Art-Crossed Love

by Libby Rice

  “…hope you know I would never want to suffocate you. You can set boundaries. I… all of us… we’ll respect them.”

  “What?” Her fingers stilled in the act of pulling a pair of jeans from the dresser.

  Her dad fell silent again. Then, “I hate that my own daughter is surprised I respect her wishes. Lissa, we only want the best for you.”

  Barely anything left her dad feeling incompetent. In fact, she couldn’t name a single trigger, and she refused to be the person who left him tasting failure. “Nothing could be more obvious to me—”

  “And if ‘best for you’ means doing less, then we’ll step back.”

  This time, despite the increasingly toxic air flowing under her door, her phone smile was genuine. How had she gotten so lucky? “I suppose I don’t mean nothing, Dad. I’ve officially no plans to move out of the brownstone into a cardboard box under a bridge.”

  He sighed. “My promise to ease up would never extend that far.”

  Of course not. She squeezed the phone between her shoulder and cheek and shimmied into her jeans. The shirt would have to wait.

  Grumbling over the line said her dad was clearing his throat, again. It seemed to be the way he began and ended touchy calls. “Honey?”

  “Yeah?”

  Now he’d inform her of his deadline, after which he’d move to “secure” Cole’s cooperation, checkbook a-blazin’.

  “I love you,” he said instead. She heard rustling in the background and then a muffled whisper. She should have known her mom had been there with him the entire time. “And for what it’s worth, we both know you can do this.”

  The sudden screech of the fire alarm mangled her heartfelt thanks.

  ******

  A gentle tap slid across his shoulder, and Cole almost groaned in defeat.

  Lissa’s voice followed, calm and mockingly grave. “Morning, Wolfgang Puck.”

  Busy watching his knuckles bleed in red, gushing starbursts, Cole didn’t turn from the sink. “I can pour milk over cereal, make a ham sandwich, burn bacon, and open a bag of Skittles—not necessarily in that order.”

  She reached around him and turned off the water. Before he could protest, she dabbed a clean dishtowel over the cuts and let go, leaving him to rinse and repeat. “Press hard.” Face averted, she inclined her head toward the tall island stools. “Take a seat. If all else fails, we can thaw some balsamic-glazed salmon filets in the microwave.”

  Cole glanced between the bloody cheese and the ruined eggs and sat. “The only thing I hate more than salmon is that goddamned microwave.” Years of sustenance had come out of that thing by now. Moving to Boulder was a tantalizing prospect—meals could shift from warmed-up to taken-out.

  Lissa worked quickly to clear away the cheese. Before Sasha could drag his butt off the floor to claim the egg goo, she scraped the black remnants into the disposal and set the pan and spatula to soak. When she turned to face Cole, he saw why she’d tucked her chin and gone to work without much of a jab. Shadows swam beneath her wide-set eyes, drawing her face into an ethereal replica of its usually lively self. At the same time, cool amusement lurked in the depths of her gaze. Lissa thought he was an idiot, all right, and it was a sad day when she didn’t have the energy for a proper belly laugh at his expense.

  Her fatigue hit him in the gut he still hadn’t managed to feed. Lissa’s lack of sleep was his fault, but he didn’t have any magic words. Somehow he figured, I’ll try to stay away from you, but if I can’t—and maybe I can’t—then I’ll at least cuddle after, wouldn’t work.

  Which meant he had to successfully keep his distance. At least in that way.

  For now.

  Lissa spoke up. “Point me to that first-aid kit of yours.”

  “Bathroom,” he answered quietly. “Mine. Under the sink.”

  The kit slapped the counter in front of him not a minute later. “Hand,” she said, her tone dull.

  “I’ll handle this.” They were still in the kitchen, after all, where he was cleared for anything but cooking. Doctoring his mangled knuckles definitely would do. “You make food.”

  That earned him a smirk. She held up jar, about half the size of his Skippy. “I busted out the reserves.” The jar slid across the counter into his uninjured hand. Nutella.

