by Liz Johnson
The walls still needed paint, but he flipped the switch to illuminate her purchases, his gaze immediately drawn to the typewriter in the corner. A sheet of white paper had been threaded around the roller and left in place.
Had Aretha been right? Did the old machine actually work?
He squatted in front of it, only then seeing the single typed line.
I wish I had gone to get ice cream.
His stomach lurched. Marie had written this.
He glanced over his shoulder, suddenly expecting her to be staring at him, either angry that he was reading her personal thoughts or upset that it had taken him more than a minute to find her message.
The question remained. Was he supposed to find this? Or was it her secret?
More importantly, was it true?
He ran a hand over his face, the calluses catching on at least three-day-old stubble. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Nothing.
The answer rang so clearly, he thought the word had been spoken aloud. But he was still alone in the room. Alone with Marie’s regret.
His gut squeezed, realization jolting to his fingertips.
Marie’s regret was his regret too. He wished she’d gone with him. And not just so he could grill her about her past and her plans and the real reason she’d come to North Rustico. He wished he’d been the first one to introduce her to the boardwalk. He wished he could have seen that light in her eyes—the one she’d had when she got back from her run the morning before—when she first saw the white gazebo, old-time lampposts, and sprawling beach.
He wished he’d been kinder to her. He didn’t know her motives for sure. And if Jack was right and she had nowhere else to go, he’d kick himself from here to eternity.
He still didn’t have an explanation for the second-floor room with the disaster of a paint job, but maybe that would come. If he lowered his own defenses. If he tried to be kind.
If she turned out to be a snake like Reece, well then, he’d still be right there to stand between her and Jack when she struck.
Pushing to his feet, he turned his back on Marie’s letter. Better to preserve their tense truce than cross a line by letting her know he’d seen it.
He walked to the door, flipped the light off, and was halfway down the hall when an unseen hook jerked him back. He marched to the typewriter and stared at the chipped keys. After several deep breaths, he scrolled the paper up until he had a clear line.
He popped the last slice of his orange into his mouth and licked the juice dribbling down his fingers before contemplating his message. He couldn’t count on a delete button or Wite-Out if he mistyped. There was no spell-check and no fixing typos on this sheet, so he weighed each word with care. Finally, he punched in the first letter.
A single keystroke sounded like a gunshot that bounced off the leather books and nautical devices stacked beside him. He jumped, but pressed the next letter and the next until he had left his message for her.
I wish you had too. Next time?
S
Satisfied with his message, he hopped to his feet and hurried toward the door.
She probably wouldn’t see it anyway. But the rock in the bottom of his stomach suggested otherwise. Either she’d appreciate it or she’d think he was an idiot.
She might not be wrong.
Strolling back through the house, he shut off the downstairs lights and picked up his closet rod. He checked it with tentative taps. Dry enough.
Halfway up the back stairwell, a cold breeze whistled down the hall, sending a shiver across his shoulders. Someone had probably left a window open. He turned the corner at the top of the stairs to find not only an open window but also a wide-open door and the sharp odor of fresh paint.
He poked his head into the disaster room, where the light of the single fixture in the center of the ceiling illuminated Marie, roller in hand. Her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and head cocked to the side, she wiped her forehead in a familiar motion.
Adding paint to her roller, she leaned to the side, revealing a streak of green down the leg of her jeans.
She kept working for several more minutes without any indication that she’d noticed his arrival. Finally he cleared his throat. Her shoulders jumped, and the steady sweep of paint hitched then resumed.
“What do you want, Seth?”
He held out the pole in his hand before realizing that she couldn’t see it. “I came to put the closet rod back in. What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” Her words were clipped, each one a barrier against whatever reaction she expected from him.
He swallowed the impulse to respond in kind. After all, he deserved that response. If not worse. Taking a steadying breath and praying for kind words—or at least benign ones—he let the night wind carry her question away. “Looks like you could use a hand.”
“You don’t have to. It was my mistake. I should have mixed them . . . I should have seen that they didn’t . . . It doesn’t matter. I’ll fix it.”
“I don’t mind helping.” He hoped he sounded sincere. But old habits died hard, and he’d been sharp with her time and again in the previous week. Maybe she thought he had something else to work on. “I’ve got nothing else to do tonight. Well, nothing that won’t wait until tomorrow.”
“I said I’ll take care of it.” She didn’t even bother turning to look at him, her shoulders tense even as she bent over to add paint to her tray.
Seth stabbed his hand through his hair. If she wanted to be so stubborn, fine. She could do it all on her own. He backed out of the room but stopped at the door, the words that she’d typed flashing across his mind’s eye.
She didn’t really want to be alone. At least not nearly as much as she let on. And she’d wanted to go with him to get ice cream. He could finagle an invite to join her one-person painting party. And deep in his stomach he knew he needed an invitation, her permission. Picking up a roller without her approval would just put her more on edge, so he tried for a bit of levity.
