She laughed. “Boy, that must be the hot place in town to work. I think everybody I talked to today suggested I apply there.”
“Probably because everybody knows they need good help. It’s the only place in town to get a decent cheeseburger, and right now they’ve got a bunch of irresponsible high-school kids working there. It takes them fifteen minutes to dip an ice-cream cone and twice that long to figure out how to make change for a ten.”
She laughed. “Hey, if it’s good ice cream, it might be worth the wait.”
“Oh, it’s good all right. Otherwise they would have been out of business a long time ago.”
She bit her bottom lip and fidgeted with the paintbrush handle. “You don’t need help at the print shop, do you? I have some graphic-art experience.”
“Really?” He stalled for a minute, pretending the strip of masking tape in his hand was taking all his concentration. He didn’t want to tell her that they could barely make payroll with the skeleton staff they had. “Where did you work in graphics?”
She didn’t answer for a minute but climbed down from the ladder to switch to the smaller brush. He was starting to think she hadn’t heard him.
But once she climbed the ladder again and resumed painting around the edges of a kitchen cabinet, she started talking as if no time had passed. “I’ve worked a couple of different places. My degree is in design, but I’ve done a little of everything. If you have any kind of opening, I’d be interested. I’ll answer phones or file or whatever. I’ll even clean the toilets if that’s what you need.” She giggled. “Do I sound desperate?”
“Maybe a little.” His grin melted to a sigh. “I wish I could hire you to clean the toilets because, right now, that’s my job.”
She laughed again. It had been a long time since he’d known the pleasure of making a woman laugh.
He frowned. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the money to hire anybody right now.” Then, without prompting, an idea materialized in his mind. “You know what?”
She stopped painting in midstroke, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes.
Why hadn’t he thought of this before? “Listen, Bart and Wren are paying me a pretty decent wage to do this remodeling job. But I need to finish it up before the back-to-school jobs start coming in at the print shop. If you could keep on and just do the painting for me, and maybe help out with some finishing work later, I’d pay you.”
Meg’s face lit like a jack-o’-lantern. “Seriously?”
The idea took on a life of its own, and his enthusiasm gave his words steam. “Yes, I’m dead serious. I can only work in the evenings, but if you can get the painting done during the day, I’d be able to get to the other stuff a lot quicker. It would help us both out. Have you ever hung wallpaper?”
She shook her head, and her expression revealed she was afraid her negative answer was going to cancel the whole deal.
“Hey, neither have I. But Wren talked about putting up a border of some kind out here.” He spun on his heel, panning the walls, trying to imagine. “I don’t know that I’m crazy about the idea, but Wren thinks she wants one.”
“What about stenciling—or a painted border? I did an ivy vine sort of thing in my sister’s bathroom, and it turned out great . . . if I do say so myself.” She balanced her paintbrush across the can of paint. Leaning out over the ladder, she pointed at the arched doorway. “Can’t you see something with vines twining over the doorway—morning glories maybe? Lavender would look wonderful against this sunny yellow.”
He could envision what she suggested, and it sounded nice. If she were any good, the artistic element could add a unique flair to the décor. But what if she was terrible? He had a vision of the wall of drawings the day-care kids did. He’d better give himself an out before he got in too deep. “I think it’s a great idea, but I don’t know how set Wren was on wallpaper. We’ll talk it over with her when she gets back. Maybe you could do a sketch for her first. But I know she’ll do backflips over the idea of you helping with the painting.”
They both laughed at the image he’d created of Wren, and Meg clapped her hands together at his idea, making him think again of that little girl at Disneyland.
“This is fantastic,” she said. “How long do you think it’ll take to finish all this?”
He did some quick calculations in his head and spread his arms to encompass the dining area. “I’ll finish taping and drag all this extra drywall and stuff out of here tonight so you can start painting first thing Monday.”
“Oh, no need to wait until Monday. I could start first thing tomorrow morning!”
He wagged his head. “Huh-uh. That’ll never fly.”
A quizzical look came to her eyes. “Because they have guests?”
“It’s not that. Bart and Wren would never go for you working on Sunday.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Honestly.”
He puffed up his cheek, trying to think how to explain. “I don’t think you understand. Sunday is the Sabbath. A day of rest. Bart and Wren are sticklers about that.”
She nodded slowly, but he could tell from her expression that she didn’t really understand.
“But even so, if you can get it all painted in a couple of days—say by Tuesday night, I can do the trim work in two evenings, maybe three, while you work on the border. I don’t know how fast you paint, but we could have the whole thing done and cleaned up before next weekend.”
“Oh. That soon?” She deflated a bit. “Well . . . sure. Count me in.”
He studied her. Obviously her expectations had been very different from reality. And he hoped she wasn’t expecting California wages for this job. “Sorry. I wish it was more hours, but I’m just being realistic. And Kansas wages might be a bit of a shock to you after living on the West Coast.”
“Oh, no . . . I didn’t expect . . .” She became preoccupied with a hangnail. “I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful. I’m very glad for the work. And maybe by the time we’re finished, I’ll have heard from the gallery.”