  “Yeah, I travel with chocolate spread,” she admitted. “Never know when you’ll have an emergency, and since I was headed for the sticks…”

  Saliva poured into his mouth. “I have peanut butter.” Which might be useful if she could manage edible toast. Cole always ended up with random patterns of charring, kind of like those people who claimed deities channeled themselves through the toaster to leave Jesus-shaped imprints on their bread.

  “I know you’re grateful”—Lissa’s hands lifted in a flippant “just stop” motion in front of her chest—“but, no, really. I can’t marry you and have your babies over a little hazelnut butter.”

  The sarcasm fell hard between them, not quite a throw down, but also not a free pass to kiss and run in the future.

  Before he could respond, her demeanor changed. She snatched the Nutella back, and her joke met an abrupt end. “What I can do is pack my ass up—Nutella and all—if you don’t promise me last night won’t destroy this job. Prove that to me, Cole. Fast.”

  All righty then. Cole shifted on the stool. While his brain pitted relief against frustration at her single-minded determination, his body reacted with pure appreciation. Cole knew, knew, the night had left them both reeling. As hard as it was to admit, he’d never experienced that kind of lights-out, blow-the-grid connection.

  Ever.

  Yet she managed to talk shop over a plastic jar of nut butter, a subtle reminder that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t underestimate Lissa Blanc.

  Cole thought on his reply, using the time to extract antiseptic cream and bandages from the portable kit. A slow squeeze covered his knuckles in clear ointment, and the smell of menthol cut through the lingering stench of smoke and scorched egg. For what it was worth, he blurted, “It won’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know how to prove anything to you”—other than how bad I wish we were still upstairs and that you were breakfast—“but last night won’t destroy our working relationship. I’ll give you India, Lissa.”

  Even if I can’t give you me.

  Chapter 20

  Lissa stared at the kitchen ceiling. Cole had no idea what it cost her to play indifferent. Hopefully he never would. Project Impossible existed to usher in a new era of artistic development, not a new man.

  So keep your head on straight and your pants on… period.

  She found the toaster moldering in a corner of the cupboard below the island. She’d seen Cole eat toast before. From his demonstration this morning, he’d probably cooked it with tongs over an open flame on a gas burner. She dropped bread into the slots and asked, “When?”

  His head snapped up. Cole knew she wanted to know when he’d be giving her—as if the country were his to bestow—the ever-elusive India. “When we’re ready,” he said.

  “Fine. Great.” She punched the lever to sink the bread. “Maybe you could elaborate on your special definition of ‘ready.’”

  Earlier Cole had carried a look of faint shame. That and his attempt at breakfast had been an obvious peace offering. All his bashful and apologetic fled with her demand, and he hardened into the familiar task master who wouldn’t be swayed. Not by a first-aid kit. Not by a spoonful of Nutella. Definitely not by the memory of coming inside her.

  “When we can work in tandem without wasting our time, and thus our trip.”

  The simple answer was disquieting. Lissa couldn’t bounce back with a pithy “we’ve trained long enough” when Cole’s logic offered no place to hide. He’d complimented her latest painting and she his photographs. One time each. While a better place than “drivel” and “boring as hell,” a single nod did not a long-term partnership make.

  The toaster po
pped, and she laid two pieces on a plate in front of Cole, along with her Nutella and his peanut butter. “Here’s to tandem.”

  Cole carefully heaped toppings on his bread, then placed both pieces side-by-side on the plate and looked up, like he wouldn’t eat the food until they had an understanding, a real honest-to-God meeting of the minds. “I also can’t leave until I have a sense of Kent’s health.”

  The acknowledgement reminded her of her dad’s offer, of the shifts of nurses he’d hire for around-the-clock care for Kent if it meant she and Cole might progress the way Lissa wanted. “I know.”

  With that, Cole took a bite. Chewed. “Trevor called this morning. Kent’s doing well. He’ll probably be released within a day or two, basically on his own recognizance. The doctors slapped him with additional drugs and a strict diet. Trevor’s calling it the NoLo diet—either no or low everything. Egg whites and Greek yogurt from here on out.”

