Chapter Nine
Mike opened the door to one of his favorite smells.
A bell tinkled overhead. One baked aroma after another welcomed him. Bread and cake and something with cinnamon and butter. And best of all, chocolate. The Wednesday-afternoon air was frosted with the scent of cream cheese and powdered sugar. Dan’s Doughnuts was so much more than its humble name suggested. The pastry shop exceeded every thumbs-up description Chandlerville locals had given it, and Mike had barely made it through the door.
He took in the scene and smiled. Someone should bottle and sell the fragrance seeping from every pore of the place. His brother would have loved it here.
Jeremy had never met a dessert he wouldn’t devour—eating more than his share, he’d insisted, to make up for what Mike couldn’t have. Twice a week when they were boys, his and Mike’s nanny would take them to a corner bakery not far from their Upper East Side apartment. Mike hadn’t minded that there wouldn’t be something sweet for him on the other end. Their nanny would always bring him an orange to snack on. And besides, the things he couldn’t have were nothing compared to Jeremy’s problems. And being outside and goofing around with his big brother, without their mother telling them to settle down and behave like young gentlemen, had been the real treat.
Visiting Dan’s brightly lit space felt like the same kind of extravagance. Kids were munching on afternoon treats. Grown-ups grouped and chatted near the register, waiting to buy or order or pick up whatever they’d come for. Everyone, regardless of age, was all smiles. The photographer in Mike wanted to capture each carefree moment, every expression. Then his attention snagged on a familiar young smile.
Camille Bowman’s cheeks were smeared with chocolate. Her eyes were closed in pure joy while she licked frosting off the top of a cupcake. Mike already had his smartphone out and was kneeling when he made eye contact with the beautiful woman standing next to the little girl. He gestured silently, to see if it was okay. She nodded, grinning her approval.
He zoomed in with his camera app and snapped a shot of Camille, mentally titling it Rapture. The little girl’s eyes popped open, and he snapped another shot before standing. She rushed toward him.
“Hey, Mike!” She held out her treat. “Do you like cupcakes? Uncle Dan and Aunt Leigh make the best. Even the ones like mine that most people don’t know how to make right. Want to try? It’s red velvet with cream cheese frosting . . .” She frowned down at the almost completely gone icing, shrugged, and offered the well-licked treat again. “There’s enough left for you to taste. And you won’t miss the stuff that’s missing in mine. I can’t have dairy and nuts, and Uncle Dan makes sure they’re gone. But you’ll love them anyway, promise.”
“I’d love to try one.” Mike chuckled at her excited chatter. So did the natural beauty he presumed was Camille’s mother. “But there’d have to be no sugar in them. That’s what has to be missing for me.”
“I’ll let Leigh know,” said the tall brunette, curling Camille to her side. “I’m sure she and her husband could come up with something you’ll be able to eat if you snag an invite to Dru’s wedding. Dan is magic with specialty desserts. I’m Selena Bowman, by the way.” She held out her hand. “And you’re Michael Taylor, the cowboy my husband’s fuming about for getting grabby with Bethany. Or is it Harrison Michael Taylor?” She’d lowered her voice as she said his full name. “The man my sister-in-law is fuming about, for . . . Well, I’m not exactly sure why yet. But you seem to be helping Joe, so that makes you okay in my book.”
“It’s Mike.” He shook Selena’s hand, genuinely happy to meet more of Bethany’s family. “If you’ve heard all that, I’m sure you know I was never really supposed to be coming to the wedding. I guess remaining Joe’s therapist is touch and go, too, unless I settle things with your sister-in-law.”
Mike kept showing up to work with Joe. And the other man kept cordially welcoming Mike into his home each time. But Joe continued to have a hard time committing to his rehab plan—during therapy, and with the solo exercises he was supposed to do between sessions. And Mike was concerned that some of his patient’s resistance might be stemming from Mike’s ongoing issues with Bethany.
