Read the book: «Mending Her Heart»

Charley slid into his seat at the table and folded his hands. “Can I say grace?”

“You bet. Give it your best shot, buddy,” Will said.

Catherine listened in amazement as the child began to pray.

“Dear God, thanks for fish, especially salmon the way Uncle Will cooks it, and for cabbage even though it’s gross. And thank you for Jesus and my mom and my uncle and for Miss Catherine who’s come to help us fix up Hope House. And take care of Gram. You’re lucky you’ve got her now. Amen.”

Catherine didn’t even realize there were tears streaming down her face until Will touched a napkin to one cheek.

“He affects me that way, too, sometimes,” Will said so softly that Charley, who was busy eating, didn’t hear.

Everything Charley and Will did seemed to touch Catherine to her core. She looked down at the napkin in her lap. She didn’t want Will to see her face. She was a hairbreadth away from falling for these two charmers, and what a complication that would be.

JUDY BAER

Angel Award-winning author and two-time RITA^® Award finalist Judy Baer has written more than seventy books in the past twenty years. A native of North Dakota and graduate of Concordia College in Minnesota, she currently lives near Minneapolis. In addition to writing, Judy works as a personal life coach and writing coach. Judy speaks in churches, libraries, women’s groups and at writers’ conferences across the country. She enjoys time with her husband, two daughters, three stepchildren and the growing number of spouses, pets and babies they bring home. Judy, who once raised buffalo, now owns horses. She recently completed her master’s degree and accepted a position as adjunct faculty at St. Mary’s University, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Readers are invited to visit her website at www.judykbaer.com.

Mending Her Heart
Judy Baer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Weeping may tarry for the night,

but joy comes in the morning.

—Psalm 30:5

For my mom. I love you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Goodbye, Gram. I love you.

Catherine Stanhope turned away from the grave site, her heart aching, unable to watch the ornate silver casket being lowered into the ground. Now the last living Stanhope, she felt truly alone.

As she turned away, consumed with grief and loneliness, she stumbled on a patch of rough ground and pitched forward. She would have fallen flat on her face but for a pair of strong hands that quickly circled her waist.

“Are you okay?” Will Tanner studied her with dark, compassionate eyes.

“Fine, considering the circumstances.” Her voice was faint and monotone.

She stared down at her feet as if they belonged to someone else. She’d worn ridiculously high heels to the funeral even though she knew full well that she’d have to make her way across the cemetery to the elaborate Stanhope family headstone that towered over the rest of the graveyard’s modest rows of tombstones. She wasn’t thinking ahead. In fact, she wasn’t thinking at all. The sudden death of her grandmother Abigail had come as such a shock that she was still reeling.

Instead of letting the man go, Catherine gripped his arm even tighter to balance herself, kicked off her shoes, picked them up and sighed. “Sorry. Thank you.” She smiled imperceptibly. “Gram never liked high heels. She always told me I’d break an ankle in these things some day. I certainly don’t want it to be today.” Her grandmother had always been practical and no-nonsense.

“That sounds just like Abigail,” he agreed pleasantly.

Catherine looked at him curiously, studying the fine planes of his face and thick, expressive brows. Since she’d arrived in Pleasant, Minnesota, she’d been inundated with the funeral details that left her sad and exhausted. She hadn’t made the connection between Mr. Will Tanner and her grandmother until meeting him in the mourners’ gathering room before the service. “How long did you say you’ve been working for my grandmother?”

“Nearly six months.”

An unexpected wave of envy swept over her. Tanner, a virtual stranger, had spent more time with her grandmother than she had in recent weeks.

She was responsible, she knew. Gram had called her a dozen times asking when she was going to take time away from work to come home for a visit.

She’d always given the same answer. “I can’t get away, Gram. I have trial dates set and a desk full of cases to address. Why don’t you come to Minneapolis? We’ll go out for dinner every night. You’ll be able to browse all the bookstores and libraries you love. It would be good for you to get away, too, you know….”

