“Oh, Mr. Applegate. Your yard is…May I paint it?”
His father smiled, coloring slightly. “Call me, Bill. If you would like, I would be honored.”
“Oh, I would like. I would like very much.” Her smile lit the four corners of the county and made Tom’s gut tighten in a way that had him questioning his sanity. He fought against wanting to kiss her, to taste that joy, draw her into himself and make her his.
“Did you make coffee, son?” His father’s words broke the spell.
Tom shook his head, trying to dispel the web of lust that was sucking him to an unknown vortex. Summer turned pirouettes in the yard, pausing at each point to memorize. His father took Tom’s headshake as an answer to his question and went back inside.
“Let’s go have some coffee and get this will reading over with.” Tom’s tone was gruffer than he intended, regret flashed through him when the pleasure from the garden slipped off Summer’s face.
“Fine by me.” Husky emotion quivered in her throat, making the words wobble. She cleared her throat, the childlike wonder gone, and in its place a pragmatic woman who looked down her nose at him with disdain.
Tom reached out a hand to indicate she should precede him up the walk. She hesitated a moment, then sauntered back inside. She turned and waited for him to close the sliding door. He took the lead to the kitchen, the smell of gourmet coffee awakening his desperation for a strong fix of caffeine. He knew better than to interact with a woman before he’d consumed a portion of his daily quota. His father had mugs on the counter and stood staring at the drip.
“A watched pot never boils.” Tom stopped at his father’s side and leaned against the counter, eyeing the pot too.
“You’ve been talking to your grandmother.” His father’s grin only last a second, before it slid off his face.
Tom studied him carefully. He looked younger and older at the same time. His hair was grayer, his shoulders slumped as if tired, but his face was tanned and his eyes clear. His grandmother was supposed to talk to him, but maybe after Summer left, he’d take this opportunity to find out exactly what was going on.
“Would you like coffee, Summer?” Bill asked, reaching in the cupboard for a third mug.
“No, thank you. Juice would be better, or water.” She hovered in the arch of the doorway as if uncertain what to do, where to stand, and what to say.
Bill poured two cups of coffee and a glass of apple juice. The room grew quiet as they all sipped. “Let’s take this to my study. We can enjoy our drinks while I read Walter’s will to you both.” Bill led the way down the hall.
When Tom had lived in the house, his father’s office had been Rick’s bedroom. That had been fifteen years ago, but it still gave him pause to walk into the room and see the oak desk, file cabinets and worktable. The window seat had potted ferns lined up across the space until it looked like a jungle retreat.
A folded blanket and pillow occupied one corner of the leather sofa.
Tom missed a stride on the way to seat himself at his father’s desk. What the hell?
There could be any number of reasons for the bedding to be there, but given all that he’d heard from the family, the presence there on the sofa was like the ominous stillness before an earthquake.
Questions pounced, nerves jumped, and Tom had to force himself not to blurt out everything crowding his mind. He looked at his father again. He seemed calm, centered as always. Was this another case of not seeing what was in front of his face? Of assuming something that wasn’t true? His parents’ marriage was solid, wasn’t it? Because if it wasn’t, what hope was there for him to find true love?
CHAPTER FOUR
“Walter redid his will about six months ago, a few months before his last stroke.” Bill set his coffee on the desk and pulled a folder across the clean surface.
Summer slid into the leather chair beside the desk, gripping her hands around her juice glass until they were white. She schooled her face to politeness even though the cavern-size hole in her stomach said otherwise. Why was she so nervous about this? She would absolutely not be surprised if he’d left her nothing, not even the house.
Bill opened the folder and lifted the document. “Technically, I’m supposed to read you the whole document. But I think we can safely dispense with that, and I’ll read the parts, which I know you have to be wondering about. You’ll get a copy of this if you’d like your own lawyer to check it.”
