She drew nearer, a teasing smile easing across her face. “Nice robe.”
“Hey, at least there are no flowers or lace,” he retorted, his easy tone belying the roiling chain of thoughts racing through his brain.
Another short laugh escaped her. “Where’d you find it?”
“In the back bedroom.”
“That used to be her brother’s room. But that was forever ago.”
“Coulda been. This robe looks like it’s been there forever.”
For the first time that day, he sensed nervousness between them. A sexual tension that was both unnerving and exciting.
“Would you like me to open up that bottle of wine now?” he asked after a loaded pause.
“Oh. Yes, that would be lovely,” she replied eagerly, curling her toes. “I’ll get the glasses.”
He tightened the belt on his robe and went to the hall to fetch the wine from the cooler. From the corner of his eye he watched her quickly tiptoe through the room in her bare feet to the small kitchen. By the time he joined her there, she’d already pulled out the glasses. He filled them and offered one to her, and they headed for the sunroom, drawn by the loud rumbling of thunder to watch the storm. “It’s really coming down,” he said, going to stand in front of the window.
The sky was dark, making the afternoon feel like night. Lightning bolts pierced the sky in an impressive display over the ocean. Palm trees shook their fronds in the fury of the storm, tapping the glass. In their cages, the canaries hunkered down and were uncharacteristically quiet.
“It’s chilly in here,” she said.
Bo reached out and put his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. “Better?”
“A bit,” she replied, shifting closer to him. She lifted one bare foot. “But the floor is still cold.”
“Do you have any firewood?”
Heather’s brow furrowed. “Um, I think there’s some in the fireplace. It’s been set since I arrived, but I’ve never used it.”
“What better time than a storm?” He stretched out a hand. “Come on.”
Together they returned to the living room, where he handed her his wineglass and bent to inspect the fireplace. Logs were neatly stacked and there was a basket with tinder by the hearth. He reached far in and, craning his neck, checked the flue. He shifted the lever to open it, then stood up, clapping the soot from his hands.
“That ought to do it. If I can find a match. Aha! There!” he exclaimed, finding long matches beside the tinder. He hunkered over the wood, and soon sparks lit. He blew onto the wood, watching it glow, and before long there was the crackling sound of flickering flames.
Heather went to the chintz sofa and sat, curling her legs under her like a cat. She sipped her wine, looking at him over the rim of her glass. Bo stood close to the fire, slowly wiping his hands on the robe while he looked at her and thought she had no idea how sexy she was. If she were a cat, her tail would be twitching now.
“There are some board games in that bureau next to you. Why don’t you pick one out and we can play.”
He was amused, but was careful not to laugh. A board game, he thought as he nodded. Here they were, naked under their robes, a fire burning . . . he hadn’t expected to be playing a board game. Bo bent to open the bureau and found a stack of old cardboard-boxed games that looked like they’d been there for decades. They probably had, he thought, going through the titles. Monopoly, Risk, Battleship, Yahtzee, Scrabble, and several gazillion-piece puzzles. He looked over his shoulder to see Heather perched on the sofa watching him, looking every inch a woman but with her inexperience shining in her expressive eyes.
This wasn’t just any woman, he reminded himself. This was Heather. She was an enigma. As much a mystery to ponder as any puzzle in this bureau.
“Scrabble it is!” he announced, pulling out the board game.
She raised his glass to him. “Good choice!”
He joined her on the sofa, sinking into the ancient down cushions. The opening of her robe had fallen wider, exposing more of her slender chest and just a hint of a rounded breast. In a flash he saw again the vision of her standing in the rain, her breasts visible through the thin cotton, her nipples taut. Again he felt a rush of desire and wished his wine were something stronger, like good bourbon. He turned to the game and opened the box on the coffee table.
“Feeling warmer now?” he asked her.
“Mmm,” she replied softly, almost like a purr. “I get cold easily. Always have. My father used to say it was because I needed more meat on my bones.”
“I was looking at the photographs on the mantel. You look a lot like your mother. Small, like her.”
“Yes,” she said softly. She set down her wineglass and began gathering the tiles into the pouch.
Bo spread out the board game. It was an old board, without all the newer fancy plastic borders for the letters.
“Are you an only child?”
Heather shook the pouch in her hand. The clicking noise was a counterpoint to the snapping of the fire. “I am. Most people think only children are terribly spoiled, but that’s not true. I don’t think I had any more toys than most children,” she said with a slight tone of defense. “My parents didn’t buy me things and expect me to entertain myself. That’s what was so great about my childhood,” she added.
He watched her eyes shine with her memories but remained silent, listening as she opened up.
“We did a lot together, my parents and me. My mother knew I was shy and she refused to let me stay inside alone. So if we went hiking or swimming, we’d do it together. Or when we went to Europe, we’d plan the museums and places we wanted to go to together, study the history, and talk about it at dinner.” Heather paused and took a deep sip of her wine, suddenly suffused with emotion. “My mother was my best friend,” she said quietly with a catch to her voice.
Bo kept silent, eyes on the game, allowing her time to continue.
