Page 2 of Speak from the Heart

“Nana, I think you need a break. How about some lemonade?” I’m sweating worse than Millennium Park’s fountain as I stand from my spot in the grass. The flower bed runs the length of the garage, curls around the property’s back edge that runs the expanse of the lot to the opposite corner and ends behind an old playhouse. My knees have grass stains. My nails are broken. As yard work was not on the itinerary when I packed, I’ve cut off an old pair of my grandfather’s pants and topped it with a former T-shirt of his—a white undershirt now colloquially referred to as a wife beater. What a horrible name for a piece of clothing. The pants are bunched awkwardly around my waist by a too-long belt and the tank is too loose. It’s not an attractive outfit. Dirt covers me everywhere.

I swipe at my front, only smearing more dirt across my chest. For some reason, my eyes drift to the house behind Nana’s. They are having their roof repaired, and one man on the shingles attracts my attention.

Jess Carter.

I’d met him yesterday when Nana put up a fuss about my grandfather’s radio. Surprisingly, this small town has a radio repair shop called Sound Advice. Cute name. I was able to find the location easily enough, and I dropped off the ancient electronic device. The entire process was nothing of significance, except for the way I was treated by the owner of the shop.

Cold. Distant. Rude.

And now he’s on the roof behind Nana’s house.

All I did was wave at his daughter, or the little girl I assume is his. A cute little blonde with waves of sun-bleached hair wearing a sweet floral dress. She was playing with a toy tea set at a miniature plastic kitchen in the corner of the entrance area. When I said I was from Chicago, the aura in the shop shifted. He scooped up his child and tucked her into his office as if I was some potential criminal or kidnapper.

Whatever.

I told myself I wouldn’t look up at that roof again once I noticed him earlier, but I can’t seem to fight the pull.

His sweaty back, glistening in the heat of the sun. Muscles etched and tense, the strength evident. His arms display just as much power as he hammers at the replacement shingles. And then there’s what appears to be a signature look for him—a short, straw-blond ponytail and bandana on his forehead. He’s a cross between who Brett Michaels used to be and who Chris Hemsworth still is. Both as hot as this day.

His sharp, denim blue eyes cut me with a glance yesterday, and I don’t need to see them today to recall he doesn’t like something about me. I don’t know why I’m even looking at him, as I prefer businessmen to tradesmen. A crisp suit and a smart tie are my thing. Not low-slung jeans, missing shirts, and that damn bandana.

No matter. I don’t have time for men or commitment.

“But aren’t you lonely for the real thing?”My sister sometimes asks me this after I tell her about another one-night stand or short-term relationship. She knows I am, but my career comes first. It’s my lover, my passion, and my soul mate.

With that thought, I remember my purpose. I need to set things back in order here and then get home. My home. Bright lights, big city. Chicago.

“Nana, let’s go inside for that lemonade and get you out of the sun.”

+ + +

Within twenty minutes, Nana is dozing in the warmth of her screened-in porch. The wrought-iron couch with faded cushions sits under three large windows, and the sunlight’s warmth makes this the perfect spot for a catnap.

I might kill for a nap myself, having not slept well last night in the old double bed I once shared with my sister. The room is a throwback to a time long gone. The four-poster bed. The three-drawer maple dresser. The chest of dolls. I had to throw a T-shirt over the china babies to settle my heart rate and hope to sleep despite them watching me. The room held not only antique furniture but years of memories, like a timeline of my life, captured in photographs. Silver frames and wooden stands held image after image of Grace and me as kids. Glancing over them, I recalled the one person missing from them: my mother. Her death was over twenty years ago, yet I still ache from her passing.

Shaking away my thoughts, I return my focus to the yard and sense someone watching me. I glance up at the roofers who haven’t seemed to pay me any attention. I’m just a haggard-looking creature fighting the weeds in this overgrown garden. My once-tight ponytail now hangs loose, and lax tendrils escape the band as I struggle with my mission. I swipe at my forehead with my wrist and feel the sensation of eyes on me again.

As I pitch forward and reach for the next victim of vegetation removal, I spy two blue eyes the size of miniature saucers through the scraggly bushes lining the back of Nana’s property. Tilting my head this way and that, I see my observer is none other than the child I waved at yesterday.

Despite her father’s ire, I wave at her again.

She runs away.

Well, that’s that. You’re even scaring the children, Emily. I push back the hair sticking to the side of my face and lean forward to pull the next weed in question.

Only, I feel eyes fall on me again and the distinct sound of hammering has stopped.

Bracing a hand against my forehead, I look up at the man peering down at me, blinding me like Helios, the Greek god of the sun. However, his eyes are not directed at me, but on the child returned to the edge of the bushes opposite me.

“Hello,” I call out.

She doesn’t respond, and for a second, I decide that’s a good thing. She shouldn’t speak to strangers, only the longer she looks at me, the more unsettled I become, and I crane my neck toward the playhouse.

“Would you like to play in the playhouse? Do you know my nana and her rules?”

The child with blond braids and another pretty dress of yellow stares back at me. Without a word from her, I continue.

“If you bring my nana a handful of flowers, you can play in her playhouse.” I nod in the direction of the old two-story but child-sized home built by my grandfather for Grace and me. It looks just as dilapidated as the rest of this place with a missing shutter and the white paint chipping in all kinds of places.