“What can I do to help?” Jake asked watching the muscle in her well-defined upper arm flex as she swung the hammer.
“All set here, thanks.” The redhead answered without even pausing to look at him.
Despite her cool behavior, Jake wasn't deterred. There was plenty that needed to be done and he sensed that she could direct him to where he could be most useful. “Then point me to where I can help. That's why I'm here,” he snapped back, his voice smooth but insistent.
The redhead stopped in mid-swing and turned to look at him, her gaze meeting his eyes. “That other window needs to be covered. I promised Mrs. Mitchell I'd take care of this before I go.” The woman nodded toward an open toolbox on the ground. “If you don't want to do that Mary could use some help down at the high school setting up the shelter.”
Jake didn't miss the coolness in the woman's voice, but he chose to ignore it. Jake grabbed the hammer from the tool belt around his waist. “Not a problem Ms...”
“Captain actually, Captain Charlotte O'Brien.”
This was the doctor the town administrator mentioned! Interesting. With the hammer from his tool belt in one hand, Jake extended the other toward Charlotte. “Jake Sherbrooke.”
Charlotte accepted his extended hand. “I know,” she said, her mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. “There is a lot to do. We better get back to work.”
She didn't wait for him to answer. Instead she went back to pounding nails and for the most part ignoring him. What is her deal, Jake wondered as he began working. It was obvious that she didn't think much of him. It wasn't a situation he ran into very often. Most people liked him, only occasionally did he come in contact with a wise ass who resented him for who he was -- or at least who they thought he was. Thanks to the Sherbrooke name and the media, most of the country thought they knew him. The media liked to portray him as a carefree playboy who never thought of anyone but himself. He let everyone believe it didn't bother him, even his family. But he resented it.
Forget about it. Everyone's under a lot of stress. That's all it is. With thoughts of Captain O'Brien pushed from his mind, he focused on pounding nails into plywood. He'd done the exact same thing on numerous occasions since starting the Falmouth Foundation, though the media always failed to include that bit in their stories about him. In fact, the media almost never mentioned the foundation when they did a piece on him. And when they did, it was as a side note. That didn’t surprise him; the American public preferred to hear about which actress he'd taken to the new movie premier or which model he'd taken to dinner.
Jake pounded the last nail into the wood with more force than necessary at the thought of the media vultures that seemed to shadow his every move. “All done with this one,” he said turning to look at the woman next to him. “Anymore?”
Captain O'Brien put the final nail in the board covering her window then turned to face him before her eyes looked over at the plywood he'd hung. As he watched she ran her gaze over his work and Jake guessed that she expected it to fall at any minute.
“No. All set here. Thanks for the help.”
“Where to next?” He saw no reason to stop working now.
For a minute she stood eyeing him, her lips pressed tightly together. “I need to get back to treating injuries but you can take your pick. The Larsons across the street need help or you can check down the street.”#p#分页标题#e#
Jake looked across the street to where a man wielding a chainsaw worked by himself. It looked like as good a place as any to help. “Across the street it is.”
He felt the doctor's eyes on his back as he crossed the front lawn to the edge of the street, but he ignored it. Too much work remained for him to worry about one person's opinion of him.
As Jake approached, a burly man with a long light-brown beard that reminded Jake of a younger version of Santa, killed the engine on his chainsaw.
“Need some help over here?” Jake stopped in front of the dismembered tree trunk.
The other man's eyes narrowed for a moment as he studied Jake and he knew the second the younger version of Santa recognized him. The man's eyes grew wide and his eyebrows shot up.
“Aren't you the President's son?”
“Please call me Jake.” Jake extended his free hand. “I'm here with the Falmouth Foundation. What can I help with?”
“Phil Larson,” the other man said accepting Jake's hand. “I could use some help covering up this glass slider. Damn tree went right through. If I don't get it covered today my wife won't sleep in the house.”
“Let’s get to it then.”