by Nicole Snow
The career I had is over and done. Just like the Army. A bullet in the leg cut my service time short on a botched raid against a Taliban compound. So did the guilt I had over Mom spiraling downward.
I’d accepted that easily enough. I returned to acting as an adult rather than a child, giving it a second go, but when I found out what happened to my mother...
Yeah. Tobin would need a whole division of elite troops to drag me back to that shit.
“Forgive me,” he says, his expression lightening. “I certainly didn’t mean to dredge up old ghosts.”
“You know what happened, and you know why,” I say, needlessly reminding him that he’d been the one to point out what was going on.
Tobin’s little tip got me in a brawl that could only end one way. He tried to stop me, tried to be the voice of reason, but he would’ve had better luck talking sense to a hurricane.
Not that it matters.
None of that shit matters a damn anymore.
I’m done, done, and also done.
Tobin clears his throat, shifting his weight. “As far as Miss Sellers...she’s asked for a budget and access to a supplier to place orders for the materials we’ve agreed on.”
“Give her my Centurion card and that extra laptop. Let her go wild,” I growl.
“Very well, and how much have you decided for...”
He’s silenced by the look I give him. She could max out several credit cards and it wouldn’t faze my bank account. He knows it.
I also know Grace won’t burn a dollar more than she really needs to get things done.
“You heard me, Tobin. I said, wild.”
He nods. “Do you have any requests for lunchtime?”
“No. Whatever you want to cook today will be fine.” I set my coffee cup in the sink. “For all of us, I’m sure.”
He’ll come around, sooner or later, and understand that I have to help Grace and her father.
It just takes him time to make peace with new situations that seem threatening.
For once, this one actually is, but I know it’s nothing we can’t handle.
I head downstairs to the gym and change into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt to finish the workout I’d skipped this morning. The couple hours I spent shoveling snow were a good release of energy, and plenty of exercise, but I still need something else.
I’ve never liked sitting around and twiddling my thumbs.
Having horses like Rosie and Stern already makes being buried under a mountain of snow feel tolerable. Something that’ll keep me busy.
Maybe I’ll look up some horse auctions online this afternoon. See what’s out there.
Believe it or not, I wasn’t just bullshitting her about the pumpkin farming idea.
If this chick and her old man made a living off it, then surely I can manage.
Plus, something feels mighty rewarding about watching a big old mess of pumpkins come alive on their vines all season, only to hand them out to local kids itching to carve them up into pretty ghouls and superhero heads.
One thing that doesn’t bore me one bit about Dallas is how it still appreciates the little things.
Folks here don’t need a new candy-colored Tesla or an extended stay in the Maldives to be happy. They relish the simple pleasures, the joy of the seasons, the laughter and fun of families living a small-town autumn to its fullest.
I can’t even say I miss that shit.
I’ve never had it.
Maybe I’m still wrestling with the extreme quiet that comes from living in a place like this, but I know, deep down, there’s something here for me.
And I’m willing to work like hell to find it.
After a good hour of breaking sweat, I take a shower in the downstairs bathroom.
I’m surprised to see Grace examining the exercise room when I step out. After drying my hair with the towel, I drape it around my shoulders and button my jeans before stepping up behind her.
“Boo,” I whisper, holding in a chuckle as she jumps.
“Oh! You...I didn’t mean to interrupt if you were getting cleaned up.” Her cheeks glow cherry red, the same way they did back in the barn.
I wonder if she likes what she sees.
“Just showered, that’s all. I’ll find my shirt in a minute. What brings you down here?” I ask, smirking at how her eyes flee from my body.
She can’t be that big a prude, can she?
“Looking for my muse. Everything we talked about a little while ago.” Keeping her eyes averted, she asks, “Do you use all of this equipment?”
Fair question.
There’s a lot of it here. Some of it, the bike, treadmill, and weight bench, were here when I arrived, set up by the crew who finished this house. I’d ordered the punching bag and the cross trainer later.
“Old habit. I like to switch things up, and when it’s nice, I just go for a run.” I drop the towel in the basket on the floor and grab a clean t-shirt off the shelf that Tobin keeps full. “Is this room what you’re planning on redecorating first?”
“Do you want it to be?” She finally looks at me now that I’m shirt-clad again, an airy pink still painted on her cheeks.
I shrug. “You’re the expert. You tell me how this usually works.”
“Hardly. I mean, I’ve interned, but I’ve never had a chance to do a real job.”
“Yeah? Too busy growing pumpkins or what?” I lift a brow, my temper already rising if it has anything to do with the bastards ruining her life.
“It’s just...my mother was diagnosed with cancer during my last year of college. As soon as I graduated, I went straight home to take care of her and help Dad with the farm. So I’ve never really put my education to good use. Besides creating things to sell at the gift shop, I mean. I did plenty of that, just basic kitschy stuff with horses, apples, pumpkins, and other farm themes.”
“I see,” I say, mainly because I’m not sure what else to tell her.
I know what it’s like to be held back, to have life fling you off course and into something else.
Not for the same reasons as her, no, but the disappointments must be roughly the same.
