Helen frowned at her, but Summer was lost in the vision of Tom’s apartment and the feelings that had invoked.
“I know that look,cher. What’s cooking in that brain?” Jonathan shifted from the end of the table by Olivia to look at her directly.
“Tom’s apartment.”
Jonathan gave her a big grin. “What about Tom’s apartment?”
Tom nudged her. “Summer?”
She squeezed Tom’s knee under the table and returned Jonathan’s grin. “Yeah. Tom’s apartment.”
Tom shook his head. “What about it?”
She looked back at Helen, the idea intensifying. “Antiques. Quilts. Memorabilia. Expensive craftware that shouts Americana. A festival designed to promote all that. A tourist town that celebrates what you are. Simple values, respected history, patriotic.” She lifted her hands and painted the words in the air. “You wouldn’t have to drop the art component, just use local and state artists.”
Helen’s expression slowly changed from disgruntled to intrigued as she absorbed Summer’s idea. She looked at Tom, then down to Bill, ever so hesitantly.
Tom squeezed Summer’s hand under the table.
Bill leaned forward, food forgotten. “There have to be communities that do this already. Maybe there’s a model we could copy and gain some insight on our competition?”
“I might be able to help with that,” Jonathan offered.
Everyone started to talk at once.
Summer, lost in the glow of her idea, turned to Tom. He leaned in and kissed her.
A serious, deep, I-love-you kiss. Right at the dinner table. In front of his family.
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Tom broke the kiss, hoping like hell there’d been so much excitement that nobody noticed. He looked around the room, and his hopes sank.
Olivia and Meg both were grinning at him like he’d found the Hope Diamond. He braced himself for an all-out question assault. His stomach flipped, and he started to shove his food away. He stopped himself in the nick of time.
Summer touched his face, unaware of Meg and Olivia’s scrutiny. “What’s wrong? Don’t like this idea?”
He turned to her, forgetting about his meddling family. He’d deal with their interference however he needed to. “I love the idea.”
She tilted her head, puzzlement crowding her face, but he shook his head and looked at his parents. They were finally gazing at each other with their normal spark and camaraderie, like a big logjam had been broken.
And his Summer did that.
After the buzz settled down, Tom picked up his fork and began eating the tasty salmon. Chad smirked at him and winked. Tom mouthed, “You have my back?”
Chad’s grin was bigger than Meg’s. In answer, he leaned over and kissed the top of Robin’s head. Jonathan, Helen, and Bill remained in an animated conversation for the remainder of dinner. As soon as plates were empty of food, Tom decided politeness be damned, he was getting Summer out of there before the “when are you getting married” questions started.
Boo jumped down from her seat and came around, wedging herself onto Tom’s knee. “You sure like kissing the pretty lady, Uncle Tom.”
All eyes turned to him.
Tom floundered, having no idea what to say. Leave it to Boo to lead the attack. He could see his grandmother’s laughing eyes from the end of the table.
Jonathan grinned and swiftly hid his mouth behind his napkin.
Summer gamely attempted to answer the question. “Don’t you think Uncle Tom is kissable, Boo?”
“He’s got the whole package—hugs, kisses, Cocoa Puffs, and morning cartoons.”
He squeezed Boo tight against his chest. “You got the whole package too, Sweetie.”
Lindy came around to Summer’s side and wanted in her lap. Summer got points for not even hesitating to lift the little girl into her lap.
His mother beamed. “It’ll be nice to say we have an artist in the family.”
Summer’s face fell, and she looked at Tom. For what, he didn’t know, because he had no pat answers for his family either.
“I’m not…” She didn’t have to finish.
Chad stood up. “Grandma, what’s for dessert? Any chance its strawberry shortcake?”
The sweat trickling down Tom’s back dried. He lifted Boo off his lap and took his own and Summer’s dishes. Bret stood and retrieved them from him, so there was nothing left to do but sit back down. Boo and Lindy followed their dad into the kitchen for the dessert dishing up duties.
