Anything for Her

CHAPTER ONE



TOUCH DELICATE, Nolan Radek slid his hands over the broad slab of granite. He’d once been told he had the gift of “stone hands,” a description he’d liked. He closed his eyes, the better to feel instead of relying on sight. Silky smooth...no. The pads of his fingertips found a hint of roughness there.

Opening his eyes, he studied it, turned the sander back on and eased it over the spot, then tested again. Better. He stroked the entire slab, which would be a garden bench, and was pleased with the vinelike effect of the darker veins within a pale green base. Occasional splashes of rusty-red might be the flowers.

The client had asked for a bench that would appear part of the landscape, having the solidity of stone and yet surprising the eye when it picked the bench out from the surrounding greenery.

A diamond polishing pad added more gloss—not too much. Neither garden bench nor sculpture should have the mirror shine of a kitchen countertop, but it should be lustrous to the touch. Instinct and long practice told him when to stop.

The two massive chunks that would form the support had been left rough-hewn but for a few asymmetrical streaks of smoothed granite that highlighted texture and grain. He intended to polish only the part of the back that would come in contact with the human body. Contrasts in texture were part of nature.

Tempted to start work on that slab, Nolan reluctantly decided to wait until morning. He had a kid now, and it was time he put on dinner.

Besides, he was a little surprised that Sean hadn’t come out to the workshop since he got home from school. He was usually eager to help. Nolan supposed it wasn’t uncommon for foster kids to work hard to please in hopes they’d be allowed to stay.

Having removed his ear protection, Nolan ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head like a dog springing from the pond. Granite dust flew. He shed his coveralls, hanging them beside the back door, and used the utility sink to sluice off his hands and face. He checked to make sure everything was unplugged, turned off all the lights, then locked up and strode the short distance across the backyard to the farmhouse he called home.

After letting himself in the kitchen door, Nolan listened to the silence. Not that long ago, he’d been content to work alone all day, then go home to an empty house at night. No longer. But instead of calling for Sean, he went upstairs, lightly knocked on the bedroom door then pushed it open.

The boy was kneeling in front of his dresser. In a flurry of movement that seemed to hold alarm, he tried to poke something in the bottom drawer and shove it closed. His cheeks flushed.

“That your grandmother’s quilt top?” Nolan asked. He was careful to sound neutral, to pretend not to notice that Sean was embarrassed to be caught looking at it. Or had he been holding it, like a toddler with his blankie?

“Great-great-grandmother,” he mumbled.

“Right.” Nolan sat at the foot of the twin bed. “Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

He knew that it was damn near all this boy had in the way of a legacy from his family. From the sound of it, the only person who’d ever cared at all about Sean was the grandmother who’d taken him in when he was seven or eight, after his dad died.

He didn’t so much as remember his mother, didn’t even have a picture of her. Apparently she’d flitted off with some other man not long after her little boy took his first step.

The way Nolan had heard it, even though Sean’s grandma had been too old to raise an active boy, she had never considered consigning him to foster care. In death, she hadn’t had any choice. Unfortunately, his first foster placement had been a disaster. Nolan knew trust was going to be slow in coming.

The boy shrugged with exaggerated indifference. “Sure. I guess.” He pulled the drawer open again and took out the bundle of fabric, holding it up to Nolan, who checked to be sure he really had gotten his hands clean, then shook the quilt top out over the twin bed.

Like most men, he didn’t know much about quilts. But for some reason he knew he’d recognize a design called Log Cabin. He guessed it was a pretty common one, once upon a time. A woman could use just about any leftover fabrics she had around and still create something nice to look at.

His mother had kept an old family quilt rolled in a pillowcase in a cedar chest, which he thought was a waste. She claimed to want to preserve it. She’d called it Grandmother’s Flower Garden, he recalled. Tiny scraps of pastel fabric had been hand-pieced to make flowerlike circles. Nolan was glad Sean’s wasn’t that feminine looking. He had something precious to hold on to, and he could put it on his bed without embarrassment.

This quilt top was more geometric than anything, and had only two colors: a navy blue fabric polka-dotted with white, and plain white. Chains of small white squares linked bigger squares, all against the darker background. He couldn’t tell what it was meant to depict, if anything.

