“You want to finish your monster instead of having cocoa?” Nate asked with a smile. “Does that mean you’re getting to like him?”
“Uncle Nate, Shrek is an ogre,” Sheamus corrected.
“What’s the difference between the two?” Bobbie asked.
“Um...” Sheamus thought.
Dylan, hard at work on his own sketch, looked up to explain. “Ogres are humanoid. Monsters are really big and usually animal, or parts of animals, or sometimes part people and part animal.”
Again, Bobbie’s eyes met Nate’s in amazement. He patted Dylan’s shoulder. “Atta boy,” he said. “Dazzle us with your smarts.”
Dylan gave the barest of smiles. “Justin has the Monster Slayer game. You have to have different weapons to get different monsters.”
“So, you think my monster should have a different name?” Sheamus tried to reclaim attention.
“How do you know what’s in your closet is a monster and not an ogre?” Dylan asked. “Or a troll?”
“’Cause I know,” Sheamus insisted.
“’Cause you made him up.”
“Dyl,” Nate warned.
Dylan went back to work, ignoring the monster construction.
“I think he’s your monster,” Nate said, “and you can name him whatever you want.” He angled his head for a better look at the sketch. Bobbie turned it so that he could see. “But maybe he should have a special name. One that just belongs to him.”
Sheamus thought. “Like...Bill?”
Bobbie bit back a smile.
“That doesn’t sound very scary,” Nate said.
Sheamus shrugged, apparently thinking that was all right.
Dylan looked up again. “His name should be something creepy, like Skeletor. I know that’s already taken, but something like that.”
“No, I like Bill.” Sheamus was stubborn.
“Okay.” Dylan leaned over his own work again. “But it’s dumb.”
“What color is Bill?” Bobbie held up a green pencil. “Same color as Shrek?”
Sheamus leaned his elbows on the table. “Brown. Like a bear. He’s part people, part bear.”
She held up a yellow-brown and a dark brown. Sheamus picked the dark one, so she crosshatched color onto Bill’s round face, rotund body and squatty arms and legs.
“Do you think he should have a jacket? You know, since he’s in the closet where your winter clothes are.”
“Yeah. One of my jackets is green with a hood. I don’t like it, so he can have that one.”
“Right.” A green zippered jacket with a hood took shape. She added a smiley-face button to the collar. “What about a hat?”
Nate took a seat at a right angle to her and watched the drawing progress. When she glanced up, he did, too, and something completely unexpected happened. Electricity. As though the pencil in her hand had become a bare wire. Their eyes connected again. She felt his gaze like a touch.
He looked as startled by the impact as she was.
“I hate to wear a hat,” Sheamus said, unaware of anything but his monster. “I bet he does, too.”
She refocused on the monster, who was becoming less and less threatening as she built and clothed him. Which was precisely what she’d hoped for.
Sheamus pointed to Bill’s throat. “I have a yellow scarf my mom made hanging inside the closet door.”
A mild but palpable tension invaded the room.
“Should we put that on him,” Bobbie asked gently, “or should we save it for you? When you can open the closet, that might be the first thing you take out.”
He considered that, his eyes troubled.
“You have a blue scarf in there, too.” Nate spoke softly, leaning closer to study the figure. “It has red and yellow dinosaurs on it, remember? I brought it back for you when I went to New York. Bill would look cool in it.”
Sheamus smiled broadly as he remembered. “From the museum. Dylan got a red one with blue and yellow dinosaurs.”
“That’s right. That was a couple of years ago. You were just little guys.”
Dylan didn’t look up.
Sheamus turned to Bobbie. “It’s kinda little. Can we make it fit Bill?”
“I think we can.” She set to work with all the colors Nate had mentioned, and made it fit snugly, its two short ends sticking out of the knot at the side of Bill’s throat. The dinosaur pattern was small but visible.
“He should have mean eyes!” Enthusiastic again, Sheamus jabbed a finger at Bill’s face.
“At last!” Nate exclaimed, slapping the table. “I was afraid we’d have to teach him to read braille.”
Bobbie did as Sheamus asked, but made the eyes comically angry. An inverted eyebrow added tension but in the end he looked more disgruntled than mean. She added color to his cheeks, then drew a snarl that was also more funny than frightening.
Sheamus unclipped the sketch from the board and held it up. He looked unsure at first, but finally smiled. He turned to his uncle. “Can I tape this to the closet door?”
“Sure.”
“Will you help me put it up when I go to bed?”
“Yes. Meanwhile, why don’t you put him on the refrigerator? We can get used to him before you go to bed.”
Sheamus took a yellow power company magnet shaped like a lightbulb and secured the portrait under several postcards and a school lunch menu. Bill was impressive. His dimensions were large, his pose blustery, but his general impression was one of vulnerability.
“Doesn’t he need fangs?” Nate asked, a smile in his voice.
“Yeah!” Sheamus agreed.
Bobbie went to the refrigerator with the black pencil and a yellow one. She gave Bill one regular fang, then colored the other yellow. But when she stood back to study it she wasn’t happy. “I wish I had a gold pencil,” she complained. “That looks more like yellowed decay than a gold tooth.”