“The Dixons are a volatile bunch,” Selena conceded. “But they’re fair. Even my Oliver. And everyone’s crazy distracted right now. I was just checking with Dan about the cupcake bar for Dru’s reception. We’re already doing a special order for Camille. It’s no trouble to add something for you, just in case.”
“I’d say to order plenty of whatever this is”—Mike showed her his photo of Camille’s bliss—“and you’re golden.”
“Let me see!” Camille nabbed his phone. “Cool! Mommy, I wanna show him the pictures I took of Grammy’s flowers, and Bear and the quilt on my bed and Hello Kitty.”
Selena plucked her smartphone out of her tote. She traded with her daughter.
“Would you mind texting me a copy of this?” She handed over Mike’s phone. “I googled you, you know. You have an amazing gift.”
“No problem sending you the photo,” Mike said. “Or any of the other ones . . .” He scrolled to the images in his gallery of the kids playing outside the Dixon house. He passed Selena his phone.
She studied each picture. “Wow.”
“Add your name and number to my contacts. I’ll text you the lot. And I . . .” How did he say it without sounding full of himself? “I would appreciate it if your family would keep the details about the rest of my life private for now.”
“Bethany’s already asked us to. Didn’t she tell you?”
Mike simply shook his head, leaving how much Bethany’s family knew about his and Bethany’s last conversation up to Bethany to tell them.
Selena’s attention returned to his photos. “I didn’t think the cameras in these things could take pictures like this.”
“The newer ones have advanced a lot. They read light and handle exposure more effectively. You have better choices about how and where to focus. You can wrangle the lens into seeing what you want it to, like any other camera.”
“Look what I did last night at my Grammy Belinda’s.” Camille tugged his arm until he knelt to look over her shoulder at Selena’s phone. It was smeared with chocolate from Camille’s cupcake.
“Like I said”—he scrolled through, taking his time, enjoying her wonder and excitement and pride—“you’re a natural. How does your grammy keep her flowers looking so beautiful?”
“She has the best garden ever,” Camille said. “And she says I’m the best helper ever.” She glanced to Selena. “My mommy and me help her together, now that we live down the street.”
“And this must be Bear.” A floppy-eared, bedraggled-looking stuffed bunny had been plopped onto a blanket on the grass in front of a bush full of bright pink blossoms.
“And my favorite quilt. My grammy’s got lots of quilts. And last night she said I could take pictures of all of them.”
“You’re telling me a story with each photo,” Mike praised. “Keep doing that. You have a great eye.”
“A what?”
“The way you show us the things you love.” He tweaked her nose. “Your pictures make me love them too, Camille. That’s what photography’s supposed to do. Would you mind if your mom texts me some of these, after I send her the pictures from my phone?”
“Can we?” Camille begged Selena.
Selena had leaned over Camille’s shoulder, too, to study her daughter’s photos. She smoothed a kiss to the top of Camille’s head. She took her phone back and handed Mike his.
“We’ll send Mr. Taylor whatever photos you like.” Selena met Mike’s gaze as he stood. “And don’t worry about my family. They’ll protect your identity if that’s what you want, even if your helping Joe doesn’t work out. Now,” she said to Camille, “let’s say goodbye to Mr. Taylor.” To him Selena added, “I hope we get the chance to talk more soon.”
“Call me Mike,” he told her.
He hoped they spoke again, too
. And that his therapy sessions with her father-in-law did continue. And not just because they gave Mike an excuse to stick around Chandlerville longer.
You’re dabbling in things and people and places, until you get bored and move on.
Selena grabbed a handful of napkins from a nearby dispenser and tackled the cupcake residue on her daughter’s face. “Let’s let Mike get on with whatever he came here for.”
“’Kay,” Camille said. “Bye, Mike.”
She scampered off, making a beeline for another little girl who’d just walked in with her parents.
“You’ve really started something with her taking pictures,” Selena said. “Your excitement for what you do is contagious.”
“It’s my pleasure, seeing someone your daughter’s age having fun being creative.”
“That’s exactly how Bethany describes the classes she teaches in the city.” Selena smiled. “So, sugar free?”
