скачать книгу бесплатно
“The ramp will have to be either there or by the front steps.”
“I suppose the dining room would be more convenient.”
He gave a nod, the confirmation to himself, not to her. “I’ll need to look around out here for a minute and get some measurements. This is the size of room she wants? This space here?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He took a step away. “Thanks.”
He didn’t need to say another word for her to know her presence was no longer required. With his back still to her, he pulled a pencil and paper from his shirt pocket and unclipped a silver measuring tape from his belt. Even as she headed for the door that led into the kitchen, she could hear his heavy footfall moving away from her.
The door opened with a squeak. Nick practically sighed with relief when it closed with a quiet click. It was as clear as the collection of crystal obelisks lining his office credenza, design awards bestowed on his work over the past ten years, that Amy wanted as little as possible to do with him. That was fine with him. He wanted as little as possible to do with her, too. Seeing her again only brought back memories of a time that had forced him to face a few hard truths about himself. Life-altering truths that had affected everything from how he’d planned his future to what he thought of himself as a man. Though he’d learned to live with his flaws, he could hardly blame her for her disapproval of him.
He pulled out the tape, running it along the far edge of the wide space. He couldn’t fault the way she felt, but that didn’t mean he had to like her attitude. He didn’t have to like much of anything about being there.
He especially didn’t appreciate his physical responses to her.
The thoughts had come into his mind unbidden, unwanted. Just noticing the gentle curve of her mouth, the taunting fullness of her lower lip, had been enough to put a distinct ache low in his gut. But the thought of how it would feel to taste that fullness, to taste her, had him feeling as tight as his tape when it snapped back into its coil.
He made short work of measuring the other wall and headed outside to study the foundation. He really didn’t want to be there. From Amy’s response about this place being the best part about being in Cedar Lake, he strongly suspected she didn’t want to be there, either. But she was clearly going to do what she had to do for her grandmother. And despite the fact that he was still wary of Bea Gardner’s motives for giving him her business, he’d do what he had to do, too. His uncle Mike’s construction company was deeply in debt. He couldn’t afford not to bid on the job.
“Triple A Renovators wants me to sign all this before they’ll even give me an estimate?” Amy’s grandmother frowned at the three-page agreement Amy had just given her and promptly pushed it aside. “I don’t think so. Did Cedar Lake Construction come this morning?”
“Their estimator called yesterday to reschedule. He’s coming at two this afternoon.” Paper rustled as she pulled from the sack the People magazine her grandma had requested and set it on her tray table. So far, she’d been to the grocery store, the library and the plant nursery. As soon as she stopped by the hardware store, she could take another stab at cleaning up the paint that had splattered all over her grandmother’s kitchen. It had dried before anyone could clean it up after Bea’s fall. “I haven’t heard back from Culhane Contracting.”
“I have. Nick’s uncle called last evening.”
Amy’s motions slowed as she folded the sack and glanced toward the woman in the purple plaid bed jacket. Bea was already flipping through her magazine.
“Either he or Nick will be out in a couple of days to start on the ramp,” she added.
Disquieted by the announcement, trying not to look it, Amy stuffed the sack into her tote to recycle. “You don’t want to wait for the other bid?”
“The only estimate he gave me was for the ramp. And that’s all I’ve agreed to for now. How are you doing with the paint? Is it coming off?” she asked, seeming perfectly oblivious to her granddaughter’s consternation.
“Sort of,” Amy murmured absently, tucking the sack a little deeper.
This really isn’t a problem, she hastily assured herself. The fact that Nick’s uncle had called Bea told her that Nick wanted as little to do with her and her family as possible. He’d obviously worked up the bid, given it to his uncle and bowed out. No doubt he’d do the same when it came to the job itself. She couldn’t imagine him doing anything else. By the time he’d left the lake house, conversation had been reduced to only the polite and the necessary.
That had been roughly forty-eight hours ago. And in that forty-eight hours she’d tried everything short of self-hypnosis to put the encounter out of her mind. Yet, try as she might, she couldn’t shake her unwanted but undeniable curiosity over why he’d sounded so adamant about his lack of interest in marriage, something that made no sense at all to her and shouldn’t matter even if it had.
“Amy?”
Her brow was still furrowed when she glanced up from her tote.
“I asked what ‘sort of’ means.”
