The Carpenter's Wife

Rock shifted, tugged her closer.

“But you want to own me?”

“No.” He stepped back, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m saying…you’re the one, Ana. You’re the one who’s changing and reshaping me.”

He felt her hand on his arm. “I don’t want to change you. I just want to understand you.”

Rock put his arms around her again, savoring the warmth of her skin, the sweetness of holding her. “I’m not explaining this right,” he said. He urged her close, then lowered his mouth to hers.

The kiss held all of his dark secrets, all of his fears and worries. As his lips moved over hers, he felt those secrets and fears being shifted into something good and right, into something full of light and hope.

LENORA WORTH

grew up in a small Georgia town and decided in the fourth grade that she wanted to be a writer. But first she married her high school sweetheart, then moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Taking care of their baby daughter at home while her husband worked at night, Lenora discovered the world of romance novels and knew that’s what she wanted to write. And so she began.

A few years later, the family settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, where Lenora continued to write while working as a marketing assistant. After the birth of her second child, a boy, she decided to pursue her dream full-time. In 1993, Lenora’s hard work and determination finally paid off with that first sale.

“I never gave up, and I believe my faith in God helped get me through the rough times when I doubted myself,” Lenora says. “Each time I start a new book, I say a prayer, asking God to give me the strength and direction to put the words to paper. That’s why I’m so thrilled to be a part of Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired line, where I can combine my faith in God with my love of romance. It’s the best combination.”

The Carpenter’s Wife

Lenora Worth

In God is my salvation, and my glory;

the rock of my strength,

and my refuge….

—Psalms 62:7

To my nephew Chester Howell, with love

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

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

Rock Dempsey loved Sunset Island.

He loved the way the small island off the Georgia coast lay tossed like a woman’s dainty slipper near the mainland. He loved the way the island sat at the mouth of the Savannah River, the land caught between a glistening oval-shaped bay and the ever-churning Atlantic Ocean. He loved having the sunrise to the east over the sea, and the sunset to the west over the bay.

As he stood in the middle of his workshop, with the ocean breezes coming through the thrown-open doors from the ocean on one side and the bay on the other, Rock decided a man couldn’t ask for much more in life.

Unless that man was pushing thirty-five and his whimsical mother was still asking him when he was going to settle down and produce a passel of grandchildren for her to spoil.

“Roderick, I could die and go to heaven without even a memory of a sweet baby to carry home with me,” his mother, Eloise, had told him in a gentle huff just that morning when he’d stopped by for breakfast.

They had this same conversation at least once a week. It was never a good sign when his mother used his given name in a discussion. But then, his brothers Stone and Clay had to hear it from Eloise, too, each time they came to visit.

In her mid-fifties and long widowed, Eloise Dempsey kept close tabs on her three sons, properly named Roderick, Stanton and Clayton, but affectionately nicknamed Rock, Stone and Clay. She fretted that none of them had yet to make a lifetime commitment to one woman. If Rock blamed their artistic mother and her flighty ways for her sons’ obvious fear of commitment, he’d never say that out loud to Eloise. She’d had enough heartache in her life, between being disinherited and then losing the man she had loved—and had given up that inheritance to be with—to the sea in a terrible storm. Even if she had sacrificed quality time with her sons to become one of the most famous sculpture artists in the South, Rock was trying very hard to come to terms with his lovable mother’s flaws. And his own.

Rock reminded himself that Eloise was trying, now that she’d found success with her art, to make things up to her children. Still, the memories of eating TV dinners and going to bed tired after watching over his two younger brothers always left a bad taste in Rock’s mouth.

Growing up, he’d often dreamed of a traditional family, with a mom and dad who were devoted to family and children, with good, home-cooked meals and nights spent together watching a movie or sharing a supper out on the shore. Rock and his brothers had missed out on those things. While their mother pursued her art, they had had to find odd jobs here and there to make ends meet. The islanders had been kind and watchful, and Eloise had continued her work, unaware and undisturbed, while her children had the run of the land.

