11
“The wood’s right solid on these pantry shelves,” Wally said, running his hand over the even planes of light oak. “It doesn’t make good sense to replace them. We could sand the gouges and such, and then repaint them to match your kitchen cabinets. Besides, your granddaddy built these, didn’t he?” He turned to Annie who stood with hands on hips studying the pantry’s interior, her fine brows drawn together in concentration.
This was one lady he liked. She’d been the one who gave him a boost when he really needed it. She was no pushover and demanded good work, but she was quick to praise his efforts. It made him want to do even better. When he’d broken his arm and couldn’t work at carpentry or repair, she’d gotten Todd to hire him on with his crew. Recently, she’d suggested he try his hand at crafting toy boats. He loved making them, and people were buying them. He owed her a lot.
“I trust your eye for wood, Wally. Let’s go for it, and I love the idea of keeping the integrity of Grandpa’s work.”
“Good oak’s not cheap,” Wally said, “but I can get unfinished boards and finish the shelves myself. It’ll save some money.” He whipped his tape measure from his belt and began to take the measurements. “The door will have to stay off for a few days while I’m working on the shelves.”
He looked up to see Annie’s houseguest in the doorway. Annie set a canister down on the table and motioned for Tara to join them. “I guess we can put up with exposed food for a while!” she said laughing. “Can’t we, Tara?”
Tara looked very young in her jeans and T-shirt with her hair drawn back in a ponytail. A few dark curls escaped the rubber band and coiled around her face. She held a tray of something in both hands. “I came down to get some fresh water for the cross-stitch canvases,” she said, addressing Annie. Then catching his glance she said shyly, “Hello.”
He nodded to her. “Ayuh.”
Wally knew Tara Frasier had been staying at Grey Gables. He guessed she was all right, but Annie was sometimes just too kind for her own good. From the corner of his eye, he admired Annie’s soft wheat-color hair and the way she moved gracefully as she carried plates from the cupboard to the kitchen counter. He felt a strong need to protect her—like when he’d beaten the stuffing out of that guy who had pretended to be some fancy antiques dealer but was nothing but a two-bit crook.
“Anybody home in there?” Ian Butler peered through the back screen door. “I brought the catalogs you wanted from the Cultural Center.”
“Ian!” Annie opened the door, quickly pressing her hand over her hair. “I didn’t expect you until this afternoon.”
“Have a two o’clock meeting at the town center—some urgent business the board can’t seem to put off. So I thought I’d better bring these over now as promised.” He stepped in and placed a stack of books and magazines on Annie’s counter. “Morning, Wally,” he greeted him. “Hard at work, I see.”
“Ayuh,” he acknowledged.
“There’s coffee left,” Annie said a little breathlessly. “I can bring it out onto the porch. Things are a bit messy in here.”
“Had my fill of caffeine for the morning, but I wouldn’t mind a glass of something cold.” Ian rested an arm on the counter and smiled at Annie.
“No problem. I can mix up some lemonade, Annie said. “Tara, will you get the red tin from that cupboard? Wally, you come on out too, and have some refreshment.”
“I want to get this door off first and finish these measurements. I’ll come out in a few minutes.” Wally smiled to himself. Annie always tried to include him. She never made him feel like the hired helper he was. But he didn’t want to intrude on her conversation with Ian. Besides, he had a sneaking hunch the two had a particular liking for each other.
Ian was a good man. Wally liked his down-home attitude; no fancy airs for him. His dress was casual too, though he kept his gray hair neatly trimmed and his pants pressed—except when he took off in one of Todd’s boats on a Saturday morning to haul lobsters. A real man’s man, Wally thought. He’d been alone a long time after Arianna’s death. It had hit him hard. He deserved someone as nice as Annie Dawson. Wally was sure of that. He moved the pantry door aside and propped it up against the counter.
“You go on. I’ll get the lemonade,” Tara said to Annie. “I think I can find the pitcher.”
“Even I could find a pitcher,” Ian said drily, looking around the gathering chaos of the kitchen. “The whole world will know what’s in your pantry, Annie. Nice to see you too, Tara.” He nodded in her direction. “How are things going at Carla’s?”