Trevor’s hand stilled on the wall he was taping. “The gallery?”
She nodded. “That’s the possibility I was talking about. The owner said he might have work for me. Of course, it would only be part-time, but at least—”
“You mean Linder’s?”
“Yes.” She pointed to the north. “Just up the street.”
He nodded. “I know where you mean.”
Old feelings came roaring back. He tried to push them down, but they left a bitter taste in the back of his throat.
“Mr. Linder didn’t promise anything but said he might have some part-time work.”
Trevor swallowed hard and turned back to his taping. Was this some kind of test? He’d squared things with Jack a long time ago. He truly had. And maybe Meg really could make a difference with the gallery. Coming from a metropolitan area, she’d probably have some fresh ideas. And maybe this was a chance for Jack to get his life straightened out.
But didn’t he owe it to Meg to at least caution her? Yet what kind of friend did that?
And then there was Wren. He wouldn’t hurt her for the world. Still, Meg had become a friend too. And if she was going to be helping him out here . . .
He raked a dusty hand through his hair. Meg Anders hadn’t been here a week, and she was already tying his life in knots.
She’d invented a whole new background for herself, but it was getting harder and harder to keep her stories straight.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There was something about Jackson Linder that wasn’t being said. Maggie had wondered at Wren’s reaction earlier, and now Trevor had that same sour-lemon expression. What was it they weren’t telling her?
“What . . . what would you be doing . . . in the gallery?”
Trevor kept his back to her, but Maggie didn’t miss the ferocity in his motions as he ripped a length of masking tape from the roll.
“I don’t know yet. Maybe cleaning toilets.” She waited for the laugh she’d hoped to e
licit, but it didn’t come. “I’d be helping out with the business stuff so he can concentrate on his painting.”
Trevor gave a noncommittal grunt and turned back to the window sill he was taping.
“So you know Mr. Linder?”
“Oh, I know him.”
He and Wren were reading from the same script. Maggie laid her brush on the top of the ladder and climbed down. Trevor was on his knees taping the wide woodwork beneath the window sill. She crossed the room and stood behind him until he glanced up at her.
He rocked back on his heels. “Do you need something?”
Arms akimbo, she studied him. “Is there something I should know about Mr. Linder?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean?”
“You tell me. You and Wren both started acting weird when his name came up. Like there’s some reason you’re not too thrilled with me taking that job at the gallery.”
“You said it wasn’t for sure.”
“No. But if it was, is there anything you’d be telling me?”
He rose to his feet. “Jack is a friend of mine, Meg. We go way back. I don’t know if it’d be right for me to—”
“What? What is it?”
“It’s just . . .” His work boot rubbed a trail through the layer of dust on the floor. “Jack’s had some rough times in recent years. He’s . . .”
She waited while he gnawed the inside of his cheek and shifted from one foot to the other, painting in the dust with the other foot now.
“Jack went through some bad times, and he hasn’t handled it well. He . . . drinks too much and . . . well, I’ve said enough.” He lowered his voice. “The thing is, I don’t know where he’d get the money to pay you. As far as I know, he hasn’t sold a painting since before—let’s just say business isn’t booming at the gallery, and what money he has gets spent on booze.”
So she had smelled liquor on his breath. “Is that his only business?”
“It is now.”
She wasn’t sure how to interpret that, but before she could ask him what he meant, the bells on the front door jangled. Trevor looked to Maggie, as if she would know who it was.
“Wren got guests this afternoon. A big group. That’s probably them.”
“Really?” Trevor pushed off the floor and stood. “I don’t think they had reservations. At least Wren didn’t say anything. Well, hey, that’s great.”
Maggie started toward the door. “I’ll go see if they need anything.”
Out in the lobby, she stopped short when she saw Bart and Wren bent over the front counter, sorting through a jumble of Wal-Mart bags. “Oh, it’s you. You’re home early, aren’t you? I thought you were going to see a movie.”
Wren looked up. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks ruddier than usual. But she offered Maggie a smile, and her voice came out as chipper as always. “We decided not to. We’re not really movie people.”
Bart rubbed the palm of his hand in circles on his wife’s back. Wren smiled up at him and leaned into his caress, all at once looking like she might cry.
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Wren said, suddenly intent on digging in a shopping bag.
Maggie took a step forward, wishing she could think of something to say or do. “Can I help put things away?”
“Heavens, no!” Wren was instantly herself again. “You’re a guest, sweetie. You go on now. Relax.”
“Well, um . . . I’m sort of helping Trevor out.”
Bart and Wren exchanged looks, and Maggie ducked back into the dining room without explanation.
But she was barely ensconced on the ladder again when the older couple peeked in through the doorway.
Wren clapped a hand over her mouth. “For land’s sake! Look at you two!”
Trevor winked at Maggie before turning to Wren. “If you’d gone to the movies like you were supposed to, you might have come home to a fully painted and plugged-in kitchen.”
