Always Florence (8 page)

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.

* * *

W
HY
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.

* * *

N
ATE
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 because 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

D
YLAN
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.

It must be exciting working as a news photographer, but Dylan wasn’t sure he’d like that. He loved experimenting with dangerous things, but there, if you were careful and followed the safety rules, you had a better chance of survival. It was different when someone was shooting at you. Good planning couldn’t stop a bullet.

And he didn’t want to die anymore. It wasn’t that living was so great, but—he hated to admit this—there were more interesting people in his life now than when his uncle had first moved in. Dylan still missed his parents so much it was like a pain in his gut, but when Bobbie came over, he felt better. And when Hunter came on game night, it was like they were just a bunch of guys together, and his uncle seemed to loosen up a little, let him and Sheamus stay up late and drink pop out of a beer glass.

Bill the Monster was kind of stupid, but Sheamus and Uncle Nate had stuck it to the freak’s closet door with masking tape, and Sheamus didn’t look quite so terrified anymore. He wouldn’t open the closet, but winter was coming and he was going to have to sooner or later, or freeze to death. Or maybe Uncle Nate would just buy him another coat. But the scarf their mom had made was in there.

Dylan climbed out of bed, took the flashlight and went to his dresser. He rooted through the bottom drawer until he found the one she’d made him. It was red and plain, and he wrapped it around his neck as he walked back to bed.

He started to cry. He hated that. He was going to be eleven in January. He swiped at the tears with the back of his hand and placed the flashlight so that it lit both the sketch he’d made tonight and the picture of a bunch of boats he’d printed off the internet. He studied them for a minute, then picked one and began to sketch it onto the water slightly to the right of center on the page.

* * *

I
N
D
OTS
AND
Doodles, an extensive art supply store worthy of a metropolitan city, Bobbie selected a 24” x 36” canvas for the painting as Nate stood by with a basket. He had called her this morning to tell her a client had canceled an appointment and it would be a good time to shop for her supplies.

“I have a lot of the colors I’ll need. I unearthed my taboret this morning,” she said, stopping at a display of brushes. “But I’ll need a couple of flats, and maybe...” Her voice trailed off as she looked through the round brushes for something small enough for facial detail. She turned to him, sure her expression betrayed her hesitation. “I hope I can do this. I usually plan paintings around a palette I’m comfortable with. I don’t think I’ve ever done a seascape, or in this case, a riverscape.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” he said supportively. “The work in your living room is very impressive.”

She was beginning to relax. Talking about the project was easy. It was almost as if their sparking glances from the other night had not happened.

“Thank you. Then, are you willing to be my model?” she challenged. “Sandy wants a turn-of-the-twentieth-century ship captain looking out at the Butterfly Fleet. You know, the Finnish fishing fleet with their funny sails. I’d have thought Bat Wing Fleet would have been a more appropriate name, but I’m sure Butterfly Fleet is more palatable to history.”

He nodded. “I know about the Butterfly Fleet. But me? Seriously? Do I look salty to you?”

She laughed. “Well, generally, you’re a little buttoned-down in your suit, but in the right clothes, you’ll be perfect. Sandy’s going to get me some photos of the river in the old days, and she says she can borrow an old ship captain’s costume from the museum. They’re happy to support us.”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good. Do you think we could work in your garage? Mine’s a little cluttered with papermaking stuff.”

“Of course. And I presume I have to supply Thundermuck coffee. You seemed to really like it the night you helped the boys with their artwork. And, of course, I’ll have to provide the chocolate.”

“If you do that, I promise to make you handsome.” She thought about how that sounded. “Not that you aren’t already,” she added. “You’re...” She was talking herself into a hole and he was enjoying her discomfort.

She put several brushes in the cart and started for the counter, ending that line of conversation.

He handed the clerk a credit card. “Are you free for lunch? The Urban has a great Reuben sandwich.” When she looked doubtful, he added, “And a half dozen great salads for those of you watching your diets.”

