“Is that so? Well, today I happen to be helping Mrs. Shaw with some crafts.”
“Which ones?”
“Uh, the reindeer made of out sticks,” Angela said, not knowing if Mrs. Shaw would even be selling those this year.
“Yeah, those take a lot of work,” Caroline nodded.
Thankfully, Caroline didn’t ask any more questions as they navigated the school drop-off. It was hard to surprise a daughter who paid such close attention to details.
Thinking of surprises as she drove to the farm, she wondered again what Mark had added on. She had stopped asking months ago when he’d insisted it was a secret, but she did have a guess.
Less like a guess and more like a logical conclusion. Of course it was a new bedroom, probably a suite with a closet and bath. They’d talked about the space at the farmhouse and though it already had a master bedroom, it wasn’t very large. She’d insisted that she didn’t need a larger room, but Mark had started construction anyway.
Even Ashley assumed it was a bedroom. And thinking of that reminded Angela of her visit. The questions, the flirting. The Tarzan comment. And Mark’s words, “It’s not too late.”
She couldn’t fault Mark for responding the way he did. She should have warned him. She could have prepared him. Maybe it would have gone better.
But he’d apologized, said he’d talked to Papa about what happened. About the two of them. It softened Angela’s heart as she thought of it.
But she still wished he hadn’t doubted her. Couldn’t he tell she was different than Ashley?
Mrs. Shaw was a welcome sight. With a cheerful flip of her chin-length gray hair, she greeted Angela and ushered her to a side room in the craft barn where she’d set up painting stations.
“Miss Caroline doesn’t suspect us, is that right?”
“As far as I can tell. She was satisfied when I told her you needed help with the stick-bundle reindeer. In fact, she nodded knowingly, like she understood how difficult those were to manage.”
“Sounds like I better have one or two on display the next time she’s here or she’ll ask. Not much gets by her. A keen eye, that one.”
Angela nodded as she took her seat at the table covered in butcher paper a bit distractedly as she thought of Mark proposing to Natalie, and the things he’d said to her after Ashley left.
“Was it something I said?” Mrs. Shaw asked.
“Hmm? What do you mean?”
“You look a bit distracted. Is Caroline okay?”
“Caroline. Yes, she’s fine. Sorry, a little lost in thought,” Angela replied, quickly picking up a paintbrush and choosing the garden shop from the collection of houses.
Mrs. Shaw had a church complete with a steeple in front of her and was lining up her paint colors. “How is your music going?” she asked while remaining focused on the paint.
“Good,” Angela answered. “I sent some songs to the studio in Nashville, to that producer I met in the summer.”
“The handsome one?”
“I never said that about him,” Angela said, racing back through their conversations to be sure.
“You didn’t have to.” Mrs. Shaw smiled with raised eyebrows and then returned to focusing on painting the church. “I’m glad you’re sending out your music. It means you’re regaining your confidence. Gives you some joy, doesn’t it?”
“Usually,” Angela answered.
“But?”
“Mark and I were working on a song together.” Angela checked Mrs. Shaw’s face for judgment, though why, she wasn’t sure. She’d never felt any from her before. “He was helping me with a song that needed a male voice.”
“And you didn’t like how it turned out? It can be tricky combining creative work with a relationship.”
“No, that wasn’t it. I loved his voice. It brought the song to life.” Angela paused, not sure if she wanted to relive the episode.
“Something else?”
Angela mixed her paint colors rather vigorously.
“I still don’t know how he managed it since he didn’t own the house, but he proposed to Natalie. In the studio.”
Angela continued painting the garden shop but glanced briefly at Mrs. Shaw, who had paused a moment with her paintbrush but didn’t look up. Angela waited, painting the roof tiles with small strokes of black.
“He had no idea his future girlfriend would own that home,” Mrs. Shaw stated.
“He could have told me,” Angela said curtly.
“So the fact that he chose not to tell you until now is what bothers you?”
