“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” she assured him.
“We’ll see. Just lower your expectations before you open your eyes, all right?”
She shook her head. “Not on your life. I’m raising my expectations. You’ve given me no reason for disappointment yet.”
“Yes, well, you’ve never seen one of my sketches before.”
One of his sketches? Phoebe yanked her hands away from her eyes and peered at the framed sketch he held in front of him.
She inhaled a shaky breath. Her fingers trembled as she reached out toward the immediately recognizable rendering. “You drew this?”
He shifted his weight. “It’s not real art, I know, but I thought it might lend a sentimental touch to the room.”
“Not real art? Barnabas, this is . . .”—she struggled to find the right word—“amazing.”
He’d captured the trunk of the Kissing Tree in dark charcoal on ivory paper. The weathered bark. The carvings. All the carvings. He’d drawn them all. Exactly as they appeared on the tree. Every nuance. Every imperfection. Every ragged slip of the knife. It must have taken hours of study to perfect each detail. Yet Barnabas never did anything halfway. Somehow he’d captured the very essence of her beloved Kissing Tree.
And with it, she very much feared he’d captured her heart.
He might have intended the sketch as nothing more than a clever business strategy, tying the room to the romance of the tree, but she felt the touch of it travel all the way to the depths of her soul.
Tears misted her eyes as she stroked the edge of the frame. “It’s perfect.”
six
As Phoebe blinked moisture from her eyes, an alarming mushiness afflicted Barnabas’s chest. He’d done a few quick sketches for clients before, to help them visualize his plans for a particular property, but never had he tried to create an actual piece of art. It had taken him a week of sneaking away to the tree when she wasn’t watching to get the scale and shading just right. He’d burned his first few attempts when they’d failed to capture the essence of the tree’s heart, but seeing her reaction now, satisfaction swelled within him.
“I’m glad you like it.” And by glad, he meant euphoric. If the pleasure pounding through his veins didn’t regulate soon, he might start listing sideways and spouting horrendous poetry due to excessive inebriation. Not exactly the behavior of a professional business consultant.
Barnabas turned with the artwork and forced his attention away from Phoebe’s lovely face and onto the nail protruding from the wall instead. The softness in her expression was wreaking havoc on his pulse. Not to mention fuzzing his brain.
“Who taught you to draw like that?” she asked.
He closed his eyes briefly to defend himself against the admiration in her tone. A man could forget he was merely a hired hand with that tone slithering over him like fine silk.
“My mother,” he finally managed to get out as he hooked the frame over the nail. Taking longer than necessary to level the corners—since what he was really leveling was his head—he steadied his hands and his breath before pivoting to face the woman whose approval grew dangerously more important to him each day.
She’s the boss’s daughter, genius. Off limits.
He’d come to Oak Springs to preserve his job, not exterminate it. Fraternizing with Hollis Woodward’s daughter was guaranteed to kill his career faster than munching on a cyanide sandwich.
Barnabas cleared his throat. What were they talking about? Oh yes. His mother. “She’s a master at turning ordinary items into works of art,” he bragged. “My father left us when I was just a boy. Mother kept a roof over our heads and shoes on our feet by turning people’s castoffs into desirable items she could sell at a profit. Beads from an unwanted purse dressed up an ordinary bodice and transformed it from a day dress to formal attire. A torn piece of lace became trim for a lady’s handkerchief or sleeve. Strategically placed embroidered patches brought new life to thinning upholstery.” He gestured to the picture he’d just hung. “Pressed leaves and charcoal sketches become fine art for nothing more costly than time and framing materials.”
Phoebe smiled. “So the magician learned his tricks from a master sorceress.”
Barnabas dipped his head. “Indeed.”
“She undoubtedly also influenced your sense of style.” Her smile twisted into a wry expression. “Something I’m beginning to suspect I lack.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but the look she shot him told him not to bother. She wouldn’t welcome polite half-truths.
She held up a hand. “Oh, I’m not saying I’m ready to concede our contest just because a few people mentioned that they find the inn’s new green exterior more flattering than the pink. Nor will I completely forfeit flowers and cupids just because the man who cautions against them happens to wear dapper suits and sports disgustingly perfect hair and charmingly chiseled features. I still believe my romantic sensibilities will carry the day.”
Wait. Had she just called him dapper and . . . charmingly chiseled? Barnabas’s pulse leapt to a gallop like a thoroughbred reacting to the drop of the starting flag. He’d overheard ladies describe him as staid, steady, or even stodgy, but never stylish. And certainly not charmingly chiseled. Was that really how Phoebe saw him?
“Come on.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him out of his stupor.
Only then did he realize she’d been talking to him while he’d been stuck on chisels. Of course, the moment her hand clasped his, all ability to focus on anything other than the feel of her skin against his palm abandoned him as well. Her next words barely registered.
“It’s only fair that you get to see mine since I saw yours.”
Thankfully, her meaning didn’t take long to decipher when she pushed open the door to the room she’d been decorating and led him inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, it occurred to Barnabas that a man really shouldn’t join a lady in a bedchamber while under the influence of ego-enhancing compliments and feminine hand-holding. Despite the fact that the door was wide open and workmen could interrupt at any time, Barnabas started backing out of the room.