“Are you always this inviting?”
She didn’t speak, but at least his question earned a glare over her shoulder.
“So what happened in here before?”
“You saw it yesterday.” Her words were abrupt, as though she was afraid her voice might crack if she spoke for longer than a moment.
He nodded slowly. But she couldn’t see it, so he cleared his throat again. “I did. But I’m still not clear why—or how—it ended up that way.”
He’d seen some painting mistakes in his day. Glossy and matte finishes in the same room. Oil-based paint running down water-based. Bad textures. He’d seen lots of gaffes, but never one so glaring.
The next glance she shot his way was less defensive and much sadder. The pace of her roller slowed as she nibbled on her lip and swallowed several times. As the muscles in her throat worked, threads of dark hair clung to the porcelain skin at her neck. He clenched his fists, tearing his gaze away from the lean line of her neck and shoulders.
It would be so much easier if she was about forty years older. A sweet grandmother would be much better for him. Better yet, why couldn’t she go back to wherever she’d come from? That would be safer for everyone involved.
Instead, in an undeniably youthful tone, she said, “I’m not exactly sure.”
He had to pedal back in his brain to pick up the string of their conversation, and when he found it, he latched on like it was the only line between him and insanity. He didn’t want to analyze how close to the truth that might be.
“You’re not sure how the room ended up looking like it had a bad case of chicken pox?”
She shook her head, then nodded. “I mean, I have an idea.”
“Which is?”
She stared at him for a long moment, her gaze sweeping from his head to his toes and finally searching deep into his eyes, which sent shivers up and down his arms. Whatever she was looking for, he hoped she found it. Fast. Because the look in her eyes
was making something deep in his chest begin to melt.
Finally, she tilted her head toward an extra roller sitting on the tarp next to her paint tray. “Might as well help if you’re just going to stand around talking.”
A slow grin spread across his face, which he hid inside his shoulder as he bent to pick up the handle. They reached to load up their rollers at the same time, and she gave him a glare that he read to mean she was having distinct second thoughts about asking him to join her. Holding out his hand, he said, “Ladies first.”
Her movements were smooth and controlled as she applied an even layer over the walls, the wet paint that glistened in the light covering almost an entire wall. She’d been at work for at least an hour before he showed up, and now she continued on in silence until he prompted her.
“So are you going to tell me what you think happened?”
He surprised even himself with the sincere question. As the words popped out, he realized he really did want to know the truth. And he didn’t expect her to lie about it.
“It’s just a guess.” Her voice barely carried to his spot on the adjacent wall, but instead of prodding her to speak up, he leaned in her direction. “I’ve only seen this happen one other time.”
She just had to dangle that bit about her past out there. Like a marlin eyeing a fish at the end of a hook, he almost took the bait. He almost asked where she’d seen it before and if it had anything to do with where she’d learned interior design.
He almost got them off track.
Instead he forced his mouth to form a pertinent question. “You’ve seen what happen?”
“We bought a gallon and two quarts of paint for this room. We picked out the color from the swatch and asked the guy at the paint counter for what we needed. And I didn’t think anything of it. It’s pretty normal to need more than a gallon for a room. Anyway, we went through the big can pretty quickly, and I used the first quart to finish off that wall.” She pointed to the corner adjacent to the door and took a loud breath. “And when that ran out, I used the last quart to touch up a couple drips. On that wall.”
When she motioned toward the wall that still sported pockmarks, he understood. “The paints didn’t match.”
She shook her head, pursing her lips to one side and twisting her free hand into the waist of her sweatshirt. “I should have mixed the cans together first just in case they didn’t quite match.”
“You didn’t notice it while you were painting?”
She sighed. “Paint never looks like it should until it dries. I just figured that the wet paint would dry to match the original gallon.”
“And you’re sure that you bought the same color?”
“Uh-huh. Summer Pasture.”
“So how could they be so far off?”
She lifted a shoulder, completely abandoning her wall to meet his gaze. “It could be any number of things, I guess.”
“You said you’d seen it before.”
“Ye-es.” She dragged the word out, and when he tried to ask about that experience, she dove into an explanation, controlling the direction of their conversation. “That time there was a glob of color stuck to the bottom of the can. Even when we stirred it, it didn’t mix in.”
“But that didn’t happen this time?”
“The can was empty when I cleaned it out.”
“So what could have caused it?”
She broke eye contact and turned back to her canvas. “A jam in the mixing machine?”
“You mean a jam in the squirter that shoots color into the base paint? I guess that’s plausible.”
Her roller stopped in midstroke. “Sure—if the gallon got the right amount and the quarts only got half of the hue they were supposed to because of a clog. Or the ratios could be off.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in math and science.”
