It must be exciting working as a news photographer, but Dylan wasn’t sure he’d like that. He loved experimenting with dangerous things, but there, if you were careful and followed the safety rules, you had a better chance of survival. It was different when someone was shooting at you. Good planning couldn’t stop a bullet.
And he didn’t want to die anymore. It wasn’t that living was so great, but—he hated to admit this—there were more interesting people in his life now than when his uncle had first moved in. Dylan still missed his parents so much it was like a pain in his gut, but when Bobbie came over, he felt better. And when Hunter came on game night, it was like they were just a bunch of guys together, and his uncle seemed to loosen up a little, let him and Sheamus stay up late and drink pop out of a beer glass.
Bill the Monster was kind of stupid, but Sheamus and Uncle Nate had stuck it to the freak’s closet door with masking tape, and Sheamus didn’t look quite so terrified anymore. He wouldn’t open the closet, but winter was coming and he was going to have to sooner or later, or freeze to death. Or maybe Uncle Nate would just buy him another coat. But the scarf their mom had made was in there.
Dylan climbed out of bed, took the flashlight and went to his dresser. He rooted through the bottom drawer until he found the one she’d made him. It was red and plain, and he wrapped it around his neck as he walked back to bed.
He started to cry. He hated that. He was going to be eleven in January. He swiped at the tears with the back of his hand and placed the flashlight so that it lit both the sketch he’d made tonight and the picture of a bunch of boats he’d printed off the internet. He studied them for a minute, then picked one and began to sketch it onto the water slightly to the right of center on the page.
* * *
IN DOTS AND Doodles, an extensive art supply store worthy of a metropolitan city, Bobbie selected a 24” x 36” canvas for the painting as Nate stood by with a basket. He had called her this morning to tell her a client had canceled an appointment and it would be a good time to shop for her supplies.
“I have a lot of the colors I’ll need. I unearthed my taboret this morning,” she said, stopping at a display of brushes. “But I’ll need a couple of flats, and maybe...” Her voice trailed off as she looked through the round brushes for something small enough for facial detail. She turned to him, sure her expression betrayed her hesitation. “I hope I can do this. I usually plan paintings around a palette I’m comfortable with. I don’t think I’ve ever done a seascape, or in this case, a riverscape.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” he said supportively. “The work in your living room is very impressive.”
She was beginning to relax. Talking about the project was easy. It was almost as if their sparking glances from the other night had not happened.
“Thank you. Then, are you willing to be my model?” she challenged. “Sandy wants a turn-of-the-twentieth-century ship captain looking out at the Butterfly Fleet. You know, the Finnish fishing fleet with their funny sails. I’d have thought Bat Wing Fleet would have been a more appropriate name, but I’m sure Butterfly Fleet is more palatable to history.”
He nodded. “I know about the Butterfly Fleet. But me? Seriously? Do I look salty to you?”
She laughed. “Well, generally, you’re a little buttoned-down in your suit, but in the right clothes, you’ll be perfect. Sandy’s going to get me some photos of the river in the old days, and she says she can borrow an old ship captain’s costume from the museum. They’re happy to support us.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Good. Do you think we could work in your garage? Mine’s a little cluttered with papermaking stuff.”
“Of course. And I presume I have to supply Thundermuck coffee. You seemed to really like it the night you helped the boys with their artwork. And, of course, I’ll have to provide the chocolate.”
“If you do that, I promise to make you handsome.” She thought about how that sounded. “Not that you aren’t already,” she added. “You’re...” She was talking herself into a hole and he was enjoying her discomfort.
She put several brushes in the cart and started for the counter, ending that line of conversation.
He handed the clerk a credit card. “Are you free for lunch? The Urban has a great Reuben sandwich.” When she looked doubtful, he added, “And a half dozen great salads for those of you watching your diets.”
“Ah...” She scanned her brain quickly for an excuse. She was more interested in him than she should be, yet circumstances kept forcing them together. At the same time, he seemed to be changing his attitude to her. And while she was happy to be dealing with a more pleasant person, this change in him was increasing his appeal, and that wasn’t good.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “Neighbors have lunch together all the time. I mean, if you want to pass me off to your father as a friend, you’re going to have to know a little about me. Right?”
She was hungry. And she certainly couldn’t fault his reasoning about her father.
“Okay,” she said finally. She knew she sounded pathetic.
* * *
THE URBAN CAFÉ was a chic, uptown restaurant with mirrors, graphics on the wall, half curtains separating spaces and comfortable furniture in a back room where there were also a few pub-style tables. They sat at one in a corner near a giant poster of Marilyn Monroe.
“Now, there’s a woman for you,” Bobbie teased as they were handed menus. “I loved her in River of No Return. She was so good with the hero’s little boy.”
He nodded. “She must have been something. But I have quite a list of women interested in me, you know.” He gave a superior tilt of his eyebrow. “It’s an accounting thing. Women love men who are good with numbers.”
Bobbie challenged that with a laugh. “Do tell. As opposed to good with baseballs, or race cars, or sophisticated software?”