“It was my fault she died.”
Shaken, Bo swung his head from the game to study her face. “How?”
“I was at my high school graduation party. The only party I went to all year,” she added with a snort of derision. “I drank the punch and got too drunk to drive home. So I called her to come pick me up.” Heather swallowed hard and clasped her knees tightly. Outside the thunder clapped, and she jerked her head up toward the window. “It rained that night. Like today. One minute we were talking about the party. The next minute some SUV was hydroplaning right for us.”
“My God, Heather.” He wished he could do something, anything, to take away the pain he saw on her face and make it just a bit better, even if only for a few moments.
Heather released a long sigh and took a moment to compose herself. “That’s why I don’t drink much. If I hadn’t been drinking that night, she would still be alive today.”
“We all drank in high school. It’s a rite of passage.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“Maybe not. But don’t blame yourself for that, Heather. You were a kid.”
“Then who do I blame?”
“No one. It was raining. A car lost control. That’s why they’re called accidents. It doesn’t make it any less tragic, but you can’t blame yourself. She did what she felt was right. What any parent would have done in those circumstances.”
Heather reached out to set the pouch of letters on the table and picked up her wineglass. She looked at the glass as if she could see the answer to her grief in its clear depths. “I felt as though I’d died, too,” she practically whispered.
Bo took a long drink, then set his glass on the table. Then he reached over to take her glass and placed it gently beside his. Moving closer, he grasped both of her hands and gently tugged, drawing her up to her knees and closer to him even as he shifted, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the armrest. Heather slid toward him, half on the sofa and half against the length of him.
Heather rested her head against his chest, her hand over his he
art.
Bo wrapped one arm around her shoulders and let his other hand smooth the hair back from her face, curling it around her ear, then tilted his head to place a kiss on her forehead.
“I’m an only child, too,” he said in a low voice.
“Really?” she asked, lifting her head a bit to meet his eyes. “That surprises me. I guessed you came from a big family. All boys.”
He laughed. “I wish. I always wanted to be part of a big family. My father . . .” He paused. The subject of his father was always complicated for him to delve into. “He and my mother married late. He used to say he never found the right woman till he met my mother, and while I’d like to believe that’s true, I think he liked his freedom too much to give it up. You see, my daddy was a musician. Guitar player. Pretty good, I’m told. He traveled all the time, picking up jobs where he could. Bars and music venues, joining bands and playing for weddings. It was his life. But when he married my mama, he left his traveling days behind and only played the guitar for himself. My mother is a lot younger than my father, so I guess it’s lucky that I came along at all.”
“Do you look like her?” she asked.
“Some. My eyes, I think. But folks say I look like my dad.” He paused to finish his wine and stretched his arm out to place the empty glass on the table. He wrapped his arm around her again, holding her tight against his chest.
“Where do they live now?” she asked.
His brows rose. “I like to believe my daddy’s in heaven,” he replied. “He sure was a hell-raiser during his lifetime, though.”
Heather’s mouth dropped open a bit, her face a mask of pain for the loss Bo had suffered. “Bo. I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”
“I was only three when he died, so . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t remember him. I inherited his looks, his guitar, and a box of music he wrote. My mother never remarried. So it’s just me. One and done,” he added, trying to make light of it.
Heather reached up to run her fingers along the edge of his robe. “I’m not surprised you’re the son of an artist. Do you play an instrument?”
“Me? No. I love music, though.” His gaze caught hers. “But I guess you know that.”
Her cheeks turned the pretty pink he loved. Sometimes he flirted with her just to see it bloom on her face.
“Who taught you to work with wood?” she asked.
“That would be my uncle Thomas, my father’s brother.” Bo’s face softened. “Uncle Tom. After my father died, Uncle Tom kind of took me under his wing. He had three daughters, so I guess I was the son he always wanted. He sure was the father I needed. A gentler, wiser man never lived. He had a small furniture-building company in Mount Pleasant. He was the real artist. That man could change an ordinary piece of wood into something beautiful. Uncle Tom used to say my father had the musical talent in the family. There wasn’t an instrument my daddy couldn’t play. But Uncle Tom claimed he was a sculptor. That’s how he saw creating furniture. A kind of art.”
“Of course it’s art. You’re an artist, too.”
Bo scoffed.
“You are! I’ve seen you work. Even the way you fish. Do you build furniture?”
“Not really. I worked with my uncle at his business for years but I never found the same pleasure in making chairs and tables that he did. And frankly, most of what we did to earn a living was repair work. He made the new legs or arms for chairs. Me? I helped him—but I also did a lot of gluing. But he taught me a lot. Mostly, Uncle Tom taught me how to care enough to do the job right. To take my time with my work. It comes down to respect for the wood. Wood is very grounding, part of Mother Earth. You don’t hack it. It’s kind of like fishing—you respect the fish, handle them humanely. You take care of the water they live in.”
“I can see that.”
