Heaven Sent and His Hometown Girl. Jillian Hart

He knew how his mother thought. Mom figured that enough time had passed since losing Kathy and that he ought to get on with his life. The boys needed more than a housekeeper—they needed a mother to love them. And he needed a wife.

      But what she didn’t know, what she couldn’t accept, was that Kathy had been his whole heart.

      Regret tightened in his chest until Nora’s words and the sounds of the café faded. His parents’ marriage had been based on respect, but not true love. Not like his and Kathy’s. Mom couldn’t understand.

      Pain cut like a newly sharpened knife straight through the center of his chest. Mom didn’t realize she was hurting him, but she was. Her matchmaking attempts stirred up old memories and grief.

      Applause ripped through the café, tearing into his thoughts. The meeting continued, and the sun flirting with the curtains grew warm on his back. Karen McKaslin arrived with coffee and tea for everyone.

      Matthew leaned across the table, stretching for the packets of sugar. Hope scooted the little ceramic holder closer, so it was within his reach. She avoided his gaze and maybe it was because she was a woman, soft and pretty, but it made him feel keenly alone.

      He remembered a verse from John, one he’d relied on heavily these last difficult years. “Here on this earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.”

      Matthew stirred sugar into his tea and clung to those treasured words.

      Chapter Three

      Hope snapped open the kitchen cupboards. “You embarrassed the poor man.”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Go ahead, play innocent. But I’m not fooled and neither is Matthew.” She slammed the cans of food onto the shelves. “It wasn’t fair to volunteer me like that. You could have asked me. I would have been happy to do anything for you. Don’t you know that? But this—”

      “Don’t you see? It’s for your own good, Hope.” Nanna didn’t sound quite as confident. “Time is slipping away from me, and I want to know my beloved granddaughter is happy and cared for.”

      “I can take care of myself.” Hope slammed two more cans onto the wooden shelf. “Besides, I’m perfectly happy.”

      “Sure, but you could be happier.” Nanna sighed. “Don’t be mad at me, Hope. With this injury I can’t serve on the committee, and your spending time with poor widowed Matthew Sheridan can’t hurt.”

      “It’s your intentions that bother me. You know how I feel about marriage. And you know why.” Hope kept out a box of crackers and folded up the paper grocery sack. “I’m not going to marry anyone. Ever. I’m never going to go through what my parents did.”

      “Just because your mom and dad couldn’t get along doesn’t mean that you can’t have a fulfilling marriage.”

      “That’s exactly what it means.” Hope grabbed the bright yellow box and set it on the table in front of her grandmother. Her chest ached. Old wounds beat within her heart, and she didn’t want to be angry with Nanna. “Stop trying to change my life, okay? I like it just the way it is. And no, I don’t want a husband. I don’t miss having a family.”

      “But, Hope—”

      “Please, just drop it, Nanna. I can’t talk about this anymore. I’m the result of a bad marriage, remember?” The memories of her parents always fighting, always hurting each other tore through her. Memories she wanted to forget. The wind teased the chimes outside the open window, and Hope spun away, determined to keep control of her emotions.

      The past was gone. There was no sense letting it hurt her now. She watched the light in Nanna’s eyes fade and she hated that, but she couldn’t back down. Marriage was not—and never would be—for her. No matter what. And if she felt lonely in the evenings cooking for one, well, that was a small price to pay for a life without hurt, blame and endless battles.

      “What you haven’t seen,” Nanna continued above the musical jingle of the chimes, “is that some marriages can be a great blessing. Filled with joy and enduring love.”

      “Sure, I’ve seen the movies. I’ve read the books. Notice how they’re all fiction?” Hope grabbed the tea-kettle from the stove and carried it to the sink. “I don’t want to hear any more about this, Nanna. Isn’t there a passage somewhere in the Bible about minding your own business?”

      “Well, Thessalonians. ‘This should be your ambition: to live a quiet life, minding your own business—’” Nanna broke into a chuckle. “All right, fine, you’ve won. I’ll stop trying to match you up with handsome, kind, marriageable men even if it is for your own good.”

      “Finally! You’ve come to your senses.” Hope grabbed hold of the cold water faucet.

      “I’ll have you know there are many young women in this town who would appreciate my efforts.”

      “Then maybe you should try matchmaking for them.” Hope gave the faucet a twist and felt the old metal handle give.

      A blast of cold water slammed against her right cheekbone and across the front of her neck. She jumped back. Water sluiced down her face and dripped off her chin. Her shirt was wet through and plastered to her skin.

      She could only stare at the geyser shooting water everywhere—straight up at the ceiling and sideways in every direction.

      When Nanna had asked her to talk to Matthew, there really was a problem with the plumbing. She set the broken cold water handle on the counter and swiped more drops from her eyes.

      “Kirby, quick, call Matthew.” Nanna’s voice rang high with distress above the sounds of the cascading waterfall. “Ever since Ethan Brisbane left town, we don’t have a decent plumber. Hope, quick, can you make it stop?”

      “I’m trying.” Her sneakers slid on the wet surface as she tugged open the cabinet doors. She scrunched down and peered under the sink.

      The old pipes groaned. Droplets plinked against her forehead. She knew next to nothing about plumbing, but she did own a small condo. She’d had her share of homeowner disasters. “I don’t see any shutoff valves. Nanna, how old are these pipes?”

      “Who knows? Seventy years or more?”

      “Maybe it’s time to replace ’em.” There was no way to stop the water, not here at the sink. “There must be a shutoff in the basement. I’ll see what I can do.”

      “Hurry, dear, my knickknacks—”

      Hope spun toward the sink. The pretty porcelain figurines on the corner shelves above the sink were taking a direct hit.

      She stepped into the force of cold water, wincing as it struck like a thousand icy pinpricks. “Kirby, could you help me out here?”

      “Sure thing.” The young nurse abandoned the phone and hurried across the growing puddle on the floor to carry the rescued figurines to the table. “Mr. Sheridan wasn’t in. I got his pager.”

      “We’re going to need someone right away.” Hope curled her fingers around the last wet porcelain child. “And it would be better—” she fixed a warning gaze on her grandmother “—if it wasn’t Matthew Sheridan.”

      “Don’t worry, Hope.” Nanna spoke up. “I’m a defeated old woman resigned to live without a single great grandchild.”

      “Sure. Make me feel guilty.” Hope handed Kirby the last figurine and stood, dripping wet, in the middle of the kitchen. Water crept in an ever-widening puddle across the ancient flooring. As far as she could tell, puddles and crutches didn’t look like they would mix. “C’mon, Nanna, let’s get you to safer ground.”

      “I’ll take her into the living room,” Kirby volunteered, the crutches already in hand. “And I’ll try to find