Love Makes the Difference (Sully Point Book 1)

by Nicole Smith

  Anna stared at him. "You were waiting for me? I've been staying here for you, Dad, so you wouldn't be all alone."

  "Ah," Frank said and reached out to pat her on the shoulder. "I think I'll be okay, just like you will be. Come on, let's sit down and figure out what we need to do to that loft to make it really livable."

  Anna felt a huge sense of relief. He was okay with this. Inside her there was a burgeoning sense of freedom, of lightness. "You sit here at the kitchen table, Dad, and make a list while I make the enchiladas. We need food in our stomachs to counteract these margaritas."

  "That's for sure," he muttered.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Anna woke up with a hangover, but also with a growing sense of delight. As she lay in bed being still, she thought about last night. She and her father had stayed up late making plans for the loft, figuring out how much the renovations would cost, coming up with various drawings until they had it nailed down. And they'd finished off the margaritas.

  With her savings, she could help finance some of the work and get better furniture for the space. Her father wanted to pay for the rest. Actually, he wanted to pay for all of it, but Anna insisted on doing her part. One long wall would be filled with bookshelves. She had quite a large collection of books. A section would be cordoned off with screens for a bedroom and the bathroom and kitchen would be enlarged and fitted out with new fixtures and appliances.

  Anna thought about her paintings propped up in various locations around the loft. She'd need to put them all in the large packing crate she kept in a smaller room at the back of the loft for storage. It wasn't that she was trying to keep the paintings from her family. Through the years, they'd seen various paintings. Holly had one in her office in the city. But lately some of her paintings were more...passionate, more revealing of her inner self. She wasn't quite ready for anyone's eyes to look at them yet. Once she got some distance from the work, after some time went by, it wouldn't matter so much. Someday, she would show them, but not today.

  She jumped out of bed, grabbed her head and moaned in agony, but hurried to get dressed. Glancing at the clock, she realized she'd have to wait until the afternoon when Kayla came in to take over at the bakery before she could go to the loft. She was flat out of time this morning to pack up the paintings.

  Grabbing some aspirin and a bottle of water from the fridge, she left the house and took her car to work rather than walking. The dilapidated old automobile came to life with a stutter or two, but then ran smoothly. As she drove, she thought that one good thing from the previous night was not thinking about Sam at all. She'd been so caught up in the planning for the loft that he hadn't entered her mind. But he did now.

  He seemed like a nice guy with a good sense of humor, great looks, friendly manner--what the heck was his actual job? She wondered suddenly, should I just ask him?

  The more she thought this idea over, the more she liked it. At work, she started on the cinnamon rolls so they would have time to rise. She'd call Kayla after nine and see if she could be in earlier today so Anna could leave.

  * * * *

  Sam spent the morning up on the roof fixing some loose shingles. By noon he was starving and out of nails. He climbed down the ladder and decided to go by the bakery for rolls and then hit the deli. First, though, it was time for a shower.

  He was rinsing soap off his body when he wondered whether Anna would be interested in hearing about his literary creation Danielle--then he stopped and shook his head. What was he thinking? He couldn't just blurt out information about a character in his book when nobody knew he was a writer. And why would Anna be interested anyway? Or was it that he wanted her opinion on the character? He realized he had no business being concerned about what Anna thought of his characters.

  How could he keep his writing--his identity--a secret and still see what she thought...and should he even try? The thing is, I do care what she thinks. Maybe it was time to tell someone--no, not yet. It always made a difference to people--the money, the fame. He'd have to come up with some story that skirted the truth but didn't reveal it.

  * * * *

  Frank Grainger felt enthused as he opened up the hardware store. The long-awaited talk with Anna had finally happened and he was thrilled she was feeling independent. He'd worried for the past few years, afraid she was stuck in a comfortable, safe, boring existence. He wanted her to get out there and spread her wings. Having a place of her own was the first big step.

