How could that be?
“Another one, Summer? What the hell is going on?”
Remembering he was a cop kicked in too late. She took a step away from him before she gave into temptation and slipped a hand around his waist for a good old-fashioned feel of his body against hers.
Bad idea. Really bad idea.
“Not your problem.”
His cheek developed a tick while he processed her answer. “Wrong. My town. Your painting. A forgery you say—hm? Crime in there somewhere. What is going on?”
She exhaled carefully, shoring up her defenses. The fierce look in his eye sent a thrill to her toes. Most men were overbearing in their protectiveness, but knowing Tom was alarmed, maybe even offended, on her behalf did something to her heart.
“I know.” She rubbed the back of her neck and turned back to the painting. “But I never painted this scene. I never painted Main Street.”
Tom closed the gap again, this time shoulder-to- shoulder to look at the painting. “I’d ask if you’re sure…” He reached out and traced the painting with a careful finger.
Summer bit her lip. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“Well, if it isn’t Summer LeFey,” a raspy, thin voice said from behind them.
Well, this was a nasty surprise.
Tom turned.
Summer didn’t.
She remembered that voice. Of all the memories she had to retain, she would not forget Miranda Watson. Even though she was two years younger, she’d been the bane of Summer’s existence since seventh grade.
Tom acknowledged the woman. “Hello, Miranda.”
“Tom. Welcome home, Summer.”
Summer turned with a retort on her lips and was shocked to silence. Miranda had not aged well. Twenty-six years old, and she looked two decades older. Her dark hair had thinned, and her haggard frame only hinted at the girl she’d been. Her peach colored nursing outfit did nothing for her pallid complexion.
“One of your best paintings, Summer. Good work.” She twisted a silver ring on her middle finger, around and around.
Summer’s phone rang. She glanced at the display. “I have to take this.” She gave Tom a pointed look, and he nodded. She walked outside under the portico and answered, blowing out a breath.
“Another one? Seriously?” Jonathan’s tone was brisk and edgy.
“This one was in the attic with the other three. Walter decided to give one to the nursing home. It’s hanging in the entryway. So technically, I suppose you could group it with the other three.”
“This has slipped from annoying into a serious problem, Summer.”
“I assure you, I get that.”
“I’m coming for a visit. I’ve got to see these for myself.”
Strange reluctance to have Jonathan visit her hometown seeped through her. “I could have them shipped to you.”
“Nope, I’ll be on a plane in a few hours. With luck, I can be there by dinner.”
She gave up any pretext of arguing. “Okay. Call if you need directions.”
“GPS,cher. But I will.”
She snapped her phone shut. The sweet scene of summer roses washed over her. The entry way was lined with orange and yellow roses, the flowerbeds and lawn perfectly cared for. Across the street sat more family homes, some more run down than others, but the homey vibe was the same as her grandfather’s neighborhood.
Summer glared at her reflection in the nursing home door. A mess waited inside—Walter’s possessions, another fake painting, and a woman she’d rather stick needles in the eyes of than talk to. This was emotionally choking her, and she wanted to walk away, but she’d done that before, and look how that had turned out. Plus, Tom was waiting inside. She wouldn’t do that to him.
A shiver of trepidation shot down her spine. When had he become important?
Putting aside her feelings about the handsome cop to think about later, she slipped her phone back in her purse. She walked back to Tom, now waiting alone by the painting. The smile was gone from his face, tiredness layered around his eyes and mouth. She wanted to reach up and soothe, run a fingertip around those eyes, lie down and pull his head into her lap and massage his face and neck until he fell asleep. She shut her eyes to exorcise the idea.
“Summer?”
She let the vision of him in again. God, she wasn’t sure which she wanted more—to paint him or to kiss him.
He pointed at the painting. “I’ll have the nursing home administrator take this painting down. I need to write a report too.” He waited for objections.
Summer shrugged. “I have people who handle these things. But you do what you think is necessary.”
Tom’s eyebrows rose. “You have this happen often?”
“More than I’d like lately.”
He looked like he planned to ask more questions, but Summer changed the subject. “Let’s just leave this for now. No one knows but you and me. Can we go on to Grandpa’s room and get that part settled?”
He looked at the painting then back at her. “Yes, but we are going to talk about this subject with details later, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine. Whatever. Which direction?”
He pointed down the hallway. “This way.”
Summer started walking, watching the room numbers until she was in front of a closed room. And she stood there and stood there. Seconds ticked by.
Complicated, twisted emotions shoved around inside, twining like a vine up a gnarled tree—the kind that jammed her breath, teared her eyes, and made her flee to her brushes and paints. She might be staying in her grandfather’s house, but he hadn’t lived there for years, and the space spoke more of her grandmother than it did him. This room would be filled with his presence, his smell, things he’d touched before dying. Who knew she’d feel this way?
Tom stopped behind her. She could feel his strength, his solid presence next to her, hear his breath—and it comforted. Lord knew, it shouldn’t. But it did.
She turned to face him. “I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with this.”
He waited. “Okay.”