“It was Uncle Tom who taught me to whittle. He carved wood into furniture. I don’t carve anything so grand. I like to look at a piece of wood until I can see something in it—the way the grain moves, the shapes it has formed. Somewhere in the wood I see an image emerge that is crying to come out.”
Heather sighed, entranced. “So,” she said, leaning back to study his face, “you’re a sculptor, too.”
“That’s a highbrow word for whittling.”
“When I think of whittling, my mind turns to some old man sitting on a porch in a rocking chair, a knife in one hand, a piece of wood in the other.”
Bo laughed at that. “Well.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I wish I was as good as some of those old men,” he said. He looked at the table. “We ought to get back to our game.”
“No, don’t stop. I want to hear more about your uncle Tom and your childhood. What happened to the business?”
“When Uncle Tom died, the business was sold.”
“So you lost both of them.”
“Yep,” he said, closing off that sentiment. “Aunt Sara is a good woman. She asked if I wanted to try to keep it going, but you have to love it to do it, and, well, I didn’t. The way I see it, his business died with him. So I started working construction. I was still working with wood, but bigger. I found I love houses. I love seeing the design and the myriad pieces coming together like some ultimate puzzle.” He smiled and thought of his insight into Heather earlier. He looked down at her. She was listening intently, giving him her full attention.
“Did you go to college?”
“Nope. I guess my career education was more an apprenticeship.”
“You know so much about so many things.”
“I read a lot. Education doesn’t only come in schools.”
She blushed at underestimating him again.
He continued in an even voice. “I make a decent living. Can afford what I need and even a few things I just want. I don’t aspire to make a lot of money.”
“I hear a ‘but’ in there.”
“But . . . someday I’d like to have my own business. Small but respectable, like Uncle Thomas’s place. I like the small construction jobs. Cabinetry, especially. Bookcases. I really like to solve problems with the homeowner. You know, that weird corner no one knows what to do with, how to take advantage of a view, get more space in a kitchen, or trying to figure out where to put bookcases. It’s problem solving, sure. But it’s also a sense of symmetry. I guess I have some of my uncle’s training inside of me still.”
He ran his hand through his hair; drier now, it fell over his forehead in a tousled wave. “That’s enough about me,” he said, moving her legs so he could stand up. “My mouth is dry from all that yammering. I’m going to pour some more wine. Would you like some?”
Heather shook her head. Her hair was also dry and fell forward across her shoulder in a silken veil. “No, I’m good.”
“Okay,” he said, accepting it without question. Bo walked to the kitchen. When he carried his full glass of wine back into the living room, he found Heather sitting in front of the board game again. She’d set up the racks and passed out seven letters to each of them.
“I didn’t peek,” she said when he came to sit at the other end of the couch. “I promise.”
Bo gave her a suspicious look. “Okay,” he drawled.
They each spent a few minutes sorting their letters. He had a Z and a blank, but he couldn’t think of a decent word. Across from him, Heather was moving around tiles obviously wild with possibilities.
“What about you?” he asked. “How did you become an artist of stamps? Is there like a stamp school or something?”
She laughed, looking at her tiles. “Yes. It’s a very small school.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Do you want to go first?”
“No, you go first. Please,” he added with a groan while looking at his hopeless letters.
Heather set five tiles on the board to spell PEACE. “Not great, but I like the word.”
She counted up the points while he studied the board. “Really,” he said, thinking. “How does one become a creator of stamps?”
“There is no o
ne way. Artists come in all shapes and sizes. I’d been accepted at SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design. I was excited to go. But . . .” She sighed. “After the accident, I—well, I couldn’t possibly go away to school. I couldn’t go to school at all.” She laughed shortly. “I guess you could call that my gap year.”
She glanced at him, but Bo didn’t see humor in that.
“But at home I drew all the time,” she continued. “It was my obsession. My own personal therapy. I didn’t go anywhere without a sketch pad and pencil. My father was impressed and encouraged me to study. Eventually, when I felt I could, I took a class at the University of North Carolina in Charlotte. I could commute, you see. Then in time I took more, and then still more until I got my degree in fine art.”
Bo moved his tiles on the rack. “Did you date anyone in particular?” He kept his eyes down but could feel her gaze on him.
“Yes,” she replied. “Of course.”
“Anyone special?”
“One boy, Noah,” she said. “Or man, I should say. I’ve known him since we were little.”
“Do you still see him?”
“I do. On occasion. Our first date was a setup. Our fathers are business partners. I’d liked Noah since I was a little girl so I didn’t feel anxious around him.”
“Did you love him?”
“I thought I did,” she answered honestly. “But what did I know of love? He was more my best friend. I could talk with him without feeling nervous. You know how important that is for me,” she said with a nervous giggle. “We tried dating on and off. But we both knew it was never going to work.” She sighed. “He’s still a good friend. I’m glad of that.”
Bo didn’t respond. He picked up his tiles and made a word. “ZAG,” he said and began counting points.
“That’s not a word,” she argued.
“Sure it is. Zag as in zig zag.”
“That’s zigzag as in one word. Where’s the zig?”
“It zagged.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Oh, sure, why not?”
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