  Lissa dripped honey over her Nutella-Skippy magic, feeling for Kent with every lazy swirl.

  “His memory is vacationing.” Cole let out a jerky laugh, as if his breath had caught in the trip down his throat. “Short term is horrible, as in he doesn’t recall whether he brushed his teeth five minutes ago. Long term has holes, but seems to be coming back in bits and pieces.”

  Only a nod was possible, unless she wanted to make an unholy honey-chocolate-peanut-butter mess.

  “Yet he remembers you,” Cole drawled. “He expects us both to visit today.”

  Well, there was a newsflash worth choking over. Lissa struggled to get the mass of carbs and sugar past her tonsils. Then she did exactly what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. She threw their incendiary night in his face in a way that definitely wasn’t business.

  “For some”—she drew out the word—“I’m hard to forget.”

  ******

  Cole informed Lissa that Kent wanted to see Rhea, too, as they flew over Melina’s gravel drive in Trevor’s Chevy, vibrating like the spin cycle of a ghetto washing machine.

  At first Lissa didn’t understand Cole’s reason for sharing the request. A motive only occurred to her later as Cole silently navigated Boulder’s tree-lined streets in that exceedingly un-Boulder-like truck, dodging road cyclists and runners and even skateboarders Lissa would never have guessed could fit in so well. Maybe Cole linked Lissa to Rhea in an effort to trade the distance he’d demanded in the night for a replica of closeness during the day, implying an almost familial connection.

  Almost like he cared.

  Cold, flat sheets warned her not to get caught up in that line of reasoning, so Lissa did the next best thing. She studied her driver from the corner of her eye, drinking in the granite profile that didn’t appear capable of softening. Only bandaged knuckles hinted that Cole, too, might be out of sorts.

  Despite the invulnerable visage, Lissa regretted the thoughtless comment she’d hurled at Cole in his kitchen. The taunt had been instinctive, never intended to engender guilt. Yet now, Cole overcompensated with meaningless nods to an importance that didn’t involve either paintbrushes or pleasure when there was no need.

  Big girls don’t cry over undented pillows.

  Without warning they stopped in front of a charming bungalow, not ten feet from a statuesque maple tree in the process of molting over the fading grass. Shed leaves whipped in the sharp, nearly-winter air. It was then that Cole proved, again, that his brainwaves ran on a different frequency that hers. “Trevor stayed at the hospital,” he explained. “We need to pick Rhea up.”

  Refusing to betray her senseless imaginings, Lissa slid—more like jumped—from the truck with sealed lips. The front door to the house was wide open in a decent rendition of invitation. Naturally, Lissa responded by stepping over Trevor and Rhea’s Boulder threshold, waiting a second or two, and then yelling Rhea’s name.

  When Rhea didn’t answer her call, Lissa left Cole at the curb and ventured further into the house. Arching wood—the type of heavy, built-in gateway germane to early twentieth-century homes—separated an updated kitchen from a short hall leading to what looked like a sitting area beyond yet another arch.

  Distressed oak floorboards protested each step with a faint creek, and Lissa found herself moving softly, slowly, more like a cat burglar than the pickup crew. “Rhea?”

  Peering into the kitchen, Lissa noted a coffee cup next to the sink but little else of interest. A newspaper sat on a table for two tucked into the corner. Other than that, the nook was neat and tidy and empty.

  Light footfalls carried her into the equally empty living room. Like the kitchen, the space was tasteful and clean, with a compact beige couch and matching reading chair, no television, and an anonymous rug fresh from IKEA or some other big-box warehouse. Even the Better Home & Garden magazines had been gathered into a basket lying on the floor. Lissa detected a trace of rose potpourri with a chemical aftertaste that advertised its origin—not actual flowers or spices, but a plug-in freshener that spat eau de rose into the air at regular intervals.

  While every inch of Melina spoke of care, every inch of Trevor and Rhea’s home imparted correct. Despite the gorgeous, hand-crafted architectural features that came standard in a house of that vintage, the place might as well have been staged to sell—no bright walls or fabrics, no knickknacks to advertise the couple’s hobbies or tastes, no books to hint at their priorities or politics, no dust. Frankly, no evidence of life or love.

