“Yeah? I believe I’ll get me a beer and get in on that. Text me.”
16
She stopped at the head of the short lane that led back to the old Tripplehorn place, freshened her lip gloss, took a critical look in the visor mirror.
All right, no more dark circles, and not all the color in her face came from the little pot of cream blush her grandmother had urged her to sample.
Her hair, windblown as it was, added a casual touch. Wasn’t it best to stay casual? she asked herself.
And took a breath.
She hadn’t been on a date—a real one, and whatever she’d said, this was a bona fide date—since she’d flown off to Vegas with Richard, to get married.
Or so she’d believed.
She’d dated plenty before that, of course, she reminded herself, through high school and into college. But it was all so vague and blurry with the enormity of the in between the then and now.
And he was fixing her dinner, which made it a sort of serious date, didn’t it? She made herself think through the enormity, back to the blur. She couldn’t think of a single time a man had fixed her dinner.
Maybe it didn’t make it serious. Maybe once you got past the high school and college years, it was just something people, adult people, did now and then.
And she was making far too much of it either way.
She made the turn, bumped her way down the narrow drive—obviously something he hadn’t bothered to fix yet—then just stopped the car again and looked.
She’d always loved the charm of the old place, the way it tucked into the green, spread a bit toward a sheltered stream.
She only found it more charming now.
He’d cleaned up the exterior, and what a difference. She thought he’d likely power-washed the old stone—repointed it, too, so it stood in various shades of brown and gold on its roll of a rise among the trees.
And he put in spanking new windows, added a set of doors in place of the broken windows on what she assumed must be the master bedroom due to the addition of a covered porch with bronze-colored iron rails.
He’d left most of the wonderful old trees, the maples and oaks, their green deepening toward that deep summer shade, and put in a couple of dogwoods, bloomed off now and still tenderly green. Clearing out the scrub and weeds along the foundation had to have been hard, sweaty, even miserable work. Whatever time he’d put in had paid off as young azaleas and rhododendrons swept color at the stone’s skirts, while older ones, wild ones, splashed more back in the green shadows.
He was doing some sort of terracing on the far side, following the rise of the land with partially finished stone walls that mimicked the tones of the house. She imagined it finished, and filled with native shrubs and flowers.
Too charmed to be nervous now, she left her van beside his truck, gathered the potted mountain laurel she’d picked up as a host gift and walked to the wide front porch.
She admired the set of Adirondack chairs painted deep forest green, the rough wood table—a stump he must’ve planed down and sealed—between them. Even as she raised a hand to knock, he opened the door.
“Heard you drive up.”
“I’m already in love with the place. It must’ve taken you a lot of sweaty days to reclaim the land around the house, all that old scrub and the briars.”
“Sort of hated to kill the briars. They added a little ‘Sleeping Beauty’ to the place. You look great.”
He looked pretty great himself, freshly shaven, from the looks of it, with a shirt of softly faded blue rolled up to his elbows.
He took her hand to draw her in.
“I’m glad to see you’re not averse to plants, so you should be able to find a spot for these.”
“Thanks. I’ll just—”
“Oh my God.”
The shock in her tone had him looking frantically for something like one of the monstrously huge wolf spiders he’d spent weeks banishing from the house.
But when she pulled free, turned a circle, her smile simply glowed. “This is wonderful. Griffin, this is wonderful!”
He’d opened up walls so what had been a dark, narrow hallway was a wide foyer that spilled naturally into a front room with a fireplace he’d refaced in native stone. The early evening light flowed through the uncurtained windows onto a gleaming deep-toned oak floor.
“I don’t use this space much yet, so I just tossed an old couch and a couple chairs into it. Haven’t figured out what color to paint it, so . . . I haven’t.”
“It’s about the space,” she said, and wandered it. “I peeked in the old windows so many times, even broke in once on a dare and walked all through. Are these the original floors?”
“Yeah.” Every square foot of them pleased him. “They took some work, but original’s best if you can keep it. I used original trim where I could, copied it where I couldn’t.”
“And the ceiling medallion. I had dreams about that for weeks after I came in. The little faces around the circle.”
“Nice and spooky. I haven’t found the right light to go there.” Like Shelby, he looked up at the plaster medallion. “It has to hit me.”
“It should look old. There shouldn’t be anything in here that looks shiny and new. Well, the kitchen and bathrooms, that’s one thing, but the rest . . . And I’m telling you your business when you obviously know just what to do. I want to see it all.”
“I haven’t gotten to all of it yet. Some spaces I’d start, realize I wasn’t in the right mood. Keep going and you end up doing something wrong, or at least half-assed.”
He should paint this room a warm, rich gold—not bright and not too dark, but like warm, rich old gold. And leave the windows undraped to show off the gorgeous trim, and . . .
And she had to stop decorating it for him in her head.
“You’re not doing all this yourself, are you?”