“I wonder why it never got finished,” he said.

“Grandma said supposedly it was the last one her grandma made before her arthritis got real bad.” There was a rhythm to the way Sean reported this bit of family wisdom; Nolan could tell that he was repeating what he’d heard, with the emphasis on the same words.

Nolan nodded, fingering the fabric. “I wonder if we could find someone to put it together. So you could use it on your bed.” He thought a boy who’d lost his family might sleep better warmed by a quilt his great-great-grandmother had made with love and handed down to her descendants.

Naked hope showed on Sean’s thin face. “Do you think there’s someone who would?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I can find out. I’ve seen a quilt shop in town that I think mostly sells fabric. I can stop by tomorrow and ask.”

“That’d be cool.”

Nolan ruffled the boy’s wheat-blond hair. “For now, why don’t you put it away. I’ll start dinner.”

“Are we having spaghetti?”

“I thought just hamburgers, if that’s okay. Maybe baked beans and corn.”

“Sure. You make good spaghetti, though.”

Nolan laughed at the broad hint. “I’ll make it later in the week, when I leave myself a little more time.”

Sean was carefully folding the quilt top when Nolan left to go back downstairs. As he located a can of baked beans in the back of the cupboard and took out pans, Nolan worried about what might have happened to make his foster son come home from school looking for comfort. Fourteen years old, a freshman in high school, he didn’t seem to have friends. He was a good-looking kid; there wasn’t anything obvious about him to draw scorn from his classmates. Living with his grandmother, he’d been in a different school district, but he’d been here for second semester last year, so he already knew some of the kids. Maybe everyone knew he lived in a foster home. Would he be looked down on?

Despite the amount of food he put away, so far Sean stayed skinny, but Nolan seemed to remember that being normal for teenage boys. Sean’s feet and hands were too big for the rest of him. But, damn, there’d been a time when Nolan had hardly been able to walk without tripping over his own feet, so he kind of guessed that was normal, too.

Sean had looked pretty raggedy when he first came to Nolan, and he’d admitted his clothes had mostly been acquired from thrift stores and even, a few times, from the charity that gave clothes to the really poor kids at school. That might make a teenager feel funny, wondering if someone would recognize the shirt he was wearing as their discard.

Give it time, Nolan decided. You’re fretting like an old lady. He’d only had the boy for a couple of months, and somehow he thought he should have been able to make everything right immediately. Snap, snap.

Faintly amused at himself, he put water on to boil and started husking the corn. Chances were good Sean had better social skills than he had. The kid would manage.

Feet thundered on the stairs, an encouraging sound. Sean burst into the kitchen. “I’m hungry! It’s cool you buy real hamburger buns. Grandma and me always just used bread. And it gets, like, soggy.”

Nolan grinned. “Glad you’re happy. Homework?”

“Yeah.” Sudden gloom. “It sucks.”

That all sounded normal to him, as well.

The water was boiling, so he dropped in four ears of corn then flipped the burgers. Damn, but he was hungry, too.

* * *

THE BELL HANGING from the door rang. In the middle of gathering tiny stitches onto her needle, Allie didn’t immediately look up. Her quilt frame was at the back of the shop, next to the large space where she taught classes, but allowed her a sight line to the front door. Some days she never had a chance to sit down or even reach for the needle, and most days there were bursts of several busy hours. But she almost always had a quilt assembled on the frame, with which she could contentedly fill the slow periods. The quilts she created herself inspired her customers, and she got excellent prices when she sold the finished work.

“I’ll be right with you,” she called.

Her customers were all women. Occasionally a husband would trail his wife in and hover, some patiently, some not so much, while she made her selections. Usually at this point many of the women would respond to Allie with something like, “That’s okay, I need to browse for a while anyway.” This time, there was no answer. Surprised, Allie finally lifted her head.

A man was making his way gingerly toward her, between the rows of bolts of fabric. For a moment she did nothing but gape at him. He didn’t belong, even more so than most men. She couldn’t decide why. He was good-sized, but not huge—maybe six feet or a little under, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, though not massive. Maybe what she was reading was his discomfort with being here.

He had brown, unruly hair and a plain, bony but nice face. Blunt cheekbones, a nose distinguished by a bump that suggested a long-ago break and eyes so blue Allie blinked in surprise.