“Oh, sorry,” she murmured, distractedly running her fingers through her hair. “It means the remover I bought yesterday will work on the appliances, but I need something different for the floor and cabinets.”
“I told you I can hire that work done, dear.”
“There’s no need for that. I want to do it. I need to do something while I’m here.” Other than pace, she thought, feeling the urge to do just that. It had to be the weather. She always got restless when the heat and humidity rose.
“Unsettled” her grandmother had called it. Until a couple of days ago, Amy honestly hadn’t felt anything she couldn’t attribute to simply being in a place she didn’t really want to be. She hadn’t felt unsettled until she’d had to deal with Nick.
She glanced at her watch and promptly grimaced. “I’m late,” she announced, refusing to tell her dear grandmother that she’d only added to the restlessness she’d been so concerned about. “I was going to go to the hardware store on the way to the house, but I don’t have time now. The guy from Cedar Lake Construction is supposed to be there in ten minutes.”
The man was late, too. “J.T. from CLC,” as he identified himself, left a message on the answering machine her sister had bought her grandmother two Christmases ago saying he was still running behind and that he’d be there later that afternoon.
J.T. had underestimated his delay. He hadn’t shown up by the time Amy had trimmed and fertilized all thirty-one of her grandmother’s potted plants. Nor had he arrived by the time she’d given the forgotten African violets in the upstairs bathroom a decent burial, washed out their little ceramic containers and repotted them with the fresh plants she’d purchased at the nursery. When five o’clock came and went, she wondered if the man possessed the manners to even call again. Then she heard the doorbell ring as she was positioning the last plant on the upstairs windowsill at six-fifteen, and figured he’d decided to show up after all.
Shoving her hair out of her eyes, she hurried down the open staircase to the little foyer with its faded Aubusson rug and mahogany entry table. A quick glance in the mirror above the table drew an immediate frown. Plucking a leaf from the shoulder of her nondescript white cotton tank top, she shoved it into the pocket of her denim shorts and kept going. Her hair looked as if it had been combed with her fingers, which, in fact, it had. She had a streak of dirt on her shirt, and she had abandoned her sneakers hours ago. Knowing her mother would be appalled that she was answering the door looking like an urchin, certain “J.T.” wasn’t going to care, she pulled open the door—and felt her heart slide neatly to her throat.
Nick stood on the front porch, his hands jammed at the waist of his worn jeans, and a faint V of sweat darkening the gray T-shirt stretched over his wide shoulders. The blue of his eyes looked as deep as sapphires as his glance ran from the scoop of her top, down the length of her bare legs and jerked back up to her face.
“I just wanted to let you know I was here before I started working,” he said without preamble, and turned away.
“Wait a minute.”
He was on the last of three steps leading from the wide wraparound porch when the door banged closed behind her. She stopped on the top one as he reached the walkway and reluctantly turned around.
“Grandma said no one would start for a couple of days.”
“Is my being here now a problem?”
She wasn’t surprised by the challenge in his tanned features. What struck her was the fatigue. It etched more deeply the faint white lines around his eyes, took some of the edge from his tone.
“I just wasn’t expecting anyone from your uncle’s company right now.” And I wasn’t expecting it to be you at all.
“My uncle’s already put in a full day,” he replied, explaining his own presence when she would have so clearly preferred someone else’s. “I had the time now, so I thought I’d get started.”
“So late?”
“There’re still a couple good hours of daylight left. My uncle said he’d have someone over in a couple of days,” he acknowledged, “but we can’t pull anyone off the other job we’re working just now. I know your grandmother wants to come home soon. If I work until dark for the next few evenings, I should have the ramp finished in less than a week.”
He looked from the steep pitch of the stairs to run another glance the length of her slender body. The look didn’t hold an ounce of interest or flattery. It was merely appraising, which was pretty much the same expression that had creased his features when he’d inspected the underpinnings of the side porch yesterday.
His attention caught on her raspberry-pink toenails before returning dispassionately to her face.
“By the way,” he said, looking as if he might as well get all of his business with her taken care of while he had her there, “when I ran the work order by the nursing home for your grandmother to sign a while ago, she said you were having trouble cleaning up some paint. She had me promise I’d show you the easiest way to clean it up. She also nitpicked the contract and talked me down ten percent on our bid. You can stop worrying about your grandmother’s mind,” he muttered flatly. “The woman knows exactly what she’s doing.”