“No.” He took her hand again, started to lead her toward the back of the house. “Matt’s been a slave—will work for beer—when he has the time. Forrest, too. Clay’s pitched in a couple times. My father’s been down, given me a week or two when he can manage it. And my brother. My mom helped clearing the brush, and said I owe her more for that than fourteen hours of labor.
“Half bath here,” he added when she laughed.
She poked inside. “Look at that sink. It’s just like an old washbasin on a stand. Like it could’ve been here all along. And that antique bronze finish on the fixtures and the lights goes so well. You’ve got a nice sense, Griff, of color, too. Keeping it warm and natural. The house doesn’t want bold and flashy.
“What’s this over here?”
“Tools and materials, mostly.” He thought, What the hell? and opened the old pocket door.
“Such wonderful high ceilings,” she said, obviously not put off by stacks of tools and lumber, big tubs of drywall mud, and plenty of dust. “And another ceiling medallion. I guess you know they say the original Mr. Tripplehorn was six-feet-six, and built the place to accommodate his size. Does the fireplace work?”
“Not now. It needs work, and probably a gas insert in here, something that doesn’t look like a gas insert. Refacing the brick, or maybe redoing it in slate or granite. It’s crap and crumbling.”
“What’s it going to be?”
“Maybe a library. It feels like a house like this should have one.”
Because he saw it in his head, he gestured. “Built-ins flanking the fireplace, a library ladder, that kind of thing. Big leather couch, maybe a stained glass ceiling fixture, if I find the right one. One of these days,” he said with a shrug. “A couple of other rooms down here I’m still thinking about. I didn’t want to open everything up. Open concept’s one thing, losing all the original quirks and charm’s another.”
“You’ve got the best of both. You could do a pretty sitting room here, or f
irst-floor office, guest room.” She studied another empty room. “It’s such a nice view through the windows there of the trees, and just that little bend of the creek. If you put your office here, you could float the desk in the center of the room so you could see out, but not have your back to the door. Then you could— And there I go again.”
“You can keep going. It’s a good idea.”
“Well, I was going to be a singing sensation, but interior design was my fallback. I took a couple classes in college.”
“Seriously? Why didn’t I know that?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I’m going to use you. But right now, I’m going to get you some wine.”
“I wouldn’t mind a glass.” Just one, she thought, with plenty of time to burn off before she got in the van again. “Something smells really good. I didn’t expect you to—”
She broke off in wonder.
Everything just opened up. Where she remembered seeing a warren of rooms, a dingy dining room separated by walls and a door from a small and even dingier kitchen, what she’d supposed had been maids’ and cooks’ quarters was now one wonderful space that brought the hills, the trees, the creek inside through a wall of glass doors.
“I guess I went a little shiny and bold in here.”
“No, no, not bold. Beautiful. Look at the size of that farm sink. And I love how you glass-fronted so many of the cabinets.”
“Even if most of them are still empty.”
“You’ll fill them in time. I’d haunt the flea markets and yard sales, find me some old crockery. Maybe old teapots or cups and display them in those over there. And . . .”
She stopped herself before she decorated his house from top to bottom.
“It’s such a nice flow into the dining area here and the, I guess, lounge area there. You could live in this one space. So much counter space. What is this?”
“Slate.”
“It’s just perfect, isn’t it? So handsome. My mama would cry for that cooktop. I love the lights, that pale amber tone against the bronze. You designed all this?”
“I got input from my dad, from Matt, from a couple engineers I know. An architect. When you grow up with a contractor, you tend to make contacts.”
“Still, it’s your work. It feels like you. Honestly, I’ve never seen a more beautiful kitchen, and one that fits so well into this house. You have all the convenience, but the character’s right here. You could entertain half the Ridge in here. It must be a joy to cook in.”
“I don’t cook much.” He tugged on his ear. “Your basics mostly. But I figured if I ever had a place, did my own kitchen rehab, I’d go for the gold and see if I could reach it. Kitchen’s the heart of the house.”
“It is, and this one’s big and beautiful.”
“You haven’t seen the best part.”
He handed her a glass of wine, picked up his own, then walked to the wall of doors. When he opened them, they folded back like an accordion, tucked away, and brought the outside in.
“Oh, that is the best part. That’s fantastic. Warm nights, sunny mornings, you can just leave them open. And for parties.”
She stepped out, sighed.
“Still a lot to do out here yet. I’ve barely hit this part of the workable grounds.”
“You can’t beat the view.”
And now with her, he looked out over the still scrubby yard to the great green domes. They rose, soft and misty, with the quieting light.
“You can’t. Any season,” he added. “A couple months ago I looked out at snow, and it stayed white or silver gray up in the higher elevations into April. And last fall? I’ve never seen color like that, and we get some pretty jazzy foliage in Maryland. But the miles of it. Just miles of it rolling up into the sky? Every day for weeks, it just dazzled.”
He loved it, she realized, and more, understood it. The old Tripplehorn place was lucky he’d settled in.
