by Clay, Verna
Anxious to start the day's painting, he was already mixing colors in his mind. He dismissed the woman from his thoughts and started to turn around when he saw the lady stumble. For an instant he thought she might recover herself, but then she went down hard on her knees and her elbow skidded against a flagstone. The bag she carried somersaulted into the air and landed several feet from her.
"Shit!" he voiced into the empty room and rushed toward the door. He hated meeting people, but there was no way he would let an injured woman limp away from his house.
Grabbing the cane that he used when he had to walk more than a few feet, he jerked the door open and stepped onto the porch.
The woman was sitting on the ground examining her bleeding elbow and scraped knees. She glanced up and he could see pain in her expression.
"I'm so sorry about your coffee," she rasped.
He couldn't believe she was worried about a damn cup of coffee. He descended the two steps of the porch and reached his good hand toward her. "Here, let me help you up. You need to come inside so I can see how badly you're hurt."
She didn't argue as she placed her hand in his and a soft moan escaped her lips. Connor inwardly cursed. If he had been the man he once was, whole and strong, he would have scooped her into his arms and carried her inside the house.
He helped her hobble to the front door. She paused. "I'll stay on the porch. I don't want to get blood inside your house."
"Forget the damn house. The bathroom is down the hall, last door on the left before the stairs."
She looked up at him with anxious eyes that made him want to smooth a hand down her cheek to ease her pain. He mentally shook his head. Don't even go there.
Holding her hand over her elbow to keep blood from dripping onto anything, she stepped inside the house. For a second she appeared disoriented and Connor placed a hand on her back, urging her toward the bathroom.
Both of them in the bathroom made for a tight squeeze.
"Sit on the side of the tub," Connor ordered. He reached for a cloth in the rack above the toilet. Turning on the sink faucet to wet it, he said, "This will probably hurt."
The woman replied, "Okay." She held her bleeding elbow over the tub. Connor sat tub side with her and began blotting her arm. She winced but said nothing. After cleaning her arm, he started on her knees. His bad arm was beginning to weaken and his right thigh hurt. He ignored both.
With the wounds clean, he used his cane to push up and walk the few steps to the medicine cabinet. He reached for peroxide and bandages.
The woman started a conversation. "I'm sorry about causing you so much trouble. I'm the new owner of Dixie's Cuppa Joe. I wanted to be a hands-on owner, so I asked Justin to let me make your delivery today."
Connor walked back and sat beside her again. He reached for her arm. Rather than respond to her confession, he said, "This is going to sting."
She laughed softly, a husky, sexy sound, and said, "Bring it on."
It took several minutes for Connor to finish tending her wounds and bandaging them.
When he finished, she said, "I guess I should introduce myself." She held out her good hand for him to shake. "Cecelia Brightman."
He gently grasped her palm with his good hand while his gaze observed hazel eyes, a sprinkling of freckles across her pert nose, and a pretty, heart-shaped mouth. "Just call me Mac." Her last name was familiar. Connor knew that the famous author, Maxwell Henry, whose real name was Miles Brightman, lived in the area. He asked, "Are you any relation to Miles Brightman?"
She smiled. "Yes. He's my brother. Do you know him?"
"No. I just heard he lives in the area."
An awkward silence ensued and the bathroom seemed to shrink even smaller. Connor said, "Why don't I call a cab or someone at your shop to pick you up."
"Goodness, no. It's only a few blocks away and I've already interrupted your day. After I get back, I'll send Justin with your order. As a matter of fact, to make things up to you, the rest of the month is on me—no charge."
"Not necessary. Accidents happen." Reaching for his cane that was leaning against the back of the tub, he stiffly stood. "Come back to the living room and I'll get you something to drink. I have Pepsi, Seven-up, and sweet tea."
"Just a glass of water would be fine."
Connor looked at her bloody shirt. "I have a T-shirt you can wear." With uncharacteristic joking he added, "If you walk down the street like that, someone may call an ambulance."
