Sunday Kind of Love (10 page)

“I couldn't take being cooped up in the house anymore,” she answered. “I needed to get some fresh air and stretch my legs.”

“So you came to see me,” her father declared proudly.

“Of course,” Gwen said with a laugh. She looked around the bakery. “Everything's just the way I remember it.”

“I'm thinkin' of makin' some changes. Maybe add a few—” he began, but abruptly stopped as he glanced at the clock on the wall. “Shoot! I've got somethin' in the oven and don't want it to burn. I'll be right back.”

Once her father had left, Gwen bent down in front of the nearest display case for a closer look. Cookies were lined up in rows: chocolate chip, oatmeal, and peanut butter. Sugar doughnuts, cream-filled éclairs, and long johns topped with a maple glaze were arranged on another shelf. She knew from experience that everything tasted as good as it looked. But then, when Gwen glanced at the adjacent case, she frowned; it held a two-tiered wedding cake complete with a miniature bride and groom perched on top, decorated with flowers made of frosting.

Gwen couldn't help but think of Kent.

If she accepted his proposal, in a matter of months she would be wearing a white wedding dress, while he'd don a tuxedo. They would look just like the plastic couple before her. There'd be a big party in celebration, and there would undoubtedly be cake, although Gwen suspected that Kent would probably want something fancier than one of her father's creations.

Once again, she was filled with doubt. Should she marry him?

“Fresh out of the oven,” Warren announced, interrupting her troubling thoughts. In his hand was something golden, flaky, and steaming.

Gwen took it and popped it in her mouth. Instantly, she was flooded with amazing flavors. It was so delicious that she closed her eyes, enjoying it.

“I love it!” she gushed with a smile. “This is going to sell like crazy.”

“I hope so,” her father answered.

“While I'm more than happy to eat such a delicious treat, I have to admit that I stopped by for a reason,” Gwen explained. “I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

“Name it, sweetie.”

“I was wondering if I could borrow the car tomorrow.”

“Got something planned?”

“I thought I'd go for a drive, maybe head out of town a ways,” she answered, the half-truth uncomfortable. “Go visit some people…”

Convinced that her father would see through her weak attempt at concealing her true intentions, that he'd know she wanted to talk to Hank, Gwen steeled herself for another outburst.

Instead, he said, “Sounds good to me. If you're out and about, you really oughta go see Sandy. You can tell her all 'bout the weddin'.”

Even as Gwen struggled to smile, she was filled with guilt for misleading her father. She considered coming clean and telling him the truth, explaining that despite his contempt for Hank, she needed to thank him for saving her.

Before she could, Warren added, “Just be careful. You never know if that damned Hank Ellis is out on the roads. He's already bothered you once, which is too often in my book.”

“Dad, that isn't—”

But as she started to defend Hank, Gwen was interrupted by a woman entering the bakery.

“Mrs. Spencer!” Warren welcomed his customer. “I made more of those dinner rolls you liked so much. Let me get you some.”

Listening to her father, Gwen knew that her intuition had been right; it would've been a huge mistake to tell him the truth. He couldn't understand why she needed to do this, so it would have to stay a secret. Tomorrow, she would drive to Hank's house and thank him, and no one in her family would be any the wiser.

And maybe then I can start figuring out what I'm going to do about Kent…

H
ANK CARRIED THE CHAIR
out of the workshop and placed it in the back of his truck, then he leaped up into the bed, securing it in place with rope. Though he doubted it would shift during the drive, he still draped wool blankets over the chair for added protection. After all the work he'd put into it, it'd be a hell of a shame if it got nicked now. He straightened up and looked to the sky. The early-afternoon sun was hot, so Hank pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Damn it!” he swore with a wince. Lost in thought, he'd absent-mindedly touched his painful bruise.

He hopped down out of the truck and looked at his reflection in its side mirror. The skin around his cheekbone was mottled an ugly mix of purple and brown where Jed Ringer had landed a clean blow. While Hank had managed a few punches of his own, bruising his knuckles and hopefully making the loudmouth's mug even uglier, it was little consolation.

You're a damn fool for letting him get to you…

The whole drive home, Skip had talked a mile a minute, laughing about what had happened. He reveled in their winning the game and even seemed to have enjoyed the brawl, bloody nose and all. Hank had let him talk, nodding occasionally, but on the inside he had been embarrassed. By reacting the way he had, letting his fists do the talking, he'd reinforced the stereotype people had about him. If anything, he'd made things worse.

Hank Ellis is a hothead.

Acting like that, it's no wonder he got his brother killed.

It's best to stay far away from him.

Once Skip left, Hank had gone to his workshop and tried to use his tools to take his mind off his troubles. Early this morning, before the sun had begun coloring the horizon, he'd finished the chair. A couple of hours later, he had telephoned the customer and made plans to drop it off in the afternoon.

Hank stretched in the sun. Usually work gave him peace of mind, but last night, even as he chiseled in the final details on the chair's headpiece, a persistent thought kept intruding. No matter how hard he tried pushing it away, he hadn't succeeded for long.

He could not stop thinking about Gwen Foster.

