The two bedrooms to the south were much smaller, but she'd expected that. The bedroom at the rear was the surprise. Looking closer, she was sure that the master and a smaller room had been opened into one that stretched the entire width of the house and incorporated a full, although small, bath, and a decent-sized closet. She checked her watch then darted up the stairs to the third floor.
The third floor was the biggest surprise of all. It was one completely open space. The ceiling and walls were all slanting angles, giving the room nooks and crannies, creating different spaces that were still part of the whole.
"I've got to go to work, house. But I'll be back."
She ran down the steps thinking perhaps in a house this old, she shouldn't talk to herself. A house this old might be home to a spirit or two that would answer her. Then what would she do?
She pulled the back door firmly closed and ran across the yard to the carriage house. The windows were so filthy she couldn't get a good look inside, but there appeared to be a great deal of junk stored there. It didn't matter. A garage was just that, no matter what it was called.
Courtney hopped in her car and called the owner of the house on her cell phone.
It was a good thing she owned Desert Moon because she was going to be late for work this morning.
* * * *
Barry swirled a few shades of blue paint around on a piece of glass. He filled in the sky on a new canvas with a few bold strokes. He swished the brush in the cleaner, snapped it to throw off the excess and used it to mix his greens. A few strokes of the brush, and the bottom of the canvas was green background.
He set the canvas aside, placed a new one on the easel, and repeated the process, green first, then sky. He kept on until seven canvases held the background colors. There were subtle differences in shading but in laying on the background in this fashion, any of the finished works would match with any or all of the others.
He opened a beer before cleaning up. It was good to be home. He'd gotten the whole six-pack for eight bucks.
Settling behind his battered desk, he brought his computer online and balanced his checkbook. He still felt disbelief every time he did this. He'd grown up poor—very poor—and having a five-digit balance still had a dreamlike quality to it. He wrote a check and a note to his mother in Chicago. She'd sacrificed much to give him what few opportunities had been available. He sent her a gift, every month, to augment her retirement.
She phoned and fussed at him every month, but he didn't care. She could scold him all she liked. He loved her and made sure she could afford all the little extras she'd turned down in order to get him to art school.
The owner of Hawke Gallery had called him earlier in the day. His show was a total success. All the pieces had sold. There was a list of possible commissions in the tray of the fax machine. He hadn't looked at it yet. He was afraid to.
Who knew he had such a deep-rooted fear of success?
He sighed. It wasn't fear of success, exactly. It was fear that his success would become hollow. Professional success didn't always feed the soul. And his soul ached.
Leafing through the prints of the snapshots he'd taken of The Maples, he pulled up the file on his computer. There were several shots he favored. He wanted to lighten the images just a bit and reprint them. The last one was spooling out when Courtney tapped on the window of his studio.
His heart stopped, then beat faster. They'd not talked during the last two weeks. His guilt over leaving New York without letting her know had not abated. He motioned for her to come inside.
It was a warm spring day and she had on old cut-offs and a bold tie-dyed tee shirt. The shorts showed a lot of long, lean female leg. She paused in the open doorway.
"Hi. Are you busy?"
He was never too busy for her, only she never noticed, not once in the fifteen years he'd known her.
"I'm done for the day, actually. I started at daybreak this morning."
"Did you get a lot accomplished?"
"Yep. Would you like to see?"
"Of course!” She walked toward him with her easy stride. He stood and led her to the back of the studio. A very large canvas depicting a scene at Washoe Lake rested on a special ledge on the rear wall.
"I can't tell you how glad I am to get this one finished."
"Because of the commission?"
He supposed he deserved that for his wise-ass remarks in the limo.
"No, not entirely. I get too bogged down when I'm doing landscapes. I stand, stare, and imagine what it would be like to be there. I don't have that problem with buildings."
"Hmm. I remember you said almost that same thing when you did Desert Moon."
"That was a bad one,” he said, grinning. He still looked at that canvas and dreamed of making love to her under the silver moon he'd painted.
She fidgeted from foot to foot.
"Okay, Court, what's up? You're prancing and since you know where the little girl's room is, it can't be that."
"Smartass. I came to ask a favor."
Barry stared at her. She never asked for favors from anyone, much less him.
"What is it?"
"I'm buying a house. An old Victorian just outside of town. It's the most god-awful color of green you could ever imagine. Will you ride out there with me and take a look at it and perhaps suggest a few unique color combinations for it? Please?"
He took in her earnest gaze. “Sure. When do you want to take this ride? I can go right now if you drive. I just had a beer in celebration of finishing this.” He pointed over his shoulder at the large canvas.
"I don't expect you to just drop what you're doing, Barry. I can wait until a time that might suit you better."
He groaned inwardly. She was going to do it. She was going to make something simple into something difficult.
"Actually, I'm curious. You're buying a house. Hell, I'm downright nosey. Let's go before the curiosity gives me hives."
"You really are a smart-ass, McWaters. You know that?"
"So I've been told.” He started ushering her toward the door. He grabbed his digital camera off the charger. “I suppose you left your keys in the ignition. You know better in this neighborhood."
