“It’s short for Georgiana.”
“Lovely. Mr. Darcy’s sister.”
Georgie smiled. “Actually, nobody’s made that comparison before. But, yeah.”
“Unbelievable. Sweet girl. And that horrible Mr. Wickham. Ugh.” She patted Georgie’s hand and looked her in the eyes. “But you share more than just a name, there, don’t you? A betrayal of the opposite sex.” She squeezed her hand.
Before Georgie could stammer a reply, Delia let go of her and pulled a large cloth off a pile of boxes.
“Here we are.”
Georgie’s attention went from the woman’s eerily insightful comment to what she’d thought were boxes beneath the sheet.
They were, in fact, paintings. Framed reproductions of the tulip farms during bloom season. From faraway scapes to sunny windmills to macrolens close-ups. Fields, still lifes, petals. From abstract to folk to finite realism. Oils, watercolors, mixed media. And all tulips.
“We’ve got some beauties this year,” Delia said. “And more than we’ve ever had before. Once a year this amassing of creativity gives the barn a whole different energy. Can’t you just feel it?”
“Which one is yours?” Jace asked, looking around.
“Oh, let’s see.” She shuffled through the stacks to a framed oil of a larger-than-life red tulip painted against a black-and-white diamond background. “Here’s one. Apeldoorn. The queen of Roozengaarde tulips.”
“That’s beautiful,” Georgie said. The neoclassical style contrasted with the rustic surroundings of the barn. “It’s striking against the others.”
“Thank you. She wasn’t going to be shy, this one. Bent on making a statement. I’ve got another piece in the studio I’m not quite finished with yet. I’m still thinking her through. She’s close though. Wanna see?”
They followed Delia back to the office, which was apparently a studio, and she led them to a large easel.
“This is Gander’s Rhapsody. She’s more demure than Apeldoorn, though she has every right to flaunt. Alas, I’m struggling a bit with balancing the background with the fore. But isn’t she pretty?”
Georgie nodded. “Very.” Pretty was not the word. Full creamy petals were finely speckled with red on the exterior of each. And the inside of the petals were somehow brilliant, solid reddish-pink, as though they’d been spray-painted from the inside and the overspray had settled on the outside. “I’ve never seen a tulip like this one before. It almost glows from the inside.”
“She’s a surprise for the viewer,” Delia said, her eyes twinkling. “I’m so glad you like her.” She looked at Jace. “You’re awfully quiet.”
Jace had been frowning at the picture but started at the comment. “What? Oh, no, it’s gorgeous. Yeah.”
Delia considered the painting. “Well, like I said, I can’t figure out the background. I had originally planned a bokeh thing back there in greens, but now I think it might be too much. What do you think?”
“Bouquet? Like more flowers?” Jace asked.
Georgie wondered the same thing.
“No, no, no. B-O-K-E-H. Like, out of focus spots of light.”
They all studied the painting.
“No,” Delia said after a few moments. “It would be too much. If she’s going to demand anything, it’ll be simplicity.”
“Why not the gray?” Georgie asked. The background was already brushed with gray matte paint, and the tulip had been painted realistically on top of it. “It’s like the mist.”
Delia nodded slowly. “It doesn’t overpower the tulip. And the bloom does pop against it, doesn’t she? Sort of a trompe l’oeil. Hm. Mist-gray concrete? Maybe add a crack or two.” She clapped her hands. “Wet concrete. Yes, I like that very much. Thank you, Georgie.” Delia studied the painting as though lost in it.
Georgie glanced at Jace, who was watching her with a small smile.
“What?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?” Georgie looked from Jace to Delia, who grinned. “What is he talking about?”
Delia laughed soft and rich. “I have no idea.” She winked at Jace. “But you know what you’re doing bringing her along. Be careful with this one.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jace checked his phone and sighed heavily. “Time to go.” He started to leave the studio. “Thanks, Delia,” he called.
“What?” Georgie asked. “Why do you bring me along?”
Delia laughed again behind her. “Where are you both off to next?”
“La Conner,” Jace called over his shoulder.
“La Conner is one of the top-five best places to kiss,” Delia called back to him. “In the nation.”
Jace kept walking, and Delia laughed.
But Georgie was still stuck on the previous subject. “Why does he bring me along?” she asked Delia.
Delia sighed. “He’ll figure it out eventually. Thank you for coming, Jace! Don’t stay away so long next time.” She took Georgie’s hand in a quick but firm grip. “You come back. Don’t miss the tulips. They quiet your soul.” She smiled. “I’ll see you again.”
The way Delia spoke, it was as if she wasn’t just guessing.
“It was nice meeting you,” Georgie said. And a little odd, she thought. But who was she to talk?
Jace was up ahead, already saying good-bye to Dean. Georgie jogged up to them as Jace thanked him.
“Georgie,” Dean said, “you’re welcome back anytime.”
“Thanks. I’d like to come back once the festival is going.”
“Don’t you miss it,” Dean said. “You two stay dry. Good luck with the menu.” He patted Jace on the arm and headed back to the studio.
Georgie watched Jace turn and head back to the motorcycle.
