Nightsong

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

Elleny wondered why Phillip’s name was unfamiliar to her. Surely Mark had mentioned the friendship lo her. And she must have seen the letters at one time or another. “I know Mark must have told me about you, but I just can’t seem to remember.”

  Phillip cleared his throat. “He probably didn’t. I’m sure he made more of an impression on me than I did on him. I’m really interested in his work. Since the first time I saw his work, I’ve been intrigued by his style.”

  “He had tremendous talent,” Elleny agreed. “I’ve often thought if Mark had lived, he would have become as famous as his father.” She glanced at Phillip and lifted her brows in question. “I suppose you’ve heard of Jesse Damon?”

  “Of course. He’s almost a legend in western art. Mark must have had a hard time dealing with that.”

  “He adored his father and was Jesse’s greatest fan,” Elleny stated in quick, crisp defense.

  “I didn’t mean to offend.” Phillip seemed to consider his words. “Many children have trouble handling the success of a parent, especially when the child chooses to pursue the same type of career. I suppose I just assumed that Mark....” He let the sentence trail into an apologetic silence, and Elleny allowed a discreet distance to settle between them.

  “I’ve heard that Jesse is somewhat of a recluse these days.” Phillip dropped the contrite tone, and his voice took on a conversational amiability. “Do you see him often?”

  “Every day at breakfast.” She started to volunteer the information that her father-in-law was the primary reason she preferred to have her morning coffee at Dan’s Cafe. But some niggling doubt kept her quiet and wondering about the man walking beside her. “A.J. and I live with Jesse, but he does spend most of his time in his room. It’s a big house,” she added after a pause. “The kitchen is about the only communal area.”

  “Which suits you just fine, I’ll bet.” He caught her wary look, and his lips curved with a trace of laughter. “Your father-in-law’s temper is also legendary. Difficult, moody, irascible, gifted. All those terms and more have been used to describe Jesse Damon. I imagine you could add several adjectives to that list yourself.”

  She could, but she had a sudden strange feeling that he knew already she wouldn’t. He seemed oddly in tune with her, and she found the thought both disquieting and pleasant. She was beginning to form quite a list of adjectives about Phillip — subtle, perceptive, smooth. Almost too smooth. And yet when he smiled....

  “Here we are.” It was an inane announcement on her part, since he had stopped already and was looking at the shamrock design on the store’s plate glass window. Key in hand, Elleny turned and unlocked the door. She hesitated before going inside, aware of a half-formed impulse to make excuses for the tired, old building that housed the bookstore. After checking the impulse with a stern reminder that Phillip Kessler was a stranger whose opinion mattered not one bit to her, she glanced over her shoulder—and collided with the distinct approval in his eyes. “This is it,” she said in weak redundancy.

  “Shamrock Secrets? That’s an unusual name for a bookstore.” He walked the few steps to the door and then followed her inside.

  “Mark chose it.” Elleny moved to the counter, tucked her purse out of sight in the cupboard below the cash register, and began to unzip her coat. “He used to sign every picture with a small symbol shaped something like a shamrock before his name, and until he chose a title for the painting, he called it a shamrock secret. When I opened this store, it seemed appropriate to use the same name.”

  “How long have you been in business?”

  “Slightly over two years.”

  “And you’re doing well?”

  It was a question that bordered on prying, and Elleny felt a vague discomfort at his interest in her and her store. “Reasonably well,” she answered, and moved to the curtained partition that marked the doorway to the back room. With her hand on the curtain, she paused to be courteous. “I’ll just be a minute. Make yourself at home while I get the coffee started.”

  A spark of amusement glinted deep in his eyes. “Does this town run on coffee? Or is that just your personal addiction?”

  “Do you always say exactly what you think? Or does it just seem that way?” Elleny turned, letting the curtain fall closed behind her, wondering why she’d reacted so strongly to such an innocent remark.

  Phillip watched the faded curtain sway and considered the possibility that he was wasting his time. There had been a definite warning to mend his manners in the pert straightening of her shoulders and the sassy toss of dusky hair. Elleny Damon was not what he’d expected.