Bret added Olivia’s empty plates to the stack. “Nope. It’s chocolate cake.”
Rick pointed at Bret. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s hot out. Calls for pie. Cold, cold pie. Lemon chiffon.”
Olivia laughed. Elbows on the table, she propped her chin on laced fingers, amusement lightening the creases in her face. “Bret’s right.”
“He isalways right,” Rick groused and rose to coach his kids on getting the dishes to the kitchen.
Meg smirked and gave her husband away. “Bret knows because he was here earlier and saw her making it.”
“Traitor.” Bret lifted her empty plate, kissed the top of her head and took the stack of plates to the kitchen.
Jonathan chuckled. “I love this family.”
Helen rose, giving Tomthe look. Born of being a mother, perfected in the courtroom, she could ferret out information with nothing more than that look. Tom was about to embarrass himself by spilling his guts at the table. He’d known going into this there wasn’t a grand slam chance of making a go of things, yet he blindly followed instincts, heart, and body. He was in deep, deeper every time they touched, kissed, made love. He wanted Summer, needed her. And he had no idea how to make that work, which made explaining this to his mother near to impossible.
He tensed when his mother stood. Instead of giving him a superior interrogation, she let him off the hook.
“I don’t need any dessert.” She looked down the table. “Shall we walk home, dear?” Hope hung suspended mid-air.
Tom glanced at his father.
His expression didn’t tell Tom anything, but Bill put his napkin aside and rose. “Sure. Nice walk will do us both good.” He took her hand, and they both waved goodbye.
No one said anything about the mid-nineties temperature outside.
The atmosphere immediately lightened.
“Thank you.” Olivia reached for Jonathan’s hand and squeezed. “We’ve had a contentious few months. Summer’s solution is perfect.”
“Glad we could help.” Jonathan said. “Should be an interesting challenge.”
Olivia gave a benign smile and began an interrogation of Jonathan and his background while dessert was dished up.
Tom brushed his mouth against Summer’s ear. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand before Meg and Grandma have a chance to get started.”
She readily agreed.
He took her hand and helped her rise. “We’re going to go, too. We’ve got someone to see about a painting.”
Summer touched Jonathan’s shoulder. “Is that all right? Would you like to go with us?”
“No. I wouldn’t miss dessert and this lovely lady’s company. I’ll be all right,cher.”
“You’re too charming for your own good,” Olivia said, dryly.
Jonathan smiled. “I’ve been told that. Many times.”
Tom and Summer said goodnight to everyone just as the dessert was coming to the table. Chad and Bret did a down-low high-five as Tom moved Summer out the closest door.
Outside at his truck, Summer punched him in the arm.
“Ow.” Tom rubbed his shoulder.
“Whatever possessed you to kiss me like that in front of them?”
“I was happy you found a solution to that thorny problem, that’s all. I didn’t think.” He opened her door, admitting to himself that he hadn’t wanted to think. He’d just wanted to feel and celebrate.
She stepped on the runner and slipped into the seat. “I’m n
ot staying here, Tom. I can’t.” His heart cracked under the weight of the unmentioned impasse.
“Won’t,” he said, under his breath as he slammed the door.
He got into the truck, started the engine, and turned on the air. Regardless of his parents’ need to walk home, it was hot.
He should leave the whole topic alone, but kissing her at the dinner table had been an unconscious act based on love, true love. It was a relief to finally admit it. He didn’t really understand why she was so adamant about leaving unless she didn’t feel the same way about him. His heart refused to believe that was possible. “You want to tell me what you think is going to happen if you consider staying here with me?”
“My art won’t thrive here.” She put on her seatbelt with trembling fingers.
It was a superficial excuse. He knew it. So did she. “You paint here.”
“Anomaly.”
“You did it in high school. You’ve painted here these last ten days.”
