Treasure on Lilac Lane: A Jewell Cove Novel (10 page)

“I’ve been selling them to a shop in Portland. He buys what I have, calls when his stock is getting low. The summer was good for business, plus I had less time to paint once I started working for Jack. He probably won’t need as much now, with the tourist season dropping off.”

“Still … it’s Portland. Bigger population base, and the holidays are coming up. Besides, if it’s a bit slower it’ll give you a chance to stockpile some for next year, when the tourist traffic is high again.” Personally she was thrilled that Rick had taken them somewhere—that he’d seen the value in them. Even though he’d deliberately chosen someplace out of Jewell Cove. She looked at the finished work against the wall. There was no real signature. Just a small “RS” in one corner, marking the artist. Protecting his identity all the way.

“I suppose.”

She went up to him, made a point of looking at what he was looking at—the golden yellow sunflowers on the glass. “What if you had an alternate market for them?”

“What do you mean?” He lifted his chin and looked over at her. She was trying hard not to imagine him sketching in a hospital bed after leaving a war zone but it was difficult. He didn’t have to say it for her to know this was his outlet. The same way that she knit and melted wax for candles and designed jewelry and pieced quilts … this was Rick’s way of shutting out the painful part of his world. Well, one of his strategies, anyway. At least this was a way of dealing with his troubles that she wholeheartedly supported.

She marveled at the simple beauty of flowers on glass. After what he’d been through, she would have expected to see something more dark and ugly and, frankly, cathartic. But Rick didn’t paint the world he’d seen. He painted the world he
wanted
to see. It was remarkable.

If it wouldn’t have been incredibly awkward and potentially misconstrued, she might have hugged him.

“I mean, what if I sold some of them for you? We could do it on consignment like I do with my other clients. If you want to keep your privacy you can. But why take them all the way to Portland if you can sell them here? Besides, you’ll get a better return from me. You’ll make a better percentage than if you sold to me outright and then I did markup. With the boat season ending, that should be good news.”

He was frowning. “Well, except with him I get paid up front, and with you I’d have to wait for them to sell, so I’d never know when the money was coming. I’d probably be better off going to The Three Fishermen.”

Damn, he had a good point. The local art gallery was a perfect place for them. But on a personal level she wanted a crack at them first.

“They’ll sell. No question. And I review the consignment books every month. Besides, I’ll guarantee your anonymity. Paul at the gallery wouldn’t.”

“If I tell you I’ll think about it, will you finally tell me why you really came over here?”

Distracted, Jess waved in agreement. It was more than she’d actually expected for a response. Rick was a stubborn cuss when he wanted to be. But he was honest to a fault and if he said he was thinking about it, he was thinking about it and not just putting her off. She’d have to reorganize the shop floor to make room and in a spot where the light was sure to set the colors off to best advantage …

She was still trying to wrap her head around the discovery.

“Want a coffee? I put a pot on earlier.”

“Sure.” Following him into the kitchen, Jess couldn’t help but examine her surroundings. Despite being a guy and living alone, Rick kept the place up pretty well. Maybe there was a little dust in the corners, but the dishes were done and everything put away neatly. She’d seen worse. Like at her sister’s, after a day playing outside with the kids. Sarah’s kitchen often looked like a plague of locusts had gone through, razing everything in sight.

“How was the bachelor party?” she asked. She’d heard, actually, from Josh, but figured it was a good way to make conversation. According to Josh it had been fairly uneventful, though Bryce had fleeced them all at poker.

“It was good. Just a night with the boys and some cards.”

Funny he omitted the beer portion, as if he knew it would set her off. Though Josh—her inside source for everything these days—did mention that Rick had stuck with cola all night, much to everyone’s surprise. “I heard Bryce made out fine.”

Rick chuckled as he took mugs out of the cupboard. “He’s a shark. Good thing the stakes were low. I might have lost my inheritance.”

She laughed. “Abby’s shower was good, too. Presents, food, punch … we made Abby wear a wedding gown made from toilet paper and gave her a bouquet made from the bows from her gifts.”

He turned around and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms. “Cluck cluck. Sounds like quite a hen fest.”

