Leave a Mark

by Stephanie Fournet

“That’s not tr—”

  “Hey.” He held up a hand to stop her protest as he turned onto Calder Street. They were just a one block from his house. “You asked. I’m answering. And three — and this one’s the most important — you care how I feel.”

  She opened her mouth again to refute, but nothing came out. Of course she cared how he felt. That was half the problem. The other half was how she felt.

  “Now, before I make you blush anymore,” he said, pulling into his driveway. “Would you like to try some of my cherry-cola snowball? It’s truly phenomenal.”

  Wren grabbed his offered cup as if it were a life raft. Which it was. Because, clearly, she was drowning. With Lee Hawthorne, she was in way over her head. She used his straw to sip from the bottom of his snowball. It was pretty phenomenal.

  She offered him her cup. “It’s good,” she conceded. “But it’s no nectar.”

  Lee took it and helped himself, his smile never wavering, his eyes never leaving hers. “Pretty sweet.” And then, without warning, he reached for her, cupping the back of her neck with his hand. He closed the distance between them, and his mouth met hers.

  His lips and the tip of his tongue were cool from the sweetened ice, but it was the heat just beyond that drew her in. His hand at her neck slipped down to the small of her back, cinching her closer to him. With her free hand, she clutched his shirt. Because he was right again. Her whole body was softening, and she needed to hold on to him or lose herself.

  She was ready to drop her melting snowball and plunge her hands under his shirt when he untangled his tongue from hers. He pressed three quick kisses against her lips before he sat back.

  “C’mon. Let’s go inside. I want to show you around.”

  Speechless and almost boneless, Wren managed to pull herself together. She helped Victor out of the Jeep as Lee grabbed the cooler and her bag.

  “I’ll take care of the rest later,” Lee said, nodding to the kayak atop his Jeep. He led them across the back yard and onto a spacious porch. A single kayak hung from the ceiling next to an empty hoist. Mounted along the back wall of the house, Lee kept a mountain bike, some trekking poles, and a backpacking frame.

  None of these items surprised Wren. In fact, they were exactly the kind of things she’d expected, and the rightness of their presence made her smile. Lee unlocked his back door, and Wren stepped into a fabulous kitchen. The cabinets were washed a light slate-blue. The walls were a rustic cream, and the colors of both seemed to echo in the pale granite countertops. Above his island, mason jars dangled from what Wren knew was a custom-made light fixture.

  The space whispered home.

  “What a great kitchen,” she murmured.

  Lee beamed. “Yeah, it’s what sold me.”

  “You bought it like this?” Wren asked, admiring the fresh look of the space. The remodel couldn’t have been very long ago.

  Lee nodded. “I refreshed the paint and replaced the lights, but everything else came with the house.”

  Wren looked up at the light fixture, a definite focal point of the room. “Those are really cool lights,” she said.

  His eyes followed hers, and when Wren looked back at him, she could see the pride in his smile. “A local guy made it for me. I saw it in a restaurant, and I liked it. My mom used to keep mason jars all over the place. She used them for anything — leftover soup, M&Ms, cotton balls — you name it.”

  She liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he talked about his mother. He missed her. That was clear. But thinking about her seemed to lift him up instead of pulling him down.

  “Are those your mom’s?” she asked, staring up at the jars. There were nine in all, hung at different heights, ranging in size from little jelly jars to ones that looked quart-sized.

  Lee glanced back at her, his smile dimming. “Nah. Mason jars were some of the things my dad cleared out when he and Barbara moved into River Ranch.”

  Wren saw the loss he tried to hide. “I’m sorry if that’s a sore subject.”

  He shrugged. “I inherited my mom’s love of old things. Antiques and heirlooms. Pieces of personal history,” he said, smiling sadly. “My dad’s not that sentimental. There are a lot of my mother’s things I wish I could have kept. Things that she treasured.”

  Wren didn’t need to be told. “Like the key?”