Gram had come, of course, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing matched a visit with Abigail Stanhope at Stanhope House—or Hope House, as the locals called it. Being surrounded by family art, heirlooms and history or sitting on the back porch sipping tea with the woman who’d raised her, were opportunities Catherine had taken for granted until it was too late. The regret tasted bitter in her mouth. And it only deepened the grief that already overwhelmed her. All she could do was steel herself against the pain.

“Shall we go to Hope House, dear?” Emma Lane, her grandmother’s best friend, was waiting for them by the last few of the parked cars. “Are you ready?”

Catherine had chosen to stay with Emma the past two nights rather than spend them alone at Hope House.

“People are coming by. The church ladies are serving lunch at the house. Your aunt Ellen and uncle Max went ahead to welcome the guests.”

Catherine pressed her thumb and forefinger together over the bridge of her nose to ward off the headache that was lurking behind her eyes. “Yes…but I’d like a few minutes to myself first.”

Emma, with whom Catherine had ridden from the church, looked concerned. “Of course. I’m sure they’ll realize they need to plug in the coffeemaker….”

“You can go back to Hope House and do what needs to be done, Emma. I’ll drive her back to the house,” Tanner offered. “That will give Catherine as much time as she needs.”

Catherine shot him a grateful glance. The past few hours had been a maelstrom of emotion. Add to that the traumatic and stressful days she’d had at work preceding her grandmother’s passing and Catherine felt emotionally battered and utterly weary. Right now ten minutes alone was like hitting the mother lode.

After Emma had gone, Catherine turned to Will. “Thank you for giving me a few minutes to collect myself. I really haven’t had time to process any of this.” It was as if she’d been walking in a dream…no, a nightmare…since Emma called. She flashed back to three days earlier.

“Catherine? This is Emma Lane.” Catherine had grown up eating gingersnaps out of Emma’s fat ceramic cookie jar, a rotund brown chicken with a red comb and orange beak, and playing in the gazebo in the Lanes’ backyard.

Emma sounded as if she’d been crying. “I hate to disturb you so early in the morning, dear, but your grandmother has suffered a stroke. She called me last night to say she wasn’t feeling well and was going to bed early. I can’t say why, but I woke up at 5 a.m. with Abigail on my mind. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t shake the urge to get up and go to her place to check on her.”

Catherine felt her stomach plunge as if she were barreling downward on an out-of-control roller-coaster ride.

“It was as if God Himself prodded me to get up, so I did. I have a key to the house because we occasionally check on each other’s plants and furnaces.” Emma’s voice quavered. “I found Abigail unconscious on the floor between the bed and the bathroom.”

“No…” The wail Catherine heard was her own.

Emma paused to regain her composure. “I called 9-1-1 and went with her to the hospital. She’s gone, Catherine. She never woke up.”

Catherine stumbled again, the pain in her heart threatening to bring her to her knees.

Tanner took her arm. Catherine stiffened but didn’t withdraw as he steered her toward a nearby garden bench, one of several scattered throughout the cemetery. A small bronze plaque on the concrete base said, “Donated by the Stanhope Family, 1996. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God: trust also in Me. In My Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with Me that you may also be where I am. John 14:1-3.”

She sank onto it gratefully. “I’m sorry I’m holding you up. It’s very kind of you to stay with me.”

“I’m happy to do it. Anything for Abigail and her family.”

As she studied him from her perch on the iron frame, he rested one hip on the arm of the bench, crossed his arms over his chest and smiled slightly. “I can see you are full of questions about me.”

She was full of questions, but she didn’t realize it was quite so visible. Gram had told her she’d found a caretaker and groundskeeper for Hope House. That had been a great relief to Catherine. Hope House was far too big a project for an elderly woman alone. But Gram hadn’t said that the hired man looked like an Adonis—tall, strong, athletic, dark-haired and staggeringly handsome. That, no doubt, she’d wanted Catherine to see for herself. Gram enjoyed surprises and he was certainly one.

A rabbit hopped in front of the bench and paused to stare at them with a curious eye. Neither of them moved until the rabbit grew bored with them and bounded off.

It was soothing to sit here beneath the canopy of trees and be with someone who demanded nothing of her.

