Should he tell her the truth or make something up? The truth was simpler, if emasculating. “When you live alone, it’s not a good idea to spend all your time making erotic sculptures out of wood.”
Her eyes went wide and her cheeks turned a tiny bit rosier. “I get your point. My panties are a little damp from one look, I can imagine—” She stopped abruptly. “Tell me I didn’t just say that out loud.”
He might have let her off the social gaffe hook but his brain had stalled at damp panties and his body’s automatic response made it hard to think. Hard being the operative word.
“I’ll show you the Dreamhouses,” he said, getting to his feet a bit awkwardly.
He walked fast to put some distance between them. By the time she caught up, he was safely behind the table he’d set up to handle the shipping part of his business.
“What’s that smell?” she asked.
“Tung oil. I use other products, too. Depends on where the house is going. Indoors or out.” He grabbed the closest one. “I’m not a trained carpenter. I don’t start with a plan.”
She looked surprised. “How do you know how to build it?”
There was enough in his process he couldn’t explain that he was a little superstitious about discussing it. “I start with the walls then try to picture someone living in it. That’s how I realized there was a spot in the middle that was completely wasted space.”
She pulled it close and peered down the chimney. “And you came up with the brilliant idea of making it a place to store your secrets, your most private dreams, your rants you want no one in the world to hear.”
He wouldn’t have put it quite so eloquently, but that pretty much summed up the theory behind them. “I have a few one-story models. I call them starter houses.”
She studied one of the small ones. “The front and back porches could serve as bird feeders. And if you left the door off, there might be room for a nest, right?”
He could see where she was going with the idea. “Yeah, but the center core is where you drop in your notes. If I take that out, no more Dreamhouse.”
She nodded with enthusiasm. “Oh, I know. I don’t want you to change that aspect. I was thinking more along the lines of dual functionality. We market to the dreamers and the bird lovers. You have this unique place to store your secrets, plus you help a bird family in need.”
He scratched his head. “Oh.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Her hand was shaking when she set it down. She leaned closer and inhaled the unsealed cedar chip shingles. “I think your work is amazing, Rufus. Beautiful and unique. I can’t wait to get to work on your Web design.”
The positive reinforcement was better than the praise he used to garner from the toughest photographer. Unfortunately, he knew that praise could be addictive. His overinflated ego had blinded him to some of the worst choices he ever made in his life. He wasn’t going that route again.
“How many can you sell?”
“How many can you make?”
He thought a moment, calculating what he guessed he could accomplish with the stockpile of material he and the dogs had picked up during the summer and fall. “Fifty a month, max. But I have sixty already made.”
As she looked at him, he could almost hear her brain working. They both knew nobody was going to get rich from those kinds of numbers, but he gave her credit for not flinching. Instead, she said, “I know your overhead is low at the moment, but there will be some initial start-up expenses with the site. And we’ll have to factor in monthly maintenance costs for updates and newsletters once we have a mailing list. Have you thought about whether or not you’re going to hire someone to handle shipping, returns, processing credit cards, online payments and whatnot?”
His stomach tightened. Those were all things he’d done his best to avoid thinking about over the years. “Will I wind up making any money?” He had to. That money had a very specific purpose.
“Of course. Because we’re going to charge a lot, and I promise to keep my costs down in return for your favorable testimonial on my Web site.” She grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll write it for you.”
“Will you make any money?”
She hopped up on the table and crossed her legs. “I’m not trying to get rich off you, Rufus. I don’t need a lot at the moment. Libby’s guest house is free because I’m watering her plants and keeping an eye on things at the big house. The main reason I’m so anxious to do this is for the exposure.”
“I don’t know anybody. I can’t talk you up.”
Her smile looked indulgent, but her tone was patient. “All I need is one success story, Rufus, to sell myself and my skills. I’m not promising this will be fast or easy. I’ll be learning as we go, but I feel confident I can do this job for you. Despite what my mother thinks.”
“Does it matter?”
“Does what matter?”
“What your mother thinks.”
She heaved a great sigh. “One would certainly think not, but one might be wrong. She’s a numbers kind of person. Creative things make her nervous. I make her nervous.”
He didn’t see the connection.
“I went into accounting because that made her happy. She’d been through a lot with my dad dying and some crummy stuff that happened with his business. I wanted her to be happy and not worry so much. But I discovered that I wasn’t happy unless I was doing artsy-fartsy kinds of things.” She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and shrugged. “I was in charge of all the parties at my former job. Name a theme, I’d throw a party around it. And that included building Web sites to announce it, organizing blogs, online invitations, guest lists, videos, photo albums and way more stuff than you want to know.”
He understood the corporate mind-set that spent big bucks on showing off. He’d been the guest at those kinds of parties for years.
She misread his frown. “I know that sounds frivolous and not at all the same as building a commerce Web site, but I honestly think I can do this, if you’ll give me the chance.”
Her earnestness was hard to resist, but he hated the idea of being someone’s—anyone’s—guinea pig. He’d left his fate to chance often enough in the past, but this time he had other people depending on him. “A month.”
She blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”
“If I haven’t started to show a profit in a month, I hire someone else.”
Her pretty lips pursed in thought. “Well, this is retail’s make-or-break season. If I can’t sell those puppies—” she pointed toward his inventory of Dreamhouses piled around them “—before Christmas, then I might have to eat crow and admit that my mother was right.”
He could tell the idea didn’t appeal to her, but she straightened and looked him in the eye. “I’ll do your Web site completely on spec. If nothing sells, you’re not out a penny. If you make bank, then you pay me for my time. How’s that sound?”
Like the best deal he was going get. “Okay.”
“I don’t have a contract for you to sign. That’s still on my to-do list. Can we can shake on it?”
Rufus didn’t need anything in writing. His investment broker had provided him with reams of official documents, and the jerk had still managed to screw Rufus and thousands of other investors out of every dime they gave him. He extended his hand. “Don’t waste too much time on the design. They might not sell.”
She squeezed his hand without any girlish hesitation. “You’re wrong, Rufus. The key to getting people to part with their money is going to be in the presentation. We have to give them hope without promising them anything.”
He was glad to hear her say that. He didn’t want to deal with irate customers who didn’t win the lottery after filling one of his Dreamhouses full of “I will win the big one” wishes.
“When do we start?”
“Right now,” she said, slipping off the table. She rubbed her hands together. “Could you put another log in the stove? I’m going to take pictures, make notes a
nd start developing ideas for the layout.”
Now?
She apparently heard his silent cry. “Sorry. Much to my mother’s chagrin, I’m happiest when I’m planning a new project,” she told him. “Mom would say that’s because a new crisis keeps me from finishing my old ones.”
Her mother didn’t sound anything like his. Mom had encouraged him to be anything he wanted to be—even an underwear model.
“Do you have a desk I could use? Or even a flat surface away from the dust. I don’t want to disturb you, and I don’t want to mess up my laptop.”
He motioned for her to follow him to the far end of the building. His favorite overstuffed recliner sat at an angle a few feet from the wood-burning stove. His dogs were already in place, waiting for him.
“Will this work?”
She put a hand to her heart. “It’s perfect. If I had a Dreamhouse, I’d wish for some place just like this.”
He couldn’t tell if she was serious or playing him. He hated to be played. “I have work to do,” he said, pivoting on the heel of his heavy hiking boot.
He almost said, “Make yourself at home.” But he caught himself in time. She wasn’t his guest or his girlfriend. He needed to remember that.
CHAPTER SIX
“WHADDAYATHINK? DO
I group all the Christmas stuff together or sprinkle it throughout the shop?” Rachel had stopped at Native Arts before heading up the mountain to Rufus’s cabin. She had the route down pat since she’d been there twice that week, but even with four-wheel drive—and new tires—the road was an adventure.
She had some time to kill because she’d learned all too quickly that she and Rufus kept different schedules. She was early to bed, early to rise—like her mother. Rufus hadn’t come right out and forbade her to enter the workshop without him present, but he had made a point of telling her that he often got so caught up in his work he didn’t turn in before the wee hours of the morning. She took that to mean she needed to “chill,” as Char’s son, Damien, liked to say, and accept the fact that she could not control every aspect of every day. Not to mention the fact that she’d learned straight off that if her client growled like a hibernating bear awakened too early, it was very likely that she wouldn’t get an answer she liked anyway. So, she was determined to adapt her schedule to his, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t have an abundance of other things to do.
“And good morning to you, too, Char. I’m fine, thank you. And, yes, I would love to discuss holiday displays with you. Already today I cleaned my house top to bottom and I shoveled every inch of sidewalk around both the guest cottage and the main house.” A small storm had deposited about a foot of fresh white powder.
“Busy girl. But did you finish the book club book?”
Rachel frowned. “I started it.”
“And…”
“I’m struggling to keep my head in the story.” Mostly because of a certain completely-not-her-type mountain man. Granted she was in the process of developing a Web site devoted to the guy and his art, but still Rufus Miller occupied way too much space in her head at the moment.
“Understandable,” Char said. “You do have a lot on your plate. Are you here to talk about the wedding?”
“I have a few details to go over, but in answer to your question,” she said, dropping her briefcase beside the desk, “I’d say you need both. A central display will give walk-in traffic an immediate feel of the holidays. But by tucking holiday items in unexpected places, people will respond subliminally to the challenge of the scavenger hunt. Within reason. Keep it obvious, but fun.”
She demonstrated by moving a small wooden display shaped like a Christmas tree to a spot beside the hanging dream catchers. The sunlight from the overhead skylight caught the crystal beads of the snowmen earrings and made them appear to dance.
“Wow. That’s cool.” Char put her hands on her hips and faced Rachel. “Are you positive I can’t hire you to manage this place for me? I’ll throw in all the venison you can eat. I have a connection.”
Rachel was happy to help her friend from time to time, but she wasn’t ready to bail on the idea of being her own boss. “Thanks. I’ll keep the offer in mind if things don’t pan out with my first client.” She said the last with a little squeal of delight that made Char laugh.