If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the hiss of her welding torch, late into the night. The glare had always been too bright for Rock, but the sound of it never went away. If he looked north toward what the islanders called the Ankle Curve, he could just make out the turret of the rambling Victorian beach house where his mother had lived and worked for so many years. He could still see her there, in the big barn settled deep in the moss-covered trees that she used as a studio, bent over yet another bust shaped from clay or an aged cross forged from wood and stone. His mother’s hands had created beauty.

But he’d missed those same hands tucking him in at night.

Not wanting to dwell on his mother’s shortcomings—or his own in the love department, for that matter—Rock turned back to the cabinets he’d been restoring for Miss McPherson. Now, there was an available single woman. She was in church every Sunday, tithed regularly, cooked everything from Brunswick stew to clam chowder and had a smile that lit up a room. Too bad she was pushing eighty.

“One day I’m going to get up the courage to ask Miss Mac why she never married,” Rock said to the gleaming oak cabinet door he’d just finished vanishing.

“Do you often talk to your cabinets?” a soft feminine voice said from the open shed doors.

Rock turned to find a petite, auburn-haired woman staring at him, her green eyes slanted and questioning, a slight smile on her angular face. He stood there like a big dummy while she walked into the quiet cool of his work shed, her crisp white cotton shirt and polished tan trousers giving her an air of sophistication.

Coming out of his fog, Rock grabbed a wipe rag and ran it over his hands. “I’m afraid I do tend to talk to my creations. A bad habit.” Tossing the rag aside, he leaned back on the long, dented work table. “What can I do for you?”

She pushed at a wave of burnished hair that kept falling over her chin. “I’m Ana Hanson. I just moved into the Harper house—soon to be Ana’s Tea Room and Art Gallery.”

“Oh.” Trying to hide his surprise, Rock pushed off the table to extend a hand. “My mother told me about you.”

And had urged him to get to know the single newcomer to the tiny island a little better. “Ana will be lonely, Rock. Invite her to church, at least. Just as a way to break the ice.”

“Well, don’t look so glum,” the woman said, her head tilting in defense. “Did I come at a bad time?”

Despite his mother’s very obvious suggestion echoing through his head, Rock tried to stick to the here and now. He felt horrible at the way he’d sounded. “No, no. It’s just—I had expected—I thought you’d be older, more like my Mother’s other eccentric friends.” Feeling more foolish with each word, he quickly added, “Mom said you needed some new cabinets?”

Ana nodded through an amused smile, causing the same silky length of curls to fall right back across her face. “Yes. As you probably know, the Harper house needed major renovations. Some of the preliminary work in the upstairs apartment has been done, thanks to my sister—she’s a Realtor and has all kinds of connections with carpenters and contractors out of Savannah—but I wanted someone local and more accessible to help me renovate the kitchen and main dining area.”

“And that’d be me?” Rock grinned, glad that at least his mother’s bragging often brought him new customers.

“You come highly recommended,” Ana said as she ran a hand over a newly restored pie safe. “That’s one reason I waited before finishing this part of the project. Your mother suggested we might work together on this—that you’d understand…what I expected…as far as cabinets and bookshelves go.”

“That’s just my mother talking,” Rock responded, noting that the floral scent of Ana Hanson’s perfume managed to find its way to his nose over the smell of sawdust and varnish stripper. “She thinks I inherited some of her artistic ability.”

“I’d have to agree with Eloise,” Ana replied, an appreciative expression on her face as her gaze moved over the many cabinets, armoires and chests Rock had either built from scratch or restored. “She seems to be a good judge of talent.”

“How do you know my mother?” he asked, curious as to how Ana had found her way to Sunset Island.

“I worked at an art gallery in Savannah,” Ana explained. “We exhibited some of your mother’s work. I got to know her when we held a reception in her honor.”

“Ah, that explains it, then,” Rock said, turning to put away his tools. “My mother’s reputation precedes all of us.”

