Dan pulled out his wallet.
“Pah, forget about it,” Preacher said. “It’s just a cup of coffee between friends, man.” And then he was gone.
A few minutes later the door to the bar swung open and Cheryl said, “I’m here, Dan. I’m ready.”
He turned to look at her and smiled. She just got prettier all the time. He walked out of the bar with her, holding her hand. “I walked over—let’s jump in your truck,” he said. “Want me to drive?”
She handed him her keys and got in the passenger side.
“Still want to do this?” he asked her, when they were both in her truck.
Cheryl nodded. Cheryl had grown up in the house and it was one of many things she left behind when she moved away from Virgin River. She also left her morbid childhood, her alcoholism, her bad reputation and her perpetual failure. Her sense of hopelessness fled when she met Dan Brady. “Turns out I can do a lot of things when I’m with you.”
For a break on the rent, Dan had been renovating and upgrading her house. She’d seen it exactly one time since Dan had moved in, and that had been a mere month after she’d handed him the key. It had been greatly improved from the miserable dump it was in that short month, but she hadn’t been able to force herself to look at it again. Just walking through the door, even if it was changed and improved, was a fearful prospect for her. It brought back so many horrible memories. Cheryl had spent close to fifteen years mostly in a drunken stupor. And she wasn’t an ordinary drunk; she had been the town drunk.
As for Dan, he had his own ghosts. They were just different ones. He’d been a grower; he’d done prison time.
“You don’t have to do this,” Dan told her, holding her hand. “You can slap a for-sale sign on it without even going inside. The Realtor can give you a good idea what it should sell for with all the improvements.”
“I can do it,” she said. “I want to see it.”
“Are you sure, Cheryl? Because I want us to go forward. There’s no reason we ever have to be stuck in the past. Our pasts—we beat ’em. We just have to keep a green memory so we don’t walk back that way.”
She turned and smiled tenderly at him. She squeezed his hand. “I’ve been sober a year and change,” she said. “I feel good. My worst day sober is so much better than my best day drunk. I want to see the house, sell it, make a life with you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Then let’s do it,” he said.
They’d been together for more than six months. They were taking it real slow, one baby step at a time. They’d spent their first whole night together just a few weeks ago and now the long-term plan was to sell her house, begin building a new one on the edge of Virgin River. Since the lot they’d picked out wasn’t in town, Cheryl wouldn’t have to go in unless she wanted to. The decision to build there had more to do with Dan’s work needs than her preferences. Since going to work for Paul, his life had turned around completely. His income and benefits were excellent, but his days started early and ended late. There was also lots of overtime, which meant money in the bank. Living close to work would be an advantage for him.
They pulled up in front of the house and Dan got out and walked around the truck and opened the door for her. She put her hand in his as they walked up to the solid porch of a pretty little house. He opened the new front door and let her enter first. He had spent more than six months completely rebuilding her house so she could sell it and move on, and he was proud of his work. He couldn’t wait for Cheryl to see it.
She immediately remembered what that house was like when she had lived in it. She was thirty years old before she found her way out, but the memory flooded back to her. It had smelled so bad, for one thing. She couldn’t remember when it had ever been properly cleaned and her now-deceased mother had woofed down two packs a day so there had been a perpetual smoky cloud in the air. There had been so many gaps in the doors and windows that it was always cold through the winter no matter how high they turned the heat. She’d gotten used to things like ripped linoleum, missing bathroom tiles, cupboards without doors, nicotine stains on the windows and walls.
But today she looked at a pristine little house. The wood floors shone, the walls were textured and painted bright colors, the lighting fixtures were new. She walked into the kitchen—it was very small, but it was a masterpiece of wood, glass, granite and stainless-steel appliances.
The only furniture Dan had in the house were some bar stools pushed up to the newly constructed breakfast bar, bedroom furniture and one La-Z-Boy recliner in the bedroom—his reading chair. Sometimes his sleeping chair.
“Incredible,” she whispered. “Just amazing. You are so gifted. I can’t wait to see what you do on our house.”
He shrugged. “I had some help, you know. And I like to build. I was born into the trade.”
She pushed open the bathroom door—it was unrecognizable. Gone was the big sloppy shower and old pedestal sink and chain-flush toilet. In their place was a Whirlpool tub, separate glass shower, marble interior tile, sink and countertop. Dan had had to borrow one of Luke Riordan’s cabins for ten days while he gutted the bathroom and rebuilt it. Paul helped him wire it, Jack helped him plumb it, Preacher helped him cart in the tub, sink and toilet and install them. The four of them together installed and finished the cabinetry in one day.
That was the best part of the whole project—Dan now had friends, when a year or two ago he’d had no one.
And Cheryl’s support system through AA had grown and spread beyond that tight circle. After six months as a waitress she was now working at the community college in the cafeteria. She was taking two courses with the hope of one day getting her degree. Cheryl had moved out of her group home a couple of months ago and was renting a small apartment in a big old Victorian house that had been divided into three apartments. Her newfound independence was giving her confidence she didn’t know she had.
