9

This was weird.

Trish tapped a finger against the keyboard and did a second, more careful scan of the hits for Providence House Ministries that had popped up in her browser.

Three screens in, she leaned back and frowned. No, she hadn’t missed anything on her first pass. None of the hits were an exact match in name or mission for the organization Matt had described during his last visit.

Why wouldn’t a charity like that have a website? Or at the very least, why hadn’t it shown up somewhere in an article or news story?

She reopened the spreadsheet of grant recipients Matt had provided. Most were names she’d heard. The few unfamiliar ones she’d googled all had websites—except Providence House Ministries.

How had her mother found out about such an obscure organization?

But it must be legit. Matt always investigated new charities, as had his predecessor—and he was very conscientious about his work. The 990s he’d sent over for her parents’ foundation had been impeccable . . . and far less painful to pore through than she’d expected.

Providence House was the only anomaly.

Rather than stew about it all day, why not give Matt a call? Answering a couple of questions wouldn’t be a huge imposition on his Sunday. He could probably give her the scoop in two minutes.

Phone in hand, she tapped in his number and pulled a soda from the fridge.

After two rings, he answered.

“Trish? I didn’t expect to hear from you again this soon. What’s up?”

He sounded like the old Matt—friendly, gracious, obliging.

“I’m sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I was going over the information you sent on the foundation and I had several questions, if you have a few minutes.”

“Of course. Didn’t my numbers add up?”

At his teasing inflection, she smiled. “You get an A in math. As far as I can tell, the forms are thorough and accurate. My questions are about one of the grant recipients on the list you sent. Providence House Ministries.”

She popped the tab on the soda, the carbonation hissing as she waited for his response.

When the silence lengthened, she wrinkled her brow. “Matt? Are you there?”

“Yeah. I was getting a bottle of water from the fridge. What questions did you have?”

“I googled some of the organizations I didn’t recognize, including Providence House. I found websites for all the others. I know you always vetted new charities, and I wondered what the story was on this one.”

“It’s a little different than most. Hang on while I find the remote and mute the TV.” If there was background noise, she couldn’t hear it, but she waited while fifteen silent seconds ticked by. “Okay. I’m back. The bulk of their donations come from private foundations, like your mom’s. She heard about it through a friend and asked me to check it out. I was leery of their low profile at first too, so I reviewed their fact sheet, recent 990s, and Form 1023—that’s the application for tax-exempt status. Bottom line, they’re legit.”

“Where are they located?”

“Atlanta.”

Trish took a sip of her soda. “I wonder why Mom chose an out-of-state charity when there are great needs here in our own town?”

“That’s not the only out-of-state charity on the list.”

“I know. I saw Angel Flight on there, and Patriot Paws.”

“Right. She always sought out organizations that did unique humanitarian work and relied on private donations rather than government assistance. What she liked about Providence House was that it supported a number of groups around the country dedicated to providing foster kids with experiences they might not otherwise have. Educational trips, summer camps, Outward Bound programs . . . those kinds of activities. It’s an under-the-radar kind of group.”

“Why the low profile? It sounds like they do admirable work. Wouldn’t they want to spread the word, increase donations?”

“It’s a fairly small-scale operation run by an older couple who took in a lot of foster kids in their younger years and have a passion for the cause. They want to keep it to a manageable size.”

That made sense.

“I can see why Mom would support an organization like that. She and Dad always believed small, grassroots efforts were most effective. Did you keep the background material on it?”

“I think so. I’ll look around for it.”

“Thanks. I wouldn’t mind skimming through it. I can read up on the other organizations I’m unfamiliar with on the web.”

“Shall I mail whatever I find or give it to you at church next week?”

“Next Sunday is fine. I won’t have a chance to review it this week, with school ending and the art show to coordinate. Sorry again to intrude on your weekend.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was just doing some maintenance stuff around the place. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

As the line went dead, Trish took another swig of her soda and powered down the laptop. As far as she could see from the documents Matt had provided, the foundation was in excellent shape. He’d done a stellar job, transitioning seamlessly from where the previous accountant had left off.

Maybe she ought to appoint him as the third trustee, after all. He was knowledgeable and willing—and she didn’t need any more on her plate. As long as she reviewed the monthly financials, the grants, and the annual 990s, everything should run as smooth as when Mom was in charge. Plus, letting Matt carry the burden of the foundation would take the day-to-day responsibility off her shoulders.

