by Nora Roberts
Even more, to feel part of it all, on her own merits, her own terms.
It would have been smarter, more sensible again, to have taken the room above for her own living quarters. But she’d made the conscious and deliberate decision not to live where she worked. Which, Dru admitted as she swung away from Market to drive to the rear of her building, had been a handy excuse to find a place out of the town bustle, someplace on the water again. An indulgent space all her own.
The house in Georgetown had never felt all her own.
She killed the lights, the engine, then gathered her purse. Seth was there, opening her door, before she could do it for herself.
“It’s pretty dark. Watch your step.” He took her arm, started to steer her to the wooden staircase that led to the second level.
“I can see fine, thanks.” She eased away from him, then opened her bag for the keys. “There’s parking,” she began. “And a private entrance, as you see.”
“Yeah, I see fine, too. Listen.” Halfway up the stairs, he laid a hand on her arm to stop her. “Just listen,” he said again and looked out over the houses that lined the road behind them. “It’s great, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t stop the smile. She understood him perfectly. And it was great, that silence.
“It won’t be this quiet in a few weeks.” He scanned the dark, the houses, the lawns. And again she thought he saw what others didn’t. “Starting with Memorial Day the tourists and the summer people pour in. Nights get longer, warmer, and people hang out. That can be great, too, all that noise. Holiday noise. The kind you hear when you’ve got an ice cream cone in your hand and no time clock ticking away in your head.”
He turned, aimed those strong blue eyes at her. She could have sworn she felt a jolt from them that was elementally physical.
“You like ice cream cones?” he asked her.
“There’d be something wrong with me if I didn’t.” She moved quickly up the rest of the steps.
“Nothing wrong with you,” he murmured, and stood with his thumbs tucked in his front pockets while she unlocked the door.
She flicked a switch on the wall to turn on the lights, then deliberately left the door open at his back when he stepped in.
She saw immediately she needn’t have bothered. He wasn’t giving her a thought now.
He crossed to the front windows first, stood there looking out in that hip-shot stance that managed to be both relaxed and attentive. And sexy, she decided.
He wore a pair of ragged jeans with more style than a great many men managed to achieve in a five-thousand-dollar suit.
There were paint flecks on his shoes.
She blinked, tuning back in to the moment when he began to mutter.
“Excuse me?”
“What? Oh, just calculating the light—sun, angles. Stuff.” He crossed back to the rear windows, stood as he had at the front. Muttered as he had at the front.
Talked to himself, Dru noted. Well, it wasn’t so odd, really. She held entire conversations with herself in her head.
“The kitchen—” Dru began.
“Doesn’t matter.” Frowning, he stared up at the ceiling, his gaze so intense and focused she found herself staring up with him.
After a few seconds of standing there, silent, staring up, she felt ridiculous. “Is there a problem with the ceiling? I was assured the roof was sound, and I know it doesn’t leak.”
“Uh-huh. Any objection to skylights—put in at my expense?”
“I . . . well, I don’t know. I suppose—”
“It would work.”
He wandered the room again, placing his canvases, his paints, his easel, a worktable for sketching, shelves for supplies and equipment. Have to put in a sofa, or a bed, he thought. Better a bed in case he worked late enough to just flop down for the night.
“It’s a good space,” he said at length. “With the skylights, it’ll work. I’ll take it.”
She reminded herself that she hadn’t actually agreed to the skylights. But then again, she couldn’t find any reason to object to them. “That was quick, as advertised. Don’t you want to see the kitchen, the bathroom?”
“They got everything kitchens and bathrooms are supposed to have?”
“Yes. No tub, just a shower stall.”
“I’m not planning on taking too many bubble baths.” He moved back to the front windows again. “Prime view.”
“Yes, it’s very nice. Not that it’s any of my business, but I assume you have any number of places you can stay while you’re here. Why do you need an apartment?”
“I don’t want to live here, I want to work here. I need studio space.” He turned back. “I’m bunking at Cam and Anna’s, and that suits me. I’ll get a place of my own eventually, but not until I find exactly what I want. Because I’m not visiting Saint Chris. I’m back for good.”
“I see. Well, studio space then. Which explains the skylights.”
“I’m a better bet than Terri,” he said because he felt her hesitation. “No loud parties or shouting matches, which she’s famous for. And I’m handy.”
“Are you?”
“Hauling, lifting, basic maintenance. I won’t come crying to you every time the faucet drips.”
“Points for you,” she murmured.
“How many do I need? I really want the space. I need to get back to work. What do you say to a six-month lease?”
“Six months. I’d planned on a full year at a time.”
“Six months gives us both an early out if it’s not jelling.”
She pursed her lips in consideration. “There is that.”
“How much are you asking?”
She gave him the monthly rate she’d settled on. “I’ll want first and last month’s rent when you sign the lease. And another month’s rent as security deposit.”
“Ouch. Very strict.”
Now she smiled. “Terri annoyed me. You get to pay the price.”
“Won’t be the first time she’s cost me. I’ll have it for you tomorrow. I’ve got a family thing on Sunday, and I have to order the skylights, but I’d like to start moving things in right away.”
