Sunburst

by Jennifer Greene

  “Yes,” Erica interrupted rapidly. “And this one is doing well, too, Morgan. It’s just that we started out with so many…”

  “Debts,” Morgan supplied smoothly.

  She had never intended to say that, but she could tell from the expression on Morgan’s face that he had already guessed.

  “I would have to be a fool not to have realized that there was more to the move here than Kyle’s sudden love affair with wood,” Morgan continued. “Woodworking may have been in his blood for generations, but it sure as hell didn’t show up until now. So how bad was it, Erica?”

  Totally unhappy with herself, Erica drained the coffee cup and turned away to set it in the sink. Kyle had chosen not to tell Morgan about their circumstances; knowing that made her feel helplessly disloyal. But Morgan was Kyle’s best friend; perhaps another man’s perspective was exactly what Kyle needed. Maybe he should talk out his feelings with Morgan. Taking a breath she said quietly, “Joel didn’t have any health insurance. The doctors performed open-heart surgery three times to try to get his heart going, but it was too badly damaged. He spent months in the intensive care unit…and before that he had bought thousands of dollars’ worth of lumber, none of it paid for. Other debts he seemed to have just accumulated… Of course, toward the end, Joel wasn’t well enough to work,” Erica said awkwardly. “But in the meantime, it couldn’t have been a worse time for Kyle to sell his business, with the economy so sluggish. He had a lot of capital out, or something; he’d just started another little plant…” Her voice trailed off. Then, chin lifted, she determinedly met Morgan’s eyes. “We’re out from under now,” she assured him. “For that matter, when I see the way Kyle works with a piece of wood, when I see what he can do with his hands…I wonder how he could ever have been really happy with a suit-and-tie sort of life. You wouldn’t believe what he’s been able to accomplish in six months, but there’s been so much stress…” She took a breath. “Perhaps if you talked to him, Morgan…”

  “That was a hell of a pair of shoes to leave you,” Morgan said abruptly, as if he hadn’t even heard her suggestion. “But is that all that’s wrong, Erica?”

  His sharp brown eyes looked intensely into hers. “Of course that’s all,” she said.

  “Is it?”

  She nodded nervously. “I like working with Kyle.”

  “I still don’t understand. Erica. Kyle’s one story, but you’re another. You can’t possibly like it here, a tiny country town with nothing to do. It’s not just the lack of entertainment, but security, everything you grew up accustomed to…”

  He was like a dog worrying a bone. All she wanted was for Morgan to give Kyle moral support-as Kyle had done for him a thousand times. “Morgan, we both like it here. We like working with wood. And Kyle has roots here…”

  “You don’t,” Morgan said bluntly.

  “I have Kyle.” But it sounded wrong, suddenly. She wasn’t at all sure she did have Kyle anymore.

  “Yes.” Morgan stood up, lazily stretching, the silver metal on his chest glittering in the morning sun. “Well, kiddo, I’ve got to hit the road. This time, though, it’s not going to be such a long lapse between visits.”

  “Super,” she said brightly, relieved he’d changed the subject. “You know we’re always glad to see you.”

  He snatched at her hand as she moved past him. “So give us a goodbye kiss to tide us over,” he said swiftly.

  She raised her cheek obediently for his peck and instead found his mouth on hers, the still-warm aroma of coffee mixed with a fractionally too intense pressure of lips. Somewhat startled, she stared up at him, as if searching his face for some assurance that it hadn’t been the kind of kiss it seemed to be. His hands lingered on her shoulders, and then he dropped his arms to his sides, pure Morgan in his cool expression, the usual hint of deviltry in his eyes. “You know, I’ve been waiting nine years for you to find some fault with that Irishman,” he teased.

  Somehow it did not have the playful ring that it should have had. Still, she found the smile for him that she supposed should be on her face. Morgan was just…Morgan. He’d be stealing from the cookie jar when he was ninety.