She turned full circle, looking around at the impressive remodel. While she’d lived here with her parents, her bedroom was little more than a shed pushed up against the house. Dan had poured a foundation, framed and rebuilt the room, complete with large windows. The washer and dryer had occupied a spot on the back porch; now that porch was framed, enclosed and had become a sunroom with a small, separate laundry closet at the far end. The nasty, dirty, falling-down heap of a house Cheryl remembered was a charming, beautiful little home.
“I can’t ever possibly repay you for this,” she said.
Dan pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It started out as an affectionate kiss that, as usual for them, deepened and became more passionate. “Aren’t you lucky? You don’t have to.”
She looped her arms around his neck. “Now what?”
“We get the Realtor to put up a sign. Chances are pretty good it won’t sell right away, especially this time of year. When it does, I’ll find something small to rent. When you’re ready—if you’re ready—we’ll start building something we can get old in.”
“Together,” she said. “When it’s time, I’ll be ready.”
Dan sometimes spent the night with Cheryl if he was invited, but they had no plans to move in together anytime soon. Long-range plans included getting engaged, finishing a small but perfect house on a nice lot, eventually getting married. Slow moves worked best for Cheryl, and Dan constantly reassured her that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Want to have lunch at Jack’s?” he asked her.
“Maybe eventually,” she said. “One thing at a time, okay?”
“No rush, baby,” he said. “You have friends here whenever you’re ready.”
“I know. I don’t deserve any of them, but I sure appreciate them.”
“Lucky for you,” he said again. “You don’t have to deserve them. Let’s go find food. Seeing you happy makes me want to celebrate.”
This Sunday afternoon for Vivian Duncan turned out to be a lot less relaxing than she’d counted on. She had planned to give herself a home-spa day—manicure, pedicure, facial, several hours lost in a good novel while she fluffed and buffed—followed by a nap! But the events of Sunday morning had been wildly illuminating and relaxation went right out the window. She recalled walking into Franci’s house that morning, with Rosie in tow, to come face-to-face with Rosie’s father. He was as handsome as she remembered, despite the bruise on his face. He’d been standing in the kitchen, shirtless, in only jeans and bare feet, looking for all the world like a Calvin Klein ad. Clearly he’d spent the night.
She had rushed Rosie out of there fast, giving the kids a chance to talk, but the second the coast was clear, she went back. She and Franci had had to speak cryptically and quietly in the kitchen; Rosie was in her bedroom with Harry, putting on her play princess gown and dressing Harry in a tutu.
“He’s back?” Vivian asked in a whisper.
“He sure is,” Franci said. “And he asked me not to tell Rosie about him till he gets his bearings. He’ll call tonight.”
“When did he turn up?” Viv asked.
“Actually, over a week ago, and I didn’t say anything because I wanted time to think about how I was going to handle telling him about Rosie. The past couple of days have been an emotional roller coaster.”
“Was there more than one way to handle it?” Vivian asked.
“Okay, Mom, let me be blunt—and I’m sorry if it hurts. I wanted to decide how I was going to handle it without any pressure.”
Vivian was quiet for a moment. Then she gave a sharp nod. “Nicely done. Blunt but not painful. You get that from me.” Franci grinned at her mother. Then she laughed. “Oh, good,” Viv said. “No crying. This is all going to work out, then?”
“Did you hear me?” Franci said. “I have no idea what’s ahead.”
“I just assumed your date last night was with T.J.,” Viv said with a chuckle. “But—”
“It was,” Franci whispered. “At dinner I told him that I’d run into Sean and explained the situation. He dropped me off early and told me to handle things and let him know when we’d worked out our single-parent issues. All the time he was saying good-night, I knew Sean’s car was parked across the street, the engine running. He was waiting for me to get home. I have a feeling T.J. isn’t going to approve of the way I worked things out. I let Sean stay the night…before I told him about Rosie…” She swallowed. “I don’t know who’s more upset with me—T.J. or Sean. T.J., because there’s another man in his territory, a man he didn’t know existed. Or Sean, because he thought he got his girl back, and he got a lot more than he bargained for.”
“Well, I’m sure you had your reasons…” Viv said.
“That’s just it—I had no sense of reason at all! I swear, all that man has to do is…”
“I’m okay with not knowing those details,” Vivian said. Then she fanned her face with her hand.
“I don’t know how it’s going to shake out,” Franci said. “I’ll work with Sean the best I can. I’ll give him time to think first. He made a point—he just found out I was pregnant while staring into the green Riordan eyes of a three-and-a-half-year-old.”
Once Vivian was caught up on all the news, she went back to her little house, leaving Franci and Rosie to their afternoon of chores and promised playtime. And when home alone, she placed a call to Carl’s cell phone and left a message. Carl, her significant other, was having a home day himself, catching up on chores and fixing a nice dinner for his kids, a boy aged seventeen and girl aged nineteen.
Carl and Viv were both ensnared in rather complicated family obligations that they balanced with a work relationship and romantic relationship, all with great care. Vivian had been widowed since Franci was seven, so it wasn’t considered weird or unusual for her to have dates; there’d been a couple of men in the past twenty-three years she thought might find a permanent place in her life, but they had not. Since Rosie’s birth, Vivian had been Franci’s partner in helping to care for and raise Rosie.