by Alison Kent
She moved close, her thigh brushing his, one hand pressed to his chest. And though the contact was fleeting, he swore he felt her fingers flex before she ducked through the doorway into the next room. He touched the spot, took a deep breath, and followed.
“I’m not sure you and I have the same ideas about fun,” she said, once he’d regained his mental balance and caught up with her.
That had him frowning; was she not having a good time? “We don’t have to stay. But I thought you might like to meet my father.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked, her expression wide-eyed and awed. “I would love to meet your father. And I am having fun. It’s just . . .”
He thought about her sundresses and boots, the dirt that defined her life. “Art galleries aren’t your thing.”
She shrugged as she turned to take in the room over his shoulder. “Since I can’t remember ever walking through one before . . .”
“Then you picked the best ever for your inaugural visit,” he said, his words bringing her gaze back to his.
She studied him closely, her chest rising and falling, her teeth catching at the edge of her lower lip before she asked, “How’s that?”
He reached up a hand to scratch at his temple, because otherwise he was going to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her to him. “The owner, Phil Munro, is a friend of my father’s. I went to school with his son, and he’s the director now, which makes him taskmaster extraordinaire. He works as curator, he wrangles the artists, handles the art . . . Basically, he’s the one who coordinates all the logistics.”
“Is he here? I’d love to meet him, too.”
That makes one of us, though the thought, when it came, caught Oliver off guard. He and Indiana weren’t exclusive, even if his body wanted to argue about that. But Adam Munro had a reputation for seduction that had Oliver wanting to steer clear. “I imagine he is. With the work of an artist like my father on display, Adam will want to micromanage everything.”
“Adam? Adam Munro?”
“You know him?” he asked, swearing he saw her cheeks color.
“Actually, I do. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. He used to bring his mother to the farm for okra. She pickled it by the bushel and said no one could beat my prices.” She brushed her hair from her face, then again when it refused to stay put, and paused a moment before adding, “You know he lost her last year.”
He nodded, sensing there was more to the story of Indiana’s past interaction with Adam, but not wanting to press and possibly bring up old memories. He didn’t want anything to ruin what was so far a wonderful night.
“There’s my dad,” he said, gesturing ahead to where the gallery’s featured artist stood talking to a couple Oliver recognized from one of his mother’s recent dinners. The woman served on one or another committee, but he couldn’t recall which one, or either of their names.
He started to pull Indiana aside and wait till his father was alone, but Orville caught sight of him and waved him over. “Oliver! What a surprise,” he said, offering his hand, then pulling Oliver into a hug. “It’s good to see you. You remember Dean and Joanne Larsen.”
“Of course,” he said, wondering how his father had known he needed saving. “And this is my good friend Indiana Keller.”
Smiling, Indiana shook the Larsens’ hands, stepping aside as the couple excused themselves to tour the rest of the gallery, then turned her full attention on his father. “I’m so happy to have the chance to meet you. I know your name, of course, but hate to admit I’m totally unfamiliar with your work.”
“Oliver? Is this true?” his father asked, his gaze all for Indiana. “Do you not speak of your old man’s work to your friends?”
Oliver held up both hands and laughed. “Don’t look at me. I haven’t even had a chance to talk to her about mine.”
“And what about your passion, Indiana?” Orville offered his arm, and Indiana hooked hers through, Oliver taking up the rear as the two moved to the nearest exhibit. “Tell me what you do and how you came to know my son.”
“Actually, I’m a farmer,” she said, and Oliver had the time of his life watching his father’s jaw fall.
“That absolutely cannot be true,” Orville said, stopping in front of a sculpture Oliver didn’t remember having seen before, one that had him thinking of Dickensian steampunk, with its tiny filaments and lantern windows and bits of patina-greened brass.
“If you don’t believe me,” she said, smiling over her shoulder at Oliver, “you can ask Adam Munro.”
“You know Adam?” Orville’s question had Oliver wanting to roll his eyes.
Indiana nodded. “I knew his mother, too, though I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting his father.”
“Then we must remedy that right away,” Orville said, escorting her from one displayed piece to the next.
They walked by fragile-looking spheres and what appeared to be wings, or maybe feathered tails, unattached to any sort of being. Freestanding branches and blossoms with no stems sat on pedestals or hung suspended, and Oliver was struck, for really the first time, how many of his father’s projects were parts instead of wholes.
Was there something missing in the older man’s life that had him echoing the same in his art? Had this only been the case since Oscar’s accident? Were the pieces designed to appear unfinished, or did he lose interest and leave them so? Was his father, as an artist, simply more interested in the bits and pieces than anything that might be complete?
And what, Oliver was left thinking, did any of those options say about the absentee parent Orville Gatlin had been? Or the husband, distant more than he was present, oblivious more than he was aware, that he was in name only?
On the way through the gallery, Orville spoke to friends and art patrons, introducing both Indiana and Oliver every time, and when at one point he was drawn into deep conversation with an entertainment editor from an Austin paper, Indiana stepped back and asked, “Where’s your mother?”
Uncanny how her question came on the tail of his recent musings. “It’s probably her book-club night, or she has some meeting.”