She could almost sense his relief when he escaped the narrow aisles between tightly packed bolts of cotton into the clearing at the back.

She anchored the needle in the fabric. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” He stopped at the edge of the polished wood frame and gazed at the half-finished quilt with interest. “Well, isn’t that a beauty,” he murmured after a minute.

“Thank you. It’s a simple pattern called Lady of the Lake.”

“It’s the colors.” He seemed to be enthralled. “And the sewing you’re doing.”

“Quilting,” she corrected him. “This is what makes the sandwich of fabrics a quilt and not a comforter.”

She was happy with this particular quilt herself. She’d used all shades of purple, from palest lavender to deep, rich plum, interspersed with a red startling enough to define the blocks.

The man lifted a big, blunt-fingered hand and said, “Would you mind if I touched it?”

“Not at all. Come around here.” Part of the quilt was outside the frame.

He fingered it, seeming to savor the texture. He still held the corner of the quilt when he lifted his eyes, suddenly, to her face. They were not only vividly blue, they were penetrating. Allie had the uneasy feeling he was seeing more in her than most people did.

“Beautiful,” he said again, his voice deep and even a little gravelly, as if he ought to clear his throat.

Feeling her cheeks heat, Allie wondered if he was still talking about the quilt.

Get a grip.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for someone willing to do what you’re doing right now. We have this part—” he touched the top “—but the thing never got finished. I guess I figured these days the sewing—the quilting,” he corrected himself, “was done on a machine.”

“Machine-quilting is more common than hand-quilting like I do,” she agreed. “And most often, what hand-done quilts you see were made in China or somewhere else with cheap labor, and usually the stitches are big and fairly sloppy.”

He nodded slowly.

“I’d have to see what you’ve got to tell you whether it’s worth getting hand-quilted. How old is it? Was it hand-pieced? What’s it look like?”

His expression was mildly befuddled. “Well, it’s different than this. It’s only two colors, for one thing. Dark blue and white.”

She nodded encouragement.

“Little squares and big squares and...” He seemed to struggle to find the right words and finally shrugged as if giving up. “They form a pattern.”

Allie laughed. “There are quilts with one big picture in the middle or a giant star, something like that. Otherwise, a pieced quilt by its very nature ends up with symmetrical blocks.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not new.” He considered her, looking a little wary. Allie had the feeling he wasn’t much of a talker and probably not given to confiding in many people, and especially not a total stranger. But after a minute his face relaxed, as if he’d made up his mind. “I’ve got a foster son—he’s fourteen—and supposedly his great-great-grandmother made this quilt top. The story is that her arthritis had gotten so bad she couldn’t finish.”

Intrigued now by the quilt and not only the man, Allie calculated. “Um...if he’s right about the great-greats, it’s probably at least eighty years old, then. Maybe a hundred.”

“That might be.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Your work is beautiful,” he said simply. “I want you to do Sean’s quilt.”

Smiling, she shook her head. “I won’t make any promises. I do take on a project like that once in a while, but it has to be something special. Interesting enough for me to want to give it a great deal of time.”

“I understand,” he said, and looked as if he really did. “I’ll bring it to you.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him, let the thimble fall from her forefinger and held out her hand. “I’m Allie Wright. This is my store.”

“Nolan Radek.”

His large hand engulfed hers. She felt thick calluses, and saw nicks and healed wounds on the back of his fingers and hand. No banker or attorney here; these hands were well used, as hers were, though in a different way.

He didn’t seem to want to let her hand go. And for some strange reason, she wasn’t in any hurry, either. His grip was so warm and solid. They looked into each other’s eyes, neither of them smiling anymore. She’d swear she could hear her heart beating, as if it had taken flight. Breathless, Allie knew she’d never responded to a man in this way. And she didn’t even know him.

He finally released her, his reluctance palpable. He did clear his throat now. “It was good to meet you, Ms. Wright.”

“Allie.”

“I can come back tomorrow.”

“Good. I’m here until five.”