“I feel like a horrible person for not being here, not visiting.” She flopped her hands ineffectively.
Tom ran a hand down her back. “I’m beginning to suspect you had what you felt were pretty compelling reasons for staying away.”
“I thought so.” She rubbed her hands together, thinking through her reluctance. “Why didn’t you clean his room out? You were here with him, you know where things are. Why didn’t they want his room back already?”
He glanced down the hall, and it was a moment before Summer registered the voices. He reached around her and twisted the knob. “Look, everyone here knows me. They’ll want to talk. If we don’t want to get waylaid by them, we need to go inside the room. I’ll explain.”
She nodded, suddenly concerned she was being a ninny. A silly, schoolgirl scared, kind of ninny. Her reaction plain made her mad. She didn’t expect to feel this way, to feel sorry he was gone.
She took four wide, hopscotch steps across the white speckled linoleum and it was done. She was in the room.
Tom stepped in behind her, and the door closed with a click. A blue-green plaid bedspread covered the hospital bed. The civil war chess sat next to the bed on the nightstand, and a natty brown rocking chair next to that. Above the bed was another of her paintings. This onewas hers. Her grandmother’s garden in spring, a riot of colors, untamed and unbound.
Grief and the anger released from the twisting vine and rose up in equal measures, each fighting to choke her. She didn’t know whether to cry or rage, to rant or pretend indifference, or to forgive, or walk away. Why the hell couldn’t the man have acknowledged her art when it mattered, when she had needed his approval so desperately?
People didn’t hang paintings they didn’t like. Evidence of his pride in her hung on walls all over town. That alone she had trouble coping with. But over his bed where he couldn’t quite see the work, but knew talent was there?
T
hat made her damn furious.
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Tom watched Summer’s face and realized two things. The woman had a mass of emotion bubbling under the surface, like a volcano ready to blow, flicking bits of dirt and ash for miles. She’d loved Walter too. Walter had hurt her, badly. Yet, she’d had the grit and the drive to walk away and make something of the talent without his approval.
He wanted to reach for her, hold her close, prod into letting loose of the anger. Should he? He’d been pretty judgmental when he’d first seen her. Would she view his interference in her emotions as what he intended them to be—catharsis moment, a shoulder to support her? He had only one way to find out.
He stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to his side.
“I’m too angry to cry about this.” But her lip trembled.
“Mind if I do?”
She gave him a glance, probably to see if he was kidding.
He wasn’t.
A knot the size of a baseball sat in his throat— grief for the loss of Walter and for Summer’s pain.
“Who picked the painting for this room?” The choked question sat like a grenade in the room.
Tom turned her toward him. “Don’t tell me it’s not yours.”
The floodgate opened, and the tears gushed down her cheeks. “Yes, it’s mine,” she sobbed and collapsed against his chest.
He drew his arms tight around her, absorbing the feel of her, tamping down the satisfaction of her being in his arms. He held her as tight against him as he could, let his hands roam over her hair and down her back in a soothing motion, then when she hiccupped against him, he kissed her hair. Not as satisfying as kissing her mouth, but this was neither the time nor the place for the kind of lip contact he had in mind.
A date.
They needed a date that didn’t involve death and funerals and wills.
She pulled out of his arms and crossed to the window. He mourned the loss.
“Why couldn’t he have said ‘You’re a good artist’? Why not once?”
“Maybe he was afraid you’d get hurt. Maybe it was his way of trying to protect you.”
She drew the curtain aside, and he knew what she’d see. Walter’s room bordered the alley, but the view across the empty field next to the home included the railroad tracks in the distance. Walter had worked for the railroad for thirty-five years. He always said he could keep the connections to his trains that way. The memory brought a fresh wave of grief, and he swallowed hard against it.
Summer tapped the window with her fingertips in a staccato beat. “Did he not understand how important it was to me to try anyway?”
“Maybe he felt stronger about protecting you. I’m not saying it was right.”
“It made me feel like he didn’t believe in me, didn’t loveme.” She turned half way toward him and laid her hand over her heart. “He hangs my paintings everywhere, but won’t use my money. That doesn’t make sense.”
Tom fisted his hands on hips. “He was stubborn. Like someone else I know.”
She looked ready to take a bite out of him, but he gave her his best smile and she paused, then rewarded him with a slight grin.
“To answer your question,” Tom said, “he wanted one of your paintings above the bed. I went to the house and picked this out.” He hesitated a moment about telling her the rest, but decided there had been enough lack of communication on this whole issue. “He said it would do. I don’t think he wanted me to see the tears in his eyes.”
Summer’s eyes flooded again, but with a couple deep breaths, she mastered them. “Okay then.”
Tom raised his eyebrows at that, not sure what it meant, but decided not to step into that minefield. “I was going to donate his clothes to the Methodist church rummage sale.”
“Fine.”
“Any of it you want?”
“No.”
“He had some personal things…a watch, a pocket knife? A locket.” He stepped to Walter’s ragged jeweler’s box and lifted the lid.
Summer stepped to his side and stared into the box. She picked up the watch. “I remember this.”
