That was assuming she ever saw Cassie—or Sean—again.
“We should get going,” Nolan called to Sean, who turned the dog toward the truck.
Allie took a step back just as Nolan took one forward, likely with the intention of kissing her cheek the way he had the other day in the quilt shop, in front of all her customers. They stared at each other, the lines in his forehead even deeper.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said, retreating another step, reaching behind her for the stair railing.
He nodded, and finally walked away. She was halfway up when she heard the slam of his door. Nolan being Nolan, he didn’t back out until he knew she was safely at the top, her door unlocked.
His truck’s powerful engine came to life; before she shut the door, a glance back saw three heads through the windshield. Cassie had been promoted to the seat. The pickup disappeared down the street.
Allie was appalled to realize that, instead of the relief she ought to feel, she was swept with desolation, as if she’d been abandoned. Which was patently ridiculous. Yes, Sean had rejected her today, but it would have been a surprise if he hadn’t, sooner or later. Even if he’d been Nolan’s biological son, at his age he’d have been likely to resent the threat to his central position in his father’s life. As it was, he must feel terribly insecure. No, not feel—he was insecure. Not that she believed for a minute Nolan wouldn’t stick by the boy. Still, his grandmother had died, and the first set of foster parents had rejected him. His mother had abandoned him. Allie couldn’t remember what had happened to the dad. Had he died, too? It would be a miracle if Sean ever felt secure in any relationship.
With a sigh, she let go of her anger. At least, the part that was directed at him. Nolan, she thought, really shouldn’t have pushed.
But the fault had been hers, too. She’d known better. Today’s outing had been...too much, too soon. The implication that her relationship with Nolan was going somewhere that necessarily involved Sean had definitely been premature.
She hated the lump she felt in her throat, the yearning that filled her and the hurt. She wanted...she wanted something she didn’t know if she dared reach for.
I am not Allie.
Then who am I?
* * *
NOLAN HAD A bad feeling that if he called that evening, Allie wouldn’t answer. So he didn’t, and then wondered if that was a mistake.
He couldn’t show up with lunch tomorrow, the way he had been—her shop was closed on Mondays. Fine, then he’d drop in on her at home, he decided, liking the idea—they’d be alone! But that also made him uneasy about his plan. Except for the one time, when she’d wanted Sean to see his quilt, she hadn’t invited Nolan in. She might not like it if he appeared out of the blue.
And, crap, he’d been losing a lot of work time lately, too, but right now he didn’t care. He had to see her.
The next morning, after Sean shambled out to meet the school bus, Nolan looked down at the dog who sat at his side quivering with anxiety.
“Hey, girl,” he said, resting his hand on her sleek head. “It’s going to be you and me most every day. Except I can’t let you in the workshop. Can’t let you run loose yet, either, can I?” Traffic wasn’t an issue on their quiet country road, but he had no idea whether she might prove to be a wanderer. For now, he and Sean had to make sure she knew this was home. Plus, they had to give the cats a chance to get used to her, and vice versa. So he strolled around the property with her for fifteen or twenty minutes, then shut her in the house and went to his workshop, followed by one mournful howl and then silence. He’d have liked to leave for Allie’s, but she might enjoy sleeping in on her days off.
He had commissioned jobs waiting, but instead he went to the corner where he nearly always was working on a sculpture. This one was different from his usual, the result of an erratic inspiration. It was going to have the kind of detail he’d told Allie he didn’t do.
He’d chosen a block of imported green Guatemala marble rather than his more usual granite because it was somewhat softer. He’d given thought to starting with a maquette, which in stone carver’s terms was a model. But Nolan much preferred direct carving. He got bored when he, in essence, reproduced his original concept into the large chunk of stone.
His way was sometimes a mistake—the stone might end up having a flaw, or maybe he wouldn’t like what he saw taking shape under his hands, or he made a mistake that couldn’t be corrected—and resulted in him having to discard the stone, or the idea. But surprises were what kept him engaged, transforming an unpromising raw block into something that had existed only in his mind’s eye.