Maybe it was because he'd talked about her with Skip. Maybe it was because every time he closed his eyes, he saw her lying on the bank of the Sawyer, lit by the moon, her hair wet against her face. Or maybe it was because rescuing her had been the first good thing he'd done in a long time. Whatever the reason, he couldn't help but wonder what Gwen would've thought of his fight with Jed. Sadly, he suspected he knew the answer.

She'd think her father was right about me. She'd think I was dangerous, someone to stay
far
away from.

Hank shook his head. He was a fool for thinking about her. It was pointless anyway. He was never going to see Gwen Foster again.

Back in his workshop, Hank looked at the clock. He still had an hour before he needed to be in Mansfield to deliver the chair. If he left now, he'd arrive too early, so instead he flipped on the radio, grabbed his broom, and started sweeping up wood shavings, bent nails, and other debris from his work. He was humming along to “You Belong to Me” by Jo Stafford when he heard tires crunch the gravel of his drive.

Hank turned, a curious look on his face. He wasn't expecting anyone. Skip hadn't said anything about coming over and his father was still inside, sleeping off the previous night's drinking.

So who was it?

Outside, he didn't recognize the car, a black sedan, and couldn't see in the windshield because of the sun's glare. So when the door opened and the driver stepped out, Hank was stunned to see that it was the very person he couldn't stop thinking about.

It was Gwen.

This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy…

Half a mile from Hank Ellis's home, Gwen considered turning around. It was the same thought she'd had five minutes earlier, and five minutes before that, all the way back to when she'd turned the key in the ignition of her parents' car. She felt nervous, as if she was doing something she shouldn't, and was afraid of getting caught. She supposed that it had a lot to do with the fact that she'd outright lied to her father about why she wanted to borrow the car. It made her feel guilty.

To make matters worse, Kent still hadn't called. Last night, sitting in the living room while her mother read and her father listened to a radio program, Gwen had had to fight the urge to pace the floor. She looked at the telephone intently, as if she was willing it to ring. So much between them remained unresolved that it was becoming a burdensome weight to bear. She'd tried to smile, to act as if it hadn't bothered her, but from the looks Meredith kept giving her, she supposed she hadn't done a very good job of it. The more time that had passed, the angrier Gwen had grown, mostly with herself, but also at Kent. He had put her into a position where she'd lied to her parents. Because of him, she had to pretend everything was fine, that she was excited to get married. It frustrated her that while Kent seemed to have no trouble forgetting about her, she couldn't return his disinterest.

Gwen rounded a curve and saw Hank's place ahead, right where Sandy had said it would be. She lifted her foot off the gas pedal and the car began to slow, though she wondered if she shouldn't put it back and zoom on down the road.

The only thing crazier than coming all the way out here would be to drive past without stopping.

She had to speak with Hank, to thank him for what he'd done. It wouldn't take long, a few minutes at most. Then she could get back to trying to make sense of her frustrating, confusing life.

Gwen turned down the gravel drive, passed the main house, and stopped in front of an old truck. There was another building at the rear of the property. She squinted through the windshield and saw a man standing between a pair of open doors, watching her, but the afternoon sun was too bright for her to see his face clearly. With her heart speeding, Gwen took a deep breath and got out of the car.

She walked toward the man as he remained in the doorway, the sun hot on her skin, her blouse sticking to her back with sweat, and offered him a smile. It wasn't returned. She felt reasonably sure that she knew who he was, but when she said his name, it came out sounding like a question. “Hank?”

“Afternoon, Gwen,” he answered, friendly enough.

Hank Ellis wasn't what Gwen had expected. Not at all. Where Pete had been tall and thin, handsome enough in a lanky sort of way, Hank was broad across the shoulders and chest, his muscular arms obvious in his short-sleeved shirt. While she'd always thought of Pete as a boy, his older brother's features were undoubtedly those of a man: piercing blue eyes regarded her closely, so intent that she couldn't look away; his sandy-blond hair was a bit long and stubble peppered his cheeks; his voice, deep yet unthreatening, had caught her off guard. Even the bruising on his cheek, likely the result of his daring plunge into the Sawyer, made him look rugged, as if he was a hero in some Hollywood picture. Hank was rough around the edges, even a bit unkempt, and nothing like Kent, but there was no denying that she found him handsome. For as quick as her heart had pounded before, it now beat even faster.

“I…I hope you don't mind my dropping by like this,” Gwen began, trying to keep her voice steady and her intrigue in him hidden.

He answered with a short shake of his head.

All morning Gwen had practiced the things she'd wanted to say, wondering just how you thanked someone for saving your life, but now, standing in front of him, looking into Hank's eyes, she struggled to find the words.

Aware of the silence growing between them, Gwen willed herself to speak, hesitantly at first, but then with more confidence. “I wanted to thank you,” she told him. “You saved my life.”

“I did what had to be done,” he answered simply.

“But not everyone would have,” Gwen said. “Diving into the Sawyer River isn't the smartest thing on the best of days. With the water as high as it was, you could've drowned right along with me.”

Hank nodded once, looking like he wasn't too comfortable with her praise. “I'm just glad you're all right.”

