by Неизвестно
His eyes met mine, and the flash of guilt I saw in them inexplicably warmed my heart.
"It wasn’t personal," he answered. "But before the inheritance was settled, it would have been stupid of me to let you know who I was. A lesser person would have bled me dry. The truth is, I’d have given every penny I have to keep this land."
"You could have told me after the papers were signed," I pointed out. "You could have told me when I walked in just now." A fresh dose of hurt pounded my insides. "What did you think I would do? Pester you for an autograph?"
He shook his head, exhaling with frustration. "No, of course not. That’s not it at all. I wanted to tell you, but—" he broke off the thought.
"But what?" I prompted.
"But people who know treat me differently," he finished. "They see my work and they think they know me—they try to define me by it. I’m tired of all that."
Understanding dawned. My ire began to cool.
"I love carving," he continued. "But I still think of it as a hobby. When I told you I was a forester, it was only a white lie. I may not be employed as one, but I have a degree in forestry from Penn State, and all I’ve ever wanted to do is maintain as much of this ridge as I can. But keeping up land takes money. And I figured out a long time ago that my ‘hobby’ was the easiest way to get it."
His eyes left mine. "I moved to California because it was the best way to get myself established. But now I’m at a point where I can work on my own terms—as much as I want to, from where I want to. And what I want to do is work from here, producing just enough to bring in the money this place needs. I don’t want anything to do with celebrity—the image-making, the social obligations, the general lunacy of people who have more money than they know what to do with. I came back because I wanted to get away from all that. And the last thing I want is for it to follow me home."
I digested his words slowly, enjoying the feel of them, the passion in his voice. I had been begging for the merest glimpse inside his head—now, in a few paragraphs, he had told me volumes. So much of what I had questioned made sense now; so much of what I already admired in him seemed magnified.
"I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything," he apologized. "I was only trying to explain."
I clenched my fists at my sides, not out of anger, but in a frantic attempt to keep my affectionate impulses in check. The effort was painful. I wanted desperately to fling my arms around him and tell him I didn’t care if he worked as a fish-gutter—that he was one of the most genuine, kind, and caring men I’d ever known, and that in these last, hellish days, just having him near me had made all the difference. I wanted to tell him that—despite my honorable intentions—there was no longer a doubt in my mind that I was falling in love with him.
But I couldn’t do any of that. All it took was one look at him—guarded emotionally, distant physically, to know that I hadn’t a chance. Somewhere out there—most likely still in California, packing her things—was the woman who owned his heart. He was being faithful to her, as he had from the beginning. Even though she was thousands of miles away; even though another woman was inches from him, lonely and willing.
A bolt of pain shot through me, harsh and merciless. Whoever she was, she was the luckiest woman alive.
I hoped to hell she knew it.
Managing a smile required all my strength. "I understand. And if it’ll help, I promise never to bring up Herrington’s, the concept of celebrity, or the entire state of California ever again. But, could I just say one thing first? Please?"
His eyes met mine, and he grinned a little. "What’s that?"
It hurt me, this time, to grin back. "I just want you to know that I think your work is magnificent, and I always have. In fact, my mother was one your biggest fans." I told him about the ridiculous clock she had wanted, and he laughed out loud.
"Well," he said softly, his eyes sympathetic. "If I had known you both then, I would have made one for her."
My eyes filled with tears again. This time I didn’t bother trying to stop them.
Chapter 22
The cabin’s bathroom was nicer than I thought. Larger than strictly necessary, with both a stall shower and an oversized tub. Cleaner than expected, too, though when it came to bachelor pads, I did not expect much. In any event, when I emerged from the room after a brief cry and a ten-minute recovery session, I felt better.
Fletcher had been sensible enough not to make a big deal out of my hasty exit; he took even less notice of my meek return. He was in his workshop, busily engaged with a gouge and a thin, foot-long block of dense wood. Only after I had pulled over a stool and sat down near him did he look at me.
"Yes, I know," I said lightly. "My eyes are red again. Must be allergies."
He offered a knowing grin.
