Beside a Dreamswept Sea (6 page)

Sniffing, Mrs. Wiggins passed her list. “What the boy hasn’t done would be easier to tell you.”

Bryce took the paper, still looking at Miss Hattie. Blue floral dress. Soiled apron and pearls. She looked like the perfect grandmother, not like the type to join her best friend, Miss Millie, for weekly games of penny-ante poker. But, according to T.J. and Maggie, that was one of Miss Hattie’s favorite hobbies. Bryce liked that about her. To the bone, the woman seemed approachable.

The steam from the pot had tiny tendrils of snow-white hair coming free from her loose bun and it had turned her cheeks rosy. Why couldn’t Meriam have hired Miss Hattie to care for the kids? In three days, they’d come to adore her sunny smiles and tender ways. So had Bryce. Instead—he glanced back to Mrs. Wiggins, then winced at the stark contrast between the women—Meriam had opted for the battleaxe and, because she had, God spare them all, Bryce couldn’t fire the woman.

Mrs. Wiggins scraped her cup against its saucer. “After specific instructions not to go into Miss Hattie’s greenhouse, the boy not only went inside, but created havoc.”

Havoc could be anything from getting a blade of grass on the floor to destroying the place. Awaiting further explanation of this particular “havoc,” Bryce settled in and watched Miss Hattie fill a canister with flour. Little specks floated in the sunshine streaming in through the window above the sink.

She dusted her hands on her apron, pushed the flour back into the line of canisters on the white tile countertop, then turned to him, looking torn. “Honestly, it was just a minor accident.”

“Don’t protect him, Hattie. The boy rebels against discipline as it is.” Mrs. Wiggins frowned at Bryce. “He ruined several pots of soil and clippings from Hattie’s most prized Peace roses.”

Weary though the day had only just begun, Bryce looked at Miss Hattie. “I’m terribly sorry. Of course, I’ll replace them.”

“You can’t replace them.” Mrs. Wiggins frowned down her nose at him, her arms akimbo.

His coffee mug reflected in the lens of her glasses, and the refrigerator’s ice-maker plopped cubes into the empty bin. Bryce’s stomach plunged with the hollow sound. “I can’t?”

“They’re truly not Peace roses, but a new hybrid I’m toying with.” Miss Hattie tapped a metal stirring spoon against the edge of the pot. “It’s not important, dear.”

Geez, a new hybrid. Months, if not years, of work. And it wasn’t important? “Of course it’s important.”

She walked over to the big antique radio behind the rocker, near the fireplace. “I wouldn’t presume to intrude, Bryce, but Jeremy was only doing what he’d seen me do.”

A new hybrid. Bryce’s spirits sank even lower. He was a lousy parent. That’s all there was to it. He tried, and tried, but he was no good at it. Love just wasn’t . . . enough. “But if he’s damaged something irreplaceable—”

“Bosh.” Adjusting the wooden knob on the round dial, she cocked an ear. Static gave way to big-band-era music. “Jeremy damaged his fingers more than anything else.”

“Excuse me?” Now Bryce was totally confused.

“Thorns,” she explained, her eyes twinkling. Walking back to the stove, she held up her hand, signaling. “Three Band-Aids’ worth.”

“Ouch.” Bryce bit a smile from his lips and lowered his gaze to the salt and pepper shakers atop the table. The angel had given him a way out of this situation. One that would satisfy the battleaxe.

He sipped from his burgundy marble coffee mug, then conjured up his best convince-the-jury voice. “Surely, Mrs. Wiggins, the pain and suffering in three Band-Aid bandages’ worth of thorn injuries is adequate punishment. Jeremy was trying to help—wasn’t he, Miss Hattie?”

“Oh my, of course, dear.” The coffee carafe in hand, she nodded firmly, then refilled Bryce’s mug with steaming coffee that smelled like a pint of heaven. “And he was only doing what he’d seen me do.”

“There you have it.” Bryce lifted his cup and imagined Meriam winking at him from the rocker. The cushion string had come untied and swept the floor on her forward rock. Irked that she would find this amusing, he blinked her fantasy image away. “I’d say we can consider the matter settled and forget about your resignation, Mrs. Wiggins. Don’t you agree?”

Her frown deepened, then faded. “Well, with three Band-Aids’ worth of injuries, I suppose I could reconsider. But just this once.”

Ah, finally. Peace in sight. “Thank you.”

She wadded up the remaining sheet of paper, obviously her resignation. The crunching sound eased the tension in him.

“Though I warn you, Mr. Richards, Jeremy is too willful to do himself a bit of good.” Her stiff collar jabbed into her neck. “I realize you feel I’m too strict with the children, but I would remind you that I’m only following Mrs. Richards’s—may she rest in peace—explicit instructions.”

