Backward Glance

By Robyn Carr

Available on its own for the first time: a second-chance romance from the #1 bestselling author of the Virgin River books—now a Netflix original series.

Leigh Brackon is back home to look after her “ailing” mother. But she suspects maternal meddling when she finds her old flame John McElroy knee-deep in landscaping in her mom’s backyard. Leigh and John’s summer affair five years ago ended badly, and they’re both leery of relationships after their own failed marriages. But John has always been drawn to Leigh, even though the handyman doubts he’s good enough for the brilliant scientist and her twin boys. And Leigh has a secret that could change everything. Could they possibly have a real chance this time around?

With a little help from the neighborhood matchmakers, they might see that it isn’t too late to find a way forward together.

Originally published May 2001 in the Silhouette anthology To Mother with Love and November 2014 in the MIRA anthology ‘Tis the Season.

Praise for Robyn Carr and her novels

“For great storytelling and beautifully drawn characters, enter the world of Robyn Carr.” —Susan Elizabeth Phillips, New York Times–bestselling author

“The Virgin River books are so compelling—I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.” —Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times–bestselling author

“No one can do small-town life like Carr.” —RT Book Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781459295490

Robyn Carr

Robyn Carr is an award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than sixty novels, including highly praised women's fiction such as Four Friends and The View From Alameda Island and the critically acclaimed Virgin River, Thunder Point and Sullivan's Crossing series. Virgin River is now a Netflix Original series. Robyn lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Visit her website at www.RobynCarr.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

John drove past Jess Wainscott’s house regularly, his eyes always sharpened for a glimpse of her daughter, Leigh. It had been almost five years. He hated that he looked for her; he wanted to be over her. He looked in spite of himself—and he wasn’t over her in the least.

Today he wasn’t just driving past. Jess had called him to do a job. John owned his own business in Durango—McElroy Property Services—which included home maintenance and repairs, landscaping and a very fine nursery, and Jess wanted to know if now—early March—was too early to plant a flowering plum tree. Though his business had incidentally or accidentally become successful, he still considered himself a handyman and lawn maintenance person. He could not only bring her a flowering plum, but also change the faucet on the sink, hang wallpaper, install a hot tub, pour a cement patio. Or have one of his employees do it.

No, it’s not too early, he had said. Not as long as you’re willing to protect it from a possible late freeze and pay the price of having some poor slob try to dig into the hard ground.

Only if that poor slob is you, she cheerfully replied. I really have my heart set on seeing those blossoms outside my bedroom window this spring. And then she had sighed. John had never before heard a wistful sound from Jess. Sentimentality was not in her repertoire.

Jess Wainscott was sixty and had been widowed for eight years. At fifty-two, a ripe age for a woman of sound health and strong looks, she had lost her mate, but not her vitality. Jess chaired both the Friends of the Library board of directors and the Women’s Council of the First Presbyterian Church. Additionally, she served on many committees and worked for several charitable causes. She could be found at almost every art fair, fund-raiser, ball game, black-tie dinner or barbecue in town. And she skied, which was where John saw her most often, because he was on the volunteer ski patrol.

Cal told me if he came back after death he’d be a hummingbird and suck the nectar out of the blossoms outside my bedroom window, she told John. John grunted as he hauled the can holding the plum tree from the back of his pickup. He let it drop with a bang. I have to get something planted and see if he was putting me on.

You’ve been widowed quite a few years, Jess, John pointed out. She was the fourth and newest member of a group of vivacious women who referred to themselves as the widows’ brigade. They were best friends, seen together all over town, and John did handiwork for all of them. Peg, Abby, Kate and Jess. He had many clients, not all widows, but these four women were his favorites. They all overpaid him, pestered him, tried to feed him like a son.

Eight years, she said. I tend to procrastinate, she laughed. Until now, I didn’t want his interference.

The cars lining the driveway indicated that Jess had company. Meeting of the brigade? he asked.

Tuesday. Garden club. Or is it mah-jongg day? I never remember. We hardly ever do what we planned to do, anyway. Usually we just try to have something to do while we gossip, she said. She followed John to the side of the house where the tree would be planted and asked him questions the whole time he dug. Had he led the ski patrol again last winter? Did the nursery do much business winters? What softball team would he be on this summer so she could watch for one of his games? Did he still have that condo for rent at Purgatory? Not just questions. Also statements. The yard needed to be resodded. She was thinking of moving the piano upstairs. Leigh, her daughter, would be arriving soon.

The shovel paused in midair.

My daughter, Leigh. Surely you’ve met her on one of her visits. She was here for two or three months the summer Cal died. She spent another whole summer here a few years…ah, five years ago, I guess. Maybe you met her then.

I…ah, might’ve. Yeah. Maybe.

Oh, you’d remember, John. She’s very striking. Rather unforgettable, actually.

Yes. Unforgettable. Completely. His brow began to bead with sweat. The temperature was fifty-two degrees, and there was still snow here and there in crevices around yards, at the edges of driveways, sidewalks, but he was sweating. His heart rate had been about one-ten from digging; the mention of Leigh Wainscott Brackon had caused it to shoot to two-sixty.