He nodded, studied her face one more time as if memorizing it, then turned and walked out. She saw his head swiveling as he went, as if he wasn’t so much uncomfortable now as intrigued by the raw material that went into a quilt like the one she was working on. If he’d been a woman, she would have guessed that she’d have a new student and customer. Of course, there were men who quilted, even if she didn’t know one, but...not Nolan Radek, she thought. Those large hands weren’t made for itty-bitty snippets of fabric or a teeny tiny needle.

She wondered what he did do with them that had earned him so many wounds. And then wondered what those hands would feel like on a woman’s body.

On her.

Her face hot again, she was grateful for the sound of the bell and the chatter of women’s voices. Leaving the needle and thimble where they were, Allie went to wait on her customers.

* * *

USUALLY EAGER TO start work come morning, Nolan got Sean out the door and poured himself a second cup of coffee while watching out the kitchen window as the school bus stopped out front then lumbered into motion again and out of sight along the winding country road.

He sat back down at the table, amused at himself. He’d asked his foster son for permission to take the quilt top into town for the shop owner to see, but he hadn’t said, I’m aiming to be there the very second she unlocks the door.

He and Sean hadn’t talked about girls yet. At his age, the boy had to be thinking about them a whole lot, but chances were good he’d be stunned if he knew his new foster dad had developed an instant crush on a pretty woman. Nolan thought it might be interesting to see how Sean would handle him dating.

Might be interesting to date, Nolan reflected. It had been a while. He’d never been very good at it. Women didn’t like having to wring every word out of a man.

Of course, there was no saying Allie Wright wouldn’t turn out to be married or at least committed already. Or not interested in Nolan. He didn’t believe that, though. The one moment, when it seemed as if neither of them could look away from the other, had to be mutual, didn’t it?

Instead of opening his workshop, he swept the entire downstairs of the farmhouse then dusted besides. Had to do it once in a while. He clock-watched the entire time, grabbing his wallet, keys and the bagged quilt top at quarter to the hour.

West Fork wasn’t a big town. It had been built on a bluff looking down on a fertile river valley in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains north of Seattle. Historically, the roots were agriculture and logging. Logging was pretty well dead as an industry in these parts, and agriculture was heading that way.

A few stubborn dairy farmers still hung on, and corn, peas and strawberries were the big crops on land that was too prone to flooding to ever be buildable. Otherwise, West Fork was increasingly becoming a bedroom community for Everett and even Seattle, as new developments were springing up on the outskirts of town. The Boeing plant in Everett was only a forty-minute commute.

Chain stores had popped up out by the freeway, but downtown had kept its character. False-fronted buildings housed antiques stores as well as an old-fashioned hardware store, real estate office, weekly newspaper office, barbershop and salon. The bowling alley was a busy place. Nolan had heard the one-screen movie theater might have to close, because the conversion to digital was too expensive. But he couldn’t remember when he’d noticed the quilt shop open—could’ve been here for a couple of years, he supposed. He was sorry he hadn’t had reason to wander into it a long time ago.

A parking spot was vacant right in front of the store. The Open sign hung in the door. He imagined it was still swinging from Allie having flipped it over.

When he stepped inside, the bell on the door rang. Today, she was up front behind an old-fashioned counter with a cash register. She looked up and smiled.

“Oh, good. You came back.”

“Said I would.”

Something crossed her face. A shadow? “People don’t always mean it.”

He nodded, agreeing even though when he said something, he did mean it.

She saw the grocery bag he held clutched in his hand. “You have it with you.”

Nolan only nodded again.

“Why don’t you bring it in back and we can lay it out on top of the quilt I have in the frame?” She came around the end of the counter and started toward the back of the store, Nolan following.

He hadn’t expected that same punch of attraction; after all, now he knew what she looked like. But there it was anyway. He hadn’t said much yet partly because he was having trouble catching his breath.

Damn, she was pretty. She looked... He didn’t know. Russian or Eastern European, with very dark, shiny hair and milk-pale skin. He doubted she could tan if she wanted. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones would make her beautiful even as an old lady. She wasn’t tall—perhaps five foot two or three at most—with the finest bone structure he’d ever seen. She had a long neck, exposed by the way she wore her hair, up in some kind of bun on the crown of her head. Like ballerinas wore theirs, he thought.