  Chapter 4

  A walk in the sunshine inevitably lifted Erica’s spirits. A squirrel was scampering across the dew-drenched grass, chattering to her the entire time it took her to get to the shop. The brisk morning air cleared the mental cobwebs, and she mounted the steps still smiling at the little animal’s antics.

  Inside, she paused, inhaling the smells of the trade with a sensual pleasure. Sawdust and turpentine and wood and varnish…not exactly the smells to appeal to a romantic nature. But they appealed to hers, she thought fleetingly.

  Kyle had rarely talked of his family or his past. It hadn’t mattered until she knew they were moving here, and then she’d put together some of his rare family anecdotes and historical information she’d gathered at the library. Particularly in the mid-1800s, Europeans had flooded to the Midwest, seeking relief from famines and military rule. They weren’t urban dwellers but simple country people, wanting only to pursue the lives they knew-farming or trades-with a decent chance for their families’ survival. People who knew hardship but still had the courage and strength to follow a dream…

  The McCrerys were dairy farmers and carpenters-and probably horse thieves, Kyle had told her dryly. Woodworking was their craft, and a sizable business was built up by the third generation; in the fourth-Joel’s-came mass production. Homemade wood products were too expensive then; there was always a place for a carpenter, but if a man had need to create…

  Erica had learned that Joel was an intensely creative man, that he had never been happy simply putting hammer to board. Nothing else made sense as to why the business was such a mess when they first came here. She’d had such a wonderful romantic picture of the place in her mind. History, roots, Wisconsin greenery, the gentle melancholy she’d sensed in Joel, the cottage nestled among the trees, a place where people had found peace for generations in a quiet, private way…

  Absently, Erica smoothed her palm down the finely sanded grain of a red cedar plank, and then bent down to smell the fresh tang of the new wood. Six months ago, she’d walked into this room one morning when Kyle was gone, and found rusted tools, lumber haphazardly stacked, filthy windows and the smell of neglect and waste. Her expectation of romance had evaporated in an uncharacteristic sensation of fear. This was not what she had pictured. Kyle could not conceivably have grown up here; Kyle, who had such a love of space and privacy, who hated clutter and had no tolerance at all for waste and neglect.

  Finding the little pigeonhole of an office was the next shock. Much of the paperwork was incomprehensible to her, but she understood enough. The night before she’d served crab for which she’d paid fifteen dollars a pound; Kyle had affectionately encouraged her to stay out of the shop, to spend whatever she liked to make the cottage livable. Carpet, linens, furniture…

  She was so used to a certain kind of life that she’d never thought about it, never realized how Kyle had always sheltered and even pampered her, indulging her every whim, ferreting out wishes she hadn’t even known she had. She hadn’t confronted him that day-she couldn’t. Uppermost in her mind had been her own sudden and overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. For how long had she behaved like a mistress instead of a wife? It hadn’t occurred to Kyle, apparently, to level with her about their changed circumstances. Did he think she wouldn’t see, wouldn’t understand?

  She hadn’t then and didn’t now understand his anger when he first found her washing windows, taking on projects. Obviously, he didn’t have time for the antiques, and those were less a matter of skill than time, patience and work. And in spite of all the problems they’d had lately, she had slowly and almost unconsciously built up a love affair with wood that was almost equal to her husband’s.

  With her hands stuck in her back pockets, she wandered toward Kyle’s shop, a long, narrow side room that ran the length of the building. Every chi
sel had its place, the power tools were protected and hung on hooks; excellent lighting had been installed, and the wood lathe gleamed like dull pewter from its proper oiling and care. Kyle had changed so much, so quickly… She would have been beaten just looking at the shop when she first saw it. He had savored the challenge. The market for handmade wooden products had supposedly disappeared after mass production became common, but people seemed to be tired of houses that looked alike, perhaps were again beginning to value things that endured. In a plastic world where so little was natural, wood had qualities to offer-it was lasting, beautiful, real. A chair unearthed from the attic and refinished would last another thirty years, and no one else had another like it; a wooden cradle could be a link between one generation and the next, lovingly passed on as people used to do, because they had the sense and sensitivity to do it…

  She noticed a massive piece of mahogany in the shape of a sunburst at the far end of Kyle’s workbench and wandered toward it, curious as to what he was working on. Her hands slipped out of her pockets as she neared. She’d never seen it before. The huge sunburst was nearly finished. The sun’s points were smooth and sharp and exact, but Kyle was hand-chiseling the center into a three-dimensional design to create the effect of leaping flames. The longer she stared, the more fascinated she became. There seemed to be a face in the flames, a cameo hidden in the intricate work.