He had started this time with a fairly detailed sketch. He wasn’t an artist that way—no one would ever want to frame one of his drawings—but he was deft enough with pencil or charcoal and paper to let him see where he was going. Adjust, tinker, crumple up the paper and start over. Satisfied, he’d begun several weeks earlier, although until recently no one else would have been able to tell where he was going.
He used machine tools sparingly in his carving, preferring to work with simple, handheld tools—various tempered-steel chisels, diamond tipped, for granite, a stonemason’s hammer and a carpenter’s rasp.
He’d roughed out the original form with a circular saw, breaking off chunks with a hammer. That form was a cylinder that reached toward what would be a point at one end were it not embedded in the flat base.
Nolan had roughed out fins at the other end. He’d drawn all over the body of the cylinder, the crude shape of his creatures, then begun trimming the stone between those lines so that the sculpted sea creatures would seem to be crawling over or attaching themselves to his cylinder—which when he was done would be a torpedo.
He concentrated today on the long tentacle of an octopus flung in a strange embrace over the casing of the torpedo, which seemed to have plunged nose-down into the seabed.
He switched between chisels, knowing which would work best, tapping with the hammer to break off bits of marble. He’d laid out an array of them; the marble was hard enough to dull tools frequently and he didn’t like to stop to sharpen them until he was ready for a break.
He’d trepanned beneath the tip of the tentacle to give the illusion the suction cups hadn’t quite completed the embrace. Creating those cups was possibly the most delicate part of the carving; he was pleasantly surprised by midmorning or so to realize he was satisfied with the effect. The texture left by the chisel blades remained to be smoothed away, but he’d made good progress today.
He didn’t usually work for longer than a three- or four- hour stretch on his sculptures. Even though his hands were strong, fatigue could become an issue. As he’d told Allie, these weren’t his bread and butter, either. More like a hobby, right now. He’d switch this afternoon to an entirely routine kitchen countertop he’d promised by Thursday.
Cassie was right inside the back door when he stepped into the house. He guessed she’d spent the past hours with her nose pressed to it. Her ecstasy now made him laugh, even though it was sad, too. How long would it take her separation anxiety to wear off? Weeks? Months? Years?
God, how long until Sean’s wore off? Was this what, in essence, Sean did when Nolan went out with Allie?
He took the dog out for a romp, leaving the leash on the coat hook by the door. Along with food and a collar, Sean had picked out a few toys for Cassie yesterday, after they dropped off Allie.
Nolan threw the rubber ball for her over and over, hoping to wear her out. More good manners on her part—she brought it back each time and dropped it at Nolan’s feet. He didn’t mind a little slobber, he had to wash his hands anyway.
Tuba, the brown tabby male cat, crouched on the workshop roof and watched with slit-eyed suspicion. Juparana, the girl, was staying out of sight; she’d probably sent her brother on a reconnaissance mission.
Nolan had named both for types of granite—Uba Tuba could be a speckled brownish, like the cat’s coat, and some variations of Jup
arana Champagne were the perfect mix of gray and peach that was, Nolan had learned, a diluted tortoiseshell coloration. Both granites were mined in Brazil, which fit since the cats were, he guessed, littermates.
Tuba vanished before Nolan decided he’d had enough.
Cassie wasn’t happy about being abandoned again, but he thought that, even if she didn’t know it, she’d be better off in the house than locked in the truck. At least she had water and food there.
He was dismayed when he got to Allie’s to find her car not there. He drove down to her shop, parked, peered into the darkened interior and even went around to the alley and knocked, in case she was in the back room. No response.
She could be anywhere. Grocery shopping, going to the bank, visiting a friend... Sitting in his truck, Nolan tried to decide what to do next. Drive around town looking for her car? That smacked of stalking. Grab a bite to eat and then go back to her apartment?
He could do that.