She laughed her sexy laugh and followed him from the bathroom. When he reached the end of the hall, he turned expecting her to be right behind him, but she was standing in the doorway to his art room. Her shocked expression as she turned from looking inside the room to him, told him everything he needed to know. His identity was out of the bag.
Cursing his stupidity in not closing the door, he waited for her to speak.
*
Cecelia stared at the man who had just doctored her wounds. Surely this wasn't the Connor MacKenzie. She looked back at a painting on one easel and another with the beginnings of a forest scene. At first she had been drawn to them because of their likeness to one of her favorite artists. When she'd glanced at the signature on the finished painting and read CONNOR MACKENZIE, her foot had frozen midstride.
No other plausible explanation presented itself so she rasped, "You're the artist, Connor MacKenzie?"
He didn't answer, but his expression revealed the truth. She had just been rescued by the art genius. Reaching her arm to lean against the wall because her legs suddenly felt weak, she whispered to herself. "I can't believe this."
Lifting her eyes back to his, she noted his frown. He said, "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything to anyone. Obviously, I like my privacy."
Cecelia nodded.
He continued, "Please come to the living room and sit down so I can bring you some water. You're not looking strong enough to leave yet. I really want to call someone to pick you up."
Cecelia pushed away from the wall and slowly followed him back to the living room, noting his dependence on his cane and the way he held one arm close to his body. She knew he had been in a car accident years earlier that killed his wife, and that he had gone into seclusion after the incident, but because he continued to paint, she had assumed he'd fully recovered from his physical injuries. Obviously, he hadn't.
He motioned toward the couch and she almost fell onto it her knees felt so weak. He left the room and returned minutes later with a glass of water. She accepted it, sipped, and said, "I have five of your originals and several prints."
He quirked an eyebrow and she could read his thoughts. His paintings sold for five and six figures and he was wondering how a coffee shop owner could afford them.
She took another sip and held her glass in both hands. "Before I bought Dixie's Cuppa Joe and moved here, I worked for Charity Disbursements in New York. I was the one who wrote asking for a donation to our Christmas auction raising funds for Loving Arms Adoption Agency. Before I left New York, your painting arrived." She gave a little chuckle, "I told my assistant that if I hadn't been ineligible to bid, I would have paid whatever price to own that painting."
*
Connor was shocked, but now remembered her name as being on the letter. Even then, he'd wondered if she was related to Miles Brightman. What were the chances of meeting this woman—a billion to one? But that was neither here nor there. He didn't want his identity made known. Tapping the fingers of his good hand on his knee, he said, "Like I said, I would appreciate you keeping my identity a secret. I came here to paint in privacy. When I'm at home in Denver, I'm bombarded by people and companies wanting something from me."
Cecelia frowned.
He continued, "I usually don't respond to requests for donations of paintings. I make charitable contributions through a trust I've set up. But when your letter arrived, I decided to donate because of the charity you were benefiting. I've supported that organization for years."
Con
nor waited for Cecelia's response by leaning back against the couch cushions.
"I promise your identity is secure with me."
He smiled. "Thank you."
She stood. "I guess I better head back to the shop. I'll have Justin deliver your coffee and pastry."
"Are you sure I can't call someone to come and get you?"
"Positive." She stepped toward the door.
"Oh, let me get that T-shirt for you to change into."
"No, it's not necessary. It's only a few minutes to my home and the shop."
Leaning heavily on his cane, Connor followed her outside.
There was an awkward silence, then she said, "Well, goodbye, Mr. MacKenzie."
"Please call me Mac."
"Goodbye, Mac."
"Goodbye, Cecelia."
Chapter 6: Sealed Lips
While Cecelia walked back to the coffee shop, she berated herself for not accepting Connor MacKenzie's T-shirt. If she had, she would have had reason to return to his home.
Entering the coffee shop through the back door, Julie dropped the sleeve of paper cups she was retrieving and rushed toward her. She exclaimed, "What on earth happened to you?"
