“Don’t get out. I’m going to sit on the front porch for a while and watch the neighbors. Call me later?” Her eyes held such hope, that his heart jumped at the chance.
“Better than that. I’ll bring my guitar over when I’m finished.”
She smiled at the promise, just as he’d intended. He waited for her to walk up the driveway, unlock the front door, set her purse inside and sit down on the porch swing. She gave him a little wave, and he backed out, cursing his father and wishing next Sunday’s choir number didn’t have him singing a solo.
Bad enough to have Summer on his mind during practice. He wasn’t going to be able to concentrate at all with questions about what his father was doing too. Besides that, he was done pussyfooting around this.
He drove to his parent’s house. His father’s car was in the driveway. His mother’s was not, thank God.
He checked the front door, and it was unlocked. Another person to talk to about locking the front door.
“Dad?” He stepped into the hall and waited for a reply.
“In the kitchen.”
He reined back, searching for a diplomatic way to ask what the hell was going on and failed. He came to the kitchen door. His father stood at the counter, pen in hand with a notebook, scribbling. “What’s going on, son?”
“Just exactly what I want to ask you, Dad. I’ve seen you with two different women lately, and neither of them Mom. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
His father straightened and faced him, his face flushed then paled. “Exactly what are you implying?”
“I’m not implying. I’m asking. What’s going on?” He didn’t want to say these things. Didn’t want to have to put the accusation in words, was desperately praying for there to be another answer than the one he was thinking.
Bill ran a hand through his hair. “Dammit, I didn’t want to do this.”
Tom’s heart sank.
How was it possible for two people who loved each other, had been partners for so many years, to end up here?
“Do what, Dad?” Tom’s voice came out a hoarse whisper.
His father turned to face him, the flush returning to his face. “I’m marrying your mother again. At least that’s what I’m trying to arrange. As a surprise.”
At least five ticks of the grandfather clock sounded in the foyer before he comprehended. “You’re marrying Mom again?”
“A recommitment ceremony. Actually, it’ll be more elaborate than our original wedding.”
“Marla Spooner?”
Bill pulled back and glared at his son.
“I was leaving Mrs. Heigl’s just as you passed.”
“She’s your mother’s best friend. She’s been helping me with the wedding dress and all the accessories for your mother so she won’t know.”
“Mattie Standish?”
His father groaned. “Catering the food at the park. How?”
“Bret, Meg, and I had breakfast at Clem’s. We saw you.”
“Meg knows?”
“Not what you were doing. You’re lucky you didn’t get smacked from behind. She wasn’t too happy. Why haven’t you told the family?”
Bill snorted. “None of you can keep a secret from your mother.”
“That may be true, Dad, but when is this supposed to happen?”
He stood silent, staring at Tom, obviously reluctant.
“Saturday.”
“This Saturday?” Tom’s voice rose an octave. “And you haven’t told anyone yet?”
“I was trying to keep it secret until the last minute so your mother doesn’t get wind of it.”
“Dad! You won’t have everyone there if you don’t say something now!”
“I’d planned to hand deliver the invitations on Wednesday.”
“Dad! Not enough time. You tell Meg and Grandma. I’ll tell Rick and Chad. And get the invitations out now, or none of your friends will be there.”
“All right, butdon’t tell your mother.”
Tom shook his head, exasperated. “You know her schedule. You better have penciled something in already.”
His smile was tentative, hopeful. “I did. Reunion of a bunch of old friends, supposedly. She hasn’t asked me about it yet.”
Tom shook his head. “I’ll be amazed if you pull this off.”
Bill sighed and turned to scribble another note on the pad. “Me too.” He turned back, a twinkle in his eye. “You want to see the ring?”
“You bought her a new ring?”
“Yeah, the other one got slammed in the closet door, while on her hand I might add, and is bent all out of shape.” He reached in his pocket and snapped open a case with a forever diamond wedding band and what had to be a -carat diamond engagement ring. “I’ve wanted her to have something better for quite some time, but she’d never take the time off to go looking with me. So I guessed. I hope she’ll like it.”
“You didn’t get this at Carmichael’s Jewelry.”
“Nope, went to Abilene. Jordy Carmichael can’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.”
Tom snorted. That was a fact. He snapped the case shut. “What time next Saturday?”
“Ten o’clock in the park, champagne brunch to follow with dancing.”
“Right up my alley then. Can I bring a date?”
“Yes, you can bring Summer, if you’ll sing for your mother.” His father grinned.
Tom rubbed the back of his neck, relief feeling good. “Sure, I’ll sing whatever you want. Look Dad, I’m sorry.”
He clasped Tom’s shoulder. “I love your mother, son. Always have. Always will.”
Tom handed back the ring. “I’m glad to hear that, Dad. The two of you had us worried.”
“We have our differences, that’s for sure. I want to retire. She wants to keep going strong, give to the community. But we always stay true to each other. It’s what we both want.”
Tom hugged his father, said his goodbyes, and dashed to his truck, late for choir practice. He made the two-block trip in record time. His father’s last words clung, pushing and prodding him all the way to the church.
