A Father for Zach

He shrugged. “I know about how much time I’ll need. The math after that is easy. And if I finish sooner, the cost will be less.” He named a dollar amount.

When she frowned, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look, if that’s too much, we can negotiate. And if you need a reference, the pastor at the church I attend can vouch for me. I’ve done a couple of jobs for him in the past three weeks.”

“It’s not the reference. It’s the bid. I probably shouldn’t say this, but—that’s on the low side for Nantucket. Prices here are high for everything.”

“It seems like a fair wage to me. And I don’t have a lot of expenses.”

“Well…if you’re sure. Can you start Monday?”

“Yes.” A surge of elation washed over him. He’d gotten a job! Maybe not much of one. But it was a start. And that’s all he needed right now. Just someone to give him a chance. To believe in him. To trust him.

Zach grinned up at him. “Maybe you can be my friend, Nathan.”

“Honey, his name is Mr. Clay,” Catherine corrected.

“Actually, Nathan is fine with me if it’s okay with you.” He managed to coax his tense lips into a smile. “I’m not much into formalities.”

He waited for her to reciprocate. Hoped she would. But she didn’t.

“If that’s what you prefer.” She moved away from the door, and Zach and Nathan exited. Once they were out, she locked it and tucked the key into the pocket of her capris. “I’m going to put my foot up again. We’ll see you Monday. Come on, Zach.”

She started to reach for his hand, but when he backed off, she let her arm drop to her side. Then she headed for the door that led into the main house, on the other side of the breezeway.

Zach’s farewell was much warmer and delivered with a megawatt smile. “Next time you come, I’ll show you the toy soldiers my grandma and grandpa sent me from Germany, okay?”

“That sounds great.”

Beaming, the youngster trotted off to follow his mother inside. A moment later, Nathan heard the distinctive sound of a lock sliding into place.

Retracing his steps down the gravel path in front of the house, he mounted his bike and set off for town, mulling over all he’d learned today—and wrestling with a new question.

Why had Catherine Walker moved far away from her home to start a new life in a rundown house on an island where everyone was a stranger?

As Nathan pedaled toward town, the answer eluded him. Yet one thing did become clear. While some of his questions about the beautiful violinist and her charming son had been answered today, a lot more had cropped up to take their place.

On the plus side, though, if all went well with the job he’d have ample opportunity to find some answers.

No. Scratch that. There was no if about it. Everything would go well. He was done messing up his life. He might not be able to delete the dark chapters, but he was determined to fill the ones yet to be written with light and grace.

And maybe, with God’s help, he could help a wary woman and a lonely little boy do the same.

Chapter Three

“My goodness! That’s amazing.”

At Edith’s comment, Nathan swiveled in his seat, paintbrush in hand. His landlady was staring at the canvas on the easel he’d set up in her garden, just outside his rental cottage. Her lips were slightly parted in astonishment, the chocolate-chip cookies and glass of milk she was holding apparently forgotten.

Feeling self-conscious, Nathan picked up a rag and wiped a smear of paint off his hand.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I don’t have any training.”

“Who cares? You have talent. That’s even better.” She moved closer to examine the painting of a little boy on a beach, his head tipped back to the sun, arms lifted, his face the embodiment of joy and innocence and optimism.

“I saw the pen-and-ink drawing you did of The Devon Rose as a wedding present for J.C. and Heather, but I had no idea you were such a talented painter.”

Although the praise pleased him, Nathan felt uncomfortable. He’d had so little affirmation in his life, he had no idea how to respond. “I’m not that good.”

“Baloney. I’m no artist, but I know a…”

The half-moon gate to Edith’s backyard opened, and her neighbor, Kate MacDonald Cole, walked through.

“Kate…come over here!” Edith called.

Much to Nathan’s dismay, the red-haired charter-boat captain joined the group. He wasn’t used to an audience.

“Look at this.” Edith gestured to his painting. “Is that amazing or what?”

The younger woman moved closer to peruse the work in progress. When at last she transferred her attention to him, Nathan could tell by her expression that she was impressed.

“I agree with Edith. Did you paint this here in the yard?”

“No. I did most of it at Dionis Beach over the past couple of weeks. But it only needs a few more touches, so I decided to finish it up here.”

“How long have you been painting?”

“Not long. I didn’t have access to any good painting supplies in…until I came here. I did pencil sketches and pen-and-ink drawings.”

Kate gave him a steady look. “You’re good enough to do this professionally.”

Heat suffused Nathan’s neck. “I don’t think so.”

“You listen to Kate, young man,” Edith chimed in. “Her late husband was a very successful artist. She knows talent when she sees it.”

“I’ll tell you what…” Kate propped her hands on her hips and surveyed the painting. “Why don’t I mention you to the owner of the gallery where Mac sold his work? She’s always on the prowl for up-and-coming artists. That way, if you decide you want to market your work, she’ll already know your name.”

“I don’t know…I’d planned to focus on carpentry and house-painting jobs for a while.” Those were the skills he’d learned in the prison program. The ones he was comfortable with. Painting had always been just a hobby, a way to pass the time. And to express the emotions locked in his heart.

“Why in the world would you want to paint a house when you can do this?” Edith gestured toward the canvas.

“To put food on the table?” Nathan flashed her a quick grin.

Kate chuckled. “Good point. It’s not easy to make a living as an artist. But you’ll never know if you don’t try, as Mac used to say. How about I mention your name, and you take it from there? Or not. It’s the Blue Water Gallery on India Street. The owner is Monica Stevens.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

“Are the girls ready, Edith?” Kate asked.

“Yes. They’re in the kitchen, taking the chocolate-chip cookies off the pans.”