You never mention her, he said.

Don’t I? Oh, nonsense, you just haven’t been paying attention. I hardly talk about anything else.

But not to him. They didn’t move in the same social circles, have mutual friends, or seek common amusements. Their only common trait was that they were equally well-known in town, for entirely different reasons. Everyone knew John McElroy because he was in charge of the volunteer ski patrol and A-Number-One Mr. Fix-it, and everyone knew Jess Wainscott because she belonged to every club, charity and social group in Durango. One of the town matrons and the town’s best handyman. And although they liked each other fine, they weren’t exactly friends.

Every time Jess called him out on a chore, he hung on her every word. Leigh never came into the conversation; it wasn’t as though he would have missed it. The few times he had done indoor jobs, he had scanned the place for pictures, and there was only an old one—Leigh in her twenties. The same picture that had been there when he cleaned Jess’s chimney, put up her new chandelier, unplugged the kitchen drain. It seemed to move around a lot, but there was never a new one. Does she ski? he asked, as if he didn’t know.

Leigh does many remarkable things, although athletically she isn’t accomplished. She’s kind of…uncoordinated. She hasn’t been out here for a long time. Well, two years ago last October, and then only for a couple of days. She prefers that I visit her, since she has so many obligations, and she has plenty of room. Los Angeles is a nice place to get a tan in winter. That’s about all I care to do there, anyway.

Los Angeles? It had been Los Altos when she was at Stanford University. But she had said there was a job at UCLA if she wanted it. He shook these thoughts from his mind. God, so long ago. She’d never looked back; what had she decided their relationship was? Dalliance? Panic attack? Mistake? He’d written her at her office, only to have letters returned. He’d called; a secretary took messages. Her home phone number in Los Altos, which had been difficult to find, was changed. Shovel ready, he mentally scanned those events while he dug, and dug hard.

He plunked the tree into the hole and started pushing dirt in around it. If she’s coming for a long visit, I’ll probably meet her, he said. He thought about getting drunk later.

I’m practically forcing her to come. I’ve been trying to get her back here for a long, long time. Now the darnedest thing has come up. You just won’t believe it. It seems I’ve developed some kind of heart problem. His eyes shot to her face; Jess was a breathtakingly robust sixty-year-old woman with the appearance of absolutely rude good health. Her hair had been thick gray for as long as he’d known her; her face was healthily tanned and only slightly wrinkled at the corners of her clear, intelligent blue eyes. Her cheeks were pink, her lips cherry red, and she looked smashing on skis. If it weren’t for her shock of silver hair, she could pass for forty, maybe forty-five. She shrugged off his look of concern. Not unheard of at my age.

That’s awful. What’s Doc doing about it?

Heavens! Tom Meadows doesn’t even know, she said, which instantly made John suspicious. Tom Meadows was seen with the widows often…with one or all of them. He must be some kind of late-in-life beau.

You’re not seeing Doc about this? he asked. He had just assumed Doc was everyone’s Doc.

Well, now, Tom is a fine doctor, I’m sure, but he isn’t a cardiologist.

I really hate to hear this, Jess. Please, be careful. Do as you’re told.

Well, I’d rather it were something like a testy heart than all the things it could be. I’ve always been just a bit ticked off at Cal for the abrupt way he left us, but all things considered, if I could just nod off in the garden, I would rather do that than be sick. I feel all right, you see. I’ve just been diet-restricted as all hell. Can’t eat anything truly enjoyable. However, besides eliminating strenuous exercise like skiing, my lifestyle is unchanged. I do watch cholesterol much better now. I thought I had watched it before, but now I watch. And I take long walks.

Is it bad?

Bad tickers are getting to be a regular thing, John, she said philosophically. They can check your cholesterol at the grocery store. Now that they know so much about hearts, seems no one just drops dead anymore—everyone is getting a bypass or something. The fact is, if I’m very conscientious I could live long enough to become a nuisance. On the other hand, I shouldn’t get hooked on any serial novels right now.

Jess!

She laughed at him. A resounding, loud, hilarious laugh—typical. It made him flinch; he worried she might keel over. You know, John, you could drop dead tomorrow, too. The only difference is that if I do, it won’t be completely unexpected. I want to get that girl home and straightened out. She needs a keeper, that one. Lord, raising her was a job for ten mothers. Come in and I’ll write you a check. You can have a glass of wine with the girls and me—it’s my medication. For a moment he thought she had read his mind. The news that Leigh was coming had caused him to think he could use a glass—or ten. It’s the only nice thing about a tricky heart—a glass in the afternoon, a glass in the evening.

I have to pass on the wine, he said. But I’ll take the check.

He followed her up the stairs to the redwood deck surrounding her large home, then in the back door to the kitchen. There, as predicted, were the other women at the kitchen table. What they were doing today was unclear; nothing but writing paper and coffee cups covered the surface between them. They could be planning a cotillion or writing book reviews for the local paper.