  He locked eyes with her, his look unguarded. She saw all the way in. Lee was a happy person with a sadness that ran deep. “That key went to my mother’s hope chest,” he said. The reverence in his voice made her step closer. “Chinese rosewood. Silk-lined. Beautiful. She kept it at the foot of her bed, and it was full of every crayon drawing I’d ever done, all of my awards in school, even stupid stuff… like perfect attendance.”

  Lee chuckled and shook his head, and Wren smiled with him.

  “She saved everything. A lock of hair from my first haircut. My baby blanket. Everything.” He swallowed and cleared his throat.

  Wren reached between them and took his hands. They were warm hands, sure and strong.

  Lee looked down and smiled, squeezing back before continuing. “When we cleared it out — years after she died — I don’t know… I always knew how much she loved me, but going through that chest was a nice reminder.”

  Wren bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t cry.

  Lee ran his thumbs over the back of her hands. “When my dad moved out of the old house, I was living in a dorm at LSU. The chest was too big to hang onto, so I kept the key.”

  She couldn’t say anything over the lump in her throat, so she squeezed his hands instead.

  Lee smiled a different smile, one with a touch of mischief. “And now, even if I lose that key, I still have a reminder.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Thanks to you.”

  Wren pulled back. It was easier when the attention wasn’t on her. “Show me the rest.”

  “Okay.” Lee stepped back, too, but he kept her hand in his. “I’ll give you the tour.”

  He pulled her into a narrow hallway. The kitchen had gray ceramic tile floors, but the hall was pine. It looked like the original flooring, just recently refinished and buffed to a shine.

  “Here’s the hall bath,” he said, pointing to the open door in front of them. The white, octagonal tiles, pedestal sink, and cast-iron tub were definitely original, older than her old apartment.

  “When was your house built?” she asked, admiring.

  “1938,” Lee said, pride clear in his voice.

  “It’s a great house.”

  “There’s more. Master bedroom’s this way—”

  Wren stopped in her tracks, making Lee jerk to a halt. He looked back at her with a startled expression until he read the look in her eyes. And then he grew amused.

  “C’mon now, I’m just giving you a tour. It’s not my clever ploy to get you into my bed.”

  The problem was, Wren didn’t need the ploy. She really didn’t even need the bed. She couldn’t trust herself with him, and that scared her.

  Lee’s face softened at her hesitation. He stepped back to her, still holding her hand in his right. He lifted his left and ran his knuckles down her cheek.

  “I’m just glad you’re here. And I want you to feel at home.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded, stepping of her own accord through the doorway into his bedroom. The sight of it nearly knocked the wind out of her: mahogany, queen-size rice bed… floor-to-ceiling window treatments… authentic Georgian-oak dresser. His nightstand was a turn-of-the-century Larkin desk, its leaf extended and its surface home to a few books, his glasses, an alarm clock, and a small lamp. His bedding and curtains were both a steel gray, giving the room a decidedly masculine feel.

  “What do you think?” he asked, watching her stare.

  She was honest. “I’m intimidated.”

  Lee laughed. “Why the hell would you be intimidated?”

  Her reasons were too many to name. Even though she owned just as many great pieces — per
haps not as nice as his — she couldn’t help making comparisons. The room itself breathed sophistication and class. Her last boyfriend’s bed had been a mattress and box spring on the floor with a dresser from Wal-Mart.

  “It’s just amazing,” she said finally.

  “Well, I had help.”

  Wren frowned. “What do you mean? A decorator?”

  “Sort of. Marcelle is an interior designer.”

  A wave of nausea swirled in Wren’s stomach. If this room was Marcelle’s creation, she definitely didn’t belong here.

  “She picked all this for you?” she asked, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

  Lee was quick to shake his head. “Oh, no. I bought all the furniture. Over about ten years, mind you. Marcelle helped me with the color scheme and the accents.”

  Paint and fabric? That was all? Wren looked over the room again. She liked that it had taken him years to find all of the antiques. That she could relate to. “Ten years? How old are you?”

  Lee laughed again. “Care to take a guess?”

