Desire by Design (Silverweed Falls Book 1)

by Thea Dawson

  Celia pressed her lips together wryly. Would she have been happier if her parents had tried to talk her into a more practical career? She wasn’t sure.

  Rowan made a dive for the bag of chips again, almost knocking over the cup of milk that Peyton had left on the table. Richard caught it deftly before it spilled then glanced up at her, frowning slightly. “Sorry. That wasn’t supposed to sound critical.”

  He was getting better at catching himself being tactless, she thought. “No ... your parents had a point. She thought about it for a moment and shook her head. “Still, I don’t really regret that I studied art. It was a chance to hone my skills, to be exposed to new ideas. And if this graphic design thing works out, maybe it’ll actually help me make a living.”

  He studied her for a moment and raised his eyebrows slightly. “Risky, though, if you’re still not sure it’ll work out.”

  Celia hesitated, feeling as if more was riding on her answer than she fully understood. “It will work out,” she said, putting more confidence into her voice than she felt. “Do you miss doing art yourself?”

  He shrugged. “A little, maybe. But I love engineering. My primary research is in sustainable development, which is fascinating and increasingly important. Maybe I’ll take art up again someday. When I retire or something.”

  Suddenly the room around them erupted in cheers and whistles. Behind the counter, Merilee and Adam were locked in a passionate kiss. The sight of it reminded of her night with Richard and her face burned. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He kept his eyes firmly on Rowan, apparently making a concentrated effort to not look at the couple behind the counter.

  Merilee and Adam finally broke apart and the cheering died down. Still holding Rowan, Richard stood up suddenly. “Hey, buddy, let’s go find your sisters. Let your mom eat in peace for few minutes. We’ll be right back.”

  She could tell he’d been as embarrassed as she’d been by the kiss and was eager to get away. She watched his back as he made his way past the crowded tables, wondering if she should be grateful or insulted by his swift retreat, her son still in his arms.

  Rowan, at least, didn’t seem to mind at all.

  Bouncing the exuberant one-year-old in his arms, Richard slowly made his way through the crowded coffee shop to the face-painting table. He wasn’t actually worried about Lily and Peyton, but Celia’s emotional display, coupled with Merilee’s and Adam’s ardent kiss had unleashed long-buried emotions of his own, and he needed to step away for a moment.

  A few months ago, it occurred to him, he probably would have simply left the café altogether, dragging Peyton away from the fun so that he could get regain his emotionally neutral equilibrium. Now it was enough just to step away from the conversation for a moment to mull over his own reactions.

  He was a jerk, and honestly if he were still alive, I’d probably be happy if he wasn’t having anything to do with the kids ...

  What had that meant? He had always assumed that Brad and Celia had been happily married; now it occurred to him that there might be a whole other source of pain beyond the obvious tragedy of Brad’s death. He wanted to ask her more about it, but he didn’t know how to broach the topic. After all, it wasn’t really any of his business.

  “Ree-ree!” Rowan shouted, almost lunging out of Richard’s arms when he saw Lily, who was seated at a table while the face painter traced colorful lines over her cheeks. Lily’s eyes darted to them but otherwise she held still and did not talk.

  Peyton was done and sat nearby watching. Her face was an iridescent green with small scales on her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes had been elaborately outlined in swooping black lines. Richard was a bit taken aback; he’d expected to see a flower on her cheek or maybe some tiger stripes, but this face painter was going all out.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  Peyton rolled her eyes. “A mermaid. Can’t you tell?”

  “Well, I can now,” he agreed. “What’s Lily?”

  She frowned at him as if he were being deliberately dense. “A butterfly.”

  Richard looked again, and yes, he had been dense not to see it immediately. The body of the butterfly had been painted down her nose while its wings swept colorfully over her forehead and cheeks. The painter, a plump woman a few years older than he was, was filling in some of the stripes with the same iridescent green that was on Peyton’s face.

  “Ree-ree!” Rowan shouted again.

  The painter looked up at them and smiled. “Almost done. Would your little boy like a turn after her?”

  It was too much trouble to explain that Rowan wasn’t his. “No, that’s okay. I doubt he’d hold still for it. Just waiting for these two. You did a beautiful job.”

  She smiled, dipping her brush into the paint. “Is this your daughter?” She indicated Lily. “She looks just like you.”

  Peyton laughed, and Lily took the painter’s distraction as an opportunity to smile. Richard shook his head. “This one’s mine,” he said, putting a hand on Peyton’s shoulder. “Lily’s a friend.” He smiled at Lily, who quirked her lips back at him.

  The painter laughed. “I’d have thought it was the other way around. This one’s hair is almost the same color as yours. Okay, hold still now. Almost done.”

  With a few more swoops of paint, Lily was turned loose and they made their way back to Celia’s table. Peyton was highly amused at the painter’s mistake. “She thought Rowan and Lily were his kids, so she probably thought I was yours!” she gleefully told Celia.

  “Mm, I can see how that would happen,” Celia replied with a distracted smile. “Okay, let’s wrap it up. I need to get some stuff done this afternoon.”