“I can’t believe you talked Rufus Miller into moving into the twenty-first century. Honestly, for a long time I wasn’t sure he had all his marbles, but Kat calls him a gentle soul hiding from a troubled world. That I can understand.”
Rachel wasn’t completely convinced Rufus had moved forward. He continued to place intense restrictions on what she could and couldn’t put on his site. Her mother was the queen of micromanagers, but even she knew when to let the person she was paying to do a job do that job.
But she didn’t tell Char that. Every business that involved working with the public presented its own unique challenges. She and Rufus would strike a happy medium soon. She hoped.
“Do you mind if I check my e-mail while I’m here?”
“Go for it.” Char motioned her to the area behind the desk, where a computer and printer sat alongside a surveillance monitor that showed four unique views of the operation. There weren’t any customers present because Char didn’t open for another half hour, but on one of the screens Rachel spotted a person moving around.
Someone’s in the teepee, she realized.
Native Art’s large white teepee was a focal point that was hard to miss if your destination was Sentinel Pass. Due to the cost of heating it, the teepee didn’t see a lot of use in the winter. “Who’s that?” she asked, pointing to the screen.
“Damien. He’s home today with a cold, but he likes to hang out in there. Says it helps put him in touch with his Lakota roots.” Char sounded both pleased and a little bemused. “Those heaters William brought for the wedding work fabulously, by the way.”
Rachel was glad to hear it. “Great. That reminds me, do we have a final tally on the head count for the caterer? Last I heard Kat’s brother and his daughter were a possible maybe.”
“Put them down as a yes. Cade and Shyloh are moving back from Texas as we speak. Kat’s excited to have them closer, although she’s a little worried about Cade working for her dad again. Old family dramas, if you know what I mean.”
Jack had mentioned a few things about Kat’s strong-willed—some said megalomaniacal—patriarch on their drive to Denver. That conversation, of course, had led to a rehashing of the sad, excruciating experience with their father. Jack’s perspective was slightly different than Rachel’s since he hadn’t been living at home at the time of Dad’s death. Granted, he’d been privy to the catalyst that, in effect, killed their dad, but he didn’t share Rachel’s memory of watching their mother carry on with her life as if it was business as usual, while Rachel watched her father wither and die.
“I’ll put them on the list. From what Jack told me, I was prepared not to like Kat’s dad, but I have to say, the two checks he’s sent for wedding folderol—his word, not mine—have been very generous.”
Char’s gaze lingered on the screen where her son was sitting, a buffalo robe across his lap. He looked up at the camera, suddenly, as if sensing their appraisal, and flashed a peace sign.
Char gave a little laugh. “He knows I watch him. I can’t help myself. I’m like a first-time mom with an infant…who can read and argue politics. Amazing.”
They talked a few minutes longer about kids and wedding plans. Rachel answered a couple of e-mails from her mother. Nothing important, but questions that would earn her a lecture if she didn’t respond. One gave her pause, though. “My mother wants to know if Rufus is a hermit or a recluse? Is there a difference?”
Char thought a moment. “I’m guessing you have to be rich and famous to be a recluse. So, that would make Rufus a hermit.”
Rachel quickly typed in Char’s answer, adding: “Unless he’s secretly rich and famous.”
Char must have been reading the
screen as Rachel typed because she burst out laughing. “Right,” Char said dryly. “So. Seriously. Are you sure you don’t need me to do anything for the wedding?”
“Not a thing. We’re talking only sixty guests. I was in charge of organizing my former company’s holiday parties for three hundred.”
Char made a face that clearly said that kind of job was not her thing. “Hey, could you watch the store for a few minutes? I’m trying my hand at making homemade chicken soup for my sick kid. I left it on simmer, but I don’t trust my stove.” Char’s home was directly behind the store.
“Sure. No problem.”
Alone with just the hum of the computer, Rachel clicked on a popular search engine and typed in rustic birdhouses. Rufus had yet to give her an exact price for his pieces. If she had an idea what the competition was selling for, she might be able to help Rufus place a dollar value on his.
She was completely engrossed in her search when she realized she wasn’t alone. A jolt of awareness made her fingers freeze midsentence. She looked sideways. “Oh. Hello. I didn’t hear you come in. Sorry. Can I help you?”
The soft-stepping customer was a woman. About Rachel’s mother’s age. Short, steel-gray hair messy from the wool cap she was holding. “Yes. Thank you. I want to look at the spears you have over there. I was in a couple of days ago and took one of the artist’s cards. I checked out his Web site, but I didn’t see anything I liked better than the ones you have. So, I decided to purchase it in person. You’ll take care of the shipping, won’t you? It’s for my grandson in Virginia. His birthday, not Christmas.”
Rachel leaped to her feet. She was familiar with the spears because she’d handled another sale while Char was gone. The man had required a few changes from the artist, Carl Tanninger.
“How old is your grandson?” How did one diplomatically tell a customer with ready cash that a historical replica of a spear was not a toy.
“Forty-three, I believe. I can remember the day and month of my grandchildren’s births but never the year.”
Until He Met Rachel Page 7