  He decided to head over to the loft early in the afternoon to take some measurements. Then he'd look for the brochure from the makers of old-fashioned looking appliances that were actually energy efficient. Anna would probably love the idea of an old-style stove in some retro color. Especially in that space, which would need some help making it feel homey.

  By lunch time, he saw Sam Carter walking through the doorway. "What do you need today, Sam?"

  "Nails. For roofing shingles."

  "All right, they're here in the boxes on this shelf. How're things going for you today?"

  "A little confused. I have something I need to explain to--someone. On the good side of things, the house is just about finished. I'm done with all the painting and my furniture should be arriving tomorrow."

  "You must have a lot of experience working on old houses if you've managed to make Wally's place livable in so short a time."

  "I do have some experience," Sam said with a smile. "I've fixed up a few others through the years. Renovations of one sort or the other."

  Frank paused and looked at Sam. "I wonder..."

  "Hmm?" Sam murmured as he counted out money. "Did you say something?"

  Frank nodded. "Yes, I was wondering if you'd like to look in on a little reno job I'm going to be working on. My son Cody and I are going to work on a bathroom and kitchen in a loft. I was going over to take some measurements now. If you wanted to come along, you might have some ideas that we could use."

  "Oh, I don't know if I want to get involved in your business--"

  "Sorry--I wasn't clear. It's not actually business, it's Anna's loft."

  Sam's head jerked up from looking at his wallet. "What's that? Anna's...loft?"

  Frank felt curious about the intensity of Sam's tone of voice. "Yes, she has a loft here in town off Main Street. She's going to be moving in there once we fix it up."

  "But I thought--what about her boyfriend? Isn't that his place off Main?"

  Frowning, Frank said, "I don't know where you get your information, but it's wrong. Anna doesn't have a boyfriend."

  "She doesn't? Oh. Well. All right. Yes, I'll come by the place and offer any advice I might come up with."

  "I was planning on heading over there now, actually. We can drive together."

  "Sure, sure," Sam said rather dazedly. "How about I pick you up so you can ride in the roadster?"

  Frank smiled widely. "Now that sounds like a fine idea, just fine."

  * * * *

  Sam's desire to know what was going on burned through his mind as he tried to rearrange his suppositions about Anna's life. No boyfriend. No abusive relationship. So why did she have a loft that she went to in the nighttime? Just what was her secret life about? It was funny how they both had secret lives. They appeared to be more similar than he'd realized.

  He picked up Frank in front of the hardware store.

  "Seriously nice car!" Frank said as he got in.

  "Thanks. It's pretty fun to drive."

  "Just take a right off Main Street up there and it's on the first block. We can park on the street."

  Sure enough, the building was the same one he'd seen Anna enter. Now maybe he'd get some answers. They walked up one flight of stairs, but Sam saw an old elevator with an open cage. Frank unlocked the door and stepped into the loft with Sam right behind him, so that Sam ran into Frank's back when Frank stopped dead.

  "Whoa, what's up?" Sam asked, peering around Frank into the large open space. Then he saw what Frank was looking at and found he had n
o words.

  The painting was on a large easel. It was big. And unbelievably good. The depth, the intensity, the passion that shone through...Sam was stunned. Frank appeared to be as well.

  "Anna--Anna did this?" Sam asked, feeling a kind of awe.

  Frank said quietly in a shaking voice, "Yes...oh, yes. Her mother was an artist. But I never knew Anna had come so far."

  "How could you not know? This painting is...wonderful. You hadn't seen it before now?"

  "No, it's been a while since I've seen any of her paintings. Actually..." Frank turned to Sam and looked uncomfortable. "She has never been big on showing her paintings to people outside the family. I guess I shouldn't have brought you here. I didn't think about her paintings being out like this."

  "Frank, if that's how she feels, we need to get out of here, like, now." As he grabbed the other man's arm and turned to pull him back out the door, he heard steps running up the stairs and knew he was too late.

  It was Anna and she was clearly shocked to see them. Frank stepped forward. "Anna, honey, I brought him because of the reno--I had no idea all your paintings would be out like this."

