In The Stranger's Arms

“I never knew that.” He attempted to appear captivated, but Pauline distracted him.

In the light from the tall window, her hair was a mixture of shades from palest gold to rich, dark honey. He could almost feel it sifting through his fingers like warm silk.

“Something wrong?” she asked with a frown.

Feeling foolish for getting caught staring, he focused on his coffee. “I’m just enjoying the food and company.”

“Will you be able to start on the repairs today?” she pressed.

He hoped she wasn’t the type to stay on his back until the job was done, questioning every break he took and every penny he spent. “Absolutely,” he replied.

When he saw the relief on her face, he felt a twinge of remorse. She had every right to be concerned about her roof. He remembered from vacation visits to his grandfather that this area was no stranger to summer rain.

“A buddy of mine is bringing my stuff up in a rented truck this afternoon,” he added. “When I put it into storage, I’ll unpack my tools. I’ll write up a supply list after I buy groceries this morning.”

Pauline actually grinned at him before glancing at her watch. “I’d better get going,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Thanks for breakfast, Dolly.”

“Do you have an account somewhere?” Wade asked as he got to his feet. Seeing Pauline’s puzzled expression, he added, “So I can buy materials.”

She nibbled on her full lower lip, sending a jolt of awareness through him. “I guess I could call the manager of the building-supply store and set it up,” she murmured while he speculated on the softness of her mouth. “Greg and I went to school together, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I’d better meet you there,” he suggested quickly. “When we’re through, I’ll buy you lunch.” Getting to know her better would be no hardship.

From behind her back, Dolly gave him a thumbs-up.

Pauline fiddled with a tendril of her hair. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” Her tone couldn’t have been any prissier if he’d suggested a make-out session in the building supply parking lot.

Instinct warned him to proceed with caution. “I was just trying to avoid any delays,” he said innocently. “But I can probably manage on my own.”

Pauline carried her dishes through the arch to the kitchen and deposited them on the counter. “I’ll give you my cell number,” she said as Wade did the same. “You can let me know when you’ve got the list together.” She opened her purse and handed him a card.

Uncommon Threads was printed in purple script. Needlework supplies and classes, Pauline Mayfield, proprietor. In smaller print was an address on Harbor Avenue, followed by phone and fax numbers. On the last line was an e-mail address.

He was impressed. “I’ll look forward to seeing your shop,” he said, tucking Pauline’s card into his pocket.

Pauline finished her coffee at the sink, frowning at him over the rim of her mug. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with my roof?”

“I worked summers as a carpenter when I was in college,” he replied confidently.

“Any questions before I leave?” she asked as she put her mug into the dishwasher. “I’ve got to finish getting ready for work.”

“If anything comes up,” he replied, “we can discuss it at lunch.”

She turned away without bothering to reply. A moment later he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

“Don’t mind Pauline,” Dolly told him as the two of them began cleaning up the kitchen. “Besides the repairs to the garage and managing her business, she’s hoping to fill a vacated position on the city council.”

“She’s got a lot of irons in the fire,” Wade replied thoughtfully as he loaded the dishwasher. “Breakfast was terrific. Since you cooked, I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

Dolly glanced at the clock on the front of the stove. “You’ll do no such thing. I’ve got time before my soaps start, so you just go about your business and leave the kitchen to me.”

“Okay, thanks.” Wade drained the last of his coffee. “Could you point me in the direction of the nearest grocery store?”

After parking her SUV in its usual spot in a private lot behind one of Crescent Cove’s old hotels, Pauline deposited Wade’s rent check in the bank on the corner and then continued down the street to her shop.

Uncommon Threads was tucked into the heart of the historic business district, which ran for several blocks along the waterfront. At one end was the ferry terminal. At the other, a small park with benches and a fishing dock that jutted into the bay.

Even though Pauline had probably walked down Harbor Avenue thousands of times, the flavor of the bygone era never failed to draw her attention. She glanced up at the tall buildings with their elaborate architecture and blank upper-story windows. Today they failed to distract her, as did the colorful hanging planters suspended from the old-fashioned streetlights.