He grinned at her. “It’s true. At this very moment, I’m the object of affection of a very wealthy client of mine in Portland, a supermodel I met while on a cruise two summers ago, and the prettiest little barista at the Astoria Coffee House. Casey is her name.”
Bobbie put her menu down and folded her arms over it, enjoying this fanciful side of him. Or was it fanciful? Maybe he was telling her the truth and he did have three women on the string.
“And they’ve actually told you how they feel?”
“Not in so many words, but Casey puts a beautiful steamed-milk heart on my mocha every morning.”
Bobbie shook her head pityingly. “Nate. Every barista in the world puts a steamed-milk heart on every customer’s mocha. It elevates a cup of coffee to an art form. And it helps validate the $4.50 price.”
In a theatrical gesture, he put a hand to his heart. “You mean she doesn’t love me?”
Bobbie patted his hand. “Well, she might, but you can’t judge by the heart on your mocha, because she does that for everyone.”
His brow wrinkled. “Well, I’m depressed.”
She laughed aloud as the waitress arrived to take their order. When she’d left, Bobbie’s eyes went to his thick, slightly mussed hair and lingered on it a moment, wondering if it would be silky or wiry to the touch. She met his eyes. “Stop pouting. You are kind of cute. And apparently that opinion is shared by three other women, so stop with this embarrassing need for constant adulation.”
He pulled the complimentary basket of chips away when she reached to help herself. “Hey. I thought we’re having lunch to learn how to be friends. You’re not getting how this works. Friends are kind and supportive.”
She put a hand to her own heart now. “Sorry. As your friend, I thought you should know that your display of neediness was not flattering.”
He leaned toward her and said with a hopeful grin, “But you think I’m kind of cute?”
She had to laugh. “Yes, bu
t not when you’re being needy. Do you want to hear about my art class?”
He straightened, the silly exchange over. “Sure. How’s it going?”
She told him about Eddy, and the little girl who was making a lady monster, and the moment when Sheamus talked about his mother.
Nate dipped a chip in salsa and seemed to lose focus for a moment. “She was something,” he said with real feeling. “I was jealous of Ben for finding her. She was everything a man wants in a woman. Kind, caring, supportive, strong, smart.” Happy memories seemed to change suddenly to grim ones. He leaned back, obviously still focused on the past. “I put them on that boat, you know.”
Bobbie sat up a little straighter, concerned about his mood switch. “What do you mean?” she asked gently.
“I gave them the charter boat tickets for their anniversary.”
She leaned closer. “You’re not blaming yourself for the fact that they...died?”
“I do. I mean, I know it’s not my fault precisely, but I am the reason they were on the boat.”
She put her hand on his, and when he didn’t look at her, she pinched a knuckle. He glanced up in surprise, the brooding gone from his eyes. “That’s self-abuse, Nate, and completely uncalled for.”
He almost smiled. “You pinched me.”
“I was just trying to get your attention.”
“Yeah, well, the fact remains that they’d be here if I hadn’t given them the tickets. And the boys miss them so much.”
“Here we go.” The waitress placed their lunches in the middle of the table, Nate’s Reuben smelling heavenly, and Bobbie’s pear and strawberry salad colorfully tempting. “Anything else I can get you right now?”
Nate had already bitten into his sandwich. Bobbie shook her head. “We’re good, thank you.” The waitress left and they continued to talk as they ate
“Fate or the divine plan, whatever you believe, took them from you, not the fact that you gave them the tickets. And you’re doing the best you can for the boys.” She took a sip of her drink and smiled teasingly. “Don’t you think you need a woman in your life? Isn’t it time to get serious about the client or the model?”
He made a face. “Right now my life needs certainties.”
“What do you mean?”
“Women tend to come and go.”
“No, they don’t. Well, maybe some do, but many are as committed as you would ever want.”
He shrugged and admitted, “I lost the client and the model when I moved here to care for the boys. And, honestly, neither was a till-death-do-us-part relationship, but it goes to show you. And you’re going,” he pointed out.
He made it sound like an accusation, and she was momentarily surprised, because it suggested that he cared more than their relationship would warrant. She was both flattered and upset by that.
“I am,” she replied firmly. “But you can’t expect to uproot and force maternity onto women who aren’t till-death-do-us-part serious. You need to broaden your pool of prospects. I’m sure women would be lining up if you expressed an interest.” Bobbie tried to inject a little humor. “You know, clever and cute as you are.”
It didn’t work. He simply frowned at her.
“I’m just trying to learn this friend thing,” she said a little weakly. “I think friends tell you when they feel you’re making a mistake.”
His mood had turned again. A little edginess crept into his tone. “So, if I think you’re making a mistake forgoing family for career, you’ll take it as an act of friendship if I tell you?”
She considered that and finally replied with candor. “Probably not. I hate being told that I’m wrong. I usually don’t take it very well. I once poured a glass of merlot on an art critic who called my work confused and undecided.”
Nate barked a laugh. Diners at nearby tables turned to look. Bobbie blushed. The conversation diverted, he seemed to relax again.