“You should have it, then.”
“What would I do with it?”
Tom exhaled. “Keep it as a remembrance for the good things.”
She smiled slightly, lost in the memory. “I do have good memories. He carried this to work every day. I remember the first time I went to work with him and rode the locomotive.” She lifted the locket. “This was my grandmother’s.”
Tom let his hand slide over her shoulder in acknowledgement of the sentiment. “Then this box is definitely a keeper.”
She turned to search the room. “Okay, so I’ll take the jewelry and the painting. You get the chess set. And the rest?”
“I’ll send to the rummage sale. I’ll take care of it.”
She bit her lip, worrying the delicate skin. “I seem to be leaning on you for a lot of things.”
“I’m happy to do it. He was my friend. I helped him for a lot of years.”
She jerked as if he’d slapped her. “Meaning I didn’t?”
The crestfallen look on her face nearly crushed him in regret at his thoughtless phrasing. He reached for her, lightly gripping her arms. “That didn’t come out the way I intended. I cared about him too, Summer. It gives me some closure too. That’s all I’m saying. It’s not a hardship to do these things.”
She relaxed, but shrugged away from him. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself. Can we leave now?”
“Sure.” He followed her out, quietly shutting the door. “I’ll bring the painting over to the house later.” He looked at his watch. “Damn.”
“What?”
“I’m late. You want to come with me?”
“Where?” She only looked mildly interested.
“Baseball, then hot dogs and potato salad later.” He slipped his hand against Summer’s bare elbow, enjoyed the feel of her soft skin and the confused look on her face. He let the question hover until they were out the front door of the nursing home, fortunately with only having to have a brief conversation with Hal David and George Brucker for Thursday night poker. Then he elaborated. “My nephews have a baseball game this afternoon, and the family’s meeting at the park for a picnic.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” She stiffened into a stranger, not the warm, emotional woman he’d held in his arms earlier, and her retreat grated against his male pride.
“Oh, yes, you could. I insist.” He wasn’t usually so high-handed, but this was step one in showing Summer the Echo Falls she loved and getting her to realize it.
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Summer sat on the fourth bleacher row, simultaneously feeling welcomed and out of place. How had she and Tom ended up here? The afternoon sun beat down on the ball fields at the city park. The heat was enough to make her want to beg Tom to take her back to her house. And that thought kept looping around in her brain. Her house? Yes, she supposed no matter what, the house was now hers, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She remembered how much her grandmother had loved the house, how she weeded and planted her gardens, how she bustled in the kitchen canning fruit from the trees along the back of the property, how she cared for every piece of furniture and made things comfortable for both her and her grandfather. Summer didn’t remember anything about how the grief of losing their only son, her father, had affected the two. She just remembered lots of smiles and hugs—from both of them.
“Serious faces are not allowed on the baseball field.” A familiar perky woman with platinum blonde hair plunked down beside her. Meg Applegate handed Summer the largest drink she’d ever seen.
“Sonic. Route 44 sweet tea. Welcome back to Texas. Let’s see, we had freshman biology and sophomore English together, plus U.S. History, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Yes, I think that’s right.” Summer took a sip of the drink and sighed in relief.
Meg took a sip of her own large drink. “Yeah, can’t do a ballgame in th
is heat without one.” Bill Applegate had followed Meg, but stopped by several people to chat. When he passed Summer’s section, he greeted her with a quick wave and moved down to the fence line.
Tom was down on the field. Apparently he coached this little league team with his brother, Rick. Rick’s sons—Derek in third grade and Devon in fourth grade—played for the team, which appropriately was sponsored by Applegate Farms.
“He doesn’t mean to be a moron, you know,” Meg commented.
“What?” Summer turned to look at the woman, not following the comment.
“Bring a pretty woman to a baseball game and then abandon her in the stands. He used to be smarter than that.” She leaned over, rummaged through an over-sized straw purse, and pulled out an orange Applegate Farms baseball hat. “Here. Put this on. It really helps to keep the sun off your head.”
Summer had never worn a baseball cap in her life. She adjusted the knot of hair so it would lie inside the cap and jammed it on her head. She banished her preachy fashion sense—a salmon color shirt and an orange hat? Self-consciously, she looked around, but she was hot enough that anything giving her a modicum of coolness was appreciated.
She took another long sip of tea, rolling the flavor around on her tongue. She’d forgotten the wonders of sweet tea.
“We cleaned out Walter’s room today, or decided where stuff should go.” She didn’t know why she confided that, but Meg had always had a listening way about her.
“That must have been hard. I’m so sorry.” Meg raised her arm and waved at a tall man, herding two redheaded little girls who looked identical except for different colored clothes. A woman carrying a baby trailed behind him with Tom’s grandmother, who seemed more upbeat than she had at the funeral. Summer wasn’t sure she was up to being in the middle of a family gathering, making small talk. Why had she let Tom talk her into this?
“You can’t bolt and run. Tom won’t forgive you.” Meg flashed a grin, more than likely reading the chagrin on her face.
Echo Falls, Texas Boxed Set Page 49