“Stop it. Just stop.” The sound of my voice shattered the silence, startling me. I hadn’t realized I was actually speaking until the words forced themselves out. I shook my head, then slid onto the tall stool in front of the easel. The bedroom window overlooked the backyard, and as I glanced out, I could see movement in the fir next to the house. Wondering what it could be, I put down the pencil and slowly approached the window. I leaned on the sill. Then—there it was. A red-tailed hawk perched on one of the branches. Its ruddy feathers were interspersed with white splotches, and it was staring directly at me.
I caught my breath, placing one hand on the window. There were hawks in Seattle, and I loved seeing them soar over the city, but we’d lived in two different worlds. I had the oddest feeling that this raptor was trying to tell me something.
For a moment, I wanted to cry. When had I lost my connection with the natural world? I felt like I was on the edge of being able to reach out and touch it once again. The fir tree, covered in snow, with a hawk in it—it was too perfect. A brilliant moment caught in freeze-frame. The hawk opened its beak and let out one long shriek, then took wing and flew off toward the town.
Suddenly, I whirled, hurrying back to the easel where I grabbed the pencil, my hand flying over the canvas as I sketched out the branch with the hawk. Within moments, I was absorbed in painting, no longer brooding over my appearance or whether I still had talent. I lost myself in the moment of creation, the whirl of color, the stroke of paint and brush against canvas. It was as if all the years that I had put my art on the back burner vanished in one single moment.
THREE HOURS LATER, I stood back and finally set down the brush. My hands were covered with paint, but at least I’d managed to keep from messing up my new sweater. I absently wiped my fingers on a paper towel as I studied the canvas. The painting was far from done, but I’d gotten a good start, and it felt right. Some block inside me had broken open, and it felt as though I was breathing freely for the first time in years.
The doorbell interrupted my thoughts, and I hurried down the hall to answer. I was expecting the UPS man with several books I’d ordered off Amazon.
It was a man, all right, but to my surprise, he wasn’t wearing brown and he wasn’t carrying a box of books. He was, however, broad-shouldered with a five-o’clock shadow that gave him a rugged look. His eyes were an arresting blue, shocking against the dark wavy hair peppered with silver strands that hung to his shoulders.
“Marilee Johansson?”
Flustered, I nodded, realizing I had been staring. Had he noticed? I felt like I had burned a hole right through him with my gaze. “Yes, and you are…”
“Chris Hunter. You made an appointment with me a week ago?”
“I did?” I was totally lost. And it didn’t help that he made for amazing eye candy and had a smile to match.
“I’m here to set up your computer and make certain your Internet services are working right.” His eyes sparkled as his smile hit me right in the pit of my stomach. I blushed. I hadn’t been smiled at like that in a long time. At least, not so I had noticed.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Please come in.” I started to open the door, then stopped, suddenly remembering I should confirm who he was. Flustered again, I added, “I’m sorry. But can I see your identification first?”
One of the cardinal rules for living single: Always ask for ID from repairmen and anyone claiming to be service personnel. For some reason, when I had been married to John I hadn’t worried about it. Maybe it was because there was always a maid in the house.
He obligingly pulled out a leather badge holder, flipping it open and handing it to me. I glanced at it. The card looked legit, with the name and logo of the Rent-A-Geek company printed on it, Chris’s name, and his picture. Silently, I handed it back to him and ushered him into the living room.
“I have two computers, actually. One is a laptop, and the other is my desktop over there. Can you install a router so that I can carry my laptop around the house?” It had always bothered John that I got along so smoothly with technology. Actually, I was convinced it annoyed him because he couldn’t figure out a search engine to save his soul, and he didn’t like playing second best at anything.
“We’ll get you set up here. I just need to know where your phone line comes through, and the information you were given by your ISP. I assume that’s Voyager? They’re about the only ones who actually offer any service worth having up here in Starwood.” He set down what looked like a toolbox, only when he opened it, I saw that it wasn’t full of hammers and screwdrivers, but all sorts of wires and gadgets.