Nolan frowned. That’s what she looked like. A dancer. Graceful. Even her walk was a little different. The toes of her feet pointed out in a way that should have been ducklike but wasn’t.

And then there were her eyes, a rich mossy green with glints of gold.

He was looking into those eyes right now, Nolan realized. She’d come to a stop by her quilt frame and was waiting patiently for him to do something besides gawk at her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, holding out the bag.

Her cheeks were slightly pink when she took it. Unless it was his imagination, she was careful not to brush his hand with hers.

She took the quilt top out then drew a breath of what sounded like delight. She unfolded it, studied the back then gently spread it atop her own quilt.

Nolan looked at her face, not at the quilt. He could tell she felt the way he did when he found an unusual and beautiful slab of granite, one he could do something special with.

“Burgoyne Surrounded,” Allie said softly. “This is a mid-nineteenth-century pattern, supposedly based on a victory by colonial soldiers over British forces led by General Burgoyne during the Revolutionary War.” She glanced up. “All of which is probably apocryphal, since the pattern actually originated so much later. It’s a nice concept, though. Perfect for a boy. And how gorgeously made!” She lifted a corner and invited him to peer closely. “It was hand-pieced, and with incredibly tiny stitches. Whoever made this was an artist.”

“Will you do it?”

She lifted her gaze to him. “Yes. Oh, yes. With pleasure.” She hesitated. “I will have to charge you.”

“I assumed you would. This is how you make your living.”

“That’s right. Well, primarily with the shop, but I also sell my quilts.”

“Do you.” He’d noticed a couple draped in the window and one large one hung on a wall.

When she told him what she typically asked, he nodded. “That’s reasonable.”

“This quilt is sized for a double bed,” she said. “It would be possible to add a border if you want it queen-sized.”

Nolan thought about it. “Seems we should leave it the way it was meant to be.”

Allie smiled with approval. “I agree. Well. I’ll look forward to this. I may start right away at home. I have a frame there, too. Usually I have one quilt going there, one here.”

“Thank you. Sean will be excited.”

The bell rang up front and he realized someone had come in. He felt something like panic. Somehow he’d thought they would have more to discuss.

“I’m in back,” she called to the newcomer.

“No hurry,” the woman said. “I need to pick out my fabric.”

Allie folded and rolled the quilt top. “May I keep the bag?”

“Sure. Of course.” He was desperate to say something attention grabbing, but his tongue felt as if it had swollen in his mouth.

“There’s room for fancy quilting in these larger squares—” she touched the fabric the way he touched stone “—but my inclination is to keep it simple. Diagonal lines. Unless you wanted something different?” She lifted those green eyes to his.

“I trust you to do the right thing.”

She smiled, making her more than pretty. Beautiful. He couldn’t look away.

“Thank you,” she said. “Oh! I’d better get your phone number, so I can let you know when I’m done.”

He wanted her phone number. He cast a desperate look toward the new customer, who had her back turned and seemed engrossed in a row of calicos in various shades of blue.

“Allie...maybe you’re married or, uh, involved with someone....”

The prettiest pink he’d ever seen infused her cheeks. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Then...is there any chance you’d have dinner with me?”

Her eyes widened. “Tonight?”

He’d have liked nothing better, but he thought he’d better prepare Sean. “Maybe not tonight,” he said reluctantly. “Sean—my foster son—will come home expecting me to feed him. Does it have to be a weekend, or would tomorrow night work?”

“Tomorrow night would be lovely. Of course you can’t abandon your son without warning.”

He half expected her to want to meet him at the restaurant, but instead she readily offered her address, which he thought was in Old Town.

“It’s the carriage house,” Allie said, as if reading his mind. “The owners converted it into an apartment. I was lucky to get it.”

He nodded. “Six?”

“Perfect. I’ll look forward to it. But now I’d better go help that poor woman.”

Feeling big and clumsy, Nolan said, “Sorry. I’ll, uh, get out of your way.”

Allie laid her hand on his arm. Only for an instant, lightly, but he felt the touch down to the soles of his feet. “I’m glad you came. Glad you brought Sean’s quilt top. And really glad you invited me to dinner. You’re definitely not in my way.”

His shoulders let go of some of the tension. “Tomorrow, then.”