He pocketed his phone and pushed up his shirt sleeve, revealing his MedicAlert bracelet. “I’m better off avoiding cakes and sweets entirely.”
Selena nodded. “How long?”
“Since I was a kid. It’s no big deal. These days I hardly notice the things I can’t indulge in.”
“Yet here you are, about to order something truly decadent. To bribe my sister-in-law, perhaps?”
He tipped back the brim of his Stetson, appreciating Selena’s to-the-point vibe that no doubt kept Oliver on his toes. “Does Bethany really like strawberry cupcakes as much as I’ve heard?”
“Loves,” Selena corrected. “Bethany loves Dan’s strawberry cupcakes.”
“A half dozen?” All he knew was what he’d heard the girls say at McC’s.
Selena hesitated. “As soon as you place your order, Chandlerville will be buzzing about who they’re for.”
“I can live with that.”
“Until you wander off to wherever you’re going next?”
“I guess you could call me a professional wanderer,” he admitted, not liking the sound of it these days any better than Selena seemed to. “But I’m in town for as long as I can help Joe. And I’d like to start over with your sister-in-law. And at least make sure she keeps painting in Midtown. I want . . .”
He wanted more than he should.
He wanted more than Bethany did. She’d made that clear. The cupcakes were only a gesture, he told himself, a peace offering. He’d make amends and move on, as free and easy as ever, leaving as much good as possible in his wake.
“If you’re planning on showing up at her front door uninvited”—Selena dug her keys from her tote bag—“take some blueberry scones, too. Bethany’s been a sucker for them since Dan Jr.’s dad ran the place and she spent all her allowance here as a teenager. Hey, Dan!”
“Yo!” The heavyset guy behind the counter sported a white apron over his belly and a perpetual smile for his customers.
Selena turned toward the baker. “Have Leigh add sugar-free treats to our reception menu. I’ll let Nic know. She’s going to hyperventilate when she sees our next order summary.”
“You bet.”
Dan waved Selena’s and Mike’s way. Curious customers turned from the counter and the tables scattered around the bakery. Their curious stares locked onto Mike.
“Just in case you finagle yourself a re-invite to the wedding.” Selena patted Mike’s arm and headed after her daughter. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” The door’s bell jingled happily as the Bowmans left. “I think I’m gonna need it.”
Dan stepped around the counter. He and Mike watched Selena pull out of the lot in a beat-up car Mike couldn’t believe was being driven by Armani’s wife.
“They’re a great family,” Dan offered. “After everything Joe and Marsha have done for their kids, what they’ve all been through lately, the whole town would do just about anything for the lot of them.” He clapped Mike on the shoulder. “We really appreciate you helping get Joe back on his feet. And it was high time someone put that Benjie Carrington in his place. Wish I could have been there to see you and the Dixon boys take him down. Now, how can I help you?”
It felt as if the entire bakery had paused to hear Mike’s answer.
“I need some strawberry cupcakes,” he said. “And blueberry scones, I guess.”
Dan nodded and headed around the counter.
“If you’re wanting to win Bethany Darling over,” he said, voice booming, “then—”
“No,” Mike corrected. “This is just—”
“A half dozen of each, I’m thinking.” Dan folded a bakery box together, filling it with pastries. “That girl deserves a good man in her life for a change.”
“Bethany,” Brad called from the front of the Douglas house. “It’s for you.”
Bethany’s brother-in-law had stopped painting the living room with a fresh coat of taupe to answer the doorbell. The living room was the last project on Brad and Dru’s must-do-before-the-wedding home improvement list. Bethany was bent over, still taping trim. Without standing up, she looked behind her toward the door.
Which left her practically standing on her head, butt in the air, gaping between her legs at the cowboy stepping into the Douglas foyer. Mike’s smile was even more gorgeous upside down.
“Um . . .” she said. “Hey?”
“Hey, yourself,” he answered.
She righted herself, blood rushing and making her dizzy. Wiping her bangs from her eyes seemed like as good a way as any to stall for time. Until the wetness on her cheek reminded her that a few minutes ago she’d brushed the sleeve of one of Brad’s faded plaid shirts against a freshly painted wall.