“Here.” Dylan offered a marker she had put in his bag of supplies. Nate took it from him and passed it to Bobbie.
She uncapped it and turned the yellow fang gold, even added a few sparkle lines to depict glitter. She stood back again and laughed aloud. “That’s perfect! Thank you, Dylan.” She handed the marker to Nate, who passed it back.
“Thanks, Dyl. Just what it needed.”
“Sure.” He smiled thinly, then added, “Bill’s still a stupid name.”
Sheamus ignored that. “How come a gold fang?”
“In the old days,” Nate explained, with a hand on the boy’s shoulder as they studied the portrait together, “dentists used gold to fill teeth. Pirates usually have at least one gold tooth.”
Sheamus studied Bill closely. “I kinda like him,” he said. Bobbie silently cheered. Mission accomplished. Almost. He still had to open the closet door.
The living room clock chimed eight. Sheamus poked Dylan on the shoulder. “Suite Life of Zack and Cody is on.” He turned to his uncle. “Can we go watch TV before bed?”
“Sure.”
“And now can we have cocoa?” He smiled winningly.
“Go ahead. I’ll bring it in a minute.”
Bobbie noticed that Dylan had turned his sketch facedown before getting up. “Can I see what you’ve done?” she asked, before he could follow his brother.
Dylan stopped in the doorway to consider, bounced a glance off his uncle. “It isn’t finished.” He nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But don’t laugh.”
She frowned at him. “Artists never laugh at each other.”
He followed Sheamus into the living room.
Bobbie turned his sheet over and studied his sketch with pleased surprise. It was elementary so far, just nicely defined lines indicating beach, ocean and low mountains in the background. There were rocks on the shore, and a b
ird suggested in the sky.
She went to straighten up and ask Nate what he thought, then felt his face right beside hers, his eyes riveted to the drawing.
“So, he’s good, isn’t he?” he asked.
“He’s good,” she confirmed. “Those expressive lines are the sort of thing you can’t teach.”
“He’s been working on that a lot since you gave him the supplies.” Nate turned his gaze from the paper to her eyes, and she felt that electricity at work again.
She delved deeply for a full breath. “The more he works, the better he’ll become. I’d love to see how this develops.”
“Incidentally...” Nate didn’t touch her, but his eyes somehow held her immobile. How did he do that? She should look away, just to show him that she could, but contrary to all good sense, she didn’t want to. He exuded strength and concern—and crankiness, true, but at the moment he seemed to want to connect with her. “Thank you for helping Sheamus with Bill,” he said, his voice rumbling in the quiet room as he emphasized the monster’s name. Then he grew serious again. “You were brilliant, drawing all that out of him. I’ll bet we’re on the road to a closet breakthrough.”
She thought so, too, and was almost as happy as he was. “Sheamus was just ready to put a face on the monster. It’ll be interesting to see how long it takes him to open that door.”
“I’ll bet it’s just days.”
“I hope so. He’ll want to get that yellow scarf.”
“That was inspired, Bobbie.”
She felt her body respond, wanting to reach out to Nate, wondering what that forearm would feel like under her fingers.
But they were two very different people with two very different paths to follow. “I have to go,” she said with a forced smile. She tried to come up with a reason, but there wasn’t a lucid thought in her head except Get out. Get out now!
As she headed for the door, she realized she could feel the heat of his body beside hers. “Let me walk you,” he offered.
“No. It’s just a few yards.” She ran down the back steps.
He stepped out onto the porch. “We have to talk about painting supplies for the artwork you’re donating!” he called after her.
The night air was full of wood smoke, pine and the complicated diesel and perfume of the river. And Nate’s voice. “I have paints!” Walking backward, she shouted, “I think we’re okay!”
“Kiwanis is supporting the event. We’ll pay for your supplies!”
“Fine. When I know what Sandy wants, we’ll go shop―aahh!” She heard her own small scream carried through the quiet night as she fell back and lost her footing. She crashed against something metal—Nate’s car door, she guessed—then slid down so that her upper body was on the concrete driveway and her hips and legs were in the grass.
The chrysanthemums!
Nate was there in an instant with a flashlight. He knelt beside her and turned her, propping her up against his raised knee. He shone the light on her face. “Are you all right?” he asked urgently.
Good grief. Would she ever draw a normal breath again? Now she was aware of his strong leg supporting her back, his arm around her shoulders, his nubby sweater against her face and his powerful heartbeat beneath it.
“Yeah,” she said a little breathlessly. She struggled to get up, but he held her down.
“Give yourself a minute,” he said.
“Thank you, but we’ve had this fragile discussion, remember.” She pushed against him to get to her feet. He rose with her, holding her arm to steady her. “I’m fine. I fell against the car, but I slid down to the concrete, so I’m not hurt.” She tried to shake him off. “Good night.”
He kept hold of her. “I’ll walk you.”
“I’m fine!”
Arguing was pointless because they were now almost at her house. He studied her closely once they’d climbed the steps and stood under the porch light. “You might have a little bit of a shiner,” he predicted.
