No. Not so bizarre. Indio had been praying. Of course the girl found her way.
The week before, when Indio injured her wrist, Claire had teetered between panic and exhilaration. The maniac steering the tandem now had only one good arm. Her reply as usual, though, was an energized “God is good. There is a reason for this. Let’s see what He’s got in store for us.”
The woman’s faith never ceased to amaze, but Claire’s practical side immediately kicked into high gear. She asked her daughters, niece, friends, and part-time housekeeper for weekend help in the kitchen. To a one, they balked. She cajoled, whined, and threatened to no avail. Max offered to cook on his grill everything from eggs to zucchini.
What on earth had ever possessed the two of them to take over the Hacienda Hideaway? Who in their right mind would sign up to expend all their time, energy, and money on a place for strangers to invade? Messy strangers who would, most likely, gripe about grilled eggs?
Claire smiled. Good grief! The answers were so easy. After thirty some years of growing apart, she and Max had wanted a life together. They wanted to create a safe harbor for themselves, for the family, and for whomever God brought to their door.
Evidently that included people who did not make reservations and pay deposits. That moment at the door when Skylar had said the ad was for a cook, goose bumps prickled all over Claire. She knew then and there that Indio’s prayer had been answered.
Indio’s prayer: an expression of her faith that God would supply the specific need she requested.
A fleeting sense of remorse went through Claire. She had not prayed for a cook. Her petition had been more of a yelp for help.
“All right, Lord, I get it. This retreat center stuff is off the wall and it’s nowhere near simple, but I get it. Thank You.” She sighed loudly. “But maybe now we could please have just few days of biking
around
the potholes?”
S
itting on the edge of the single bed, Skylar caught sight of a veggie garden through the open door and an eastern view of rocky hills through the window.
Insane.
Indio said, “It’s a good view.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, feeling like she’d entered Brigadoon.
The house was a humongous U-shaped thing, totally transplanted from a movie set. She and Indio had strolled through a courtyard. The rooms they passed opened directly inside the U onto a wraparound veranda. At the far end they followed a flagstone path, turned a corner, and voilà, there it was: a forest-green door. They walked through it into the “oh, by the way” room, a room that offered the most perfect view she had ever imagined.
It was incomprehensible that she’d just been invited to live there.
Skylar wondered when the bomb would explode. Maybe Indio and Claire were wacko and got their kicks from luring people into their home just to cut them up into little—
“My friends made that quilt for me after the fire.”
Skylar noted the blanket draped over the foot of the white wrought-iron bed. “The fire?”
“Oh, I forgot. You said you don’t live in San Diego. The fire came through here nearly a year ago now. We lost most of our things.” Indio sighed. “We lost everything but the walls and roof.”
That explained the new furnishings and the young scrub vegetation. “I’m sorry. That must have been so awful.”
“It was beyond imagination awful. But it facilitated a number of blessings. The whole place got refurbished. Claire and Max moved up here from the city to run things. Ben and I don’t have to be in charge anymore. I placed that ad two years ago because I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up much longer even then. And now here you are, just in time for us to reopen.”
Totally insane.
“So, uh, where’s your room?”
“We live down the road a piece, in a little house Max built for us. Two of my granddaughters live in an RV on the land.” She smiled. “I’m sorry this room is such a mess. We’ll get some rugs next week. And a chair and curtains. I am sorry there is no closet either. It’s such a tiny space. Hopefully the armoire will be sufficient.”
She’d already apologized for the tools piled in a corner, the shower not working, and the dust. “No problemo. I mean there’s a bed, a private bathroom, a shower room around the corner, and a phenomenal kitchen I get to play in. What else—” She cleared an annoying catch from her throat. “What else could I want? It’s great.”
“Okay, then. I’ll let you get settled. Lunch is ready, so come as soon as you want. The circus should start about three o’clock, and you won’t want to miss that.” An impish chuckle burst from her.
Uh-oh. Here it came. The weird thing that would shoo her through the exit door. “Circus?”
Indio smiled. “My grandchildren and their friends are coming for dinner. Counting you, there will be thirteen of us. Claire and Max are going to practice their hosting skills. They’re such newbies. Between you and me, they haven’t the foggiest notion what they’re up against by reopening this place.”