If no one else had been in the store, he might have succumbed to temptation and kissed her. As it was, he couldn’t. He only nodded and left, trying real hard to think about the Baltic brown granite countertop he was finishing for the Olsens’ kitchen and not about the color of Allie’s eyes.

* * *

“YOU SOUND like you’ve had a good week,” Allie’s mother commented. “Milk? Juice?”

Allie understood the segue, since Mom had the refrigerator door open. “Milk, please. Shall I drain the noodles?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A minute later, they were seated at the table in the dining room in Mom’s house. She was renting, too—they’d never owned a home since everything changed—but the rambler was newish and at least double the size of Allie’s one-bedroom, second-story apartment. Mom seemed content with it. She always insisted she wanted to have an extra bedroom available should Allie ever need it.

Allie waited until they’d dished up the stroganoff and green beans before commenting on her week.

“Receipts have been really good,” she said. “Saturday a group of ten women came in. They were from south King County, and they said they make regular expeditions from quilt shop to quilt shop looking for different fabrics. Every single one of them bought something, and two bought enough to piece big quilts. They all promised to come back.”

“That’s fabulous.”

“And, um, I met an interesting man.”

Mom looked up in surprise, her fork halfway to her mouth. “A man?”

“I think I’m insulted.” Allie tried to keep her tone light. “Yes, a man. Is it that unlikely a guy would be interested in me?”

“Where on earth would you meet one?” her mother asked simply.

Allie wrinkled her nose. “Okay, I’ll concede that you don’t get a lot of single men in a quilt shop. As it happens, this one did come into the store.”

Of course she had to explain. “I’ve already picked out fabric to back this boy’s quilt. It’s going to be stunning, Mom! I suspect it’s even older than we first guessed. Late nineteenth century, I think.”

Her mother laughed. “So the man is interesting because he brought you an intriguing quilt. I should have realized.”

“Well...I’m having dinner with him, too.”

Mom’s eyebrows went up. “Do you know anything at all about him?”

“He’s quiet and seems nice, and he has a fourteen-year-old foster son. Which suggests compassion.”

“Do you even know what he does for a living?”

“Nope,” Allie said cheerfully. “But I’ll be able to tell you more about him after tomorrow.”

Mom set down her fork. She waited until Allie’s eyes met hers. “You know this always makes me nervous.”

How could she help but know? And, deep inside, a small coal of resentment flared. “I’m always careful,” she said, trying to hide what she felt.

“Of course you are.” Her mother smiled at her. “I know it’s hard. I have the same problem, meeting new people. Of course I trust you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, that’s all right.” But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Allie was twenty-eight years old. She had now spent fifteen years of her life lying to everyone she met. Lying even to herself most of the time. But she had done it, because she had to. While she understood her mother’s fear, she also resented the implication that she had a big mouth. Or maybe that she was stupid.

“Well, you have a good time,” Mom said. “Goodness, most dates don’t lead to anything meaningful anyway! Chances are you’ll find you don’t have a thing in common.”

That was true, of course, but Allie was struck by the fact that Mom sounded as if she hoped nothing came of this date. Was her focus so entirely on protecting their secret that she didn’t want her daughter to fall in love and get married and have children? Because...well, was it possible to fall in love and start a life with someone while still keeping such a huge secret? Apprehension chilled her.

Later, after she’d gone home, Allie trimmed the selvage from the backing fabric of Sean’s quilt, then cut equal lengths, and thought about those disturbing feelings. Why had she never noticed before that her mother always said something like that whenever Allie started dating a guy? Even when she met a girl or woman she thought might be a friend, her mother had discouraging words, although to a lesser extent. And why had she never minded so much before?

Because I think Nolan might be different. The knowledge whispered through her. Because I felt something yesterday when he came in, and again this morning, that I’ve never felt before. As if it was more than attraction. As if they’d formed an instant connection.

Allie sat at her machine and began to stitch together the lengths of navy fabric studded with tiny white stars. She shook her head. Silly, that’s what she was being. Mom was right—by the time the waiter brought the check tomorrow night, she’d probably be bored to death and wonder what she’d ever seen in Nolan Radek, aside from those shockingly blue eyes.

A connection. She laughed at herself. Wow. Save the worries until she actually did fall in love.