She opened her kitchen door, anxious to put some distance between them. “I’ll make up a good story to go with it. ‘I fell over a row of chrysanthemums’ just doesn’t do it.”
“A bar fight doesn’t work, either. It’s so not you.”
She drew herself up. “You don’t think I could hold my own in a bar fight?”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, if you were allowed to talk, I’m sure you would.” He closed a hand over one of her shoulders. “But you’re puny.”
She gasped indignantly.
“What?” he questioned. “That’s not the same as fragile. That implies a breakable delicacy. Puny just means you haven’t eaten enough. But your father’s coming, right? So he can plump you up a little.”
She was losing her grip on the conversation. She kept looking at him instead of thinking about what he was saying.
“Thank you for your help,” she said coolly, politely. “Good night.”
He looked as though he had more to say but thought better of it. “Good night, Bobbie.” He walked away, the flashlight guiding his path until he disappeared on the other side of the vehicles.
* * *
WHY SHOULD THIS happen now? she asked herself anxiously as she turned on the teakettle and stroked Monet, who leaped up on the counter to nuzzle her. Why, after ten healthy years and no men in them who made her think about a romantic future, should she be attracted to a man with two children? More importantly, why at a time when she was recovering from a bout with a major illness she was destined to fight for the rest of her life? And—please God!—why all this when she was preparing to move to another country?
She made a cup of Earl Gray in her favorite mug and checked her email. She snuggled into her chair when she saw a message from [email protected]. Monet fought with her computer for his favorite spot in her lap as she read it.
Hey, Bobbie, so happy you’re having fun with the art class. Tell me more about your neighbor. Sounds hunky even if you say he’s kind of serious. There are things in life we should be serious about. Like having a baby. Must don my apricot lace teddy. Sean will be home in fifteen minutes. Love from sunny Southern California. Laura
P.S. Attached is current photo of Sean and me at his mom’s birthday party.
Bobbie opened the attachment and Laura’s cheerful face smiled back at her. She was bright-eyed and laughing, her straight blond hair gelled into funky spikes. Bobbie laughed in turn, for it reminded her of Sheamus’s monster, Bill. She wrote back: You look beautiful. You and Sean will have the prettiest baby. I promise to come home from Florence for the christening, so get busy.
Neighbor is sometimes nice on closer acquaintance, but too complicated. Not much else to tell. Leaving here in January so am focused on the commission. I’m doing my work as you’re doing yours. (Mine’s probably not quite as much fun.) Dad’s coming to spend the holidays. Love, Bobbie.
* * *
NATE TIDIED UP the kitchen, not sure whether to be happy or worried that his neighbor was acting oddly. Because he was feeling odd, too. He liked her. He had a feeling she liked him. He should have kept her at a distance the way he’d wanted to when she came over with those Halloween pumpkins for the boys. But she’d been looking at him as though he was a jerk, and he was afraid she’d fall over the dump truck at the bottom of the steps and sue him. So he’d walked her down the steps and across the yard, and learned that she was brave and thoughtful and really, really interesting. He hadn’t known a woman like that in a while. And he didn’t have time for one right now. He suspected she was experiencing the same feelings about him, and she didn’t seem to like it any more than he did, judging by the way she’d raced home.
So, what was he doing? He didn’t want a woman in his life. Stella did have his number as far as women were concerned. Before the accident, he’d been a happy playboy who didn’t want to get serious bec
ause it would end the good life he was living.
Now, he couldn’t get serious because there simply wasn’t time between raising the boys and running a business.
Well. Okay, that wasn’t true. Everyone did that—had jobs and raised children, and still managed to have relationships.
What Stella didn’t know about him was that his neighbor’s illness reminded him of the huge black hole the loss of his mother had made in the middle of his life. It seemed to have gone on forever. Dylan and Sheamus had already experienced the same loss. How could Nate put them in a situation where it could happen again?
Not that he planned to. But his body, his emotions—usually under careful check and lately exhibiting nothing other than anger—seemed to have a mind of their own.
Absently, he noticed that, for the first time in months, he didn’t feel that ever present darkness dogging him. He felt...good. Maybe not good, but—yeah, it was good. And he knew that Bobbie had made the difference. She’d been able to help Sheamus confront his monster fear, and she’d charmed Dylan into sharing his artwork.
When she’d looked into Nate’s eyes and he’d seen her excitement over the boys’ progress, he’d felt a shared celebration that had been missing from his life for a long time.
How could acknowledging that be so bad, even if she was going away? He didn’t know, but he had a feeling this whole thing had trouble written all over it.
Glancing out his kitchen window, he saw the light in hers reaching out through the darkness between their houses. Then it went out, leaving only blackness.
He didn’t have to be hit over the head with the metaphor. He closed the door, turned off the kitchen light and went to join the boys.
“Not for you, Raleigh,” he told himself. “Not for you.”
CHAPTER SIX
DYLAN SAT IN the middle of his bed, his flashlight aimed at the sketch he’d worked on tonight. It was 3:34 a.m. and he was wide-awake. He’d heard the phone ring and the sound of his uncle’s voice. A photographer client called all hours of the day or night because he was always in another country.
Always Florence Page 9
