Man With A Mission

He took several paces away from Jackie, as though he found her distasteful. “When? I don’t remember once in seventeen years.”

“Yes,” she replied. “I did… That day.” She struggled to maintain control, as everything inside her shook with emotion and old pain.

And new pain.

“I tried to explain why I couldn’t go with you,” she went on, “but you—”

“You said you thought it’d be better if you stayed behind,” he interrupted, taking several angry steps back to her. “You never once mentioned—”

“You talked over me,” she told him quietly. “You didn’t give me a chance. Then you stormed away.”

“Well, what about the seventeen years since?” he roared at her. “Why didn’t you call or write?”

Oh, God, she thought, steeling herself. Anguish squeezed her lungs and made air escape in a painful sound. She had to pull herself together. The hard part was coming….

Dear Reader,

Some women respond to the dreamer hero in romance novels, while others are attracted to the footloose wanderer. Many have an affinity for bad boys, and some want to make a home for the wounded man in need of a woman with just the right antibiotic.

Personally, I have a thing for the hero with purpose. I like the man who knows what he wants in a woman and goes after her with confidence, determination and just enough vulnerability to leave me wondering whether he’ll get her or not. In real life, I’d be offended if my husband behaved as though he had all the answers—particularly because I never seem to have any. Life is a mystery that confounds and confuses me every day. But in my dreams—or in my romantic fantasies—I love to think there’s a man out there to whom life is a clear, straight path to the woman he cherishes, and he’ll let nothing, including her confusion, get in his way.

This is your introduction to Hank Whitcomb, just such a man.

I wish you all good things.

Muriel

Muriel Jensen

P.O. Box 1168

Astoria, Oregon 97103

Man with a Mission

Muriel Jensen

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

HANK WHITCOMB STARTED backwards down the stairs in his office building, supporting one end of a heavy oak table that served as his desk. Bart Megrath, his brother-in-law, carried the other end.

“Whose idea was it to move your office anyway?” Bart asked. “And why is everything oak? Don’t you believe in light, easy-to-clean plastic?”

“The move was my idea.” Haley Megrath, Hank’s sister, brought up the rear with an old oak chair. “If he’s going to bid on City Hall jobs, he may as well conduct business from one of their new rental spaces in the basement instead of in this derelict old mill a mile outside of town.”

Hank was counting. Twelve steps—eight to go. “It was my own idea,” Hank insisted. Thirteen. Fourteen. “You just agreed that it was a good one.”

“I’m the one who told you the City had decided to rent spaces.”

“And when you told me, I told you that Evelyn Bisset had already called me about it.”

“So, the suggestion had more punch coming from Jackie’s secretary.” Haley’s voice took on a deceptively casual but suggestive note. He refused to bite. He would not discuss Jackie Bourgeois. He’d neither forgotten nor forgiven her. It was unfortunate that she was mayor at this point in time, but she was. Still, there was little chance they’d have to deal with each other. The city manager handled the bids on city hall repairs, so Hank would be doing business with him.

“Hey,” Bart said with a grunt. “Let Haley take the credit. Electrical power comes and goes in that ancient building, and the roof leaks. When the time comes that you regret moving Whitcomb’s Wonders out of Chandler’s Mill and into City Hall, you can blame your little sister.”

“Hey!” Haley complained. “How’d you like an oak chair upside your head?”

Hank had reached the bottom of the stairs, but the hallway was too narrow for him to put the table down so they could catch their breath. He turned the bulky piece of furniture onto its side and aimed himself carefully out the door, angling the table so that Bart could follow with the legs at his end.

Snow flurried from a leaden sky, and Hank was instantly assailed by the cold of a western Massachusetts March afternoon, its harshness blunted by the delicious freshness of the air. Old snow crunched underfoot as he headed for the dark green van he’d bought to start his new life.

“Is this going to fit in there?” Bart asked, their pace considerably quickened now that they were outside.

