The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga)

by Tommie Conrad

  “Our lives would be a lot different now if he hadn’t retired,” Christa pointed out. “If you believe in the butterfly effect, then everything that happened after he came home…might never have occurred in the first place. But I’d rather not dwell on what didn’t happen—because what did was pretty damned good.”

  “I’m glad to have him around,” Mark countered. “I never said any different.” Christa smiled at him, and he quickly realized she was teasing.

  Chandler nudged him with his shoulder. “Sandpaper.”

  Mark nodded. “I’ll pencil you in, bud.”

  ***

  Taylor pulled her car to a halt, shut off the engine, and shook her head. Of course Chandler’s truck was parked in the driveway, right in front of the house. Fate—or more accurately, Mark and Christa—wouldn’t have had it any other way. As much as she had thought she knew Chandler, in ways physical and emotional, there were clearly many more facets to him now. She didn’t always understand her reactions to him, was powerless to control certain feelings that arose. They were sensations she knew were biologically normal and completely healthy—but that still didn’t make them any easier to swallow.

  She closed the car door behind her and looked across the landscape. The ranch was just as she remembered it—constantly beautiful, but ever-changing with the seasons; and rugged, but somehow safe. The grass was a washed-out shade of green, and the day was seasonably cold but thankfully the temperature hovered above the freezing mark. She pulled her coat tight around her shoulders, walked with purpose and courage, and rapped the front door.

  Christa greeted her with a smile and a hug. “Welcome to our home,” she said, hanging Taylor’s coat on the only empty stretch of the coat rack. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

  “I followed the smell of good food,” she replied, complimenting her host. “Mark,” she said, as he pulled her into a friendly embrace. “Is it just us grown-ups for the evening?”

  “Just us grown-ups,” he assured her, “and of course Chandler. No one would ever mistake him for an adult.”

  Chandler strode into view and shot his best friend a rueful glance. “Get in the kitchen and give your wife a hand, Jasper.” His words came off with a heavy dose of sarcasm, but a grin crossed his lips. “And see if she can provide some manners while you’re at it.”

  Mark left them alone, although due to the home’s floor plan he and Christa were still in full view. Taylor’s breath caught in her throat. There was something altogether enticing about seeing Chandler in a domestic setting. He was dressed as per usual, in jeans and a Western shirt, but something about his gait, the imposing figure he cut as he stood before her…it awakened something deep inside, something she was afraid to explore.

  She was in big trouble.

  “This was a total setup,” he whispered to her, his voice rough and unsure. “I knew nothing about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she replied in a similarly quiet tone. “We’ll make the best of the situation.”

  “If you’re not…I mean, if you want…I don’t know what I mean.”

  Instinctively she placed a hand on his forearm, sending a frisson of heat through each of them. The look he doled out was decidedly lustful, and he quickly dropped his eyes to the hardwood floor.

  “Chandler Adams, are you stammering?”

  He nodded, the movement of his head barely noticeable if not for the shadow of lamplight that spilled across the short blonde strands. “I guess so, T.” He knotted his fingers together nervously. “Look, let’s just get through the meal. I’ll try to get my head screwed on straight.” He extended one arm, leading the way to the table. Christa was just putting the finishing touches on the meal and she asked them to be seated. Since she and Mark sat together, at their regular places, it was only natural for Chandler and Taylor to be seated side-by-side.

  “Taylor, would you like some wine?” Mark offered. “I know nothing about the stuff but it’s supposed to be a good vintage.”

  “Sure,” she replied quickly. “Why not?” She watched as he poured the aromatic, dark liquid into each of their glasses, giving Christa little more than a thimbleful.

  “I’m a total lightweight,” she revealed. “Any more than this and Mark will have to carry me to bed.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time, ma’am,” he drawled. “Should we have a toast?”

  Christa nodded. “To friends.”