“I think so. He hadn’t mentioned it before. Even though we’ve worked on music together plenty of times. We’ve made good memories there. At least I thought we did.”
“You think those are ruined?” Mrs. Shaw put down her paintbrush, picked up a towel, and wiped her hands before she continued. “And what about Mark? Do you think he’s happy about it? There isn’t a thing the man can do about it now, is there.” It wasn’t a question.
Angela listened as she painted. “That’s a good point. I took some time and drove out to the coast. It’s me, not him. It brought up old emotions. Anyway, I thought I was over it, and then my friend Ashley visited the farm yesterday.”
“A good friend?” Mrs. Shaw asked.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Angela stared at her garden shop. “We knew each other in high school. Her family was quite wealthy.”
“Wasn’t yours too?” Mrs. Shaw asked pointedly.
“Yes, but I don’t know how to explain it.”
Mrs. Shaw chuckled. “Her heart’s set on that lifestyle and yours isn’t.”
“Yes. Thank you for recognizing that,” Angela said, feeling validated. “If only Mark could have seen it that clearly.”
“Oh, dear. What happened?”
“He thought I felt the same way about the farm as Ashely did.”
“That it wasn’t nice enough?” Mrs. Shaw asked.
“It’s fine now. He apologized, and so did I.”
“Sounds like it’s still bothering you. Give it time, then, if you’re not ready to be gracious yet. But don’t go punishin’ a man you love for a simple misunderstanding. Don’t be a punisher—that makes love an uphill trudge.”
Gracious. After Mrs. Shaw stopped speaking, that word echoed loudest in Angela’s mind. She liked it when she could be that way—gracious, generous, or at the very least ¬not petty.
Don’t be petty, she thought to herself and not for the first time.
Mrs. Shaw rummaged through her collection of paint bottles, looking for just the right shade of soft yellow so the windows could “glow with light.”
“Seems to me some of the things that get us most upset open a door to us.” She said this almost to herself, as if lost in thought. “Aha. Here it is.”
“What do you mean, a door?” Angela asked.
“A new way of thinking. We can see things in a new way if we walk through the door. But if we’re too angry, you know, the blind kind of angry, then we slam the door so quick and hard—and bam!—no light, no seeing things we could’ve seen.” She held up the soft-yellow paint bottles and rocked them back and forth in her hands, like she was holding liquid light.
“I get it, but do you think that applies here? This is such a small thing. It’s as if I know I’m overreacting again.”
Mrs. Shaw interrupted oh so politely. “Walk through the door, my dear. If you had a broken engagement, one that brought you pain or humiliation—how eager would you be to share any of the details of it with Mark? And while you’re walking through the door and looking at things in a new light, think of how worried Mark may be that you like this farm. Can’t you understand why he might be sensitive about it?”
She had a point, one Angela couldn’t refute mainly because she hadn’t stopped long enough to think about how Mark felt about all of it. She let out another sigh.
“What is it, Angela? What’s holding you back?” Mrs. Shaw asked, shifting in her chair to make eye
contact with Angela.
Angela paused. It was no use to make something up or to brush off the question. This was Mrs. Shaw, after all. She finished painting the small evergreen wreath on the door of the shop.
“I don’t want to make the same mistake. Or another completely new one, for that matter,” Angela answered.
“Hmm. I see,” Mrs. Shaw said and then returned to the edge of her seat and began painting again. Angela waited as several moments passed. Wasn’t she going to say something? Offer advice? Anything?
The silence became almost too much. She stared at her half-painted garden shop and wanted to clean up and head home. It was as if Mrs. Shaw’s lack of advice confirmed her greatest fear—that she could make another mistake, or that she already had.
“Are you leavin’ it like that, then? Become unsure of yourself and your paintbrush and want to up and leave your shop undone?”
Angela hadn’t heard this kind of impatient tone from Mrs. Shaw, at least not directed at her.
