A Father for Zach. Irene Hannon

to finish it up here.”

      “How long have you been painting?”

      “Not long. I didn’t have access to any good painting supplies in…until I came here. I did pencil sketches and pen-and-ink drawings.”

      Kate gave him a steady look. “You’re good enough to do this professionally.”

      Heat suffused Nathan’s neck. “I don’t think so.”

      “You listen to Kate, young man,” Edith chimed in. “Her late husband was a very successful artist. She knows talent when she sees it.”

      “I’ll tell you what…” Kate propped her hands on her hips and surveyed the painting. “Why don’t I mention you to the owner of the gallery where Mac sold his work? She’s always on the prowl for up-and-coming artists. That way, if you decide you want to market your work, she’ll already know your name.”

      “I don’t know…I’d planned to focus on carpentry and house-painting jobs for a while.” Those were the skills he’d learned in the prison program. The ones he was comfortable with. Painting had always been just a hobby, a way to pass the time. And to express the emotions locked in his heart.

      “Why in the world would you want to paint a house when you can do this?” Edith gestured toward the canvas.

      “To put food on the table?” Nathan flashed her a quick grin.

      Kate chuckled. “Good point. It’s not easy to make a living as an artist. But you’ll never know if you don’t try, as Mac used to say. How about I mention your name, and you take it from there? Or not. It’s the Blue Water Gallery on India Street. The owner is Monica Stevens.”

      “Okay. Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

      “Are the girls ready, Edith?” Kate asked.

      “Yes. They’re in the kitchen, taking the chocolate-chip cookies off the pans.”

      Kate rolled her eyes. “Why do I think they’re going to pick at their dinner tonight?”

      “I told them to eat only two each.”

      “And you’ve been out here how long?”

      “Five minutes.”

      “I rest my case. See you later, Nathan.”

      With a wave, she jogged toward Edith’s back door.

      “I better go in and referee.” Edith set the milk and a plate of cookies on the table beside Nathan. “These are for you.”

      Ever since he’d arrived, his Lighthouse Lane landlady had been dropping treats off at the cottage his siblings had rented for him in the corner of her yard, starting with the pumpkin bread that had been waiting for him when he’d arrived. He was beginning to feel guilty.

      “I appreciate the cookies, but you don’t have to keep feeding me, you know.”

      She waved his comment aside. “Someone needs to. You could stand to put on a few pounds. Get Heather to give you some of her scones with clotted cream and strawberry preserves. That’ll do the trick. And I have the hips to prove it.” She patted the ample anatomy in question and chuckled. “But they’re worth every pound. See you later, young man.”

      With a flutter of fingers, she retreated to her house.

      As silence descended in the quiet, private yard shielded from the world by a tall privet hedge, Nathan picked up a warm-from-the-oven cookie and took a bite. Nirvana, he thought, savoring the burst of flavor from the gooey chocolate. It was funny how simple treats—or acts of kindness, like the painting supplies from his siblings that he’d found waiting for him in the cottage when he’d arrived—could bring a sudden lump to his throat. As could the heady scent of freedom, the trill of a bird and an endless expanse of sea or sky.

      In hindsight, he wondered how he’d survived all those years of confinement—and the demeaning, soul-shattering experience of being treated like an object rather than a person.

      Yet the latter hadn’t been confined to his decade behind bars, he acknowledged as the cookie caught in his throat. That legacy went back far longer.

      Taking a swig of milk to dislodge the lump of dough stuck in his windpipe, he forced his thoughts in more pleasant directions.

      Unbidden, an image of Catherine Walker and her son flashed through his mind. He still couldn’t get over the fact that their paths had crossed again. And based on her expression when she’d opened her door yesterday, she’d felt the same way. Except she hadn’t seemed especially pleased about the odd twist of fate.

      Yet she’d offered him the job.

      Meaning he could look forward to a lot more interaction with the wary violinist and her charming son. And if he was very lucky, maybe one day down the road her wariness would subside and he’d find the answers to some of his questions about the intriguing—and appealing—duo.

      “Zach! It’s lunchtime!”

      As she called her son, Catherine carefully lifted her injured foot off the wicker ottoman in the breezeway, where she’d had it propped all morning. She hadn’t planned to hover over Nathan during his first morning on the job, but Zach had balked at her plan to keep him inside for a few days while she observed the newcomer from a distance. In the end she’d capitulated, setting herself up in the breezeway with a stack of decorating books and a pad of paper so she could play with layouts for the two B and B rooms—and keep an eye on her new carpenter.

      She’d soon realized, however, that her concern had been unnecessary. If anything, Zach had disrupted Nathan’s life rather than vice versa. Not that you’d know it by watching the man, though. He had the patience of Job. And he was good with kids.

      Rising from the lounge chair, Catherine took a moment to steady herself before trekking to the kitchen to fix lunch. The two male voices continued to converse in the psychedelic room, one calm and mellow, the other high-pitched and animated. The exchange had been going almost non-stop all morning.

      At one point, assuming Zach was getting in Nathan’s way, Catherine had stepped to the door and cautioned him not to bother the older man. But Nathan had won a friend for life when he’d responded that Zach was helping him—and doing a good job. At the compliment, her son’s chest had puffed out and he’d displayed the bucket of wallpaper scraps he’d peeled off the bottom of the wall.

      It was the kind of considerate thing David would have done, Catherine reflected as she limped toward the kitchen door, a pain pill high on her priority list. Yet no pain pill could relieve the ache in her heart as she thought about the man she’d loved—and the father Zach would never know.

      Pausing at the door to call her son again, she fought down a wave of despondency. Two years ago, everyone had told her the grief would dissipate over time. But why had no one warned her that the loneliness and sense of loss would intensify?

      “Zach!”

      Her second summons came out shaky—but it produced results. The little boy appeared moments later, followed by Nathan.

      “Sorry he didn’t come on the first call. I was cleaning up his hands. They were a little sticky from the wallpaper paste.” Nathan gave her a probing look. “Everything okay?”

      “Yes. Fine.” She pasted on a smile, trying to squelch the uncomfortable feeling that this stranger had just tapped into her deepest well of sadness. “But I don’t want to be late putting Zach down for his nap.”

      “Oh, Mom.” Zach thrust out his chin and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m too old for naps.”

      A pulsating pain—a twin to the one in her foot—began to pound in her head, and Catherine rubbed her temple as a wave of nausea swept over her. “We’re not going to argue about this, Zach. Go into the kitchen. Now!” The words came out sharper than she intended, and when tears welled in Zach’s eyes, her nausea ratcheted up a notch.

      “You