Delivered with Love Page 11

  Geraldine stirred. Claire stepped back and bumped into the nightstand, knocking over the small lamp. Grabbing the base of the lamp with one hand and the shade with the other, she set it back in place, turned off the light, and hurried out the door.

  Odd. How likely was it for Geraldine to own the same style picture frame? Claire walked into her bedroom and flopped down on the air mattress. Her mother had told her that she had received the frame as a gift and that it was one of a kind. Claire fingered the ornate design on the top of the brass frame. The picture of her with her mom and sister had been taken before Claire's mother was diagnosed with cancer. All three of them looked healthy and happy, as if nothing in the world could change that. A familiar nausea somersaulted through her belly.

  She turned the frame over and studied the back. Three metal wedges held the picture in place. After sliding each one to the side, she popped out the cardboard backing. What was she hoping to find? Answers to why Geraldine would own the same kind of frame? It had to be a coincidence. Claire laid the contents of the frame on her bed. She separated each layer one by one.

  A picture Claire had never seen before was tucked between the more current photo and the cardboard backing. She looked closer. It was a picture of her mother leaning against her VW bug. Claire smiled. Her mom was so pretty then, with her hair feathered in a layered cut and wearing a miniskirt with a flowing top and chunky sandals. Definitely 70s. Claire laughed. Her mom looked so happy and carefree. Why didn't she marry her teenage love?

  Claire lay back on her bed and continued to linger over the photograph. She flipped it over. Summer 1973. The picture was taken a year after the letter was sent. Claire turned the picture back over. Was that the corner of the rental house in the background? Yes. Claire bolted upright. The shutters looked familiar. Her mother had returned to this house the following year.

  Claire had questions for Geraldine. And hopefully, she'd get answers . . . first thing in the morning.

  Claire heard a knock on the front door. Who in the world? She turned over and reached for her watch. Eight o'clock. Blake. Time for breakfast. She smiled at the thought of seeing him again—except for the fact that she'd just rolled out of bed with morning breath. Claire dug in her purse for a breath mint. She brushed her hair, stepped into her jeans, and flung a sweatshirt over her head. She ran out barefooted into the hallway as Geraldine, who was already dressed, answered the door.

  "Good morning, Blake." Geraldine welcomed him in. "What's cooking this morning?" She laughed at her own words.

  "Poached eggs and pancakes." Blake walked into the house with grocery bag in hand and headed straight for the kitchen.

  Claire tucked a stray hair behind her ear as she approached the kitchen counter. "I thought you might be working all night."

  "One of our police officers had a flat tire. He forgot his cell phone and couldn't call in. I was only at the station for a couple of hours." Blake emptied the bag's contents on the counter. "Maybe we can have that coffee tonight?" He glanced in Claire's direction and smiled.

  "Coffee, huh?" Geraldine shuffled over to them. "How come I wasn't invited?" She winked. "Why don't you two eat breakfast together? I've already had my morning tea and toast. Oh, you'll never guess where I found the toaster . . . in a box in my bedroom." Geraldine laughed.

  Blake grabbed a pan, added a couple of inches of water, and set it on the stove to boil. "You sure you don't want Eggs Sardou?"

  "I'm fine. But thanks." Geraldine waved as she headed toward her room. "Time for my crossword puzzle. You two enjoy yourselves, now."

  Claire couldn't wait to tell Blake about the picture frame. For that matter, she couldn't wait to tell him everything— from her mother's funeral to what brought her to Capitola. She peeked down the hall as Geraldine closed her door.

  "Do you have a griddle?" Blake stirred up the batter. "I brought blueberries to put in the pancakes."

  Claire turned and looked in the family room. Only empty boxes were stacked on top of each other in the corner. Geraldine. What an amazing woman. "While I slept, Geraldine unpacked the rest of the kitchen." Claire opened the cabinets and looked for a griddle. "Here it is." The metal plate was heavy—too heavy for a frail woman in her eighties, but apparently not for Geraldine. Claire placed it on the counter. "Anything else?"