“That’s fine.” She liked the idea of him painting over her shop, of knowing the building that was hers was fulfilling its potential. “Congratulations,” she said and offered a hand. “You’ve got yourself a studio.”
“Thanks.” He took her hand, held it. Ringless, he thought again. Long, faerie fingers and unpainted nails. “Given any thought to posing for me?”
“No.”
His grin flashed at her flat, precise answer. “I’ll talk you into it.”
“I’m not easily swayed. Let’s clear this all up before we start on what should be a mutually satisfying business relationship.”
“Okay, let’s. You have a strong, beautiful face. As an artist, as a man, I’m drawn to the qualities of strength and beauty. The artist wants to translate them. The man wants to enjoy them. So, I’d like to paint you, and I’d like to spend time with you.”
Despite the breeze that danced through the open door, she felt entirely too alone with him. Alone, and boxed in by the way he held her hand, held her gaze.
“I’m sure you’ve had your quota of women to translate and enjoy. Such as the buxom blonde in black you were cozied up with at the bar.”
“Who. . . ?”
Humor exploded on his face. It was, Dru thought, like light bursting through shadows.
“Buxom Blonde in Black,” he repeated, seeing it as a title. “Jesus, she’ll love that. There’ll be no living with her. That was Aubrey. Aubrey Quinn. My brother Ethan’s oldest daughter.”
“I see.” And it made her feel like an idiot. “It didn’t seem to be a particularly avuncular relationship.”
“I don’t feel like her uncle. It’s more a big-brother thing. She was two when I came to Saint Chris. We fell for each other. Aubrey’s the first person I ever loved, absolutely. She’s got strength and beauty, too, and I’ve certainly t
ranslated and enjoyed them. But not in quite the same way I’d like to do with yours.”
“Then you’re going to be disappointed. Even if I were interested, I don’t have the time to pose, and I don’t have the inclination to be enjoyed. You’re very attractive, Seth, and if I were going to be shallow—”
“Yeah.” Another brilliant, flashing grin. “Let’s be shallow.”
“Sorry.” But he’d teased a smile out of her again. “I gave it up. If I were going to be, I might enjoy you. But as it stands, we’re going to settle for the practical.”
“We can start there. Now, since you asked me a question earlier, I get to ask you one.”
“All right, what?”
He saw by the way her face turned closed-in and wary that she was braced for something personal she wouldn’t care to answer. So he shifted gears. “Do you like steamed crabs?”
She stared at him for nearly ten seconds and gave him the pleasure of watching her face relax. “Yes, I like steamed crabs.”
“Good. We’ll have some on our first date. I’ll be by in the morning to sign the lease,” he added as he walked to the open door.
“The morning’s fine.”
He looked down as she leaned over to lock the door behind them. Her neck was long, elegant. The contrast between it and the severe cut of the dark hair was sharp and dramatic. Without thinking, he skimmed a finger along the curve, just to sample the texture.
She froze, so that for one instant they made a portrait of themselves. The woman in the rich-colored suit, slightly bent toward a closed door, and the man in rough clothes with a fingertip at the nape of her neck.
She straightened with a quick jerk of movement, and Seth let his hand drop away. “Sorry, irritating habit of mine.”
“Do you have many?”
“Yeah, afraid so. That one wasn’t anything personal. You’ve got a really nice line back there.” He stuck his hands in his pockets so it wouldn’t become personal. Not yet.
“I’m an expert on lines, nice or otherwise.” She breezed by him and down the steps.
“Hey.” He jogged after her. “I’ve got better lines than that one.”
“I’ll just bet you do.”
“I’ll try some out on you. But in the meantime . . .” He opened her car door. “Is there any storage space?”
“Utility room. There.” She gestured toward a door under the steps. “Furnace and water heater, that sort of thing. And some storage.”
“If I need to, can I stick some stuff in there until I get the space worked out? I’ve got some things coming in from Rome. They’ll probably be here Monday.”
“I don’t have a problem with that. The key’s inside the shop. Remind me to give it to you tomorrow.”
“Appreciate it.” He closed the door for her when she’d climbed in, then he knocked on the window. “You know,” he said when she rolled down the window, “I like spending time with a smart, self-confident woman who knows what she wants and goes out and gets it. Like you got this place. Very sexy, that kind of direction and dedication.”
He waited a beat. “That was a line.”
She kept her eyes on his as she rolled the glass up between their faces again.
And she didn’t let herself chuckle until she’d driven away.
THE best thing about Sundays, in Dru’s opinion, was waking up slowly, then clinging to that half-dream state while the sunlight shivered through the trees, slid through the windows and danced on her closed lids.
Sundays were knowing absolutely nothing had to be done, and countless things could be.
She’d make coffee and toast a bagel in her own kitchen, then have her breakfast in the little dining room while she leafed through catalogues for business.
She’d putter around the garden she’d planted—with her own hands, thank you—while listening to music.
