by Jean Oram
“Sounds good.” Clint picked up a helmet sitting in the grass.
Well, so much for being a priority in Clint’s world, Maria mused. Lunch had obviously been forgotten.
“I’m sure it’ll raise a lot for the shelter,” Sonja declared as she and Jeff headed toward a truck sporting a Seaside Cycles logo on the door. She kissed him goodbye and he drove back to work.
“Especially after our Texan artist dolls it up,” Clint said, winking at Maria.
“I’m glad I’ll be gone by the time the gala rolls around,” she stated. “Then you’ll have to deal with the fallout for it not being painted with a unique design.” She patted his arm.
“Right, the boys’ team has their state championship game on Friday. You’re heading straight from here to Dallas?”
Maria nodded. “When do you head back?”
“Tuesday.”
“Next week?” she asked.
“Tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?” She’d assumed he would stay longer than two days.
“It’s a tough time of year to ditch my responsibilities at the shop.”
She looked at the scooter. It still obviously needed a lot of work, which meant she might not see as much of Clint as she’d feared. Now that the option was off the table, she felt disappointed.
“I know. Gearing up for Christmas is a lot of work.” She still had some shopping to do and she hadn’t even started her baking.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “You need this time.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“It’s true.”
She focused on their earlier topic, not quite ready to discuss her need for away time. “So we’re both reneging on your promise to make this scooter cute?”
“Not at all. You’re an artist, right?” He started up the engine, then listened to it for a second.
“No.”
He gave her a steady look and she frowned. She used to paint landscapes as a private hobby, but that was before having the boys. Which made it a lifetime ago. She likely didn’t recall how to mix colors, and she’d definitely never painted a vehicle.
“I don’t paint any longer.”
“Ha! I knew it. You are an artist. I could sense it.”
Maria rolled her eyes.
Clint pulled a screwdriver out of the toolbox in the grass and adjusted something on the machine, then revved it up a few more times before turning it off. Satisfied, he put the screwdriver back in the box. “Seriously, Maria. Will you help with the scooter?”
She shook her head.
“We can’t leave Sonja and Jeff to the wolves. Well, wolf.”
“You made the promise.”
“Fine. So just help with the painting. You and I can put a few coats on this puppy.” He tapped the machine’s handlebars. “We don’t have to paint any art on it. Just get it blue.”
“I thought this was his project.” She gestured toward the departing truck.
“I saw how busy he is with last-minute Christmas orders. Jeff says he’ll do it, but I’m the one who convinced him. He’ll either get to it around March when things slow down again, or else lose out on a paying job by working on it now.”
“That’s hardly fair.”
“I know.” Clint gave her a look that was best classified as puppy-dog eyes. “But I can’t do it alone.”
Great. She had no plans other than to help Kit with the odd fundraiser task, and now guilt would wrack her if she didn’t step in and help Clint, too.
“I know nothing about painting a scooter.”
“Just choose the right blue. I might get it wrong and then it won’t win cutest scooter. Please?”
“Fine. I’ll pick the color.” That was easy and would take about five minutes, and might appease her sense of guilt. “But remember—not my project and not my responsibility.”
He nodded solemnly and handed her a helmet.
“What’s this for?”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
Maria gave the machine a dubious look. The pair of them on a scooter? The thing was barely big enough for one adult, let alone two. She’d have to cuddle so close she’d be like a second skin.
“We’ll look like a circus act with both of us on that together.”
“Are you calling me a clown?”
“Does the nose fit?”
“No, but the shoes do.” He winked again and laughed.
“I used to be hesitant about motorcycles, too,” Sonja said, walking by with a box labeled Fairy Lights that had been sitting outside a nearby shed. “But I found a driver I trust, and now I love going for a spin down the highway. You’d enjoy it.”
“I don’t think so.” She was too big, and too old to do something so frivolously silly. “We’re not a couple of teenagers.”
“Why let them have all the fun?” Clint shot her a grin full of trouble and youth.
She was starting to worry about him. His lust for life seemed focused around forgetting his age, and they were approaching sixty. They didn’t have time to deal with road rash, jellyfish stings or pulled muscles.
“I love that you have such a love for life,” Maria said to Clint.
“But?”
“Sometimes people need to keep their feet on solid ground.”
He had swung a leg over the scooter, but now dismounted and came over to her. “Everyone needs a little downtime.” He was standing close. Not so near to be intimate, but enough that she noticed him in her personal space. He was acting as though he belonged there, and it felt like he did, too.
He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Let me take care of you. You’re always taking care of others.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of.”
“I know.”
“Then why would you say that?”
“Because you look like you could use some fun.”
“I have fun,” she muttered, shaking off his hand. Great. Now she felt affronted, as well as miffed about their forgotten lunch plans. This was why you didn’t get involved so late in life. Everyone had their own groove and couldn’t be bothered to think of how to fit others into it.