“Yes, that’s what I found out when I researched who to go with.”
“Good. They’re pretty straightforward, and fairly reliable. As reliable as any company can be, up here on the pass.” As Chris settled himself at the desk and began sorting out his gear, I retreated toward the kitchen. When in doubt, caffeine saved the day.
“Would you like a cup of coffee? Or an espresso or a latte?” Truth was, I wanted a moment to collect myself. His presence unnerved me and I wasn’t sure why. There was something about him that made my stomach flip in a way that I hadn’t felt in a very long time. And right now, I didn’t need that sort of complication.
“I’d love a latte, if you can make one.”
“How many shots? And can you drink milk or would you prefer soy or coconut milk instead?” While I could drink milk, many of my friends couldn’t, so I always kept alternatives around.
“Three shots and coconut would be great.”
As I flipped on the espresso machine, I snuck a peek through the pass-through. Yes, he was good-looking. But there was more to it. There was something about Chris Hunter that set my thoughts to churning. And I wasn’t sure I liked the direction they were headed in.
WHEN CHRIS HAD taken my information over the phone, I’d been professional and knowledgeable. But the incident with the badge at the door hadn’t been my smoothest move. Maybe, if I was lucky, I could salvage my dignity somehow. As I added a dusting of cinnamon to the lattes, I wondered what it was about him that had me stumbling. Sure, he was good-looking, but I knew a lot of good-looking guys and they didn’t trip me up. No, there was something different about him. Something…magnetic.
I carried the mugs into the living room, watching as he tinkered with the cords. He pulled out a sheet of ID tags and marked each cord and then labeled where to plug it in on the back of my computer.
“What are you doing?”
“If anything ever comes unplugged, or you need to move it, this way you’ll know how to hook it back up. It means less future work for me, but I like my clients to feel like they have some sort of autonomy. You might say I like to teach my clients to fish.” He grinned at me, and again, a warm current buzzed through me.
“You want to teach me to fish?” I gave him a puzzled look.
He laughed. “You know the old saying—if you give a starving man a fish you save him for one day. Teach him to fish and you save him for life.” He accepted the mug and took a long sip as I sat down next to where he was working. I was extremely aware of his proximity, of the broad shoulders beneath the flannel shirt that stretched across his back, and the curve of the jeans around his butt. I tried to pry my gaze off of him, not wanting him to look up and see me staring. I didn’t want to come off as creepy.
As he finished plugging in my keyboard, he said, “Wireless might be easier, but I’m old school. I like that you have a corded system. Sometimes the signals just don’t hold up here in the mountains. And there’s something about seeing everything hooked together that makes me feel…” He blushed. “I know that sounds odd, coming from a geek, but…”
“No, I think I understand. The cords are visible connections, right? I’m an artist—I’m very visual, so I think in those terms.”
He nodded, then scooted back on the floor to face me, bringing his knees up and resting his arms on them. “So, Merilee, when did you move to
Starwood?”
I shrugged. “About three weeks ago. It’s taken me this long to sort everything out. I’ve been using my phone for email, but that’s getting old.”
“What made you choose Starwood? If that’s not too personal?” He really seemed interested. “You don’t strike me as the typical artist who shows up here.” He hastened to add, “You don’t feel trendy—and that’s a compliment. You seem like you belong here. Usually people who move to Starwood because it’s an artists’ retreat are ninety-five percent pretense and five percent talent.”
I shrugged, not wanting to info-dump all over him, especially with what was one of the oldest refrains in the book. “Typical story. Recently divorced, wandered out of the big city. As I said, I’m an artist. Or…I used to be an artist. I thought…maybe coming here, I could figure out…” Once again, my voice trailed off and I realized I had run out of words.
Great, another opportunity to embarrass myself.
But he simply gave me a solemn nod.