“I measured it.” A former engineer for NASA, Hank checked and rechecked even the smallest detail of any project he undertook. He put down his end, climbed into the van, then reached out to pull the table in. He’d removed all the van’s seats to make room and now backed his way toward the driver’s seat as Bart lifted up on his end and pushed the table under the hatch door.

It was a snug fit. Bart took the chair from Haley and slipped it sideways between the table legs.

“Is this it?” Bart asked. “We’ve got a little room under the table. What about those files you had in boxes on the floor?”

Hank climbed over the front seat and let himself out the passenger door. Bart and Haley came around the side. “No, I’ll take those tomorrow. I’ve got to clean them out tonight. You guys go back to work and I’ll meet you for dinner at seven at the Yankee Inn.”

“I told you you don’t have to take us out to dinner,” Haley protested.

Bart had an arm around her and his thumb, Hank noticed, was unconsciously stroking the curve of her shoulder. In jeans and a fleece sweatshirt, her dark hair in one long braid and her cheeks pink from four hours of helping haul his office furniture up and down stairs, Haley looked about fourteen.

Bart had been good for her, Hank thought, though when he’d sent his friend to get her out of jail last August after a crisis on a space mission prevented Hank from leaving, he’d never imagined that his best friend and his little sister would fall in love. Haley still had the fearlessness that had encouraged her to challenge a crooked mayor and end up behind bars.

The sweetness she’d lost that fateful night five years ago when she and her fiancé had been attacked by thugs and he’d broken free and ran, abandoning her to her fate, was finally back. Thanks to the timely arrival on the scene of an off-duty policeman, she’d been rescued, though not before she’d lost her faith in men. But Bart had restored it. Hank saw implicit trust in her eyes when she looked into Bart’s face—as well as a hot, almost embarrassing passion that made Hank green with envy.

The lack of a personal life was part of the reason Hank had decided to come home to Maple Hill. NASA had hired him right out of the University of Southern California, and he’d spent the next fourteen years devoted to assisting in the exploration of space. One day six months ago, after he’d been up seventy hours when one of their space missions encountered a control problem, then finally landed safely, he realized he had no one to celebrate with. There were co-workers who understood the engineering problem and could share his happiness and relief that the astronauts were safely home. But there was no one who really knew what was in his heart.

He had girlfriends, party friends, who shared the intimacies of a bed without really caring about his thoughts and feelings.

He’d once believed that was freedom. Now he knew it was simply loneliness.

There was no one who knew about the warnings that filled his head—“You’re not as good as you think you are. You’ll fail just like the rest of us. But your high and mighty attitude will make you fall so far, you’ll dig a hole when you land.” No one who understood that every day was a struggle to live down the sound of his father’s words. No one who grasped the depths of his relief every time he proved the voice wrong.

Fortunately, an interest in electricity, which he’d probably inherited from his father, led him to a summer job working with an electrician in high school, and apprenticeship summers while he was in college. When he’d decided to change careers, getting licensed had been a simple thing, and his hobby turned into his livelihood.

“I want to take you out,” he insisted. “I couldn’t have managed all this in one day without you. Make sure you bring Mike.”

Mike McGee was a fifteen-year-old boy who helped Haley at the Maple Hill Mirror, the weekly newspaper she published. She and Bart had acquired custody of him when his mother went to jail.

“He’s got an overnight with some friends from the basketball team. The kids are going to have a booth during the Spring Festival. The coach and his wife are hosting them this weekend so they can plan their strategy. Eleven fifteen-year-old boys. Can you imagine?”

He couldn’t. Kids in general were not his forte. He liked them fine, he just thought every child deserved more tolerance and understanding than he felt capable of. They were mysterious little beggars, and he’d been an engineer. Specific rules applied to specific situations for specific results.

Even now that he was an electrician, the approach was the same. There was little mystery involved. If you held on to 120 volts, you fried. It was as simple as that.

“How are you going to unload this when you get to City Hall?” Bart asked, pointing to the table.

