It hadn’t taken long to prep the walls the night before, so she spent some time choosing the color. It still surprised her when people left the choice of color to her. Granted it wasn’t easy, and she wasn’t sure what was worse, too much choice or too little.
After years of working with paint, she knew people saw colors differently. The sun exposure, the furniture, the art on the walls, even the flooring could change how a hue looked in a room.
But more than that, color made her feel something. The calm of sea-green, or the energy of orange in a bright room, how could you leave that to someone else? Just slap up any old color? She couldn’t imagine. Boy, if she had to look at it and live in it, she’d definitely want to pick it. But to each his own. And since she rarely had to scrap a color and start again, she was either good at picking paint color, or clients.
She had chosen a blue-gray for Trace. It felt strong and looked masculine. It wasn’t too fussy or pale for a living room, and with the west sun exposure, the bit of gray would mask any yellow undertones in the blue. She hoped he liked it because she was about to spend a whack of money getting it mixed.
The gray-haired man behind the counter, wearing paint-spattered overalls, greeted her with a smile. “Hey, Doc.”
Jerry Fortnight had cheered her on as she’d painted her way through undergrad and medical school. How many times had she sat studying while she waited for paint to be mixed? He probably didn’t know how much his unwavering confidence meant to her as she sweated through exams. Nor realized how much his matter-of-fact acceptance of her choosing painting over medicine put him in her heart forever. Margo gave an indulgent smile and handed him the coffee. “For you, my love.”
His face lit with pleasure. “Why thank you, sweetheart. Have I got the days mixed up? Isn’t today Saturday?”
She laughed. “I know. So unlike me. But I thought I’d chip away at the student loans.”
He took a sip of the coffee. “Oh, that’s good.” He gave her a pointed look. “You should take them up on their offer. Then you could sleep in.”
Margo snorted. “You think? I expect a fancy art gallery like Calhoun International would have pretty high expectations. Need a certain number of pieces by a certain date.”
“Well, I suppose I wouldn’t know. Don’t know how to paint those fancy paintings you do. I just sell the paint.”
She smiled. “Today I’m painting blank walls. I need three gallons of this blue.”
“Coming right up,” he said, and took the paint chip.
As he mixed the paint, Margo thought about the offer. She had been painting for as long as she could remember. Probably before she held a crayon. She had once dreamed of having her paintings displayed in a fine gallery, but it wasn’t until she was busy with medicine that it had finally happened. The offer was a good one, and she was tempted to take it. She had sold a painting privately and had made half a year’s worth of tuition, and now the local, internationally acclaimed, gallery was interested in a show solely of her work. The terms were flexible, and they offered to pay her up front for any paintings she wanted to show. She was busy with commercial and residential painting, still had to figure out what she wanted to do about medicine, and wondered if she wanted the stress of creating under a deadline. Too much choice.
Jerry heaved three cans onto the counter. “There you go. I can help you with them to your car.” He shrugged on a jacket and grabbed two of the cans.
They stepped outside into the cold crisp air. “Make sure you get out and enjoy the sunshine. Come Monday, we’re expecting snow.” His breath puffed out in a frosty cloud.
“I’ll be enjoying the sunshine from the warmth indoors today. Thanks, Jerry,” she said as he placed the cans in the back.
“Thanks for the coffee.” He tipped his ball cap. “We’ll see you soon.”
Margo hopped in the car, and with a wave, pulled out of the parking lot.
She carried two cans of paint to Trace’s condo, leaving the third for another trip. At eight-ten, she knocked on the door.
The door opened and a sleepy-eyed Trace stepped back to invite her in. What was it about morning scruff that had her ovaries hopping? Of course, the bare chest and low-slung gray track pants didn’t hurt either.
“Would you like a coffee?” he asked, rubbing a hand down his face.
“No, thanks. I’ve had mine.” She admired the rear view as he disappeared into the kitchen.
She set the paint cans down on the floor and looked at the paint chip sample she had hung on the wall. Looked just as good in the morning light, thankfully.
She covered the floor with drop cloths as the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.
Trace returned to the living room and sat down on a barstool. He sipped his coffee, watching her. “You’re pretty chirpy considering the hour.”
“I probably had an earlier night than you,” she said with a smile. She looked at the empties on the counter. “And no hangover this morning. How was the game?”
“Great. Cascades won.”
She nodded. She had watched highlights of the hockey game while she ate breakfast. “Did you have good seats?”
He nodded. “My dad’s box,” he said absently.
She hid her surprise. Big money there. Box seats were hard to come by. She realized Mrs. Crombie hadn’t mentioned his family name, and she hadn’t asked.
“So, you’re a doctor,” he said slowly.
Jeez, back to that. “Yup.”
“How come a doctor is painting my living room?”
“Because you’re paying twice the usual fee,” she said with a cheeky grin.
“Shouldn’t you be … doctoring?”
Her smile slipped. He sounded like her mother. All that time, all that money, blah, blah, blah. “I could be, but at the moment, I’m painting.” She pointed to the paint sample hanging on the wall. “That’s the color I chose.”