  17

  It wasn’t long before Celia had calls from several mothers who wanted to have her do sketches of their children at the dance studio. Fortunately, they were all very young dancers whose classes took place during regular school hours, and Celia was able to rearrange her Co-op schedule enough to accommodate them. Rosie by this time had made it quite clear that she wanted to do ballet as well, and Celia, determinedly optimistic about her income, promised her that when the new Teenie Ballerinie session started in four weeks, she could.

  In the meantime, Rosie contented herself with dancing around the carpeted floor outside the classroom, trying, with moderate success, to get Rowan to do twirls and leaps with her while Celia sketched.

  On Thursday morning as she was sketching the Tumbling Toddlers class, she was approached by one of the moms.

  “I’m so glad to see you back here. I saw you at the Intermediate Ballet class a couple of weeks ago. My older daughter is in that class. Her birthday is coming up this weekend, and I’d love to give her one of your sketches. She just loves dance so much. Is there any chance you’ll be here tonight?”

  Celia pressed her lips together, thinking. The thought of going back to Peyton’s class felt as if she’d be intruding on Richard’s turf. Her birthday dinner had been a nice gesture, and lunch at Merilee’s had been almost friendly, but she still felt a little unsettled being around him any more than necessary. And would he find it weird if she just showed up? Should she warn him first? But sending him a text just to tell him she’d be there seemed a bit over the top.

  She’d thought she’d left complicated relationship dramas behind her years ago, and here she was, analyzing every one of her and Richard’s moves like a love-struck teenager.

  She had been invited to sketch by the director of the studio. She had every right to be there. Richard was trying, in his own gruff and sometimes clumsy way, to be nice. It was ridiculous to hold herself back from an opportunity just for fear of what he might think.

  “Sure,” she replied. “Just find me at the beginning of class and make sure I know which one your daughter is.”

  She asked Tracie to come over in the evening to look after the kids and walked the six blocks to the dance studio. It was May now, and the evening was beautiful, not too cool and still light out. It occurred to her as she
walked into the dance studio that she could have simply offered to take Peyton herself, which could have made everything easier, but it was too late now. Charlene gave her a wave as she walked in and indicated a chair close to the window. She sat down and drew out her sketchbook as students and parents filtered in. The mom who had hired her pointed out her daughter. Beth gave her a wave and a smile, but no one else spoke to her; somehow, perhaps, Charlene had gotten the word out that she was there to work, and was not to be interrupted.

  Still no sign of Richard. Her heart hammering stupidly, Celia tried to focus on her subject as the class stretched, getting her as she did a split, followed by an un-ballet-like backbend. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Peyton go through the classroom door and join the class, and, surely as if she had turned her head to see him, she became aware that Richard was standing behind her.

  She put her pen down and looked up at him with a polite smile.

  He seemed extremely tall, standing over her as she sat. He frowned slightly. His frowns longer intimidated her; more often than not, she knew, they meant he was concentrating or puzzled, not angry, but he still looked slightly alarming as he looked down at her, and her heart thudded even faster.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Hello to you, too.” She flashed him her sweetest smile and was pleased to see that he looked somewhat abashed.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. I was just surprised to see you.”

  “It’s okay.” She waved a hand over the sketchbook. “I did a few sketches the other week when I brought Peyton here, and the director asked me to come back and do more.” She glossed as quickly as she could over the reference to that night, but heat still bloomed in her cheeks and she had to glance away as she said it.

  “They’re wonderful,” he said, staring at the sketchbook in her lap. She was starting to feel self-conscious.

  “There are some on display,” she said, nodding at the far wall where Charlene had hung some of her matted pictures and half hoping he might be encouraged to go check them out and leave her to get on with sketching. His presence was extremely distracting.

  He glanced over at the wall and seemed to realize that he was being dismissed. “I’ll have a look. Enjoy the class.”

  He gave her an awkward nod and drifted over toward the far wall, leaving her both relieved and disappointed. The class had started, and the girls—and one boy—were lined up at the barre going through their positions. Although the door to the classroom was closed, Celia could hear faint classical music.

  Most of the time, she made several sketches on a page, usually focusing on a single child, trying to capture them with quick, precise strokes of her pen before they moved into a new position and she had to start over. The challenge kept her busy, and she managed to forget Richard for a while as she lost herself in capturing the movements and personalities of the young dancers.

  But when she finally put her pen down and stretched, he was back. He crouched down beside her chair, alarmingly close. Now she was looking slightly down at him, all too aware of the glossy waves of his dark hair and the proximity of his hand, which he’d rested on the arm of the chair, to hers.

  “I saw the ones you did of Peyton,” he said quietly, nodding at the far wall. “They’re amazing. I could tell exactly who it was.”

  “Thanks,” she answered, a little shyly.

  “Could I buy them?”

  “You can have them. Let me just make a few more for Charlene to display, and I’ll ask for those back.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble for you,” he replied. “I’d love to have them, but there’s no rush.”

  The silence began to stretch on again, then he asked, “How are things going?”

  “Good,” she nodded, not looking at him. There was another pause. Her mind raced, trying to think of something to break the awkward silence. She suddenly remembered. “Oh, I almost forgot—your friend Susan got back to me, and, um ... it look like it’s a go. I need to get a preliminary brochure mockup to her next week.”