Ironic, she thought, that even now, despite the loss of her beloved gram, she felt more like herself than she had back in Minneapolis in the vortex of complex legal issues that had been her life. Here, at least, she knew that Gram was now where she’d longed to be for years, ever since Catherine’s grandfather Charles had died. Gram looked forward to heaven the way some people look forward to monetary reward or success. Heaven, for Gram, was the priceless inheritance and ultimate success.

A finger of sadness moved through her gut as her thoughts hopscotched over the events of the past few weeks. Now she would never get the chance to tell Gram that she hadn’t lost her mind by quitting her lucrative and prestigious job at the law firm. She longed to tell her grandmother why she’d so suddenly left her job, put her home on the market and decided to come home to Pleasant to regroup and consider her options. There was the offer to teach at the law school, of course, which was practically a done deal. She had only to sign on the dotted line. Then a former client now in state government had dangled a political-appointment carrot in front of her, and a friend in Maine had called seeking her expertise. She’d been counting on Gram to affirm her next move, whatever it might be.

Abigail Stanhope had been her wisest champion and most loyal confidant since the day Catherine had arrived as an orphaned little girl on Abigail’s doorstep. The idea of life without her grandmother was impossible to comprehend.

Of course, Catherine thought bitterly, this season in her life seemed to be one of relinquishing things—job, home, and now…

“Catherine?”

She started at the sound of Will Tanner’s concerned voice and brushed a hand across her eyes to push her long blond hair away from her face. “Sorry. I drifted off, didn’t I? Shall we head back to your car?”

“Have you had enough time?” His voice was so gentle that it made her want to cry. His chiseled features were inked with concern.

“I don’t think there is enough time,” she said with a weak smile.

He took her elbow and guided her toward his vehicle. Unconsciously she moved closer to him, unexpectedly hungry for human warmth and tenderness.

“I’ll bet I know where Abigail went first when she got to heaven.” His voice softened into something that sounded both sad and amused.

“I don’t understand.”

“She told me that the first thing she wanted to do when she got to heaven was to go to the information booth and ask all the questions she’d been saving up. Why God made wood ticks, for example.”

Catherine felt a bubble of laughter well in her chest. “That sounds just like Gram. Did the two of you talk about those things a lot?”

He paused before answering, as if carefully considering his choice of words. “Your grandmother introduced me to God. Most of our conversations were either about faith or the house. Those were her favorite topics.”

“I see.” She was taken aback by the admission. Gram and Mr. Tanner had shared a very personal and meaningful experience, then. This employee-employer relationship ran much deeper than she’d first assumed.

It shouldn’t have surprised her, really, knowing Gram. She ran everything in her life through the filter of God. What would He think? Want? Encourage? That’s how she lived her life. Gram never cared what other people thought. If God was good with something, that was all she wanted.

“Abigail also told me that you recently quit your job,” he added casually.

“She did?” Catherine didn’t know quite what to make of the fact that Gram had told him about her life.

He smiled again, wistful this time. “We spent a lot of time drinking coffee at her kitchen table. I would remind her we needed to be working, but she would insist that civilized people took regular breaks.” He chuckled a little. “She made me very civilized.”

That, Catherine knew, was exactly how Gram functioned. She should have been the one spending these last days with Gram, not some stranger. It was her own fault. She was the one who’d put off coming home.

“If only I’d come home a few days earlier! I was almost ready to leave the Cities when Emma called. I was able to pull on clothes, throw already-packed suitcases into my car and be on the road in less than thirty minutes.”

“So you’d been planning to come to Pleasant anyway?”

It was what she’d always done whenever she needed to recharge. She’d already stored her personal belongings in a storage space and arranged for a Realtor to begin showing her house once she vacated it. There was nothing to stop her from leaving the city for as long as she wanted.

“Yes.” She’d assumed there would be a time when she and Gram could curl up in massive wingback chairs, sip peppermint tea and discuss the twists and turns her life had taken, as they had done so many times over the years. Then Gram would pray for her. That was what Catherine found herself most hungry for right now. She closed her eyes and sighed.

Will studied Catherine Stanhope intently. He hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful.

Abigail had warned him that her granddaughter was easy on the eyes. He just hadn’t known how easy. Will immediately chastised himself for being so crass at a time like this, but he knew if Abigail were here she would have been tickled by his surprise. “See? I told you!” she would have chortled gleefully.