“Isn’t she interested in what your father does?” When he found himself frowning instead of answering, she asked another question. “Or does he not want her here?”
Where to even begin. “What they have, their marriage . . .” He held Indiana’s arm and guided her away from the group where his father held court. “It’s complicated, I guess. I mean, whose marriage isn’t in one way or another? But my parents have never been who I’d hold up as marital role models.”
“Even though they’ve been together all these years.”
“It works for them,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t know why. Or how. But it does.”
“Absence making the heart grow fonder maybe?”
Oh, he was pretty sure it wasn’t that—
“Indiana Keller? Is that you?”
At the sound of her name, Indiana turned, while all Oliver had to do was look over her shoulder as Adam Munro approached. “Adam. Hello,” she said, allowing the other man’s quick embrace and kiss to her cheek before turning to include Oliver. “You know Oliver Gatlin.”
“I do.” Adam stepped forward to shake Oliver’s hand. “Though what you’re doing here with the likes of him . . .”
Yeah, yeah. “Good to see you, Munro. Nice turnout.”
“Hardly a surprise,” Munro said. “We’re showing the work of Orville Gatlin. You may have heard of him?” Grabbing three flutes of champagne from a passing server, Munro led them into a small alcove out of the meandering flow of traffic. “It really is nice to see you, Indy. And you, Ollie. Wow. It’s been a long time. I know since before Mother passed.”
“I was so sorry to hear that,” Indiana said. “And I’ve missed seeing you. Orville was on the way to introduce me to your father. The one member
of the family I haven’t yet met,” she said, giving Oliver a smile he would be a long time forgetting.
“I think Dad stepped out.” It was all Munro said in answer before moving on. “And I’ll have to get back to work here, but fill me in. What’s going on with the two of you?”
They spent the next ten minutes talking about IJK Gardens and the Caffey-Gatlin Academy and Munro’s work with the gallery. And they compared notes on Orville’s pieces, Indiana loving the same steampunk sculpture that had caught Oliver’s attention earlier, Munro favoring the bigger, bolder ones because of how they defied all scientific principles that would have them bending and breaking and crashing to the ground.
Oliver didn’t mention his parts-versus-the-whole observation, still brooding over what, if anything, it might mean. And when Munro regretfully took his leave and returned to his duties, Oliver found himself guiding Indiana toward the door. “We should probably go.”
“Do you want to say good-bye to your father?”
Orville was standing in the center of at least a dozen admirers, gesturing with both arms as he held his audience captive. “No need,” he said, knowing his father had already forgotten he’d been there at all—a reality he’d lived with for most of his life.
Indiana was quiet on the drive home, leaving Oliver to sift through the remnants of the night, and the thing that stood out above everything was how she hadn’t let his father or Munro whisk her out of his sight. She’d stayed close, including him in the conversations. She’d listened to him, she’d smiled, she’d initiated physical contact.
She’d left no doubt she was with him, even though they weren’t dating and she was free to enjoy Munro’s—or anyone’s—attention. Even though theirs was not a romantic relationship. This had been an experiment. A test of compatibility. A night without sex. He hated what it was, as much as what it wasn’t. But he wasn’t ready to examine why.
Pulling to a stop behind her Camaro in her driveway on Three Wishes Road, he put his BMW in park and opened his door, leaving the engine running while he circled to open hers. She took his hand and swung her legs from the car, then stood and let him go.
She held her clutch in both hands between them, as if using it as a shield, or warding him off, and he shoved his hands in his pockets to let her know she had nothing to worry about. He was Merrilee Gatlin’s son. He was an expert in being a gentleman.
“Thanks for the evening. Your father’s absolutely lovely. I had a wonderful time.”
“I’m glad you came.” Really glad. “Though I don’t know that I got to know you any better.”
“That’s okay. I got to know you.”
He wasn’t sure he liked things going that way. “I’ll see you on Thanksgiving, then? If not before?”
She nodded, waved him off when he started to accompany her to the door, then waved again as she went inside, leaving him standing in her driveway, wondering why he didn’t know whether the night had been a success or a failure.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The days between Indiana’s date with Oliver and the Thanksgiving holiday were insanely busy at the farm. Her pumpkins and winter squash and green beans went like mad, and her small market building was a veritable beehive of activity, with candied pecans and cranberry relish and other seasonal goodies in high demand.
She made the drive to Hope Springs twice, telling herself she needed to check on the cottage. Lying to herself, really, because Tennessee was in constant contact, keeping her apprised of the progress. Will, too, surprising her, in fact, by driving to Buda one morning, and hunting her down in the equipment-repair shop to talk to her about flooring options—something he could just as easily have done over the phone.
They hadn’t spoken in person since she’d gone to his loft the week after Halloween, so looking up from a tractor that had just bitten the dust to see him walking through the shop surprised her. She’d watched his approach, taking in his long, lanky stride, the wolfish grin pulling at his mouth, twinkling in his eyes. A slash of hair falling over his forehead.
She realized that, as happy as she was to see him, her heart wasn’t pounding, her fingertips weren’t tingling. She wasn’t hit with the urge to run into his arms, to have him lift her and twirl her and lower her against his body, to slide into his kiss. The realization left her torn, mourning what they would never have, celebrating the friendship they did.