  “To friends,” Taylor agreed as they all clinked glasses. Food was passed around as they all partook of the wine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a meal this much. She loved her mother, undoubtedly, but those dinners were always so much quieter and reflective. Mark and Christa were gently boisterous, sharing humorous anecdotes and stories but not overwhelming the room with them. Mainly they talked about the ranch or their children; she noted that they steered clear of Chandler’s mysterious time away from home, an era of life unknown to her. She wondered if she’d ever get a chance to piece those lost years together—the years when she was wife and mother, and he was a leaf drifting on the wind. How different their lives could have been…

  “Taylor, do you remember the time we snuck off to get tattoos?” Mark’s eyes literally pleaded for remembrance across the table, and she could barely stifle a laugh.

  “I do,” she said, “and I am so glad you both thought better of it.”

  “I would’ve had to think twice about marrying a man with the Big I branded on his ass,” Christa joked.

  Chandler, whose eyes had been staring at some imaginary speck of dirt on the table, looked up at them with a touch of melancholy tumbling past his smile. “We had our first fight that night.”

  “I remember that, too,” Taylor said reluctantly. “We didn’t break up then but we said a lot of hurtful things…things I still regret.”

  Mark took note of the downcast mood at the table. “I didn’t mean to open up old wounds,” he apologized.

  “It’s not your fault,” Chandler promised. He backed his chair up and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and get some fresh air.”

  “Put on your gloves,” Christa prompted. “You need fresh air, not frostbite.”

  He responded with a short laugh. “Yes, Mommy.” With his hat and coat on, he closed the door firmly behind him.

  “I’m sorry,” Mark apologized again. “I remember you guys fighting and yet I brought up that story anyway. I should’ve thought better of it.”

  “It’s fine,” she rejoined through gritted teeth. She loosened her jaw and looked to them for the answers to her quandary. “I should go talk to him.”

  Christa nodded and she rose from the table, quickly retrieving her coat and slinging it across her back as she headed out the front door.

  She eyed her husband prudently when they were alone. “I guess now’s the time to say ‘I told you so’, honey.”

  Mark laughed. “I’d never do that to you, cowgirl.” He touched her cheek in a reassuring manner. “They’ll get it sorted out, the two of them. They both know what they want.”

  Taylor found him at the corner of the porch, staring off into twilight. He cut a dashing figure, even in profile, the edges of his mouth hard, his face sullen. “Sorry,” he said, hearing her boot heels echo across the porch.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, Chandler. For anything. You gave me a job, helped me put my life back together, and I didn’t ask for anything else.”

  A pair of searing blue eyes studied her warily. “You want more.”

  She drew close enough to hear his breath catch in his throat. “Don’t you?” she asked after a beat.

  He exhaled sharply. “Yeah, but I didn’t think that was fair to either of us. We barely know each other.”

  Taylor leaned back against the porch railing, staring at him until their eyes met. “I’ve known you most of my life. I wasn’t swapped out by aliens in that ten years we were apart. I may not be exactly the same—neither are you, I’d wager—but I
’m still me.”

  “You’re still beautiful,” he replied in a hoarse voice.

  She struggled and failed at replying with a frown. “I was never beautiful,” she countered, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “But if your eyes thought I was, then I guess that’s okay.”

  He watched her breath escape her mouth and form a cloud in the wintry air. “Are you cold?” he asked. “We could head back inside.”

  “It’s not too bad right now. This coat does its job.”

  He pushed up the brim of his hat with a gloved thumb. “For a lot of people winter symbolizes death, but for me that’s always been the fall. When the trees lose their leaves and it looks like the world is tumbling down.”

  Taylor parsed out his words and carefully considered her next question. “So what’s winter symbolize for you, cowboy?”

  He replied with a fragile smile. “Planning for the future,” he answered. “Thinking about everything you’re gonna do when the sun shines again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I remember when you used to write poetry. You still do that?”

  He nodded. “Some. I wrote a few lines when my brother and sister got married.”