She grinned back. “To be honest … it was good, but I think cards and pizza would have been just as fun.”

“You’ll have to come some night when we’re playing.” He raised an eyebrow. “Then again, maybe not. Pretty girls are big distractions at the poker table.”

Pretty girls. Despite all their animosity, he’d just called her pretty. And she should not be flattered by it but she was. Rick Sullivan still had the power to be charming.

“Right,” she said, clearing her throat. “Anyway, the real reason for my visit. I’ve been working on a surprise for Tom and Abby, but I need your help.”

“My help? You’re asking for my help with a wedding?” He looked around himself curiously. “Did I fall into an alternate universe?”

“Smart ass,” she answered.

He put a steaming mug in front of her. “You want cream?”

“And sugar if you’ve got it.”

He got a spoon, sugar bowl, and a carton of milk. “Sorry. I guess I just have milk.”

“That’s fine.” She worked on stirring the sugar into her coffee while he poured his own cup and left it black. “Anyway, a friend of mine around Auburn has agreed to lend me his car to chauffeur Tom and Abby around for the day. It’s a very special car. The kind of car I’m not sure I’m comfortable driving.”

He sat across from her and raised his eyebrows. “What kind of car is it?”

“A 1966 Mustang convertible. Mint.”

She watched his eyes light up. Men were so predictable. A little testosterone, a vintage muscle car—and boom! Game over.

“Where do I come in?”

“I want you to drive it. I’ve talked to Glen and he said it was okay with him.”

“Glen? And how exactly do you know this Glen and his awesome car?”

She couldn’t help but smile. Was that a proprietary note in his voice? At least it wasn’t the insolent sarcasm he so often reverted to with her. He had a tendency to get defensive. Like he had on the porch this morning. And in the truck after the drive to the shelter. He was fine as long as they were strictly polite. But when she got too close, up went the walls. Not that she was interested in knocking them down …

“Glen is into woodworking and his wife does tole painting. I carry some of their things in the store—finished and unfinished.”

“Oh.”

He took a drink of his coffee.

“Well? What do you say? Will you drive it? We’d have to go up early Saturday morning to pick it up, because I have to be back for hair and makeup with Abby. But … I was thinking you could pick us up at the house and drive us to the church. And then after pictures, back to the house for the reception. Glen said we can return the car on Sunday.”

“You’re sure he’s okay with me at the wheel? I wouldn’t let just anyone drive my car—especially one that valuable.” He gave her an assessing look. “Are you sure
you
trust me with it?” He didn’t need to explain why. It was a dig at her for her accusation when he’d shown up at her shop that first morning.

She ignored the insinuation. “I gave him my guarantee that you’d treat it with kid gloves. It’s just … I mean, Abby’s car is okay, and so is Tom’s truck. I asked them about renting a limo but Abby said it’s not her style—too big and flashy. So what about smaller and a little bit flashy? Who can say no to a ’stang? I just think…”

She paused and stared into her cup, feeling suddenly shy.

“You think what?” When she didn’t answer, he leaned forward a little. “Jess?”

His voice was softer now. She really had a hard time when he spoke to her that way. He hadn’t in so long … his voice often held that undertone of agitation and impatience. But not right now. Right now he was more like the Rick she remembered from years past. A little dark, a little dangerous, but gentle. Trustworthy. Helpful. Oh, Lord.

She looked into his eyes. “I just think it should be a really special day for them. They’ve both been through so much. Maybe they don’t want a stretch limo but this would be a fun ride to the church in style.”

“And you don’t want to drive it?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never driven a stick, and I don’t think Abby’s wedding is the time to learn. We’d probably never make it to the church. So as best man, the duty falls into your capable, manly hands.”

He was watching her with an amused expression on his face. “In case you haven’t noticed…” He lifted his arm, revealing his prosthetic.

Jess was shocked. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I’d never even thought … I mean you do so much, and I never considered you might have a challenge with…” Jess broke off, flushed. “
Can
you drive it?”

He shrugged. “Probably. My truck’s an automatic. I haven’t tried a stick since I got this thing.”