There was no charity luncheon, no community drive, no obligatory family dinner or tennis match at the club cluttering up her Sundays now.
There was no marital spat between her parents to referee, and no hurt feelings and sorrowful looks because each felt she’d taken the side of the other.
All there was, was Sunday and her lazy enjoyment of it.
In all the months she’d lived here, she’d never once taken that for granted. Nor had she lost a drop of the flood of pleasure it gave her to stand and look out her own windows.
She did so now, opening the window to the cool morning. From there she could admire her own private curve of the river. There were no houses to get in the way and make her think of people when she only wanted to be.
There was the speckled leaves of the liverwort she’d planted under the shade of oaks, its buds a cheery pink. And lily of the valley, with its bells already dancing. And there, the marsh grass and rushes with the little clearing she’d made for the golden-yellow iris that liked their feet wet.
She could hear the birds, the breeze, the occasional plop of a fish or a frog.
Forgetting breakfast, she wandered through the house to the front door so she could stand on the veranda and just look. She wore the boxers and tank she’d slept in, and there was no one to comment on the senator’s granddaughter’s dishabille. No reporter or photographer looking for a squib for the society page.
There was only lovely, lovely peace.
She picked up her watering can and carried it inside to fill while she started the coffee.
Seth Quinn had been right about one thing, she thought. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and went out and got it. Perhaps it had taken her some time to realize what that thing was, but when she had, she’d done what needed to be done.
She’d wanted to run a business where she could feel creative and happy. And she’d been determined to be successful, in her own right. She’d toyed with the idea of a small nursery or gardening service.
But she wasn’t fully confident in her skills there. Her gardening ventures had been largely confined to her little courtyard in Georgetown, and potted plants. And while she’d been very proud of her efforts there and delighted with the results, it hardly qualified her as an expert.
But she knew flowers.
She’d wanted a small town, where the pace was easy and the demands few. And she’d wanted the water. She’d always been pulled to the water.
She loved the look of St. Christopher, the cheerful tidiness of it, and the ever changing tones and moods of the Bay. She liked listening to the clang from the channel markers, and the throaty call of a foghorn when the mists rolled in.
She’d grown accustomed to and nearly comfortable with the casual friendliness of the locals. And the goodheartedness that had sent Ethan Quinn over to check on her during a storm the previous winter.
No, she’d never live in the city again.
Her parents would have to continue to adjust to the distance she’d put between them. Geographically and emotionally. In the end, she was certain it was best for everyone involved.
And just now, however selfish it might be, she was more concerned with what was best for Drusilla.
She turned off the tap and, after sampling the coffee, carried it and the watering can outside to tend to her pots.
Eventually, she thought, she would add a greenhouse so that she could experiment with growing her own flowers to sell. But she’d have to be convinced she could add the structure without spoiling the fanciful lines of her home.
She loved its peaks and foolishly ornate gingerbread trim. Most would consider it a kind of folly, with its fancywork and deep blue color out here among the thickets and marsh. But to her it was a statement.
Home could be exactly where you needed, exactly what you needed it to be, if you wanted it enough.
She set her coffee down on a table and drenched a jardiniere bursting with verbena and heliotrope.
At a rustle, she looked over. And watched a heron rise like a king over the high grass, over the brown water.
“I’m happy,” she said out loud. “I’m happier th
an I’ve ever been in my life.”
She decided to forgo the bagel and catalogues and changed into gardening clothes instead.
For an hour she worked on the sunny side of the house where she was determined to establish a combination of shrubbery and flower bed. The bloodred blooms of the rhododendrons she’d planted the week before would be a strong contrast to the blue of the house once they burst free. She’d spent every evening for a month over the winter planning her flowers. She wanted to keep it simple and a little wild, like a mad cottage garden with columbine and delphiniums and sweet-faced wallflowers all tumbled together.
There were all kinds of art, she thought smugly as she planted fragrant stock. She imagined Seth would approve of her choices of tone and texture here.
Not that it mattered, of course. The garden was to please herself. But it was satisfying to think an artist might find her efforts creative.
He certainly hadn’t had much to say for himself the day before, she remembered. He’d whipped in just after she opened the doors, handed over the agreed amount, looped his signature on the lease, snatched up the keys, then bolted.
No flirtation, no persuasive smile.
Which was all for the best, she reminded herself. She didn’t want flirtations and persuasions right at the moment.
Still, it would have been nice, on some level, to imagine holding the option for them in reserve.
He’d probably had a Saturday-morning date with one of the women who’d pined for him while he’d been gone. He looked like the type women might pine for. All that scruffy hair, the lanky build.
And the hands. How could you not notice his hands—wide of palm, long of finger. With a rough elegance to them that made a woman—some women, she corrected—fantasize about being stroked by them.
Dru sat back on her heels with a sigh because she knew she’d given just that scenario more than one passing thought. Only because it’s the first man you’ve been attracted to in . . . God, who knew how long?
She hadn’t so much as had a date in nearly a year.
Her choice, she reminded herself. And she wasn’t going to change her mind and end up with Seth Quinn and steamed crabs.