Absently she waved at the city worker who watered the baskets and window boxes each morning, and at the meter cop who cruised by on her scooter. When the shops opened in less than an hour, the parking spaces along both sides of the street would all be taken. During theArts Festival this weekend, the sidewalks and streets would be jammed with tourists from Seattle and beyond, who came to visit the galleries, buy souvenirs and tour some of the restored Victorian homes along the top of the bluff.

Pauline probably shouldn’t even consider meeting Wade when she had so much stock to unpack and put out, but getting him started on the roof before another storm front blew through was important, too.

She paused in front of Uncommon Threads to admire the display of colorful pillows in the front window. Each one had been embroidered by a member of the local needlework guild using supplies from the shop. Because there was always room for improvement, she studied the grouping with a critical eye while she dug her keys from her shoulder bag.

When she opened the door, the scent of peach potpourri welcomed her into the shop’s cozy interior. An old-fashioned glass display case and a service counter ran along one wall of the deep, narrow space that she had brightened with sunny yellow paint. On the other wall were shelves and pigeonholes full of fabric samples and threads from all over the globe. A row of circular display racks holding pattern charts and kits filled the middle of the main floor. Every bit of wall space was covered with a variety of finished projects: cross-stitched pictures, bell pulls, afghans, bookmarks and everything else that could be decorated with threads. Stairs led up to an overhead half loft she used for classes and extra storage.

The solid wood floor and the high ceiling were original. The water pipes in back rattled like chains on Halloween. The furnace was cantankerous. Summer business was crazy, winter nearly dead, ordering the right stock a crapshoot and staying in the black an ongoing challenge. Despite everything, Pauline dreamed of expanding.

After she put her purse and laptop in the tiny office tucked behind the staircase, she called Bertie Hemple-mann, an older woman who worked part-time in exchange for floss and fabric. Bertie agreed to fill in for a couple of hours so Pauline could leave.

With that problem solved, she counted money into the register and finished unpacking a carton of British cross-stitch books. While she worked, she hummed a jingle that had lodged into her brain on the way to work.

For the last five years, Uncommon Threads had been hers. She loved every square inch of space and each moment she spent here. With each sale she made and each month she turned a profit, she took another small step toward regaining her self-respect and putting the past further behind.

At ten o’clock sharp she unlocked the front door and flipped the hanging sign from Closed to Open. When she wasn’t helping the customers who trickled in, she unpacked cartons of kits, restocked the swivel racks and opened her morning mail. Along with a stack of invoices and bills was a brochure from a big needlework show in the Midwest that made her salivate. Someday, she promised herself as the bell over the door jangled merrily, signaling a new arrival.

“Hi, Paulie,” called out the tiny woman who owned the import shop next door. Lang, whose name meant “sweet potato” in Vietnamese, had elbowed open the door while she’d balanced a cardboard holder with two steaming lattes.

“Is it that time already?” Pauline asked, startled. She and Lang had gotten into the habit of sharing their morning break while Lang’s husband, Dao, minded their shop next door.

Pauline bit her lip. “I’m going to be gone later, so I shouldn’t take a break,” she said after she’d thanked Lang for the hot drink.

“You want me to leave now?” Lang asked. “You need Howie to mind the store for you?” Howie was her American-born son who helped out in the family business part-time when he wasn’t in school.

“No, stay,” Pauline replied, blowing on her coffee to cool it. “It’s okay. I called Bertie.”

“You aren’t unwell, are you?” Lang asked, perching on the spare chair behind the counter. It seemed as though the only times she or her husband ever missed work were to see the doctor or, once in a while, to watch Howie play baseball for the local high school team, the Bobcats.

Pauline was tempted to say she was going to see the insurance agent, since Lang knew about the damage to her garage roof. Instead she explained as briefly as she could about her new boarder.

Lang tipped her head to the side like a bird, her black eyes twinkling with mischief. “And this Mr. Wade, is he handsome?” she teased.

The heat that warmed Pauline’s cheeks had nothing to do with the steam from her latte. “Um, I suppose.” Her attempted nonchalance was ruined when she shrugged and almost spilled the contents of her cup onto her dress.

“You didn’t notice?” Lang shook her head. “What am I going to do with you?” She refused to believe that Pauline enjoyed the independence of being single. For Lang, family was everything.

Face flaming, Pauline ducked her head. “I noticed,” she admitted, annoyed at her inability to lie convincingly.