Dream House

by Jean Brashear

  “All right.” Clearly, she wasn’t that special person. The anguish in his gaze kept the worst of her hurt at bay. “But the invitation’s open.”

  “I’m not one of your charity cases.”

  “No. You’re not. And I can’t give you what you want most, but there’s something I can do, if you’ll let me. I make a good friend, Micah.” She extended her hand. “Goodbye. Thank you for letting me inside. I can only imagine how hard that was for you to do.”

  For a minute, she thought he was going to refuse the gesture. At last, his hand rose to clasp hers.

  And despite herself, she shivered at his touch. What a complex man he was, strong and yet so vulnerable, obviously capable of great love and dying without it. Unable to bend enough to ask for help.

  And a brilliant painter, from the one example she’d seen above the fireplace.

  That he might also be the father of a child even now growing inside her body was a complication she couldn’t contemplate right now. No matter how desperately she longed to be a mother, Micah would be better off if she was mistaken. He had too much to deal with already.

  “So,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “See you around, I guess.”

  He watched her but didn’t speak.

  She got in her car and slowly drove away.

  Micah listened to the engine in that wreck of a car running rough as she departed. He flexed the fingers of the hand she’d clasped, and quickly shut them.

  I make a good friend.

  She was a hell of a lover, too.

  But neither mattered.

  Or mattered too much.

  Who was the last friend he’d had, besides his family? He couldn’t recall. Charlotte had been his closest companion since they were kids. His brothers had filled any need for male company. In New York, he’d kept to himself, mostly. He was there to work. To discover if he could create a life worth living without—

  Enough.

  This time, he realized with a shock, the voice was not his mother’s or Charlotte’s.

  The voice of reason…was his.

  Reluctantly he faced the cottage. For the first time, the figure on the porch was not Charlotte.

  It was, damn her hide, Jezebel Hart. Face glowing, tears and wonder shining in her eyes.

  “No—” he groaned. Squeezed his lids shut. Shook his head to dislodge her.

  It’s every dream I never dared have.

  “No!” he shouted. “It’s not your dream. It’s Charlotte’s. It’s—” Mine.

  Mine.

  He opened his eyes again, his chest too tight to breathe. And viewed the cottage, just for an instant, through Jezebel’s eyes.

  Not scarred with agony, not tarnished by guilt but freed from either, a sturdy and graceful haven once blessed by laughter.

  And sanctified by love.

  No one deserves that place but you.

  “You’re wrong, Jezebel. No one has earned it less,” he murmured, but within him, shame stirred. He had buried the best of him here and turned a place of beauty into a crypt. As with the fairy tale, the brambles were beginning to creep in and would soon bury it alive.

  He was lauded for his ability to render beauty with a brush, to transform women into enchantresses, yet his single finest creation was dying before his eyes.

  For the sake of the love that once lived here, it was time to bring the cottage back to life.

  Jezebel was grateful they were so busy tonight; it left her little time to think. To grieve over the loss of the cottage.

  To worry about what to do for Skeeter.

  “Jezebel, we need an impartial judge over here,” Chappy hollered from the far end of the bar.

  “For what?” She juggled a full tray, served a round and cleared the table of the last. Her feet hurt, her back ached and her left elbow felt the strain of the load.

  “Me and Larry think a man will be quicker to get cut off if he forgets Valentine’s Day than a woman’s birthday. Zell and Louie here say just the opposite, but neither one of them has been within a country mile of a woman’s bed since Moses was a pup.”

  “I’ve been married for forty-seven years,” Zell reminded them.

  “My point exactly.” Chappy grinned.

  “And you’ve been married, what is it, three times?” Louie asked.

  “Got more experience, don’t I?” Chappy asked. “Been with more women.”

  “Rejected by more, that’s for sure,” Louie said. “Definitely been cut off more often.”

  “Heard tell Clarissa had in mind to cut something else off besides bed sport, something real personal,” Larry added.

