Her Secret Love

by Paula Altenburg

  The smile died. His voice went all silky and buttered rum smooth. “I know how to keep a woman’s attention.” He took two steps toward her. She took three short ones back, her shoes leaving her footing unsteady on the rough slab of cement so that she had to touch a bench for support. “The real trick is in making sure she doesn’t deflect yours off the matter at hand. You don’t want her distracting you. She might take advantage of it and run off without any explanation.”

  Her heart was pounding so hard she felt dizzy. It was useless to pretend not to know what he was talking about, but she’d dance around it as long as she could. “A woman would have to be pretty self-absorbed and shameless to do something like that.”

  “Self-absorbed, definitely. At least up to a point.” He leaned a little closer, crowding her space, but no way was she giving more ground. “But my guess is she’d feel plenty of shame. And she wouldn’t know how to handle it. Not even after ten years.”

  The shame was there. But it was the least of what she’d been feeling these past few months. She had too many other, equally painful emotions locked inside her, and if those floodgates ever opened, she might never again get them closed.

  She didn’t like people poking at them. She wasn’t ready for that. That was why she hadn’t intended to stay in Cherry Lake for this long. Everyone thought they knew her, but they didn’t know her at all.

  She really was a hot mess, though. She could admit to that much, at least.

  “You’re giving her far too much credit,” she said.

  “I disagree. She doesn’t give herself nearly enough.”

  He was so close, so overwhelming, that she couldn’t breathe. The past came crashing in on her. The flirting and kisses weren’t as nice as she’d thought. They’d been intentional. He’d wanted more from her then. He wanted more from her now. She’d been trying so hard not to ruin things between them again, but he didn’t appear to have any similar concerns. Coming out here alone with him had been a mistake. She might not be the same person she’d been in the past, but she wasn’t who he believed her to be, either. He saw good intentions where there was nothing but self-preservation. She knew how to take care of herself. That was it.

  She brushed past him, her attention turned to a delicate steel loon floating in reeds on a shoreline. Inside, she was shaking. “Time’s wasting. Let’s see your sculptures.”

  He acted as if nothing had happened. As if all this tension were a figment of her imagination.

  “Most of it’s here. There’s a few more in the house that I’ve kept for myself.” He lifted a chunk of shining steel off one of the tables and moved it to one of the higher shelves, out of sight. “That piece is a special commission. It’s not for public display.”

  She didn’t ask to see it and he didn’t offer to show it to her. He had almost a hundred other ones for her to choose from.

  Picking only five pieces proved an almost insurmountable task. She set some possibilities aside.

  Before she made her final decision, however, she had to see the ones in the house. “You said you have more?”

  He turned off the light in the shed but left the door unlocked.

  The sculptures in the house were wall art, with a few free-standing pieces.

  The mural facing the windows that overlooked the mountains was breathtaking, although far too large for her purposes. Six full panels stretched from the floor to broad ceiling beams. Blue steel shimmered against shining copper. She got an impression of fire, water, and light, but was reluctant to say so in case she was mistaken. The word INSPIRATION had been etched in the lower right hand corner of the sixth panel, along with a date and Damon’s name. She crouched on her heels for a better look. He’d made it three years ago. Words couldn’t begin to describe how amazing it was.

  “You need an agent,” she said, looking up. “And a better publicist than me.”

  He leaned against the door frame, folded his arms across his chest, and crossed his legs at the ankles. “I’m happy with what I’ve got at the moment.”

  She chose to misunderstand. The room was empty except for several more pieces of art, a fireplace, an armchair, and a high definition wide-screen television.

  “You’re happy having your guests sit on the floor? Where’s the rest of your furniture?”

  “I didn’t want to waste money buying what I can afford. I decided to wait until I can afford what I want. I have expensive tastes. It’s a curse.”

  There was just enough underlying meaning in his words for her to be unsettled by that, too.

  She wasn’t playing this game. She straightened, examining the other pieces. One was of a crouching man crafted completely from old metal washers in varying sizes.

  “That one,” she said. “It’s going to be one of the five.”

  Surprise crossed his face. “Why that one?”

  She touched a light finger to its shoulder, admiring the lines. “Because it’s a self-portrait. It looks exactly like you.”

  “You can’t possibly tell it’s me just by looking at it.”

  He sounded so incredulous.

  Whereas she was positive. “Am I right?”

  “Yes. Explain to me how you knew.”

  “See the way the shoulders are bent forward? And the twist of the head? That pose is all you. I see it every day. There’s also the profile.” She ran her finger along the line of the sculpture’s averted cheek. She tapped the tip of the nose. “It’s definitely you.”

  Once she had the remaining four pieces confirmed, she made arrangements for Damon to drop them off at the Montreau two days prior to the festival.

  “I’m glad you asked me to do this,” she said, standing next to her car as she was preparing to leave. “So far it’s been fun. Mind you, that could change at any minute. There’s still a week to go and the pressure’s on.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  A light breeze lifted the curls at the nape of her neck and ruffled the wide hem of her camisole. All the friendliness was back. She might have imagined the undercurrents flowing between them. The subtext.