Could he and Summer find a way to be together while staying true to themselves as individuals? Was that even possible?
His heart was hoping, but the skeptical side of his nature kept pounding on his insecurities. He parked and ran his hands over the smoothness of the steering wheel. Over and over, his hands traced the wheel, while he searched for some sort of compromise that didn’t mean sacrificing one life for another.
He couldn’t find one.
He watched two ladies enter the church. “She’ll leave. You’ll stay. And then what?”
Her lingering fragrance blended with the sick feeling in his stomach. And mixed in was a deep well of despair.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Summer shifted the easel closer to the window and set a small two-by-three canvas on the lip. She’d set aside the lightning painting, the dark nature of the work not suiting her mood. While she waited for Tom to finish with choir practice, she would begin Mrs. Heigl’s 4th of July scene. Ever since the woman had mentioned the scene, the idea teased her, floating in the nebulous section of her brain where notion and substance met.
She picked up her sketchbook and studied the charcoal drawing she’d just finished, a basic rendering of what she planned to create.
Stuck in her memory was the last parade she’d been to. The sounds, sights, and smells crowded her head. The colors were vibrant, wheeling through her mind, much like the parade winding through the downtown streets.
She picked up the cerulean blue, mixed it on her palate and muted in the edges of the painting, wishing the room had track lighting like her studio in San Francisco.
“It’s good to see you facing the canvas with a bit more calm.”
She jumped and turned to glare at Jonathan. “I know I locked the front door. How did you get in?”
“I rang the bell. You didn’t answer, so I went around to the side door. I see you fixed
the window. Nice of you to leave the door unlocked this time. I won’t tell on you.” He grinned, but then had the good sense to wipe the traces of humor off his face.
He was dressed in his usual understated style, gray slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, black loafers. He carried a file folder in his hand.
“You look like you’re ready for a board meeting.” She dropped her paintbrush in the cleaner, resigned to having her muse interrupted.
“Actually, I’m flying back to San Francisco tonight. The jet’s landing at the local airport as we speak.”
All the air whooshed out of her lungs and she collapsed onto the window seat. “Why?”
He waved the file folder at her. “Business. This morning, Darrell Proctor called my office. He wants to commission you to paint a dozen paintings and a mural for his new industrial center.”
She choked on her own spit. “TheDarrell Proctor?”
“Yes, Proctor Foods, the producer of every snack bar, protein drink, and innovative new diet product known to man. Wants you. For an obscene amount of money.”
“Twelve paintings and a mural?” Her stomach plunged leaving a jittery nausea in its wake. “How in the world can I do that? I can’t even produce enough paintings for my show?”
“I’m thinking your show is going to be easier than we thought.”
“Easy for you to say.” She rose to pace, but could only manage a few steps each way before being stopped by furniture.
“Look around you,cher. Vintage Summer LeFey.”
She stopped mid-room and glanced at the stack of paintings leaning against the wall. “These aren’t very good. I was in high school, Jon. I didn’t know what I was doing yet.”
Jonathan shook his head and stared at the ceiling. “When is she going to trust me?” He went to her, wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. “These are every bit as good as your new stuff, your style is just different. Sometimescher, you just make things so complicated.”
She glared at him, the criticism pricking. “Did you already tell him yes?”
“You wound me.” He pulled away and dropped the file folder on the day bed.
“Where is this industrial center?”
“Michigan.”
She shivered, thinking of piles of snow and cold winds, a ridiculous reaction given it was an even seventy-two degrees in the house and cooling off from one hundred four outside. Winter was a long way off. But her usual procedure was to visit the site, get inspiration from the surroundings where the art would hang.
She tapped a finger to her lips. “What does he want, what kind of paintings?”
“Your specialty—colorful, detailed scenery.”
“Specific to Detroit or Michigan or world?”
“To be negotiated. He wants to see sketches first.”
“Of course he does.” Summer went to the window and pulled back the curtain. The street was quiet, not even one kid on a bike. Too hot. “What’s the temperature today in Michigan?”
That flummoxed him for a bit. Summer turned back to the barely begun painting to hide her amusement.
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “Is it relevant?”
“Damn cold there in the winter, and I’d have to see the place in the winter to incorporate that into the paintings. Brrr…”
“Take Tom to keep your feet warm.” That knocked her back. “Can’t.”
“Won’t,” he countered, peering at her sketchbook.
“Yes, won’t get into this with you.”
“You’re painting brilliantly here.”
She jerked as the comment struck home, ripping into her like sharp eagle talons. She chose to go back to the subject instead of facing that quagmire. “I’d have to know the scope first. Where he plans to put them, how large, what kind of production schedule he expects. I can’t just launch into this.” She grabbed the file and looked at the piece of paper and nearly fainted at the seven-figure offer in front of her.
Jonathan gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m not a rookie at this, you know. That’s why I’m going back to the office. He’s flying into San Francisco, and we’ll negotiate it into a proposal for you. Ourusualprocedure.”
She closed the file and sank to the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself lately.”
