Saul had promised there would be deer.
A few moments later, Molly found a set of keys in Saul’s paint-box. Front door key. Back door. A small unmarked key. For a padlock? She shrugged and moved on to the two General Motors keys. Car keys? Where was Saul’s car? She shrugged that problem away. It was years since she had trailed behind Saul, keeping track of his keys and his timetable and his finances—all the things he habitually forgot.
With the cabin clean, Molly heated water and took a sponge bath, promising herself that she would figure out the hot water heater later so that she could shower and shampoo. Then she dressed in clean jeans and blouse, and went to work on the dinosaurs.
She set up the sketching easel on the balcony with the paper tacked to it. Then she attached Alex’s latest manuscript to a clipboard so the light breeze could not blow it away. She stared at the manuscript for a moment, then went to the van and brought her portable stereo and cassette case inside. Once she had a tape playing, she went back out onto the balcony with the sounds of Neil Diamond’s latest album flowing over her. She always listened to music while she worked.
She hummed tunelessly as she moved about, getting organized, getting into the fantasy mood so that when she picked up the charcoal it was easy to rough out the first picture. She had read the manuscript several times since Alex sent it to her, but she found herself chuckling again as she let the opening scene of Search for Bronty take shape on the paper.
Alex had a wild imagination. It was no wonder children loved his stories. A brontosaurus wandering around Mexico City lost in the barrios. His friends, tyrannosaurus Rex and Terry the pterodactyl, searching for him, throwing Mexico City into chaos. The kids were going to love this latest episode in the continuing saga of the modern-day dinosaurs!
Molly spread the tourist literature around her, tacked pictures of Mexico City onto the rails with clothes pins she had found in Saul’s kitchen drawer. As the afternoon went on, she added four rough sketches to the collection of paper.
The publisher wanted fourteen illustrations for this book, plus cover art. She liked to rough the whole project out before she got down to the detailed artwork. It was important to choose the right scenes, to distribute the illustrations more-or-less evenly through the events of the story. The first time Molly illustrated one of Alex’s stories, she had painted dozens of illustrations, reorganizing the project as she went, discarding half her work in the end, wasting time and energy. Now, after six dinosaur books, she had developed an efficient work pattern.
Hours later, she was interrupted by a light, young voice. “Hey! Hey, you up there?” The boy was directly below the balcony, his face lifted up, his mouth open and his neck strained back.
Molly lifted her charcoal away from the paper and smiled down at him. “Hello, there.”
He was eight or nine years old, his hands jammed into the back pockets of his loose denim jeans. His curly, dark hair and black eyes reminded her strongly of Patrick McNaughton.
His son? She felt an uncomfortable sensation of nausea at the pit of her stomach. Patrick was a stranger, for God’s sake! She didn’t care if he was married, had children. Although if he was, he had no business kissing the woman next door. She would tell him so, too, when she saw him next.
“Who are you?” the boy asked, as direct as the man.
“I’m Molly.”
“Oh. Where’s Saul?”
“Away. Flying somewhere on an airplane.”
That seemed to satisfy the boy’s curiosity. He nodded wisely and told her, “He’s my friend. I came over to see if Trouble wanted petting.”
Molly turned the sketching charcoal absently in her fingers. “I haven’t seen Trouble all day. She ran away when I came last night. Do you know where she might be?”
The boy threw a glance back towards the trees. “Climbing Uncle Pat’s sunroom again, maybe. I’ll go see if I can get her. Do you have any bacon?”
“Bacon?”
“Yeah, that’s what Saul always feeds Trouble.”
As a child, Molly had dined on caviar, oysters, sometimes on nothing at all. Hardly ever on hamburger or macaroni. She should have known that Saul would not feed his cat ordinary cat food.
The boy was disappearing into the trees.
“Hey, neighbor! What’s your name?”
“Jeremy!” he shouted back, his voice echoing.