“You think my work’s confused, too?” she asked.
“Not at all. I think it just means that you’re interested in different styles and a lot of subjects, and you’re good at all of them so you explore them.”
She sat up straighter, relishing his approval. “Why aren’t you an art critic?”
“Because I know nothing about art. And I’d have trouble shooting down anyone’s dreams if I didn’t like their work. But back to you.” He leaned closer. “Have you considered that having someone to share your life might enhance your studies and ease the burden of your work a little?”
She’d thought that over so many times she had the answer on the tip of her tongue. “In most professions a helpmate is a wonderful thing. But in art—I’m talking serious, life-changing, world-affecting art—someone who loves you can be a...” she looked up apologetically, because the thought was selfish but still true “...a distraction. It won’t work. One of you will end up leaving because you can’t get or give what the other needs. And the emotional energy required of a relationship is all time taken from getting at the stuff in your gut.” She was silent a moment, then added, “And I don’t have the time to waste.”
“But you’re well,” he said. “Your prognosis is good, right?”
“Cancer’s a sneaky rat. I could be fine today and gone tomorrow.” She hated admitting that to herself, but she’d seen it happen. “I’m not going to live in fear of it, but I’m not going to pretend that I have forever.”
“None of us has forever. So shouldn’t we be fearless?”
“Every artist is. When I hang a canvas or show a sculpture or a bowl, I’m putting out there all the heart and soul it took to create it, and running the risk that some big-city pseudo-sophisticate who ‘knows what he likes’ is going to think it’s trite or stupid or means something I never intended. But I do it anyway, because it just might really speak to somebody.” She paused for a moment, remembering how wonderful that felt. “And that’s what it’s all about.”
“That’s what it’s about for the artist,” he said quietly, “but what’s it all about for the woman?”
She replied with another smile. “It’s all about the art for me, Nate. I made myself a promise.”
He nodded, seeming to accept that. He watched her in silence, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “You and your dad want to join us for Thanksgiving? We’ll have everything. All you have to do is come. Then you won’t have to find time to fix a holiday dinner, and it’ll convince your father that you have good friends.”
“Ah...” It was a lovely idea, but that would make it even harder to keep herself above the cozy pull of this town and its people. And him. Still, she had resolve, and a plan she intended to follow without deviation. And it would be good for her father to see that she wasn’t spending every moment in her studio. “That would be nice,” she heard herself say. “Do you have pies and rolls?”
“We’ll just buy those.”
“I’ll make them. Pumpkin and apple? Mince?”
He brightened. “You can make mince pie?”
“Yes. It’s my father’s favorite.”
“Mine, too, but I’m usually outvoted. No one likes it but me. The boys and I can help you with the grunt work.”
They packed up leftovers and he paid the check. When they arrived home, he helped Bobbie carry everything into his garage. It was filled with bicycles, lawnmower and tools, a shop against one wall, all kinds of implements hanging on another. In the middle was a large table where he put everything they’d bought today.
“When do we start the Old Astoria painting?” he asked.
“Anytime you’re free, I’d like about an hour on the waterfront to place you against the background. I know if we make it on a Saturday, you’d have to consider what to do with the boys. But if we do it during the week, there’s your work.”
“How’s Friday morning? That’s usua
lly a short day for me. I’ll just catch up in the afternoon.”
“Can we make it early? I have the art class at ten.”
“I’ll come by for you at eight.”
“Great. Thanks for lunch. You’d better get back to work.”
He loped to his car and she headed off across her yard. She let herself into the house and was greeted with a meow from Monet, who was dozing in the Christmas cactus in the middle of her kitchen table. His orange body was wrapped around the plant and tucked inside the terra-cotta pot.
Except for Monet’s one “Hello” the house was quiet. It seemed particularly so after the morning spent wrapped in Nate’s deep voice.
Well, she’d better get used to it, she told herself as she changed into her grubs and went to work in the garage. The future would probably be just a little lonely. But she was finally going to see what she was made of.
Canvas and linseed oil, she thought with a laugh. And a lot of coffee and chocolate.
She emailed Laura about the painting project and told her she’d be using Nate as a model.
Talk about finding out what she was made of.
* * *
NATE ARRIVED AT the office to find Jonni in the conference room, her arms wrapped around a sobbing client, while Hunter looked on helplessly. Nate recognized Ellen Bingham, whose husband had MS. They were both in their late seventies and Nate had been helping them with an Offer in Compromise to the Internal Revenue Service.
Jonni held Ellen in one arm and handed Nate a notice from the IRS with her free hand. “They won’t even talk to her until she pays the thousand dollar application fee.”
He snatched the paper. “But their income is low enough that they don’t have to pay it.” He glanced over the investigator’s figures and saw a tricky but allowable variation in how the income had been calculated. And she’d put a deadline of a week on the fee or “we won’t even consider the application.”
“Ben dealt with that investigator once,” Hunter said. “She believes in the letter of the law and that everyone who owes the IRS money is a deadbeat. He found it easier to do what she wanted in the interest of getting the client the result we wanted.”
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