“Maria, Maria…” he said gently. “Why not explore all this town has to offer?”
“On this thing?”
“We’re not too old to try new stuff.”
She felt the heat in his gaze as he said those words, as well as an increasing temptation to just let go and jump on the scooter. She used to have fun. Used to be bold and brave in ways she wasn’t now. Now she was a rock. And where did rocks get you? Not on an adventure. Instead they weighed you down.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m responsible.”
Clint laughed, his eyes crinkling. It had been a stupid thing to say, but having him laugh made her anger flare.
“So am I, sweetheart.”
She rolled her shoulders, trying to sort out why the endearment was softening her. She didn’t soften. Not for anyone. And not when she was ready to stand her ground.
“Do you trust me to take you out for a spin?”
“I came here for lunch.”
He picked up a backpack she hadn’t noticed. “Lunch.”
She blinked. He’d packed food? That meant he hadn’t forgotten. He’d planned. And the scooter, she suddenly realized, was part of that plan. A romantic, be-free-and-slightly-wild-without-standing-up-in-a-convertible plan. She didn’t know whether to jump on the scooter or sit down and cry over his thoughtfulness. Or both.
“Let me take care of the petty things so you can savor a few moments of joy,” he said. His tone reminded her of the one her veterinarian son, Brant, used when he was coaxing an animal into the clinic so he could help it.
“Like riding on the back of a scooter?” Was that joy?
“You won’t know if you like it until you try.”
She met his gaze, and that infuriating heat reared up like an unbroken horse again. It made her want to thro
w her arms around his neck and say yes, yes, yes!
“Life’s short,” he said, his voice deep and low and slightly hypnotizing. “Let’s not waste another moment of it.”
Lord have mercy, she was moments away from jumping onto the scooter and telling him to hit the gas.
Her eyes were still locked on his. His solid gaze was so trusting and sincere. She couldn’t think of a single reason not to get on that machine, snuggle in close and let herself be free, if only for one simple, innocent afternoon.
“Clint?”
“Yeah?”
“Give me the helmet. Let’s see how fast this thing can go with two old clowns shouting into the wind.”
Scooters were not made for two people. At least not two adults who had filled out with age, life and children, or weren’t ready to snuggle in close.
Still, it was remarkably pleasant, and Maria couldn’t help but notice the firm muscles she clung to as she held Clint tight. He was driving down a beach road, the ocean at their side, the smell of salt and seaweed in the air. It was picturesque, with everything so blue and green despite it being December. The ocean, the sky. Then the pale browns of seagrass and sand. It made her want to take up painting again.
It hadn’t helped, seeing all those wonderful paint chips at Seaside Cycles. They’d stopped by along the way to choose the right blue, in case Jeff couldn’t mix it with what he had in stock.
A spark had ignited inside her as she viewed that wall of paint colors. So many opportunities to brighten the world, one vehicle at a time. She’d walked straight to the color she’d envisioned for the scooter, but then had spent another twenty minutes admiring and dreaming about all the blues she hadn’t chosen.
Clint slowed the machine, steering into a roadside lot. As he parked, she noticed the cove was popular with surfers, many of whom were riding the swells with an enviable ease. Clint placed his feet on the asphalt to support them as he removed his helmet.
He turned his head to look over his shoulder. They were close, way too close. Maria scrambled off the machine, removing her helmet, her buttocks aching from the worn seat.
“What do you think?” he asked, still sitting on the ancient scooter.
She slid the pack with their lunch off her back, then set it on the ground. “It got us here. Do you think it’ll get us back again, too?” The scooter didn’t look like much, but it had purred down the highway with the two of them on board. The trip had been slow, but pleasant, as Sonja had promised.
“Sure.” Clint was casual, his moves fluid, belying his age.
“You give me such confidence.” She’d said it tongue-in-cheek, but it was true. Clint had a way of settling her fears, anytime he was around.
“Glad to hear it. Want to climb that hill over there?” He slung the bag over his shoulder. “Looks like there’s a bench with our name on it.”
The breeze off the ocean was cool, like the air that had blown around them on the road, and with her body no longer pressed against Clint, Maria shivered. She tugged the zipper of her jacket a little higher and said, “Let’s go.”
The phone in her jacket pocket began to ring, and she answered it quickly, with an apology to Clint. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Myles? Is everything okay?”
“Levi can’t find the insurance papers for the truck, so I said I’d call.”
“What happened to the truck?”
“Nothing. He’s shopping around for a better deal.”
“You can’t leave the Ryder’s insurance company!” They were like family. Everyone in Sweetheart Creek went to them. What were those boys up to? Changes were fine, but they were forgetting to take important things into account.
“The Ryders are selling.”
“What? They are?”
“They just announced it today.”
She hadn’t heard a whisper about that. Maybe it was good the boys were so willing to take care of things these days. Levi was going to save her hours and headaches, pricing out a new insurance plan for the ranch and all of its vehicles and equipment.