Justin must have heard because he poked his head around the corner. "Don't tell me you tripped and fell."
Cecelia looked sheepish.
Julie said, "You did! You fell. Oh, you poor thing. You need to go home. We can cover for the rest of the day."
Tilly entered from the office and also started clucking over Cecelia like a mother hen.
Justin halted all conversation when he said, "OMG! Who bandaged you?"
Cecelia bit the inside of her jaw. Justin exclaimed, "It was him, Mystery Man, wasn't it."
Again, her expression gave her away.
The bell tinkled when a customer entered the shop. Justin said, "Rats," and returned to the front, followed by Julie.
Still marveling that she had met Connor MacKenzie, one of the foremost painters in the world, Cecelia slipped out the back door and walked the short distance to her house so she could change her clothes.
After changing, she couldn't resist firing up her computer to do a little research on Mr. MacKenzie. She finally located the newspaper article describing his car accident.
Details are sketchy, but in a head-on car accident near Denver International Airport, a drunk driver crossed into the lane of artist Connor MacKenzie. His wife, Rose, was pronounced dead at the scene. Mr. MacKenzie and his two month old son were flown by helicopter to the University of Colorado Hospital in Aurora. The artist's injuries are believed to be life threatening. His son's injuries are unknown at this time.
Cecelia wanted to cry. The man had lost his wife. Of course, she had known that, but meeting him in person brought reality to the sad event. And what of his son? She read the date of the article—fifteen years previous. So his boy would be fifteen. She had seen no evidence of a teenager living with him, but that didn't mean there wasn't one. Had the child lived?
She found more articles written in rag magazines, but nothing shedding additional understanding about Mr. MacKenzie and his son. After his accident, he seemed to have dropped off the radar. Even before the accident he had been reclusive. He did, however, have a current website that showcased and sold his paintings, and she found another site where a journalist had done a blog about trying to interview the elusive artist. He'd posted a statement from Mr. MacKenzie's attorney reiterating the fact that the artist did not give interviews and that he requested his privacy be respected.
Cecelia glanced at the clock. She had been gone for over two hours. She needed to return to her shop. Wearing a long skirt and loose blouse with three quarter sleeves to hide her injuries from customers, she walked as swiftly as her sore knees would permit, back to her coffee shop. Business always slowed down after the noon hour and as soon as she stepped through the back door, her employees once again rushed her. After inquiring as to her wellbeing, they didn't move away.
"Well," said Justin. "Are you going to tell us about Mystery Man? Is he a hit man running from the CIA? Does he look like Quasimodo?"
Cecelia puffed a breath, "No to all of the above."
Everyone waited.
Justin said, "You're not going to tell us anything, are you?"
Cecelia admitted, "That's true."
"Ooooh this is rich. I love a good mystery."
Julie said, "Wow. I can't imagine why you're being so secretive."
Tilly said, "Just like Dixie guessed, he's an alien. Is he grey or reptilian?"
Everyone turned incredulous eyes on her.
"Hey, I watched Aliens Among Us last night. It was on the history channel. They had me convinced."
Cecelia said, "The only thing I can say is that Mystery Man is very nice. Other than that, my lips are sealed, so please don't ask. And please don't say anything to anyone about this." Her voice took on a pleading tone.
Justin said, "Damn, as much as I want to gossip with my friends about Mystery Man, when you whine like that, my conscience would kill me."
Julie said, "I promise I won't say anything."
"Me either," Tilly gave Spock's finger sign.
Cecelia laughed and breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."
Chapter 7: Doctor's Advice
Connor buttoned his shirt and waited for Doctor Hillsborough to return to the examining room. The drive to Denver had been a nice respite from his daily routine, but an idea for a new painting had recharged his energy level. He couldn't wait to get back to Paxtonville.
The doctor reentered the room. "Connor, I'd like to speak with you in my office."
