LITMIR.BIZ

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herb bread onto the metal cooling rack.

      The doorbell pealed, sending his shoulders to his ears. He made another mental note to install a different, less intrusive sounding one.

      Swallowing a sigh, he dropped the pot holder on the counter and wiped his hands on a dish towel before heading to the door.

      He’d left the front door open, allowing the afternoon breeze to sweep in through the screen door. He saw a woman’s silhouette on the porch. Too tall to be his sister. Besides, Chloe would knock once and come in without waiting for an invitation. Or come in through the back door.

      The woman turned, and his steps slowed. His new tenant stood on his welcome mat, her arms wrapped around a stack of books, and a wide smile emphasized those incredible cheekbones.

      “Can I help you?”

      She shifted the books and pulled a hand free to give him a little wave. “Hi, Alec...right?”

      He nodded, but didn’t say anything more.

      “Yeah, well, I checked my mail and found a letter addressed to you in my box.” She pulled an envelope off the stack of books and thrust it at him.

      He took it, caught the return address—Shelby Lake County Juvenile Detention Center—and his gut tightened. He shoved it in his back pocket, planning to add it to the rest later. “Thanks for dropping it off.”

      “You’re welcome.” She turned away from the door and started across the porch. Before he could close the door, she turned back to him. “You’re probably going to think I’m a nut or something, but I could smell something amazing coming from your place, so I wondered who did your cooking.” Her words tumbled over her lips so quickly and without a breath in between that Alec was thankful she didn’t just pass out from the effort.

      “My cooking?”

      She shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, something smells so great.”

      Was she wrangling for an invitation?

      “I do my own cooking.”

      “You made...” She paused, lifted her nose and inhaled deeply a moment before letting out the pent up breath slowly. A smile spread easily across her face as if it was something she did often. “It smells fantastic. What is it, by the way?”

      “Zuppa Toscana and Italian herb bread.”

      “Sounds like something you’d get in a restaurant. My friend Melissa is an amazing cook, too.” Sarah shifted the load in her arms again. Alec caught a glimpse of one of the titles and recognized it as a cookbook he had sitting on the shelf next to his fridge. “Would you like a job?”

      He scowled “A job? I have a job.”

      “Right.” She waved a hand as if dismissing her offer. “I’m sure you do. This isn’t even a regular job. Especially since you wouldn’t get paid.”

      “That sounds really appealing.” He folded his arms over his chest and pressed a shoulder against the doorjamb.

      She laughed, a sound that stirred a dormant feeling inside him. “Actually it’s a temporary volunteer position. I’m overseeing a new summer outreach program through the youth ministry at my church. We’re helping teenagers learn basic life skills such as cooking, cleaning, budgeting, etcetera. My program partner, who is this amazing chef, had emergency surgery last night, so now she won’t be able to do the cooking portion of the program. And, well, as you saw last night with the popcorn fiasco, I’m not exactly Martha Stewart.”

      Did this woman ever breathe between sentences? Another time, he might’ve found her rambling endearing...

      He straightened and reached for the stack of books. He turned them over to read the titles on the spines, then curled them into the crook of his arm. “Did Billy put you up to this?”

      “Who?” She shot him a questioning look.

      “Never mind. So let me see if I’m understanding you correctly... You’re looking for someone to help you teach teenagers to cook?”

      She rubbed her hands over the red creases the stack of books had left on her arms. “Yes, actually. Are you interested?”

      Placing his free hand in the front pocket of his jeans, he laughed and shook his head. “No. Not in a million years, sister.”

      “But—” Her brows knitted together.

      “I’m sorry.” He handed the cookbooks back to her. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take some food to my uncle.”

      Even though Gran would lecture him on his rudeness, he closed the door and walked back to the kitchen, not waiting to see if his babbling neighbor continued to stand on his front porch.

      The last thing in the world he wanted was to hang out with a bunch of teenagers. No, thank you. He wasn’t going down that road again.

      He flicked the heat off under the sputtering soup, stirred it a final time and then ladled some into several glass bowls. After packing the single servings into a shallow box along with the bread, Alec carried the food out the back kitchen door and followed the sidewalk trailing behind his house to the garage.

      He dropped the food off to Uncle Emmett at the Lakeside Suites and spent forty minutes listening to Emmett grumble about getting kicked out of his home. In an effort to placate him, Alec promised to stop by the house to get a particular book. Having moved into the assisted-living apartment last weekend, Uncle Emmett still insisted he needed certain things from his home, despite the family’s insistence that he downsize.

      Alec unlocked the dead bolt and pushed open the front door of the yellow house with white trim and a wraparound porch. The scent of neglect and abandonment permeated the air. Or maybe that was Alec’s guilt eating at him. Maybe he should’ve tried harder to help Emmett stay in his home. But the decision was out of his hands and it wouldn’t have solved the problem—Emmett’s doctor said his uncle’s health required assisted living.

      Despite the midafternoon sunshine, darkness shrouded the room. He pushed back the outdated drapes and hefted open the window, hearing the pulley weights thunk, and then stepped back to allow waves of fresh air to filter out the staleness. Sunlight straddled the stacks of magazines and towers of books while dust motes scattered across the heavy maple furniture that had been as much a part of this house as the occupants.

      Uncle Emmett and Aunt Elsie had purchased this house over fifty years ago, but after Aunt Elsie’s death, Emmett couldn’t bring himself to make any changes, including canceling her subscriptions to her favorite painting magazines.

      With their only child having been born with Down syndrome, Uncle Emmett needed someone to oversee his assets. In case anything happened to him, Emmett had signed the house over to Alec years ago. He’d done so with the promise that Alec would sell it and ensure the money went into Gideon’s special-needs trust so he could continue living at Jacob House, a local residential home for adult men who required special care.

      Alec searched the shelves, found the book his uncle had requested, closed the windows and then let himself out of the house, locking the door behind him.

      Half an hour later, he parked his car in his garage. With the engine still idling, he pressed his head against the headrest and sighed. A jazzy tune crooned from the satellite radio station, but the upbeat tempo did little to raise Alec’s mood.

      An unsettling feeling knotted his stomach. After returning the requested books, he’d had another conversation—more like an argument—with Uncle Emmett about Alec’s desire to get the Dutch Colonial home listed quickly. Getting it on the market by the end of summer needed to be his highest priority, but he couldn’t even think about listing it until the place was cleaned out and repaired. The higher the selling price, the more money for Gideon.

      He just didn’t see how he could find the time to get it done. He could talk with Gran and Chloe to see if they’d be able to pitch in, but Gran wouldn’t be able to do the heavy lifting and constant bending at her age.

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