  The flames looked alive, with the illusion of a woman’s profile…she was the woman, the sun itself-life, warmth, radiance. Shoulder-length hair swirled and became part of the fire, almost as if it had color. Reverently, Erica touched the arc of one perfect sun point.

  She felt a sharp hand connect with her backside before she was whirled off-balance. “You didn’t see that.” Kyle’s arms hooked around her shoulders, preventing her from turning and seeing it again. His eyes hinted at turquoise this morning and had that very private brightness she saw only when he was working…or seducing.

  Either way, she relished it, grinning up at him. “I didn’t see it.” Well, that wasn’t going to work. “Kyle, that sunburst is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t know when you could possibly have found the time to work on something like that-”

  “I have been working exclusively on cabinets for one Jonas Henry.”

  “I mean the sunburst-”

  He kissed her forehead. “There isn’t any sunburst. I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Kyle, I-”

  “If you’re smart, lady, you’ll keep in mind that you didn’t see a thing. Unless you want a bonfire for your birthday.”

  She nodded rapidly. “I never saw a thing.”

  For that she rated a single swift kiss on the lips, far too short. Her hands lingered on his shoulders. His black hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, last night’s sleep not sufficient to erase the hollows beneath his eyes. They didn’t matter. Those hollows only accented his good looks, those beautiful eyes of his… Yet his eyes changed suddenly as his hands tightened around her waist and then released her. “Erica, last year on your birthday I gave you an emerald…”

  “And it was lovely,” she said quietly. “But this-this is worth more, Kyle, can’t you see that?”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “What’s worth more?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. Nothing. I didn’t see a thing!”

  “And for that peek, it’ll be a long time before I forgive you.” Another short spank on her backside somehow ended as an intimate pat instead. “For once, Erica, I have to urge you back into your own workroom.”

  “You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?” she asked teasingly, but she headed for the door. The oak desk was waiting for varnishing, and Kyle had his own work to do.

  Five minutes later, she was kneeling on the tarp in the back room, the can of varnish open beside her and her gloved hand holding a brush. An hour passed before she lifted her head, startled to find Kyle standing in the doorway. He was a different man again; she didn’t know what had happened. The turquoise was gone from his eyes, and the brooding look was back; his sinewy shoulders were taut beneath the navy shirt he wore.

  For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes skimming over the pieces of furniture waiting for their turn after she finished the desk: a Jenny Lind couch, an old cradle, a huge antique spinning wheel some farmer had unearthed from his attic. Her own advertising had brought in that business, and she was itching to get at her work. But Kyle’s eyes were cold, shifting from the furniture to his wife, kneeling on the rough tarp in a frayed T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans. A bleakness seemed to come over his features, masked quickly by that steel-hard look she’d come to fear. “Kyle?”

  “Erica, did you ask Morgan to come here?”

  The question seemed to come out of nowhere. “Of course not.” She half smiled. “I can’t remember a time Morgan ever waited for an invitation to visit us. Every time he feels a little restless, he just zeroes in.”

  Kyle stared out the window. “Wisconsin happens to be a little farther than Florida, as far as just dropping in goes.”