“Hey. What was that all about?” she called after him.
He waved her off, and a knot coiled in her stomach. She clenched her jaw and walked to the motorcycle. “Hey.”
Jace looked up from his keys.
She folded her arms. “Don’t brush me off. I don’t like it.” She wouldn’t just take it anymore. “What was that all about?”
But Jace only looked amused. “Don’t be angry. Don’t. Delia’s just . . .”
“Yes?”
“She’s kind of a mystic.”
“I got that.”
“She tends to read people.”
“A lot of people do that.”
“No, I mean read people, like their auras, their laugh lines, and the patterns of color in their eyes. She says it’s a gift.”
“Oh.” Georgie calmed a fraction, not really seeing the humor in that. “So?”
Jace picked up her helmet from off the back of the bike. “So I didn’t really want to stick around to hear what she had to say, that’s all.” He held out the helmet to her.
She put her hands on her hips. “Why not?”
He rolled his eyes and stepped closer to her, lowering his voice. She swallowed. “Because I could tell where she was going, and I didn’t think either of us would appreciate it.” He lifted his brow and waved his finger back and forth between the two of them.
“Ohh.” Georgie felt a blush coming on, and she took her helmet and stepped away. That’s what that was about. Connection. Romance. “Well, that’s ridiculous,” she breathed out. She went to smash the helmet on her head but paused, remembering what had upset her in the first place. “Wait. What did you mean back there when you said I was doing it again. Doing what?”
He rubbed his head. “I don’t know.”
His hair stuck out a bit, and she tried not to stare at how great it looked. “Yes, you do. You said it.”
He pressed his lips together and looked out at the fields.
“Well?”
He glanced at her, then threw out his hands. “I don’t know. It’s like you’re a walking muse. The way you throw out ideas. The way you just say stuff and . . . things come together.” He shrugged. “That’s why I asked you to help.”
Her blush deepened, and she couldn’t look at him.
“That’s all,” he said.
“Well . . .” She bit her lip. “Thanks.” She pulled on her helmet.
He nodded and got on the bike. He started it up, and Georgie climbed on the back.
“Which was your favorite?” Jace asked, putting on his own helmet.
“Favorite what?”
“The tulips. The art.”
“Oh.” She recovered from the abrupt change of subject. “Uh, I really liked that Rhapsody in the studio.”
Jace nodded.
She put her hands at his waist without hesitation because that was what friends did. They were friends.
And he’d just called her a muse.
He kicked up the kickstand, and they were off.
Chapter 15
Some of the fog and mist had dissipated while they were in the barn, and the daylight had brightened some. Georgie couldn’t get over the tranquil beauty of the emerald bulb fields, even without the blooms.
Jace spoke over the noise of the engine. “I thought we’d loop down south to La Conner and up to Anacortes. By then, maybe it will have cleared enough to see the mountains up at Samish Bay. Or, you know, it could be pouring.”
“Perfect.”
“What?”
“Perfect,” she said loudly enough for him to hear.
“I don’t think you’re being sarcastic when you say that,” he called behind him.
“I don’t think I am either,” she said. “Is that weird?”
He shook his head.
She took a deep breath. It was weird. Normal people wanted to go inside when it rained. “I would like to see the mountains though,” she said, looking north-ish. “Is it far to La Conner?”
“Not too far. But we’ll take the scenic route. I’m guessing you’re still full from pancakes.”
She smiled.
Jace was true to his word, leisurely winding between more fields of daffodils, green tulips, and clumps of iris getting ready to burst. It was like reading the blurb on the back of a paperback but not getting to open the book yet. A glimpse. An expectation. A taste.
Jace pulled to a stop at an empty intersection, and a bee flew past her helmet and paused. Georgie cringed away and ducked.
“What are you doing back there?” Jace asked.
“There’s a bee.”
“Well, hold still.”
“Why . . . do people always . . . say that?” She swatted at the bee. “Ah, it’s behind me.”
“You’ve got a helmet on.” He was chuckling. Of course he was.
“It doesn’t cover all of me.” The bee returned, and she swayed.
“If you’ll hold still, we’ll just drive away.”
She grimaced but stilled. “Okay, go, go, go.”
Jace accelerated. The bee followed them for a mere second and then disappeared.
“Is it still there?” Jace asked from the front.
“It’s gone.”
She turned her focus from the bee and froze. Her arms were wrapped around Jace, her hands clenched just over his abs. And she was leaning into him. She could smell his aftershave. She didn’t know, biologically, how blood could drain from her face at the same time her face filled with heat, but it happened. She carefully pulled back, then moved her hands to his hips.
“You okay back there?” His tone was light. She appreciated that. And hated it. Because he was trying to be light. Because she’d glommed onto him like hot gum during the bee attack and then moved away like he had cooties. Or something.
“Yeah, sorry,” she said lamely.
“Are you allergic?”
“To bees?”
“Yes, bees.”
Of course he meant bees. “No, it’s just that fear thing again.”
“Oh, right. Everything but lightning. I’ll try to steer clear of any more bees.”