He turned then, leaving her standing on the porch while he headed for the battered blue pickup he’d parked behind her bright yellow “bug.” None of the weariness she’d seen in his face was evident in his long-legged stride, or in his movements as he reached into the truck’s bed and pulled out a pick, a shovel and a bundle of wooden stakes.
She lost sight of him as he headed for the side of the house and disappeared beyond the showy blooms of the huge gardenia bush trellised at the corner of the building. From the dull clank of metal, she assumed he’d dropped what he’d carried somewhere opposite the double French doors leading from the dining room. He didn’t reappear. And she didn’t move. She just stood there staring at the foliage, feeling chastised and more than a little guilty.
There was no doubt from the fatigue in his eyes and the condition of his clothes that he’d already put in a full day. Yet he was willing to work evenings so an elderly woman wouldn’t have to spend any longer than necessary in a place she didn’t want to be.
He’d also made the effort, grudging as it was, to let her know he’d seen nothing to indicate there was a problem with her grandmother’s mental faculties. The fact that she’d insulted him when she’d expressed her worry about that particular concern only made his gesture that much more generous. He hadn’t had to bother with the reassurance at all.
She couldn’t believe how deeply his consideration touched her, or the ambivalence it caused her to feel. The thoughtfulness he’d just shown was the very sort of thing the man who’d been engaged to her sister had done in the past, the sort of consideration that had endeared him to her entire family. Yet he’d gone on to so callously betray Paige’s trust.
Amy hated what he had done. She hated why he’d done it. But if she were to be perfectly honest with herself, what she hated most was that, in a way, he’d hurt them all. He’d made himself a part of them, made them care about him, then walked out of their lives as if their existence hadn’t mattered to him at all.
The guilt she felt jerked in a different direction. Thinking of herself as an injured party was petty and selfish, and entirely irrelevant. Her dad had shelled out a small fortune in nonrefundable deposits for the wedding, so his anger had been understandable. Only the fact that Nick had sent him an unsolicited check a month later had stemmed the flow of his ire. And their mom had spent months excitedly planning with Paige, followed by weeks of consoling her heartbroken daughter. If anyone other than Paige had the right to feel injured, it would be them. Her own role had been completely insignificant.
They would be the first to point that out, too.
The hollow sensation in her stomach was too familiar for comfort. Determined to ignore the thoughts her family provoked, annoyed with herself for indulging them, she turned for the door just as Nick appeared by the gardenia bush on his way to the truck. Not caring to have him see her still standing there, she hurried inside.
She had run back upstairs to make sure she’d turned off the bathroom light and was passing through the dining room on the way to the kitchen when she caught sight of him through the panes of the glass doors. He was back on the porch, tape measure in hand.
She kept going, only to hear him tap on one of the small panes. Glancing past the long mahogany table with its white lace runner and huge ruby glass compote, she saw him hold up a quart-sized can.
“I might as well give this to you now,” he said the moment she swung in one of the doors. He held the can of solvent toward her. “Be sure to let it sit at least an hour and use it with gloves. Then scrape it off with a putty knife. If that doesn’t work, I’ll get you something else to try.”
He was doing what her grandmother had asked, telling her how to remove the paint. He also clearly intended to limit his assistance to supplying her with products and advice, not elbow grease, which was fine with her. Working with him would only add to the strain of his presence.
As long as she had advice available, however, she would take it.
“How do I make it sit on a vertical surface? It’s on the front of the cabinets.”
“She told me you were trying to get paint off linoleum.”
“That’s the only part I told her about,” she admitted, looking down at the directions. All she actually saw were the buckle of his belt, the worn white threads on the zipper of his faded blue jeans and the creases in the fabric above his powerful thighs.
“I’ll take a look at the cabinets,” he muttered, resigned.
“I need power, too.”
Her glance jerked from his groin, incomprehension covering her flush.
“Electricity,” he explained. “Is there an outlet I can use for a few minutes? I have to cut out a section of railing, and there are no outlets out here.” He nodded to the power saw and a huge coil of what looked like orange rope. “I have an extension cord that’ll reach just about anywhere.”