But she was gone and her granddaughter felt frail and fragile against his side as they walked slowly to his pickup truck. Her long honey-gold hair tumbled over his arm in a glistening wave and her profile, when he glanced at her, seemed carved from porcelain, smooth and pale. Long black lashes fanned over her cheeks and tears hung from them like dew.

He felt as if he’d been punched in the belly with a battering ram at the idea of losing Abigail. What flood of emotions must this woman be feeling?

Although he knew better, Will had somehow assumed that Abigail would be around forever; that her indomitable spirit would allow her to survive no matter what. They’d had dinner together just two nights before her death. While Will made ribs on the grill, Abigail had whipped up a batch of her special slaw. They’d finished with coffee and huge slices of coconut cake and watched the sun go down together. And now she was gone. He couldn’t get his head around it, at least not yet.

He’d been proud to say, “I work for Abigail Stanhope.” Present tense, he thought. That wasn’t right anymore. He’d worked for Abigail. Past tense.

If only there were something he could do for Abigail’s granddaughter to ease her pain, Will thought helplessly. The only thing he knew to do was to show her that Abigail’s wishes for the house were being carried out even after her death. Perhaps that would be a comfort to her, but now was not the time.

“This is your vehicle?” Catherine asked, forcing him to study the beat-up club-cab truck he used for construction jobs. It never occurred to him to back his sporty Camaro out of the garage anymore. Pleasant was a pickup truck kind of place and he liked it that way.

“Sorry.” He saw her distressed expression and, feeling a flicker of annoyance, opened the door and began to brush nails, paint-chip samples and bits of molding off the front seat. “I didn’t realize I’d be having a guest on the way home.” The only other person he’d ever apologized to for the state of his truck was his sister-in-law, Sheila. “I am a groundskeeper and carpenter, you know.”

“I’m sorry. That sounded snippy. I’ve been around too many people who think of cars as status symbols. Gram would have scolded me roundly for that.”

She looked embarrassed. Will appreciated that. Snobbish women like his sister-in-law turned him off. He didn’t want Catherine to be one of those because he was drawn to her, even under these difficult circumstances.

He helped her into the cab, pulled out the seat belt for her and then circled to the driver’s side of the truck. For some reason he felt as if his life had just become terribly complicated.

Chapter Two

Catherine didn’t speak as they drove through town but reclined against the seat back, vacantly watching buildings go by. Stanley’s Meat Market, Wilders’ drugstore with its original soda fountain and the Stop-In gas station. The doors were open on several of the rooms at the Flatley motel, being aired out for the next guests.

They pulled up to the front gate of the Stanhope mansion, an impressive three-story structure with wide porches, ornate gingerbread trim and white lace curtains blowing in the windows. There were cars everywhere, parked down both sides of the street and in neighboring driveways. More cars, it seemed to Will, than there were in the entire town of Pleasant. Abigail had been a well-loved woman.

The geraniums in the huge metal vases that flanked the stairway and the front door were a vibrant red. The variegated hostas Abigail loved so much marched, lush and beautiful, around the foundation of the house. Will had stripped and repainted every baluster with care and was pleased with the results. The porch railing looked brand-new. Abigail had loved it…. Will fought back the emotion swelling in his chest. At least she’d had the opportunity to enjoy it before she died.

As he helped Catherine out of the car, she looked at him again, with those sad gray-green eyes. When she grabbed his forearm to steady herself, Will felt an unexpected frisson of energy make its way up his arm. Was he feeling electricity between them?

You’re just plain stupid if that’s what you think. He was merely a convenient pillar to lean on. He could have been made of wood or plaster for all she cared. He felt closer to her than she to him only because Abigail had talked so much about her.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She tipped her head to look at him and he saw gratitude in her eyes.

Well, maybe she cared a little.

“I’m very sorry about your grandmother. She was one of a kind.”

Catherine smiled faintly. “She certainly was. I still can’t believe it’s true.” She looked at the massive home before her, its gleaming windows and glossy gray porch floor sparkling back at her. “Maybe once I’ve been inside I’ll realize she’s gone.”