  His words and laughter had chased away some of her nerves. “Um… you’re a doctor, so I’m gonna say… thirty, maybe?”

  His smile grew. “I’m thirty-one.” He grabbed her by the hand again, and Victor followed at their heels. “C’mon. Let’s go see the rest.”

  He showed her to a second bedroom across the hall toward the front of the house, and then they circled to his living room, which she had glimpsed the awful night of her pie humiliation. His furniture there was contemporary, but in a style that echoed a mid-century modern look with his three-seater sofa and matching chair. An antique hall tree stood by the front door, umbrellas tucked neatly under its arm.

  From his living room, a Spanish arch led to the next space, which Wren assumed had been designed as a dining room, but instead of a dining table at its center, Lee had a ping-pong table. At the sight of this, she laughed because it was so Lee, and she was surprised to see the blush on his cheeks.

  “I got that last week. It was sort of an impulse purchase,” he confessed.

  “Well, should we play?”

  At her offer, his face lit up. “Yeah, but hang on.”

  Then he turned, and Wren followed to find a genuine Wurlitzer against the wall behind her.

  “Oh my fucking God!”

  Lee swiveled to face her, eyes wide. “Is that good or bad?”

  Wren pushed past him. It was a classic bubbler. She flicked her finger over the selection carousel, and noted that it held one hundred 45s, a total of two hundred songs. Some of the labels looked original, but Lee had replaced a few with hits as recent as the 1980s. Lee punched one of the selections, and, moments later, the room filled with Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me.”

  “Holy shit, Lee! These go for six grand on eBay.” She couldn’t disguise the awe in her voice. Wren turned to face him and found Lee grinning.

  “I got it for four,” he said. “Some of the wiring was fried, so I had to make a few repairs.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Still, that’s lot of money. I know doctors make tons of money, but you’re still in your residency.”

  Lee threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t make tons of money. I probably never will. But I’m lucky that my dad wanted me to be a doctor so badly that he paid for medical school, so I don’t have student-loan debt.”

  Wren bit her lip. She felt like she’d crossed a line. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He just shook his head at her. “Don’t worry about it. I’m an eBay junkie. I collect things, but I sell things, too. I had a Captain Marvel Special Edition that I sold for $27,000 last year.”

  “What?” she gasped. She’d noticed his spare room was full of comic books, but she had no idea what they might be worth.

  “My mom bought a lot of vintage comics for me when I was little. She made me promise not to sell them until I turned thirty. I listened,” he said, his eyes warm.

  “That’s… incredible.” She was beginning to feel a little dizzy. What was he doing with her?

  “Um, almost as incredible as your ‘68 Mustang. How did you get that?” The look of awe in his eyes was hard to miss. Again, she felt her nerves settle.

  “It was Papaw Dale’s. I’ve had it since he died.”

  “Well, it’s a beautiful car,” he said, practically breathless. Then he frowned. ”But I’m guessing you have to make a lot of repairs.”

  Wren nodded. “Yeah, but I have a customer who’s a mechanic. I ink him for free, and he only charges me for parts.”

  “Sweet deal,” Lee said, nodding. He watched her for a minute, seeming to weigh his words. “Would you… could I… could I drive it one day?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “If you want to.”

  “Are you k-kidding?” he stammered, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around her waist. “That would — Yes!”

  Again, she laughed. “Okay. Sure. Whenever you want.”

  His eyes lit up. “Whenever? Like tomorrow night?”

  He wanted to see her tomorrow night? Or he wanted to drive the Mustang tomorrow night?

  Lee seemed to read her mind. “You do realize that if you say yes, I’ll get to see you two days in a row, right? The Mustang’s just a bonus.” He tightened his arms around her. “I work a twelve-hour shift starting at six in the morning. Do you work late?”

  Wren shook her head. “I don’t work at all.”

  Delight overtook his face. “You don’t?”

  “Nope. Thursdays through Sundays, noon to ten.” But then disappointment hit her. “Oh, but I’m having dinner at Mamaw Gigi’s tomorrow.”