“Thanks.” She tried to think of something else light to say because to say nothing would leave a silence, and silences were filled with pondering things like abs and aftershave. “I guess there would be a lot of bees out right now because of the daffodils and stuff.”
His helmet bobbed. “Lots of bees. Lots of pollinating.”
She bit her lip, needing to keep talking. “Do farmers out here keep bees too?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Honey could be on the springtime food idea list.”
He glanced back at her. She couldn’t read his expression.
He turned forward again. “Yeah, it could.”
The awkward dread she’d felt eased. Somewhat.
* * *
Jace’s thoughts began turning. He’d tried not making too much of the embrace he’d found himself in as Georgie had fought off the maniacal bee. She probably had no idea what she’d done. Just a reflex, pressing against him for safety. And then, just like that, she’d mentioned honey.
Something local. Something sweet. The same phrase that had stuck with him and led him to the blackberry sauce returned to him now. Something sweet. Georgie had wrapped her arm around his waist without hesitation and pulled him closer—
Snap. Out of it. What had she said?
Honey.
He needed a surf dish and a turf dish. He’d been considering a pork chop for the turf. He laughed, daring to pat her hand. “Georgie,” he called. “You’re brilliant.” He picked up speed as they left the bulb fields, and he didn’t hear her muffled response, though her grip definitely tightened at his waist. He liked that too much.
Neither of them had been hungry when they’d arrived, so she and Jace had walked up and down La Conner’s First Street and the Marina, stopping in shops and watching boats come and go under the Rainbow Bridge. La Conner was known as “the best small town in Washington.” And it was small. But because of the large marinas the town had built on the long Swinomish Channel and the enthusiastic calendar of events centered around the community’s artists, industry, and agriculture, the local restaurants took great pride in feeding their many visitors fresh, tasty food.
Jace and Georgie now perused their menus at one of the grills along the Marina.
“I don’t understand,” Georgie whispered, glancing behind her. “Are we looking for ideas to copy? Because that doesn’t seem right.”
Jace glanced around as well and leaned forward, his voice low. “As often as that does happen in this business, no, we’re not looking to copy. We’re doing the opposite. Sort of a process of elimination.” He leaned back, enjoying this conspiratorial tone.
A waitress came to fill their water glasses. Jace took a sip as Georgie leaned forward, whispering again as soon as the waitress left. “So we want what they don’t have?”
He gave her a nod and winked. She sat back, resting her chin on her hand and looking over the menu. “Well, that makes more sense. Look, they have coconut shrimp. It’s not even an appetizer either. A main dish?” She rolled her eyes, and he stifled a laugh. He happened to know the coconut shrimp here was a favorite, and with good reason.
He scanned the menu. “I don’t see halibut steak or pork chop. That’s a good sign.”
“But we already have halibut steak on our menu.”
He nodded and grimaced. “I know. But Reuben wants me to rework it. Make it new.”
“Fresh,” she said.
“Right.”
The waitress returned to take their order. “You ready?”
“Yes,” Jace said. “We’ll split the coconut prawns and the seared rock fish.”
The waitress smiled. “Great choices.” She took their menus and left again.
Georgie watched him, and he waited for her question. He was beginning to recognize the look in her eyes, the look of gears turning in her head just before she asked him questions.
“Why did you order that? We already have something different than coconut shrimp.”
He nodded. “You’re right. But they have a crushed almond breading as the base for the coconut shrimp that I’m curious abo
ut for the pork chop, and I’m considering searing the halibut over grilling it, and they’ve done that with the rockfish. And while I’m looking to see how they did it, I’m also looking to see, as I’ve said, how I can do it differently.”
She watched him steadily, and he decided not to break her gaze. She finally looked away, playing with her straw in her glass of water.
“Did you have something else you wanted to ask me?” he ventured.
She gave a slight shake of her head and pulled her glass closer. “It’s just that you seem to try hard to do things differently.”
He grinned. “Is that bad?”
She looked away again. “No. No, it’s not.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
She pressed her mouth in a line, and for a moment, Jace thought he’d asked another question she wasn’t going to answer. But then she shrugged.
“It’s just that a lot of people are bent on doing everything the same. The more same, the better. And we talk ourselves into pursuing that. There’s a little hierarchy: my same is better than your same . . . but how dare we deviate. As if two equally intelligent or talented people can’t think of two different ways to do the same thing. So many times different is interpreted as wrong. It’s . . . it’s frustrating. It’s frustrating to have your different be dismissed as wrong. All the time. Different can still be good different. Maybe my different feels better to me—safer or something—than your different, because it’s mine.”
He watched her warily. Her right hand trembled slightly as she raised her glass to take a drink. She quickly set it down and pressed her left hand to her forehead.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
Georgie squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m . . .” A laugh escaped. “I’m different.”
He lifted his brow and gave her a nod.
She sighed. “You know what I mean, right?”
“Of course I do.”
She paused and looked at him curiously, her eyes almost green in this light.
He clarified. “I mean, with my dad, his way or the highway.” Something told him his experience with his dad and the diner was small beans compared to whatever she was talking about. “But I don’t think that’s exactly what you’re describing. Did someone make you feel like that? All the time? Wrong because you were different?”
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