“You came here to find out who you are, right? And before you ask, no, it’s not that obvious. That was my reason for moving here too.” He flashed me a rueful grin. “Nobody can claim Starwood as their birth town unless they’re under twenty years old. This is a planned community. We’re all transplants of one sort or another.”
That made me laugh. “I suppose you’re right. And yes, you’re right on target. I suppose I did come to Starwood hoping to find myself.” I groaned. “That sounds so ’70s, doesn’t it? I was born in 1971.” I wasn’t sure why I told him that, but he just laughed.
“I was born in 1973, so we’re about the same age. You’re an artist. What medium do you use?”
Relieved he had changed the subject, I launched into a description. “Paint—I prefer watercolor, but I also use oils at times. I don’t like acrylic, though. It seems flat to me, almost devoid of life on the canvas. I have worked in clay—sculpting, but I’d rather paint. There’s something about the color as it overtakes the white page. In the past, I actually had a couple of showings in bigger galleries. Then my husband’s career…”
I paused. Back to flushed cheeks as a wave of melancholy hit. John had been so proud of me at first…but when he suggested I put away my paints, I knew things were broken. I just hadn’t wanted to face it. “My ex-husband, sorry. Anyway, his career took off and…I didn’t have time to paint anymore.”
Chris stared at me, and for a moment I was afraid he was going to ask me about my divorce, but instead, he just cleared his throat as he pushed himself off the floor. He grabbed the desk chair and settled himself behind my computer.
“Let’s get you set up.” He had me type in my password, then began to input the settings. “I’m glad you picked up your paintbrushes again,” he said softly, but then his tasks took over.
I watched as he focused on making certain everything worked. Half an hour later, he had my system completely set up. He walked me through everything he’d done, and then handed me his card, along with the invoice.
“If you need me, call. I can usually make it over within a few hours, unless I have an emergency or a scheduled appointment at that time.”
As he packed up his gear, I realized I didn’t want him to leave. I thought about offering him a snack, but there wasn’t much to eat in the house. So I reluctantly pulled out my checkbook and wrote out his payment, all the while trying to think of something witty to say. As I walked him to the door, I realized that I was feeling unaccountably sad.
He paused, staring down at me. Finally, he took a deep breath and asked, “By any chance, would you be interested in going out with me?”
I stared at him for a moment, unable to believe I’d heard him right. “A date?”
“Yes, you know…I come over, pick you up, we go out to dinner or a movie and have fun?” Again, the twinkling grin.
I shook my head, ever so faintly, deciding just to be honest. “I have to tell you, I haven’t been asked out on a date in over twenty years. I’m not sure how to react anymore. But…yes. Maybe since I’m new to town, you could show me the sights?”
Chris laughed, relief flooding his eyes. “I’d love to guide you around town. Say Saturday at three?”
Unable to believe that I had actually managed a fairly graceful acceptance, I nodded. “I’ll see you then.” As I closed the door behind him, my heart skipped a beat. For the first time in a long while, I was nervous, in a very good way.
Chapter 3
THE PAINTING OF the hawk took me three days. Even though I had forgotten some of my techniques, the brush and paint seemed to guide my hands. By Saturday morning, I was finished and I knew that I had passed an important hurdle.
As I stood back, trying to be objective and failing miserably, the sensation of being watched made me turn. There, in the tree once again, perched the hawk. I crossed to the window. The hawk remained perfectly still, staring at me as though it was waiting for me to speak.
“This is ridiculous.” But still, something moved me to open the window and lean on the sill, my breath coming in white puffs of mist as I stared at the hawk. After a moment, I cleared my throat. “Are you trying to tell me something? Is there something you want?”
The hawk didn’t look hungry, nor did it look hurt. And even though my voice echoed through the yard, it didn’t seem to startle the bird. In fact, the hawk opened its beak and let out a single shriek. As the cry ricocheted through the air, a deep longing knifed through my heart, and I realized I was crying, although I didn’t know why. I felt on the verge of finding something I had lost a long time ago. Something that I had let go before I even had it in my grasp, and had been looking for ever since.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” I whispered. “Can you help me?”