“If you’ve had a chance to soak it in, I think lunch is almost ready by now. Tobin rarely takes more than a good hour or so to whip something up.”
I wave at the door leading to the hall. She nods her thanks and steps ahead of me, then I follow her out of the room to the stairs.
“You have my permission to knock yourself out redecorating. Let’s get that out of the way right now. Take before and after pictures, order your supplies, do whatever you want to put this job in your portfolio.”
She throws a look back over her shoulder, beaming like the sun.
“Oh, thanks! That’s very kind of you.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing your ideas. Make this place feel less like a fancy hotel.”
“I have my sketch pad. I can show you something soon. It’s all rough drafts right now and fully open to changes,” she says, twirling a finger through her hair.
That little pout makes her bottom lip stick out like a ripe strawberry.
Goddamn, do I resist the urge to sink my teeth in.
“I’ll take a look after lunch,” I promise.
Tobin kept it simple. He’s a skilled chef, and the kind of lunch he’s assembled probably could’ve been put together in his sleep. Doesn’t mean it’s any less tasty.
We tuck into butternut squash soup and sandwiches piled high with ham, salami, several different cheeses, greens, and a sweet citrusy sauce I can’t pronounce. It doesn’t take us long to eat, and then I invite Grace to join me in my office so we can go over the sketches she’s created.
Tobin already knows to bring an extra meal out to the cabin for Nelson, whenever he wakes up.
At first, I’m impressed by her ability to draw.
At second glance, I’m more awed by what she’s suggesting. The additions and notes she’s included in her drawings are minimal, subtle, but if the re
al thing looks anything like her drawings, this house is going to pop with color.
She’s taken the flower theme and run with it. It’s thoughtful, vibrant, warm, and makes me think it’ll do a lot to chase away next winter’s blues if she can pull it off.
“I like what I’m seeing,” I tell her. “How long will this take?”
“Well...it’s really just a matter of placing a couple of orders online and waiting for it all to arrive. I know a few vendors that have top-shelf products at reasonable prices. And they even ship to the boonies. They’ll get it right to your door and then it’s just a matter of putting things where they belong.”
“If the damn snow melts so we can get deliveries,” I grind out, still flipping through the sketches she’s made of each room.
Her additions are natural. Rustic.
Not all silky flowers in the less trafficked rooms, but decorative vases of twigs and straw, bowls of pinecones, things to bring the outside in, just like she’s suggested.
Keeping fresh flowers alive is a feat for most people. For me, it’s simple when Tobin won’t let a single ant invade the house, but I appreciate the fact that she kept her plan relatively low-maintenance.
I like it a hell of a lot.
“Supposedly, spring’s right around the corner,” she reminds me.
I snort. “Tell it to my buddy, Faulk. He warned me winters in these parts linger sometimes until damn near early May. It’s about as bad as Alaska.”
“It’s warmer today. I heard something dripping out there earlier. Seems like the sun is already doing a good job on the snow. Maybe we’ll have a thaw after all.”
Hmm, she’s right. I’d noticed the melt earlier, falling off the roofs and widening the areas I shoveled.
“Which brings us to the next issue,” I say. “Mud.”
Her oval face scrunches in.
“That’s the downfall of spring,” she says. Somehow, she still sounds cheerful about frigging mud, which makes me want to laugh. “What’s that smile for? The earth needs the water. Mother Nature has her way of balancing things out.”
“You like nature, don’t you?” I ask, fully aware of the smirk I’m wearing. “It’s evident in all these drawings.”
Her cheeks flush slightly.
“Yes, I do. I prefer to decorate with organic things.”
“Bringing the outside in,” I say, recalling how she’d said that earlier while we were walking the horses and knocking around ideas.
“That’s right. I’m glad you were listening,” she says, returning my smile.
I’ve never really had that.
L.A. is full of manufactured things in all aspects, right down to the manicured palm trees and picture-perfect lawns. Even the organic trends end in plants on leashes. They don’t call Southern California la la land for nothing when you find a scene out of a too-perfect dream just by turning your head.
Flipping to another page, I see faint lines where she’s erased some sketches. She’s across the desk from me, so I spin the book around and push it at her.
“What’d you erase here? In the front entryway?”
She doesn’t look at the page, but flicks her eyes away from me. “I, well...I considered adding a few antiques to that area, an old mirror or clock, but I changed my mind. I was afraid it might take away from...”
I see her throat moving as she swallows.
“You can say it. My mother’s picture. The memorial.” My fingers rap the desk softly.
I see her nod, slowly and carefully.
The painting is huge, rather imposing with the marble half table and a huge vase of yellow roses. It probably does look like some sort of freaky shrine, a mini funeral parlor.
I’d meant to honor her memory, not relive her interment every damn day.
Now I’m wondering if that’s necessary.
That little setup isn’t making me remember things any differently. It’s not preserving happier times, when she’d pull me onto her sets and laugh with the camera crews while they pretended to film me as a boy, chasing other actors around.
Nor is it paying homage to her as I hoped it might.