That didn't sound promising and Connor frowned. He sure hoped he wouldn't hear what he thought he was about to hear. His hopes were soon dashed after Dr. Hillsborough settled behind his desk and Connor lowered himself to a plastic chair. The man was the foremost in his field, but the aesthetics of his office left much to be desired. His many degrees and awards hung crookedly on the walls in cheap plastic frames, while piles of papers and books covered every available surface.
Dr. Hillsborough looked concerned when he said, "I looked at the x-rays and CT scan and I'll be frank; you can't forestall the operation any longer. If you do, you run the risk of losing most of the mobility of your right arm and hand."
Connor heaved a sigh and studied one of the framed credentials without really seeing it. "But the operation is no guarantee that the problem will be fixed, and it could have the same effect as doing nothing—correct?"
"As we've discussed before, that's right. But if you want to continue painting, it's a risk I think worth taking. Without it, you have maybe a year or two before irreparable damage to your nerves. At least with the operation there's a chance you can continue painting for many years, maybe the rest of your life."
"So, what's the recovery timeframe and what do I need to do?"
"You'll stay in the hospital for two to three days after surgery and then be down for at least three months. At first you'll be resting most of the time and doing light rehabilitation exercises. The second month you can be up more and your exercises will intensify. The third month you should be pretty much functional. But I'll be frank; it will take six months to a year to completely recover. Do you have someone who can live with you during, say, the first two months?"
Connor puffed a breath. "No; not really."
"Then you need to hire someone."
Connor nodded. "Thanks for the truth, doc. I'll let you know my decision by the end of the week."
Dr. Hillsborough's countenance changed from doctor to friend. "Mac, I wish I had better news. If you want, I can recommend some private nursing homes if you decide to take that route instead of hiring someone in-house."
Connor winced. "I'd rather remain in my own home."
"In Denver?"
"No, in Paxtonville."
Chapter 8: Over-the-Top Exceptional
In the month since falling and making a fool of herself at Connor MacKenzie's home, Cec
elia had refrained from making his daily delivery—but she couldn't do so much longer. There was something about the man that whispered to her heart.
In the evenings she researched him on the internet and discovered he had been born in Denver to a teenage mother who had raised him until he was sixteen, and then died in a car accident after leaving a bar. She'd been intoxicated and swerved into a tree. After that, Connor had spent the next two years before his eighteenth birthday being shuffled between foster homes.
From the age of eighteen until twenty-five, information was sketchy, but his first major showing had been in the gallery of a well-known Dallas collector who'd touted him a genius after viewing his paintings of daily life on the island of Santorini. The originals of the collection had sold for a fabulous sum. Cecelia had reproductions of the famous series in her New York penthouse.
As far as his personal life, he'd married before the age of twenty and the few pictures of his wife, also from Denver, showed her to be as tall as him, with reddish blonde hair, large expressive eyes, and a sweet countenance. Her name was Rose. A lump formed in Cecelia's throat at the happiness radiating from them in the first picture she discovered. A few more inquiries on Google and she found a photo of them with their son. The boy couldn't have been more than a month old. The picture had been taken by a professional photographer and released to the public. Because the family was so reclusive, Cecelia figured it had been released to keep the press at bay.
About a month after the family photo was taken, tragedy had struck. Again, Cecelia wondered what had happened to the child. Did he survive? Was he living with relatives? Her research had revealed no relatives for Connor or his wife.
*
Connor pushed the speed dial to Dixie's Cuppa Joe. He'd decided to go ahead with the operation and Dr. Hillsborough was okay with him remaining in Paxtonville if he had proper care for two to three months following surgery.
He'd lain awake two nights thinking of who he could ask to assist him. Hiring a nurse, of course, was the most logical avenue, and he'd almost decided to do that rather than ask a friend. It was while he was drifting to sleep that he thought of Cecelia Brightman. The idea had brought him instantly awake. It was crazy to think she might move into his house and also run her coffee shop, but something about the idea just seemed right. He knew he could trust her—no one had shown up at his door wanting to meet a famous artist.