She shifted in her seat so she could look at him. “And that’s part of my point. Ten days, Tom! We’ve only really known each other less than two weeks. How is it possible for something to be real and intense in so little time? And when I was here before, I was a green, naïve girl. I’ve changed. San Francisco, a college education, Jonathan and world opportunities to explore my painting—that’s what has shaped who I am. I was able to paint scenery of Italy, Germany, Asia because I left here. Those paintings started my success. I don’t belong here anymore.”
“You don’t want to belong here anymore,” Tom argued.
She shook her head. “It’s more than that. I feel like I’m thirteen again and sweating my grades. I feel like I need permission to be who I am.” He could hear the tears in her voice. She stared back at his grandmother’s house. “I couldn’t make a go of this place then, and now it’s even more impossible given the demands of my career. I can’t struggle with all this angst. I need to let it go. My muse needs more input than this town could ever give me.”
And yet, she hadn’t been painting until she came back here.
He debated saying that.
He put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb so the family wouldn’t look out the window and see them arguing.
He pulled to the curb a block before the stop sign on the state highway. Her explanation clawed at him. “You keep talking about this town. What about me?” His gut seized, twisting up into the back of his throat, waiting for her answer.
She was quiet so long he thought she wouldn’t respond. “I can’t step back into this life, even for you. It doesn’t fit anymore. I don’t think you can understand that. You never left here.” She paused, clearing the tears from her throat. “What if I asked you to leave here and come to San Francisco with me?”
That shook him.
Leave Echo Falls? Could he do it for her?
Everything in him rebelled, yet it was something he had to think about. Her hands twisted in her lap, at odds with her defiance. He put the truck in gear and drove, fighting with his frustration, trying to get a handle on an answer. “Do you think I have to give up the things I value and love in order to understand how you feel?”
“That’s not what I meant.” She ran a hand through her hair, tossing it all directions in her agitation.
He was agitated too. His dinner sat in his throat, burning. He tightened his jaw, stifling words that would be said in anger, words that would hurt. “How exactly do you expect I’ll fit into your life, Summer? I’m a cop. That’s who I am.”
“I know.” She collapsed back into the seat, rubbing her arms. “How can we pretend to have a future if one has to sacrifice everything for the other? It won’t work.”
Tom stopped the truck in her driveway. “Loving someone is about sacrifice and compromise. You offer that because you do love. But I don’t think you want to sacrifice, Summer. You wouldn’t sacrifice with Walter either. Even after you made a success of things.”
She turned in her seat to face him, hurt in her eyes. “So I sacrifice my life in San Francisco to prove I love you? And what happens then?”
“We live. We love.” He turned off the engine, tamping down the emotion filling his throat.
“For how long?”
“You want a guarantee? I can’t give you that. It’s a risk. Love always is.”
She clamped her mouth shut, her face twisted in misery. “I committed to my gift long ago. I can’t go back now.”
Silence reigned.
Tom opened his door and walked around the truck to open hers.
She sat for a long moment. When she slid to the ground, she didn’t touch him. He walked her up the sidewalk in silence. Once she had the front door open and the hall light on, he turned to leave.
“Tom, don’t go like this.” She lifted a hand to cover her mouth, misery painted on her face.
He ran a finger down her cheek, the only touch he’d allow. “There’s nothing left to talk about, Summer. I get it.” He turned away from her, desperately wanting to kiss her goodnight and smooth this all away.
But the truth was she wouldn’t stay, and he couldn’t leave.
He risked a glance at her. She hugged herself. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and her lips were red from chewing at the tender flesh.
Agony ripped through him. His heart bled, mortally wounded. He was kidding himself that they’d had a chance. He’d plowed ahead anyway, unmindful. Now he paid.
“Goodbye, Summer.”
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“Men!” Summer dropped her purse on the side table and started up the stairs, brushing aside the tears that slid down her cheeks. “Can’t live with them and can’t shoot them.” In her room, she tore off her clothes and searched through her bag until she found her ratty, paint shorts and a tank top.
