Watercolor Hearts

by Sutton Shields

  “Yeah, this is a nice car,” I said, running my hands along the leather of the door and seat.

  “I would’ve taken the plane, but the place I’m taking you…I didn’t want anyone to track us there,” he said.

  “Who’d be tracking us?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “You never know. Greg handles it all, but my plane is pretty recognizable.”

  “And a car like this isn’t?”

  He smirked. “No one knows I have this car, outside of Greg, Ivy, Finn, and now you, of course. There are ways to hide things from the rest of the world. Same goes for the place I’m taking you. There are some places in my life I like to keep to myself…until I want to share them with someone.”

  “Same goes for memories.”

  “Indeed it does,” he agreed.

  We drove a long way in silence; I even dozed off a time or two. The sudden slowing of the car woke me up from another mini-nap. My eyes cracked open to see Blake exiting the highway. The surface streets took us past a quaint, homey marketplace with a shopping area, café, and furniture store; a grand theme park; and a wide array of outlet shops.

  “Ooh, outlets. Name brands at an outlet price…right up my alley.”

  Blake chuckled. “Figured you’d like them.”

  “Ivy would be appalled.”

  “That she would be. We’ll have to tell her about them, just to twist her up.”

  I giggled. “I’m so on board with that.”

  After a few more fairly long stretches of road with quaint, fun little shops sprinkled about, we entered a darling little village called Lake George. As a child, I had always heard of friends vacationing in the popular tourist spot, but had never visited, though I wanted to so many times. The off-season was truly a peaceful time to be here. The main drag through the quiet downtown was lined with fun souvenir shops of every kind—from t-shirts to trinkets to art—putt-putt courses, an arcade, numerous restaurants, and even what appeared to be a club or two for some sure-to-be raucous in-season nightlife.

  “What do you think?” asked Blake.

  Shaking my head in awe, I said, “I always wanted to come here, ever since I was a child. This is my kind of place.”

  “I thought as much,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

  “You really like trying to read unreadable people, don’t you?”

  “Just one such person.”

  “Oh.” I tended to say ‘Oh’ far too much after Blake spoke. But, really, what else was there to say when someone reached into your heart, hugged it, and in doing so, boggled your brain into mush?

  We carried on through the town, passed a school, and headed up a hill until we finally reached a gated gravel driveway. The winding driveway, with its heavy canopy of trees making it feel like a jungle ride, went back a fair distance from the main road. Then, with one final turn, our destination came into view, and I couldn’t help but gasp: a spectacular, stone Tudor revival lake house—or lake mansion—overlooking the richly deep blue waters of Lake George.

  “Welcome to my secret getaway.”

  While watching Blake carry our bags into the stately old lake house, an unfamiliar surge traveled from the tips of my toes until it reached my heart, swirling around it like snow on Christmas Eve. There was a strange mix of hope, joy, peace, and anticipation for the unknown with Blake. I was afraid to admit we had a connection that went beyond something physical; the very fiber of our souls collided on a plane our conscious minds were too stubborn and too proud to openly acknowledge. Yet, here I stood with my heart almost begging him to destroy the barrier I had built around it so many years ago.

  “Hey, you can come in, you know,” called Blake, already standing inside the front door.

  “Coming!” I replied, hurrying to join him.

  Just inside the carved oak doors was a separate, elevated entryway featuring a grand archway with elegant, creamy-white columns and marble floors with a deep mahogany inlay. I followed Blake down a few marble steps and into an overwhelming great room. With its vaulted ceilings, oak beams, crown moldings, and sunbeams shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, one could easily feel the presence of a higher power. Several oversized cream chairs sat on either side of a taupe-colored, leather sectional sofa facing a colossal stone fireplace. A dining room and chef’s kitchen were off to the right of the great room, and a wide, sweeping staircase spiraled to the upper floors. If you walked straight across the great room, you’d access the porch.

  “Before I show you to your room, would you mind joining me on the porch?” asked Blake.