  "I think I've got it under control." Blake heated the oven, whipped up creamed spinach, and prepared hollandaise sauce. He opened a can of artichoke hearts and warmed them in the oven.

  Claire stood amazed as she watched a chef at work. "You know your way around a kitchen. Now I can understand how devastated you were when yours burned."

  Gently, Blake cracked the eggs into the boiling water. He smiled at Claire. "Are you still interested in helping?"

  "Sure. What can I do?" Claire came up beside him.

  "A neck rub would be nice."

  Touch him? He wants me to . . . The thought sent a rush of emotions through her. Could she help him some other way? Claire crossed her arms over her chest and playfully cocked her head. "And what does rubbing your neck have to do with breakfast?"

  "A whole lot if you want to eat." His eyes pleaded with her. "I slept funny last night and I have the worst kink." He moved his head around and made a face. "It hurts like crazy right there." He pointed to a spot on the right side.

  Claire moved closer. She hesitated.

  He peeked over his shoulder and gave her a wry smile. "Please?"

  She reached up and gently massaged his neck. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. The feel of his skin sent tingles up her spine. She needed a distraction. Quick.

  She took a whiff of the blueberry pancakes. Mmm! "Smells good." Her stomach growled. Her cheeks grew warm as she stifled a groan.

  "Almost forgot about the pancakes!" Blake grabbed for the spatula and flipped them over. "Now, where were we?" He reached for her hand and brought it up to his neck.

  For another minute Claire continued, moving her hands over his thick neck and pressing into his broad shoulders with strong fingers. She enjoyed the feel of him—maybe a little too much. What was happening to her? She was a different person when she was near Blake. More confident. Happy. Hopeful.

  Claire whispered. "I think the pancakes are ready."

  "Thanks." He took another deep breath. "That was exactly what I needed. Now let's hope the eggs turned out." Blake patted her on the shoulder.

  Did he think of her as a friend, a sister—or as a woman he'd want to get to know? Claire sprinkled powdered sugar on her pancakes. She was dying to open up to Blake, but would he be interested in hearing about her life? Something about him made her want to trust. The thought scared her. Mark's image flashed across her mind. Haley had trusted him, and now she was living with an alcoholic. But . . . Claire needed a friend.

  Before she took a bite, Blake held out his hand for a prayer. She was getting used to hearing him thank God for each meal. And if she was honest, she enjoyed the comfort of holding his hand.

  After a few minutes of silence, she reached in her back pocket and took out the photo of her mother as a teenager. Claire scooped up her eggs with a fork and put them in her mouth.

  "What do you have there?" Blake ate a bite of pancakes.

  "This is my mom standing in front of this house in 1973."

  "No way! Your mom's pretty." Blake picked up the photo from the table. "You look like her."

  "Thanks." His compliment made her smile. "Wait right here, I'll be back." Claire slipped down the hall and into her room. Time to show him the letter. A few moments later, she handed Blake the envelope. "Go ahead, you can read it."

  Blake pulled the letter out of the envelope and read silently. "Who do you think wrote this?"

  "Do you want my honest opinion?" Claire propped her elbows on the table and leaned her chin on her hands.

  "Yes."

  "Michael Thompson."

  Blake sat back in his chair. "Why do you think Michael wrote the letter?"

  "He knew my moth
er somehow. He came to her memorial. Hold on, I have something else to show you . . ." Claire raced to her room to get the picture frame.

  "Last night, when Geraldine was asleep, she was clutching an identical frame. My mother told me once that this frame is rare and that she received it as a gift. I think Michael gave it to her."

  "Whoa, wait a minute here." Blake looked closely at the photograph. "You think Michael wrote the letter, took this photo, and gave your mom this picture frame?"

  "Yes."

  "So why not ask the man? He'd probably be happy to talk about his teenage crush. We've all had one."

  "I did. Michael denied it. He looked real uncomfortable, too. What I don't get is Geraldine's reaction when I asked him . . . she gasped."

  Blake shrugged. "You're kidding."

  "No, I'm not. And then last night when we talked about the VW, she said it held so many memories. What was that about? She sure left for her room in a hurry."