If it hadn’t been for that unsettling experience at church, the decision would be a no-brainer.

She wandered over to the back window. As always, the view of her mother’s rose garden was a balm to her battered soul.

But it couldn’t chase away the lingering unease from this morning.

Matt had sounded like his usual professional, buttoned-up, pleasant self on the phone, though. Perhaps she ought to cut him some slack. He might have had a headache at church, been out of sorts. He had looked tired and wan. It was also possible he wasn’t sleeping well, given his injuries. And hadn’t she read once that a concussion could cause personality changes for a few weeks?

Tipping up the can, she finished the soda. Why not sleep on it . . . pray about it . . . and make her decision in a day or two?

Besides, she could always change her mind. This wasn’t as life and death as the mistake she’d made with her mother’s medication.

Nobody would die as a result of her choices about the foundation.

Colin rolled to a stop in front of Trish’s house, set the brake on the Taurus, and straightened his tie. This might be an official visit, but now that the prosecuting attorney had concurred with their assessment that Eileen Coulter’s death was the result of a tragic accident, he intended to lay some groundwork for further, less professional, contact.

God willing, the lady would be receptive.

After hefting the plastic bag of seized evidence from the trunk, he followed the stone path to the porch and rang the bell.

She answered at once.

“I’ve been watching for you. Come in.” She pulled the door wide.

He moved past her, stopping in the foyer to lift the bag of no-longer-needed evidence. “Where do you want this?”

“You can set it there.” She indicated a chair beside a small table.

“Everything’s in there except your mother’s medications. We generally destroy controlled substances and prescription drugs.”

“That’s fine. I never want to see them again.” She shut the door. “Thank you for calling me with the good news from the prosecuting attorney—and for delivering Mom’s things. Is this part of your standard service?”

He set the bag on the chair and turned to face her. “No.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Um . . . I appreciate the special treatment. Would you like a soda . . . or are you still on duty?”

“My day’s over, unless something big breaks. A soda would be great. Thanks.”

“Come on into the kitchen.”

He followed her to the back of the house, taking a quick inventory while she busied herself retrieving a glass, asking his preference on soft drink brands, arranging a few Oreos on a plate. She’d lost weight in the past three weeks, and the shadows under her lower lashes spoke of sleepless nights. Worry and grief had also scored faint parallel lines above her nose, and her posture was taut.

The lady was pushing her emotional limits.

But Trish Bailey was strong. A lesser woman would have caved long ago under all the heartbreak that had been her lot. If she’d survived this long, she wasn’t likely to fold—assuming the worst blows were behind her.

And how could they not be, given the magnitude of the tragedies she’d already endured?

“Why don’t we sit on the terrace?” She motioned toward the back door. “It overlooks Mom’s rose garden . . . a very peaceful spot.”

“Peaceful works for me, after the day I’ve had.”

“I can’t imagine dealing with the kind of stuff that must cross your desk in the course of a week.” She handed him a glass and picked up her own, along with the plate of cookies.

“Not every day is eventful.” He opened the back door and held it for her.

“By your standards, maybe.”

As she passed by, a faint sweet scent tickled his nose. Her perfume . . . or the heady aroma of the roses rimming the terrace?

“Doesn’t it smell heavenly out here?” She sat at a wrought-iron table and drew in a lungful of the fragrant air.

Question answered.

“Yeah, it does.” He surveyed the well-tended bed. “This rivals the botanical garden.”

“Mom took a lot of pride in her roses.” She wrapped her fingers around her glass. “This time of year, when they’re in their first burst of bloom, was her favorite season. She used to spend hours working in the beds out here before . . .” Her voice choked, and she took a sip of soda. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You’re dealing with a lot—and have been for two long years. I think you’re holding up admirably.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I mean it, Trish.” He set his soda down, rested his elbows on the table, and linked his fingers. “I also meant what I said on the phone a few days ago. Things will get better.”

“I hope so. It’s what I pray for every day.”

Colin debated how to respond. In his interview with her pastor, the man had commented on Trish’s strong faith. Told him how she lived a life based on biblical morality and had a strong relationship with God. Every scrap of evidence he’d seen supported the man’s assessment.