“I don’t think I’m doing it justice. I probably should have added some snow patches on the roof,” Angela said.
“That’s it, then? One mistake and you walk away? Seems to me making no choice can be the mistake. Don’t you owe it to Caroline to give your best?”
“Wait, are you talking about Mark or the garden shop?”
“Does it matter, dear?”
Angela sank back into her chair. She stared at the half-finished garden shop, and an unexpected thought sprung up. She imagined a garden next to the miniature building, full of flowers and fruits and vegetables. And a little man and woman cultivating it—maybe a husband and wife working side by side.
Gracious. New light. Give it my best.
“Speaking of doors and seeing things in a new light,” Angela said, her thoughts turning to Mrs. Shaw, “have you ever thought about Papa, you know, maybe having him over for dinner sometime?”
“Not you too. Daft as a brush and not half as useful is all that is to me. Why does everyone assume that when there are two people over the age of sixty-five, they are automatically suited for marriage? When all they have in common is that they may be standing in the same room and not even near each other?” Mrs. Shaw’s face reddened, and she stood and wiped her hands on her crafting apron. “Besides, I haven’t got any use for marriage.”
“I didn’t say anything about that,” Angela said. “Dinner, that’s all.”
“You didn’t say it, but you don’t know what you mean by dinner. Well, I do. You mean to say I should go chasin’ Papa till he has pity on me and takes me on as his wife.”
Angela had never heard her accent so thick or seen her mood change so quickly. What was that saying about protesting too loudly?
“I admit marriage did cross my mind, but only if you and Papa found something in each other you liked, something you could love.”
“There, at least you admit it. We can be done with this nonsense, then?”
Angela rested her paintbrush. “Only if you tell me what you have against a little dinner.”
“I don’t object to dinner,” Mrs. Shaw stated, returning to her calm and dignified way of speaking, “but I won’t be the one cooking it. He can treat me if he’s inclined.”
Angela smiled slightly and returned to her painting.
“For the record, if Papa wanted to marry you, it wouldn’t be for pity. I think he has his eye on you, and it’s not pity on his face. Look at who Papa is and the way he takes care of the trees. He doesn’t take the time to plant and nurture hundreds of trees out of pity. Whatever he does, he does for love.”
Mrs. Shaw’s face reflected the realization. Angela swelled with pleasure at being able to see something Mrs. Shaw couldn’t. In her private reflecting, though, the words came back to her—about planting and nurturing. She gazed up through the side window of the barn at the ridge of trees greeting the horizon. Mark’s hands had planted or pruned or protected most of the trees on that side of the farm.
It could only be for love.
“Hi, I ... didn’t know you were here,” Mark said as he walked into the craft room of the barn but stopped short of approaching the table where Angela and Mrs. Shaw were painting.
His voice interrupted her thoughts of him. She looked up, and a smile crossed her face, but she let it drop quickly. She wasn’t mad, but she didn’t have that easy feeling. His smile fell too.
“Hello, Mark. It’s good to see you today,” Mrs. Shaw called out to him. “What brings you here?”
Angela watched his eyes dart to her before he answered.
“I, uh, I was looking for you, actually. I’m ordering some equipment—thought I better see if you needed anything for the barn.”
Mrs. Shaw set down her paintbrush and wiped her hands on her apron. She pushed her chair away from the table. “I’d say I’m pretty well stocked. Papa’s been seeing to that.” She looked to Angela though she was still addressing Mark.
“Great. It’ll be another day or two. If you think of anything, let me know,” he said and paused.
Mrs. Shaw popped up out of her chair. “Let me check my book by the register. There may be something I need after all.” On that last word, she looked to Angela again.
Though she knew exactly what Mrs. Shaw was up to, she wasn’t happy about it. She and Mark were going to dinner tomorrow. They’d have alone time then. But Mrs. Shaw was already disappearing behind the door, and Mark still stood closer to the doorway than to her.