  “Damn.”

  “Hell.”

  All of them winced.

  “Get the jar, Darrell,” Jezebel said.

  “Now, Jezebel, a man can’t be held accountable for swearing when his privates are threatened.”

  “We’re all accountable, on earth or in the hereafter. Pay up.”

  “Harpy,” Louie muttered. “St. Peter will be a breeze after you.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “How you do flatter.”

  Laughter echoed around the room.

  She heard the door open and prepared to greet the new arrival.

  Levi Smith smiled at her. She smiled back.

  Until Micah came in right behind him.

  The woman in her had to simply pause and appreciate the sight of the brothers Smith. A girl’s heart could stop cold at the sheer amount of maleness entering the premises.

  Micah was scanning the room, so she had a second to compose herself.

  A second wasn’t long enough.

  When his eyes locked on hers, she realized that she was the object of his search. For one unguarded instant, it was obvious that he was uneasy about how she’d treat him, what she might reveal by her reaction after the soul-baring experience of the morning. Time slowed. She was a moth trapped inside a bell jar, sealed off from the world.

  Then it hit her that the entire room had grown quiet. And a scowling Darrell was rounding the bar toward Micah.

  She burst the crystal prison. “Levi, how are you? Micah.” She nodded, her smile fast and brilliant. “How’s your mom this evening?”

  “A little better, I think,” Levi answered, glancing between Darrell and Micah with questions in his expression.

  Micah said nothing, but he wasn’t shying from the mountain of man headed his way.

  “Here’s a booth.” She hastened to clear it. “Have a seat, and I’ll take your order.”

  “A beer for me,” Levi said, but made no move to sit, obviously ready to defend his brother.

  Still Micah remained silent.

  “Darrell, can I see you for a minute?”

  When he didn’t reply, she sighed. “Men.” She stepped in front of him. “Levi will have a beer, Darrell. What would you like, Micah?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “A piece of Darrell is fine.”

  She wheeled on him. “Sit. Both of you.” To Darrell, she pointed to the bar. “You. Back to work.”

  All three of them might as well have been deaf. Around them a buzz arose.

  So she dropped a glass on the floor. The crash startled everyone. “What the hell—” Darrell yelped.

  “Now that I have everyone’s attention.” She kept her tone saccharine sweet. “Chappy, will you please open the door and fan it? We seem to have an epidemic of testosterone poisoning. Louie, you phone Shirley to pick up her husband, who appears to have the most serious case. Tell her not to bring the kids. It might be catching.”

  “That’s just cold,” Chappy said.

  “No call to be insulting,” Louie grumbled.

  “When I start insulting, you’ll know it. Now I’m going to get the broom. On the way back, I hope to find everyone enjoying themselves immensely.” She gazed around the room. “Am I getting through?”

  Many words were mumbled, but none was audible as first one man, then another, shuffled off to resume pool games and po
ker hands.

  She heard a chuckle behind her and turned to note Levi grinning while a disgruntled Micah dropped into one side of the booth. “Like a hand with that broom?” Levi asked.

  “You—” she pointed “Might have potential.”

  “Sweetheart, you have no idea,” said the reigning heartthrob of Three Pines.

  Jezebel laughed.

  “And you—” she spoke to Darrell “—owe the jar a dollar.”

  Darrell muttered and cast scathing glances at Micah all the way back to the bar.

  Before he could get a bill out of his wallet, however, she took one of her own and slipped it into the hole in the top. When he lifted his eyebrows, she explained. “Not fair to make you pay when I’m the one who dropped the glass and startled you.” She touched his hand. “But I don’t need protecting from Micah.”

  “I’ll still kick his ass if he hurts you.”

  He stuck in a dollar anyway, then walked off to draw Levi’s beer.

  Jezebel sighed and headed for the broom.

  Levi hung around for two beers and a game of pool, then left, citing early surgery.