“I shouldn’t be in here,” he said, heat rising up his nape.
“Don’t be silly.” Phoebe yanked him deeper into the room. He stumbled a bit as she conquered his feeble resistance. “It’s only fair. I examined your room. You can examine mine.” She looked at him expectantly, and the fog around his brain cleared enough for him to recognize the vulnerability in her brown eyes. “I’d like to hear what you think.”
Get your mind off your own ego for a minute and pay attention to hers. She’s nervous.
A crowd of people was about to descend upon the inn and cast judgment upon the design she’d been working on for weeks. It was only natural for her to feel anxiety. Especially since he’d been pointing out her failings since the day he arrived. Yet despite that, she peered at him with a shy desire to please. Nibbling on the corner of her lip, she turned to gaze at the room she’d put together and gently squeezed his hand before releasing it.
She respected his opinion. Perhaps even hoped to impress him. And like a dunce, all he’d been able to think about were improprieties that only existed in his mind.
Barnabas straightened his shoulders. Time to think about her for a change. Well, he had been thinking about her, but he’d do so in a strictly businesslike manner from this point on. He was here as a consultant. He might as well consult.
Giving each of his coat sleeves a sharp tug, he stepped into the center of the room. “Very well. Let’s see what we have.” He paced in a slow half circle, surveying her handiwork.
Careful to keep his expression neutral as he made his examination, Barnabas fought to remain objective. The rococo-style wallpaper was far frillier than he would prefer, with its curling feathers, draping flowers, fluttering ribbons, and golden scrollwork, yet it was so completely Phoebe that he found it more quirky than annoying. And truth be told, he could see r
estraint in the pattern she’d selected.
The colors were muted—golds, greens, and dark pinks—so the overall effect did not overwhelm the senses. And the artistic scene within the scrollwork that repeated in a checkerboard pattern every twelve inches or so couldn’t have been a better fit for the Inn of Wooing Woodery. A young country lass leaning against a fence with a playful pup pawing at her skirts. A besotted swain on the opposite side, elbow propped on the top rail, eyes gazing longingly into the face of the fair maiden. And a tree standing in the background, sheltering the courting couple. Phoebe being Phoebe, it would have been impossible for her not to have chosen this design.
What really surprised him was her choice of bedding. With all the pinks and reds in the wallpaper, he would have expected her to select one of those feminine hues, but she’d opted for a light green covering. The color was perfect for the room, but it was covered in a fancy cutwork ivory lace that, while sure to be attractive to those of the female persuasion, would leave a man feeling like he couldn’t relax for fear of snagging the fine lace on a trouser button or boot buckle. The impractical coverlet would fray and tear easily with guest use, leaving it looking ratty instead of romantic after only a handful of visitors, but she was on the right track.
A matching dresser scarf further feminized the room, but she’d kept the knickknacks to a minimum. Though he nearly cracked a smile when he spotted the small cupid on the soap dish on the washstand. Somehow he knew that was a deliberate jab at him. He rather liked the idea of her thinking of him as she decorated. Even if it was only in a teasing capacity.
She’d brought in a chaise longue in a dark wine-colored fabric that looked sturdy even with its tooled legs. Best of all, there were no crazy designs in the fabric. The pattern was so subtle that it looked more like a textured solid than a pattern. Of course, she did have a rather flamboyant floral pillow tossed atop it, but a man could accidentally kick that piece of hideousness under the bed if it proved too disturbing.
“I’m impressed,” he finally said, and surprisingly enough, he meant it. “You managed to stay true to your aesthetic while toning things down to appeal to a broader clientele.” He turned his gaze on her. “Nice job, Phoebe.”
A delighted smile blossomed slowly across her face before bursting into full bloom. An answering unfurling stretched inside his chest.
Good grief. What was happening to him? Even his analogies were becoming botanical. The flowers in the room must be addling his mind.
No, he thought, fighting the urge to caress the side of Phoebe’s face as she gazed up at him with pleasure. The addling was all her doing.
Forcing his gaze away from hers, he caught sight of a hat rack standing in the corner on the far side of the wardrobe. The large clothes cabinet hid all but the top of a black hat, but when he shifted sideways for a closer look, he knew immediately that this couldn’t stay.
He strode forward, clasped the hat rack by the neck, and dragged it away from the slender nook between the wardrobe and the wall.
“Hey!” Phoebe lunged after him. “You can’t move things around before the judging. That’s sabotage!”
Barnabas would not be dissuaded, even when she grabbed hold of his arm. “The bigger crime would be leaving this tucked away in the corner where it could be missed. This is the best piece in the room, Phoebe. It needs a place of honor.”
Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink as her hand slid off his coat sleeve, no longer intent on stopping him. “You like it?”
“It’s the perfect blend of sentimentality and practicality.”
Why did it suddenly feel as if the hat stand wasn’t the only occupant of the room for which that description fit?
Phoebe fingered the lace of the wedding veil, the wreath of silk flowers that formed its crown looped over the top hook. A man’s black top hat hung from the opposite hook, leaving the lower hooks free for guests to utilize.