“Oh.”
“It should be fun. You’ll definitely earn whatever it is we’re paying you.” Two spry steps put her at the door. “See you in a few.”
“Indio.”
She turned.
“This quilt. It’s too special to leave in here with me.”
Those ancient eyes stared at her for a long moment. “It belongs in here, Skylar, with you.” She turned and hurried away.
“Trippy.” Flinging her arms wide, Skylar fell back against a pile of pillows. “Major trippy.”
She replayed the so-called interview. It was downright weird. A two-year-old ad still in effect? Women who laughed like banshees? Room and board plopped into her lap, effective immediately?
She’d spent such a long time following one Yellow Brick Road after another, never quite reaching Oz, the kingdom where all the answers would be found.
Skylar grew still, startled by a new thought. There was really only one question she’d wanted answered: how could she find her way home? Somehow between ringing the doorbell and touching a handmade quilt, she had found the way.
Yes, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was already safely back home in Kansas.
S
kylar stood at the island in the center of the kitchen, at the sink. Lasagna noodles drained in a colander. Through the rising steam she watched a dozen different emotions play across Max Beaumont’s face, from huffy to friendly, confused to resolute.
Claire had just introduced her to him. After his initial polite hello, she wondered which sentiment he would express first.
The kitchen wall clock struck three in robust Westminster chimes. Indio, that tiny smile coming and going, pretended to nap in her rocker.
Max spun on his heel, hands on his hips, and faced Indio. Macho Man had won out. “Mom, you placed an ad two years ago?”
Eyes still shut, Indio said, “Yes.”
“Just like that. Without consulting me? I own a staffing business!” He twisted his head, as if to work out a crick. “Owned.”
“Your people wouldn’t know the first thing about finding a cook willing to live in the middle of nowhere and invest her life in a center for people seeking deep rest for their souls.” She peered at him through one eye. “That’s why they publish those caretaker newsletters, for oddballs like us.”
He turned to Skylar again. “That’s what you want to do? Cook and live in the middle of nowhere and invest your life here?”
The description sounded like nirvana to her. But how could she explain that to an uptight businessman? He was good-looking in an old-guy, Mel Gibson sort of way. He had his mother’s eyes, though, black and piercing.
“Mr. Beaumont, there’s nothing I’d like better.”
“Why?”
She raised her shoulders. “I love to cook. I love living close to nature and meeting new people.” She finished off the shrug. “If I can mix all that in with a job, then yeah, I’ll invest my life here. For now.”
He scrutinized her. She knew what he saw in her dyed hair, dark clothes, and two hoops in each earlobe with holes for more: alternative and unstable. At least she had cleaned up, put on a skirt and fresh T-shirt, and twisted her hair into a bun.
At last he spoke. “What about your family, friends, home?”
“Dead, scattered, and back in Ohio a long time ago.” She almost said back in Kansas, but her ID said Ohio and he would ask for that.
“Do you have an ID?”
“Driver’s license, in my room.”
“Max!” Claire banged a spoon against a pot on the stove. “Enough with the third degree.” She laid down the spoon and turned, glasses askew, hair falling from a clip, her apron tomato streaked. “We needed a cook. Your mom asked for one. Skylar showed up. She’s already put together a beautiful salad and fine-tuned this sauce to the point that you’ll think you’re in Rome. Just get onboard, okay?”
He tried to remain angry, tried to hold on to his twitches and huffs. But after a moment of staring at his wife, Skylar watched the emotions trickle right out of him like water. In an instant his eyes crinkled and a slow grin folded his cheeks. “Okay.” He laughed. All traces of Macho Man vanished. “Okay. Welcome, Skylar. And call me Max.”
These people were crazy.
“All right. Thank you.”
He went to Claire and put his arms around her. “You’re looking a little frazzled, sweetheart. What can I do?”
“Hugging is good.”
Never mind Diane Keaton and Mel Gibson. June and Ward Cleaver were alive and well and living at the Hacienda Hideaway. Skylar imagined the TV couple from the old sitcom
Leave It to Beaver
. Slip pearls round Claire’s neck and twist a tie at Max’s, and the resemblance would startle even the most diehard oldies viewer.
