LOVING WAYS

Chapter One Excerpt

"Dear Lord! Help!"

Ken Dewitt stopped in his tracks as the piercing cry shot through the screen door. He dropped the edger on the sidewalk and bolted up the porch stairs.

"Annie! What is it?" he called through the screen.

Muffled sounds came from within.

"Where are you?" Ken called again. Then without concern for manners, he flung open the door and followed her cries for help to the second floor. Hearing the fear in Annie’s voice sent his memories pounding through him with each thump of his footsteps on the staircase.

Dashing down the hallway, Ken looked through the open doorways until he spotted Annie O’Keefe’s slender form crouching over a body lying on the floor beside a hospital bed.

"Pa," she called, her voice quaking.

His lungs knotted as he hurried to her side. "What happened?"

She struggled for control and rose, shaking her head, her arms flailing with confusion, tears rimming her eyes. "I don’t know, but I think he’s breathing."

Enveloped in the odor of medicine and illness, Ken squatted, feeling for the older man’s pulse. His two fingers slid along the wrist until he detected a steady beat. "He’s alive."

At Ken’s words, the man’s wrinkled face grimaced and two pale grey eyes fluttered open. "Who are you?"

"Your landscaper, Mr. O’Keefe. Ken Dewitt."

Annie hovered above him, her fair skin paled more with concern. "You’re okay, Pa."

The older man’s face twisted as if sorting out their words. Then his eyes narrowed, and he frowned as if he’d found himself in some kind of diabolic situation.

"You fell out of bed. . .it seems," Ken said.

A faint harumph rattled from the older man’s throat. "You’re no doctor, are you?" His dazed eyes shifted from side to side until he spotted Annie. "What happened, girl?"

She released a sigh and knelt beside Ken. A whiff of sweet fragrance washed over him. "I don’t know, Pa. I think you fell out of bed like he said." She brushed her trembling fingers across her father’s creased forehead.

"I didn’t fall," her father said, his voice stronger. "I tried to get up. I need to use the bathroom."

Annie shot up, propping her fists against her trim hips. "You’re not to get up alone. You know that."

She shook her head and gave Ken a hopeful look. "Can you--?"

"Let me handle this," Ken said, shifting around to brace the man’s shoulders and help him to a sitting position. Ken eyed the man from behind. "You have a knot on your head, sir."

The older man jerked his arms sideways, whacking Ken’s shin with a sharp elbow, and felt the lump.

Pain rolled up Ken’s leg as memory took him back years earlier to his father’s wallops across Ken’s ears. Slamming the door of his past, he stepped aside while Annie inspected the lump with her fingertips.

"Looks like you might have knocked yourself out for a minute," she said while her gray eyes searched Ken’s in question.

Her father cringed and gave her a glowering look. "I don’t remember nuthin."

"I’m calling an ambulance, Pa," Annie said. She gave Ken a knowing look as if she were prepared for her father’s typical response.

"Like the devil, you will." He wriggled from her grasp.

Annie shrugged. "This is my life."

Ken eyed her father, still feeling the throb in his shin. The duffer might be weak, but he wielded a mighty strong elbow. "Let me get behind you, Mr. O’Keefe and I can help you up."

Annie’s father stopped fighting and allowed Ken to boost him upward into a standing position while Annie waited.

When he’d balanced himself, the older man rested his arm on his daughter’s shoulders. "Now...can I go to the bathroom or should I go right--"

"Pa, don’t be silly."

His muscles tied with frustration, Ken looked at Annie, as pretty as a flower, and sensed the daily stress she endured just as his mother had done for so many years. Death had been a gift to her. But Annie didn’t give in to his tirade. Ken saw her straighten her back ready for a well-seasoned fight.

"Let me," Ken said, moving in place and bracing the man’s unsteady weight through the doorway to the bathroom across the hall. Once Ken settled him inside, he backed out and pulled the door closed to give him privacy.

"I’m so sorry," Annie said, resting her back against the doorjamb across the hallway, her fair complexion flushed with seeming exasperation, her otherwise pleasing face lined with years of stress. She ran her hand along the nape of her neck beneath a knot of hair and looked at him with tired eyes.

At first, Ken passed it off with a shrug, yet felt nudged by a rising desire to put his arm around her to offer some support. He withdrew from his thoughts and cleared his throat. "Glad I could help."

She nodded a thank you. "I’ve told him so many times to let me know when he needs the bedpan." Annie shifted her hand from the back of her neck and rubbed her fingertips along her temple where small lines crinkled around her eyes. "It’s frustrating. I’m not as young as I used to be. I can’t support his weight unless he’s having a good day."

Ken thought about her father’s "good" elbow, but kept the joke to himself. Without help, how could she give her father the care he needed? Annie’s problem had become his own since he’d felt drawn to her. He’d been fighting the feeling for months.

"You might want to find a place...." Looking at her strained expression, he stopped and switched direction. "You might want to...give me a call if you need help. You have my phone number." Hearing his offer startled him.

Annie’s tension seemed to melt, and her expression softened. "You’re our landscaper, not a doctor...but thanks."

"I mean it, Annie. Call me." Ken listened to his words echoing in his head and wishing he hadn’t become so helpful. Almost sappy.

The toilet flushed, and Ken waited a moment, then tapped on the door before pushing it open. The man clung to the basin, rinsing his hands under the tap. The familiar scent of soap filled the air.

"Thanks," her father mumbled, his voice gentler.