  “Were you the best man at both weddings?”

  “Sort of. Mark and I shared duties when CJ got married. Same thing when Mark got married. CJ and I split it.”

  “Sounds like you need to get married and let them return the favor,” she teased, gently.

  “Someday, I guess.” He frowned. He lifted both hands from the porch railing, rested them on her shoulders. “Look, Taylor, I…if I don’t just go ahead and kiss you, I’m gonna go out of my mind with regret.”

  Her chin lifted upward, a silent vow of acceptance. He lowered his face to hers, his breathing unregulated and broken, and pressed his lips to hers with the expert care and precision he expended on every aspect of his life. She was soft against his stomach, yielding to the quiet power of his touch. He pulled away, looked deep into her eyes, and kissed her again, a little more firmly, parting her mouth and drawing a murmur of satisfaction from her throat.

  “Was that okay?” he asked half a minute later, when he’d wrested himself from her sweet, pliant lips. He chided himself internally afterward. God, I say the stupidest shit sometimes. He could feel her back tremble beneath his hands, her body breathing unsteadily. He took a step backward but didn’t release his grip on her shoulder blades.

  “I…” She looked so delicate and vulnerable to his eyes, and he was immediately contrite for forcing her into physical contact. She’d kissed back—that was for damned sure—but guilt clouded his mind.

  “Taylor?” He studied her face for a trace of anything, but she kept her visage neutral and calm.

  “I’ve got to go thank your sister,” she said quickly. She pulled him into a hug, and he felt desire course through him when her arms wrapped under his and around to his back. She backed away just as quickly. “I’ll see you on Monday,” she replied.

  “See you,” he said quietly, barely audible, as she disappeared into the house. Dumbfounded by his own actions and her reactions, he silently cursed himself. And in a movement of rare cowardice, he strolled to the other side of the porch, so that he was unable to see her when she departed a few minutes later. He listened to the familiar closure of house and car doors, the grinding of gravel beneath tires, and wondered how in the hell he was going to face her on Monday morning.

  Chapter 11

  The porch was half-clean, bare wood naked to the sunlight, when Mark’s truck topped the horizon. He scrubbed the posts and balustrades with sandpaper wrapped around a block; he’d been hard at work since just after sun-up, reveling in the sound of nothing but his own breathing in the cold, clean air.

  “Miracle of miracles,” Mark said hoarsely as he stepped from the truck. “You finally decided to open the old place up. I’d forgotten what a long drive it was out here.”

  “Hey bud. Yeah, I can’t believe you rode out here on horseback that time.”

  Mark nodded, walked toward him and rested the toe of his boot on the bottom step. “You sleep here last night?”

  Chandler sanded for a few more seconds before answering. “No, in Mom’s office.”

  “On the foldout couch?”

  “Uh-huh. Didn’t wanna disturb the youngsters.”

  “Hmm.” Mark shot him a hard glare. “You could’ve stayed in our guest room.”

  “No. It’s not like you two get much alone time, and I wasn’t gonna impose.”

  “Family doesn’t impose, man. Much appreciated, though.” Chandler looked up and found a broad, self-satisfied grin on his face. There was no need to put that expression into words.

  “Did you tell Christa about what happened last night?”

  “What you told me?” Chandler nodded. “No, man, I didn’t tell her about the kiss. That’s between you, Taylor, and the gatepost.”

  “And you.” He tossed Mark another wooden block and a piece of sandpaper. He began scrubbing the other side of the porch.

  “You’re not planning to sand the whole house clean, are ya? That might take a while, pal.”

  “Just the porch,” Chandler assured him. “The house I’m gonna keep white, but I think the porch will look better with a natural finish.”

  Mark studied the intricately turned wooden posts, rails, and balusters for a moment. “I agree.” For a few minutes the only sound that either of them made was the gentle grinding of sand against wood. When he’d gathered up the courage, he asked, “So do you regret it?”

