She threw open her truck door, stepped out and reached into the back to heft up her suitcase. Carson was right. She was lucky to have a family support system. Her parents had worked hard to build this for their kids and finally for themselves, too. She wouldn't settle for anything less when it came to building her own life.
And suddenly she couldn't help but wonder what sort of childhood had Carson had. He'd mentioned a sister and a love of tapioca, but nothing else.
Before she could tap on the screen, the front door swung open. Her tiny mother stepped into view with an unmistakable belly and a headful of dark curls lightly streaked with silver. "Nikki!" She swung the door wider, her gaze skating to the suitcase on the plank porch. "I'm so glad you decided to take me up on the offer of some pampering."
"The garage apartment—no pampering, though, please. I was hoping I could help paint the nursery." She reached to pat her mother's stomach and stifled thoughts of having kids of her own. Now definitely wasn't the time. "How's my little sister?">"I liked tapioca when I was a kid."
"Geez, were your parents health food nuts or what?"
"Or what."
Welcoming the chuckle, she leaned an elbow against the counter bar and smoothed down a straggly corner of newspaper sticking from the still-damp section. "Anyhow, I'm patching over where I cut out the damaged part."
She'd taken a break from repairing the project to eat supper out on her balcony. Memories of Carson's apology had drawn her to the railing and before she'd known it, she was tumbling heart over butt toward the pool. "It should be dry enough to paint by tomorrow."
"Shouldn't you be resting?"
Reasonable notion except every time she closed her eyes she saw Gary Owens's vacant dead stare. "If I rest, I'll think. I'd rather work. Although building a coffin really isn't helping take my mind off this whole mess."
"Rather macabre."
"Macabre." She snatched up a piece of paper from under the phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Writing down the word." And trying to think about anything but the dead man and unanswered questions. She finished scrawling on the notepaper and tore the top sheet off from the soccer-patterned pad—a Christmas gift from one of her pupils. "I've got this student who's a word wizard. Feeding his brain is a full-time job. You use these words that are not the kind guys would usually choose."
"I can't decide if you're insulting or complimenting me."
"Neither. You just don't speak as informally as most guys I know."
"I'm older than most guys you know. Hell, I even eat tapioca, remember? If I said dude a couple of times, you wouldn't notice the other words."
"Still hung up on being a cradle robber, are you?"
His eyebrows shot up at her open acknowledgement of their past relationship. Relationship? One-night stand.
Ouch.
He thumbed the pad of paper, fanning through sheets until one piece peeled loose. "Shouldn't you be resting?"
"You already said that."
"Must be early onset Alzheimer's at thirty-five." Absently he picked up the stray piece of paper, leaned back against the bar and started folding. "I understand you need to keep your mind off things, but how about reading a book? Your body has been through hell the past few days. You should take care of yourself."
"I'm a young, resilient twenty-three, not an old thirty-five like you."
He stopped midfold on the soccer paper. "I'm guessing your mother and father encouraged you to speak your mind when you were a kid."
"What clued you in?" She smirked for a full five-second gloat before the fun faded with reality. "And how surprising that you always manage to bring up my dad anytime we speak."
"People have parents."
"You don't."
"Sure I do." His fingers started tucking and folding the paper again, drawing her eyes to his talented nimble hands.
Hands she remembered feeling over her skin too well right now. "Other than our tapioca conversation, you've never mentioned your parents once in all the time I've known you."