Her giggle punched him in the chest, and he wiped the front of his shirt over and over to brush the sensation away. Where had that come from? She hadn’t laughed like that even for Jack. Seth didn’t want to make her laugh. He wasn’t responsible for keeping her happy.
But man, he wanted to tell another joke.
“I don’t think there’s much argument about the validity of math.” The lilt of her words mirrored the rise and fall of her arm and the gentle sway of her head.
When had he stopped watching his own painting?
He whipped his gaze back to his own wall as she continued. “It’s pretty objective. And ratios aren’t exactly calculus.”
“All right.” Back to business. “So maybe the paint machine miscalculated how much of the color is required to make the right shade in a gallon.”
“Or in a quart.”
This was all making far too much sense. The splotchy wall could have happened to anyone. A simple mistake. Her story made sense, and he was inclined to believe her.
“The sun could have come through the window and faded some patches of the wall,” she said.
“The sun faded the wall? But only in certain places.”
“Why not?” Her guilty smile gave her away. She was making a joke.
First laughter and then teasing. He couldn’t begin to guess what had brought this on, but he wasn’t going to question or complain. Sometimes God just smiled down on him.
“Or maybe the paint counter attendant thought you were cute and wanted to see you again.” The words were out before he realized they were beyond a bad idea.
She didn’t say anything for a long while, so he had to focus on the blush rising up her neck and turning her cheeks into bright red apples. “Well, actually . . . the woman at the counter was closer to Jack’s age.”
“Maybe she wanted to see him again.”
Her laugh returned, and with it came a swelling in his chest. “You might be right. She was awfully chatty with him.”
“And what did he say?”
“About the same as usual.”
“So . . . nothing?”
She nodded and quickly turned away, her jaw cracking on a yawn.
He glanced at his watch, the digital numbers swimming in front of his tired eyes. “You know it’s late when you can’t even read your own watch. Maybe we should call it a night.”
“All right. Let me just clean out this pan.” She made short work of the last bit of paint in the tray as Seth hammered the lid back onto the can. “Are we still on for the auction?”
He wasn’t sure if he should be offended that she had to ask or happy that she still wanted to go with him.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Oddly enough, he really was.
12
You’re sure you know what you’re looking for?”
Marie blew a rebellious lock of hair off her forehead and glared across the cab of the truck. Seth had asked her the same question at least four times as they headed toward the auction grounds, and her answer hadn’t changed. In fact, she’d known what she was looking for two weeks before, on the original date of the auction.
“What?” He sounded offended, like her glare was more painful than his incessant questioning. “I just want to make sure we’re bidding on the right things—the things we need. It’s easy to get caught up in the excitement and drama of an auction and end up bidding on things that will just waste money.”
“And you know this because you’ve been to how many auctions in your life?”
He looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I haven’t actually . . . But that doesn’t mean that I don’t understand human nature. When the paddles are waving, it’s fun to get involved, to put yours in the game.”
She ran her hand down the leg of the new jeans that Jack had insisted on buying for her. Apparently her paint-stained pants were an embarrassment to the Red Door Inn. “I think I’ll be okay.”
“Are those new?”
The sharp turn in the conversation made her fumble for an answer before she realized he was pointing to her gift from Jack. “Um . . . yes. Jack said he wouldn’t let me represent the
Red Door in public with stains all over my pants. He made us stop by the mall on our way out of Charlottetown last night.”
Seth grunted, his eyebrows pulling tight.
She sat up a little taller in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, his attention back on the road as trees and yellow road signs flew by them. “Nothing.”
Why was he always so touchy about spending money? Or was this about her calling him out on his lack of auction experience? She followed the urge deep in her stomach that said his sudden grumpiness was more about Jack spending money on her. “They were an advance against my next paycheck. He’s not buying me things.”
His profile remained fixed in the direction of the road, but he shot her an uncertain glance out of the corner of his eye. “Except—” He slammed his mouth closed, chewing on his lips until they disappeared.
“What? What do you think he bought me?”
“Nothing. I’m not Jack’s accountant.”
His nonchalant words didn’t line up with the stiffness in his shoulders or the way he worked the muscle in his jaw all the way down his neck. When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and he rotated his shoulders, stretching the jersey fabric of his long-sleeved T-shirt. The gray fabric looked as soft as the muscles beneath it were solid.
Like a slap across her face, realization struck.
She’d just looked at him as a man. Not a person or a body, but as a man. A handsome man.
What on earth was she doing looking at any man, let alone Seth, who had made it clear that he only put up with her presence because of his uncle?
They’d had pleasant enough interactions after their late-night painting session. Their tense treaty had smoothed into a pleasant camaraderie. She offered him a smile in response to his morning nods. And he thanked her when she brought back bags from Caden’s bakery.
That was fine. Simple. Safe.
Looking at him like she might have a year before. Recognizing the softness of his deep brown hair and the depth of his hazel eyes. Focusing on the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms . . .
