treats I make.” She was short but spry, although she had to be close to ninety, if not older. She reminded me of Betty White. Her hair was poufy like a cloud. Her face was deeply wrinkled, but she had surprisingly nice teeth, and she smiled a lot.

  I didn’t want to be rude, so I let her lead me through the screen door inside the kitchen, which was too warm but smelled heavenly.

  On the table there was a pitcher of iced tea, two tall glasses, and a plate piled with chocolate-chip cookies. My stomach moaned hungrily. “Now you sit there and eat,” she directed, nearly pushing me into one of four wooden chairs, “and I’ll pour the tea.”

  While she plunked ice into the glasses and poured, I sat stiffly at the edge of my seat and eyeballed the cookies. I’d been in her house several times doing small chores for her, but this was the first time I’d ever sat down. Normally I refused the meals and snacks and cold drinks she offered, and she’d send me home with a plate of brownies or lemon bars or banana bread—delicious homemade things I devoured within a day. I never could resist sweets.

  A memory floated close to the surface of my mind, my mother taking fresh-baked cookies from the oven, the aroma drifting through the house, making my sisters and I come running for the kitchen only to be told we had to wait for them to cool a little, and then staring at those cookies on the sheet, our eyes big, our mouths watering. My mouth was watering now, and something tugged at my chest.

  But before it could even register as a feeling, I flipped a switch and it was gone.

  “I’ve had the best news this afternoon, and I’ve simply got to share it with someone.” Mrs. Gardner set the pitcher down and beamed at me. “My granddaughter Stella is coming to visit.”

  Too hot and thirsty to resist, I picked up the glass of iced tea she’d poured for me and drank half of it down.

  “She’s probably about your age, and she’s always so busy, I hardly ever get to see her.” Mrs. Gardner pushed the plate of cookies toward me. “Help yourself, dear.”

  I picked one up and bit into it—it was soft and sweet and tasted like childhood. I finished it in three bites and looked longingly at the rest.

  Mrs. Gardner laughed as she refilled my glass from the pitcher. “Eat as many as you want. I made them for you. My Stella isn’t much for sweets. I don’t think she even knows how to bake. One of those career girls, you know. She’s a therapist. And she runs marathons. I’ve seen you running down the road, too. Do you run marathons?”

  I shook my head and took a second cookie off the plate. At least if I kept eating, I wouldn’t have to actually say anything.

  “She’s such a dear girl, so thoughtful and kind. Would you like to see her picture?”

  I didn’t, not really, but she didn’t wait for my answer before disappearing through a swinging door into the dining room. A moment later, she returned with a framed photo in her hand.

  “Isn’t she lovely?” she asked, setting the frame up next to the cookie plate. “This was taken last Christmas.”

  I was prepared to nod politely even if her granddaughter was a dog, but when I looked at the woman in the photo, I had to admit she was pretty. Long blond hair worn straight to her shoulders. Light eyes. A shy smile. Full lips. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest in the photo, but not in a defensive way. More like she was cold.

  Before I could help myself, I focused on her breasts. The top
s of them were sort of pushing up above the neckline of the dress she wore. From there, my dick hijacked my brain and I immediately pictured her naked, which caused a rush of heat to my crotch.

  Fuck.

  I did not want to get hard sitting in this old lady’s kitchen.

  As quickly and easily as I’d shut off the memory of my childhood, I looked away from the photograph and severed the connection between my body and my brain, staring out the window at the backyard until I felt nothing. It was a matter of seconds.

  “Anyway, I’m so looking forward to seeing her. She arrives tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Gardner’s voice had lost a little of its pep, and I felt guilty.

  Say something nice about the photo, dickhead.

  But before I could think of anything, she took the frame off the table and left the kitchen. I felt like shit.

  By the time she came back, I’d stood up, wondering how rude it would be to make a fast exit.

  “Leaving already?” She sounded disappointed.

  “Yeah, I have to get going.”

  “Of course. I’m sure you’ve got places to go, a young man like you. You don’t want to spend all your time with a silly old grandmother like me. But I was just wondering, could you maybe take a look at the front porch? There’s a board that feels a little unsteady, and I’m wondering if I should have it replaced.”

  “Uh, sure. I can take a look.”

  She smiled and clasped her hands together. “Wonderful. And while you’re doing that, I’ll wrap the rest of the cookies so you can take them home. Come right through here.”

  I followed her through the dining room and living room to the front of the house. The big wooden door was open, and the screen door squeaked as she pushed it. I made a mental note to oil the hinges for her.

  Out on the porch, she pointed toward a board near the door. “Step right there. Do you feel that?”

  I walked on the board she indicated, and sure enough, it gave a little beneath my feet. So did the one next to it. “Yeah. These two need to be replaced before they start to rot.”

  She gasped. “Rot! Oh no, that doesn’t sound safe at all. And you know, I’ve had both hips replaced already. I don’t want to risk a fall. Do you know how to do it?”

  I crouched down and looked a little closer. Beneath the flaking white paint, the boards were one-by-four fir decking, which would be easy enough to get, but they ran front to back, which meant one end was under the toe kick and the other beneath the railing. It wouldn’t be a quick fix.

  Frowning, I stood up. “I can probably do it after work this week, but it might take me a couple days.”

  Her face lit up. “I don’t mind. You can be here as much as you’d like.”

  I nodded. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

  “That’s just perfect, Mr. Woods.”

  “Ryan.”

  “Ryan. What a nice name, so sturdy and strong. Is it a family name?”

  “Uh, not that I know of.”

  “I believe it’s Irish. Are you Irish?”

  “A little.”

  “Same here! I was born a McMahon. And where did you grow up, dear?”

  “Ohio.”

