The New Man. Janice Johnson Kay

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      Blinking, she realized she’d actually said it, not just thought it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jo wink and give her a surreptitious thumbs-up. Helen blushed.

      She raised her voice. “Um…Ginny? Jo’s here. Let’s go look at the art inside.”

      Ginny pointed the elderly woman toward Jo and joined her mother. “Okay. Can we get lunch after?”

      “Of course.” Helen put a hand on her shoulder and steered her out of the tent. “Ginny, meet Mr. Fraser. He’s on the committee putting on this fair. Alec, this is my daughter, Ginny.”

      “Nice to meet you.” He smiled at her. “I have a daughter not much older than you. Lily is eleven.”

      “Lily is a nice name.”

      “Thank you.”

      Her brow furrowed. “Are you coming with us?”

      “I thought I would, if you don’t mind.”

      The furrows deepened.

      Helen squeezed her shoulder meaningfully.

      “Okay,” Ginny mumbled.

      “Thank you.” Looking over the eight-year-old’s head, Alec met Helen’s gaze. His eyes were very blue.

      She felt sure she was blushing again, and hoped he’d attribute it to the heat.

      They made their way through the crowd toward the school, Ginny lingering at food booths to check out the choices, before they entered the cool building.

      A few people wandered about, looking at the children’s artwork and talking in low voices, but there were nowhere near as many as were outside. Helen had a long drink from the fountain beside the rest rooms. Ginny was already twenty feet ahead, crouching in that effortless way children have to examine a brightly colored picture that hung low on the wall.

      Alec looked at Helen’s mouth, then back to her eyes. “Feel better?”

      “Lots,” she admitted. “Crowds get to me.”

      “Claustrophobic?”

      She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe a little. Oh, I don’t know. I really enjoy selling, which is weird since I don’t exactly have the right personality. I work at Nordstrom, too.” As if he cared, she chided herself. But he looked as if he did, her shy glance told her. “But when it’s crowded like today, I can hardly take a breath between helping people. Not,” she added, “that I’m complaining.”

      “I didn’t think you were.” He stayed at her side as she slowed to look—oh, admit it! she was pretending to look—at some charcoal drawings.

      When she glanced at him again, she saw that he was watching Ginny, who had her head tilted like a bird as she examined something with intense concentration.

      “Is she artistic?”

      “Yes, actually she is.” Helen watched her daughter, too. “I think her drawing is really extraordinary for an eight-year-old. She takes it seriously. I wish…” She stopped.

      “You wish?” Alec Fraser’s focus, as intense as Ginny’s, was on her face.

      “Oh, just that I could give her more opportunities.”

      “I wonder,” he said thoughtfully, “if expensive art classes really are valuable. Your Ginny may learn more sketching on her own, without any pressure, than she would if she had lessons.”

      “I wish I could be sure.”

      Ginny had moved on to a case of what appeared to be ceramics. Her nose nearly touched the glass.

      “What parent is ever sure?” Alec’s tone was dry.

      “You said you have an eleven-year-old?”

      “And a fourteen-year-old son, who is in a sullen phase. I’m praying Lily doesn’t decide to imitate her brother.” His smile wasn’t quite a smile. “My wife died two years ago. It’s been tough on the kids.”

      Helen’s chest felt squeezed and her voice came out sounding thin, not her own. “And on you. I know, because I’m a widow.”

      They had both stopped walking and stood facing each other. His eyes narrowed. “When?”

      “Three years ago.”

      “What happened?”

      “Ben had a brain tumor. It was…drawn out.” Those few words barely began to hint at the agony of the two years that followed his diagnosis. “Your wife?”

      “Leukemia. She started feeling tired, went to the doctor, and six weeks later she was dead. That quick.”

      “You were very, very lucky then,” Helen said simply.

      His mouth twisted. “It…didn’t feel that way. But I know you’re right. If she couldn’t get better…”

      Her voice hardened. “Watching a person you love suffer is a living hell.” Especially when you knew you were the one responsible. The one who insisted one more treatment be tried, that—however irrationally—hope not be abandoned.

      “Yes.” That was all he said; all he had to say.

      Together they turned and started down the hall again, shoulder to shoulder.

      “You haven’t remarried?” he asked after a minute.

      “No.” She thought of all the things she could say, but chose not to. “You?”

      “No. I’ve barely dated. Helping the kids through this has consumed me. Linda and I were involved in starting up this arts and craft fair and administering the scholarships we give with the proceeds, but I didn’t even come last year. I just…couldn’t.”

      Hearing the anguish in his voice, Helen asked, “Did Linda come the year before?”

      Looking straight ahead, he talked. “Sick and shaking, she insisted. We both knew she was dying, but we pretended. She bought a hat to cover her bald head. She wouldn’t wear a wig.” He was silent for a moment. “She died eight days later.”

      “I am so sorry,” Helen whispered, reaching for his hand in an instinctive need to comfort.

      He glanced down in surprise, then turned his hand in hers to return her grip. The smile he gave her—tried to give her—was flavored with grief and lacked the charm of his earlier ones. “Thanks.”

      They were gaining on Ginny, who was spending long minutes in deep concentration on works of art that interested her. Helen gave his hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. The last thing she needed was to have to explain to her daughter why she was being so friendly with a man she barely knew.

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