“You sound almost ambivalent about that.”

He whirled to find Ana’s luminous green eyes on him.

“It’s a long story, but yes, I guess it still surprises me that she’s so famous.”

“She has a lot of talent.”

“Yes, she does. I can’t argue with that.” He shrugged, brushed wood chips off the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Look, I love and respect my mother. And her designs are beautiful. But she works too hard—she’s almost obsessed with it.”

“Most good artists are that way, don’t you think?”

Rock studied her for a minute, wondering if this cute woman was just like his mother. Would Ana Hanson put work above all else in her life? Probably, since she seemed anxious to make her tea room a success. “I guess you’re right. And since you worked in an art gallery, you probably appreciate art more than I do. So why don’t we stick to a subject I know best—cabinets. What do you have in mind?”

Ana had a lot of things in mind, but she didn’t think Rock Dempsey wanted to hear about her hopes and dreams for this business venture. Should she tell him she’d had to sell practically everything she owned to make the down payment on the Harper house? Should she explain to him that, since college, her dream had been to own some sort of gallery? Should she go into detail about how her sister, Tara, had suggested Ana use her talent for cooking along with her good eye for art to come to Sunset Island and open a combination tea room and art gallery?

Ana watched as Rock busied himself with cleaning his workspace. He seemed on edge, resistant to her. Maybe because his mother had sent her to him. Did Rock think Eloise was up to more than just securing him another paying customer? Well, Ana could certainly nip that little concept right in the bud. She didn’t have time for matchmaking, even if Eloise meant well.

Ana had to get her tea room ready for the grand opening in a few weeks. And that opening depended on how quickly Rock Dempsey could help her.

“I have several ideas,” she said in answer to his earlier question. “I want to build some cabinets and buffets in keeping with the Victorian flavor of the house. It was built around the turn of the last century.”

“I’m familiar with the history of the Harper house,” he said, smiling. “It’s been vacant on and off over the years. When we were little, my brothers and I used to sneak in there at night, mostly to scare each other and see who would be the bravest by going into a dark, deserted house.”

Ana decided Rock Dempsey seemed the type to brave any situation. He was the standard tall, dark and handsome, with fire-flashing deep blue eyes. But his face had an interesting aged look that spoke of wisdom and gentleness, the same tanned richness of the priceless wooden furniture he worked hard to restore. Did Rock need a bit of restoration himself, maybe?

“So, who was the bravest?” she asked.

He shrugged, grinned. “Well, none of us was very brave. I think I managed to sneak in a back window once, but, of course, Stone and Clay decided to come around front and jiggle the door, shouting ‘Police,’ which naturally made me run away in terror—terror that my mother would ground me for life, rather than fear of authority.”

Ana started thumbing through a design book. “Sounds as if you and your brothers had an exciting life growing up.”

“We had our moments,” he said. “We’ve always been close—or…we were growing up. I guess we’ve drifted apart lately, though.”

“That’s too bad,” Ana replied, thinking of the tenuous relationship she had with her sister Tara. Tara was hard to read at times, a type-A personality with a lightning temper and bitter memories. Ana harbored some of that same bitterness, directed toward her sister at times, toward herself at others. But she didn’t want to think about that right now. She had to get back to work.

“So, anyway, I thought you might come by the house later today, if possible, to look at the kitchen and dining room. It’s been completely over-hauled—painted, new flooring, but I held off on the final plans. I want it to be perfect.”

Rock handed her several more design books. “Okay, then. Why don’t you glance over these—there are several Victorian reproductions and some original restoration projects in there—and I’ll meet you at the house, say, around four?”

“That would be good. I have some errands to run, but I should be back in plenty of time.” She extended a hand. “Thanks…Rod—”

“It’s Rock,” he said, wincing. “My mother’s choice of given names for her sons has left us the laughingstock of the island, I’m afraid.”

“I like your name,” Ana said, acutely aware of the strength and warmth of his big callused hand.