Wren crowed and spun on her heels. “I’m not here,” she said over one shoulder. “You just pretend you don’t see me. For all you know, I’m sitting in the Dickinson with a big tub of popcorn in my lap. Come on, Bart. Let’s go find an old video to watch.” She grabbed her husband’s arm, and they disappeared through the archway, giggling like young lovers.
At the sound of their footsteps on the stairway in the lobby, Trevor came to the ladder and reached up to give Maggie a high-five. “Let’s pretend they never came home,” he whispered. “We can do this.”
She nodded agreement and made a show of slapping paint on the next portion of the wall. They worked in silence to the whish whish of Maggie’s paintbrush and the rhythmic zip of Trevor unrolling and tearing off the painter’s tape as he worked his way around the room.
When he finished taping the dining area, he came over to the ladder with an empty roller pan. “Hey, that’s looking good. If you don’t mind doing the trim work along the baseboard on this wall, I can start rolling where you’ve already been.”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
He held out the roller pan, and she tipped the can and poured paint into the pan. They moved the ladder to the other wall, and she climbed up and went to work trimming the largest wall of the kitchen while Trevor worked the roller brush in long, even strokes on the walls Maggie had trimmed. Even as the light outside the windows faded to dusk, the kitchen began to take on a sunny glow.
Jasper sauntered into the room and swept by Maggie’s ladder. His tail knocked off a paintbrush that had been balanced across a can. Thank goodness Trevor had seen to it that the floor around the edge of the room was covered in canvas tarps. Maggie shooed the cat away again.
Half an hour later, she took a bathroom break and brought back two Cokes that someone—probably Bart—had put in the miniature refrigerator in her room.
“You want a soda?” She held out the chilled can to Trevor.
He flashed a knowing grin.
“Excuse me! A pop.” She dragged out the word in a hayseed drawl. “I’d like to give you a pop all right,” she mumbled under her breath but loud enough to be sure he heard.
He laughed and held out his hands in surrender.
Maybe it was time she came clean about the whole West Coast thing before she dug herself any deeper. She opened her mouth to speak, but Trevor was standing there grinning at her with that appealing sparkle in his blue gray eyes, and no words would come out. She felt heat rise to her cheeks.
He seemed not to notice and went back to work. But Maggie’s stomach churned. With her lies, she’d invented a whole new background for herself, but it was getting harder and harder to keep her stories straight. A little ditty her mother had often quoted ran around in her head. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. The words wove themselves over and under one another, until the web was tangling up her brain. She had to come clean.
But if she told the truth, what would he think of her? What would any of them think of her? There was something different about these people. She’d never met anyone as sweet as Bart and Wren Johannsen. After only a few days with them, she somehow knew that everything about them was genuine. They put on no airs. Their kindnesses weren’t performed to impress or to call in favors at some later date.
Trevor was cut from the same cloth. She had suspected his motives at first. Of course, he had every right to suspect her too. She’d used him, really, because she’d needed to get to the bus. But then he’d stayed to make sure she was safe and invited her on a picnic. She was pretty sure he had no ulterior motive for doing those things. They were purely kindnesses, helping out someone in need.
She looked over at him, and a foreign emotion flooded her being. It was a feeling she couldn’t identify, but it drenched her with possibility, with hope. And with an emotion she dared not entertain.
Trevor seemed not to notice that her brush had stilled, that she was watching him. How could she ever be a part of the life she saw here—in the town, the
inn, and in the life of the man working beside her? They had something she wanted desperately. But she didn’t have the first clue what it was. Or how to get a handle on it.
She resumed the comforting rhythm of painting, but her heart felt all out of kilter. And for once, it had nothing to do with Kevin Bryson.
Trevor stood there, waiting, as if he thought she might change her mind if he stared at her long enough.
Chapter Thirty
Ta-da!” Trevor’s shout caused Maggie to pivot on the ladder. He waved the long-handled roller in front of the finished wall with a flourish and took a courtly bow. Only the first of three walls, but it looked lovely, and already Maggie could begin to picture how the room would look when it was finished.
Would she be here to see it for herself? Or would she have moved on by then? She shook off the question and forced herself to climb out of the funk she’d been buried in. “What time is it anyway?”
Trevor wiped a paint splatter off the face of his watch. “It’s almost six o’clock. You want to call it a day?”
It was all she could do not to laugh at the puppy-dog eagerness in his paint-splotched face. It was obvious he was nowhere near ready to call it a day.
“I have nothing else to do. But if you need to go, I can clean up here.”
“Oh, no. I can stay all night.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m good for a couple more hours anyway.”
“Great!”
“How about a bite to eat first?”
“I am kind of hungry, now that you mention it.”
She went and got the sandwiches from the fridge in her room. They were starting to be a little on the soggy side, but they’d do. Trevor gathered chairs around a table in the lobby, and they sat down across from each other.
Maggie watched him wolf down three of the half dozen little sandwiches Wren had made her for the bus. She’d counted those sandwiches as “security” against hunger, intending to make them last several days. But tonight she was happy to share them with Trevor, and she watched him wolf them down without a twinge of anxiety over where her next meals might come from.
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