  Perhaps that’s why Lissa’s painting stood out.

  Sisters was the other piece Lissa had expected to find at Cole’s. According to her business records, both Redemption, currently hanging in Lissa’s room at Melina, and Sisters had been purchased with Cole Rathlen’s credit card. Yet here Lissa found Sisters on the floor in Trevor and Rhea’s living room. Splashes of bold color barely peeked from behind the tan couch. If Lissa were to hazard a guess, she’d call even that amount of visibility unintentional.

  The work—the very title—speaks of closeness. Most certainly the painting had been a gift from Kate to Rhea.

  Since Rhea had made her hostility toward Kate clear, emphasizing a rift incurable by even the forgiveness-inducing bonds of death, Lissa wasn’t surprised to find Sisters in a state of neglect behind the furniture.

  Lissa knelt next to the couch, knowing she ought to ignore the coincidence and keep hollering for Trevor’s wife. Sliding the print free also dislodged a shelf of dust, notable in a dustless home. The particles that didn’t float to the floor stuck to the face of the frame in a smear of oily grime that called for more than a feather duster.

  From the looks of it, Sisters had never seen the light of day. Two sets of heavily fringed feminine eyes peered outward through mingling streaks of primary color, which had been there from the start, and accumulated filth, which hadn’t. One gaze gleamed chocolate, twinkling as though the mind behind it got an inside joke. The other flared a steady blue—almost Cole’s blue—and looked outward in level, determined concentration. The stares unmistakably—at least to Lissa—represented Scarlet and herself. Lissa had painted Sisters in her early twenties, a time of change for both of them. Lissa had learned to wield humor against a judgmental world while Scarlet had undergone a shattering of all her sheltered ideals. They’d relied on each other more than ever.

  A sound near the kitchen caught her attention, and Lissa gave a guilty little jump. “Rhea?” slipped from her lips before she could shove the print back where it belonged. “You home?”

  “Guess I’ll find out,” came Cole’s even reply, “since you’ve been diverted.”

  By now he stood over her shoulder, no doubt examining her discovery. “Don’t let this go to your head. Despite the two-for-two record, you won’t find a Blanc in every Boulder home.”

  “Such wit,” Lissa said, studying the picture. “Did you know your credit card paid for this?”

  “I’m not surprised. Kate and I shared a Visa account.”

  “Why would it be stuck behind the couch? And if you say ‘drivel�
�’”

  “Drivel,” Cole finished, his tone too smug. “I can only assume Rhea disagreed with Kate regarding its merit. Many did.” He didn’t bother to point out he’d been first in line.

  For nearly a minute, the only sound in the room came from a clock ticking above the window. With each flick of the second hand, Lissa relaxed her bunched shoulders away from her ears and considered a response—take him down or blow him off, sucker punch him in the nads or laugh in his face.

  His chuckle beat her to a choice. When she turned and looked up from her place on the floor, she saw sly humor lingering in the corners of his eyes, almost matching the mysterious hilarity she’d given herself in the painting. With a wink and shrug, Cole dared her to go ballistic.

  The fucker had been kidding.

  And just like that, she was disarmed by his slow, melting grin. Those golden good looks had gotten more dangerous overnight. Yesterday she’d seen subterfuge in that sea-bearing gaze. Cole’s lean, sharp muscles and sly smile had only looked like a really, really good time. Inside—she’d told herself—he was about force of will and iron resistance, a mental rocket launcher. Now she knew he was both.

  How did one put that kind of temptation back in the box?

  “A better question,” he said, “examines why you’re practically stuck behind the couch. I thought your need to pry pertained to me exclusively. I see the tendency is universal.”

  “It’s my painting!”

  He cupped her jaw gently, sliding his thumb across her bottom lip. “Not anymore, Lissa.”

  Heat boiled into her cheeks at the correct assessment. She jerked around and slid the painting into place. Then, using the blades of her hands, she carefully swept the dust into a pile. “Rhea’s not here. We should go.”