  Anna held up a hand, palm outward. "Just--stop talking a minute, okay? You both went in and saw my paintings? Looked at all of them?"

  "No, we stopped at the doorway as soon as we realized they were out everywhere. We were just going to leave. But honey, they're wonderful."

  Anna shook her head, tears in her vibrantly green eyes, but not falling. Sam felt awful. He knew how he would feel if someone read one of his manuscripts before he was ready. "I'm sorry, Anna," he said quietly.

  Now he understood the intensity of those eyes he'd noticed before, a depth he hadn't recognized when he should have. They were alike, he and Anna, both artists, of different types, yes, but heavily involved in the creative process. No wonder he'd been attracted to her! Of all people, he more than others understood her need to keep work private. Now it was like they had ripped off her protections and had stared at her soul when they'd looked at the painting. He understood that and couldn't think of a single thing to say to fix it.

  "Could both of you just go now? Please? I need for you to leave."

  All he could do was nod acceptance of her wishes and walk out the doorway and down the stairs. He heard Frank try to talk to his daughter again and be rebuffed. His steps on the stairs could be heard coming down slow and heavy. When he got to the bottom he said, "Sam--I don't know what to say. If I'd had any idea, I'd never have brought you here. I didn't mean for you to get involved in something like this."

  "I understand, perhaps better than most." Sam said, looking down. "I am--well--I'm a writer. I came here to work on a novel. So I understand about not wanting people to see your work until you're ready. She obviously wasn't ready yet for people to see her art. I wonder why, though."

  "Sam, be honest, did you see what I saw? Pure talent on the canvas?"

  "Yes, she is beyond talented. She's an accomplished painter and could have a showing in New York tomorrow if a gallery owner saw her work. She's that good."

  "Glad to have a second opinion. You see, I think she doesn't believe they're any good. Or at least, not as good as her mother's paintings were. Long story. Anyway, I think that's why she's been timid about showing them. Then here you come, not quite a stranger, but close enough and she has a cr--well she meets you and suddenly you're in her loft looking at her work. I see why she got upset."

  Sam thought about it. "She should know they're good. I mean, if she let people see them she'd hear only good things. Well. Let's get you back to your store. I think we've done all the damage we can do here today."

  * * * *

  As Sam drove the Aston-Martin back to the store, Frank sat quietly in the passenger seat. He was thinking about several things. He found he was glad Sam was not an assassin, hit man, con man or even a Hollywood producer. The idea that he was a writer was unexpected, but Frank could live with that easily. The reason he was so glad had been the look in Anna's eyes at the loft. He'd suspected before now she might be finding herself attracted to Sam. But the hurt and betrayal in her eyes as she looked at Sam in the loft made it a certainty. Those feelings were only so strong because she did feel something for him.

  What he also found reassuring about Sam not being a hit man was that he'd seen Sam's face when Anna got upset. And it was the face of a man falling in love.

  Chapter 3

  Anna curled up on the old, beat-up couch and stared at the wall. She couldn't think. All she could do was feel betrayed. Her own father...granted what he said made sense. She knew he'd never have purposely violated her trust and her space if he'd known the paintings were out in plain view. But it had happened. And it wasn't just him, it was Sam, too!

  That was the part making her squirm inside. Because deep down she was beginning to wonder what he thought of what he'd seen. Like she cared what he thought of her work! And she couldn't blame anyone else for that curiosity about his opinion. Plus, all this was her own fault because she hadn't put away the paintings in the first place. She wanted to crawl under a rock and not come out for a century or two.

  Sighing, she scrubbed her face with her hands and yanked her hair out of the pony tail holder. She stood up and realized her shoulders were slumped. Enough! Straightening her shoulders, she glanced around the room and decided she was not going spend the rest of the day crying her eyes out. Nor was she taking up residence under a rock. There was one thing she knew to do that would help with all the confusing feelings and that was to paint. First, though, she moved all the paintings along the walls into the crate as she had planned. Pulling out a new canvas, she set it on the easel and starting choosing paint colors based on her mood.

