Coolness hit her skin, and she sighed. His apartment was nothing like she’d expected. She thought he’d have something with stylish, clean lines in muted colors. Instead, she found old world charm.
Antiques, vibrant colors, interesting shapes crowded her creative brain. Inside his front door stood a walnut, Queen Anne, two-door bookcase, its height close to her chin. On the top was a small Indian pottery bowl where Tom threw his keys, and a Star Wars collector’s plate on a stand. The bottom shelves of the lovely bookcase were crowded with antique books. The top shelves held memorabilia and more collector items—two crystal flutes, a folded American flag beside a row of ribbons, a picture of a very young Applegate family, and a Johnny Bench baseball card mounted in a heavy frame with a baseball mitt autographed by same.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll be quick.” He didn’t look at her, a fact she should have been disturbed about, but she was too enchanted to note it.
Who was this man?
He disappeared down the hall, and she took him at his word and explored and delighted in the furnishing. The living room held a large sofa, recliner, desk and entertainment center. Yet the accessories took those mundane items and shouted at her.
First, on the two walls opposite the entertainment center, the only displayed artwork was hers. That gave her pause, and she sank onto the sofa and pondered that a moment. His two paintings were definitely from her high school days. She was positive without going to look.
On one side was the old Methodist church with its spires and glowing stained glass windows, the church blanketed in snow. That particular church had been lost in a tornado after she left here and a new one built in its place, without as much character.
On the other side, he had the whimsical one she’d done of the drive-in theatre, pretending it had been in Echo Falls. It was sassy and fun and had netted her a B from her art teacher. She’d had to defend the artistic license she’d taken in not representing the building exactly as it was which had been the assignment.
She rose and walked to his desk to see a smaller framed work mounted there. Shaken, she wrapped her arms around her stomach. Matted and framed and pristine was the pencil drawing she’d done in 8th grade of Tom in his baseball uniform.
He’d kept it!
Humbled, she didn’t know what to feel. She’d never imagined he would still have it. She wandered the rest of the living room to soothe her agitation, fingering and reveling as her feelings dictated.
She gave the large floor globe next to the desk a gentle twirl, then stopped in front of another Queen Anne bookcase, loaded with paperbacks. Near the recliner, Tom’s guitar was leaned against the wall with a stack of sheet music, the only messiness in the room. Across the back of the sofa lay a quilt in vibrant blues, yellows, and pinks with a pattern she didn’t recognize.
“I could sketch in this room for hours.”
The muttered self-comment hit her sideways. Jonathan dealt with her surroundings and the maids, the cooks, the gardeners. She painted. Jonathan called his mother, and she had clothes. She painted. Jonathan arranged all the parties, all the social events. She painted. Why did her muse run her life? A hollow feeling opened up in her stomach. That was an uncomfortable question, one she had no answer for.
Inside his small dining room sat a heavily carved walnut table and six chairs. The table filled the room. It had hand carved legs, the chairs had a beautiful shell carved top, and Queen Anne pad feet with large vase-shaped back splat. The man had a definite thing for Queen Anne furniture.
The kitchen was a regular kitchen, thank God, or she’d begin to wonder. Except for the three Currier and Ives plates mounted on the walls, there wasn’t an antique in sight. Nothing was visible except shiny appliances, and on the windowsill a whimsical leprechaun standing next to a pumpkin.
Pumpkin magic.
A sudden ache in her heart pierced the hollowness, making her tremble.
The shower shut off. In the silence, desperation rose up to choke her—for a touch, a smile, anything that would let her be inthis world.
She rushed down the hall and peeked into the bedroom. Tom was sorting through a Chippendale bachelor’s chest for clothes, moisture clinging to his skin and a towel wrapped around his waist.
She flushed hot, then cold.
Tom looked up, saw her standing in the doorway and straightened. “What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer, just launched herself across the room and into his arms, standing there shivering like a two-year old cold from a swimming pool.
“Summer?” His finger stroked down her cheek. “Talk to me.”
She denied the request by leaning in for a kiss. She pushed the towel away and took his mouth. His clever fingers didn’t hesitate to undress her, but that was as far as she let him go. Last night, he’d pampered and seduced. Today it was her turn. She broke the kiss and put a finger over his mouth to keep him from talking, backed him over to the bed.
“My turn. On the bed, now.”
He grinned and pulled the covers back. “Since you asked so nicely.”
She wanted his strength, his heat, the core of who he was underneath her, arching to her touch. She needed that like food to take away hunger.
She explored. She kissed. She caressed. Tom groaned, reached for her. She shooed him back. She started again until she drove them both mad with her fingertips and her mouth.
And he let her.
Which was so outside her experience it would have given her another pause, but she plowed through, forcing that past away. They were in this moment, in the now, where no problems existed, only the two of them being true to what they felt.
She breathed him in, held it all close—the musky scent, the need arching between the two, and when she settled herself on top of him, he shifted to help her bring them together in one swift movement.
The joining cascaded the colors through her head once again. His body filled hers and momentarily appeased the hunger. She collapsed against his chest and luxuriated in the potency of the energy flowing between them.