“I also wanted to apologize for the way my father treated you,” she told him, the words sincere. “He was wrong to speak to you the way he did.”

“It didn't bother me any,” Hank said, but he frowned slightly, making Gwen wonder if he wasn't being a bit dishonest with her.

“He should've thanked you from the bottom of his heart.”

“Your father's no different from everyone else in town. When they look at me, all they see is the guy who killed his brother. Even if I
had
died pulling you out of the river, it wouldn't have changed a thing. I'll always be the bad guy.”

“Not to me, you aren't,” she disagreed defiantly, unable to believe that
anyone
wouldn't think him a hero.

Surprisingly, her declaration seemed to break through Hank's cool exterior. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth and his eyes softened as he looked at her.

Another silence settled over them, but Gwen didn't find this one uncomfortable. Truth was, Hank Ellis was becoming more and more interesting with time. She was convinced that there was more to him than he was letting on. It was like he was a locked door; all she needed to do was find the right key. The writer in her wanted to know his story, all of it, the good and the bad.

For the first time since she'd arrived, Hank's eyes left her. Gwen followed his gaze and saw that he was looking at a clock on the wall.

“Are you sure I'm not interrupting?” she asked.

Hank shook his head. “You're fine. I've got something I need to drop off in Mansfield, but I don't have to leave just yet.”

“All the way in Mansfield?”

He nodded over her shoulder at the truck. “I just finished carving a chair for a customer and made plans to drop it off this afternoon.”

Gwen looked around, only now taking in her surroundings. They stood in the doorway of a large workroom full of tables; many of them were littered with tools, pieces of wood, paintbrushes, and projects in various stages of completion. A pile of wood shavings had been swept up near their feet. Gwen was surprised to be noticing it only now; it made her realize that she had been so intent on Hank, so captivated by his voice and very presence, that she'd been oblivious to everything else around her.

“Is this where you work?”

“Most days, and more nights than I'd like,” he said.

A memory stirred inside Gwen of a long-ago fair in Buckton's city park. “Wasn't your father a woodcarver, too?”

Hank stiffened. He bit the inside of his lip and didn't immediately answer. “You're right. He was,” he finally said, “but it's been a while since he's picked up his tools. Fortunately, I was at his elbow for as long as I can remember, watching, learning how to carve, so I've been able to follow along after him.”

“You were his apprentice?” Gwen asked, thinking about all the tricks of the trade she'd learned from years spent at her father's bakery.

“Something like that.”

“Are you as good as he was?”

He chuckled, a warm, easy sound. “In some ways, sure, I'd say I'm his equal, but in others I still have work to do.”

Gwen looked back at Hank's truck. “You can make a chair?”

“Indeed, I can.”

“That sounds plenty hard to me.”

“Putting it together was easy. The tough part is carving in the details on the headpiece. One mistake and you'll likely have to start over.”

Curiosity got the better of Gwen. “Can I see it?” she asked.

“Sure,” Hank replied.

He led the way to the truck and pulled a pair of wool blankets off the chair. Its finish gleamed in the sunlight. Gwen leaned close, marveling at what Hank had done. The chair's back was practically alive in flowered vines, twisting this way and that, each end culminating in a bloom. Looking at his craftsmanship, she was struck by the realization that it was a work of art.

“It's beautiful,” she said a little breathlessly.

Her compliment changed him. He smiled at her, showing just a hint of teeth, and Gwen saw shallow dimples beneath his whiskers. Staring at Hank, his hair glowing as brightly as the chair in the afternoon sun, Gwen felt herself being taken in by him, unable to look away even if she'd wanted to, which she most certainly did not. At that moment, she found him so good-looking that it almost seemed dangerous.

“Thank you,” Hank said, the sound of his voice breaking the powerful spell he'd cast on her.

Gwen looked back at the chair, her thoughts racing. She could feel her heart begin to beat faster and faster. She wondered if she might be blushing, then silently prayed that she wasn't.

“Would you like to come with me?”

She turned, surprised. “Come with you where?”

“To Mansfield,” Hank answered, leaning leisurely against the side of the truck, his hand only inches from hers. “I just thought that if there wasn't somewhere else you needed to be, you might like to ride along. It won't take too long, a couple of hours.” He paused. “But if you've got other plans, then—”

“I'd love to come,” Gwen said quickly, cutting him off. Her boldness surprised no one more than herself.

“All right, then,” Hank said, clearly pleased that she'd accepted. “Let me grab a couple of things and then we can go.”

Gwen watched him return to the workshop, disappearing when he passed from sunlight to shadow, leaving her alone with her turbulent thoughts.

What am I doing?! I came here to thank him for saving my life and now I'm going with him all the way to Mansfield!

The more Gwen considered it, the more conflicted she became. On the one hand, she was shocked that she'd agreed to be alone with him, more or less a complete stranger. She was already supposed to be heading for home. But she didn't want to leave his company, not yet. Maybe she would feel differently after their trip. Maybe she'd even come to regret wasting the time. Maybe she was getting nervous and excited for nothing. But there was no way to know for certain unless she went. Still, in the back of her head, she heard a familiar refrain, one she'd been thinking on the drive over.