I Think I Love You (40 page)

DO look for hidden treasure in a dance.

Mitchell's van was already at the shop when Regina arrived ten minutes early. She cringed at the slivers of yellow crime scene tape that clung to the back door. Shaking off the willies, she entered and allowed the chime to sound. John was once again staying at the house, so she didn't have to worry about waking him upstairs. Her parents would still have to liquidate their business and personal assets, but at least they would have each other.

Sam came loping up to meet her, favoring his bandaged leg. He said good morning with a familiar nudge, but she didn't mind—he had, after all, saved her life. She patted his head and scratched his ears in gratitude.

Mitchell sat with his legs propped up on the metal desk, reviewing the inventory list and tapping his foot to Jonny Lang. He looked up. "Good morning."

"Good morning," she said, heading toward the coffeepot. "I'm going to miss your coffee."

"Is that all?" he asked.

She wasn't about to fall for that "love 'em and leave 'em" trick. She turned around and sipped. "Was there something else?"

"Yeah," he said quietly.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He pointed. "My doughnuts."

She manufactured a little laugh. "Oh, of course. Jelly-filled." She plucked one from the box and assumed a nonchalant position. "I'm going to have to hit the gym double-time when I get back."

"Everything looks okay from this angle," he murmured; then his gaze flicked upward. "You lost your bandage."

"It was in the way, more of a hassle than help." At least her French twist covered the bald spot where they'd given her stitches.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like my entire life has passed before my eyes."

"How about physically?"

"Fine. Reading isn't the easiest task at the moment, so I'm taking off the rest of the week to spend with my family."

"Good." He nodded.

"Uh-huh." She nodded.

"So," he said, clapping his hands. "Ready to get started?"

"Sure."

She followed him down the hall to the main showroom, telling herself she was not going to miss his blues music or his bizarre T-shirt wardrobe or the way he set his feet down.

"This shouldn't take too long," he said over his shoulder. "Couple of hours, max. Then I'll review all the reports with your parents and get them to sign off."

"Will you come back for the auction?" She stopped—had that sounded as if she wanted him to?

He shook his head. "No. It'll be handed off to an auction house. They'll come in and merchandise everything, advertise the sale, all that. But I'll alert collectors on my list." He laughed ruefully. "With all the publicity lately, the sale should draw quite a crowd."

In every black cloud
, she mused.

The items left, she realized, were the white elephants of the business—the offbeat, one-of-a-kind items that would be difficult to price and even harder to sell—the eight-foot stuffed giraffe and the six-foot neon sign blazing dances for 10 cents, for example.

"Who would manufacture a two-foot lightbulb?" she asked, wiping down the novelty item.

He shrugged. "Maybe it was for a World's Fair or some kind of exhibition. Believe me, someone out there is looking for a two-foot lightbulb—we just have to make sure they know it's here waiting for them."

"What do you think is the story behind the sign?"

"A dance hall from the twenties, maybe?" He grinned, reached for her hand, and spun her close. "Do you dance?"

"Not well," she mumbled, suddenly tongue-tied at being up against him. Her body remembered this posture. Fondly.

"That's okay, because I'll lead."

He moved into a light-hearted waltz, with impromptu turns and fancy hand-offs that required very little skill and movement on her part. But soon she was laughing so hard, she could barely catch her breath. "I'm getting light-headed."

He stopped, concerned. "Do you need to sit down?"

Their faces were inches apart, and they were both short of breath. Longing pooled in her stomach.

He kissed her—a good-bye kiss, she realized. Firm and warm and flavored with powdered sugar. Bittersweet and fun and thanks-for-the-memories. She moved her mouth against his, memorizing the taste and feel of him. Suddenly Sam was at their knees, barking frantically.

They parted and Mitchell frowned down. "What's wrong, boy?"

Sam barked again, looking back and forth between them.

Mitchell grinned. "He's getting protective—he thinks I'm hurting you."

She manufactured a smile, too, then squatted. "See, Sam? I'm perfectly intact." She lifted her gaze to Mitchell to let him know, too, that he hadn't broken any hearts in the vicinity.

His expression was unreadable. A few seconds later, it was as if the kiss had never happened—at least for him. He walked over to wipe a layer of dust from the huge sign. "How long has it been since this thing was moved?"

She straightened. "It's been leaning against that wall for as long as I can remember. Want some help?"

"No, I got it. Just want to take a look at the back to see if it has any identification marks." With a low grunt, he scooted the massive sign out from the wall a few inches and peeked behind. "Hm."

"Hm, what?"

"There are a few canvases back here, dusty as hell." He pulled them out, seven in all, ranging from small to medium in size, all unframed. "Good shape, considering." He blew the dust off one and uncovered a section of a still life. "Probably hobby stuff, but it looks like the kind of thing that people want to hang on their walls. Would you hand me that brush?"

She did, and stood back as he gently removed over thirty years of dust from the stiff canvases. Sam sneezed a half-dozen times, then retreated for fresher air.

Regina reached for Mitchell's laptop and clicked on the fine arts category in the appraisal software, then tabbed down to the area where they'd listed the canvases they'd already processed.

"Anything interesting?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she looked up. His face was dirt-smudged. And set in a peculiar expression. "Mitchell?"

He turned his head. "Remember when you asked me about the most remarkable find I've ever come across?"

Her pulse picked up, and she nodded.

"Well... don't get your hopes up, but this either is a Frieseke or a very good copy."

She frowned and came to stand behind him. "Is that good? Fine art isn't my forte." The painting was small, about sixteen inches by twenty inches. A gardenscape. Very pretty but, to her untrained eye, unexceptional.

"Frieseke is one of the few American impressionist painters to gain notability."

She tried to stay calm. "What year?"