Indio caught Skylar’s eye and winked.
Claire straightened and sighed. “The first ‘guests’ will be here in half an hour. Maybe we shouldn’t eat dinner with them after all. On the one hand, we want to experience dinner as a guest. On the other, we won’t do that with real guests. And what do we do when they arrive? Go to the parking lot? Wait out front? Let them wander into the courtyard?”
Max shrugged. “What’s the difference? We say hi. We eat dinner with them tonight because they’re our kids.”
He might be onboard, but he was still a guy, clueless in the nuances of hospitality. And Claire had been unraveling since lunchtime.
Skylar cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I make a suggestion?”
They looked at her. Claire said, “Please do.”
“You hired me to take care of the kitchen, right? So let me do it. Claire, you go get unfrazzled. And Max, really. I mean, a polo shirt and dress slacks at a wilderness retreat?”
Max’s brows shot up, his chin tucked inward, his eyelids batting a few times.
Skylar held her breath. Had she already stepped over the line? If so, they might as well call it quits right now. Being mouthy was second nature to her.
Claire smiled and Max chuckled.
Skylar breathed. Home free.
Home? Who was she kidding? The situation was a few nights’ stay at best. Once the Cleavers really got to know her, they would easily, without hesitation, make do without a cook.
J
enna squeezed her hands into fists, pressed them against her thighs, and glared at the computer screen.
More precisely, she glared at the icon of her cyberspace mailbox.
It was empty.
Still.
After four days.
Empty.
Four. Days.
“I can’t do this.” She hissed the words through gritted teeth. “I cannot do this.”
“Yo!”
She jumped at the sound and jerked around to face the open classroom door. “Ohmygosh!”
Cade made a wry face and strode to her desk. “Oops. Sorry. Figured you heard me. I was whistling and talking out in the hall. You okay?”
“Sure.” Her heart hammered the breath right out of her lungs. “No. Yeah. I am. I’m fine.”
“Jenna.” Loosening his tie, he squatted coach-style next to her chair and looked up at her. “I think this is exactly what we talked about a couple days ago. It’s okay to be not okay. It’s even expected.”
Her chest felt like the host to a kickboxing match. She nodded.
He smiled, and his brows went up.
Oh, no. If Mr. Ice Guy went soft on her, there was no way the sob could stay inside of her. This was absolutely not what she needed.
“Tell me, Mrs. Mason, what can I do for you?” His voice dropped a notch. “Right now, this very minute, what can I do to help?”
She glanced at the computer screen and felt again the stab of anger. “Tell him to send an e-mail.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “When did you last hear from him?”
“Monday.”
“You know he can’t—”
“Yes! I know! I know he can’t write or call every day! And I know there are legitimate reasons why he can’t write every day.” She bit on her lower lip before she spewed out exactly what she thought of the USMC and of Kevin reenlisting.
“And those legitimate reasons . . .” Cade’s voice hushed. “They probably scare the living daylights out of you.”
The anger drained as if a plug had been yanked out. It happened like that. A giant rushing gurgle and
pfft
. It was all gone, leaving her limp and unable to fight the fear left in its wake.
She closed her eyes.
“Jenna, they would tell you if Kevin was injured.”
“Or killed.” She looked at him. “Or missing in action.”
His steady gray eyes held hers. “He’s on some assignment, out of the office, so to speak. He’ll be back before you know it.”
A silent moment passed between them.
Cade whispered, “I’m sorry I can’t call him up and ream him out. I’m sorry I can’t say, ‘Hey, bud, your wife needs an e-mail from you
right now
.’”
Something shifted inside of her, as if one of those big chunks of fear had been moved.
As if Cade Edmunds had angled his shoulder under it, sharing its weight, bearing as much as she allowed.
Jenna was suddenly struck with the maleness of this man and realized how much she missed that element in her life. Kevin would have knelt before her in the same way, his face likewise a mixture of compassion and a determination to slay dragons for her. She would get lost within the confines of his arms. The world would be right again.