“Ah...” She scanned her brain quickly for an excuse. She was more interested in him than she should be, yet circumstances kept forcing them together. At the same time, he seemed to be changing his attitude to her. And while she was happy to be dealing with a more pleasant person, this change in him was increasing his appeal, and that wasn’t good.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Neighbors have lunch together all the time. I mean, if you want to pass me off to your father as a friend, you’re going to have to know a little about me. Right?”

She was hungry. And she certainly couldn’t fault his reasoning about her father.

“Okay,” she said finally. She knew she sounded pathetic.

* * *

T
HE
U
RBAN
C
AFÉ
was a chic, uptown restaurant with mirrors, graphics on the wall, half curtains separating spaces and comfortable furniture in a back room where there were also a few pub-style tables. They sat at one in a corner near a giant poster of Marilyn Monroe.

“Now, there’s a woman for you,” Bobbie teased as they were handed menus. “I loved her in
River of No Return
. She was so good with the hero’s little boy.”

He nodded. “She must have been something. But I have quite a list of women interested in me, you know.” He gave a superior tilt of his eyebrow. “It’s an accounting thing. Women love men who are good with numbers.”

Bobbie challenged that with a laugh. “Do tell. As opposed to good with baseballs, or race cars, or sophisticated software?”

He grinned at her. “It’s true. At this very moment, I’m the object of affection of a very wealthy client of mine in Portland, a supermodel I met while on a cruise two summers ago, and the prettiest little barista at the Astoria Coffee House. Casey is her name.”

Bobbie put her menu down and folded her arms over it, enjoying this fanciful side of him. Or
was
it fanciful? Maybe he was telling her the truth and he did have three women on the string.

“And they’ve actually
told
you how they feel?”

“Not in so many words, but Casey puts a beautiful steamed-milk heart on my mocha every morning.”

Bobbie shook her head pityingly. “Nate. Every barista in the world puts a steamed-milk heart on every customer’s mocha. It elevates a cup of coffee to an art form. And it helps validate the $4.50 price.”

In a theatrical gesture, he put a hand to his heart. “You mean she
doesn’t
love me?”

Bobbie patted his hand. “Well, she might, but you can’t judge by the heart on your mocha, because she does that for everyone.”

His brow wrinkled. “Well, I’m depressed
.
”

She laughed aloud as the waitress arrived to take their order. When she’d left, Bobbie’s eyes went to his thick, slightly mussed hair and lingered on it a moment, wondering if it would be silky or wiry to the touch. She met his eyes. “Stop pouting. You are kind of cute. And apparently that opinion is shared by three other women, so stop with this embarrassing need for constant adulation.”

He pulled the complimentary basket of chips away when she reached to help herself. “Hey. I thought we’re having lunch to learn how to be friends. You’re not getting how this works. Friends are kind and supportive.”

She put a hand to her own heart now. “Sorry. As your friend, I thought you should know that your display of neediness was not flattering.”

He leaned toward her and said with a hopeful grin, “But you think I’m kind of cute?”

She had to laugh. “Yes, but not when you’re being needy. Do you want to hear about my art class?”

He straightened, the silly exchange over. “Sure. How’s it going?”

She told him about Eddy, and the little girl who was making a lady monster, and the moment when Sheamus talked about his mother.

Nate dipped a chip in salsa and seemed to lose focus for a moment. “She was something,” he said with real feeling. “I was jealous of Ben for finding her. She was everything a man wants in a woman. Kind, caring, supportive, strong, smart.” Happy memories seemed to change suddenly to grim ones. He leaned back, obviously still focused on the past. “I put them on that boat, you know.”

Bobbie sat up a little straighter, concerned about his mood switch. “What do you mean?” she asked gently.

“I gave them the charter boat tickets for their anniversary.”

She leaned closer. “You’re not blaming yourself for the fact that they...died?”

“I do. I mean, I know it’s not my fault precisely, but I am the reason they were on the boat.”

She put her hand on his, and when he didn’t look at her, she pinched a knuckle. He glanced up in surprise, the brooding gone from his eyes. “That’s self-abuse, Nate, and completely uncalled for.”