Summer nodded, then looked over her shoulder at Tom. He’d leaned back and shut his eyes, balancing his mug on his chest, suggesting indifference to the process, but the tightness of his fingers against his mug gave him away.
Bill perched his reading glasses on his nose and turned over a few pages. “You both are here because what Walter decided to do with his estate affects both of you.”
Curious, Summer focused on Bill and ignored Tom, but a whiff of sandalwood in the air stirred things better left alone. She pushed her hair behind her ear and felt her skin prickle. He must be staring.
She dared to turn. His eyes were tracing a leisurely journey from the tip of her hair down to her polished toes. Edgy need settled between her thighs. God, what would she give to just taste him once. But that would be foolhardy, because once would lead to an addiction of warmth, taste, and smell. An addiction she didn’t need.
Dammit, what had Bill said?
“Tom, Walter wanted you to have his antique civil war chessboard.”
Tom leaned forward, his gaze on the camel- colored carpeting. When he spoke, his voice was choked. “It’s still in the room at the nursing home. I didn’t want to move anything until Summer got here.” He raised his head and looked at her, naked grief in his eyes.
Summer shifted in her chair so she could look directly at him. “That is a beautiful set. I was fascinated with it as a little girl. The blue union men were always my favorites.”
“You play?”
“Badly, but yes. I’m glad he gave it to you. The set was originally my great-grandfather’s if I remember correctly. He found it in Savannah sometime during World War I.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s what he said. Your great-grandfather passed it to Walter, who used to play with your father. You should have it.”
Summer shook her head. “No. He wanted you to have it. And I agree.”
Silence stretched. Bill finally moved to the next item. “Summer, he has all the paintings you did in high school and wanted to let you know that he donated and sold a few over the years.”
“I have two,” Tom admitted. “Ones I accepted in payment for upkeep on the house.”
Summer nodded, not sure what to say.
Tom’s lips clamped together, in frustration, in pain? She wasn’t sure. Maybe both.
Then he leaned forward, making earnest eye contact. “He donated one to the nursing home for their entry way this year. Bret has three, two of the reservoir and one of the falls. Walter gave them to him for helping me roof the house three years ago. There’s a couple at Clem’s he won at a fundraiser to expand the library, and my mom has one in her office she bought outright. Marla Spooner won one, also. There may be others out there. I’m not sure he told me all of them—these I’ve seen.”
Summer gazed at Tom, curiously detached from the conversation, but more than cognizant of the current flowing between them. Tension stretched when she didn’t comment. Finally, he sat back in his chair and all emotion blanked off his face. His words were precise and pointed.
“I know they are worth a lot of money.”
Summer shrugged, dusting off non-existent crumbs from her skirt. “I left them in his house. He did with them what he did. It’s fine. I’ll take the rest, though. I didn’t know what I was doing then, so they probably aren’t worth much.”
“Some would say they show your raw talent to perfection,” Bill countered. “At any rate, that just leaves the house. He essentially had no savings and no other assets due to your grandmother’s illness before her death. There’
s just his pension and two small life insurance policies which list Summer as the beneficiary.” He took a check from the folder and handed it to her.
“What is this?” She took the check, her eyes widening at the amount.
“He refused to use your money,” Tom said, the hushed words having the impact of a cannon blast.
“But I sent this to help…” Her voice trailed off. She’d been sending a set amount since graduation from college.
Tom cleared his throat. “I asked him once why he wouldn’t use your money. He said he wouldn’t touch the dollars until you came home and apologized.”
She clamped her mouth shut, determined not to spew her frustration and fury over these two men. Of course, he wouldn’t take her money, not when she wouldn’t come home, wouldn’t change who she was to please him. Why shouldn’t he have been the one to apologize? With shaking fingers, she slipped the check onto the corner of the desk to be dealt with later. Fund a scholarship at Mustang High in Walter’s name maybe?
Tom leaned forward again, balancing his elbows on his thighs. His size washed over Summer, the play of his muscles, the grace of his movement, the confidence in who he was.