  I stared blankly at him. “Yes, I’d absolutely mind joining you on a porch with a view of the closest thing to heaven I’ve ever seen,” I teased.

  “Such a smartass. Right through there, then,” he said with a chuckle, cutting across the great room.

  Stepping out onto the circular veranda, my breath literally escaped me: from the utterly spectacular view of Lake George to the plush white and blue furniture, entertainment bar, and stone floor, I was swept away in every sense of the word. The grounds were immaculately maintained, as would be expected. A pool, long dock with about seven boat slits, three boathouses, and a darling gazebo stood behind the gracious home. Oh, how I’d always loved gazebos—something about them screamed dreamy and whimsical. They were the perfect place for kissing, dancing, daydreaming, or even getting caught in the rain with that special someone. A subtle breeze rustled through the tops of the trees, creating a murmur that almost sounded like a lullaby.

  “Well, I get why you keep this place to yourself, separate from anything Traverz related. It’s like a dream,” I said, leaning on the porch railing and inhaling the scent of nature at its best.

  “I love it here,” he whispered.

  “How often do you visit?”

  “Hardly at all. Last time I was here was probably about two years ago.”

  “Two years? Blake, how can you have a place like this and not come here?”

  Blake leaned on the railing right next to me, his arm touching mine. “Between real life and being the Manx, I don’t get much time. Or maybe I don’t make enough time.”

  “Probably the latter. My dad, he worked as hard as anyone. He never took time off work. We never took vacations or did much of anything, really. He’d come home from work, exhausted. I’d see him for maybe five minutes before he passed out in his chair. I might get five more minutes the next morning before he headed to work.” I thought for a moment, wondering where exactly my dad actually worked, what he actually did. Knowing Blake watched me intently, I added, “I know working hard is important, but I think sometimes work can kill you—starts rotting you from the inside. You have to learn how to breathe life in and remind yourself to do so every single day if you have any hope of surviving this Godforsaken world. I think it’s probably more important than collecting a pay check.”

  “And yet you’re an insomniac, workaholic, secretive worrywart,” Blake said humorously, though a twinge of concern haunted his words.

  “Hey, I never said I take my own advice.”

  “Your advice is better suited for others, eh?”

  “Pretty much yeah,” I said.

  “What did your dad do?”

  My dad’s picture in Blake’s Shade file popped into my head. “Wow, that’s a damn good question.” Crap. Get it together! “I mean, he was an accountant, whatever that really means, right?”

  For a split second, Blake studied me, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Good point,” he said, grinning. Bullet dodged, there. “That can be a tiring profession. I keep my accountants busy.”

  I laughed, perhaps somewhat nervously. “I’m sure you do. I don’t think Dad handled numbers like those you hand your accountants, though. So…you didn’t take this trip after two years just because of me, did you?”

  “To echo you…pretty much yeah.” His smile was playful, yet sincere.

  God, he had perfect lips. I wanted to kiss him. Badly.

  “Well, now I feel
guilty,” I said, somehow balancing more against him than the railing.

  “Guilt is not a word that belongs in anyone’s vocabulary. Accountability, yes. Guilt, absolutely not. Guilt is a wicked man’s magic that he wields over kind, unsuspecting souls.”

  “Wow. Beautifully said. Couldn’t agree more.”

  We shared a long, silent moment, simply staring out over the water. Though quiet, a powerful energy permeated the silence with emotion. What that energy was, I could not say, but if I had to guess, it may have been our connection deepening to yet another level.

  “How ‘bout we get you settled in and squeeze in some training?” he suggested.

  “I cannot say ‘ugh’ enough.”

  “Afterwards, I’ll cook dinner…and you’ll want what I have planned.”

  Cocking my head to one side, I said, “Aw, that’s bribery.”

  “And I’m damn good at it.”

  “You’re a good carrot dangler, I give you that.”

  “You have no idea,” he replied huskily.

  Clearing my throat, I said, “So, I guess I should get changed.”

  Blake chuckled. “Ah, she caved! It’s a miracle. Come on, let’s head in.”