He almost smiled. “You pinched me.”

“I was just trying to get your attention.”

“Yeah, well, the fact remains that they’d be here if I hadn’t given them the tickets. And the boys miss them so much.”

“Here we go.” The waitress placed their lunches in the middle of the table, Nate’s Reuben smelling heavenly, and Bobbie’s pear and strawberry salad colorfully tempting. “Anything else I can get you right now?”

Nate had already bitten into his sandwich. Bobbie shook her head. “We’re good, thank you.” The waitress left and they continued to talk as they ate

“Fate or the divine plan, whatever you believe, took them from you, not the fact that you gave them the tickets. And you’re doing the best you can for the boys.” She took a sip of her drink and smiled teasingly. “Don’t you think you need a woman in your life? Isn’t it time to get serious about the client or the model?”

He made a face. “Right now my life needs certainties.”

“What do you mean?”

“Women tend to come and go.”

“No, they don’t. Well, maybe some do, but many are as committed as you would ever want.”

He shrugged and admitted, “I lost the client and the model when I moved here to care for the boys. And, honestly, neither was a till-death-do-us-part relationship, but it goes to show you. And y
ou’re
going,” he pointed out.

He made it sound like an accusation, and she was momentarily surprised, because it suggested that he cared more than their relationship would warrant. She was both flattered and upset by that.

“I am,” she replied firmly. “But you can’t expect to uproot and force maternity onto women who aren’t till-death-do-us-part serious. You need to broaden your pool of prospects. I’m sure women would be lining up if you expressed an interest.” Bobbie tried to inject a little humor. “You know, clever and cute as you are.”

It didn’t work. He simply frowned at her.

“I’m just trying to learn this friend thing,” she said a little weakly. “I think friends tell you when they feel you’re making a mistake.”

His mood had turned again. A little edginess crept into his tone. “So, if I think
you’re
making a mistake forgoing family for career, you’ll take it as an act of friendship if I tell you?”

She considered that and finally replied with candor. “Probably not. I hate being told that I’m wrong. I usually don’t take it very well. I once poured a glass of merlot on an art critic who called my work confused and undecided.”

Nate barked a laugh. Diners at nearby tables turned to look. Bobbie blushed. The conversation diverted, he seemed to relax again.

“You think my work’s confused, too?” she asked.

“Not at all. I think it just means that you’re interested in different styles and a lot of subjects, and you’re good at all of them so you explore them.”

She sat up straighter, relishing his approval. “Why aren’t
you
an art critic?”

“Because I know nothing about art. And I’d have trouble shooting down anyone’s dreams if I didn’t like their work. But back to you.” He leaned closer. “Have you considered that having someone to share your life might enhance your studies and ease the burden of your work a little?”

She’d thought that over so many times she had the answer on the tip of her tongue. “In most professions a helpmate is a wonderful thing. But in art—I’m talking serious, life-changing, world-affecting art—someone who loves you can be a...” she looked up apologetically, because the thought was selfish but still true “...a distraction. It won’t work. One of you will end up leaving because you can’t get or give what the other needs. And the emotional energy required of a relationship is all time taken from getting at the stuff in your gut.” She was silent a moment, then added, “And I don’t have the time to waste.”

“But you’re well,” he said. “Your prognosis is good, right?”

“Cancer’s a sneaky rat. I could be fine today and gone tomorrow.” She hated admitting that to herself, but she’d seen it happen. “I’m not going to live in fear of it, but I’m not going to pretend that I have forever.”

“None of us has forever. So shouldn’t we be fearless?”

“Every artist is. When I hang a canvas or show a sculpture or a bowl, I’m putting out there all the heart and soul it took to create it, and running the risk that some big-city pseudo-sophisticate who ‘knows what he likes’ is going to think it’s trite or stupid or means something I never intended. But I do it anyway, because it just might really speak to somebody.” She paused for a moment, remembering how wonderful that felt. “And that’s what it’s all about.”