Uncle Pat, he had said. Patrick McNaughton was the boy’s uncle, although it was stupid of her to be so pleased. He mattered. Too soon, too dangerous, but she was tangled in strange emotions, trying to tell herself she did not care. She had spent most of the day without consciously thinking of his kiss, but it had been there, the tingling excitement of memory lying in wait. He had said he would come tonight, to show her how to light the fire. Would he kiss her again? Would she let him? Or would she draw back from the danger? One kiss, a few seconds engraved on her mind, warm male lips brushing hers. Did he know how her heart had thundered, sending flames through her veins?
He believed she was one of Saul’s ladies. Would he think that her response to his kiss meant she would fall into bed with him, that she believed in the kind of easy loving Saul pursued? He might think that, probably did. She would have to tell him who she really was, make it clear that she was not a woman to let a strange man kiss her and . . .
Except that she had let him.
She found a tin of bacon in the back of a kitchen cupboard and started frying a couple of strips. Jeremy had seemed quite certain that Trouble wanted bacon. Voices. Molly swallowed, recognizing the lower tones of Patrick’s deep voice contrasting with Jeremy’s. She opened the door and there was the cat, locked in Patrick’s arms, much as she had been the night before.
“Got her!” announced Jeremy triumphantly.
“Good work,” said Molly, avoiding Patrick’s eyes but staring at his long fingers curled into the scruff of the cat’s neck. “You’re hurting her.”
Patrick said confidently, “No, I’m not. Don’t you know anything about cats?”
“Not much.” Saul had never stayed in one place long enough for pets, while Aunt Clara and Uncle Gordon had always lived in a city apartment that didn’t allow animals.
“City girl,” he taunted gently. “We’ll help you settle her in. First we have to be sure all the doors and windows are closed while she gets used to you.”
He went past her and Molly closed the door behind him. Patrick said, “Jeremy, check the downstairs windows and so forth. Molly, what about upstairs?”
She shrugged. “The door to the balcony is open.”
“Jeremy, get it, would you?”
Molly opened her mouth to protest, but Patrick said quietly, “Don’t worry. Jeremy won’t touch anything.”
The man was a mind reader.
He had changed out of his city clothes into an old pair of denim jeans and a battered University of Waterloo sweatshirt. If anything, he looked even more disturbingly potent in casual clothes. It was a good thing he had the cat in his arms, she decided. With that look in his eyes, he might just reach for her otherwise.
She swung away from him. Somehow, she had to get this relationship on a better footing. Damn! It wasn’t a relationship. The man’s presence seemed to scramble her brains. When she turned to face him again, she found that he had made himself comfortable on the living room sofa, the cat still held in his arms.
“Come over here, Molly.”
He seemed so at ease, as if this chemistry between them were an ordinary thing to him. She thought of Saul, women tearing their hearts out for him and meaning nothing in his life. She felt out of her depth, frightened and vulnerable. She bit her lips and muttered, “Why don’t you sit down and make yourself at home?”
“Come on,” he urged, his voice gentle, soft laughter in his eyes. “You need help with this cat and you know it. Come and sit beside me.”
Molly felt as if she were walking into a minefield! When she sat down, Trouble glared at her and growled low in her throat. Pat
rick’s hand shifted on the cat’s neck, his thumb rubbing the side of her jaw until the angry sound stopped.
Molly laughed uneasily. “I don’t think she likes me. I—Am I supposed to touch her?”
“Not yet.” Patrick shifted and his leg pressed against hers. She wanted to move away, but knew it would be too obvious if she did. Patrick smiled at her and Molly wondered if he knew how self-conscious she felt.
“Just sit here, Molly. Let her get used to your smell. Relax.”
Did he think she was so tense and awkward because of the cat? If so, he must think she was pretty stupid. Or phobic about cats. She swallowed and stared at the cat, seeing only Patrick’s chest in that old sweat shirt. “Did—did you go to the University of Waterloo?”
“Hmm. Just give her jaw a bit of a scratch, rub it a bit.”
Trouble tolerated the caress for a few seconds before she jerked her head away. Molly withdrew her hand. The University of Waterloo was in Ontario, perhaps three thousand miles away. “Why go so far when there’s UBC right nearby?”