  He leaned past her to open the car door. The crisp hairs of his forearm brushed the length of the bare skin on hers.

  No. She hadn’t imagined anything.

  She slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

  He peered through the open window, an elbow on the frame. “About the festival dance Saturday night,” he began. “If you’d like to go I can take you.”

  “Don’t you have to work?”

  “I called in another favor. Tony said he’d cover for me.”

  Of all the people he’d chosen to ask…“Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

  “He’s not a bad person, Jess. He’s going through a rough spell. He needs to pull himself together and decide what he wants to be when he grows up. He’s not the only one who’s ever been in that position. He deserves a second chance.”

  There was more of that subtext.

  She started the engine.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Thank you for the offer.”

  A glance in her rearview mirror showed him leaning against his truck and watching as she drove away.

  *

  The morning of the cherry festival started off sunny and clear. It was her birthday, although she didn’t expect anyone to remember. Her grandfather had too many grandchildren to keep track of them all. And her parents…

  They hadn’t called on her birthday in years.

  John had always made such a production about it. “It brings us another year closer together in age,” he used to say. “I’ve stopped having birthdays.”

  She missed him more than ever as she forced herself out of bed. When she went out to the kitchen for coffee, Carrie was already gone. She’d made her own commitments for the festival.

  With regard to the art exhibit, the Montreau had outdone itself. One of the seating areas off the lobby had been transformed into a show room. Occasional tables displayed local handcraft
s. A large bitterroot cottonwood bench, along with three handmade quilts, had been priced to sell. The children’s paintings and sketches had been pinned to portable room dividers.

  She made sure everything was ready, then, with nothing to do but wait for the official opening, decided to watch the parade from the corner of Swan and Main Streets as the floats made their way to the Swan Point Park on the shores of Flathead Lake.

  She caught sight of Aunt Pansy striding toward her along Swan Street from 1st, cutting like the bow of a ship through the sea of spectators lining the route.

  Jess couldn’t deal with her. Not today of all days. She’d go back to the Montreau and wait there.

  As she turned, her stiletto heel caught in one of the cracks in the sidewalk and she lurched into a man. Arms came around her, keeping her on her feet.

  Tony.

  Of all the good luck. She untangled her purse from his arm, expecting to hear how she was throwing herself at him.

  Instead, he was red-faced and silent. She was about to ask what was wrong with him when she noticed the woman at his side. She was dressed in a smock top, flip-flops, and shorts, her fingers clenched around the handle grip of a stroller. Sweet-faced and plump, looking no older than twenty with her straight dark hair in a ponytail, she was the kind of girl her grandfather called pleasingly pretty. In the stroller, a chubby-cheeked baby played with his toes and chatted to everyone walking by in a language only he understood. He brought smiles to their faces and that was all the response he seemed to require.

  So this was Tony’s family. Weren’t they adorable?

  “Thanks for the rescue,” Jess said to him. Her gaze shifted between him and his wife, waiting for an introduction, but it never came.

  And she realized why not. He was afraid she’d say something in front of his wife that would make him look bad. That would let her know what a total player her husband could be. He was going to ignore Jess in the hopes she’d go away quietly, and he could spin whatever story he chose as to why she seemed to know him.

  It wasn’t going to be flattering, either. But believable, yes. She knew her reputation in town.

  Anger took over. He didn’t get to do this. He didn’t get to make things turn awkward, as if she were the one who’d been hitting on him. He didn’t get to spin things to make his pretty wife jealous of her. They both deserved better from him.

  She stuck out her hand to the other woman. “Hi. I’m Jess. You must be Aileen. I work at the gas station with Damon. Tony drops in to see him from time to time.”

  The wary expression in the girl’s long-lashed green eyes disappeared, replaced by relief as she shook Jess’s hand. “So that’s how you know each other.”

  “He’s watching the cash tonight so Damon and I can go to the dance.”

  Aileen’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled up at her husband. “We’d talked about going, but I’m not ready to leave the baby with a sitter just yet. Besides, it’s nice to see Damon taking a night off for a change.”

  Jess’s heart hurt for the younger woman. Aileen had no illusions about what Tony was like, and yet it was plain to see that she loved him.

  She stayed to watch the parade with them, chatting with Aileen and admiring their baby. He was all smiles and cute as a button. For that matter, so was Aileen. Jess wondered if Tony knew what a lucky man he really was. Something in his conflicted expression as he watched his wife and son suggested that he did.

  Maybe Damon was right about him. Maybe all he needed was to grow up. For the sake of his family, she hoped that he did.

  She checked her watch when the last float went by. “I’ve got to head back to the Montreau. You should drop by and check out the art exhibit. Damon’s work is impressive. He’s going to be famous someday.”

  Tony’s eyes met hers, conveying gratitude without words that she hadn’t sold him out as the jerk they both knew he could be.

  “We’ll be sure and do that,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  ‡

  It was Jess’s twenty-eighth birthday. Damon had waited all day for the right moment to give her the gift tucked behind the seat in his truck, but things had been…off between them since that afternoon in his shed.

  He’d known better than to bring up the past. He should have left it alone. It was like picking at a scab.