“You can hear the creek bubbling,” she said, and found the sound more romantic than violins. “You could have a big cutting garden out here, plant things that draw butterflies and hummingbirds. And there’s enough sun you could have herbs planted right outside your kitchen—for when you do cook.”
“Maybe you could help me figure that out.”
“I have very strong opinions about such things.” She lifted her face to the breeze. “You should plant some blooming weepers, and get yourself a big wind chime for that old oak over there. Something that gives a deep, masculine tone, and a couple bird feeders—but up off the top porch or the bears could come calling.”
“I’d rather they didn’t. I’ve seen a couple sort of lumber along in the woods—when I’ve looked out. That’s close enough for me when it comes to bears.”
“I envy you this place, Griff. The feel of it, the look of it, the potential of it and the history. I like that someone I know has it, and more, knows just what to do with it. I didn’t realize you were this good.”
“Is that right?”
She laughed, shook her head as she turned to him. “What I mean is, I knew you were good at your work. I’ve seen it, and I’m seeing what you and Matt are doing for Mama. But this isn’t just changing something, or making it better, prettier or more functional. It’s bringing something back to life so many others left for dead.”
“I came to see the property on a whim, and fell in love at first sight.”
“I think it’s been sitting here pining all these years, so it must love you back.
“I don’t know what smells so good, but I hope it’ll hold just a bit more. I’d love to just sit out here awhile.”
“It’ll hold. Give me a second.”
“What are we having?” she asked as he went in to turn off the burner.
“I hope it’s going to be penne in a spicy tomato sauce with black olives and basil.”
She smiled as he walked back out to her. “And how did you know that’s one of my favorite pasta dishes?”
“I’m psychic?”
“I don’t think so. It was sweet of you to find out what I like and go to the trouble.”
“You can tell me I’m sweet after you eat it, in case it’s terrible.” Which, he could admit, was a genuine concern. “I didn’t make the cannolis, so they’ll be fine.”
“We’re having cannolis?”
“Which I didn’t make, and I didn’t make the loaf of Italian bread. And the salad’s from a bag o’ salad. I hit the wall on the pasta.”
“You’re the first man to make me dinner, and it sounds perfect.”
“What?”
“It sounds just perfect.”
“No, the other.” He circled a finger in the air, signaling a rewind. “I’m the first man to make you dinner?”
“Well, my daddy, of course, and Grandpa’s done some heroic grilling over the years.”
“I . . . If I’d known this was a first, I’d have bought fancy plates or something.”
“I don’t want fancy plates. I’ve had fancy plates. Food tastes the same on them as it does on everyday.”
He considered a moment. “I’ve got two reliables when I want to cook and impress a woman. One’s your basic steak on the grill, massive baked potato and the ever popular bag o’ salad. The other, when I seriously want to impress, is this chicken thing in wine. I’m pretty good at that one.”
“Why aren’t we having a chicken thing in wine?”
“Because I didn’t want to go for the usual with you. And I didn’t do this when you first got here because I wanted to give you time to settle in first.”
He took the wineglass from her, set it down, put his own beside it, then drew her in.
He thought she smelled like the mountain sunset. Fresh, breezy, with shimmering edges. He combed his fingers through the long, luxurious length of her hair, all those tumbling curls.<
br />
And reminded himself to go slow, go easy, as he laid his lips on hers.
He drew back. “That was just in case you thought I forgot to kiss you hello.”
“I didn’t think—can’t. Don’t— Oh, damn. Damn.”
The next thing he knew she surged against him. She knocked him back on his heels, kicked every rational thought out of his head, and flashed a wire in his blood in one fell swoop.
He stumbled back two steps before he regained his balance, wrapped around her to keep them both from pitching off the porch. And barely stopped himself from yanking the dress up and over her head.
She was an earthquake, an explosion of reckless heat shooting bolts of fire everywhere. His brain fogged in the ash and smoke.
He whipped her around, slapped her back to the post. Now that his hands were free, he used them, shooting them under the skirt of her dress, running them over her hips, over the heat, down again.
She quivered, moaned against his mouth, then nearly snapped the last thin thread of control by rocking her hips against him.
He had to pull back. “Wait.”
She had a good grip on his hair, and pulled his mouth back to hers. “Why?”
He got lost again, for a moment, for a lifetime. “Wait,” he repeated, then rested his forehead on hers. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“No, me. I meant me.” He took that breath, then another. “Okay.”
She obviously took that as a green light as she pulled him back again.
“No, I mean . . .” He solved his dilemma by gathering her up, holding her close. Jesus, did she have to be so long and soft and slim right this minute? “Okay. We’ll take a breath. We’ll just take a couple breaths.”
He had steady hands, he thought. Rock steady. Freaking surgeon-steady hands. So why were they unsteady now?
He gripped her shoulders with them, drew back an arm’s length. Just look at her, he thought, those big, dazzling eyes, nearly purple in the softening light.
He reminded himself how rough she’d had it, how rough she had it still.
The Liar Page 26