  Chandler turned to him and their eyes met. He squinted and frowned the way a man would if he was sucking on a lemon. “I could have handled it better. Kissing wasn’t the problem. It was the way I handled it. I guess we could’ve analyzed my actions until the cows came home. I just kind of slunk away like a scalded dog.”

  Mark narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t a scalded dog run away?”

  “Jerk,” Chandler said, a smile belying his epithet.

  Mark looked down at the porch, examined that flat, unvarnished plane of wood. “So how was it?”

  Chandler lifted an eyebrow at him. “The kiss?”

  “Yeah, man, the kiss. What’d you think I was asking about—the food?”

  He laughed, but Mark noticed that it sounded uneasy. “It was good. I mean, she kissed back. What more can a man ask for?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” Mark teased in an easy drawl.

  Chandler rolled his eyes in mock derision. “This is going to sound really, really lame, but when I look at her…I don’t know. She just seems breakable…fragile…like if I touched her, she’d shatter into a thousand fragments of glass.”

  Mark eyes both sympathized and admonished him. “Did you touch her last night?”

  “Barely.”

  “Did she crack? When she came back in the house she looked a little embarrassed but no worse for the wear.”

  Chandler didn’t answer, and Mark didn’t press the issue. They scrubbed and sanded until little flecks of white paint lay around the porch’s three sides like solid snow and neither of them could feel their noses. They stood back and admired their work for a moment, tossed the used sandpaper and wood blocks in a pail, and watched their breath escape and fog in the February air.

  “Let’s head inside,” Chandler finally declared from the corner of his mouth. Mark followed him onto the porch and across the threshold and closed the door behind them. They removed their gloves, shoved them in their pockets, and walked toward the large kitchen at the back of the house. The place was quiet, empty, still in need of some curtains, blinds, even a rug or two.

  “I think there’s some furniture in storage,” Mark muttered. He and Chandler pulled off their hats, almost in tandem, and rested them atop the counter.

  “Yeah,” Chandler said, running a hand along the outdated cooktop. “I can bring what’s in my apartment and combine that with what we already have.”

  “You wouldn’t want for much.” Mark’s eyes d
rifted past the milky, dingy glass toward the large building behind the house. He turned back toward Chandler. “What about paint?”

  Chandler shrugged. “Ironically enough, I was thinking about doing all the rooms in white, except the library. Not very artsy.”

  Mark shook his head, shoved a hand through his dark brown hair. “No, man, I think that’s a good plan. Let the moldings and wainscoting and wood floors speak for themselves. Don’t try to overwhelm any of it.”

  “You could’ve kept this house for yourself,” Chandler replied with a grin. “Why didn’t you?”

  “More house than I needed, for one.” Mark’s eyes turned melancholy. “And we’ve got too many memories attached to our house, Christa and me. That’s where our boys were conceived. That’s where we’ve built a life.”

  “So you didn’t contemplate it? Not even for a little bit?”

  “Just the amount of time it takes to blink an eye,” Mark expounded. Chandler nodded in crystal-clear understanding, and pulled a pad of paper from his pocket.

  “Help me make a list of things to prioritize,” he requested.

  Mark tapped his fingers on the counter. “Sure thing.”

  “The furnace should be number one,” Chandler figured. “It’s working fine but it’s an older home.”

  “Makes sense.” Mark tilted his head toward the fridge. “New appliances in here,” he added.

  “Definitely.”

  “What about the fireplace?”

  Chandler snapped his fingers and pointed at Mark. “Good man. Anything else?”

  “The windows.”

  He groaned, but wrote it down. “This place has a lot of windows, doesn’t it?”

  “A hellacious amount,” Mark agreed, “but nothing we can’t handle.”

  Chandler looked around, and Mark watched as he studied the edge of the kitchen island for what seemed like an eternity. “We need barstools,” he finally said. “There’s no place to sit as things stand now.”

  Mark laughed. “Was that a really bad pun?”