“Well, around here, everyone calls me Rock,” he said. “Or…Preacher Rock.”

Ana jerked her hand back. “You’re a preacher?”

“Just on Sundays,” he said, a teasing light making his dark eyes go as blue as the ocean at night. “I got the job by being in the right place at the wrong time, or something like that.”

“You’re going to have to explain.”

He walked with her out into the oak-shadowed yard, then pointed to the tiny whitewashed church sitting like a child’s playhouse a few yards away from his cottage and workshop. “Reverend Palczynski was the island preacher for over forty years. He lived in this cottage, preached every Sunday in the Sunset Chapel. Then one day he came out to the workshop to get his volleyball equipment—he loved to play volleyball—and fell over dead right underneath this great live oak. He was ninety.”

“Oh, goodness.”

“Yes, goodness is a perfect word for Reverend Pal—as we all called him. He was a good man. I happened to come along and find him. Tried to save him, but he was already gone by the time the paramedics got here. He died with a smile on his face, but his death left a great void on the island.”

“And you filled that void?”

Rock nodded, glanced out to the beach in the distance. The roar of the ocean ran through the delicate tropical breezes that moved around the palm trees and great oaks. “One of the paramedics suggested I take over, since I’d always helped out at the chapel, doing odd jobs around the place, building cabinets and such. And since I have a reputation for being a philosopher of sorts, word got out. The town gossip, Greta Epperson, wrote about it in her society column in the Sunset Sentinel, and next thing I knew I was standing before the church elders, being blessed as their next preacher.”

Ana laughed. “Your mother warned me people on the island do things their own way.”

“Yes, that’s true. We march to the beat of a different drummer, I think. And Greta captures it all in her column each week.”

“Do you regret being…coerced into becoming a preacher?”

“No, not at all. You see, I believe no one can make me do something I don’t want to do in the first place. It seemed a natural transition, since I worked out here—I already rented this space from Reverend Pal, anyway.”

“So you moved right on in?”

The look he gave her made Ana’s heart lift like a surprise wave coming through still waters. His eyes were filled with a quiet determination and a firm challenge.

“I’ve been known to move right in on a situation, yes.”

She whirled, headed to her car. “Then, I’m sure I can count on you to deliver my cabinets and shelves in a timely manner. I’d like to open by mid-May.”

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you,” she heard him say from behind her.

She also heard the crunch of his workboots on the shell-scattered drive. “I don’t have time to mess around,” Ana explained as she opened her car door and tossed the design books on the seat. “This is my last chance.”

“Last chance for what?”

He was right there beside her, holding the car door open.

Ana slid behind the wheel, then looked up at him through the open window. “My last chance to make it. I’ve wanted this for a very long time. I don’t intend to blow it.”

“Got a lot invested in this, huh?”

She nodded, tried to relax. “Yes, time, money, commitments to several artists, your mother included. I don’t want to let anybody down.”

He leaned in, his big body blocking out the sun’s bright rays. Ana got a whiff of aftershave mixed with turpentine. And got nervous all over again—her heart was doing the wave thing in rapid succession now.

“Then, I won’t let you down,” he told her.

Ana waited a couple of beats before stammering, “Th-thank you. I’ll see you at four.”

He smiled, then slowly stood back from the car. “See you then.”

As Ana drove away, she heard the echo of his words. “I won’t let you down.”

She’d heard that one before. Many times.

But this time, she prayed it was the truth.

Chapter Two

“So you’re meeting Ana at four, then?”

Rock’s mother fluttered around her kitchen, adjusting a set of wind chimes here, fixing a fresh bouquet of lilies there. She smiled and hummed as she fussed and fixed, the constant breezes flowing through the many open windows causing strands of her grayish-white upswept hair to pull away from the elaborate shell-encrusted silver combs she used to hold it off her face.

She had always reminded Rock of an elusive butterfly, never settling on just one blossom.

“This is just work, Mom,” Rock replied. “Don’t go reading anything else into this. It’s strictly business.”