"Don't start scolding me like I'm a six year old!"
"I didn't mean anything..."
"Like hell! You're just like Wayne. All he ever did was pick at everything I did! Well just go fuck off! I'll choose my own colors!” She stormed away from him.
Barry's surprise at her outburst was quickly replaced by crackling anger. He took three running steps and caught her arm.
"Just stop where you are, woman."
She whirled on him, fire in her eyes, battle ready. He grabbed her shoulders, pushing the anger away.
Why hadn't he seen that on his own?
"Calm down, Courtney. I'm not picking at you. I'm sorry if it sounded that way.” And I'm not like Wayne Collins. Can't you see that?
She jerked out of his hold, but she didn't walk away. She looked up him, her eyes gone black and shiny.
"Come on, then,” he said gruffly. “We're burning daylight.” He held out his hand to her. She swallowed hard then placed her hand in his. He lifted it to his lips then released her and started for the car.
Courtney stood rooted on the spot, looking dazed. He took her hand again and tugged gently. She blinked, then took a step toward him.
He didn't give her time to think about it. His fingers laced with hers and he pulled her down the brick walk. He'd actually had only half the beer so he opened the passenger door and tried not to look at the tanned thigh that flashed in front of him as she slid onto the seat.
They were almost to South Sierra Street before she spoke.
"I'm sorry, Barry.” Her voice was so soft he almost didn't hear her.
"Don't apologize. I'm sorry, too. You're a grown woman. You don't need anyone to nag at you."
"You're right. You were right about my leaving the keys in the switch, too."
"I didn
't need to say it. I'll think before I spout off next time."
"Sure you will, McWaters. I've heard leopards change spots."
"I think I'm flattered. You compared me to a cat,” he said lightly. “If I start licking myself, you'll understand."
"That's what I mean! You always come back with the wiseass remark."
"You're right. You win."
"And you're still doing it, McWaters! You always have to have the last word!"
God, she was so right, it hurt his brain to admit it. Maybe he was too much like Wayne Collins for her comfort. That hurt his heart more than his brain wanted to admit.
They certainly had gotten along differently back in the early days. Of course, back in the early days, the fact she was five years older than him made more of a difference. He'd seen an older, wiser woman. She had no doubt seen a brash boy barely out of his teens.
Only now they'd reached a place where the age difference was no longer a factor. Time, and her divorce, had leveled the playing field.
It was time he mended his ways. It was time he changed his approach to Ms. Courtney Nichols Collins.
Chapter 4
Barry eased the car up the driveway. He cut the ignition and held the keys out to Courtney. She dropped them on the seat.
"I'll tell you a secret. I hate this car. Wayne bought it for me.” She hopped out before he could go around and open her car door. He sprinted to catch up with her.
"So trade it in.” He matched her stride.
"It's paid for. It's in good shape. It's past the time frame where I'd get a good trade on it."
"So? What's your point?"
She stopped and looked at him, her brown eyes looking worried.
"Do you really think I should trade it off?"
The abyss of female wrath opened in front of him. Whatever he said, the ledge would crumble under his feet and down he'd go, never to be seen or heard from again. He took a deep breath.
"Well, if you are really buying this house, which I must say from the outside has beautiful bones despite that color, a sedan might not be very practical. You might want to look at a pickup. They come in all sizes these days."
She laughed softly, the sound rolling over him like a warm, summer breeze.
"You dodged that bullet didn't you, McWaters?"
"God, I hope so.” He rested his hand on the small of her back as they climbed the back steps. “The porch looks to be in good shape."
"It's only four years old.” She reached in the pocket of her shorts, pulled out a key, and unlocked the back door.
"When do you sign the papers on it?"
"Who said I'd made up my mind yet?"
He snorted. “You have a key already. You're taking it."
"I really haven't decided. The place needs a lot of work."
Barry couldn't agree more. The kitchen was stuck in a time warp. But it was large and even he, a mere male, could see possibilities.
If she bought this place, she'd be living farther away from him.
"It gets better,” she said dryly, motioning him to the next room.
It did get better. He followed behind her, listening to her plans for each room and watching the light dance in her eyes. She already loved this place.
He thought they were leaving as they walked back down the staircase, but Courtney plopped down on a step. She rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her face into her hands. He settled beside her, draping his arm over her shoulders.
She leaned on him, to his surprise. Then she actually rested her head on his shoulder.
"So you want to tell me what's wrong?"
"Everything."
The abyss yawned. He took a deep breath and plowed ahead.
"It's probably natural to have some trepidation about restoring an old place like this one."
She pushed her shoulder against him, but didn't move away. He sent his next volley.
"I don't like that car either. Never did. It's ugly. Very plain. It's an old lady's car. Three-quarters of the matrons of this town drive that car."
She pushed at him again, harder this time.
"I'd take that big settlement Wayne Collins brags about giving you and buy this house, and a truck, put in a pool and hire some young pool dude stud to take care of it."
It would kill him if she hired some young fellow to do anything for her. He'd filled that spot fifteen years ago and he was reclaiming it.