My mother was more than a world-famous actress and a perfect pair of bright-blue eyes preserved in a camera flash and artist’s eye. She was the living, beating heart of my life.
I lose myself in the mental tug of war for a minute, idly thumbing at a couple more pages.
Grace remains silent, and oddly, it’s not awkward.
Not even when I flip back to the image of the front entryway, pursing my lips.
I stare at it, noting she really isn’t changing much there except for a rug and a few antiques. She’s not touching the portrait itself, and honestly, I wish she had. Maybe then it’d be easier to decide what the hell to do.
“You know, out there in the building where I parked your truck, there’s a large storage area. I’ve never really explored it much, but they left some old antiques behind. Stuff from the original farm that the previous owners saved and said I could keep.”
“Wow, really?” Her long lashes flutter, excitement flickering in her eyes.
I grin at the way they shine. “You’re welcome to explore. See if there’s something you want to use while sprucing up this place.” I close the sketchbook. “Just make it more lively, less sterile.”
“Um, I never said it was sterile.”
“No, but you thought it, and your instincts are right. I just said it for you.” I’ve known it since moving in, but never really thought about making changes so soon.
Hell, maybe I’ve felt sterile since moving out here. Leaving L.A. behind was a definite relief, and I enjoyed the first season here before the snow, but outside that?
I know how it’s been.
Barren. Unproductive. Timeless, and not necessarily in a good way.
I thought that’s what I wanted. An escape devoid of the constant bustle back home and its stress, but I think I’m moving beyond that now.
I think I’m ready to live again.
Actually, I know I’m ready.
“Screw it, I’ll come with. Let’s get our coats on and go see what’s out there,” I tell her, pushing away from the desk.
Her face lights up as she jumps to her feet, fully animated.
“Only gonna warn you once,” I say, holding up a finger. “You pelt me with a snowball, there’ll be hell to pay.”
We spend the entire afternoon out there, digging through old cardboard boxes and wooden crates of old junk.
My junk, technically.
Her reaction? It’s like every damn box has a pirate’s forgotten treasure hidden inside.
There’s a large pile of things she’s “sure she can use” that I have to skirt around when I hear Jake Lewis’ snowplow trundling up my long driveway from the road. I can’t even hide my grin as she bolts up after me and follows.
Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing that man make short work of the crap blocking access to civilization.
I exit the building and spend a few minutes talking with Jake about the weather and road conditions, which are both improving by the hour, and then walk back inside while he continues clearing away the snow I missed between the buildings.
“It’s getting late,” I tell Grace. “Almost dark now.”
“Jeez, it doesn’t feel like we’ve been out here that long,” she says, her head stuck in yet another box. “I can’t believe all the amazing finds! You’re lucky they left it.”
I can’t believe all the shit out here to clean up one day.
“Hey, one man’s trash—”
“Is another man’s treasure,” she says, looking back with her blonde hair sweeping over her face and laughing. “For this woman, I think it’s a little bit of paradise.”
I pause, throwing back her grin.
Nice to see her worries fade, even for a little while, and I watch Grace Sellers in a relaxed, natural state.
No surprise, she’s prettier than ever.
Even les
s surprising—I take every opportunity I can to catch an eyeful of that lush ass of hers working every time she’s bent over.
I said I’m no saint, remember?
Her save pile grew during the time I was outside, gabbing with the plow guy.
“You’re going to use all of this stuff?” I ask, picking up an old lantern.
She sits back, knees stretched in front of her, and flicks her hair away from her face. “No, that’s just my maybe pile. I’ll know what I want to use once I get everything cleaned up.”
I set the lantern down, keeping my gaze on the pile of miscellaneous junk. Mainly because she’ll notice me eyeballing her sooner if I don’t switch the perv-vision off.
No easy task. Not when she’s a blonde, bright-eyed pixie, an all-American piece of Wisconsin’s finest I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about.
“Looks like a lot of cleaning to me,” I tell her.
“Oh, I’ll whittle the pile down before I start polishing stuff up.” She stands up and brushes her hands on the jeans covering her thighs. “This was just round one, buddy. Round two will put a lot of that back in the boxes.”
Seems like a waste of time to me, but I’m no decorator.
If it wasn’t for Tobin’s input, I’m not sure I’d have thought to ask the furnishing people about fixing a spot for Mom’s memorial.
“Say, do you have any saddle soap? Anything oil-based?” she asks.
I blink. “Uh, no clue. You’ll have to ask Tobin. He’s on top of the cleaning supplies. Why?”
She points at her save pile. “I found some old leather tack I’d like to clean up and some small wooden barrels.”
Shit, does she ever switch off?
I’m impressed her white coat is still white at all after the hours we’ve spent digging through more dusty crates than I can count.
“Want me to carry them inside for you?” I ask, mock-flexing. “I’m good for one thing.”
“We’ll leave them here for now, Hercules.” She smiles, pointing to two boxes. “Those are the things I’ll take back to the cabin and wash tonight.”
I pick one up. It’s full of old canning jars, earthen crocks, a big wooden spoon, and other odds and ends that look like they belonged to an old-timey kitchen once.