Unfortunately, that could be a sticking point between them. Despite frequent prodding from Rick and Kristin, he’d never embraced the notion of a loving God. There was nothing in his experience, personal or professional, to suggest the Almighty cared much for the everyday woes and sufferings of the fallen race he’d created.

Now wasn’t the time to bring that up, however. No sense introducing what could be a deal breaker before he had a chance to test the waters.

“I hope your prayers are answered soon. In the meantime . . . if you need to hear a friendly voice, I hope you’ll give me a call. Even though the situation with your mom has been resolved, I’d like to stay in touch.”

A faint tinge of pink crept over her cheeks. “A professional courtesy?”

“No.” He wanted there to be no doubt about his interest. “This is personal.”

She took a sip of soda, watching him over the rim of her glass. “That’s direct.”

“I’m too old to play games.”

“I can appreciate that.”

“I also believe in being up-front and honest—and I hope you’ll reciprocate.”

She squeezed the edge of a cookie, watching the crumbs fall. “It’s funny. When Matt Parker asked me out, Mom pushed me to accept. She thought I needed to move on, leave the past behind. But our dates were duds. I assumed it was because I wasn’t yet ready to dive back into romance.” She lifted her gaze and met his. “As I’m discovering, however, lack of interest in romance wasn’t the reason those dates flopped. It was lack of interest in the man.”

Not quite as direct as his expression of intent . . . but her message was clear: she was open to getting to know him better.

His mood took a decided uptick.

“That’s good news—for me.”

“A word of warning, though . . . the timing’s not great. With all that’s happened, I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone.”

“I wasn’t planning to rush you.”

“I had a feeling you weren’t. You strike me as an insightful man.” She played with the pile of cookie crumbs. “You know what’s strange about this? I feel like I know you better than Matt, despite the fact that we only met a few weeks ago and you’ve never shared any personal information.”

“The latter issue can be rectified. What would you like to know?”

“Well . . . to be honest, I’m surprised a man with your many attributes isn’t married. Or is there a divorce in your past?”

“No marriage. No divorce. The truth is, I’ve never met a woman with partner-for-life potential—and short-term hook-ups don’t interest me.”

She took a dainty bite of her mangled cookie. “Tell me about your family.”

Uh-oh.

That wasn’t a topic he’d planned to tackle today.

Leaning forward, he took as long as he could picking up an Oreo for himself while he tried to figure out how best to respond.

“Is that a sore subject?”

Trish Bailey might have had a few memory lapses in recent weeks, but her perception and empathy were razor-sharp.

“You might say that.” He took a bite of the cookie and chewed.

It tasted like cardboard.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She set her glass down on the wrought-iron table, keeping a tight hold until she found a flat spot where it could sit without danger of tipping over and spilling its contents. “Given the shaky family situations of the majority of my students, you’d think I’d have learned to tread cautiously around that subject.”

Colin washed his cookie down with a swallow of soda. If he wanted to develop a relationship with this woman, he’d have to share his history eventually. Why not give her a topline tonight? Perhaps if he opened up a bit, she’d realize his intentions were serious.

“You aren’t prying. It’s a fair question when two people are getting to know each other. I just don’t talk about my family very often.” Like not at all, as Mac had pointed out the other day. “But I can give you the basics.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah. I do. You might as well hear about the skeletons in my closet now. No sense putting it off.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Not ominous. But not pleasant, either.” He set his glass down and breathed deeply of the perfumed air. Maybe the sweet scent would mitigate some of the bitter memories. “When I was nine, my six-year-old brother and I were playing in the backyard. I was supposed to be watching him, but I got engrossed in a comic book, he got bored—and the next thing I remember is hearing the screech of tires. He’d wandered out of the yard and was killed by a hit-and-run driver.”

“Oh.” The word was hushed, and shock flattened her features as she reached out and rested her fingers on the back of his hand, her touch warm. Comforting. Caring. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.” His voice rasped, and he swallowed. A swig of soda would help his parched throat, but he didn’t want to break the contact she’d established. “The tragedy tore our family apart. My father blamed my mother. He said if she’d been paying more attention instead of drinking, it would never have happened. She countered that if he came home at a reasonable hour instead of working late at the office every day, she wouldn’t drink so much—and he would have been around, keeping tabs on us when the accident happened.”

“Did they . . . they didn’t blame you, did they?” The pressure of her fingers increased with the intensity of her tone.