  Once we were back in the great room, Blake grabbed our bags and swept into the kitchen.

  “I’m sleeping in the kitchen?” I couldn’t help it.

  “I wanted to show you…this.” He opened the refrigerator—the bottom shelf was chock full of beer. “Catering to all of my guests, you see.”

  I smiled, shaking my head, amazed. “You remembered.”

  “Of course I did.” Closing the fridge, he continued towards the stairs. Pausing beside me, he added, “You’re not exactly easy to forget. That’s a power, and a deadly one at that.”

  He headed upstairs with me close behind, pondering his words. I understood how being unforgettable could be a deadly power: I could never forget my parents, and it was their memory that consumed me, propelled me. Quite simply, their memory, if allowed to linger too long in my conscious mind, could break my already broken heart time after time. How I could personally possess a similar power was beyond me. He stopped at the top of the stairs, waiting for me to join him.

  “Master’s in here,” he said, gesturing a large room behind him. “It has the best view of the lake. You can have it, if you like. Of course, I’ll be in here as well. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Laughing, I slipped by him to peek into the master bedroom. The sheer size of the room would make the largest apartment in New York City envious. Vaulted ceilings with oak beams crisscrossing overhead created a rustic elegance, while the King size four-poster bed looked to welcome, uh, adult playtime. If I stayed in this room with Blake, that bed would see very little sleep time.

  “Wouldn’t be a problem, but perhaps you should show me another option, you know, just for comparison.”

  Smirking, Blake nodded to the next door. “If not the master, I’d pick the room closest to mine, merely by coincidence, by the way.”

  “Right, sure.”

  He pushed the door open to my guest quarters. Open and airy, the room had an unmistakable Victorian feel, from the tall, canopy bed with its champagne velvet comforter to the silver brush sitting atop an antique vanity set.

  “This is bigger than my apartment.”

  “Everything is bigger than your apartment.”

  “This is true.”

  “How ‘bout you meet me down by the docks after you’ve gotten comfortable, do a little training?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You have a private dressing area back there to the left, which leads to your bathroom suite. Should be plenty of towels and such, but if you need anything, just holler for me, and I’ll come running.”

  He didn’t just mean to retrieve towels; he meant he’d come running to me, for me. I nodded nervously and watched until he disappeared around the corner. Slowly, I closed the door, gazed around the room, and reminded myself this was real. Laughing in wonderment at this whole here and now situation, I quickly rummaged around my bag for some yoga pants, a workout top, and a matching jacket; although it was unusually warm for the end of September, I imagined it could be fairly chilly beside the lake. After changing into my training gear, I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and hurried to meet Blake.

  Exiting via the great room, I ran down the stone stairs of the porch and continued past the pool until I finally spied Blake on the edge of the lawn, adjacent the docks. Blake, facing the water and wearing nothing but a pair of gray slacks, the sun acting as a spotlight on every muscle of his bare back, was deeply engaged in Tai chi. He embodied the slow, fluid movements with such precision that it looked more like art than exercise. I could see every defined muscle from his lower back to the base of his neck.

  I stood there, hypnotized by all that was the Manx. Knowing the level of humiliation would be unrecoverable should Blake suddenly realize I was present and gawking like an idiot, I said, “And here I thought all you did was the throw ‘em down, beat ‘em up stuff.”

  Blake stopped and turned around to face me, his smile wide. “Eh, well, hard and fast can be fun, but there’s no substituting slow and easy, is there?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Maybe you need to show me.” Yes, I just said that. To Blake. My boss. My hormones and heart clearly had the reins over my brain and mouth.

  Blake’s playful grin morphed into one of a man who genuinely cared for the human being standing before him. “The beautiful thing about Tai chi is that you learn control of your body and control of your mind. Sometimes, strength is found in restraint.”

  “Show me,” I breathed.

  He stood barely a few feet away from me. “Mimic my movements.”

