“It’s very nice, from what little I can see. I don’t mean to offend, but you are the most hirsute man I’ve ever met. From the neck up, anyway. Good insulation in the winter, huh?”
Instead of responding, he led the way to his house and opened the door for her. She picked up the rest of her gear that she’d set on the beautiful, handmade chair, and hurried into the warmth. “This is nice,” she said, rubbing her hands together to get the blood circulating. “That cold sort of sneaks up on you. Mind if I look around?”
Hell, yes, he minded, but he couldn’t say that. He’d invited her inside and was about to hand over the proverbial keys to his business. He needed to feel her out, see if their work ethics would mesh, get on the same page business-wise, and all that other big-world drivel. Either that or he showed her to her car and said, “Thanks, but I’ve changed my mind.”
The words were on the tip of his tongue, but out of habit, he reached down to empty his pockets. Something he did every time he came inside, because very often whatever he’d happened to pick up served as inspiration for his next art project. This time his hand closed upon a paper bag.
He pulled it out and suddenly found three eager faces looking up at him. He opened it. “Well, what have we here, my friends? One for each of you.”
Tails were wagging as he passed out the treats. Rat trotted toward her pink dog bed—the one concession to femininity in the otherwise manly furnishings. Fred devoured his in a single gulp. Chumley walked to his spot by the back door to enjoy the goodie at his leisure.
“Thank you,” he said, looking across the room.
“You’re welcome.”
Kind. Direct. Nice. Thoughtful.
The adjectives were piling up. Instead of asking her to leave, he walked into the kitchen and filled his copper kettle from the filtered water spigot beside the sink.
While the water heated, he surreptitiously followed her as she explored his home’s open floor plan. The building was a simple square, not unlike his birdhouses. But his design included a spiral staircase leading to a second-floor master bedroom, reading nook and bath. A four-foot closet jutted into the room adjacent to the main door to give storage space and definition to the dining room—a place he kept filled with potted plants in the winter.
“Your home is really beautiful, Rufus. Unique and not the least bit Spartan.”
He opened a cupboard to grab a couple of mugs to keep her from seeing him smile. He wasn’t surprised that she would have assumed he lived in a cave. He did project that image. For a reason.
This land had been in his family for sixty years or more. As a child, he would spend a couple of weeks every summer here with his parents and his younger brother. The original cabin had been tiny and poorly maintained. No indoor plumbing and a hand pump for water.
By the time he inherited the place, the house had been past the point of reclamation. He’d saved as much of the original wood as possible and used it to build his workshop. He liked to think some of his inspiration came from the good memories the wood held of his childhood.
“And impressively green, I might add,” she said, bending to examine the fireplace insert that proudly boasted its environmental compatibility. “You’re neat, too.”
He dropped a tea bag into each mug.
She put her hands on her hips and turned in a slow circle. “My ex couldn’t be in a hotel room for half an hour without turning the place into a pigsty. But look at this. No clutter. I’m impressed. Are you gay?”
Rufus nearly lost his grip on the handle of the kettle and upset one of the mugs when he overcorrected.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, hurrying across the room. “Complete lack of tact. I didn’t mean to sound judgmental. Neatness is a good thing. Just ask my mother.”
He heard more than she probably intended in that statement. He finished pouring the steaming water over the tea bags then returned the pot to the stove. “No. I’m not gay,” he said, sliding one of the mugs across the marble countertop. “My father had his doubts, but not because of my fastidiousness. Purely habit and my mother’s influence. She was Betty Crocker personified.”
“Why did your dad question your sexual persuasion?”
Rufus chose the simple answer. “I never married. Real men got married and had kids. Period.”
“Why didn’t you? Marry.”
There was no simple answer to that question, but he’d been asked often enough that he had a pat answer. “Too busy. How’s the tea?”
She picked up the mug and brought it to her nose. “Smells good. Is that…grapefruit I detect?”
Damn. He liked her. How did that happen? “I don’t think so.”
“Good. I’m not fond of citrus in my tea. Never got that whole lemon-and-milk thing. I went to London and Scotland on my honeymoon. My husband was busy golfing most of the time so I did the tourist thing. Scones and clotted cream…now, that’s a different story.”
He motioned for her to join him at the breakfast nook. It wasn’t the warmest spot in the house, but she must have been comfortable since she’d dropped her jacket over the back of the sofa.
Rufus noticed Rat-Girl sniffing it, so before joining her, he picked it up and hung it in the closet. When he returned to the table, she had a bemused smile on her face. “Apparently I picked up a few bad habits in the short while that I was married.”
He was curious about that, but decided not to ask. Better they kept things impersonal and professional.
“How long have you lived here?”
He’d known that kind of question would come up eventually, so last night he’d decided on a proactive approach to dealing with any personal queries. “Here’s a bio you can use,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper from the chest pocket of his wool shirt.
She blinked in surprise. “Wow. You did this?”
He nodded. He wasn’t computer illiterate. He’d owned state-of-the-art technology at his flat in New York. He’d had cell phones for as long as they’d been around and could text with the best of them. He’d sold the majority of those toys when he moved here, knowing it would be years before he’d have Internet access in this remote corner of the world. Still, he had a laptop and printer in the second-floor office above his workshop. He rarely used either machine, but, thankfully, there’d been enough ink to print a couple of copies.