Her shoulders start to shake.
"Oh, baby, don't cry!” He wrapped both arms around her and hugged her. Laughter erupted out of her. He cupped her chin and lifted her head. Dancing brown eyes gleamed at him.
"A ‘young pool dude stud'? What an idea!” She fell into gales of laughter. Tears streaked down her face. He grinned at her. He'd not seen her laugh like this since before she'd married The Jerk.
She sniffed and wiped her eyes, regaining her composure.
"For what it's worth, I don't have any of that settlement left. I gave it all to charity. Wayne only gave me the money to uphold his image and make me look like a gold-digger. And to help on his income taxes, of course."
He stared at her. He'd heard she'd gotten a cool million. Her smile faded. Her chin lifted. Her eyes took on a cold, angry glint.
"What? What is wrong with that?"
Damn. She thought he disapproved. He thought quite the opposite.
"I'm so proud of you,” he said with sincerity.
Her eyes filled with tears that overflowed and wet her cheeks again. She held his gaze.
"I give away almost a million dollars and you're proud of me?"
"Damn straight. I don't know if I could have done it."
"You give to charities all the time! I've seen your name listed in all sorts of newsletters as a donor."
"Well, yeah, I help out, but not to the tune of a million bucks!"
"Wayne would never, never, give to anything until the end of the year. Then his accountant would tell him how much to give to lessen his ‘tax impact.’ Everyone thinks he's so altruistic. He's not. It's all the bottom line for him."
Where angels fear to tread, he thought, and forged onward.
"Court, what did happen with you and Wayne?"
"I wasn't good enough. And he met Crystall."
"Hell, half the town has met Crystall in one club or another,” he sneered.
"Yeah? That's what I heard, too.” She matched his sarcastic tone perfectly. She rested her head on his shoulder again.
"I was scared to death when I found out he'd slept with her. I couldn't get to my doctor fast enough.” She sighed. “Well, she can play at being a lady all she wants now. He'll get tired of her, too, at the first sign of a wrinkle."
"You're beautiful, Court.” He brushed his lips to her hair. “I like the little crinkles at the corners of your eyes when you smile. I don't get to see them enough."
She leaned more heavily against him. Perhaps he should keep going. Perhaps he'd pushed his luck enough for one day.
"Courtney, was he abusive?"
"He never lifted a hand to me."
"Okay. He didn't hit you. But it was other things, wasn't it?"
"Nothing I did was ever good enough. I made the deal with White Feather Garcia for his series on Native American culture. That was for a total of fourteen prints. Desert Moon would get twenty percent commission. Twenty percent! For doing virtually nothing but having those gorgeous paintings in the shop.” She looked up at him, eyes wide. “Not as gorgeous as your work, you understand, but very nice,” she added hastily.
The corner of his mouth twitched. It took everything he had not to grin at her.
"Good save. But White Feather's work is exceptional. We do know and respect each other."
She sighed again and laid her head back down. “Wayne belittled me for days over that, saying I didn't set the fee high enough. When we lost the bid on some Central American imports, he just seized the opportunity to tell me—again—that I didn't have enough business sense. The Phoenix Group won that bi
d, so that tells you why we didn't land that."
"Sure does. PG has a purchasing budget that rivals the national debt. Old Waynie-boy had to know that. Or didn't he pay any attention to your interests?"
"Who knows what he knew? He had no interest in my interests. I swear he only married me because I gave him a blow job."
"Argh! Too much information, Courtney!"
And it was. The mental picture of her giving Wayne Collins oral sex sucked the air from Barry's lungs and made his stomach clench in a most unpleasant way.
Then the image of her in his own bed, sprawled over him and kissing her way down his body to pleasure him in that fashion rose up and blotted it out. His balls tightened. His cock twitched once, then again, and began to swell. Damn.
She laughed softly and pushed against him. “Okay, sorry. That was crude, even if it was honest."
"It's all his loss. He was a fool not to treat you better."
She didn't reply. They sat quietly for the space of several minutes. He was content to just sit with her in comfortable silence. It wasn't something that came easy to them and he planned to enjoy it for as long as he could.
He told himself again he was a fool to have waited for her for so long. He could have married any number of women and had a family—except he wanted her. And she'd been married to someone else and he did not trespass in another man's territory. Not even for her.
The suffering that would have laid on her table was too great to ask her to bear, so he'd kept his distance from her. Better he suffer than her.
Only she'd suffered in different ways and he'd been unable to help.
"So what colors would make my house beautiful, McWaters?"
He rested his head on hers. Her hair smelled of oranges. He smiled, picturing her standing in a store sniffing all the shampoos.
"I have a few ideas. Let's go outside and take a few pictures from different angles and then I'll play with them on the computer. Have lunch with me tomorrow. If the rest of my day doesn't turn crazy, and I can get to them, I'll bring the prints along."
"I have to be at the shop all day tomorrow."
"Fine. I'll bring us a picnic. We can spread out one of those Navajo rugs and eat in the main aisle. Shoppers can walk around us."
Under A Painted Moon Page 3