“Not in words. But I knew in their hearts they did. And they were right. I should have been watching him.”

“No.” She shook her head, her deep blue irises glinting with passion. “A nine-year-old isn’t supposed to be his brother’s keeper. You were a child yourself.”

“I was old enough to take care of him in the backyard.” Trish might be willing to cut him some undeserved slack, but he couldn’t forgive himself as easily. “Anyway, an acrimonious divorce followed. We’d never been a model family. My mom always did drink too much, and my dad was a chronic workaholic. Both vices worsened after Neal was killed. For the rest of my growing-up years, I shuttled back and forth between the two of them. I couldn’t wait to go away to college and escape the constant tension.”

“Do you stay in touch now?” She retracted her hand to take a sip of her own soda.

He missed the warmth of her fingers at once.

“I talk to my mom every few months. She lives on the West Coast now, is on her third husband, has a myriad of health issues—and still drinks too much. Dad died five years ago of a heart attack.”

Trish let out a slow breath. “That’s almost as bad as some of the family situations I encounter at school.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard much worse.”

“Bad is bad—different degrees of badness, yes, but similar ramifications. What kept you on the straight and narrow?”

“Nothing . . . for a while. I was one angry, hurting kid. I did some stuff that could have gotten me into a lot of trouble if I’d been caught, beginning with petty vandalism. I was heading for worse when my life took a turn for the better.”

“What happened?”

“I met a foster kid in middle school by the name of Rick Jordan, who came from a much rougher background than I did. I tried to pull him into some of the stuff I was doing, but he wanted no part of it. Instead, he kept pushing me to go with him to his Sunday school. I resisted until he found the perfect bait—a weekend camping trip for the kids in his class. One of the volunteer chaperones was a cop from his church. He picked up on my attitude fast and talked a lot with me that weekend. And he stayed in touch afterward.”

“Is he the reason you became a cop?”

“One of them.” The rest he’d keep for another day. He’d already spilled far more about his background than he’d planned. “He retired and moved to Florida, but I call him a few times a year.”

“Sounds like God sent him your way when you most needed guidance. Without a strong support system, it’s tough to change direction once you start down the wrong path.”

He focused on her second comment, ignoring the first. “I had a strong support system in Rick and another friend too.” But he’d told her plenty for this session. The story of the Treehouse Gang could wait.

As if sensing he’d reached his download limit, Trish leaned back. “Thanks for sharing all that.”

“It seems only fair, since I already know a lot about you.”

“That’s true. You even checked my references.”

“And all of them were complimentary.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She motioned to his empty glass. “Would you like a refill?”

He inspected it. When had he downed all that soda?

“No, thanks.” Much as he’d like to stay . . . perhaps spend the whole evening here among the roses with this appealing woman . . . he’d promised not to rush her. Better to take this in small increments at the beginning or he might scare her off. “I need to be going.”

Was that a flash of disappointment in her eyes or just a trick of the early evening sun?

Impossible to tell.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” She rose, leaving behind her half crumbled, nibbled-at Oreo.

He followed her past the plastic bag he’d delivered, moving to the threshold as she pulled the door wide and stepped aside.

“I know you’re swamped finishing up at school this week, but I’ll call you Friday or Saturday.”

“I’d like that.”

“If you need anything before then, you have my number. Feel free to use it.”

“I appreciate that.”

He hesitated. She seemed so alone, standing in the doorway of this big, empty house that was a constant reminder of all she’d lost—husband, father, mother . . . not to mention the future she’d planned. The temptation to hug her was strong. Too strong to resist. He leaned toward her and . . .

Stop right there, Flynn! You’ve laid the groundwork. Don’t overstep.

Check.

He jerked back. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

It took every ounce of his willpower to force himself to turn away. Stride down the winding stone path that led to the driveway. Get behind the wheel of his car. Back down the concrete to the street.

When he looked back, she was still standing in the doorway, a slender figure bathed in the warmth of the dipping sun.

Of its own accord, his foot eased back on the accelerator.

Man.

He’d never had this much difficulty leaving a woman behind.

Gripping the wheel, he pressed on the gas pedal and drove away.

But as soon as a semblance of normalcy returned to Trish’s life, getting to know her a whole lot better was going to be his top priority.

Because now that the prosecuting attorney had decided there was no need for further investigation of Eileen Coulter’s death, there should be smooth sailing ahead.