“I needed something tall and thin to fill the space on the other side of the wardrobe and got the idea to use my daddy’s wedding hat and my mama’s veil. If our pretend clients like it when they come through this afternoon, I’ll get replicas made before opening for business. Although I suppose I could leave these on display. It’s not like they were doing anyone any good locked away in a trunk.”
Barnabas frowned. “Do you not wish to wear your mother’s veil at your own wedding someday?” He couldn’t imagine a woman with such intense romantic sensibilities not wanting to keep a token of the mother she adored close to her on such an important day.
“Oh, I won’t be marrying.” Phoebe flung the statement past him as if it were a foregone conclusion.
“Why not?” How could a woman in love with love not dream about her own romantic future?
“You’re a clever fellow. One who understands the law of supply and demand. It should be obvious.” Her tone grew tight. “Plain, bespectacled women over a certain age are not precisely a prime commodity in the marriage market. Especially when they tend to be a tad eccentric, spending all their time with books and trees.” She shrugged to minimize the statement, but her eyes told the real story. Showed her hurt. She turned her back and paced toward the window. “A few gentlemen have made offers over the years,” she said, pushing back the lace curtain so she could gaze across the yard to the tree he was beginning to suspect had never seen her kissed beneath its branches, “but I knew they didn’t really want me. They wanted the connection to my father.”
She dropped the curtain and pivoted to face him, the fire in her expression taking him by surprise. “Practical marriages may work for some. Political alliances. Societal connections. Security. Children.” She stumbled a bit over that last one. “But I have no need of such arrangements. I am free to marry whomever I choose, and I refuse to settle for anything other than soul-stirring, fully reciprocated love. Spinsterhood over settling, that’s my motto.”
Phoebe grinned as if it were all some kind of joke, but he found nothing humorous in anything she’d just revealed.
Barnabas searched for something to say, something to let her know how much he respected her for not compromising her standards. How he saw so much more in her than the paltry statistics she used to describe herself. But before he could find the right words, she brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand and all but ran past him.
“Excuse me. I need to speak to the workmen.”
Barnabas made no move to stop her. He did, however, pace over to the wardrobe and shove it into the corner so that the wedding hat stand could be displayed in a prominent, impossible-to-miss place.
Just like where Phoebe should have been all this time. How could the men of Oak Springs not see the treasure they had right under their noses?
Plain? Old? Odd? Was that really how she saw herself? How others saw her? She was bright, imaginative, full of life and dreams. How could they not see that in her?
Or did they not see her at all?
Barnabas stared at the empty doorway. He hadn’t seen her. Not really. All those company dinners. Those quiet hours reading together in her father’s study. He’d failed to truly see her.
Now he could see little else. Think of little else.
He exited Phoebe’s room and reentered his own. He walked over to the wardrobe, pulled open the door, and collected the second drawing he’d made. The one he’d drawn for her. Not for the inn. Not to help him keep his job. Just to please her.
Would she see his heart on the page when she saw it? Or would he be as invisible to her as she had been to him all these years?
seven
Phoebe watched the ballot completion from a wingback chair in the corner of the parlor. She tapped a finger against one of the bare shelves on the bookcase beside her, the one she planned to stock with a selection of novels, poetry, and biographies of famous couples. If Barnabas had his way, there’d be a few business journals, almanacs, and historical treatises included as well. Perhaps on the bottom shelf. Fashion not requiring a corset made low-s
helf retrieval a much simpler matter for men, after all. And that way, should a male guest really want one of those stuffy business journals, at least his wife would have the pleasure of seeing him get down on one knee.
Peering into the dining room through the open doorway that joined it to the parlor, she tried to gauge the progress of their judging panel. She couldn’t see all the couples who’d just completed their upstairs tour, but she could see the Fishers and the Bresdens at the table, their heads bent over questionnaires like students in a classroom.
Her stomach twisted as pencils scraped against paper. The parlor-decorating plans she’d been using to distract herself faded into the background of her mind as new, louder thoughts took precedence.
What were they writing? Did they like her room? Hate it? Did they think the inn itself completely ridiculous? Barnabas had, at least initially. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but she’d sensed his true opinion. He seemed more supportive of late, however. Invested even, as if he truly wanted her inn to succeed, and not just to please her father and the Woodward Land Development Company.
She cast a glance toward where he stood by the mantel, near the corner where she planned to install a phonograph with a selection of recordings fit for sweethearts. The center of the room would intentionally be left open to provide space for dancing, while the furnishings arranged around the outer edges would remain grouped in pairs, each twosome centered around a different activity. Music, reading, a game table for backgammon or checkers, and a writing desk for correspondence, particularly love letters. Phoebe intended to place her favorite poetry volumes there, along with a not-so-subtle hint of letters tied in a bow for inspiration. Any husband taking care of last-minute business concerns would be reminded of his purpose for staying at the inn.
Barnabas had suggested the desk as a concession to practicality. Phoebe was resolved to transform it into another mechanism for romance. Even the most pragmatic item could become something chivalrous with a little imagination.
The Kissing Tree Page 12