“Okay. Tell him thanks. They’re in the filing cabinet in the office.”
“He already looked.”
“It’s under V for vehicles.”
“Thanks.”
She ended the call.
“Problems at home?”
She shook her head with a growing smile. “Levi’s trying to save us some money. The Ryders are retiring, so he’s shopping around for new insurance.”
“They are?”
“Apparently.”
“Makes sense. I’m pretty sure Joe Sr. was friends with Moses.”
Maria laughed as they set off across the sand-littered parking lot, past an old Volkswagen van and a small pickup truck with a surfboard on its roof rack. As they neared an older Mustang, she pointed it out. “You know I have one of those in the machine shed? I used to think I was so cool in that.” She smiled at the memories. The feelings were like those she’d just experienced on the scooter. The freedom and possibility. The ability to go anywhere. The right vehicle had always done that for her.
“What’s it doing back there?” Clint asked.
She shrugged. “It’s old, impractical.”
“Still run?”
“I doubt it. It needed some work when I parked it.”
“How long ago was that?”
“When the boys were small. You can’t fit many rowdy kids in a Mustang. At least not that model, without someone kicking your arm and sending you into the ditch.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.”
She grimaced. “There’s a story behind everything in life when you raise that many sons.”
Clint chuckled. “Do you miss the car?”
Her smile grew again. “That car and I had some good times.” She’d been driving it back when she and Roy would kiss at every stop sign and hold hands over the console. Her smile faded.
Some things were best left in the past.
They found a path that weaved between the dunes, leading up to the bench on the grassy hill. As they walked single file, the tall grasses whispered to them, spilling secrets she was unable to translate. She could see their destination, but the trail looked as though it was seldom used, while the one to the beach was much more heavily trafficked.
“Do you think there’s a better path on the other side?” she asked, gesturing to a second parking lot to the south.
“Probably.”
“Are we stuck?” She pointed to a sign requesting that visitors stay on the paths so as not to cause further erosion to the delicate plant life growing in the shifting sand. That meant no cutting across the grass to take the other path.
“Maybe.”
“Should we double back and take the asphalt to the other parking lot to see?”
“You’ve been on the ranch too long, Maria.” Clint gave her a kind smile. “We’ve got time to explore and take the wrong path.” He tipped his head back, inhaling deeply.
Maria stared at him, trying to let go of the inner need to go, go, go. Get things done. Do them right the first time. Move on to the next task on the list. See who needs help. Get it done, get it done, get it done.
She needed to relax.
They continued upward, Maria’s sandals sliding in the loose sand. Their path wound around to the ocean side of the hill, thin and barely there. She gasped in a steep spot when the shifting earth pulled her where gravity deigned. Clint turned, extending a quick hand to snag her before she tumbled to her hands and knees. His grip was warm and sure as he tugged her toward him.
For a moment she thought he was going to wrap her in his arms, but he stopped when she was a foot away, his gaze fixed on her lips. He slowly brought his eyes up to meet hers and she had that quickened-heartbeat sensation again.
She brushed off the nervous yet excited feeling of having a man look at her—really look at her—and marched past him. “I’ll go first,” she announced. She just hoped she didn’t
lose traction again and slide into him, her butt in the air.
Near the top, Maria found her confidence, her footsteps more sure as the trail zigzagged up to the summit. But wind and rain had eroded part of the dune, creating a sizeable gap between them and the top. Maria paused, unsure whether her newfound mountain goat skills included lifting her foot as high as her hip and then pulling her body along after it.
“Here,” Clint said, moving past her. He hoisted himself onto the sketchy ledge with apparent ease. Once there, he knelt, reaching down to pull her up.
She hesitated a second, then put her hand in his, allowing him to help her. His wide smile told her he was glad to see her when she finally rose to her feet, their bodies a few inches apart.
“Hi,” he whispered.
“Hi,” she echoed, her own voice breathless. She wasn’t sure if it was from the hike, or the proximity of his lovely dark eyes and that gaze that seemed to recognize parts of herself she’d forgotten existed. They’d become buried without notice, and she realized now that they needed dedicated attention and affection. Things that had always been in short supply over the past several years.
“Lovely hike, isn’t it?” he asked casually.
She gave a small nod and continued on, her hand still locked in his. He made no move to release her, and she allowed the contact, curious where it might lead. The last time she’d held someone’s hand, it had been little Kurt’s—April MacFarlane’s four-year-old—while crossing the street in Sweetheart Creek.
Hardly the same thing.
They took the last few steps to the bench, inhaling deeply, pleased with their ascent.
“We made it,” she said.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
Clint was still smiling, an expression of hope that felt like more than she could support. She took her hand from his, making a point of illustrating a more gentle, well- trafficked path up to the bench. “See? There was another route.”
“But ours was more fun.”
“Well, I’m taking that one back down. Otherwise I’ll end up sliding on my butt.” Or falling into Clint’s arms.