She put her paintbrush down and straightened up her workspace.
“We’re about done,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.
“Do you have a few minutes before you go? There’s something I want to show you.”
Angela turned enough to see his face. The question was still in his eyes. His heart-melting eyes.
“Sure, I just need to get home to Caroline soon.”
“It won’t take long,” he said.
“Let me clean some of this up.”
Without talking, he walked over and helped with the paint bottles and butcher paper. Mrs. Shaw returned and asked about the possibility of purchasing another dolly. She said the one they had was rather large and if she could have a smaller one, it would allow her to move boxes around without risking injury.
They headed back to the farmhouse and entered through the side door. Mark led them past the dining room and stopped at the painter’s plastic draped strategically to obscure as much of the room as possible.
“I’m waiting for one last order—” He seemed to stop himself from elaborating. “I was going to wait until it was done, but I want to show you now.”
Angela watched as he pulled some of the plastic down. She reached to take a sheet of it from his hands. It felt like they were unwrapping a present, and though she knew what it was, her stomach fluttered in excitement all the same.
Mark pulled away another sheet and took her hand to pull her through. She stood on a wide wooden floor that stretched to the wall where two large windows opened up to a stunning view of the trees.
Her breath caught, and she looked to Mark, a bit confused.
“Is this a ... dining room?
Mark only smiled. He walked her over to the adjoining room. She saw a control panel, chairs, a microphone—a music studio!
“Mark. This isn’t a bedroom. It’s not another master.”
“You said you didn’t need a larger one,” he reminded her, checking her face. She heard a slight defensiveness in his tone.
“You’re right, I don’t. But all this time I thought ... I thought you were building one anyway.” She walked forward and let her fingers rest on the panel.
A recording room. A music room. She looked through a window to the room with the wooden floor. “And that is?” She turned back to ask Mark, but he was already at her side. He turned a few controls, adjusted the volume, and took her by the hand again.
In a blur of motion, they were in the middle of the floor, one of Angela’s songs was playing, and they w
ere dancing.
“How did you get my song? Was this always going to be a studio? ... It had to be.” She was answering her own questions. “You started this in the spring.” She couldn’t process it all quickly enough. As they turned, the trees kept coming into view and Mark still hadn’t said anything. But he was smiling. She could almost hear his smile it was so broad.
“So to be clear, this is a dance floor?”
“You catch on quick,” he said.
She loved it when they danced. Mark was happy, and she loved to be close to him when he was. Not to mention the feel of his arm draped across her back, her hands clasped around his neck.
Her song ended, and one of his started—the one she’d heard last week. She didn’t welcome the thought of what had happened in her music studio, but a new realization settled over her. When Todd had left her, it felt like he had taken her dream of producing music with him. Here Mark was making that dream possible again. He had provided a place for them to work on their music together. A new place for the two of them.
“I’m in love. Can’t get enough. Turning me upside down.”
He pulled her close, clasping his hands at the small of her back, then leaned in and whispered, “I’m sorry, Angela. I never want to do anything to hurt you.” He gently rested his head against hers.
She buried her head in his shoulder. She may or may not have been fighting back tears.
A few moments passed as they swayed to the music.
“Do you like it?” Mark asked quietly. “I want you to love it here. I want this to feel like home.”
The only word that came to her mind was Mrs. Shaw’s gracious.
How could she be anything but?
“I love it Mark. And I love you,” she said as she picked up her head and their lips met for a soft and earnest kiss.
Chapter 12
Mark never thought he’d be this excited for the first day of autumn. It wasn’t the fall foliage. It wasn’t the cooler temperatures. It was the start of the fourth season—the not-so-serious reason Angela had given for waiting to get married.
“You should know a man four seasons before you marry him,” her mother had told her once. And somewhere along the way it had become a line in the sand. But it wasn’t all bad. Mark noticed that Angela and her mother had been able to spend more time together. And it gave him time to add on to the house.
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