“Mom’s there, straightening things up for him,” Haley said with a grin. “She’ll just order the table to get inside on its own power.”

Bart laughed. “I can see that happening. But on the chance that doesn’t work…”

“Trent promised to stop by and help me,” Hank said, pushing the passenger door closed.

“Trent?” Haley asked.

“The plumber I hired yesterday. Seems like an all-right guy.”

“And what’s his story? Why is he joining your troupe of part-time tradesmen?”

“He’s getting his MBA from Amherst, but wants to work part-time. Says school’s too cerebral. He needs the hands-on work to stay grounded.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me to do a story on Whitcomb’s Wonders?” Haley asked for the fourth or fifth time. “It’d be good for business, and the public would love to know about a service that can fill any need out there at a moment’s notice. How many men do you have now?”

“Seven.” He didn’t have to stop to think. He was surprised himself by how good his part-time help idea was. He’d started the business at the end of September, and by Christmas had employed five men who were surprised and pleased by the notion of working part-time while they pursued other careers, cared for their children, went to school. Evan Braga, a house-painter, signed on in January, and now Cameron Trent rounded out a pretty impressive roster. “We can do wiring, plumbing, landscaping and gardening, furnace repair, janitorial work, insulation and house painting. But I doubt that any of my guys is anxious for publicity.”

Haley grinned. “It might get them girls,” she cajoled.

He rolled his eyes at Bart. “Why is it they think we have nothing else on our minds?”

“Maybe because trying to guess what they want,” Bart replied, “takes so much of our time and concentration.”

Haley punched Bart playfully in the stomach. “I’ve told you over and over. Full-time attention and expensive jewelry.”

Her wedding ring of pave diamonds flashed as she punched him, and Hank concluded that Bart must have gotten the message. Or else he loved her so much that what he couldn’t say with words, he spoke with diamonds.

“Thanks for the offer, Sis,” Hank said, walking around to the driver’s side. Bart and Haley followed him. “I’ll buy an ad instead to announce the opening of my new office.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll give you the ad.” She hugged him tightly. “A good half page in the TV section so it’ll be seen every day. Think about what you want in it. A photo of all of you would be good. We don’t have to go into details, just let the town see you have a competent force.”

“Okay. That sounds like a good idea. I’ll see how the men feel about it.” Hank shook hands with Bart, then climbed into the van. “See you at dinner. You’re sure you wouldn’t rather eat at the Old Post Road Inn? The menu’s a little more elegant than the Yankee.”

Bart opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Haley said, “The Yankee’s great. I’m in the mood for their pot roast.”

Bart sent him a subtle smirk over her head. She was as transparent as cling wrap. The Yankee Inn had been in Jackie Bourgeois’s family for generations. Her father had retired two years ago, leaving her in charge. Haley wanted them to bump into each other.

“The Yankee it is,” he said with a cheerful smile, pretending he had no idea what she had in mind. He’d studiously avoided Jackie for the six months he’d been home, afraid she’d see the feelings he couldn’t control, even though she’d broken his heart all those years ago. He didn’t want to care and never intended to do anything about it. He just couldn’t help that he did.

He’d run into her by surprise on only two occasions—once in the dentist’s office when he’d been walking out and she’d been walking in with two very grim-looking little girls in tow. He knew they were her daughters. Erica was ten, his mother had told him. And Rachel was six.

The second time was at the grade school when he’d been called in to replace a faulty light switch in the cafeteria. She’d been chatting cheerfully with other mothers who’d gathered there with classroom treats. He’d looked up at the sound of her laughter, startled and weirdly affected by the fact that though everything else about her had matured in the seventeen years since they’d been high-school sweethearts, that hadn’t. It was still high-pitched and infectiously youthful.

He’d also noticed her pregnancy. Her stomach was bulbous, her cheeks a little plumper than he remembered. But her strawberry-blond hair had looked like Black Hills gold, her complexion porcelain with a touch of rose.