  “A Midwesterner. I just love Midwesterners. So friendly and traditional. Such nice manners. And did I hear somewhere you were in the military?”

  My jaw clenched reflexively. I hated the idea that there was talk going around about me, but I suppose it was inevitable in a small town. “The Marine Corps.”

  She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “A Marine! Well, no wonder you’re so big and strong. And such a gentleman, too. Why, my own daughters moved out of state, leaving me here alone to fend for myself. If it weren’t for you and my grandchildren and my bridge group and my book club, I’d have no visitors at all. Did I tell you my granddaughter Stella is coming to visit me?”

  “Yes,” I answered, thinking again of the pretty blond in the photo.

  Mrs. Gardner thumped herself on the head. “Of course I did. I’m going completely dotty, Mr. Woods. One of these days, I’m going to forget my own name. My Frank was in the Navy,” she went on in the same breath. “Signed up after Pearl Harbor, when he was just seventeen. I was devastated when he shipped out. I cried for days. But he came back in one piece, thank heavens. And so did you.”

  Sometimes I wondered if that was true. “I should get going.”

  “Of course, dear. I’ll just go in and get those cookies for you.”

  I wanted to tell her not to bother, but then I thought about how soft and sweet those cookies had been. What else did I have to look forward to tonight? “Thank you.”

  While she was inside, I pulled my phone from my back pocket and texted Mack.

  Any big projects this week? My neighbor asked for my help replacing some boards on her porch.

  He replied right away with a smart ass comment.

  What a hero.

  Fuck off.

  Nothing big this week that I know of. I’ll check with DeSantis.

  Henry DeSantis was the winemaker and vineyard manager at Cloverleigh, and I spent about a third of my time working for him, and the rest for Mack, who was the general business manager and oversaw all construction and landscaping projects. Mack was also a Marine buddy and the closest thing I had to a brother. He’d gotten me the job at Cloverleigh.

  “Here you are, dear.” Mrs. Gardner came out the squeaky screen door and handed me the plate of cookies, now covered with tin foil. “Enjoy.”

  “Thanks. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

  “That’s perfect. Bye now.” She gave a little wave and I took off down the steps and across the front yard toward my house.

  It was similar to hers, but in much worse condition. Same Victorian farmhouse style, same wide front porch, although hers had a swing at one end and lots of hanging flower baskets. Same interior layout with a living room at the front, dining room in the middle, master bedroom off the dining room, and kitchen in the back. I’d never been upstairs in Mrs. Gardner’s house, but I assumed it had three bedrooms and one full bath off a central hall. It was definitely more space than I needed, but Mack knew the realtor was looking to get someone in there who might be able to help get it in shape for selling in the spring. It probably needed way more money put into it—the kitchen was ugly and ancient—but I was making progress with the rest of the house, at least cosmetically.

  So far I’d painted the entire exterior, landscaped the front and back yard, and replaced or repaired woodwork and tile grout on the interior. The roof and electrical were beyond my skill set, but the realtor said he’d hire someone for those things. I planned to spend the winter repainting the interior rooms and refinishing floors.

  I let myself in the front door and headed through the living room, which held exactly two things—a couch, which I’d bought along with a mattress at some furniture liquidation place, and a flat screen TV, the only thing I took from the house Brie and I’d shared.

  I was living out of a duffle bag and sleeping on a mattress on the floor, which was pretty pathetic at age thirty-four, but I still wasn’t sure where I was going to end up ultimately, so I didn’t see the point in buying a bunch of furniture.

  Sometimes I wasn’t sure I saw the point in much of anything.

  In the kitchen, I set the plate on the counter, reached beneath the foil for another cookie, and shoved it in my mouth before deciding maybe I’d take a run before eating dinner, then lift a little. Mack had given me an old bench of his and a few weights, which I kept in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

  I changed into running clothes, traded my work boots for Nikes, and scarfed one last cookie before taking off. Starting off at an easy jog down the sleepy small-town road I lived on, I thought for a moment about all the things I’d missed like crazy while I’d been deployed.

  Sweets. Steak. Snow. Sex. Things that at one point had made me glad to be alive. Things that had kept me going through horrible loss and bone-crushing exhaustion and not knowing if the next step I took would be my last
.

  When my first four years were up, I’d gone home and reveled in the novelty of all of it—the home-cooked meals, the sting of winter in my lungs, the softness of a woman’s body beneath mine—for about a week.

  After that … nothing. Life was flat. Colorless. Quiet.

  I missed the adrenaline. The life-or-death rush. The danger.

  I missed the powerful sense of responsibility I felt for my buddies and the knowledge they had my back.

  I missed the certainty in knowing who I was—a United States Marine—and what I was supposed to do—serve and protect.

  It’s not that I didn’t attempt normalcy. I did.

  I got a job. I married a girl. I bought a house. But I still didn’t feel alive.

  So I went back.

  As I pumped my legs harder, lengthening my strides and picking up the pace, I wondered how different my life would have been if I’d just stayed home and worked harder to fit in. Would I be a different person? Would my marriage have survived? Would I be a father? Would Sunday afternoons be spent grilling burgers, drinking a beer with the neighbors, watching our kids run through the sprinklers?

  I tried to imagine it but couldn’t. That life wasn’t meant for someone like me, someone who’d made the choices I’d made, done the things I’d done.

  The second time I came home, my life fell apart fast.

  Over and over again I’d apologized to Brie, who’d felt abandoned when I re-enlisted, betrayed when I returned a different man, and angry at my inability to “get over it and move on.”

  I took the blame, stood there silently while she screamed at me to fucking say something when she told me she was in love with someone else and wanted a divorce.

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked.

  “How you feel!” she yelled. “I just fucking told you I’ve been cheating on you for the last year and a half and you’re standing there like it doesn’t even matter to you!”