One burger and serving of fries later, he returned to find Allie still hadn’t come home. Leave her a note? He didn’t have paper in the car, and that was stupid anyway when he could call her cell phone.
Sitting there brooding, his mood was crappy. He couldn’t even pin down why he felt such urgency. Sure, she’d been annoyed yesterday, and she should be. He hadn’t listened to her caution, and as a result she’d been put in an embarrassing and maybe hurtful position. But she’d understand if they had to slow it down a little, wouldn’t she?
He didn’t know. Nolan didn’t have the slightest damn idea what had been going through her head yesterday, and he didn’t like the feeling. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, flexed. He looked down at them and deliberately loosened them.
Shit, he thought, I’m in over my head. He knew better than to dive headfirst like this. He couldn’t begin to understand what he’d been thinking. He didn’t know this woman, and he was already all tangled up over her. And it wasn’t all because he wanted her, either. If it had been that simple, he could shrug and figure she wasn’t worth the effort. There were a lot of pretty women around.
Not many so graceful, they looked as if in the next step they might become airborne. Not many intrigued by what he did, either, rather than disappointed because he didn’t don suit and tie every morning. Not many with the gift of creating beauty, or of displaying delight so transparently.
“Damn it,” he muttered, knowing he should go home and get his ass back to work. He’d killed an hour and a half already. He only had a few hours before Sean got home and wondered where he was.
At the sound of a car engine he turned his head and saw a white Corolla coming down the street. Relief, way out of proportion, filled his chest. He watched as the car noticeably hesitated, then turned into the driveway and Allie parked in her customary spot beside the steps.
He got out and went to meet her.
She climbed out, too, and faced him, her eyes wide and wary. “Nolan. I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Is this about yesterday? I did understand why Sean acted the way he did, if that’s what you meant to talk about.”
“No.” He frowned. “Yes. Oh, hell. I didn’t like things ending the way they did.”
Aggravatingly enough, he still couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“Um...you can come up if you’d like,” she finally said. “Let me grab my groceries.”
“I’ll help.” She popped her trunk, and he loaded himself down with bags, leaving her to carry only her purse and a small watermelon.
“Thank you,” she said over her shoulder.
He stood aside to let her go ahead of him. “You talk to the owners about these steps?”
“Yes, they’ve had a man come out and take a look. He agreed with you and they’re to be replaced, although I don’t know when.”
At the top she unlocked her door. With a sense of anticipation—don’t even think about her bedroom, that’s not why she invited you up—Nolan followed her inside.
It really was a small space. She hadn’t even tried to squeeze a sofa into the living area, which, come to think of it, suggested she didn’t often have more than one or two people over at a time. A couple of upholstered chairs, an end table between them, and a television crowded one corner. Otherwise, the quilting frame effectively filled the room.
Beyond it was a galley-style kitchen and the tiniest dining nook he’d ever seen. He wasn’t sure he could edge his bigger body around to the other side of the table—and it wasn’t a large table. The merest suggestion of a hall led to two half-closed doors—bedroom and bathroom, he presumed. From the kitchen he had a glimpse into the bedroom, where a red-and-white quilt covered a bed. The headboard was lacy and white—iron, maybe? His body tightened, and he concentrated on setting the grocery bags down on the counter without breaking anything.
He ended up leaning a hip against the laminate countertop and watching Allie put away the groceries. She did that, like she did everything else, as if it were a dance. Each turn was a twirl; if she’d worn a skirt instead of jeans, it would have swirled around her legs. No missteps. Her hands were as graceful as her body. No, there was nothing deliberate about it. That was how she moved. It was catlike, he decided, while most people were giraffes or elephants. Ponderous. Nobody had ever accused him of grace, that was for sure.
She came to a sudden stop, a jar of olive oil in her hand. “Why are you watching me that way?”
“Because I like watching you.” His voice came out rough. Polish it, he thought, don’t scare her. “You looked like you were dancing.”
“Dancing?” Her eyes widened with something surprising. Fear? No, it couldn’t possibly be. “All I’m doing is putting away groceries.”