“Oh.” She took her first sip of coffee and felt her eyes go wide with surprise. Damn, Rick Sullivan made a good cup. Nice and full without being too strong.

“Look, most of the time I drive with both hands on the wheel. Once I’m in gear, I’m good to go. I can always try it. My dexterity’s limited with that hand, but I can probably manage steering. It shouldn’t be too bad, since I’m shifting with my dominant hand.”

Rick took another drink of coffee, his forehead creased in concentration. Jess stared, fascinated at the wrinkles around his eyes. For the first time, she really looked at him, not as the broken, alcohol-dependent man she’d come to see and resent since he returned from the military, but at the man who painted beautiful pictures in secret and was willing to help a friend. And while looking at him, Jess realized just how different the two sides of him were. One would be very easy to fall for. But the other Rick was too high maintenance for her. She wasn’t equipped to deal with someone else’s baggage in addition to her own. Suddenly, she felt guilty for being so hostile toward him since he came home.

“I’m sorry,” Jess blurted out.

“Sorry for what? Jeez, Jess, trying to follow you is like trying to follow the weather forecast. It changes every ten minutes.”

Her chest felt cramped and her cheeks hot. “You know, for being so … harsh when you came home. I just, I don’t know. I reacted poorly and was critical when I knew you needed a friend and not judgment.” She paused. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, truce? I realize I’ve been a bit…”

“Judgmental?” Rick offered up lightly, causing the soft blush on Jess’s checks to deepen.

“Yeah. That. It’s just … it was frustrating seeing you so angry. You have so much potential, Rick! I mean, just look at these paintings, for example, yet you waste it all on booze.”

He cupped his hands around his mug. “It’s my decision, Jess. When a person goes through something like I did, they need to get over it in their own time.” Rick paused, staring into his cup before continuing. “When you lose a part of yourself, there’s grief. Not even for what you physically lost, but grief over losing a dream, and knowing that nothing is going to turn out the way you planned. It’s having that choice taken out of your hands. The last thing I needed was someone telling me how I was supposed to feel about it or how I should handle it.”

She’d done that, and they both knew it. Jess felt torn. On one side, she realized Rick had to work through his issues in his own way, and yet she knew there were better ways he could have dealt with things instead of drinking and picking bar fights and passing out in the square. But sitting with him now, drinking coffee in his sunny little kitchen, she could be honest enough with herself to acknowledge that Rick’s drinking was not the same as Mike’s. That Rick was not Mike. Staring at his clear eyes, she almost wanted to tell him. Tell him about Mike’s alcoholism and what it had cost her. Maybe then he’d understand why she was so against his way of
dealing
with his problems.

But telling him was opening a Pandora’s box of issues she didn’t want to discuss—with anyone. She’d worked hard to overcome them. She’d worked hard to make something successful of herself.

It was easy enough to imagine the horrified look on Rick’s face if she told him everything that had gone on in her relationship with Mike. And once she opened that door there was no closing it. No matter what the counseling sessions or self-help books said, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that what happened with Mike was somehow her own fault. She should have been stronger. She should have left earlier.

“Let’s just forget about it, okay?” he suggested.

She left her own justifications out of it and was relieved to change the subject. “Consider it forgotten.” Jess paused uncertainly. “I’d like to be friends. For Abby and Tom’s sake. Clean slate and all that.” At Rick’s slow nod, she continued. “I guess I should be going, then. I’ve kept you long enough.” She stood, leaving her nearly empty coffee cup on the table.

He stood, too, and walked her to the door. She offered a weak smile as she went out and onto the step.

“Jess?”

She turned around to see him standing in the doorway, looking crazy sexy in faded jeans and an old T-shirt stretched out at the neck, his hair tousled and a day’s growth on his jaw.

“Don’t say anything about … about the painting, okay?”

“Of course not. Not if you don’t want.”

“I don’t.”

“Then your secret is safe with me.”

She wished he hadn’t asked. His work was so beautiful it should be shared and he should get credit for it. But that was his call to make, not hers. And she could be very good at keeping secrets.

Now she was holding two of his in her hands. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to garner his trust, and she wasn’t sure she even wanted it.