I wouldn’t count on it, he thought grimly as he followed her into the house. This place was as alive with memories of Abigail as a house could possibly be.

Still carrying her shoes, Catherine stared up at the mansion that was her childhood home. This was where she belonged right now, she realized, as she was swept up in an overpowering sense of rightness, of home. This was the repository for her family’s history, this quaint step-back-in-time place. It was particularly true of her great-grandfather, Obadiah Elias Stanhope.

Obadiah had come from Illinois in the late 1800s and opened a small bank on Main Street. A savvy man who wasn’t afraid of either risk or criticism, Obadiah had, during the Great Depression, amassed a number of failing banks and invested prudently. Thus the Stanhope banking fortune was born and the Stanhope name embedded in the very fabric of the town. He’d built a mansion for his beloved wife and son and, eventually, daughter-in-law, Abigail. Now she, Obadiah’s great-granddaughter, was the only remaining Stanhope. What might Obadiah have expected of her? He was a man of grand ideas and splendid schemes. A weighty blanket of duty and obligation settled around her shoulders like a thick wool cape, unwieldy, confining and fraught with responsibility—the very things she’d tried to leave behind in her law practice.

She could see people milling around inside the house, holding coffee cups and plates of food. Mr. and Mrs. Flatley, owners of Pleasant’s only motel, were there, awkwardly balancing plates of food on their knees. Even the gentleman from Stop-In station was there, though Catherine knew he was relatively new to town. Others were on the wide expanse of porch, including Stanley Wilder and his wife, who ran the drugstore. In fact, everyone who’d ever lived in Pleasant seemed to be present. Aunt Ellen, her mother’s sister, was pouring coffee from a silver server and her uncle Max was handing around a tray of dainty sandwiches that the church ladies had provided. It was a party Abigail would have enjoyed.

“Ms. Stanhope?” A deep male voice rumbled near her ear.

A large, gray-haired man came into her line of vision. “I’m Dr. Benjamin Randall, Abigail’s physician. She was a wonderful woman, your grandmother, good to the hospital and very gracious to me. This is a great loss for everyone who knew her. My condolences.”

As the big man’s intent blue eyes bored into her, Catherine was suddenly overcome with a shortness of breath. She opened her mouth to respond, but when she took one step forward, it was as if she were being moved by puppet strings. Confusions overtook her. Then someone cut all the strings and Catherine slipped to the ground in a dead faint.

She awoke to the anxious faces of Will, Emma, Uncle Max, Aunt Ellen and several of her grandmother’s friends peering down at her as she lay on the lumpy horsehair couch Abigail had insisted was Obadiah’s favorite. There was worried muttering in the background.

“Sorry, I…I…” she began. Then a plastic dump truck landed on her chest. Following it was the face of a small boy with shaggy brown hair, deep brown eyes, round pink cheeks and a hopeful expression.

“My dump truck always made Grandma Abby feel better,” he said with sublime innocence. “You can play with it if you want.” Then he smiled at her, the sweet, trusting smile that children usually save for the people they love most.

The wall around her heart softened and she reached her hand out to the boy. Before she could speak, a familiar but frowning dark figure swooped down on the child and picked him up.

“This isn’t the time or place, little buddy,” Will Tanner said to the child. “It’s very nice of you to offer to share your dump truck, but I don’t think Ms. Stanhope is in the mood right now. Let’s get you a soda.”

“But Grandma Abby said if everyone would put their problems in my truck and send it to the dump, they’d all be happier,” the young voice piped. “Don’t you want that lady to be happy?” His words grew farther away as he was spirited into the kitchen. A hint of laughter spread through the room.

Emma, looking relieved that Catherine had stirred, helped her to her feet. “That’s Will Tanner’s nephew, Charley. He’s only eight and hasn’t quite grasped the fact that Abigail is gone. He was only trying to help.”

And he had, Catherine thought. He’d interjected some lightness into the dark moment. She was grateful for something tangible to do away with the disconnected feelings she was experiencing. The child was right, too. She’d love to send her current toxic troubles to some faraway place. He’d also reminded her that she did have control over how she responded to what was before her. She’d have to thank Charley later—and find out exactly why he was calling her grandmother “Grandma.”