“He thought it was charity. He had his pension from the railroad and his Medicare. He said that was plenty.”
Summer’s stomach rolled. Their last argument before she left had been about those paintings. She had thrown them at him like a gauntlet, daring him to acknowledge her talent, begging for him to not make her choose. He’d watched her leave instead.
Fury evaporated. What was the point? It wasn’t Tom’s fault and Walter was dead.
“His choice,” she managed through stiff lips.
Bill cleared his throat. “I doubt either one of you will like this last provision, but I couldn’t talk him out of it.”
She straightened, prepared for a blow—he’d given the house to Tom. He’d been the one to maintain it all these years, and really that made sense. She didn’t belong here. Her grandmother’s sewing room, her garden—she’d have those in her memory.
Yet, a wound opened deep under her heart, like taking a knife. She glanced at Tom.
He had straightened, leaning forward as if to take a blow also. “What, Dad?”
Bill hesitated a moment. “He stipulated the house not be sold for three years.”
Not sure she heard right, she looked at Tom who seemed as baffled as she was.
She swallowed the emotion in her throat. “Three years? Why?”
“He wanted to give you a chance to come home, where he thought you belonged. You can’t rent it, can’t sell it unless you live in it for three years.”
Hopeless frustration burned in the pit of her stomach. “And if I don’t?”
Bill leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Then the house can rot. His words. Not mine.”
The image of the rambling house falling down like the old McCleary place around the corner fried into her brain, making her come close to tossing her juice. Dammit. What now?
Summer shifted in her chair. “He surely couldn’t mean that. My grandmother loved that house.”
Bill spread his hands out in apology “We discussed all that. He was adamant.”
Tom groaned.
She turned to stare at him, wondering if he’d put Walter up to this, but the frustration on his face was as plain as country gravy.
Bill sighed. “I know, son. He’d talked with you about buying the place.”
Tom shook his head and sagged back against his seat. “We talked about it a few times. He said he’d think about it. Bothered him I was doing so much upkeep. Not many of these old houses left with Echo Falls history.”
Summer stood, walked to the window, and stared at the quiet lush gardens through the glass. “I never belonged here,” she whispered, to no one in particular. Then she turned back to Bill. “I have a life.”
Bill nodded and didn’t say anything.
“I can’t rent it?”
“No.”
“Can Tom live in it?”
Bill cleared his throat. “Only if you live in it too.”
“I don’t want to live here,” she answered, unable to keep the waspishness out of her voice. Her grandmother’s garden, the stone fireplace in the living room her grandfather had laid with his own hands, the window seat upstairs in her old bedroom where she could smell the flowers blooming in the spring. The thoughts made her stomach sink like a stone in a pond. The house had been empty for the last several years with Walter in the nursing home and Tom the only thing standing between good repair and dereliction. Why had these things never bothered her before?
Frustrated, Summer crossed her arms and gripped her elbows to keep from flying off the handle. “If I don’t live in it and just leave it?”
“It’ll sit there,” Tom answered. “Can she find another caretaker? Have them live in it in her stead?”
Bill grimaced. “No. He was pretty specific in his wishes. Summer or no one.”
“But she has a life in San Francisco and without her in the house, it’s going to deteriorate, eventually being worth nothing.” Tom didn’t yell, but his response was fired like ground glass in a pellet gun.
Maximum scatter, maximum damage. Direct hit. Sewing room, fireplace, and gardens. Tears flooded her eyes, threatening to spill. Who knew the old house would stir such a multitude of conflict feelings? “Tom can’t buy it until I’ve lived in it?”
Bill slipped the document back into the file and closed it. “Correct. For three years. You have to move in, receive mail, verify to me you’re living in the place. Or it can sit there unattended. I don’t like this, Summer. I tried to talk him out of it. I truly did.”
She bit her lip, considering. “I can’t take this will to court and challenge it?”
Bill sighed, crossing his arms. “You could. But I’m good.”
