Lakeside Sweetheart. Lenora Worth

Don’t do anything on my account. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

      She laughed at that. “You look too young and carefree to be a preacher.”

      He thought of the man who’d obviously hurt her. “Ministers come in all shapes and sizes. And personalities.”

      “Yeah, you can say that again.”

      He stuffed the cup inside one of the deep pockets of his baggy work shorts and started picking up the broken dishes in an effort to distract her. “Hey, if you find me a broom and a dustpan, I can get this done a lot quicker. And then I’ll be happy to buy you a cup of coffee or a cold drink.”

      “So you can work me over?”

      That skeptical imp again, hiding serious pain. “Work you over?”

      She started walking backward toward the big shed beyond the open gate to the backyard. “You know, telling me that God loves me and that He can make things better for me?”

      “Of course,” Rory said, stooping to pick up the bigger pieces of shattered porcelain. “That’s part of my job, too.”

      She turned and hurried. “At least you’re not trying to slip it under the radar.”

      “Nope. I’m not that kind of guy,” he called after her. When she kept walking, he called louder. “What you see is what you get with me. It’s pretty much the same with God, too.”

      He glanced up to find an older couple across the street with their dog watching him with a curious regard.

      “Oh, hi,” Rory called. “Nice day, don’t you think?”

      They nodded, waved and hurried away. The little dog, however, woofed a quick reply.

      No wonder they’d moved on. He seemed to be talking to himself.

      Worried that Vanessa had run off in the other direction, he stood and checked the open gate. Maybe she’d gone inside the house to find the broom and dustpan.

      Rory cleaned up a bit more and then decided to check on Vanessa. He strolled through the open wrought iron gate and searched the big backyard. Lots of vintage patio furniture and nice palm trees and old oaks, but no Vanessa.

      Turning toward the big shed she’d talked about, Rory went to the open French doors. “Hey, Vanessa, you in here?”

      He found her standing at a table, her hand on an open book. A photo album from what he could tell.

      When he moved toward her, she whirled, her gaze locking with his. “I’m sorry. I...I can’t find the dustpan.”

      Rory walked over to where she stood. “Do you want me to leave?”

      She nodded and then she shook her head no. “I...I don’t want you to leave but...I can’t... I’m not ready for this.”

      “Not ready for me and my poor attempts to comfort you? Or not ready to clean out this house?”

      “Not ready for...accepting that my mother is gone,” she said. Then she sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “I’ll clean up the mess out front later. You...you don’t have to hang around.”

      Rory wasn’t going to leave her like this. “Nonsense. You go in the house and have a good cry or make yourself a cup of tea or eat ice cream. I see the broom over there, and I can use the lid off this old box as a dustpan. I’ll clean up the broken things out front.”

      She gave him a confused stare, her eyes misty with a raw-edged pain. “You don’t have to clean up my mess.”

      Rory wondered how many times she’d said that to other people. “I don’t mind.”

      She nodded, grabbed the photo album and pushed past him for the door. But she turned once she was outside. “Thank you, Rory.”

      He nodded and smiled at her. “Hey, listen. Grief is a sneaky thing. One minute you’re doing fine and the next, you want to punch something. Or...break dishes.”

      She smiled through her tears. “I guess I’ve done that already today.”

      She turned and ran toward the house, her flip-flops hitting against the steps up to the back porch. He watched her until he heard the door slam.

      Rory tore off the box top and took it and the broom back up to the sidewalk and began to clear away the debris. But in his heart, he wanted to go inside that house and help clear up the debris of Vanessa’s broken heart. Because he didn’t have enough prayers to give her the kind of comfort she craved and needed.

      And yet, he knew the comfort of God’s love.

      So he prayed anyway, until he had the yard clean again.

      He’d have to keep working on the woman sitting inside, crying over an old photo album. And he’d have to do it in a gentle way that would help her to heal.

      * * *

      Vanessa wished she hadn’t fallen apart in front of the preacher. Now he’d really want to talk to her. She only wanted to sit here and stare into space. But she had so much to take care of before she could go back to New Orleans.

      Her fingers touched on an old photograph of her mother with Vanessa on a beach blanket, forcing her to remember the good times. They’d been few and far between, but she had brief flashes of laughter and sunshine and a warm feeling.

      A feeling of being loved. Had she forgotten the good and focused too much on the bad? The pictures in this album only showed smiling faces and what looked like good times.

      Why were there never any pictures of the bad times? Never any proof of how she remembered things? No, those things had been hidden away, swept underneath the heavy carpet in a facade that was hard to pull away.

      A soft knock at the back door brought her head up. Vanessa wiped at her eyes and shut the old photo album. Then she rushed to the door and opened it to find Rory standing there with two ice cream cones.

      “The truck came by,” he said, smiling. “I like chocolate and I got you caramel-vanilla. But if you don’t want it—”

      She grabbed the waffle cone and took a small nip. “Oh.”

      “I take that as a yes.” He ate some of his and glanced around. “Nice house.”

      “Come in,” she said, her mind still on the caramel-vanilla.

      He stepped inside, and Vanessa realized no one had been invited inside this house in a long time. Shame and embarrassment hit at her with the same freezing intensity as the ice cream sliding down her throat. The built-in cabinets on each side of the enormous fireplace were true to the Craftsman style of the house. But the shelves were practically groaning with old books and side-by-side knickknacks. Not to mention stacks of newspapers and scraps of all kinds of fabric remnants lying here and there in front of the shelves.

      “It’s a mess,” she said, lifting her free hand in the air. “One room at a time. I keep telling myself that’s how I’ll get it done.”

      Rory glanced around, his gaze settling on the folded blanket and bed pillow she’d left on the couch. She didn’t want to explain that she’d slept in here last night.

      But Rory didn’t mention what had to be obvious. Instead, he said, “So...are you going to sell off everything in here?”

      “Not everything all at once,” she said. “I have my online vintage store, so I’ll place some of the items there.” She ate more ice cream, the cold sweetness making her feel better. “And if you’re serious about me having the estate sale when you have the church rummage sale, then I’ll probably get rid of a lot of the bigger pieces there, since shipping them is kind of costly.”

      “Of course I’m serious. If you don’t mind staying a week or so longer than you planned. We hope to hold it sometime in May, but I’ll pin the committee people down on an exact date.”

      “That