“Don’t fall asleep on me.” He bit her neck, then laved it with his tongue.
She gave a startled yelp then tipped her head to give him access. “No sleeping, I promise.” When he molded his hands to her bottom and started the rhythm, she countered with her own. They sighed in unison, forehead to forehead, staring at each other. Tom’s eyes were intense and vivid—an expression she’d always remember. She longed to paint it, but knew she wouldn’t, because this would always be private between them. When she fell into release, iridescence greeted her like an old friend. Tom slipped a hand beneath her hair to hold her close and followed her.
Maybe she snoozed. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she floated on contentment so deep, she never wanted to surface again. Snuggled against Tom’s side, she didn’t talk and neither did he, content to let the moment be. But something niggled at the back of her mind and finally the need to know outweighed the need for quiet.
She stroked a finger across his chest. “Can I ask you a question?”
He pulled back and gave her a puzzled look. “Sure.”
She shifted the sheet against her to warm herself from the chill of the air conditioning. “The drawing. The one of you in your baseball uniform that I gave you in 8th grade. Why did you keep it?”
He kissed the top of her head. “Why wouldn’t I? I liked it, was honored you drew me. I told you that when you gave it to me.”
She blushed like she was thirteen again. “I thought you were being nice. And then when I stayed away and didn’t see my grandfather, well I didn’t expect you’d have anything I’d done on your walls.”
Tom snorted. “Two separate issues. I love your art, honey. That’s why I immediately had that sketch framed. I like to think I have the first Summer LeFey.” He stroked her hair.
“Yes, it probably is.” She rubbed her foot against him. “I have another question. It’s a tad crass.”
He snorted. “Just a tad? What is it?”
“How can you afford all these antiques? There’s thousands of dollars here.”
“Family trust. Oil.”
“The rest of the house is antiqued out—why isn’t this room?” She looked above her at the plain headboard with an empty wall above it.
Tom’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “The bedroom set I want is twenty-five thousand dollars and there isn’t room for it here.”
Summer jaw dropped. “Why haven’t you bought a house then?”
“The one I want belongs to someone else,” he said, quietly.
His eyes were steady on hers. He wasn’t condemning, but her guilt punctured the moment. Summer looked away.
Tom caressed her face, turning her gaze back to him. “What are we doing? I’m way out in left field on this one.”
She bit her lip. “I can’t answer that. I know who I am in San Francisco. This town puts me in my place, makes me remember my doubts and fears. I don’t know who I am here.” And maybe she didn’t know who she was in San Francisco either.
“You’re mine here.”
That’s what she was afraid of.
He leaned in and kissed her, a fitting benediction to their lovemaking, and a soother for jangled commitment nerves.
Then her cell phone rang, further complicating her mood. She could hear the opening strains of The Verve’sBittersweet Symphony repeating out in the living room. “It’s probably Jonathan.” She glanced at the clock, amazed to see it was four in the afternoon.
Tom slipped away from her. “I’ll get it. Purse?”
“Yeah. Answer it for me, will you?” The moment was broken. Real life intruded, doubts returned in a rush.
He stepped out of the room, naked and comfortable with it. She heard him talking and there was a short silence.
“Tom?” She swung her legs over the bed, pulling the sheet up to cover herself.
He appeared in the doorway, his face furious, the phone still at his ear. “How many?”
She threw back the sheet and went to him.
“We’ll be there shortly.” Tom pushed the off button and snapped the phone shut. He pulled her into his arms. “Real world is back. Jonathan had a call from his private detective this morning. Two more paintings appeared at the gallery in Phoenix. These were signed by you, but aren’t in Jonathan’s inventory. He had them shipped. They just arrived by air express.”
She tipped her head to stare at him. “Real life sucks.”
“Yeah. Not liking it much either.” He bent and kissed her, one that lingered and held a promise and confused all the more.
She picked her clothes off the floor, finding a piece here, a piece there, and dressed. Tom opened his drawers and did the same, then came to her and took her in his arms.
“Whatever we’re calling this, it’s serious. You know that, right? You’re not just some flavor of the week for me.”
“And you for me either, I just can’t…”
He placed his fingertips over her lips. “Let it rest. Things have a way of working out the way they are supposed to.”
“Fatalist?”
“Practical. Grandma always says that worry is like rocking in a rocking chair. Keeps you moving, but gets you nowhere.”
“She’s lived enough of life to know, I suppose.”
Tom’s chuckle lightened the mood. “Oh yeah.”
It was her turn to be quiet on the drive back to her grandfather’s house. In the small timespan in Tom’s home, she felt like he’d let her inside his skin. Had she done the same for him? Or was she holding back. Sex she could do. Permanent? Emotional? Intimate? Not so sure. Yet she could see herself waking up in bed with Tom for the rest of her life. And that was scary as hell. Because she’d been running all her life and decision day was fast approaching.
Echo Falls or San Francisco? Her art or Tom forever?
Because she couldn’t have both. She’d never had a well-rounded life. Everything had always been about her art. Could she let Tom into that world without losing that most important part of herself? More importantly, could she learn to balance the two, or would Tom come to resent being second fiddle to a painting?