  She was—what? Different from the newspaper photograph in the file?

  Certainly. Black and white tones couldn’t hope to rival the full effect of her wren-soft coloring. Her hair was dark brown, but shaded with light; her eyes were brown, too. A quiet, soothing brown that mirrored her thoughts and emotions ... or seemed to do so. Still, he’d recognized her the moment she’d entered the diner that morning, so the photograph hadn’t been too far off target. The difference was more of an overall impression, he decided. A feeling that she was somehow too fragile to have been Mark’s wife.

  Phillip frowned with the thought and reminded himself that over the thirty-five years of his lifetime he’d discovered that people were seldom, if ever, as they first appeared to be. With a shrug he turned to make a slow assessing sweep of the room.

  Dark wooden shelves lined much of the wall space, bright scraps of color pieced an unblocked quilt top that hung behind the old-fashioned counter. The cash register was worn and black. There were newspaper clippings and handwritten notes pinned and thumbtacked to the wall. A small table with two ladder-back chairs sat in one corner, and a gaily painted cart with a fold-down umbrella top occupied another. And there were books everywhere. On the shelves, on the table, on the cart, on the counter. Hard-cover editions lay open in invitation or closed in tempting mystery. Two circular racks held a myriad of paperbacks, and on the floor were carpet squares to lure younger readers to the juvenile fiction on the lower shelves. It was not like any bookstore he’d seen before, and he thought that under different circumstances he would have enjoyed browsing in the quaint shop.

  In other circumstances, he would have enjoyed testing the boundaries of Elleny’s seeming innocence as well.

  The frown returned as his thoughts came full circle. Elleny Damon was not his problem. He hadn’t come to this quiet Missouri town to investigate the secrets her autumn eyes and sweetly captivating smile.

  His hand went to the buttons of his coat as he absently surveyed the rows of book titles. Turning slowly, he caught sight of a framed watercolor half-hidden by the angle of the shelving. In three steps he was standing before it, his pulse racing with a sudden rush of adrenaline. He pushed aside the heavy fabric of his coat to place hands at hips as he studied the painting from a distance of a couple of feet away and then moved nearer. Excitement died with closer examination. It was good, he admitted, but not good enough. Nothing was ever that easy.

  Elleny paused in the doorway, hesitant to interrupt the concentrated attention Phillip was expending on the picture. A curve of satisfaction touched the corners of her mouth as it did whenever anyone admired Mark’s work. It was the same sort of feeling she got when she was complimented for her son’s precocious blue eyes and sun-bleached hair. She couldn’t take personal credit in either case, but the feeling of pride was there just the same.

  The feeling evoked by Phillip Kessler, however, was quite a different matter and one that Elleny had been trying to put in the proper perspective. But just when she’d thought she had it well in hand, he did something —like standing perfectly still in the middle of the store —and for no apparent reason she felt younger, more vulnerable than she’d been for years.

  Letting her fingers trail a wry path down the edge of the curtain, Elleny decided she was past the age to be entertaining such adolescent fancies. Phillip turned, and as his gaze fell on her, his expression changed from
languid interest to a mysterious pleasure. On the other hand, Elleny decided, there was nothing wrong with being old enough to appreciate how wonderfully entertaining a fancy could be.

  “That was the first painting Mark did for me.” She released her hold on the curtain and placed her palm against the metal trim of the counter. “It isn’t his best work, but it’s very special to me. I tend to be overly sentimental about places and things.”

  “And people?” It was a gentle question, almost teasing, when accompanied by the throaty rumble of humor in his voice.

  “I suppose so. What about you?”

  The barest smile grazed his lips. “I try never to confuse sentiment with places, things, or people.” He glanced again at the painting and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Did you keep most of Mark’s work after his death? I know none of his canvases have been offered at auction for some time. Do you think the market value will increase dramatically if you hold them back for a few more years?”