“Noted. Except you’re painting. I like that part.” He sat next to her and put his arm around her. “I like it here,cher. I think you do, too. Being from here and painting here could be workable if that’s what you wanted.”
She shook her head. “Too much baggage here. It’s weighing on me. You should hear the war in my head.” She gave a not amused laugh. “I don’t think I could put that to rest enough to make it work, and I have to be true to what my gut is telling me.”
“And that is?”
“Don’t tread a path that’s already been rejected.” She bit her lip, wishing she had a better answer.
“I think you’re wrong. I think a metamorphosis is in progress, and this place is only the beginning of better things.”
She hated his optimism, his never say die attitude. It annoyed her to the fullest, especially when his view didn’t agree with her perspective.
“You’re going to have to decide soon, if not for your sake, then for Tom’s. The man is in love with you.”
“He won’t be when I get back to real life, real work, painting all the time, traveling for contracts, grouchy and stressed.”
“I think you’re selling him short. Man seems real flexible when it comes to you.”
She glared at Jonathan, and he held up his hands in surrender. “All right, I’ll stay out of it. I have to go, or the pilot will skin me alive for messing with his flight schedule.”
He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll call you. Keep painting.”
“Seems I have no choice. The images in my head won’t leave me alone.”
She followed him down the stairs and let him out, then locked the kitchen door, so Tom wouldn’t yell at her when he came by.
The enormity of what Jonathan had dropped on her had notched up her anxiety. She checked the time, said to hell with it, and dashed back up the stairs to her painting, which was the fastest way to forget all the problems. Tom knew where to find her when he got there and really, she couldn’t just stand around in angst—worrying about her life, wanting Tom to be in it, afraid of losing him, wanting to love him, afraid to stay. When she’d described what was going on in her head as a war, she hadn’t been kidding.
She picked up the brush and doodled with the paint for a few minutes, then put the brush down. “I can’t start this.”
She tossed the brush back in the turpentine. “I’ll get too wrapped up in the painting. Lose time with Tom.”
Her heart and stomach ached with the unresolved problems between them. Her head throbbed from running through the argument in the truck. She didn’t want to blow the only moments she had with him before she left. And she did have to leave. She’d chosen her path long ago.
She brushed at the paint on her forearm and decided to take a quick shower and change into something sexy. She rushed through a cleanup of her painting and went to the bathroom. Hopefully, she had enough time to shower, slip into the white silk robe in her suitcase, and be nonchalantly reading the Echo Falls paper left on the kitchen table when Tom arrived.
She wasn’t even tempted to bask under the shower spray. She accomplished a quick scrub up in five minutes, then fussed with her appearance. She did a quick pick up, stuffing clothes in her closet and turning down the bed. She stopped to spritz perfume and apply lip-gloss on her way down the stairs. At the bottom, she hurried to the kitchen.
Tom was sitting at the kitchen table, leg crossed over one knee, waiting.
Her heart jumped into her throat. “You scared me to death. The doors were both locked. How did you get in?”
He gave her the once over, his eyes lingering on her legs. “I have a shiny new key. Bart brought it by. When
you didn’t answer, I used it.”
She padded on bare feet to the refrigerator. “I think the bell is broken. Y’all keep telling me you ring it, but I never hear it.”
Tom grinned.
She paused. “What?”
“Y’all?” His grin widened.
“Oh shush.” She took a bottle of wine from the fridge, one she was sure wasn’t there this morning.
Tom rose to take it from her and searched in the drawer for a corkscrew. “I figured you’d be painting.”
Standing on tiptoe, she could just reach the wineglasses in the top of the cupboard. “I was. Decided if I started, I would be up all night.” Hopefully, she’d be up all night for another reason. She blushed and just barely stopped herself from fanning her face. “Where’s your guitar?”
“In the hall. Think I’d renege?”
“Nope. Just checking.”
She rinsed and wiped the glasses. Tom stood ready to pour, his eyes filled with devouring intent. She gave him a coy smile and lifted both glasses for him to fill with the aromatic Texas Hill Country red wine.
He cleared his throat. “Upstairs or out on the porch?”
Her mouth fell open.
He reached over and lifted her jaw shut. “For my official concert. Get your mind off of sex.”
“Why?” She took a sip of wine and licked her lips.
Tom blew out a breath. “Upstairs it is, then. Here, carry my wine.” He handed her the wineglass and went to the hall. She turned off the lights and followed him.
Battered black case in hand, he waited at the bottom of the stairs for her to precede him. She went to the bedroom, glad now she’d taken a minute to make the room appear as if she were waiting for him. She set the wine on the nightstand and slid across the bed to lean against the pillows.
She liked Tom’s eyes on her. Besides the obvious heat factor, there was a familiarity there that wrapped all her troubles in clouds of contentment and lifted her on a dream not based in any kind of reality. She frowned, battling back the war in her head, wanting to stay in this moment and pretend she wasn’t who she was.
“Summer?”
Tom stepped to the bed, guitar in one hand, his other hand touching her cheek. “Where did you go?” He smoothed away the frown around her lips.
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