The moment her eyes had met his, she’d disappeared into the pantry area, the swift turn of her back coldly adult.

She had no use for him. Which was fine with him. He had no feelings left for the woman who had loved him as though he was her whole world one moment, then refused to share her life with him the next. If she was at the Yankee Inn tonight, he was sure she’d be as eager to avoid him as he was to stay clear of her.

Comforted by that thought, he turned the key in the ignition, waved at Haley and Bart, and headed off toward downtown Maple Hill.

He was amazed by how comfortable he’d felt coming home to this quiet little Connecticut River valley after being away for so long. If Jackie Bourgeois didn’t live here, he thought, it’d be perfect.

Judging by outward appearances, very little had changed in Maple Hill in over two hundred years. Realizing that its cozy, colonial ambience was its stock-in-trade when tourists visited, the local merchants’ association with the aid of City Hall had done everything possible to maintain the flavor.

The road to town was lined with old homes in the classic saltbox and Georgian revival styles and set back on spacious lawns, their trees now naked against the sky. Old barns housed businesses, and old inns had been refurbished.

Houses were built closer to the street as Hank drew nearer to town. Some of the cobblestones were still visible, and the streetlights looked like something out of Old London.

Maple Hill Common, the town square and the heart of commercial downtown, boasted a bronze statue of a Minuteman and a woman in eighteenth-century dress, surrounded by a low stone wall. Around the square were shops that looked much as they had in the 1700s. A 50-star flag and an old colonial flag with its thirteen stars in a circle flew from a pole on the green.

The sight never failed to move him. He felt connected to a historic past here, while bound to a town looking toward the future. You could buy a mochaccino, high-tech software and designer clothing, or sniff oxygen in a bar if you so desired. Maple Hill was quaint, but there was nothing backward about it.

Hank pulled into a parking spot on the City Hall lot, pleasantly surprised that it hadn’t already been claimed. The spot next to his held a red Astro van and a sign that read, THE MAYOR PARKS HERE.

He turned off the engine and retrieved his key, annoyed that thoughts of Jackie interrupted his pleasant musings on the good life he lived here. But he’d better get used to it, he thought philosophically. He might not have to deal with her, but he was bound to run into her more often with his office in City Hall.

SUICIDE HAD SO MUCH APPEAL, Jackie Bourgeois thought as she put a hand to the rampaging baby in her womb. She would do it with a dozen Dulce de Leche Häagen-Dazs bars, pots of caffeinated coffee and several bottles of Perrier-Jouët champagne—all the things she hadn’t been able to touch since she’d found out she was pregnant.

She’d have to wait until the baby was in college, of course. Responsible women simply didn’t walk away from their problems. The Yankee ethic wouldn’t allow it.

By the time the baby was eighteen, Erica and Rachel would be married and able to provide for him when he came home on school breaks. They wouldn’t even miss her. They were all convinced her sole purpose in life was to make them miserable anyway.

Her father loved her, but he’d made his life without her and the girls since her mother died several years ago. He’d bought a place in Miami and often forgot to check in with his family as he embarked on new adventures.

And two of the city councilmen wouldn’t miss her, except as someone to accuse of feminine ignorance or heartless female highhandedness, depending upon which complaint best suited their current disagreement. At the moment she was a harpy for renting space in the basement, a capitalist venture they considered beneath the dignity of city government.

Holding on to the railing, Jackie made her way carefully down the basement steps, checking on the city’s two new tenants as a way of avoiding the councilmen blustering upstairs.

City Hall was housed in an old colonial mansion that had been built after the Revolutionary War by Robert Bourgeois, an ancestor of Jackie’s late husband. City offices were on the first floor, the mayor’s office and meeting rooms were upstairs, and local events were hosted in the old ballroom. The basement had been cleaned out and redecorated after a hurricane last summer left it water damaged, and Jackie and Will Dancer, the city planner, had come up with a plan to rent office space there to help support the aging building’s many repairs. Will’s office had handled the actual rental of space and Jackie had been too busy with other city affairs to find out who’d secured them.

