The next move, when it came, was going to have to be his.
13
The flour handprint on Reno’s shirt was the only physical evidence that an angel had recently rearranged his life. But the sense of his entire world having been knocked off its axis was every bit as real.
He’d caught sight of the handprint in the rearview mirror as he drove away from the bakery and not only did he not brush it off, but he was careful not to disturb it.
Grace sat in the passenger seat with her thermos balanced on her knee and her eyes on the lake. She’d untied her apron at the bakery, but a thin dust of flour still lingered in the fine hair at her temple. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
A comfort had settled between them that wasn’t there an hour ago, and he didn’t want to be the one who knocked it off kilter.
He headed across town to the preschool, catching glimpses of Stillwater Lake at the end of streets heading toward the shore. The afternoon sun turned the water silver-white that forced him to squint to look at it. A few sailboats were out on the lake, but they were on the other side, closer to Apple Pie Creek. They looked like bright toys skimming across the water.
“Reno.”
“Mm?”
“You might want to pull yourself together before Lily sees us. She’s very perceptive, particularly when it comes to reading people’s emotions and feelings.”
He glanced over at her. She was looking at the lake, but the corner of her mouth was turned up.
“I’m not pulled-together?” he asked.
“There’s a handprint of flour on your shirt the size of my hand.”
“Yep.”
“You should probably brush it off.”
“Nope.”
She gave him a look that was equal parts startled, amused, and touched. He kept his eyes on the road and pretended not to see it.
“Reno Steele. Are you sassing me?”
“No, Ma’am. I’m driving.”
She laughed under her breath, and it was almost the silvery sound he’d been trying to get her to make again. She was right. He was floating in a state of euphoria that was very hard to keep off his face.
The deputy in the unmarked sedan across the street from the preschool lifted a finger off his steering wheel in greeting when they parked. Reno returned the small acknowledgement and went inside to fetch Princess Lily.
She came barreling out of the coat room, dragging her backpack along behind her by one strap. She had a yellow paint smear on the bridge of her nose and a sticker on her shirt shaped like a frog.
“Mr. Reno! I painted a giraffe!”
“I’ll bet it’s the best giraffe in Cobbler Cove!” he exclaimed.
“It’s a watercolor.” She pronounced it carefully, like a word she’d just earned. “Miss Pam said watercolors are real painting.”
“Miss Pam is right.”
She put her hand in his without looking up, and they walked out together. He was reminded of the Christmas cartoon character whose heart grew two sizes as his own heart felt as if it was expanding inside his chest.
Her small fingers settled themselves between his, and he noticed how she stopped paying attention to where she was being led because she knew, with perfect four-year-old certainty, that he would take care of her.
Grace stood beside the truck with the back door open, and Lily ran the last few steps to throw herself at her mother. Sheesh. Even that made his heart ache in a good way. He climbed into the truck while Grace buckled in Lily.
“Mommy, Mr. Reno says my giraffe is the best in Cobbler Cove.”