  Lee’s brows drew together, and she knew that she wasn’t the only one disappointed. He gave her the same hesitant look he had a moment before.

  “Well… can I come with you?”

  Wren felt her heart contract. “You want to come to dinner with me at my grandmother’s?”

  Hope filled his eyes. “Yeah, why not?”

  Why not? She couldn’t help it. Her lip trembled. And tears filled her eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “WREN, BABY, WHY are you crying?” Lee asked, so confused. She had agreed to come home with him, and she seemed to love his house. Having her in his home felt right. What had he done wrong?

  She pulled out of his arms and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She sniffled and shook her head. “I’m just being stupid.”

  Lee frowned. “Um, no,” he said, moving in and settling his hands at her waist. “I don’t know why you’re upset, but that’s not it. You don’t do stupid.” Lee pulled her close again and reached up to catch a tear that slid down her cheek. Even crying, she was fairy-tale beautiful. “Smart? Yes. Sassy? Yes. Sexy? Most definitely, but not stupid.”

  This earned him a watery smile and a hiccup. “You don’t understand.”

  He tucked a blue lock behind her ear. “I understand that you get me,” Lee said, loving the way the truth felt. “And sharing things with you makes me happy. What else do I need to know?”

  “Look, Lee, you’re a really nice guy—”

  “Stop.” He had to stop her. She was going to walk away from him — again. And he couldn’t let her do that. A certainty — one that drove from the top of his head down into his heels — told him that if he let her walk away, he’d never forgive himself. “You don’t get to tell me why you think we won’t work.”

  Wren rolled her eyes. “But we won’t work. I’m not what you want.”

  Lee froze. “How can you think that?” At her words, Lee realized he wanted Wren Blanchard more than he’d wanted any woman in his life.

  “Guys I date don’t want to have dinner at my grandmother’s.” She eyed him meaningfully, as if he should have already known this.

  “You’ve been dating the wrong guys.”

  Wren only frowned.

  He had to make her understand. “Do you know who likes this house almost as much as I do?” Lee asked.

  Wren’s frown deepened.
“No…? Who?”

  “You.” The startled look on her face almost made him laugh. “I love this house, Wren. As soon as I met the realtor on the front porch, I knew I wanted it. Seeing the inside only sealed the deal for me.” He remembered the day with a sense of vindication. “My dad and stepmom told me not to buy it. Marcelle told me not to buy it, but I bought it anyway.”

  “They didn’t like it?” Wren asked, horrified.

  Lee shook his head. “My dad didn’t like the neighborhood. He says this area’s too ‘unstable.’ Barbara, my stepmom, said the house was old and would require too much upkeep.”

  Wren raised a brow. “What did Marcelle say?”

  Lee couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a little head swagger when she spoke. He already knew Wren was no fan of Marcelle’s, but the move stirred him. She had no reason to be, but Wren was jealous. And threatened.

  Lee brought his hands to the small of her back and pulled her closer to him. “She hated it. All of it.” He ducked down and planted a kiss against the slope of her neck, wanting her to know how special she was. Lee met her eyes. “And you like it—”

  “I love it,” she blurted, looking almost indignant. “Who couldn’t love this house?”

  A smile that was half joy and half gratitude split his face. Did she understand what she was saying? The house held so much of what he valued, so much of who he was. Her approval of his house felt like an affirmation of him.

  He brought a hand up to her face and cupped her cheek. “Being with you is so easy.” But instead of smiling at his words, doubt filled her gaze. “When you aren’t trying to push me away, I mean.”

  The look in her eyes changed, her doubt edged with fear. “What do you mean by easy?”

  Lee sighed. He wanted to explain without making the people in his life into villains. They weren’t villains. They were who they were, and he loved them. But that didn’t make them easy to be with.

  “It’s like that Ingrid Michaelson song. You take me the way I am.”

  He watched her eyes, but they were still cautious, unyielding.

  “You don’t want to change me. You don’t want me to be something else. With you, I feel good enough.” Lee shook his head, not liking the words. “Not just good enough. Good.”