She peered into the first office and found it chaotic, a sort of examining bed, an odd-looking chair, a file cabinet painted lavender and several pieces of brocade furniture clumped in the middle of the room. There were boxes on the floor filled with what was probably the contents of the file cabinet, and several framed landscapes leaned against the wall.

“Hi!”

Jackie almost jumped out of her skin at the high-pitched greeting. She turned to find a tall, slender woman perhaps a few years older than she, dressed in lavender leggings and flats and a long-sleeved lavender T-shirt. A wide purple band circled her carroty hair and was caught above her left ear in an exaggeratedly large bow.

“Mrs. Mayor!” the woman said breathlessly, offering her hand from under a large box she’d apparently just brought in from the side entrance. “How nice to meet you. I’m Parker Peterson.”

“Hi.” Jackie shook her hand and wanted to try to help her ease the box to the floor, but her pregnancy allowed very little bending at this stage. The woman seemed to have no trouble handling it on her own, a taut line of arm and shoulder muscles revealed by her snug shirt.

She straightened and put one hand on her hip and the other up to fluff her bow. “What a good idea this is! I’ll be right in the thick of the stress and strain of business life. These poor nine-to-fivers are my client base, you know.”

Jackie looked a little worriedly at the curious couch, the odd chair and Parker Peterson’s flamboyant style of dress. She was almost afraid to ask. “What is it you do, Ms. Peterson?”

Parker gave the odd little chair a pat. “I’m a massage therapist. Here. Sit down and put your head right here.” She fluffed the small cushion on the funny arm sticking out in front of the chair. “You straddle it like a horse.”

Jackie patted her stomach. “We’re not very athletic these days.”

“It doesn’t really take much effort. Here, I’ll help you.” She steadied Jackie’s arm as she spoke and encouraged her to lift her foot to the other side of the stool-like chair.

Jackie would have continued to resist, except that Parker had put her hand to the small of Jackie’s back as she spoke and rubbed her fingertips at the base of her spine where the pressure of five or six pounds of baby and fifteen or so pounds of “support” sat twenty-four hours a day. The relief was instant and melted her protests.

“We need to loosen up your back muscles,” Parker said. “That’s it. Feel that? Gotta prevent that tension or you’ll be miserable until you deliver. A couple of weeks?”

“About a month and a half,” Jackie replied, unable to believe she was a pile of jelly in this woman’s hands after two minutes’ acquaintance. She was usually very much aware of her dignity as mayor—not because she was pretentious, but because her council was always looking for something about her to criticize.

And she had to pretend to the town that though her husband had died in the arms of a cocktail waitress after promising Jackie he was rededicating himself to their marriage and their two children, he hadn’t humiliated her, but embarrassed his own memory. And she liked to think that the pregnancy that had resulted from that promise was a testament to her trust.

The baby stirred as though also appreciating the massage.

Parker’s hands went up Jackie’s spine and down again with gentle force.

“You have to stop,” Jackie said weakly, her voice altered by her cheek squashed against the pillow and the total relaxation of her now considerable body weight. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. You’ll have to roll me in on the chair.”

Parker laughed as her fingertips worked across Jackie’s shoulders. “You’ll have to come and see me when you need a break. I’m good, I’m reasonable and I’ll give special rates to anyone who works in the building. I’ll be here from eight to six.”

Parker stopped working and helped Jackie to her feet. “Isn’t that better?”

Jackie did feel as though ten pounds had been removed from her stomach.

“Watch that posture,” Parker advised. “And drink your milk. You have a husband to give you foot rubs?”

“I wish,” Jackie replied, then realized that she didn’t really. Foot rubs would be nice, but hardly worth the anguish a husband could inflict otherwise.

“Me, too. So, you’re having this baby alone?”

Jackie concluded that Parker had to be new in town. “I was widowed right after I got pregnant. But this is my third, so I kind of know what I’m doing.”