  Surprisingly enough, the paint colors weren't all dark. They were intense colors, a brilliant red, deep orange, white, yellow--and she realized by looking at them that her main emotion now was anger. She just wasn't quite sure who she was most angry at--her father, Sam, or herself.

  * * * *

  That night at dinner, Anna didn't show up. Frank was worried about her, but also understood she needed her space after the intrusion into her loft.

  Cody arrived looking worried.

  "What's up with you, son? You look like some dog ate your homework."

  "It's not funny, Dad. I heard something today that kinda freaked me out. Have you heard the new rumor about Sam Carter?"

  "No, can't say that I have," Frank said as he served pot roast with potatoes and carrots to both of them.

  "People are saying he's chasing Anna. That he's been going to visit her at the bakery every day and he's been paying her all kinds of attention. Meanwhile, we don't even know what he does for a living. He could be a terrorist for all we know."

  "He's not a terrorist," Frank said flatly. "Something much more complex. He's a writer."

  Cody's mouth fell open for a moment. "What? A writer? You mean, he writes books? How did you find that out?"

  "He told me, and I have good reason to believe he was telling me the truth, at that time in particular. And if he is visiting Anna at the bakery--so what?" He reached for the bowl of salad and passed it to Cody.

  "Well, yeah, I guess, but it's Anna, Dad. I wonder if he really is a writer or if--"

  "Cody! I believe the man. He came here to work on his novel. And I think we should believe him and let him be."

  "A writer--well, that is way better than him being a terrorist, but not as cool as if he were a spy. Still, what about Anna? You think he's interested in her? Shouldn't we do something?"

  Frank regarded his son thoughtfully. "What would you have me do? They're both adults and if she doesn't want his attention she'll tell him so."

  "Yeah, yeah, I guess she could. Good food tonight. Where is Anna, by the way?"

  "She's off on her own tonight. Speaking of which, Anna has decided to move out into her own place. We're going to do some renovations on her loft and she'll be living there. And by we, I mean you and me are going to do
most of the work."

  Cody's eyes widened. "Anna's moving out? Will wonders never cease! I thought she'd stay here with you forever, she always seemed so comfortable here. What do you know, she's finally going to be on her own. I haven't been to that loft since--well, I guess since Mom died. I remember going there and watching Mom paint. Anna still uses the loft to paint, right?"

  "Yes, she does."

  The two of them were quiet as they ate steadily through the food on the table. Cody looked at his father finally and said, "It does seem kind of strange--a good strange--that Anna ends up painting in the same loft Mom did. I guess Mom knew she would, though, since she left the loft to Anna."

  "Your mother was pretty perceptive about you kids. The plan is to make the kitchen in the loft bigger and also fix up the bathroom. I know you don't have a ton of free time, but if you could spare some hours, I'd appreciate it."

  "Sure thing, Dad. Especially because it's for Anna. I'll tell Maria what I'm doing and she won't mind. She's pretty easygoing."

  "Is Maria your latest?"

  "Maria could be my last, Dad. She's really something. She even loves to fish!"

  "Hmm. I guess we'll see."

  "Yeah. A writer. I definitely wouldn't have guessed that one. Contractor, fisherman, something outdoorsy like that, but not an indoor job like a writer. Wow."

  * * * *

  The next morning Sam drank coffee and thought about the town of Sully Point. He'd developed the habit of writing his books in small towns. The series was based in a small town, and he enjoyed living in one to pick up the ambience, the little quirks and oddities, and normal ways of life to incorporate into his books to add reality. He always chose a different town and fixed up a place to work, and spent six to eight months writing the book. Thus far, he'd managed to keep his identity a secret. His pen name was famous. His own name was not.

  He wandered into the living room. After having lived here a while, the living room with its sliding glass door out to the beach seemed an inspiring place to set up his computer. He knew he'd like looking up to see the ocean out there, and watching storms roll in would probably be exhilarating.