  The interview she’d arranged for the exhibit hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. The reporter and photographer had been interested in his work, yes, but they’d given equal time to the Montreau and the other works on display, particularly the children’s.

  Overall, Jess had done an amazing job. She had to know that. Still, everyone liked to be praised and tonight was for her. That was why he’d called in a favor and asked Tony to cover the station for him, then insisted on taking her to the dance. If things had gone south he’d have been there to help her hold her head high.

  Instead, she got to celebrate. He’d make sure that she did.

  Under close supervision.

  He knocked on the front door. The door opened. His thoughts shifted to things totally inappropriate.

  Jess looked so beautiful. So much creamy, mouthwatering skin…

  She was both under-and-overdressed for the occasion. Her full-length, sleeveless red gown was little more than two scraps of fabric held together at the waist by a seam and a zipper. It was slit up the front and the back to the tops of her thighs, showing a lot of leg when she moved. It plunged to her navel and left her back bare. All it covered were her breasts and her hips, and those were outlined in intimate detail. If she was wearing underwear, it had to be spray-painted on.

  Her gold sandals had high, narrow heels and thick platform soles. Thin gold straps encircled each slender ankle. She’d pinned her pretty curls to the crown of her head, leaving enough long, loose spiraling tendrils to trail the graceful line of her neck and highlight her face.

  Her wide eyes were anxious. “Too much? Not enough?”

  “Yes,” Damon said, clearing a throat that had gone as dry as the Montana desert. He’d never seen anything so demurely indecent. It boggled his mind. It also made him uneasy.

  “I’m getting mixed messages.”

  Which was what she was after. His brain was getting them, too, but the prevailing memo was one of pure lust. Forget the dance. He could think of better things to do with their evening. He’d like to take her to his place and spend the next hours unwrapping all that pretty packaging, celebrating her birthday in a more private venue.

  The second message, however, the one that gave him this tight knot in his gut, was of how far out of his league she’d really become. He had no idea what a dress like that cost. He did know he could never afford to buy her anything like it.

  He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake with the gift he had for her. It was a great piece. His artist’s eye said so. But it wasn’t by any means pretty. He hoped she would understand the meaning behind it. That she wouldn’t find it offensive. She was no longer the girl he’d once known. He’d loved the old Jess.

  This new one, though…

  He didn’t always know what to make of her. She was more confident about some things. Less sure of herself about others. Before, she’d been all about rebellion. Any attention was good. Now, she didn’t have to be center stage all the time.

  But that dress stated she wasn’t planning to be on her best behavior tonight. It toed the line between who she’d once been and what she’d become.

  He reached for her hand. Her fingers were cold. She was nervous too, he realized, and unsure of the reason for his tongue-tied reaction, so he spoke from his heart.

  “I think you look absolutely beautiful. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you as my date for the evening.”

  Her nose crinkled. Her eyes gleamed with good humor. “I look like you’re paying me for it, though, don’t I?”

  His doubts ebbed away, leaving him smiling inside and a great deal more relaxed. This was the old Jess. The one who thumbed her nose at the world. She
was making a statement tonight and the dress was her armor.

  “Do you ever,” he said. “And you’re costing me a fortune, might I add.”

  “Thank heavens. Appearances are everything. We want you to come across as a successful artist, not some cheap hack.” She gave him a slow, head-to-toe inspection, then a smile of approval. “You clean up nice.”

  “Good to know. Because I feel like a fool.” He wore the white shirt and tie normally reserved for business occasions, but a sixth sense had warned him she’d go for fancy. Watching her clean toilets and wash walls in clothes more appropriate for a Hollywood runway was nothing if not insightful.

  “You look…” She rose on her tiptoes, hanging onto his hand to balance in her life-threatening shoes, and kissed his cheek. She smelled of vanilla and a light perfume he couldn’t identify, but definitely liked. “…Very handsome,” she finished.

  He was both disappointed and pleased. He’d hoped for more enthusiasm. A higher level of interest.

  “I was going for a metrosexual look. You know. Like Beckham,” he said.

  “Metro’s overrated. You’ve got Beckham beat. Except for the tattoos. Those are hot.”

  She picked up a tiny purse and a gold-threaded shawl that had been draped over the back of a chair. He took the scrap of material from her and slid it around her shoulders, his knuckles brushing her skin.

  “You’re making an assumption. How do you know I don’t have any tattoos?” He hadn’t had any ten years ago when she’d had a good look at him in the glare of her headlights, but he might have gotten a few since.

  She cast him a look of pure disbelief. “Do you?”

  “No.” How dull and predictable was he? “Now that you’ve put the idea in my head though, I’m going to have to run out and get at least one.”

  They walked to the truck. He wished he had something fancier to drive her around in. That little red sports car she’d once owned came to mind—but no, that wasn’t right, either.

  The evening was warm, dusk settling in, the air heavy with summer. A few stars appeared in the deepening sky. He could hear the traffic on the highway, carried across the fields to where they were standing. He lifted her into the cab. The dress and those shoes, combined with her lack of height, made it impossible for her to manage on her own.