She sipped her tea as she read. She only glanced around the edge of the paper twice to look at him. He wondered which of the not-quite lies gave her pause.
“Nice job. I can use this.” She sounded disappointed.
“Good.”
They drank their tea without speaking, the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional grunt or squeak of the dogs the only sounds. He waited, knowing the rather large gaps in his bio would probably drive her mad until she asked.
“New York, huh?”
He nodded. He couldn’t not mention his time in New York but he’d reduced his twelve years to a single line. “After a successful career in New York, Miller retired to the Black Hills to pursue his art.” Simple. Worked for him.
“You don’t care to mention what kind of successful career you left behind?”
“No.”
“Too bad. People will be tempted to fill in the gaps. Taxi driver. Actor. High-rise window-washer.”
He shrugged. “Street sweeper. Gigolo. Falafel maker. Underwear model. Take your pick.”
She cocked her head. “Do they still have street sweepers? Oh, sure, the guys in the big trucks. I was picturing you with a broom. Didn’t fit.”
He couldn’t see that image, either, but probably for different reasons. “The past isn’t part of who I am now.”
“Sure it is. It shaped you.”
He fought the urge to touch his ear, where a large hunk of flesh and cartilage was missing. Not noticeable given his current hair style and beard, but gone all the same. “Perhaps, but it’s nobody’s business. Either they like my work enough to buy it or they don’t. Who cares what I did for a living?�
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She held her hands out and made the universal gesture of who knows? “We can try it your way. Secretive might be a good thing. Especially given your street-sweeper-gigolo-falafel-salesman past,” she added with an impish grin.
He waited for more questions. She sipped her tea and looked around, smile still in place. That was easy, he thought. Too easy.
“So…” She let the word trail on for several seconds. “Are you ready to show me your studio?”
He didn’t answer right away. He hadn’t thought that far ahead in this process. He’d known he would have to show her at some point, but this soon?
“It’s messy. Sawdust everywhere. The glue is probably carcinogenic and I only have one respirator.”
“Did you use glue this morning?”
He shook his head.
“Then, it’s probably safe, don’t you think? I won’t stay long. Just snap a couple shots—if you say it’s okay. I didn’t get a chance to photograph the two pieces you left at Native Arts. They sold too fast.”
The glue excuse was weak at best. He didn’t work with anything toxic, but the tung oil he used to protect the wood was a bit stinky. “Okay,” he said, fighting the desire to call the whole thing off.
One quick peek. If she hates the Dreamhouses, then I can say I tried and call the whole thing off. And as much as he needed her to like what he’d been building because if she liked them other people—buyers—might, too, a part of him hoped she hated them. The risk of failure was far higher than it had been when only his body was on the line.
She chugged down another swig of tea then jumped to her feet. “Great. Let me get my camera. For my own reference,” she quickly added. “Before we go live, I’ll see about getting each piece professionally photographed. If it’s cost effective. Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything.”
Don’t worry, R.J., I’ll handle everything.
His brother’s last words. How could he not worry?
CHAPTER FIVE
RACHEL PUT ON HER JACKET
, which Rufus held for her. Once again she was struck by his old-world manners that seemed at odds with his lumberjack persona. And who in the world could have predicted that he’d hand her a surprisingly articulate and polished bio? As he stooped to pet his dogs—all three had rushed to his side the minute he approached the door—she could sense his apprehension. Maybe insecurity was intrinsic to all artists. She’d been a nervous wreck the first time she tried her hand at Web design.
“How do you heat your workshop?” she asked as they stepped outside. The wind had come up and a biting chill turned her jeans stiff and icy cold.
“Solar and wood. I like the quiet when I’m working.”
Trevor had been the exact opposite. He’d wanted nonstop distractions—music, TV, iPods, cellphones—even when he was golfing. That alone should have been an immediate red flag when she’d try to reach him and he wouldn’t pick up her call. Silly trusting girl, she’d come up with every excuse but the right one.
“How long have you been doing this?” she asked, shivering at the crunch of the snow beneath her boots. A wide path had been neatly shoveled at one time, but she could see the crisscrossing trails of the dogs and probably deer that had caused the sides of the snow banks to crumble.
“Can’t remember, exactly. Started dabbling. Out of boredom, mostly. Wind chimes were first, then birdhouses, and, lately, Dreamhouses.”
“But no more X-rated ones.” She couldn’t deny she was a little disappointed.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the large metal door of a surprisingly modern, surprisingly big building that seemed more like a warehouse than an artist’s studio. The vertical metal siding was a dark green color. Except for the small overhang above the door, the entire wall was plain. No windows. No signs.
She stomped off her boots on a bristly wire mat and hurried inside. Her still forming criticism about working in a tomb died unspoken as she looked around. The wall to her left was almost entirely glass. Overhead a dozen or so optical enhancing tubes made the most of the cloudy sunlight. Like his home, half of the second floor was living space, directly above two partitioned-off rooms. Unlike his home, a regular staircase, probably six or seven feet wide, provided access to the loft area.
