Free 03_The Unexpected Gift by Irene Hannon Page B

are you doing?”
    “Okay, I guess. I’m just trying to take it a day at a time right now. Thank you again for coming for the funeral. I didn’t expect that. I know it’s a long trip.”
    “I wanted to be there. For myself. And maybe to represent Aunt Jo. You and she must have been great friends.”
    “Yes, we were. I met her at church when I was eleven, right after my parents separated, and she became sort of a mother figure to me. So I knew her for more than a quarter of a century. For the past fifteen years, I’ve handled all of the maintenance and upkeep at Serenity Point.”
    Lauren interrupted then with the coffee, lingering as long as possible. When she finally left, Morgan spoke again.
    “I noticed how well cared for the place is. And the furnishings in the cottage are beautiful. There’s a lot of original art, and some of the wood furniture is gorgeous.”
    “Jo believed in supporting local artists and craftspeople, and my family benefited from that philosophy. My father made the bookcase by the window in the living room, and my uncle made the rocking chair.”
    “I’m impressed. What about the secretary?” She’d noticed that piece in particular, with its intricate carving and mullioned glass doors.
    “That’s one of mine.”
    “Now I’m even more impressed. It’s beautiful.” She reached for a pen and played with it, her face thoughtful.
    “You know, I had no idea what your profession was until I called your shop the day of our meeting. I was…surprised…when I found out you were a carpenter.”
    Grant stiffened. He knew what that look on her face meant. Can’t you do better? He’d seen it before, on occasion, and it used to make him feel compelled to defend his choice of profession. But not anymore. He was fine with his life’s work, and if others weren’t, that was their problem. So he gave his standard answer to her reaction. “Yes. Just like the greatest man that ever lived,” he said with quiet conviction.
    His withdrawal was palpable, and Morgan knew that she had offended him. Which had in no way been her intent. But she supposed her response could have been interpreted as snobbish. In her circle, people who worked with their hands were somehow held in lower esteem than the people who carried cell phones and pagers and had power lunches every day. After all, the “white-shirt” crowd was doing important things. Things that mattered.
    Like creating fleeting ad campaigns for toothpaste, she thought, sparing the layout in front of her a quick glance.
    By contrast, the beautiful secretary created by Grant was a work of art, destined to be a treasured heirloom that would be passed from generation to generation.
    Suddenly she felt ashamed.
    “I’m sorry, Grant,” she said, her voice contrite. “That didn’t come out quite right. My own father worked with his hands. In a different way, though. He was a simple farmer who loved the land. A good man, who worked too hard and died too young.”
    A wave of melancholy washed over her, and her eyes grew sad. Her dad had been a good father. But she’d seen what heartache—and hardship—and an unstable profession that depended on the vagaries of the weather could do to a person. She’d wanted a more forgiving career for herself, one that offered security and steady income, as well as the luxuries that she’d never known growing up. She had those now. Yet something still seemed to be missing. Something she hadn’t yet defined—on purpose—because somehow she sensed that it represented a threat to the life she’d constructed with such care and singular focus. And that scared her.
    Realizing that the silence had lengthened, she continued. “Anyway, I had the greatest respect for him and his choice of career. We all have to march to the beat of our own drummer.”
    There had been an appealing softness in Morgan’s eyes when she’d spoken about her father, Grant realized. And for just an instant he’d glimpsed in her what his father