He looked over. “I like it. Hopefully it will work.”
“I think it’ll work. Blue’s a neutral color. Looks good in this lighting, and it’ll be a great backdrop for your metal furniture.”
“Hmm-mmm. I’m hoping it’ll be lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Feng shui. Water and metal elements, á la blue paint and metal furniture in the west and southwest rooms, are supposed to bring divine luck this year. Good–bye beige and wooden antiques.”
She smiled at him. He wants to get lucky? Look at those abs. Really, any color would do. “Sounds like you’ve researched this.”
He took a sip of coffee and set the cup down. “I have. I’m applying to medicine. Again. I’m giving it one last chance, and this time I’m doing it properly.”
“Medicine.”
“Yes.”
“And you think feng shui will help?” She reached for a small tool in the outer pocket of the tote bag and used it to pry open the lid from the first can of paint.
“Couldn’t hurt. And I want to cover all the bases. If I can get a little divine luck on my side, I’m all for it.”
She stirred the paint. Hopefully he had more than feng shui up his sleeve. “I’ll get this done and get you started. I’m happy to help.” Especially if it meant her bills would get paid.
“Are you? You could be handy.”
“Oh, I’m definitely handy,” she said with a smile.
Chapter 4
Margo dipped a new brush in the paint can and stepped up on a stool to reach the top of the wall. And felt a little thrill. The first stroke of paint on the wall did that to her. A blank canvas, even a plain wall, made her think of all the possibilities. New color, new outlook, new attitude, and maybe a bit of divine luck, she thought with a smile.
She ran the brush along the edge of the ceiling in a smooth even stroke, aware of Trace’s eyes as he followed her movement.
“What would you say is the secret to getting into medical school?” he asked.
She sighed. Didn’t he have somewhere he had to be, so
mething else he had to do? “You know, I don’t really know.”
“Well, you got in. What made your application stand out?”
She stepped down and dipped her brush in the paint. This color was going to be perfect. She knelt down to the baseboard and angled her brush to edge the bottom of the wall. “I honestly don’t know. I was surprised to get in.”
He snorted. “Come on. Admitted after only two years? That’s something.” He stood up with his coffee and came closer to watch her work. “My marks are good and my MCAT scores solid. Statistically, I had a better than average chance of getting admitted, but I didn’t get a single interview.”
Margo glanced over at him as she finished creating the border for an eight-foot swatch of wall. He really was adorable. Tousled hair, pale blue eyes the color of the sky on a sunny day, and the determination of a little kid after a coveted toy. He was close enough that she could smell the musky scent of his skin. His chest was another form of art. She fleetingly wondered if he’d let her paint him. Nude.
“Really, when I calculated the odds, I should have done much better.”
Margo set down the brush. “It’s more than marks,” she said, distracted. Did the paint need to be stirred? She poured the paint into a tray, content to see a homogenous color. She picked up the roller, dipped it in the paint, and drew it across the uneven ridges in the tray to remove the excess paint.
“What do you mean?”
She stepped over to the wall. “Marks are the cut-off, but it’s not the heart and soul of it,” she said reluctantly. She moved the roller in a V pattern drawing the paint down to the edging at the baseboard before slowly rolling it back up to the ceiling. Uneven color of the first coat filled the wall. “You have to add your own mojo.”
“How?”
She sighed and felt a pang of guilt. Helping him get into medicine wasn’t really her forte. Now if he wanted to explore why he was much better off choosing another career path, that she could help him with. “Why do you want to be a doctor?”
“The money’s pretty good.”
She laughed and glanced over at him. Uh-oh. He was serious. “No.”
“No?”
“Wrong answer. Try again.”
His brow furrowed, and he walked over and sat down on the barstool. His bare feet found the lower rung. “I want to help people?”
“Not too sure about wanting to help people?” she asked with a chuckle. She picked up the paintbrush to create the border for another block.
“I know doctors help people, but statistically it’s not that impressive. Eighty-five percent of patient visits are for chronic complaints, and less than five percent are actually ever cured.”
“But people live longer,” she pointed out.
“Sure, with regular frequent doctor visits.” He rubbed his fingertips together. “And more money.”
Margo rolled her eyes. “What about vaccines and antibiotics? You can’t say they haven’t made a difference.”
“That’s true, but ninety-eight percent of infections are viral. A healthy lifestyle and frequent hand washing are really all you need.” He raised his hands. “Doctors could be considered superfluous.”
Margo held the paintbrush over the paint can and smiled. They had more in common than she thought. “If you feel that way, why are you applying to medical school?”
Trace was silent for a moment. “Because the money’s pretty good?” he said, tongue-in-cheek.
Margo laughed and shook her head. “I suppose it is, but an answer like that won’t get you in.” She tapped the excess paint off the brush and continued to edge near the ceiling. “Why medicine? Why not do something with your undergrad degree?”
“You can only do so much with a math degree.”
“You’re a mathlete?” she asked with a grin.
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “Yup. Honors math with a minor in biochemistry. I’m just finishing up my master’s degree.”