There was an outlet behind the buffet, but it would be easier to access one straight through in the kitchen. She told him that as she turned away, aware of his glance moving down her back as she padded across the hardwood floor and into the big, old-fashioned kitchen.
For as long as she could remember, the cabinets lining the room had been pale yellow and the floor black-and-white tile. The walls had been the variable. Over the years, orange paper scattered with swirls of avocado green had given way to paper of mauve and blue. Five years ago, her grandmother had stripped the walls bare, painted them shiny, enamel white and hung brilliantly colored stained glass birds in the windows to throw swaths of azure, magenta and chartreuse into the room.
On days when the sun was brightest, being inside the room was like being inside a kaleidoscope. Bea’s most recent alteration would have slashed color into the room even on the dreariest of days.
“What the…?”
Amy knew exactly what had brought Nick to a dead halt behind her. She’d had the same reaction when she’d first let herself in and seen the mess her grandmother’s accident had created. Her heart actually felt as if it had stopped—just before she broke into a grin at her grandmother’s daring.
The paint her grandmother had chosen for her cabinets was called Crimson Cherry—and when she had fallen from the ladder while painting the upper trim, nearly a gallon of the bright bold red had splattered over the counter, the floor, the front of two upper cabinets and all but three of the lower ones.
Amy had managed to clean the streaks and splatters off the white enamel of the old stove, a project that had taken her most of yesterday, but the shock of scarlet stood out in macabre relief against the yellow and black and white of everything else.
“It looks like a crime scene in here.”
“I know,” she replied. “That’s what I thought when I first saw it.”
“This is what she was doing when she fell?”
Amy nodded, watching his frown move from the worst of the spill on the floor to a rather artful spray of bright droplets on one of the cabinets under the sink. A thick splotch of solid red the size of a dinner plate graced the cabinet next to it.
“Why?” he asked.
“She said she wanted to add a little life to the place.”
“I mean, why didn’t she pay to have it done?”
“Because she wanted to do it herself.”
The frown intensified. “A woman her age has no business doing something like this by herself. She’s—”
“Capable of making her own decisions,” Amy interrupted defensively. “She knows her own mind and once it’s made up, no one can change it.”
“You make her stubbornness sound like a virtue,” he muttered. “The woman broke her hip doing this.”
Amy turned, can in hand. “You sound just like my mother,” she muttered back, and set the can on the yellow Formica counter. The sound, like the admission, was far sharper than she intended. Drawing a breath of air that smelled faintly of paint thinner and the gardenia-scented breeze coming through the open windows, she did her best to tamp down the annoyance eating at her.
“It doesn’t matter now what she did,” she quietly amended. It wasn’t his fault this particular subject so sorely tested the only real virtue she had. “All that matters is getting this cleaned up and getting her back home. There’s an outlet over there,” she said, motioning to her right. “That’s probably the most convenient.”
She wanted him to get on with his task so she could get back to hers. Nick had no problem with that. Getting his job done and getting out of there was infinitely wiser than standing there wondering at how quickly she’d buried the frustration that had been so evident seconds ago. She’d done it too quickly not to have had considerable practice.
Spotting the outlet, he turned to leave.
With some reluctance, he turned right back and motioned to the splatters. “Mind if I ask how long ago this happened?”
“About three months. Why?”
“I just wondered why no one cleaned it up before now.”
The late-afternoon sun slanted through the window over the sink, catching the brilliant colors of the stained glass birds hanging across the upper pane. A slash of ruby touched fire to the dark sweep of her bangs.
A memory stirred at the sight of that light in her hair, but all that surfaced was the thought that her hair had felt incredibly soft and that it had once smelled like…lemons.
“Mom wanted to bring someone in to clean it up,” she said, jerking him from the flash of buried memory. “But her idea of cleaning up was to repaint the cabinets yellow like they were. Grandma said she didn’t want yellow anymore. She wanted red, and that it made no sense to pay for them to be painted a color she didn’t want. So no one did anything.”
“I see,” he muttered, getting a better understanding of the frustration he’d just witnessed. Her mom hadn’t gotten her way, so she’d simply refused to help. “And your sister?”
“She agreed with Mom. She thinks yellow is a kitchen color and red isn’t.”
“I mean, why didn’t she step in and help?”
“Because she’s—”
“Busy,” he concluded, sounding as if he should have already known what she would say.