“Well, look at this. I’m impressed. I’ve been in some pretty amazing homes, but I don’t think any could claim a better view. Now I see where you get your inspiration.”
She wasn’t inspired to take off her coat, though. It was cold inside.
“I banked the fire this morning and haven’t been back,” he said, directing her with one hand at the base of her spine toward a small orange glow at the far end of the building. Her first thought was a sleeping dragon, but common sense told her she was seeing a wood-burning stove. She wished he’d hurry up and add some logs.
“This is where I work,” he said, nodding toward the larger of the two partitioned areas.
The walls between the two unique spaces were sliding barn doors, she observed. He could deconstruct either room with ease. Clever.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your Dreamhouses, Rufus. In photography they call that one perfect image the money shot. That’s where the money is going to be.”
“Birdhouses take less time and less material. That means they’ll sell for less.”
She turned to face him. “But birds don’t have disposable income. Dreamhouses sell something everyone needs—hope. Or maybe you could combine the two ideas. Help a bird in need while generating good karma for your own dreams.”
She couldn’t tell by his expression whether he was poised to laugh or roll his eyes. He did neither. He hesitated a moment then crooked his finger at her to follow into the heart of his lair. Wood smells—cedar, redwood, cherry and who knew what else—filled her nostrils.
“Kat helped me sell most of my early stuff, but I kept the one that the mayor gave back. I’m not sure why.”
A slight catch in his voice made her question that assertion but she didn’t say so. She took a step closer. Their arms touched momentarily before he leaned across the wide, messy workbench for an object tucked behind a stack of neatly planed pieces of wood.
She blamed the odd surge in her heart rate on curiosity, not proximity, but she shifted sideways a step to give them adequate nontouching space. A faded T-shirt with a vaguely familiar logo was draped across the two-foot-tall object. She tilted her head to read the print but before her brain could come up with the connection, he whipped off the cover, balled the fabric between his hands and tossed it over his shoulder.
She might have commented on the gesture but words left her. Excitement, laughter, surprise—she wasn’t sure which of those feelings best summed up her first impression of the object. An unusual work of art, for sure.
“A woman’s body and yet…it’s not.”
Suspended above the horizontal piece by microfilament fishing line was a phallic-shaped hunk of wood that fit perfectly against the V-shaped opening. “And that hunk of wood is male…and yet, it’s not.”
She looked at him. “You carved this?”
He shook his head. “Mother Nature did most of the work. I found the two pieces miles apart. Picked them up because they were interesting. Then when I got back here and dumped everything on my workbench…I tried arranging things. I didn’t have any real idea in mind, but these two fit together.”
Her mouth seemed strangely dry and she had to make her gaze leave the erotic tangle of wood. “But you carved the rest of it.”
“Shaped. Sanded. Whittled. The moss, I added. And the dried buffalo berries.”
Nipples. Ruddy and erect. She swallowed and tried to clear her throat. “Were the ones you sold similar?”
He nodded. “After I finished this one, I started looking for pieces of wood that had a certain look. Some were larger. Some smaller.”
She finally understood why the lady in town was upset. These were erogenous sculptures, not birdhouses by anybody’s standards. She was
turned on and wished she wasn’t. Her reaction was completely unprofessional. As long as he doesn’t know I’m turned on, I can still pull this off.
She moved at the same time he did and they touched. Again. Through multiple layers of clothing. But Rachel swore she felt it all the way to her core. Her happy place. Which, frankly, hadn’t been happy in much too long. For so long, in fact, she was actually envious of a hunk of wood.
“Sorry. Want to see my new stuff?”
“Yes, please,” she answered, trying to stifle a moan of relief when he pushed the sexy carving out of sight.
As he moved past her, she had a good look at his profile. Chiseled. Hawkish nose. Thick eyebrows that matched his bushy beard. She’d never kissed a man with a beard and couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like. Soft? Bristly? Scratchy?
Unfortunately, she’d probably never know. At least, not with him. It was one thing to have unprofessional thoughts, quite another to act on them. Her mother would die if she ever found out. “Is there a bathroom I could use?” she asked. “That tea went right through me.”
He pointed to a door across the room.
As he watched her walk away, he unconsciously licked his lips. His imagination wasn’t dead. He’d read her face the moment she touched the piece. Same reaction he’d had when he first stumbled across the half-buried hunk of wood. He remembered tripping over an exposed branch. Instead of tossing it to one side, he’d picked it up, turning it this way and that. When he’d run his thumb over two perfectly placed bumps he’d heard a voice in his head say, “The spirit of a young woman lived in this tree. Her soul mate is up ahead.”
Chumley found the matching piece. Weathered by the elements. Smooth and so obviously phallic Rufus had laughed out loud. It hadn’t taken a huge leap to imagine the two pieces together.
After that first find, he’d gone hunting for more. They’d sold like first edition Beatles cards.
He was sitting in front of the woodstove when she returned. “Can I ask you something? Why did you stop making the sexy ones? They’re very unusual. I’m sure there’s a market for them.”
Until He Met Rachel Page 6