  "Where did you find the letter? Did your mom give it to you?" Blake leaned forward, obviously fascinated.

  "No. I found the letter in the glove compartment of my mom's VW after she passed away. I couldn't stop thinking about it. Maybe it was the way the writer signed his name— with only an initial. Anyway, I decided to come here after my sister's husband kicked me out. I knew it was time to make it on my own. Boy, was I shocked to see this house for rent. That's when I met you."

  Blake arched his brows and a smile spread across his face. "I think it was meant to be."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You coming here." Blake grabbed her hand. "I'd been praying for a wonderful neighbor. I think you were supposed to find that letter so that you'd come to Capitola."

  "Even if I don't find out who wrote it?" Claire slipped her hand from Blake's and put it on her lap.

  "Yes." Blake stood and stacked the dishes.

  Claire sat there a few minutes staring at the photo. She wouldn't settle for not knowing who wrote the letter. If it wasn't Michael, then she'd keep hunting. She had to find out who had loved her mother. Claire picked up the picture and put it over her heart. Mom, I miss you so much.

  She returned the letter, the frame, and the photo to her room, then joined Blake in the kitchen.

  "You two done yet?" Geraldine's voice floated down the hall. "I feel like a walk. Who's interested?"

  "If you can wait a minute while I give Claire a hand with the dishes, we'll both go with you."

  "No, you two go ahead." Claire held up her hand. She wanted—no, needed—some time alone.

  "You sure?" Blake came up beside Geraldine and offered her his arm.

  Claire nodded. "Positive."

  "I'll be the talk of Capitola." Geraldine grinned. "I can hear it now, 'Older woman catches younger man.' "

  Blake laughed. "Let their tongues wag." He escorted Geraldine to the door. "You won't need that walker. Hold tight to my arm."

  Geraldine winked at Claire. "Gladly."

  Claire stood at the door and watched Blake and Geraldine take slow, deliberate steps down the sidewalk. When they were out of sight, she returned to the kitchen to gather the breakfast dishes and load them in the dishwasher. She scrubbed until the counters shone, and swept the floor clean. Her mind drifted to the letter and the picture frame. I'm going to get to the bottom of this—no matter what.

  19

  Claire couldn't believe she had agreed to the shopping spree with Nancy, Vivian, and Geraldine. It had been two weeks since moving into the rental. Now, sitting in the backseat of Nancy's car, she wished she hadn't decided to go. She was not a charity case.

  "We'll look for a valance to match your bedding, and pictures for your walls." Nancy's eyes lit up as she glanced at Claire from her rearview mirror.

  Vivian sat up front next to Nancy. "Oh, and we should stop at the paint store. A splash of color livens up any room."

  "Maybe we'll find a good sale on furniture." Geraldine, her hands neatly folded across her lap, said to Claire in the backseat. "You need a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser."

  Claire cringed. She appreciated all the attention from these women who had become such good friends, but she was trying to make it on her own. If they bought everything for her, it would defeat the purpose. "How about we look today . . . to get ideas."

  "That's no fun." Nancy pulled the car into the parking lot of Capitola Mall. "Your bedding is green with a touch of yellow, right?"

  Claire nodded. "Yes."

  "What color do you want on the walls? And what about the valance?" asked Vivian.

  Claire hadn't had the chance to think about such details. In the past, her room at Haley's apartment had been plain, with no artwork on the walls and plastic blinds to cover the windows. And now, she didn't think she'd have to face this kind of decision until she had money of her own. The silence was awkward. She needed to think of something fast.

  Geraldine patted Claire's arm. "Enjoy this, dear. We want to help you."

  Claire gave in. "For the walls, I'd say yellow. And the valances, white."

  "I'll splurge on a can of yellow paint." Vivian craned her neck. "Did I tell you, Claire, I have an interview tomorrow with the manager of Red Apple Café?"

  "Does that mean you're moving here?" She hoped for Nancy's sake it was true. Would she find out what kept these women apart for so many years?

  "It sure does. I'm going to live in Nancy's guest room until I can find a place of my own."