“You must know that you move differently than most of us clods.” He was careful not to move. His posture stayed relaxed. “Have you ever had dance lessons?”
“Oh...yes.” She sounded breathless. “When I was little. Don’t all little girls imagine themselves as ballerinas?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Didn’t your sister?” Allie went on tiptoe and put away the olive oil in a cupboard above the stove. Her body formed an exquisite line. He could sculpt her.... But creative visions were shoved off-line by the sight of her creamy skin when the T-shirt rode up. His fingers tingled, craving the silky, warm sensation of enclosing her waist in his hands.
She gazed at him expectantly. He had to rewind to remember what she’d asked. His sister.
“Uh...no. Anna liked to play in the mud.” He knew his face relaxed. “She finger painted—made the most god-awful messes. Anything artsy.”
“Play-Doh?”
“Oh, yeah. She did have a horse-crazy phase. Not destined to go much of anywhere when you live in Chicago, but she collected these horse statues, drew horses, ran around the backyard neighing.”
“A lot of girls go through that phase, too,” Allie said with a laugh.
“Did you?”
“I was the exception. By that time I was way too focused on...” She came to a stop, and there was the expression he didn’t understand again. “Oh, other stuff. Not that I wasn’t thrilled when one of those horse-crazy girls invited me to her birthday party. We were all taken on a trail ride. The horses were fat and never bestirred themselves from a plod, but still. I’m sure we all imagined ourselves leaping fences in the Grand National.”
She was too focused on...what? She didn’t want to talk about whatever it was, that was obvious. Family problems? Maybe, he thought, but wasn’t convinced.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked casually. “I don’t think you’ve ever said.”
She became busy stowing canned goods in a lower cupboard, giving him a nice view of her from behind, which he properly appreciated despite his agenda.
“That’s because we moved a lot,” she said. “Which is maybe why, when I reached adulthood, I was determined to put down roots.”
“Where’
d you stay the longest?”
He couldn’t see her face. She was reaching into another grocery bag. “Oh...Florida, I suppose. Near Tampa. Actually a little south. I wish I could tell you I learned to surf, but I was too young.”
“Did you tan?”
“Did I what?” She looked startled.
“Your skin is so white. I wondered if you can tan.”
“Actually...no.” Allie wrinkled her nose. “I burn. It’s really annoying, given that I’m dark-haired and not a redhead or blonde.”
“You must have gotten the coloring from one of your parents. Your mom?”
“No, she is a blonde, and tans just fine, thank you.” Her voice had eased, Nolan was interested to note. She didn’t mind talking about her mother.
“Your father?”
“Oh—brown-haired, sort of hazel eyes. I guess I get that from him.” She gave a one-sided shrug. “His mother was Eastern European. Romanian, I think. I guess that’s where my coloring came from.”
Without conscious effort, an image of Nadia Comaneci, the famous Romanian gymnast, rose before his mind’s eye. During the last Olympic Games, the network had featured her, showed some snippets of her gold-medal-winning performances. Logical that mention of Romania had triggered her picture. He’d been captivated by huge, haunting dark eyes. Allie, he realized, had that same quality, shyness maybe, or something else. And then there was the grace. Arrested, he wondered: Could she have been a gymnast? But why wouldn’t she say, if so?
“You’re beautiful.” He had to clear his throat. Yeah, way to blurt it out. “I don’t know if I’ve said that, but you are.”
“I... Thank you.” In the first awkward movement he’d seen, she balled grocery bags in her hands and shoved them in a drawer. When she straightened, her eyes met his. “What did you come by to say?”
He had to think about it. “I’m not sure I came by to really say anything,” he finally confessed. “I wanted to see you. Make sure you weren’t too mad at me.”
She crossed her arms. The pose might have looked negligent if the clasp hadn’t been so tight; she seemed to be hugging herself. “I’m not mad. Just, um...”
Anything for Her Page 8