He shrugged and loosened his grip on Trouble. The cat didn’t try to get away. “I took my Bachelors at UVic, graduate studies at Waterloo. They were doing interesting things with computers.” He saw her grimace and laughed easily. “You don’t like technology?”
“That all depends. I like banking machines, but I don’t trust them.”
He watched her thoughtfully, asked, “Who do you trust, Molly?”
“Not a computer, anyway.” Who did she trust? She thought that she might trust Patrick McNaughton, although she did not know if it was instinct or insanity.
He said, “If you put a mistake in a computer system, it doesn’t make it right.” Then, “Well, Jeremy, is it all clear? Everything closed?”
Jeremy came down off the stairs at a half-run. He jerked to a stop in front of the sofa and reached to scratch Trouble’s ear. The cat tipped its head back and purred. Molly laughed. “She should be your cat. She’ll only growl at me.”
“Mom won’t let me,” said Jeremy regretfully. “She says we’ve got too many animals and —anyway, she’s Saul’s really.” He took a deep breath, shook his dark, curly hair back, and then the words tumbled out.
“Molly, on your balcony—there’s Rex and Bronty and Terry! It really is, isn’t it? I know it’s Bronty, for sure. He’s between two big buildings. And—it’s them, isn’t it? All the dinosaurs from the books?”
“What books?” asked Patrick.
Jeremy said impatiently, “You know, Uncle Pat! Bronty Goes to Hawaii “n Terry and the Jet Airplane. You remember, don’t you?—Molly, I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Molly Alex!” shouted Jeremy triumphantly. “I knew it! You’re Molly Alex, aren’t you? You wrote all those books! Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t write the stories. Molly Alex is a pen name—a special name just for those books. A man named Alex writes them, and I paint the pictures.”
Jeremy sank down onto the floor, cross-legged. “Wow!” he breathed. “Is that a new Bronty book upstairs?”
“Umm hmm. Bronty Goes to Mexico. The story’s already written. I’m just starting the pictures.”
Patrick shifted and his leg pressed warmly against hers. “Let’s feed this troublesome beast something. Cupboard love is the best way to teach a cat where home is. Then Molly can show us her etchings.”
The last thing she wanted was Patrick McNaughton staring at her sketches. Not that she was self-conscious about letting people see her unfinished work. That sort of temperament was the province of real artists like Saul. But Patrick might stare at her pictures and see right into her soul.
Freed, the cat stood and stretched in Patrick’s lap, then gave him an outraged glare and slowly strutted over to Molly. She stroked the black and white fur once, then Trouble jumped across to a nearby easy chair.
“I’ll feed her.” Molly started to stand up, but it was an old sofa. With Patrick’s weight on the springs as well as her own, she had sunk far down. Patrick steadied her with a hand and helped her up.
“Thanks,” she gasped. Was that laughter in his eyes? Darn the man! Tonight she would be dream about his warm, strong hand steadying her hip, his eyes inviting her to tumble back down into his arms.
Dreams of loving.
She cleared her throat and focused on Jeremy who was staring up at her. “I think your uncle would be better off to wait until I’m further along. The dinosaurs look better in color.”
Jeremy stumbled to his feet. “They’re neat, Uncle Pat. There’s no colors, but you can tell who it is. Terry’s flying over the skyscraper in one, and he hits a flagpole. And there’s more than the ones pinned up, isn’t there? I didn’t want to touch them, but it’d be super to look at them all.”
Patrick got up and walked to the wood stove as if he were the person who naturally tended it, a smile in his voice as he said, “Come on, Molly. We understand about it being unfinished work. Jeremy and I are both dinosaur lovers.”
She stared at his back as he crouched in front of the fire, feeding in wood neatly. When he sank back on his heels and looked up at her, she said with resignation, “Jeremy can show you where they are while I feed the cat. I’ll come up and show you the others after I’ve fed Trouble.