  “I have no idea.” She stepped behind the counter and brushed her fingers across the cash register keys. The cold familiarity of the machine made her vividly conscious of the unfamiliar tension coiling inside her. Phillip Kessler obviously said what he thought without considering the effect, but Elleny honestly couldn’t blame him for the tight knot in her stomach. Selling Mark’s paintings was a touchy subject, an argument she’d had too many times and could never hope to win. She heard Phillip’s footsteps as he moved to the opposite side of the counter and prepared to be polite no matter what he might say.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I guess I tend to look at everything from the perspective of a starving artist.” He spoke softly, confidingly close to her ear, and caught off guard by his husky voice, she grew still with a warm, rustling awareness.

  “No apology necessary.” She wondered why she was so quick to reassure him. She tried for a nonchalant tone, knowing that if she turned, if she simply tilted her head to one side, she would see his smile, feel again that stirring of possibilities. “Are you really a starving artist?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  Her gaze swung to him then, helpless in her curiosity.

  His lips curved in disarming confidence. “I’ve been told that Cedar Springs abounds with inspiration, and since about eight-thirty this morning, I’ve begun to believe it’s true.”

  There was a definite compliment hidden in the words, a flirtatious light in his eyes, and suddenly Elleny was on the firm earth of reality, mistress of her emotions and of the current situation. “Mornings are lovely in this part of Missouri,” she said, “but nights are better. Thousands of stars, the scent of wind and trees and evening.” A gentle laugh rippled from her throat. “The absolute certainty that everyone in town knows exactly what everyone else is doing. You should find unlimited inspiration in that.”

  “Oh, I do. In fact, I can hardly wait to put it to the test. But first I have to find an apartment that can double as a studio. Did Mark have a workshop in your home?”

  “He used the room above the garage. It’s separate from the house, and he liked to be alone when he worked.” Memory drew a shadowy regret to her eyes. “I always respected his need for privacy, but if I’d had any idea how little time....” She looked down, away from Phillip’s observant gaze, away from the unchangeable past.

  “Could I see it?” he asked with a trace of hesitation. “I know you probably have a sentimental attachment to his studio but would you consider renting it?”

  “I can’t. It’s.... I’m sorry. I just can’t.” Pulling absently at a strand of shoulder-length hair, Elleny thought about telling him the reason, explaining that it wasn’t her attachment to the past that kept the studio closed and barren.

  “I understand.” His hand touched her restless fingers and smoothed the tangled strand of hair. Then, as if he realized that he was overstepping the bounds of their brief acquaintance, he moved back from the contact. For a moment their eyes held, then he broke that contact as well. With a glance around the room, he began buttoning his coat. “I’d better start checking out the apartment leads Dora gave me, even though I’d much prefer to spend the morning with you and your books.” He smiled a slow regret. “It wouldn’t do to keep you from your brisk, January business, but maybe once I get settled, we could have dinner?”

  “Or morning coffee?” The pleasant sensation created by his suggestion swirled lazily in her voice. “I’d like that.”

  “So would I.” He walked to the door, reached for the knob, and Elleny knew she couldn’t let him leave without a more definite invitation.

  “Phillip?” The store telephone shrilled a rude interruption as he turned, and she frowned even as she lifted the receiver. Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she ignored the caller. “Would you like to come for Sunday dinner? About one o’clock?”

  “Thank you. I’ll be there.” With a wave of his hand, he opened the door and left the bookstore. The winter air danced about him, and he pulled up the collar of his coat for extra warmth. But the cold seemed to be inside him, and he knew it had nothing to do with temperature or wind chill.

  It had everything to do with Elleny Damon.

  All right, so he’d lied to her, claimed a friendship with her late husband, a man he’d never met. He’d done worse things in his life, and in this situation there really wasn’t another choice. It wasn’t his fault that she was too trusting for her own good, and he’d be damned if he knew why he should feel guilty for taking advantage of her.

  But he did. And he had an uneasy suspicion that things could get complicated

  Very, very complicated.

