Lost Cause

Shaking off the familiar depression, she began raking, working steadily until she’d bundled the soggy heaps into plastic bags and set them at the curb for pickup. Then she settled on a knee pad to pull weeds and toss them into a bucket she moved along with her. Finally, wishing she hadn’t put off the most hateful task till last, she dumped the weeds into her garbage can and set the bucket in her garage. Oh, boy. Time to tackle the problem of heaving the blasted mower into her trunk.

No, she could procrastinate for a second more—she’d left her trowel behind.

She was just crossing the lawn, tool in hand, when she heard the familiar sound of her neighbor’s pickup coming down the street and a hum that presaged the rising of his garage door. She turned her head to see his huge black pickup pulling into his driveway. Maybe, if she hurried, he wouldn’t notice her out here.

But she didn’t reach the cover of the garage in time.

The pickup door slammed and a moment later Tom approached across the narrow strip of lawn between their houses. Maybe a few years older than her, he was powerfully built but had a face that most would call homely. All she saw was the buzz-cut hair to match his lawn, the neat polo shirt and crisply creased slacks. Suzanne never, ever, met his eyes. Not quite. She’d discovered you could talk to someone and avoid their gaze without being obvious.

“Hi,” he said. “Putting in a day of work out here, I see.”

“I finally got the leaves raked up.”

“And you’re lucky. Today’s dry enough to mow.”

Suzanne sighed. He was the last person to whom she wanted to admit defeat. “No such luck. My nemesis won’t start. I was just going to load it up to take into the shop. For the third time this year.”

He was nice enough not to acknowledge the grimness in her tone. He rubbed his jaw. “One more mow should do it. Maybe two.”

“Yes.” Although he would probably manicure his all winter long, whenever the weather permitted.

“Tell you what,” he said. “If you can wait until Saturday, I’ll do it. That way you won’t have to worry about fixing your machine or replacing it until spring.”

She gaped at him. He was offering to mow her lawn? In the silence that stretched just a little too long, pride and desperation arm wrestled. Pride thumped to the table.

“I can’t let you… If you’d let me borrow your mower…”

He cleared his throat. “You seem to have trouble keeping engines running.”

In other words, he didn’t trust her with his gleaming, buff machine. She didn’t even blame him.

“Are you sure?”

“Nothing better to do.” When she bit her lip, he added, “Really. Happy to.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Thank you. I really want the yard to look nice.”

“Something special coming up?”

This was far and away the most personal conversation they’d had in five years of being next-door neighbors. She hesitated, but wasn’t sure why. He’d notice sooner or later if a little girl or boy was riding a bike down the sidewalk and going in and out of her house holding her hand.

“I’m trying to adopt.”

She felt him stare at her.

“A child,” she elaborated. “Not a baby. Maybe a six- or eight-year-old. The social worker from the agency is coming to do a home study. That’s why I need the house to look its best.”

“You don’t expect to remarry?”

Too personal. She took a step back. Way, wa-ay, too personal, given what he knew about her.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She inched back some more. “I can’t predict the future. But I hope you won’t mind having a child next door.”

She half expected him to say, Not if you keep the kid on your side of the property line.

Instead he shook his head. “Of course not.” He started to turn away, pausing. “I’ll be over Saturday to mow. The backyard, too?”

“If you don’t mind,” Suzanne said meekly.

“Not at all. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” He nodded and walked away, disappearing into his garage. A moment later, the door rolled down.

Bemused and grateful—and she did hate the grateful part—Suzanne put away her trowel and closed her own garage door.

GARY WATCHED the saw buzz through the dirty plaster of his cast. The leg that emerged was fish-belly white except for the angry red rash that had caused godawful itching. He leaned over and ran a hand down his shin.

“Well, it’s still there.”

The nurse or technician or whatever he was glanced up with a grin. “Seeing your toes didn’t convince you? What about the itch?”

“Could have been a phantom itch.” Gary flexed his foot and grimaced at the weakness in muscles he’d taken for granted. “Damn, I’m glad to get rid of that.”

“I haven’t seen a patient yet mourn the loss of a cast. Except for the teenagers who want to take it home because all their friends wrote on it.”

They both looked at Gary’s cast. Nobody had written on it.

“You’re welcome to chuck mine in the Dumpster.” He bent to put on the sock and boot he’d brought and then stood up, the slit leg of his jeans flapping. “Thanks,” he said with a nod, and walked out, trying not to limp.

Well, that had been a long three months. He’d been able to ride his bike, but he’d felt clumsy with the crutches, and the walking cast hadn’t been much better. At least the bruises that had decorated his body and face had finished blooming as colorfully as the desert after a rare cloudburst and finally faded from puce to yellow to skin color. His leather pants and jacket had protected him from being skinned alive, although they’d had to cut those off him and throw them away, another loss. Heck, he could even take a deep breath now without wanting to puke.

The doctor had talked about him going to physical therapy for several months, but Gary was thinking he’d find out what he had to do and carry it out on his own. He did most things on his own. He didn’t feel any need for a cheerleader.

Besides, he’d been considering a trip. What better time? While convalescing, he’d discovered he was curious about these sisters it seemed he had. One who was apparently going to be heartbroken because he hadn’t been real excited about some kind of reunion, and the other who’d wanted to chew a strip off him because he was being selfish enough to tell them to leave him alone.

Funny thing, since he’d gotten first the call from the P.I. and then the one from the sister—Carrie, he thought her name was—he’d found he did remember them. Or at least he thought he did. His memories from before he went to live with the Lindstroms in Bakersfield had a hazy, dreamlike quality.

He supposed he’d lived in a foster home, too; maybe a couple, for all he knew. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure which people were the family he’d lost and which were foster families. But sometimes he saw this woman, pretty and dark-haired, smiling as she bent to swoop him up. There’d been a girl, too, dark-haired and skinny. And a baby. He had this memory of crying in terror when someone tried to get him to go to bed in a room by himself. He wanted to stay with… He didn’t know. The baby sister? Well, that made sense. From what the P.I. and this Carrie had said, the two of them had been taken away and then adopted out, and the big sister got to stay with family.

And he was supposed to worry about hurting her. Gary grunted and shook his head.

But he guessed the fact that she’d gotten the breaks wasn’t her fault. And chasing memories that refused to be caught was getting old.

So he figured he’d take a ride cross-country to Washington state, maybe stay a couple of weeks, talk to this Carrie and…Suzanne? yeah, Suzanne, a few times, hear the real story.

Then figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life that would keep him from flying over the guardrail the next time, into the welcoming darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

REBECCA WILSON LOOKED forward to this home visit. She’d scheduled it almost three weeks ago, so she had reread the file this morning. Once again, she liked what it said about Suzanne Chauvin, especially her open attitude about what age or gender or race of child she’d take. So many people acted as if they were shopping for a garment of a particular color and style.