She stepped away from the window, wringing her hands. Realizing what she was doing, her temper spiked. How could she resort to such a pathetic panicked female activity? “I can’t live here for three years.”
“Then, we have a problem, don’t we? Because I can’t stand to see that house deteriorate.” Tom stood, fisting his hands on hips. The action broadened his shoulders and smacked his masculinity back into her focus. Her breath seized.
“Yes, we do,” she answered, stymied by both the problem and her unwanted attraction to Tom Applegate.
Her grandfather continued to make her choose.
££££££
Tom unlocked his apartment. He tossed the keys in the pottery bowl on the top of the Queen Anne bookcase. He’d rescued the rickety piece from Chad’s house before Robin could dispose of it. Some glue, a solid paint stripping, sanding, and fresh stain and varnish refurbished the piece.
He walked to the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, staring at the meager contents. Preoccupation with the house problem and a long afternoon of crime investigation had made him grumpy. Why hadn’t he driven to his grandmother’s for dinner instead of convincing himself he wanted to be alone to think?
More talk this morning with Summer and then with his father alone netted nothing. And he’d been so preoccupied with this problem, he’d forgotten to gently probe his father and make sure all was right with his parents.
Summer had left, angry and frustrated. He couldn’t blame her. His feelings matched hers. She didn’t want the house. He did. And damn Walter’s hide for thinking he could solve his problems with Summer this way.
Tom wanted to buy the house, to put the love and attention into the structure, share that home with a wife and kids someday. Walter’s house had serious issues. Overrun gardens, bugs making themselves comfortable in all the corners, hardwood floors needing refinished, kitchen and bathroom seriously out-of-date. Damn shame for the house to stay empty. She wouldn’t let that happen, would she?
For all Walter’s talk about her, Tom wasn’t sure what she’d do. In the last few days, he’d become convinced Walter didn’t know the real Summer— nobody did.
Maybe least of all Summer. Therefore, predicting what she would do was impossible.
For all her protesting that she didn’t belong here, Tom couldn’t help but think she was denying her own heritage and background because of her anger at Walter. Whether it was justified or not, he’d decided not to wade into her issues. He hadn’t with Walter either, and hindsight was biting him. He should have broached this subject with Walter. If he stayed on the man’s case about how he expected her to make the overture and needed to put himself out to solve it, they wouldn’t be trapped in this situation now.
And then there was Summer. The woman was a walking contradiction. If she would open her eyes to possibilities, she would see the love she had for Echo Falls in her paintings. Yeah, her more recent stuff was more sophisticated probably appealed to the upper crust. But the stuff she’d done in high school spoke of a true affinity with her surroundings. Why didn’t she see that?
He shut the refrigerator after removing a bottle of water and walked around his boxy, two-bedroom apartment. In anticipation of moving to a house, he’d crammed the place with all the antiques he’d collected. His storage unit was full too. The furnishings and the apartment were polar opposites. The apartment complex had been built about five years ago by some city yay-hoo who thought he’d bring a level of sophistication to Echo Falls for the two minutes he lived in town.
If Tom had any other housing choice, he would have taken it—minus the invitation from his grandmother to live at her house. He was a grown man and to his way of thinking belonged on his own, with a residence he supported with his own salary. And for all its quaint smallness, the housing turnover in Echo Falls was almost non-existent. With his love for antiques and restoration, he wanted an older home, one that spoke of Echo Falls. He did not want one of the new cookie cutter houses out on the state highway. He already lived in a cookie cutter rental and hated it.
In his bedroom, he removed his gun, unloaded it and put it in his gun safe. He shrugged out of his shirt, balled it into a wad and tossed it into the laundry. He couldn’t stand the silence or the disappointment rubbing his gut raw. He changed into basketball shorts and a T-shirt, made a quick call to his grandmother and headed to her house for dinner.
Echo Falls, Texas Boxed Set Page 47