Did he think she was immune, that she didn’t feel this thing between them? She did. She ached with it. And yet, she felt once again at cross- purposes, having to make a choice she couldn’t make—feeling like her art would suffer, like she’d lose herself in this town, in Tom, if she didn’t focus and stay true to her vocation. And yet, was that all she was? How did she balance any other kind of life when her creative genius drove her?
With nothing else to do, she wandered across the hall to her grandmother’s room. She let herself fall boneless on the day bed in full view of her spontaneous garden creation. The painting really was brilliant. She’d gotten every detail, every shade correct. The work touched her deep down—partly because the concept reminded her of Tom, and partly because the execution was just that damn good. This painting might prove to be her best work.
Could she learn to be less driven, to let other things into her life? In the presence of this painting, of this brilliance, no.
She had never painted this way when she lived here before. Of course, she’d been young, was just learning, hadn’t finished school, hadn’t had the travel and connection advantages working with Jonathan gave her. Her raw talent had polished up quite nicely. What happened to the rest of her?
Thirsty, she forced herself off the bed and down the stairs to the kitchen. Inside the door, she stubbed her toe on a box. She lifted the cardboard box onto the kitchen table not knowing where it came from. She grabbed a bottle of water and swallowed half of it, then took a knife and cut open the box.
She stood, holding the flaps aside, bushwhacked. The box was filled with things from her grandfather’s room at the nursing home—his jewelry box, his Bible, a tattered bookmark, a leather wallet, some papers.
She sat at the table and carefully removed each item, opened the wallet, the Bible, the jewelry box. Each piece of paper was opened and assessed. The last piece of paper, tucked at the back of his Bible, blasted through her heart and defenses.
Her fingers shook as she opened the note she’d written her grandfather the night she’d left. She could still feel the conflict, the division between them in her wording.
Tears slid down her cheeks, and she brushed them away, imp
atient with the lump in her throat and the ache in her heart. She shook the paper. “This is all your fault, you know? You were such an obstinate old man. If you’d just listened!”
And yet, he had listened when she’d first shown a talent for painting. He’d been her biggest encourager. In the end, she’d left him here alone, afraid he would sway her because she wanted his love and approval so bad. She’d remained caught for ten years, afraid to come back home and face him in case he hadn’t changed his mind. Because she couldn’t paint as a hobby, it was what was in her soul, what she needed to live and breathe.
She’d been stubborn and wrong, yet so had he, so where did that leave her?
She carefully put the items back in the box and closed the lid. “None of this works,” she sighed. Her grandfather. Tom. Guilt. Redemption. Love. Sacrifice.
Every emotion fought against her heart’s dedication. She wandered to the porch, picking at the paint stuck under her fingernails, weighing the surging thrill of creating against the warm embrace of her grandfather or making love with Tom.
The night darkened, and against the streetlights she watched the clouds rolling through, imagined an angry pencil scratching against her sketchpad. The air dripped with moisture. The crickets were silent.
Lightning flashed in the distance. A roll of thunder followed. In a minute, she’d have to go check the weather service warnings. Much like the night she’d left. She written her grandfather that note and spent the night with a friend. He would find the note the next day on her bed after she was already halfway to San Francisco, scholarship and her savings in hand. She supposed that’s how it happened.
She didn’t want to think how bad she must have hurt him with her departure, couldn’t think about it. She didn’t want to think about how bad she’d hurt Tom with her thoughts tonight. She sat on the front step, doubling over, holding that grief, the death of all she’d been in a hard knot inside her, because really to let it out would leave her a hollow husk, and then what would there be?
She moaned, feeling the tears claw through her throat, rising in a tidal wave. The hush of the night gave way to the splatter of rain. Her tears escaped in a torrent, washing down her face, mixing with the warm rain that pelted her skin. She raised her face and let them flow, praying for a catharsis, anything to break the logjam between her creative drive and the woman trapped inside.
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