She was not the only one in this room who was grieving. Besides, Abigail would have expected her to recognize that, Catherine reminded herself. Just because she was steeping in a brew of vulnerability and grief, she still had responsibilities. She had people to greet. What she couldn’t do for herself, she would do for her grandmother. That included being a gracious hostess for those who’d come to pay their respects.

She rose from the couch with a weak smile. She was accustomed to hiding her emotions from a jury. She could do it here, too. “No harm done. I haven’t eaten much today. I was just a little faint, that’s all.” She waved a hand toward the milling guests. “Please, keep visiting. Don’t worry about me. I want this to be a celebration of my grandmother’s life.”

Reluctantly at first, and then with more gusto, the guests began to talk among themselves, telling stories about Abigail and even erupting into laughter at the memories. Catherine made her way to the vast dining-room table where a buffet was set up and picked up a sandwich so she’d have something in her stomach. Then she moved from group to group accepting the sympathetic comments and gestures of affection the people of Pleasant had to offer.

“Catherine!” Mrs. Margolis, her third-grade teacher, grabbed her by the hand and embraced her in a hug that nearly suffocated her. The dear woman still wore White Shoulders perfume after all these years. Eddie Henke, the milkman, looked distraught. Abigail had befriended him many times and he wanted to tell Catherine about each of them.

One by one, people approached her to tell Catherine the ways that her grandmother had blessed them—making donations to the park fund, paying doctor bills, buying braces for a needy child. But as she moved toward a group of people from Gram’s church, she was brought up sharply. “Catherine, we have to talk.”

The tone of Aunt Ellen’s voice brought her to a halt. Automatically, Catherine steeled herself. She loved her aunt even though they rarely saw eye to eye. This was the one conversation Catherine had hoped to avoid today, but there was no way to stop the inevitable.

“So,” Ellen said, “I hear you left your job in Minneapolis.” Her face puckered as she said it, as if the words were distasteful. Ellen was pencil thin and dressed to the nines. Her hair, cut in an asymmetrical bob, looked like a piece of architecture. She was wide-eyed and unlined thanks to the nips and tucks she used to fend off old age. Unfortunately Ellen had also removed much of the personality from her own features. She was still beautiful, though, as had been Catherine’s mother, Emily.

Her mother’s sister was a force of nature, Catherine had learned long ago, accustomed to getting her own way and not a terribly gracious loser when foiled. The only person she’d ever seen stand up to Ellen and win was Abigail. It was back then that Catherine first understood the power of a mother lion fighting for her cub.

“That’s right. My plans are fluid for the time being. There’s no hurry for me to go back.” She chose not to mention the job offers she’d had. She didn’t want Ellen’s input right now, and because Catherine was leaning toward teaching, she would have the rest of the summer at Hope House. “I can stay in Pleasant as long as I need to.” Catherine could tell her aunt didn’t think that was fortunate at all.

“What about your home?”

“I put my condo on the market this week. No use doing things halfway.” She’d already emailed her housekeeper to store the few things that were left. Then she’d texted her Realtor to tell her the house would be ready to show next week. When she was ready to move on, there would be nothing tying her down.

“It sounds like you’re burning bridges. You’ve certainly made sure you can’t go back. What are you thinking, Catherine? Yours was a very prestigious job.”

“I suppose, if that sort of thing impresses you.” And that was just the sort of thing that did impress her aunt. Conrad, Connor & Cassidy—the Three C’s as the staff called them—had a highly regarded reputation. “To me it was just my work—family law.”

“But you held other people’s lives in your hands!” Ellen pointed out. “You had the ability to change their futures. That’s very important.”

Too important, sometimes, Catherine thought. She didn’t want to be responsible for the world. She didn’t want to be accountable for anything right now. She’d never been completely comfortable with courtroom drama. Nor did she want to carry the burdens of other people’s heartbreak on her shoulders. One of her last cases had proved to be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. A custody case, it had involved all the drama, intrigue and heartache of an afternoon soap opera—deception, trickery, deceit and revenge. Sadly, a small child had stood at the center of the swirling controversy. That was what had bothered Catherine most.