How could he forget it? While crossing herself, the woman reminded him of that detail with every weekly resignation. But, the knots in his stomach subsided, she had withdrawn it—again—and thankful for that, he straightened his tie. His gold cuff link caught the light from the overhead fixture and winked over his starched cuff. “I’ve never once believed you’ve had anything but the children’s best interests at heart, Mrs. Wiggins. Nor would my wife.”

“Bosh.”

Bryce reeled his gaze to Miss Hattie. She looked more surprised by her outburst than he felt. “Excuse me?”

“I, er, dropped the spoon.” She glanced at the ceiling, as if looking at someone else, shrugged lamely, then pasted on a bright smile. “Breakfast is ready.”

“I’ll get the children.” Mrs. Wiggins pushed back from the table. Her chair legs again scraped the floor, and grated at Bryce’s already raw nerves.

Someone knocked at the mud room door.

He glanced over. A wiry, bald man around Miss Hattie’s age, dressed in a postal uniform, stood there, nose pressed to the glass and waving. Vic Sampson. Sea Haven Village’s mail carrier, who should have retired, and should have confessed his love for Miss Hattie, years ago. He hadn’t done either and Bryce wondered why, just as he wondered why Miss Hattie didn’t seem to notice Vic’s obvious feelings for her.

“Ah, Vic’s early. They must have canceled the Grange dance last night.” Miss Hattie raised her voice. “Come on in.”

Mrs. Wiggins returned with the kids, and Bryce situated Lyssie in the old wooden high chair Miss Hattie’s friend Jimmy had brought down from the attic. “Where’s Jeremy?”

“He’ll be right along.” Miss Hattie pointed through the windows overlooking the garden. “He had an errand to run.”

Vic dropped his worn mailbag to the floor near the mud room door. “Morning,” he said, wiping his feet on the throw rug. “The new owners of Fisherman’s Co-op arrived, Miss Hattie. They’re already getting mail.”

“Really?” She hiked up her eyebrows.

“Yep.” Vic moved to the cabinet, grabbed a cup, then, filling it with coffee from the carafe, he looked at Bryce. “Former owners moved back to California to be with the wife’s family. Her dad got ill and her mother needed help caring for him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Maggie and T.J. spoke highly of the entire family.” Bryce inwardly cringed. If he got ill, who’d be there to care for his children?

Miss Hattie sighed. “They’ll be sorely missed in the village.”

“No doubt about it.” Vic nodded his agreement.

Bryce adjusted the high chair’s tray. It clicked into place. Lyssie grabbed his finger. He tweaked her nose.

“Fine family,” Vic agreed. “The new owners have a daughter about Suzie’s age. Name’s Francine but she calls herself Frankie. Bit of a tomboy, I’d say. She’s already been to the lighthouse, visiting with Hatch, and now she’s helping Jimmy Goodson work on Pastor Brown’s car. From all I’m hearing, Frankie’s mother’s pretty riled up about that.” Vic grinned at Hattie. “Reminds me of Lucy Baker, back when she was a kid. Her mama wanted her to be a perfect little lady, too.”

“I remember.” Miss Hattie smiled. “Lucy turned out fine, and I’m sure little Frankie will, too.”

“I don’t know, Miss Hattie. She’s something else.”

“And the perfect age to be a friend for Suzie.”

Vic nodded. “Yep, I reckon she is.” He looked at Suzie. “You’ll meet her at the festival.”

Suzie set a fork down beside each plate. “Is that how come there’s a tent in the church parking lot? ‘Cuz there’s going to be a festival?”

“Yep. We’re celebrating the warm weather.”

“It’s usually colder here in November, Suzie,” Bryce explained.

“Sure is.” Vic leaned back against the counter. “We ain’t had a November like this since ‘sixty-three.”

“Hmm,” Miss Hattie mused, taking more strips of crisp bacon from the frying pan and placing them on a layer of paper towels to drain. “I think ‘sixty-three was wet and cold, Vic. Maybe it was ‘sixty-four. And you might also recall we’re celebrating the founding of the village.” Hattie passed Suzie a fistful of spoons. “Would you put these out too, dear?”

“Might have been ‘sixty-four.” Vic grunted, ignoring Miss Hattie’s reminder, then cocked an ear to the radio’s bagpipe music and looked to Suzie. “Do you dance the Highland fling?”

Suzie placed a spoon beside Mrs. Wiggins’s plate, then gave Vic a solemn, negative nod. “I don’t know how.”

“Well, now.” He set down his cup then hitched up his pants. “We can’t have a festival without your knowing how to do the fling. I’m in serious need of a decent partner.” He guided Suzie by the shoulder to the gap between the cabinets and the center island stove. “Scoot over, Miss Hattie, or join in.”