  His handsome face broke into a wide grin. “That’s great. She’s paying you well, I hope?”

  Celia nodded. She’d had to call Paul for moral support twice before submitting her bid, but she’d done it, and Susan had transferred the deposit online just a few hours later. Richard’s last check had included a $200 bonus for staying over, something she knew she should thank him for but was too embarrassed to bring up. With that plus Susan’s deposit, she felt practically wealthy—at least for the moment.

  “So, how many clients do you have now?” he asked.

  “Three,” she said proudly. “Merilee, the dairy farmer, and Susan. But the dairy farmer is just a logo, and Merilee won’t need much more now that the café is up and running,” she added with a self-deprecating shrug.

  “That’s still three more clients than you had a month ago, right?”

  She nodded. He was silent a moment, then asked, “Would you like to go for a walk?”

  “A walk?” she repeated stupidly.

  “A short one. I have to be back to get Peyton in fifteen minutes. But it’s such a nice evening ... of course, maybe you need to get back to work?” he nodded at the sketchbook. “Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

  “No, that’s okay.” She closed the sketchbook. She’d gotten several drawings done and she knew she wouldn’t get any more done—at least not well—as long as Richard was around. She was curious about his suggestion—did he really just want some fresh air, or did he want to talk to her about something that he couldn’t broach in the crowded studio? Plus part of her—a part she wasn’t particularly proud of but that insisted on being heard—leapt at the chance to be with him, alone, one more time.

  The suggestion to take a walk had fallen from his mouth before Richard had consciously thought it through. As he watched Celia slide the wide sketchbook in her ever-present tote bag, he experienced a moment of sheer anxiety. The thought of being alone with her, with no kids for distraction, for the first time since ... For a moment, he felt like he was back in high school, minutes before picking up a girl for a first date.

  They stood up together and he was struck again by her unbelievably deep blue eyes, but he managed a calm, “After you,” as he gestured her toward the door.

  She stopped for a quick word with one of the other mothers—probably the one who had commissioned the sketches—and then they walked out into the still-warm evening. The shadows were lengthening, but the sky was still a brilliant blue. Richard took a deep breath. “Want to walk along the water?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  He was aware of Celia studying him out of the corner of those astonishing eyes, sizing him up warily, no doubt wondering what this was about. But it wasn’t really about anything. He hadn’t made the suggestion with a particular agenda in mind. It had just flashed suddenly into his mind that it was a beautiful evening for a walk, and Celia’s company would make it that much better. But now that they were indeed walking, he was at a loss of what to talk about.

  The dance studio was a block west of the river that ran through town. They walked the block in silence then turned and began to walk beside the river. In the winter, the rains swelled the river sometimes to the point that it overflowed its banks. In the summer, it would be placid and shallow, little more than a gently moving pond. Now, it simply lapped and laughed beside them, making a gentle rushing noise that slipped easily into the background of Richard’s thoughts.

  Which were now verging on panic. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the studio. He was conscious of their time slipping away and wanted to somehow make the most of it, but he was afraid to say anything that might give her the wrong idea. But what was the right idea?

  “Do you mind if I ask about your husband?” he asked her suddenly. He sighed inwardly. Whatever he’d wanted to say, it wasn’t that. He’d been curious ever since her bout of tears at the cafe, but that didn’t forgive such a clumsy opening.

 
Celia looked at him in surprise. “What do you want to know?”

  “He died in a car accident, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she said shortly. “A year ago March.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said automatically. His brow furrowed. “Rowan must have been tiny. Was he even born yet?”

  Celia nodded. “He was a few weeks old.”

  He sucked in his breath. “Dear God, I can’t even imagine how hard—”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, it was hard, but not the way you think. It wasn’t—we were already separated. We split up not that long after I got pregnant with Rowan.

  “Oh.” He was flummoxed. She’d hinted at an unhappy marriage, but he hadn’t pictured her alone and pregnant.

  “I certainly didn’t wish him dead, but ... I feel like the man I married died a lot longer ago. He changed.”

  He nodded. “I know how that goes,” he muttered. “I’m sorry about the car accident. Must be hard on the kids.”

  Celia nodded. “I think Lily blames me. Brad had dropped by that evening and we had a big fight. I mean, I don’t think she blames me consciously, but I think she thinks if we hadn’t fought, he wouldn’t have stormed off the way he did and gotten killed.” She gazed at the river. “And maybe she’s right.”

  Richard stopped beside her and leaned on the rail that ran along the edge of the river. “You’ll drive yourself crazy if you think like that. What did you fight about?” It wasn’t like him to ask such personal questions, but somehow it felt natural. And it felt important.

  She pressed her lips together for a moment, remembering. “He’d started drinking. A lot. I didn’t realize it at the time, but his business was in trouble and he wasn’t handling it well. Rowan was ... Well, I wasn’t really expecting to get pregnant, and Brad ... He wasn’t very happy about another child.” Her face grew darker. “Brad’s behavior had been troubling before that, but when he found out we were going to have another baby, he started getting ... Well, it sort of pushed him over the edge, I guess.”