“Business which I sent your way,” Eloise reminded him as she poured him a glass of mint-flavored sun tea. “Want another sandwich?”

“No, but thanks for the meal—and the business. It’s not every day I get two meals and a huge project from you.”

Eloise stopped fidgeting. “I’m trying to make things up to you, Rock, on both scores.”

Rock nodded, wished he’d learn to keep his mouth shut. “I do appreciate your efforts, Mother. I can always use the steady work. And…as long as you’re willing to feed me now and again, I can work on…my other issues, too, I suppose.”

“Good,” Eloise said as she swished back to the sink, her multi-patterned cotton skirt lifting out like soft handkerchiefs around her ankles. “A minister shouldn’t have issues.”

“Ministers are only human,” Rock replied. “And in spite of my faith in God, I still have questions that only He can answer.”

“Well, one day you shall have all your answers,” his mother said, smiling. “Rock, you know I’m so proud of you, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m proud of all my boys.”

Eloise got a faraway look in her crystal blue eyes.

“Haven’t heard from Stone lately, huh?”

“No. But you know Stone. He doesn’t allow for much chitchat. And he’s so busy.”

“I know. Amassing his fortune.”

“Don’t be bitter, Rock.”

“I’m not bitter. Stone has his life and I have mine. I’m content right here on the island.”

Eloise pulled dead heads off a nearby pink begonia. “Stone was never content living on the island. Savannah suits him much better.”

Rock took a long drink from the tea, the sweet mint taste going down smooth in spite of the turmoil he always felt when talk turned to his brother, Stone. “I’m sure it does. And we all want Stone to be happy.”

“That’s exactly what I want—for all my sons. At least Clay seems to be thriving with the police department in Atlanta.”

“Clay has always been a happy-go-lucky, hardworking fellow.”

“He has a good heart.”

“I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I think Clay got the heart that Stone never had.”

Eloise gave him a mock glare. “Stone has a heart. He just doesn’t like to show it. I only want all of you to…find love, the kind of love I had with your father.”

Not wanting to get into a long discussion on that topic because talking about her late husband always seemed to upset Eloise, Rock said, “So is that why you’re throwing me at your friend Ana Hanson?”

Eloise reached for a yellow watering pitcher sitting in the bay window over the sink. Outside, a seagull cawed noisily in a low fly-by. “Who said I was throwing you at her? I just suggested you’d be perfect to help design her tea room, is all.”

Rock chuckled. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me she was young and pretty…and apparently single?”

His mother gave an eloquent shrug, her dangling turquoise feathered earrings brushing against the crocheted lace of her cream-colored linen tunic. “I figured if I told you about Ana, you’d clam up like a crab in a sand hole and refuse the job.”

“I never turn down paying customers.”

“Even cute…available ones?”

“Okay, I might have been a little hesitant if I’d known Ana was close to my age and single. But I have to admit, she is very pretty.” He finished off the tea. “She is single, right?”

“Very much so,” Eloise replied, her smile widening to reveal an endearing gap between her front teeth. “So, is that or the fact that she is attractive, smart, capable and…available going to hinder your working for her?”

“Probably,” he said. “But then, it might just make it interesting, too. As Auguste Renoir said, ‘Why should beauty be suspect?”’

“That’s the spirit,” Eloise replied, clasping her hands together. “Well, then, if you don’t want some fruit and yogurt for dessert, I’ll go back to my own work.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Got to get moving.”

Eloise whirled by, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

Rock watched as his mother moved gracefully over the steps leading from the wraparound porch and walked down the path to what had once been a horse stable, her soft leather walking sandals making very little noise.

The gardens were in full bloom—the fuchsia bougainvillea, the rich red hibiscus trees, the crape myrtle and azaleas all splashing together like a bright abstract painting underneath the Spanish moss of the ancient oak trees. And his mother in her feathered turquoise jewelry and flowing broomstick skirt fit right into the picture. Beautiful.