The hawk swept into the air and turned to pass by my window as it flew off. I felt a sudden urge to follow it, to take wing and let it lead me wherever it would. Confused, I shut the window and returned to the painting. I had managed to capture the piercing look in the hawk’s eyes, and now I stared at it, unsure what to do.
After a moment, when nothing had come to me, I let out a soft sigh and headed to my bedroom to dress for my date with Chris.
CHRIS MADE AS good a tour guide as he did an IT guy. In the space of three hours I managed to see the bookstore, the ice cream boutique, and the Starwood Farmers’ Market, which was open all year round, before we visited MOLA—the Museum of Local Art. Chris insisted on introducing me to Chance Bartley, the curator of the galley. In turn, Chance insisted on me giving him my card. He pressed me to bring in my portfolio at some point. I murmured an embarrassed “Sure thing” before managing to steer Chris out the door.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, still blushing.
“Because you’re an artist and that’s the local gallery, and maybe you might want to get to know the art crowd around here?” He just grinned as I sputtered. “As pretty as you look with rosy cheeks, you shouldn’t get so flustered. You’ve got a lot going for you, Marilee. Own it.”
Before I could say another word, he steered me toward the center of town. The town square was actually a small park with a gazebo directly in the center. A semi-circle of bleachers enclosed the gazebo on three sides, and the entire park was decked out for the holidays in lights and ornaments, with a complete Santa’s workshop of figures that had been painstakingly carved from compacted snow.
“Did the founders of Starwood set out deliberately to create a picture-perfect community? I feel like I’m on a movie set for some ’50s Bing Crosby special.” But I laughed as I said it, because even as contrived as the town felt, I liked it. I had to admit that I liked having a pretty community to live in, one that seemed almost like a fairytale.
“You aren’t allowed to knock Starwood until you’ve lived here for a solid three months. Town rules, you know.” Chris winked, pointing to a sign announcing the Starwood Winter Follies. “That’s tonight, and we’re coming back for it after dinner.
In fact, I’m going to view dinner as our second date. What do you think?” He had such an infectious smile that I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’re so sure I’m going to accept a second date?”
“Unless you’re a cruel and cold-hearted woman, yes. That smile on your face tells me you’re enjoying yourself. Unless, that is, you’re just being polite.”
I relented. “No, I’m not just being polite. I’ve had more fun this afternoon than I’ve had in a long time. Dinner, it is. But the follies count as part of the second date—that, I insist on. I don’t think my mind’s quite ready to think about going on a third date. At least, not in one night.”
We ate dinner at a small Italian restaurant on Main Street. The food was homey and rustic, but delicious. I polished off my spaghetti and meatballs and unabashedly asked for seconds.
“I love that this is an all-you-can-eat pasta menu. I haven’t had a dinner this good in…I don’t know how long.” As I leaned back in my chair, staring at the votive candle that lit our table, I realized I was comfortable. Chris and I had talked about anything and everything all afternoon, and not once did I feel like he was judging me. It had been a long time since an evening out had been so stress-free.
Chris leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He was wearing one of those awful Christmas sweaters with Rudolph on the front. Rudolph’s nose lit up, and I wondered who had bought it for him—or whether he’d actually purchased it himself. But sweater or not, he looked as sweet and handsome as he had when he came to fix my computer.
“I’m glad you moved to Starwood, Marilee. I really like you. I had more fun today than on any date I can remember. I have a question to ask you.” He looked so serious that my stomach tightened and I realized that I was nervous. What if he told me that he had a girlfriend? Or that he wasn’t looking for anything but a casual affair? I suddenly realized that this question mattered to me, and that meant that I liked Chris more than I thought.
The Longest Night Page 2