  A twinge of guilt surfaced. Vivian would have been her roommate if Geraldine hadn't stepped in to take her place. Would she have liked rooming with such a colorful woman? She smiled. It would have been interesting.

  Rows of cars lined the parking lot as they drove up and down the aisles.

  "There's a spot over there." Vivian gestured to an open space a short distance to the entrance of Macy's—their first stop.

  "Good eye." Nancy's voice held a note of appreciation.

  The sisters must have come to an understanding. Claire grinned. Sisters are meant to be close. Her mind drifted to Haley. They hadn't been close for a while. Would their relationship change now that Haley was going to have a baby? Excitement welled up inside of her. She hoped her sister was feeling well and Mark was treating her right.

  Nancy parked the car. "Okay, ladies. Let's shop."

  Geraldine picked up her purse. "Nancy, I'm so glad you borrowed a wheelchair from the hospital. There's no way I'd be able to keep up with the three of you." She glanced at her watch. "It's my naptime."

  Nancy twisted her head to wink at Geraldine. "I was happy to do it."

  Once inside the department store, Claire's stomach lurched. When her mother was ill and she was a teenager, Claire would've loved for her mother's friends to take her shopping and buy her what she needed. But now at twenty-three she felt like a failure. If only she had gone to college, she would have her degree by now and could make a decent living. She pushed Geraldine's wheelchair and watched Nancy and Vivian shop for her—feeling inadequate to manage her own affairs.

  Lord, help me.

  The thought, and unexpected plea for help, shocked her. Is that what it means to pray? Was Blake's spirituality rubbing off on her? She stopped abruptly, causing Geraldine to shift in her seat. Claire leaned over to check on the woman. Was that light snoring she heard? She smiled to herself. Dear Geraldine was fast asleep and they'd barely started their adventure. She set her mouth in a straight line and kept pace with Nancy and Vivian. Obviously, Vivian liked to shop. Considering how heavy she was, Claire was surprised to see her hustle through the crowd.

  They rode the elevator to the second floor and made their way to the drapery department. Claire stood behind Geraldine's wheelchair, glued to the floor. What was she supposed to do? If she seemed disinterested, maybe they'd give up and go home. She pretended to yawn. Nancy and Vivian didn't notice. They were too busy digging through the mounds of packaged valances on the sale rack.

  Claire didn't know one valance from another. She soon learned that va
lances are different lengths and made from different materials.

  "How about these pretty white chiffon window treatments?" Nancy pulled them out of the package and held them up.

  "And look, they're on sale!" Vivian added.

  "They are beautiful." Claire touched the soft fabric. She could visualize the pretty material hanging across her window frame. "As long as I can pay you back." She remembered making the same promise to Harry and Pearl about their bumper, one that she hadn't yet been able to keep. Her enthusiasm for the new valance dwindled.

  Nancy patted Claire's shoulder. "Please don't worry about that." She folded the valance, placed it inside the package, and tucked it under her arm. "I don't have any children of my own, and shopping for you is a real pleasure." She sniffed and rubbed her nose.

  "On to pictures now." Vivian's voice was curt. She led the way, pumping her arms as she walked.

  Was Vivian mad? Claire pushed Geraldine's wheelchair as both she and Nancy attempted to keep up with Vivian. She glanced Nancy's way. Nancy mumbled to herself and wiped away a stray tear. Claire was curious to know what had happened between the sisters. Would they ever tell her? She took a deep breath. She didn't have the energy to deal with Vivian and Nancy when she was confused about her own current emotions.

  Picking out a valance was easy compared to finding a picture for her walls. The difference in everyone's taste was overwhelming.

  Vivian held up a bold piece of contemporary artwork. "Claire, isn't this painting amazing?"

  It reminded Claire of a picture she made in the first grade. A stroke here, another colorful stroke there until there was no white showing on the canvas.

  "I'm thinking more subtle hues might be better." Claire shrugged a shoulder and continued flipping through the overlapping pictures on the display shelves. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Vivian's feelings. This shopping trip was more difficult than she could have imagined.