  Though it took a few moments, I eventually found his rhythm, and we moved in sync, each movement graceful, yet fearsome. As the sun began to make room for the stars and moon, I no longer needed to watch his movements. I allowed my eyes to wander up his body…to his face…to his eyes. What I didn’t expect was to find his eyes keenly watching my expression. Despite our eyes now being firmly locked, we never faltered in our fluidity, though each motion became slower, more meticulous. If I didn’t know any better, I could swear we were making love…until my stomach unleashed a rolling, gurgling roar worthy of a zoo exhibition.

  Blake turned a raised eyebrow to my stomach. “Is that so?”

  “Um, what?”

  “Your stomach and I are having a conversation. I speak stomach fluently.”

  Well, if that wasn’t the cutest thing. “And, pray tell, what is it saying, besides ‘I’m hungry and out to embarrass Maggie?’”

  “That it’s hungry and wants to embarrass Maggie.”

  “See, what did I tell ya?”

  “Well, what do you say? Ready to succumb to your stomach’s demands?”

  “I could definitely eat. What’s on the menu?” Please say filet-o-Blake.

  “I’m thinking steak, cheesy au gratin potatoes, and my world famous Caesar salad.”

  “Okay, first—yum. Second, world famous Caesar salad?”

  “Oh yeah. You’ve never had salad the way I toss it.”

  “Then I assure you, I will not get in the way of said tossing. You sure you want to cook again?”

  He nodded, and everything about that blasted nod was sexy. “What do you say?”

  “I say point me to the nearest fork and steak knife.”

  “Excellent.” Blake pointed toward the main house. “Shall we?” I nodded. Together, we made our way back toward the house. “I have one more very important question before I fix dinner: red or white wine? Or we can drink beer.”

  I laughed. “I won’t offend the steak by checking the box for beer, but I will vote for white wine. Always white. I know red is the proper wine for a steak dinner, but unless you want to hold my hair back while I visit the toilet later on, I’d stick with the improper white.”

  “Red wine makes you sick?”

  “I think
it’s mainly by association. After a particularly bad day, I drank too much red wine and upchucked for hours. Pretty sure it was actually food poisoning, but it ruined my outlook on red wine forever.”

  “Can understand that. Similar thing happened to me with salmon. Show me a salmon, and I’ll show you my internal organs. Simple as that.”

  We laughed and joked all the way back to the house. We decided to change out of our workout duds and meet back in the kitchen. It took me a good while to figure out what to wear. Jeans or a dress? Relaxed or semi-fancy? I honestly had no idea. We were by the lake and staying in for the night, which ordinarily signaled ‘relaxed.’ However, Blake would soon be cooking up a steak dinner and, where I come from, that meant fancy. Fortunately, Ivy packed a couple of dresses—a skimpy black number and a pale yellow tea-length dress. I opted for the yellow one, deciding it was a happy medium between fancy and relaxed. I reapplied some lip gloss, fluffed my hair, and headed downstairs to meet Blake.

  By the yummy smells already waffling through the house and the sizzling sounds echoing all across the great room, I knew Blake was already hard at work on dinner. Dressed in a white shirt hanging out over black pants, Blake tended to his steaks, taking great care to season them properly.

  “Hey there,” I said, entering the spacious kitchen.

  His lively brown eyes darted up happily at me. “Wow…well…you look beautiful, feisty one.”

  My cheeks burned. “Thanks. And you look…busy. Can I help with anything?”

  By the sly, ‘Are you joking?’ expression, I gathered he wanted me and my lack of kitchen know-how far away from his meat…the steaks, the steaks. God, brain, I beg you, detach from the dirty.

  “Fairly certain my steaks just quivered at the thought,” he quipped.

  I burst out laughing, holding my hands up. “Okay, okay, I had to offer. I feel bad not helping. I have to help with something.”

  Blake added the second steak to the grill. “Hmm, well, you could help by pouring the wine.”

  “That I can do.” On the counter behind Blake were two glasses and a bottle of white wine. “In addition to my hot dog boiling skills and Olympic cereal fixing expertise, I excel at pouring wine. It’s a gift.”