“Shoot!” She scowled at Mike’s chuckle.
“Need this?” Dru handed over the rag she’d been using to wipe up spills on the drop cloth protecting Vivian Douglas’s rug.
Bethany snatched the hole-riddled kitchen towel and dabbed at her face. She threw it back at her grinning sister.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Dru asked Mike.
Bethany shook her head at him.
She’d planned to hunt him down herself, to deal with what she’d run from at the loft. And with what she and Shandra had talked about. But now that he was there, it was getting all mixed up again. What she needed to do, what she wanted to do, and the crazy things he made her feel. All while she had no idea he wanted anything more with her than to have a little fun for a few weeks.
“I’d love some water,” Mike said. “And some milk for Bethany, to go along with these.”
Bethany’s attention zoomed to the signature pink box Mike held. “From Dan’s?”
Her mouth had already been watering at how good he looked: cowboy hat again, long-sleeved shirt, lovingly fitted jeans. He stepped closer and opened the pastry carton. She swallowed, barely keeping herself from attacking its contents.
“Strawberry cupcakes and blueberry scones.” Dru whistled, nodding her approval. “Excellent groveling.”
“Guy’s got chops.” Brad wiped his hands on his own paint rag and relieved Mike of the box. “We’ll take these into the kitchen and give you two some privacy.”
“What?” Bethany stared at her Benedict Arnold sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law, who were walking away. “No, I—”
“It’s great to see you, Mike,” Dru said as the kitchen door swooshed shut behind them.
Bethany stared after her family, loving them desperately. There’d certainly be no other reason for putting up with them.
She glanced back to the front of the house and found herself alone. She rushed into what had once been Vi Douglas’s formal sitting room. Mike—HMT—was standing before her easel, beside an ancient folding table loaded down with her disarray of oil paints and cloths and brushes.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she said, repeating his words when he’d found her in his loft, gawking at his high-priced photographs.
Surrounding him now, leaning against all four walls, were her cast-aside canvases. Dozens of them. Natural light s
parkled through the bay windows, washing everything in a gentle golden glow. While an intensely focused, world-class artist, the brim of his Stetson pulled low, took his time scanning the disappointing results from each frustrating attempt to create something meaningful and lasting for her parents.
Bethany held her breath, waited, needing him to understand—when she didn’t know how to be comfortable needing anything from him.
“They’re amazing.” He slowly made his way around the room. “Realistic, but surreal somehow. This isn’t how you painted in the samples you submitted for your residency. These are almost . . . dreamlike.”
“The landscapes in my scholarship and residency submissions were from high school. I can’t paint that way anymore.” She stepped to his side. She couldn’t seem to be anywhere else when he was around. “This keeps happening now, even if I’m working from photos of people and places I’ve known for years. They’re all failures.”
He shook his head, browsing through several canvases that had been set aside together. “They’re your heart. And they’re terrifying you.”
She tried to step back, and realized she and Mike were holding hands. “Please stop.”
“You’re not ready to give them everything,” he said, not looking up from her pieces. “You’re angry at what’s happening. But you keep trying. That’s courage, Bethany, not failure.” He let her go. The concern and . . . wonder in his tone kept her close. “Unless you keep deciding to give up.”
“I . . .” The truth was even closer with him there, than when she’d talked with Shandra. “I’ve quit so many times. I’ve already told my parents I might give up my residency.”
She finally had his attention. “Because of me?”
She shook her head. “Because of me. Because it’s what I do, when I think something’s over anyway. And my art’s been over since high school. I want to paint something for my parents, for people I love. But I can’t.”
“You are.”
“For a while, when I first start each new project. And it feels like before, when I could spend hours and hours on a canvas and never even notice. But then it stops. Or I stop. Or it doesn’t feel safe anymore, so I make it stop. I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I shouldn’t have applied for the residency. Another artist who can actually produce something should have that spot.”
His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) Page 15