Chapter Four
When Molly came upstairs to the loft, she found Patrick thoughtfully rubbing his chin with one hand while he stared at the painting on the wall behind the sofa bed. Jeremy was outside on the balcony, his bent head just visible through the window as he studied her dinosaur sketches.
Molly was glad she had made up the bed earlier. The idea of Patrick staring at her tousled bedclothes was disturbing. That suggestive tension leapt up between them so easily. Hormones, she decided desperately. Perhaps she needed to take vitamins. Or get more exercise. Something. Anything to get back to normal.
“I thought you wanted to look at dinosaurs,” She licked her dry lips. “They’re out on the balcony.”
“What is this?”
“What’s what?”
“This painting,” he snapped impatiently. A muscle jerked along the side of his neck. “What the hell is it?”
“Niagara Falls.”
He swung around to glare at her.
“Saul painted it.” Why did Patrick look so angry? She looked at the painting. Beautiful scenery, but lacking Saul’s usual emotional impact. Molly remembered the misty falls, the white clouds in the summer sky. She had spent hours staring at the clouds while Saul sketched her. Head to the right, and stop fidgeting, girl!
“I know it’s Niagara Falls!”
“Well, why ask then?” She glared back at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bad tempered man?”
Abruptly, the anger was gone. “I’m not, you know. Or I wasn’t until I met you. That painting- It’s you in the foreground, isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s me.” She grimaced. “I have one of those faces. People I knew as a baby tell me I haven’t changed a bit. It’s not a compliment, I can tell you.”
“You’re about ten years old in that picture.” He said it as if it were an accusation.
She shifted her shoulders. “I didn’t know he still had that picture. I thought he’d sold it.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
His fingers curled into a fist. He took a deep breath, then the words came one at a time, with pauses between. “Saul Natham painted this picture when you were twelve years old? Is that right?”
“Yes. He started it on my birthday.” The last wandering birthday, before she went to her aunt and uncle.
“On your birthday? Your twelfth birthday?” He closed his eyes briefly, muttered, “Of course he’s not your lover. I should have known you were entirely wrong for that. He’s never had anyone even remotely intelligent here. And no artists.”
She couldn’t help smiling at that. “No artists,” she agreed. “He doesn’t like competition.”
�
�But you—”
“Saul doesn’t think of my work as art. Children’s pictures.”
He prowled to the edge of the loft, stared down at the living room below. “He’s your father? Your uncle? What? And why did you tell me he was - that you were his lover?”
Why did she feel so off-balance with him? With anyone else, she could be calm and cool. Rational, not emotional. She dragged her fingers through her long, tangled curls. “I didn’t tell you that. He’s my father. You were the one who assumed I was one of his women.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw. “You could have set me straight.”
She med his eyes angrily. “I made it a policy a long time ago not to get into a stew over what people think about my father.”
“Or about you?”
She nodded abruptly. “Yes. If you judge me before you know anything about me, then that’s your problem. I’m not going to let it be mine.”
“Damn it, Molly! I spent last night- most of today, for that matter- telling myself I had no damned business going after a another man’s woman.”
Her heart was pounding and something inside trembling. Her voice started on a whisper, rose quickly to anger. “Listen, Patrick...Mister bloody McNaughton! I don’t know who you think you are, but- You and your family may own the top of this hill, but get this straight! I don’t belong to anybody!”
He moved towards her. One step. Two. She warned, “Stay away from me! I’m not a possession, for- I told you that last night, damn it! I won’t be talked about like something, some... I belong to me! And I don’t- don’t want anything to do with you- with your- your- whatever it is you want.”
His hands closed over her shoulders. She gasped and tried to jerk away. He said softly, intensely, “Last night you did a damned fine imitation of one of Saul’s endless chain of lovers- You knew bloody well what it looked like! What I would think!” His fingers curled into the softness of her upper arms. “And what I want, Molly, is you. It may be crazy. It’s certainly too damned soon, I agree.” His fingers gentled, thumbs caressing. “We don’t even know each other- except I’ve got the crazy feeling I’ve known you forever. Anyway, we’re going to learn.”
With Strings Attached (Gabriola Island) Page 5