“The pharmaceutical companies would love you.” She stepped down off the stool.
He nodded. “I’ve had a couple of job offers. But, I don’t know. I’d like to try medicine. Maybe a doctor only makes a difference fifteen percent of the time, but it’s an important fifteen percent.”
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” she said quietly. She bent down and focused on painting the wall above the baseboard. She angled the brush and with a steady hand swept it along in a straight line.
He was silent, but she refused to look at him. She already regretted saying anything.
He sighed. “Maybe. But I have to try.”
“Why?”
“For my grandfather.”
The sadness in his voice had her looking over at him. He stared out the window with a furrow between his brows.
“Is he pressuring you to be a doctor?” she asked.
Trace set his coffee cup down and got up restlessly. “No.” He ran his hand over his face. “He died.” A look of utter sadness filled his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Trace swallowed. “Thanks.” He paced around the room, and Margo dipped the brush and knelt back to the wall.
“He was in the hospital last summer for a hip replacement. He was pretty anxious going in, even ambivalent about the whole thing. But a doctor reassured him it was the best thing to do. Told him it was routine and that he’d be able to travel and dance at my wedding,” he said with a short laugh. “That isn’t going to happen anytime soon, so he was reassured that he’d be around for a very long time.”
Margo’s heart started pounding as she listened.
“But during the surgery, he had a massive heart attack. He didn’t make it.” Trace turned his back to her and rubbed his eyes.
Margo’s hand trembled and paint smeared on the baseboard that she was trying to avoid. She looked over at Trace. “I’m so very sorry,” she whispered, as tears gathered behind her eyes. “What’s your grandfather’s name?” She didn’t really need to ask. It was burned in her memory.
“Ernie Pearce.”
Her heart squeezed as guilt flooded her. A familiar nausea rolled in her stomach.
Trace cleared his throat. “He always said to me, ‘Boy, you’ve got a head on your shoulders,’” he mimicked in a gravelly voice. “‘Be the one ordering the tests and interpreting the results. Don’t stop at the mechanics.’” He shrugged. “I toyed with doing medicine and applied last year, but this time I’m going to do some research and do it right. So any help you can give me …”
Margo’s mouth went dry. Hadn’t she distanced herself enough? Hadn’t she paid her dues on this one? She couldn’t go through it again. She couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to get involved. She blew out a breath in frustration. Why couldn’t she just paint in peace?
She closed her eyes and sighed. Life was never that easy.
Maybe this was karma. In the grand scheme of things, maybe it would even the scales if she shared what little she knew and helped him with his application. It hadn’t been that long since she’d written the essays and done the same research.
She looked at the baseboard and the mess she’d made. She’d be repainting that for him, too.
She stood up and turned to look at him. “I could help you with your application if you want.”
“Really? You’d do that?” His eyes lit up.
She nodded. “I can’t say I’m an expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I can tell you what worked for me. The application is due in a month?”
“Yes.” He strode over, hugged her, and lifted her off her feet in a twirl. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He looked into her eyes as he lowered her back to her feet.
Margo’s breasts tingled at the contact against his hard chest, and her breath caught at the interest that flared in his eyes. He was going to kiss her. And she wanted to feel his lips on hers. She wanted to taste him. But a wave of guilt had her taking a step back.
“See, this new paint color is working alrea
dy,” he said with delight.
Chapter 5
“So, where do we start?” Trace asked, rubbing his hands together.
Margo picked up the roller brush. She couldn’t paint a straight edge freehand with her hands shaking.
First off, he needed to put a shirt on. The combination of smooth skin, fit muscles, tussled blond hair, and sleepy eyes was potent. Between lust and guilt, she could hardly concentrate.
She dipped the roller and worked at covering the next section of wall. “You’re going to be asked why you want to be a doctor. I know it’s hard for you, but you have to try to put into words how what happened to your grandfather influenced you. Personal experience is a powerful motivator, but it has to be more than he encouraged you.” She cleared her throat. “We can leave that for now if you don’t want to think about it …”
Trace groaned. “Questions like that make my head hurt.” He set his coffee down. “I need food,” he said and wandered off to the kitchen.
Margo closed her eyes and put her hand to her stomach to quell the nausea. Would it ever get easier? Would she ever be able to let it go? The scene she tried so hard to forget came rushing back.
Margo walked into the orthopedic clinic and strode over to the desk. “Hi, Cheryl. I’m looking for Ernie Pearce.”
“Room five,” Cheryl said. “Are you the clinical clerk doing pre-op physicals today?”
“I am,” Margo said.
“He’s had the blood work, chest x-ray, and ECG done. Just needs the physical exam. He said he had some questions for you, too.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Margo plucked a pen from a holder on the desk.
“Bring that back when you’re done.” Cheryl gave her a mock stern look. “How come you guys never have a pen on you?”
“Because scrubs don’t have pockets,” Margo said, pointing to the loose cotton clothing she wore that was the standard uniform for the operating room. “Luckily, stethoscopes fit around our necks. Otherwise we’d be borrowing those, too.”
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