Wrong Side of the Paw
Page 29
Rafe, running true to form, ignored my question and opened the front door. “I want to show you something.”
“The crown molding looks fine,” I said automatically.
“You didn’t even look.”
Against my will, I felt a smile seep onto my face. “Well, no, but I’m sure it’s fantastic.”
“Of course it is,” he said, “but that’s not what I wanted to show you. Come on back.”
He led me through the front room, through the formal dining room, and into his kitchen-like space. “I finally have a plan for this room,” he said.
“Took you long enough.”
He grinned. “You can’t rush these things.”
I loved him so much that I was afraid he would see it all over my face. Turning away, I said, “What’s the plan? Although what I’d really like to know is why you’re asking me. You know I avoid cooking if at all possible.”
Once again, he ignored my questions. “Over here is where the refrigerator is going. A double-wide thing so there’s lots of freezer space.”
A bit of his enthusiasm trickled into me. “That would be nice,” I said.
“Right. And over here, sticking with the work triangle theory of kitchen design, is where the sink will be. The electric oven goes here”—he pointed— “and the gas cooktop will go under that window.”
“Six-burner, I assume?”
“Nah. Who wants to cook that much? I kept wanting to put the sink under the window, but I think this works better.”
I looked around the space, trying to imagine the shapes. “You’re right. This way when you’re at the sink, you’re facing the dining room.” I stepped forward and mimicked washing a few imaginary dishes, which were my favorite kind. “What do you plan for cabinets?”
“Got a buddy who took down a bunch of maple he had milled. It’s stored in his barn, gathering dust. He’ll sell it to me cheap.”
I looked around the large room. “Are you going to stain or paint them?”
“Not sure yet.” He shrugged. “But it’ll take me eight months to build the things. I figure by spring I’ll have figured out what to do to them.”
“Eight months?” I tried not to sound disbelieving.
“Yep.”
“You seriously think you’re going to build a full set of kitchen cabinets in eight months?”
“What, you think I can’t do it?” He looked affronted.
“I’m sure you can. I’m just not sure you will.”
“For your information,” Rafe said loftily, “I have full confidence that this house will be completely done by the end of next summer.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ve been putzing around on this house for years. Why on earth would you suddenly start working hard enough to finish it within the next decade?”
“Well,” he said reasonably, “where else are you going to live next fall, with a stranger running the boardinghouse?”
“Where . . . what?” I stared at him.
“I ran into your aunt at the post office and she told me about that cousin. I mean, sure, you might want to keep staying up there in the winter, but don’t you think it’s time?”
I kept staring at him. “For what?”
Rafe sighed. “For moving here.”
My mouth hung open. Then I figured it out. “You need a roommate,” I said flatly.
“How can someone so smart be so stupid?” he asked the ceiling. Then he took a step toward me. “I’ve been renovating this house for you all along,” he said. “Why do you think I was always asking you questions about what I should do?”
“Because I was nearby?” I asked, and my voice squeaked a little.
“Well, that didn’t hurt. But mostly I wanted to build the house of your dreams, a house you’d fall in love with . . . because then maybe you’d fall in love with me.”
He’d moved closer as he talked, and now he was so close that I felt his warmth seep into me. “I like the house,” I said so softly it was almost a whisper.
“Do you?” he asked.
“Actually, I love it.” And I did. I’d loved it from top to bottom even before Rafe bought it. A wild thought occurred to me. “Back when this place was a mess of tiny apartments, I told you it was a shame and that what it needed to be happy was an owner who would fix it up properly.”
“It was the summer before you went to college,” he said quietly, coming even closer.
“You remember that?”
“Don’t you?”
And I suddenly realized that I did. I remembered it exactly. I looked up at him, amazed, and he pushed back one of my curls. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you,” he said, “back when you were twelve and not much shorter than you are now.”
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” I whispered.
“I’ve wanted to for years, but you weren’t ready. I thought after you got rid of that doctor, it might be time, but then you go and start seeing Ash.” He smiled. “Have to say, that worried me a little.”
“No worries,” I said, smiling back with my whole heart. “Not today.” Maybe not ever.
“So you’ll try this?” he asked, so very gently that I almost cried. “See if we have a future together? Help me with cabinet colors and towels? All that?”
Instead of saying yes, I leaned into the kiss I’d been longing for. His arms circled me, and I felt as if I’d finally come home.
• • •
“So what do you think?” I asked.
It was hours later, and Eddie and I were getting ready for bed. Rafe and I had spent a fair amount of time talking, then not talking, then talking again, but since we both had to work the next day, he’d walked me back to the boardinghouse at midnight.
“Mrr,” Eddie said.
“What are you doing? You’re not going to fit, you know.”
My cat had his head underneath my dresser and was squirming his way farther in. Weird didn’t begin to describe him. “Anyway, I think you’re going to like it at Rafe’s house next fall.”
But it wouldn’t be just Rafe’s house any longer. It would be our house, and the thought made my skin tingle with anticipation. “It’s big, and it’s close to the marina, so you’ll be familiar with the territory.” The houseboat details would be worked out later.
“Hang on a minute,” I murmured. Rafe and Aunt Frances had met at the post office and she’d told him about the future of the boardinghouse. Had she known all along how he’d felt about me? Had she known how I’d felt about him? Had she played matchmaker for me?
I tossed the idea around for a bit, wondering how I felt about that likely possibility, then decided I didn’t care. Rafe and I were together and that was what counted.
“Anyway,” I said, “you’ll be happy living with Rafe. Remember him? He’s the one who puts your back foot in your ear, which you seem to enjoy.”
“Mrr,” Eddie said.
Or at least that’s what I thought he’d said. It was hard to tell, though, because he was now all the way under the dresser.
“What are you doing under there?” I asked. “You have something and I’m guessing it’s not a cat toy, or at least it wasn’t a cat toy when it was manufactured.” Eddie had a penchant for turning everything into his own possessions, and that included toothbrushes, short pieces of rope, and brooms.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something shoot out from under the dresser, skitter across the floor, and come to rest underneath the bed.
“Nice,” I said, getting down on my hands and knees and reaching. “Having cats is a great way to keep limber. Did you ever think of . . . got it.”
I sat on the bed. Eddie’s plaything had been a pencil. “So this is where it went,” I said, spinning the yellow pencil between my fingers. “I was unpacking the other day and—”
My words sto
pped short. This pencil was decorated with Eddie’s teeth marks. This was an Eberhard Faber pencil. This Eberhard Faber pencil was what he’d yanked out of my hand that night on the houseboat when I’d been talking to him about Dale Lacombe’s murder.
Eberhard Faber.
Simon Faber.
As I stared at the pencil, Eddie squirmed his way out from under the dresser and made one long leap onto my lap. He flopped down and started purring.
I looked at my cat. Looked at the pencil. Looked at my cat.
Could he really have been trying to tell me something? Was it possible that his cat brain had known something I hadn’t and he’d been trying to communicate with me?
“Were you?” I asked.
Eddie turned his head and looked deep into my eyes.
“Mrr.”
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