In reality, her visits to Three Wishes Road were about seeing Oliver, though she’d missed him both times. On the second trip she did find a note taped to her front door, one he’d obviously left, because it was from his father. Orville was sorry to have been distracted during her visit to the gallery, and invited her to his studio to see his newest piece.
Oliver had scratched a quick accompanying note of his own: “Let me know.” That was all it said, and the only contact they’d had in the nearly two weeks between their gallery visit and the holiday. Which had her looking forward to Kaylie’s dinner. Because that night she’d finally been given a glimpse into Oliver’s life.
She’d met his father. She’d learned he was friends with Adam Munro. He’d confessed his snobbery, though she considered his list of sins to be more about excellent taste and less the snooty airs his mother displayed. Interesting, too, that his mother had no care for his father’s show. Almost as interesting as the fact that he painted. Or had painted.
She wanted to know if she was right about why he’d given it up, when he’d given it up. The medium in which he’d painted. His subject matter. And she would have hours today to find out, because this holiday would be nothing like the past.
Last Thanksgiving, Indiana had spent a quiet day alone. She’d roasted a turkey breast, baked a pan of cornbread for dressing, made gravy, tossed a salad, and dug a fork into the center of a store-bought pecan pie while watching Kevin Costner as Robin Hood.
The year before had been spent similarly, though instead of a salad she’d gone to the effort to put together a green bean casserole. And the pie, which she’d eaten while watching Kevin Costner as Robin Hood, had been cherry.
The year before that, ditto to the turkey, gravy, and dressing. Broccoli casserole. Chocolate cream pie with a four-inch meringue. Kevin Costner as Robin Hood.
She didn’t mind spending the day alone, though with Kevin on her TV, she never really was. But a whole pie to herself—because face it: Who bought half a pie, or a small pie, or only a slice?—was not a good idea, even if she was active enough that she could afford the calories.
The problem was that Thanksgiving came right after Halloween, and she always overbought the M&M’s and Tootsie Rolls. And Christmas followed almost immediately, the season arriving with cookie exchanges and vendor gifts: caramel popcorn, creamy fudge, iced gingerbread men, and Danish butter cookies. She was getting too old to eat her way out of one year and into the next and was thankful she’d have no leftovers.
Stepping from her car parked behind a dozen others, she wound her way to the back door of Two Owls Café, though technically where she was headed was simply Tennessee and Kaylie’s home for their friends and family get-together.
Reaching up to smooth back her hair, then smooth down her skirt and her sweater, she took a deep breath before pulling open the screen door into Kaylie’s kitchen. The room buzzed with activity, Kaylie and Dolly and Luna all flitting by, along with a couple of women Indiana didn’t think she had met.
And the smells. Oh, the smells. Everything Thanksgiving should be was in this room. The rich, savory aromas of turkey and gravy, the yeasty scent of Kaylie’s famous softball-size hot rolls, and that of pie dough, like buttery flour, and warm. Sweeter smells: yams and cranberries and desserts oozing lemon and coconut, sweet apple, spicy pumpkin, cherries both tangy and tart.
She was in heaven. Who needed Kevin Costner as Robin Hood?
“Indy! You’re here!” This from Kaylie as she tossed a pair of elbow-length oven mitt
s to her dad. “Happy Thanksgiving!”
Mitch gave Indiana a smile and a wave as he tugged them on, then turned for the huge roasting pan and the turkey, a blast of heat and so many smells pouring into the room as he opened the oven door.
Indiana set her contribution to the meal—six bottles of wine in a rustic jute carrier—on the counter, and said, “What can I do?”
“Find a corkscrew, then find Tennessee. He should be in the main dining room,” Kaylie said before being swallowed up by the crowd.
Indiana did as instructed, winding through the smaller eating areas toward the front of the house. But her brother wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Instead, he stood looking out the open front door, his arms crossed, his shoulder braced on the jamb.
She nudged him with her hip, then held up the corkscrew and indicated the wine carrier she’d brought from the kitchen. “I come bearing gifts.”
“And not a minute too soon,” he said, wrapping her in a hug. “Glasses are this way.”
She followed him into the largest dining room, where Angelo sat deep in conversation with Luna’s parents at the end of the long row of tables. Two men Luna didn’t recognize, and who most likely belonged to the women in the kitchen, stood talking in front of the room’s picture windows.
Smiling at Angelo and the Meadowses, she waited while Tennessee opened a bottle and poured them both a glass without offering one to his guests. “Cheers,” he said, downing half of his in one long swallow.
She didn’t think she’d ever seen her brother drink anything but beer. Or drink as if trying to drown his sorrows. “What’s going on?” she asked, leaving her glass on the table set up with the coffee and iced tea dispensers slated for use in the café, along with cups and glasses for both as well as for water and wine.
He turned his back on the rest of the room and lowered his voice. “You can’t say anything. Not yet.”
She did her best to keep a straight face though her stomach fell, and she had to swallow to find her voice. “You haven’t given me anything yet not to say.”