  Chapter Two

  Phillip approached the street corner with a reluctance that he couldn’t quite understand. There was no logical reason for the sluggish pace of his footsteps, no explanation for his lack of enthusiasm for the afternoon ahead. This could be the break he’d been hoping for, the culmination of months of preparation. Yet the excitement he should have been feeling was noticeably absent.

  A picket fence, once white but now a weathered ivory, stretched beside the sidewalk, and he measured his steps against the slats. His gaze explored the turreted angles of the Victorian-style house that sprawled in bygone elegance across the corner lot. It was fitting, he supposed, that she should live in such a house.

  Diminutive, dainty Elleny looked every bit the part of Cedar Springs’s reigning belle. Phillip felt certain that if the town had been located further south, she would have been addressed by all the residents as “Miss Elleny.” Everyone spoke of her with obvious affection and respect. But considering that everyone spoke of Mark Damon in the same manner, Phillip didn’t give too much credence to their judgment.

  Stopping before the gate, he studied the wide, shaded porch and diagnosed the funny feeling in his stomach as nervous tension.

  Sunday dinner. It had a disconcerting ring to it, somehow, and brought to mind phrases like “I want you to meet my parents” or “My mother is going to love you.”

  Not that he believed Elleny’s invitation had been anything more than a courtesy extended, but there was something uncomfortably cozy about sitting down at a table covered with freshly laundered linen, platters of fried chicken, and garden-grown vegetables. And he’d give odds that was the scene awaiting him on the other side of the big bay window.

  Annoyed by his imaginative lapse in perspective, he absently jangled the loose quarters in the pocket of his coat and then shook his head in rueful acknowledgment of his action. In less than a week he’d become so acclimatized to the rural atmosphere that he never went anywhere without the correct change for a cup of coffee. Places like Cedar Springs could get a grip on a man, make him start believing that life was as tranquil and easygoing as a Sunday afternoon.

  Women like Elleny Damon could get a grip on a man, too, make him start believing in houses with picket fences and clean, homey smells. Phillip brought his chin up with a jerk.

  He didn’t believe in s
uch things, didn’t want to believe in them, and he hadn’t lived this much of his life only to be taken in now by a disarming smile. It was all in the way one looked at things, he reasoned. After all, Sunday dinner by any other name was just a luncheon. And this afternoon, this time spent with Elleny, was simply a means to an end.

  A sound, a quiet creaking drew his attention down to meet the steady, bright blue gaze of a child who was perched on the opposite side of the gate. Framed by two ivory colored pickets, the boy’s face was narrowed into eyes, puckish nose, and a somewhat dirty mouth, with the overall effect topped by blond hair that resembled a bird’s nest of straw. Skinny arms were bare to the January sun; suspiciously discolored fists curled around the fence slats like a brown stain. Coatless and hatless, the child nonetheless wore an expression of unmistakable apathy. Phillip assimilated his first, fleeting impressions and offered a tentative greeting. “You must be A.J.”

  No answer, just a blink and a finger lifted to scratch the snub nose.

  With a frown, Phillip tried to recall some gem of wisdom on the best method of communicating with children. “Do you live here?”

  Still nothing. Just a disinterested stare and a pursing of little-boy lips as if he were about to whistle.

  “Is your mother home?” Phillip was prepared to be ignored again, and he wasn’t disappointed. Struck by sudden inspiration, he pulled a quarter from his pocket and began to toss it casually, but in clear view. There was now a definite interest in the blue eyes, and Phillip held the silence for a calculated minute. “I’m Mr. Kessler and your mother is expecting me. Why don’t you go inside and tell her I’m here?”

  The quarter dropped to the sidewalk and spun gaily, as if challenging its observers to a frantic scramble for possession. A.J. watched, his muscles tensed as if he wanted to grab the coin and run but wasn’t sure he should. Finally, Phillip bent to retrieve the coin. With a half-concealed sigh, he offered the quarter as either bribe or entry fee—he didn’t know which. As smudgy fingers left the gate slat and closed around the money, Phillip half-expected to see boyish baby teeth bite the quarter to test its authenticity. But A.J. merely concealed it in his fist and returned to guard duty.