Rainbow's End. Irene Hannon

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СКАЧАТЬ inside her. Not in a dramatic way, like a crystal vase smashing into pieces on the floor. It was more like the network of fine cracks that spread across the surface of a piece of pottery when the protective glaze becomes crazed.

      Whatever it was, Keith didn’t have a chance to analyze it because she turned with an abrupt move and almost ran toward the back of the house. As she disappeared around the corner, her hurried footsteps sounded across a wooden surface before a door was opened—and closed.

      At one time in his life, Keith had been good at dealing with distraught people. They’d sought him out for his compassion, his understanding, his sensitivity. Well, those skills had deserted him today. He’d gawked at the woman, stared at her as if she was some freak in a circus sideshow. He’d been rude, tactless, inconsiderate, thoughtless…in other words, a jerk. Of all people, he should know better. He had plenty of scars of his own. They just weren’t visible. But if they were, they’d be as disfiguring as his landlady’s. Maybe more so. And how would he like it if they drew the kind of look he’d given her?

      The short answer was, he wouldn’t.

      The bigger question was, how did he make amends?

      It had been a long while since Keith had interacted enough with another human being to risk hurting their feelings. And longer still since he’d cared if he did. Yet for some reason this woman had breached the defenses he’d constructed around his heart. Perhaps because she seemed so…solitary. So alone and isolated. Not just in a geographic sense, but at a deeper, more fundamental level. As if she lived in the world but wasn’t part of it.

      For the past two years, Keith had felt as alone as he’d thought a person could feel. Angry and lost, he’d turned his back on a world and a God that had betrayed him. Yet he had a feeling that this woman, living in this isolated place apart from society, was even lonelier than he was. He also sensed at some intuitive level that she had accepted her solitary existence, knowing that her physical scars would never heal, shunning a world that looked on her with morbid curiosity and pity—much as he had done moments ago.

      That was the difference between them, he mused. When Keith had set out on his trek, he’d hoped his travels would help him discover a way to pick up the pieces and start over, healed and made new again. Although that hadn’t happened yet, deep inside he held on to the hope that it would. It was the only thing that kept him going. The notion of spending his remaining years in a vacuum devoid of all the things that had once made his life rich and full and satisfying was too terrifying. Yet he had a feeling the woman inside this house didn’t have that hope. But how in the world did she go on, day after day, without it?

      She wasn’t his problem, of course. He was just passing through, a stranger who knew nothing about her except her last name and marital status. And given her reticence, he doubted whether he’d learn any more. He ought to forget about her.

      Yet, as he picked up the hammer, climbed the ladder and set to work on the errant piece of siding, he felt a need to apologize. Trouble was, he didn’t have a clue how to do that without calling more attention to her scar and making the whole thing worse.

      Years ago, he would have prayed for guidance in a situation like this. But he didn’t have that option anymore. Instead, all Keith had to rely on were his own instincts. And considering how they’d failed him two years before, he had no confidence that they would help him rectify this situation.

      But as an image of the woman’s shattered face flashed once again across his mind, he knew he had to at least try.

      Inside the house, Jill stirred the simmering pot of soup she’d made at the crack of dawn, struggling to contain the tears that threatened to leak out the corners of her eyes. Don’t cry! she admonished herself fiercely. As her sister, Deb, used to say, she’d already cried enough tears to sink a ship. Too bad Deb wasn’t here now. In her no-nonsense way, she’d always helped Jill regain her balance when the world began to tilt. She’d done that a lot during the weeks and months after the fire, through the surgeries and treatments and rehab, always an anchor to hold on to when the pain and the grief became unbearable. If it hadn’t been for her older sister, Jill was sure she’d have given up and let the suffocating sense of loss overwhelm and destroy her.

      She tried to imagine what Deb would say if she were here. “Get a grip,” no doubt. She’d point out that the man’s shock had been a normal, human reaction, and that he hadn’t intended to hurt her. That once he got to know her, he’d forget about the scars that served as a constant reminder of the tragic night that had forever changed her world.

      Yeah, right.

      Although Deb meant well, Jill knew better. Oh, sure, people tried to act nonchalant once their initial shock passed. But they were never able to get past the scars. Even here, after two years. The islanders she saw on her trips to church or into the villages were nice. Too nice. That was the problem. They smiled too much, kept up a stream of chatter about inconsequential things, wished her a good day with bright smiles. They tried to act as if they enjoyed seeing her, but in truth they were glad when she left. She made them uncomfortable.

      That was just the way it was. The way it would always be. Jill thought she’d accepted that. Thought she’d learned to deal with it. Nowadays, when people stared at her, she felt nothing beyond a twinge somewhere deep in the recesses of her heart. It had been a very long time since anyone had managed to evoke even the hint of tears. Yet this man, a stranger who would soon slip out of her life as suddenly as he had slipped in, had managed to awaken a sadness that she’d long ago subdued. And she had no idea why.

      Yes, you do, a little voice whispered at the edges of her consciousness.

      Startled, she stopped stirring the soup and grasped the edge of the counter with her free hand, trying to suppress the answer that kept bubbling to the surface much as the herbs in her soup pot were doing. But the little voice wouldn’t be stilled.

      Because he’s a man.

      It was a truth Jill couldn’t dispute. Her tenant’s reaction disturbed her because he was a man. A scruffy one, no question. Not the kind of man she’d ever have looked at twice in years past. But he was close to her age. And his expression of shock, horror, pity and revulsion had clarified for her, if she’d ever harbored any secret hopes otherwise, that no man could ever look at her again as a desirable woman.

      Nevertheless, the strength of her response shook her. Jill had assumed that any romantic yearnings had died along with Sam. After all, she hadn’t thought about love once since then, not on a conscious level. Yet, if the reaction of an unkempt stranger could reduce her to tears….

      Taking herself in hand, Jill resumed stirring the pot with vigor and swiped the tears out of her eyes. This was just an aberration. Brought on by too little sleep during the storm-tossed night, she rationalized. As soon as he finished repairing her siding, the man would be gone. Peace would once more descend on her world. She’d have a little breakfast, pay a few bills, then spend the next few hours painting in her sunny studio upstairs. It would be a typical, quiet morning. The kind she always enjoyed and looked forward to.

      Except for some odd reason, thinking about her solitary plans didn’t lift her spirits at all. Instead, it depressed her.

      The aromas wafting through the kitchen window were driving him mad.

      As Keith banged the final nail into the siding, his salivary glands went into overdrive. Chicken soup. That’s what it smelled like. Homemade chicken soup. The kind his mother used to make, its enticing aroma greeting him when he came home from school. To this day, that simple meal always evoked happy memories of home and love and security.

      Too СКАЧАТЬ