  “He explained that. The Shanes’ business is expanding, and the Midwest is the direction it’s going.” And since Morgan’s family was in small aircraft, it had always been a simple matter for Morgan to fly wherever he wanted to go. Erica frowned. Kyle knew all of that. She wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. “You would rather he hadn’t come?” she questioned. “And I thought you would be so glad to see him after all this time. You two have been friends for so long…”

  “Yes. And we shared a lot for a very long time.” The conversation on that subject was evidently over. Kyle strode forward, crouched down beside her and took the brush from her hands. His stroke was the stroke of a lover, sensitive and sure, as he finished the side she had been working on and viewed the result with a critical eye. “Your work is perfect, Erica. Exactly right to bring out the texture of the wood.”

  Her heart played John Philip Sousa under his praise. “It’s a beautiful piece to work on.” She promptly forgot about Morgan.

  “And you’re my beautiful lady.” He leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose, and then handed back her brush. Standing up again, he watched as she finished the last side.

  She was promptly unnerved. For one thing, Kyle never stood idle; for another, he never watched what she did; and for another…one of these years of marriage she was going to stop feeling that butterfly reaction to the sheer sex appeal of her husband. It was ridiculous, of course. She knew exactly what Kyle looked like in every mood and type of dress. Still, her heart soared at the proud way he always held his shoulders, was painfully aware of the way his dark shirt showed off his bronzed skin, savored the intense blue of his eyes.

  “You want lessons?” she inquired finally, tongue-in-cheek.

  He chuckled. “I want your attention. When you’re done, Erica-God knows I hate an interruption. But this morning…I just want to show you something.”

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why didn’t you say anything?” She was finished in short order, though Kyle took the brushes from her hands and cleaned them before she had the chance to do it herself. “What do you want to show me?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.” He swung an arm around her shoulders as they left the old building, both of them blinking to adjust to the sudden bright sunlight. She could sense just from the feel of Kyle’s hand that his earlier, brighter mood had returned. He led her back to the house, through the front door and up to the kitchen, where he detached himself only long enough to raid the cookie jar.

  “I see. We both only have a thousand things to do. I can certainly understand why you wanted to show me chocolate-chip cookies,” she said pleasantly. “I haven’t seen one in nearly two days-”

  He pushed her, none too gently, out the front door ahead of him. “The talk we’re about to have couldn’t take place without your cookies,” he informed her. “We’re nearly out,” he added sadly.

  “Is that supposed to be a
less than subtle hint…?”

  “Certainly not. You think I’m some kind of male chauvinist, demanding that my woman be in the kitchen all the time?” He hesitated. “I have heard that cookie withdrawal can be one of the most painful experiences known to man. Some people even die from it.”

  “They do.”

  “You’re not doubting me?”

  “Whatever would make you think that?”

  “This morning, lady, I don’t need anyone to doubt me.” He led her about a hundred yards east of the old workshop building. The McCrery property was surrounded by woods; the clearing where he stopped was overgrown with wild flowers and tall grasses, and bordered on the road. Since she saw it every morning, she couldn’t imagine why he’d brought her here. “Sit,” he urged her.

  “Here?”

  “Okay. Stand.” He was brushing the cookie crumbs from his hands, looking more relaxed than she had seen him in an age.

  But the soft grass was suddenly very inviting. She sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest, watching him with mixed amusement and curiosity. Kyle hadn’t shown his whimsical side in months; she loved it.

  Kyle paced out about twenty yards from her and then stopped. “The people will come in here.” He gestured. “For a display area-your arena, Erica. No more of that hands-and-knees nonsense in the back room. Not that you have to do anything at all, but this job will at least give you time for the other things you like to do-”

  “Kyle-”

  “The antiques will be off to the side. Here, I think. Lumber stocked here…”

  It took her a moment to catch on. Kyle was pacing out an imaginary building, three times the size of the original shop. Where a person could walk in and find anything he or she wanted in the way of wood, whether it was new cabinetry or a refinished antique, a hand-crafted headboard or a do-it-yourself project. Mesmerized, Erica listened, catching Kyle’s enthusiasm as he talked. From zebra wood to teak, he was lining up the imaginary shelves, stocking only the finest lumber, the best available tools and implements for anything anyone could want in the way of wood.