  Micah stayed behind and nursed his second beer. Around him, the tabletop was littered with napkins on which he’d sketched the denizens of this bar.

  Louie arguing with Chappy.

  Darrell polishing a glass, eyes cocked to the side to glare warning at Micah.

  Jezebel bent over wiping a table.

  With a loaded tray, laughing.

  Jezebel again, leaning against the bar, arms outstretched in lazy welcome, her braid unwound, waves of black hair cascading over—

  “Surely that beer could stand to be replaced,” she said.

  He shoved that napkin beneath the others. Scrambled to stack all of them, but the flimsy papers scattered, some floating to the floor.

  “I’ll get it—”

  “Don’t—”

  They dove at the same time and knocked heads.

  “Ow.” She emerged with a fistful of napkins in one hand, rubbing her forehead with the other. “You okay?” She gave a nervous laugh.

  “Yeah. Let me have those.”

  “No sweat. I get paid to clean. Well, not exactly paid, but…” Her voice died off as she spotted the remaining drawings. “What’s this?” Delight bubbled. “Look at Louie. That’s exactly him. And Chappy.” She glanced down at the ones clutched in her hands. “Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry. Here—” She laid them on the table and began to smooth them.

  Micah slapped his hand on top of them.

  But it was too late. She studied this batch in total silence. There was no way she could miss that the vast majority were of her.

  Including the one, just out of his reach, where she wore nothing he’d ever seen her in. The filmy gown, draping off one shoulder, emerald green in his mind, to bring out her eyes. A barefoot gypsy, a barbarian’s plunder of bronze jewelry at throat and ears, her generous mouth an unpainted rose. A hint of nipples and dark triangle beneath the fabric clinging to her Junoesque curves. Yet for all the drawing’s eroticism, it was, at heart, romantic.

  “I seem…soft,” she said. “But I’m not. I can’t afford to be,” she murmured. “You’ve made me beautiful.”

  Finally, he spoke. “You are.”

  “No. Sure, I’ve got—” She gestured dismissal at her curves. “This. I can’t complain—it’s provided me work when I didn’t have the education to be more, but men always assume—” She broke off, her cheeks stained a hectic red. “I’ll get you that beer.” Reluctantly, she relinquished her hold on the napkin but trailed her fingers over it before she stepped back.

  “Would you like to have it?” He surprised himself by asking. “Take them all.” Even though he’d like to keep that one himself. “I can always draw more.”

  “My own Micah Smith collection? People pay you for your work.”

  He smiled, touched by her hesitation. “It’s hardly polished. And I’m not famous.”

  “You will be, if these and the painting I saw today are any indication.” She stiffened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

  He was surprised that her mention only engendered a small ache. “I’m, uh, going to begin cleaning the grounds of the cottage tomorrow afternoon when I finish helping Lily and visit Mom.”

  A long, awkward pause ensued.

  “I’m still not sure, Jezebel. What to do with the place, I mean.” He exhaled. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t help you.”

  “It’s okay. I…understand. I’ll manage.”

  He was certain she would, but that wasn’t the point.

  “I should get your beer.”

  “No.” He grasped her arm, and both of them froze. “I have to go. Nursery work starts with the sun.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Her fingers hovered above the napkins she’d carefully stacked.

  “They’re yours.” He rose. Stood beside her. Smelled her hair, just a whiff of spice and roses past the smoke and beer scents in the air.

  A quiver threaded through her frame. She lifted her gaze to his. “I—Thank you.” She gathered them up carefully. “I can’t imagine what that would be like,” she said as she pressed them gently between her palms. “To have such an amazing talent. You take my breath away,” she said as she turned toward the bar.

  That makes two of us.

  When she was almost out of hearing, he stirred himself to speak. “If you—” He cleared his throat. “If you’d care to drop by tomorrow and—” He lifted his palms. “I don’t know, supervise or something—”

  “I…” Her smile was hesitant, but even that much eased something inside him. “I might.”