"He died in 1939. This is dated—" He pulled the canvas closer. "Nineteen twenty-nine."

"Okay," she said calmly. "Let's just say it is a Frieseke. What is it worth, ballpark?"

"Ballpark, half a mil."

She nodded. "Would that be 'mil' as in 'million'?"

"It would be."

So, she thought later as Mitchell coaxed Sam into the back of the van before hitting the road to Orlando
,
at least his last day in Monroeville had ended on a high note.

"The guy from Sotheby's should be here tomorrow," he said, then smiled. "But I'll bet his coffee isn't nearly as good as mine."

She laughed just as if he'd made the most hilarious joke. "Bye, Sam." She reached inside and scratched the dog's head, then looked at Mitchell. "And bye... you."

He studied her for a moment, then smiled wide. "Bye, you, too. It's been fun."

"Yes," she agreed as he climbed in and shut the door. "Fun."

He hesitated, then started the engine. "Stay in touch."

"Sure thing," she said, just as if she had his phone or PO box number or any way at all to get in touch with him.

He smiled and waved a cheerful good-bye, and she smiled and waved a cheerful good-bye, just as if she meant it. And she kept meaning it until his van was out of sight.

Chapter 37

DON'T swim in your troubles.

"Watch out!"

Regina and Justine looked up in time to each receive a faceful of water from Mica's cannonball jump. They sputtered, and Mica came up laughing. Regina and Justine immediately dunked her under the cool creek water in retaliation, which descended into a lull-fledged squealing splash fest. Exhausted, they swam to the shallow end of the Dilly swimming hole, waded to the bank, and flopped down on their backs in the grass.

"God, I'm so winded," Regina said.

"That's because you're old," Justine said.

"You're older than I am."

"I'm old, too."

"I'm not old," Mica said, which earned her groans and hisses.

They lay under a sycamore tree, shaded from the blazing sun. They were healthy and together. Life was good.

"I can't believe Mom and Dad are going to be millionaires," Justine said.

"Well, not quite millionaires," Regina said, "after they deduct the commissions and pay off their debts."

"Still," Mica said. "Imagine that painting sitting in the shop all those years and no one knew it was worth a fortune."

Regina smiled—it was sort of like the massive slush pile of manuscripts back at her office.

"Well, I think it's hysterical," Justine said, propping herself up on her elbow, "that the painting was under Dean's nose all those years."

They laughed, and Regina was relieved that they could.

"So, Justine," Mica said slyly, "have you talked to your Officer Lando since he went back to Shively?"

"He calls me occasionally," she said in a noncommittal voice. "Just to keep me updated on Lisa Crane."

"He'll have to come up with a different excuse when they find her," Regina said.

Justine frowned and picked a blade of grass. "Don't be ridiculous."

"He's crazy about you. And he's
cute."

She placed the blade between her thumbs and blew, to no avail. "I don't date men who are cute."

"You might have to start," Mica said, picking a blade of grass. She blew through her folded hands and produced a low whistle.

Justine eyed her. "Speaking of cute, how is Everett surviving in LA without you?"

Mica held her hands up to show Justine her technique. "He wants me to stay here while he lays a few plans to jump-start my career. Everett and I aren't involved; we never were."

"He'd like to be," Justine said, then blew. A squeak emerged.

Mica ran her fingers through her short locks. "Everett is wonderful, and I think the world of him. But I'm going to enjoy being by myself for a long while."

"That's all right," Regina said. "He's not going anywhere." Unlike Mitchell. She closed her eyes briefly and willed the image of him from her mind. She had hoped that after four days, she would've at least forgotten the color of his eyes. Godiva brown, with hazelnut specks.

"Have you heard from Mitchell?" Justine asked.

Dear God, had she spoken aloud? "No. And I don't expect to."

"Why not?" Justine coaxed another squeak through her hands. "I thought you two sort of hit it off, seeing as how he saved your ass and all."

"And I'm sure he can find plenty of girls in Florida who are a lot less trouble."

"Florida? Yeah, that's for sure."

She frowned.

"You like him, don't you?" Mica asked.

"I'm grateful for everything he did."

"We're
grateful," Justine said. "I think you're something else entirely."

She sat up. "My head is hurting. I think I'll walk home."

"Liar," Justine said, pushing to her feet. "But I'm ready to go, too."

"Me, too," Mica said.

They picked their way down the bank to where they'd left their clothes. She pulled her loose clothing on over her wet suit and pushed her feet into her tennis shoes. Her sisters did the same, and they set off for the walk home, a path they'd traveled hundreds of times.

"You know," Justine said, "you could always call him."

Regina looked over. "You mean me call Mitchell?"

"Yes."

She shook her head. "No, it's not like that between us. He's a bona fide bachelor."

Mica grinned. "You are so in love with him."

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, yeah," Justine said. "You're in love."

She squinted. "How did we get from 'he's a bona fide bachelor' to 'you're in love'?"

"You have that look," Justine said. "Whenever we mention his name, as if you're trying hard not to care."

"It's awful, isn't it?" Mica asked.

"What?" Regina asked.

"Being in love," they said in unison.

"I don't feel that way about Mitchell Cooke," she insisted carefully. Then she pressed her lips together. "But... for future reference... how do you know if you're in love?" She felt both of them looking at her, so she shrugged. "I might use it in a book."

She got a shove and a laugh from both sides.

"I'm serious—what made each of you think you were in love?"

Justine and Mica exchanged glances, and she was afraid she'd broken the spell of easy camaraderie they had enjoyed over the past several days. But Justine hugged herself and got a dreamy look on her face. "I thought I was in love with Dean because he talked to me in the dark. Isn't that crazy? But I thought it was so romantic. I didn't realize that it was because he couldn't communicate in the light of day."