There wasn’t time to dissect her heart to find the answer before they pulled into the driveway.
Jonathan met them on the porch, sans smile. “I’ve put them out in the living room.”
Tom kept a hand at her waist as he escorted her across the porch and in the front door.
Jonathan followed.
Inside, Summer turned to the living room and came to an abrupt halt.
Tom bumped into her from behind.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. The first painting was leaned against the rocking chair. Staring back at her were the spires of the Methodist Church with its blanket of snow and stained glass windows.
“Dammit.” Tom walked to the church painting and then moved on to the fireplace where the other painting was propped against the brick. “Sunrise over the train station.”
“I remember doing that one. Wait.” She took the stairs two at a time and went into the sewing room. She quickly sorted through the inventory of high school paintings. The train station painting wasn’t there.
She came back downstairs. Tom had lifted the church painting to the sofa.
Jonathan stood in the middle of the room, hands at his waist. “What?”
“I did both these my senior year. The train station painting isn’t with the other paintings.” She walked over to the fireplace canvas and got down on her knees. She checked the back and studied the painting.
“Both are signed,cher. This gallery owner didn’t listen to me when I told her to be careful. She saw they were signed and bought them outright. She’s out $30,000.” Jonathan held up a hand. “Before you ask, Tom, no she never met the person. Dealt with her over the phone, accepted delivery of the paintings, and wire transferred the money to a bank account. She assumed this person was a private client of Summer’s. They were signed. She didn’t understand when I said I assigned tracking numbers toall her work, not just the pieces released to the galleries.”
Summer sank back on her heels and rubbed her eyes. “Oh man.” She turned her head and shifted the painting more to the light. “This isn’t the way I painted this. The locomotive is gone. I had trouble getting the proportions right. Did you give this painting to someone, Tom?”
“Not that I know of. And it’s fairly large. I probably would have handled it. Some of your smaller ones, probably not.”
Summer tipped her head, puzzled. “Smaller ones? Define that?”
“Well, Adelina has a small one on an easel in her china cupboard. Meg saw it.”
Summer was shaking her head before he finished. “I don’t do anything that small. Fourteen by sixteen is as small as I go. Even that not very often.”
Tom straightened and sighed. “Fake. Dammit!”
“Is this person copying your signature now?” Jonathan asked.
Summer thought on that for a minute. “Didn’t have to. There’s signed blank canvases at the back of the closet in the sewing room. There were eight when I took the big one out to paint Bill’s garden. I have no idea how many where there when I left. I don’t remember.”
“Stole a few of the blank canvases and the train station painting. Maybe others. That would be my bet, too.” Tom’s voice was thick with disgust.
“What about the church?” Jonathan eased into the wingback chair.
“It’s Tom’s. He’s got the original.” She crossed over to the sofa and wrapped her arm around Tom’s waist.
Tom lifted an arm and pulled her close. “It’s damn close to the original. Except for the lighting. It’s on the cross instead of the windows.”
She studied the lines and the brush strokes. “Yes, that’s right.”
Her spirits sank. Tom held her tight against his chest, an anchor she needed.
“What does this tell us?” Tom mused.
Jonathan answered. “Well, first he or she passed off two paintings as Summ
er’s and accepted money for them.”
“Yes, but we still have to figure out who and find the money.” Tom went silent.
“God, this is frustrating.” She pulled away from Tom and walked to the other three forgeries that had arrived from the Miami gallery. She took her time, but couldn’t discern anything that hadn’t been in the photographs.
“Did the Florida Gallery lose any money on these, Jonathan?”
“No, only on shipping them to me.”
“So why send them there?” Summer rose and glanced around the room. “It makes no sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Tom reached for her hand. She let him pull her back to his side.
Jonathan rubbed his eyes. “My private detective has one more gallery to check. Where do we go from here? Bret Cara was here and took fingerprints. He needs Summer’s for comparison.”
“I’ll go in the morning, if that’s okay.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll check to make sure Bret will be in.”
“Do we wait for those?” Jonathan asked.
Tom shook his head. “We’ll be several days before we know on that. What we do have is logic. None of the original paintings have been anywhere but here in Echo Falls. The person who copied these had to have seen them here to paint them, had to be physically here to steal, had to physically be here to leave the fakes in the attic, had to be physically here to paint the Echo Falls scenes Summer hasn’t done. Therefore, our person is here. It doesn’t make sense otherwise.”
Jonathan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Thank God, we’ve narrowed down the known universe.”
Summer frowned. “There aren’t that many people here who can paint. But I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
He squeezed her hand in reassurance. “I do. Mr. Snidely.”
She gave him a delighted grin. “Mr. Snidely is still here?”
“Still here and teaching and part of my mother’s committee to bring an art festival here.”
She clapped her hands in excitement. “Let’s go see him.”
Tom sighed, and glanced at his watch. “I can’t. I have to go to work. But I’ll try to call him tonight while I’m on shift.”
Echo Falls, Texas Boxed Set Page 58