  He watched her go and had the thought that he’d been sketching her all evening, but he still hadn’t managed to capture the mystery that was Jezebel Hart.

  But a part of him wanted it.

  Too damn much.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jezebel’s phone rang the next morning. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Hart, this is assistant D.A. Gary Lansing.”

  Her stomach clenched. “Yes?”

  “We have a trial date in the Bollinger case.”

  “When?” She should be happy to get it over with, but she wasn’t ready to face Vegas again.

  “Jury selection begins Monday.”

  “What will that mean for me?”

  “Forming a jury shouldn’t require but a few days at most. We’d like you to go ahead and travel to Vegas right away.”

  Dread crawled up her spine; she wanted to be done with Vegas and her life there. “I really can’t be gone for more than the absolute minimum time required for my testimony, Mr. Lansing. I have a business to run.” And even if I didn’t, I have no desire to be anywhere near Russ Bollinger or his goons.

  “Our office can’t afford last-minute tickets, Ms. Hart. Can’t you find someone to take over for you?”

  Darrell could handle things if necessary; that wasn’t the point. “Not really.”

  “I see.” His voice said otherwise.

  If only she could afford to pay her own way.

  If only she didn’t have to go.

  “Mr. Lansing, are you certain my testimony is crucial?”

  “Ms. Hart, we can compel you to show up.”

  If Micah accepted her purchase offer on the cottage, she couldn’t spare the funds for a full-fare ticket, but she longed to be done with her past.

  “I’ll manage, Mr. Lansing. Just let me know when I have to be there.” She steadied her voice with effort. “You can count on me.”

  “You’d be safer in our protection, Ms. Hart.”

  She was skeptical. Russ Bollinger was no one to fool with. Still, he had no idea where she was. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Stay available, Ms. Hart.” The threat was clear.

  “I’ll do my duty, Mr. Lansing.” No matter how much she didn’t like it.

  “Very well. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Jezebel dropped the phone into the cradle and rubbed
that hand on her jeans as if to scrub off the taint of her past.

  Micah paused at the back door of the cottage and steeled himself, then stepped inside and crossed the kitchen to place the soft drinks inside the refrigerator. Checked to see if he should make ice, but the trays were full. He cracked two open and dumped them into the bin, then refilled them. Tried not to remember that he’d promised Charlotte an icemaker one day, but that day—that money—had never materialized.

  He forced the thought away and focused on the hours ahead of him. He wasn’t sure if the utilities had remained on or someone in his family had had them reinstated, but he was grateful. Spring in East Texas wasn’t gentle. A cold drink would be welcome before the afternoon was gone.

  He wondered if Jezebel was a Coke or Pepsi girl. He’d bought both and felt like a thorough fool for doing it.

  Gratefully, he escaped the house and made his way toward the shed of garden tools he assumed were still there. On the route past the garage, he glanced at the door and stutter-stepped just a little. He hadn’t entered his studio yet. He wasn’t ready.

  But he remembered the feel of the pencil in his hand, sketching last night, and knew that for a lie. An urge to hold a brush, to mix pigment and oil, was rising within him. Emerald green and tumbling black curls. Bronze against the white velvet of her skin—

  He recoiled from the doorknob as if an electrical shock had passed through him. He could not paint Jezebel in this place so intimately entwined with Charlotte.

  Not until he fulfilled his promise to the woman he’d loved more than life.

  And he was nowhere near up for that.

  He stalked to the shed and grabbed as many tools as he could carry.

  And walked around the other side of the house to begin.

  Jezebel drove toward the cottage, reminding herself not to get her hopes up just because he’d invited her. She was dressed to help, not supervise; another set of hands would mean he’d finish that much sooner. If being in this place was so hard for him, then she would do her best to speed his progress. She’d gone one step further and made food, almost like a picnic, though calling it one seemed inappropriate.