"You’re welcome, sir," Ken said as he bolstered the man against his side and aided him back into bed. Sir seemed the only touch of dignity he could offer the man.

Her face set in a frown, Annie watched him from the side, adjusting the bed sheet and smoothing his blanket.

Ken stepped backward, gave her a nod, then turned and passed through the doorway. He’d leave Annie and her father alone. As the elderly man pointed out, Ken was no doctor. He wasn’t even family.

Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, Annie called his name. He turned and looked toward her.

She moved down the staircase. Her platinum hair had been caught back in a clip and wisps had escaped to nestle against her rounded, flushed cheekbones. When she reached his side, he longed to brush the strands into place.

"What can I do to thank you?" Annie asked.

A strange sensation rolled through Ken’s chest. He shook his head, surprised by the thoughts that filled him. He had no answer and continued down the stairs.

She followed, and at the bottom, she stepped past him, leaving her familiar flowery-scented trail. When she turned, the muscles in her face had relaxed and her lips curved into a meager smile. "Want to sit a minute?"

"Maybe later, Annie." Needing to escape, he grasped the screen door handle and offered the first excuse he could think of. "I left my equipment outside. Someone could walk off with it."

"Oh. Yes," she said.

Ken sensed disappointment in her eyes. Why couldn’t he relax and take time to talk with her? They’d done that many times when he found her sitting on the porch as if waiting for him when he showed up to service the trees and shrubs. Sometimes he’d stopped for himself. Just for someone to talk with. He liked her. . .but he couldn’t get involved even though his heart didn’t want to agree.

He pushed open the door and eyed his gear still sitting where he’d left it. Taking two steps at a time off the porch, Ken reached the ground, and when he glanced over his shoulder, Annie watched him from behind the screen. Her loneliness made him ache.

Annie studied Ken a moment before turning back inside. After she stepped away from the sunlight, the gloom inside the house stifled her spirit. When she could, Annie liked to be outside when Ken arrived so they had a chance to talk. If she were honest, visiting with him often seemed the best part of her week.

The hedge trimmer sparked to life and it’s buzz droned into the house. As Annie made her way to the kitchen, the sound seemed to follow her, and she looked out the back window to see Ken striding along the yard’s edge, his corded arms flexing as he guided the trimmer along the shrubs.

In Michigan’s glaring May sun, Ken’s strong jaw was darkened by a five o’clock shadow that gave him a rugged look. The deep cleft in his chin appeared as a shadow below his firmly set mouth. Through the window, Annie noticed perspiration that beaded his face and splotched dark hues on his blue T-shirt. Since the first day she’d hired him, Annie found him appealing in a dark brooding way.

Feeling like a peeping Tom, she straightened the curtain and shifted to the refrigerator. She opened the door and pulled out the lemonade container, partially filled, then opened the freezer and drew out a can of concentrate. She would top off the pitcher just in case Ken wanted something to drink when he finished.

Emotion knotted in her throat. A mature woman shouldn’t grapple for conversation or friendship, but caring for her father had taken a bite out of her social life.

Social life? Who needed it? She hated feeling sorry for herself. Besides having little choice, she wanted to take care of her father. One of his children should...and she was the only single one of the bunch. Annie had long given up on the idea of marriage. Who’d want to marry a forty-two year old woman tied to her father’s illness? She hated that issue, too, and dismissed it as self-pity.

The trimmer silenced, and Annie waited, not wanting to look like an over-anxious teenager. She monitored her eagerness until she felt certain Ken had reached the front. She took a deep breath before ambling toward the front door.

Ken stood behind the truck, loading his equipment into the bed. He mopped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief, then shoved it into his back pocket before returning up the sidewalk toward the pruning debris, his gaze sweeping the shrubs as if making a final inspection.

Overpowering the urge to dart onto the porch, Annie inched open the screen and leaned against the frame.

Ken’s gaze lifted, and he gave her a nod. "Does your offer still hold?"

Pleasure settled over her. She hadn’t wanted to ask again and hear another refusal. "Sure. Come in when you’re finished. I made some lemonade."

He nodded and went about his business.

Annie returned to the kitchen and filled two tumblers with ice, then added the liquid. She had baked oatmeal cookies that morning and filled a plate, then set it on the table and rested against the counter to wait.

A few minutes later, she heard a rap on the door followed by the screen door’s faint squeak.

"In the kitchen," she called. When she heard his footsteps in the hall, Annie swept away the hair from her cheeks. Ken came into sight, and she smiled, motioning toward the table.

He sauntered in, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"You can wash up if you’d like." She pointed toward the small half-bath off the back entry.

He followed the direction of her hand with a nod.

She watched him stride across the room, the scent of sun and cedar filling her senses. Amazed at her exhilaration, Annie lifted her tumbler and pressed the icy glass against her cheek. Again her confidence took flight with her lack of social life. Ken had filled her dreams too often, and she had to remember the fantasy was hers, not his. She’d so often sensed his reserve.

In a moment, she heard his footsteps and sank into the chair as he returned. "Here you go," she said, sliding the lemonade across the table toward him.

"Thanks." A soapy fragrance followed him to the table. He lifted the glass and took a long drink. "Hits the spot."

He’d nearly downed the liquid in one gulp, and Annie rose and brought the pitcher from the refrigerator. She filled his glass and set the container on the table.

"Guess I was thirsty." His gaze captured hers while he took another sip. When he finished, he settled into a chair. The craggy creases in his face hinted of some unknown deep emotion—-hurt, betrayal, something that roused her curiosity.

© 2003 Gail Gaymer Martin