The sight warmed me considerably, but I tried to curb my response. The safest course of action for me was to start thinking of both he and Tia as newfound friends, and I had no business being depressed at the thought of that.
"Can I ask what you’re making?" I inquired, somewhat on eggshells. I didn’t want him to think I was treating him differently, now that I knew that he was not only wealthy, but a virtual icon in his industry. Thinking back, I realized that I had never seen any personal information about the Ferris Mountain artist in print, much less a picture of him. Fletcher had undoubtedly worked hard to preserve his anonymity, but it sounded as though, at least on his home turf in San Francisco, he had been less than successful. I could sympathize with his desire for privacy, but at the same time, my own fascination with his talent was hard to suppress. I wanted to watch him work. I wanted to hear everything about it.
"Candlesticks," he answered without emotion. "It’s a custom order."
I wasn’t sure if he was discouraging further questions or not. But if he was afraid I wanted to know who ordered the carving, how many square feet their house comprised, and whether or not their nose job had been botched, he was mistaken. My mother might have had a secret fixation for celebrities, but the topic held no interest for me.
"What kind of wood is that?" I asked. "Oak?"
He looked up again, and his light eyes smiled. "It’s black cherry. Oak doesn’t hold fine detail as well."
"Did it come from here?"
His pleasure at that question was obvious. "Yes."
I smiled back, elated to note that my interest made him happy. Perhaps carving was something we could share—as friends. I had always wondered…
On impulse, I rose from the stool and looked around, then grabbed a fist-sized scrap of wood from the floor and the closest chisel-type tool I saw. "Would you mind if I tried it?" I asked as I sat down again. "I’ve never been artistic, but I keep hoping I’ll stumble onto some medium I’m good at someday. I won’t break anything—I promise. At least not intentionally."
He smiled as if nursing some secret joke. "Sure. Go ahead."
I positioned the block of wood between my knees and raised the chisel.
"Not like—" he began, but the warning came too late. The scrap of wood sprung from the stool and bounced off one of the glass walls; the chisel narrowly missed my thigh.
I looked up sheepishly. "Did I mention that I was born clumsy?"
He chuckled. "Clumsy or not, you’ll never get anywhere doing it like that." He put down his own piece of wood and scouted around the workshop for another, which he handed to me. It was a light yellow block, about five inches square. "Here, try the poplar. It’s softer. And for heaven’s sake, don’t hold the wood like that—you’ll puncture an artery. Use a mallet this time."
I looked at the nicely shaped piece of wood. "I don’t want to mess up a good piece," I said with concern.
He laughed out loud at that, though I wasn’t sure why. Once he had helped me get the wood, the tools, and myself in proper carving position, I lifted the mallet. But before I could strike, he stopped me again. "Wait—" he instructed. "You can’t possibly see with all that hair in your face. You’ve got to keep your ey
es on what you’re doing."
My unrestrained curls were indeed in fine form. I had washed them during my two-minute shower at dawn and hadn’t touched them since. But they were not bothering me in the least, as I was well-used to looking through an auburn waterfall whenever I inclined my head. I started to explain that, but as Fletcher’s hands swept across my cheeks, my mouth promptly closed.
The strands of hair disappeared from my field of vision. His fingers brushed gently against my face and neck as he gathered and manipulated the unruly tresses, and though I enjoyed the sensations far more than I should have, I could not help but dread their result. If he were tying my hair in any sort of knot, my evening brushing would require anesthesia.
"There," he said a few seconds later, tucking what was left of the bundle under the neck of my shirt. "Now you can see. Go for it."
I should have gone ahead without worrying, but I couldn’t. Teeth clenched, I lifted my hand to assess the damage. I took a tentative feel, then lifted the other hand to confirm. My eyes widened. It wasn’t a knot—it was a French braid. A loose one, granted, but clean and even—definitely respectable.
"How did you learn to do that?" I questioned sharply, the carving forgotten.
"Do what?"
"French braid!" I insisted. What single man knew how to French braid?
"Oh that," he said offhandedly. "There was always at least one little girl with long hair running around this place. My mother didn’t do mornings; she was always busy fixing breakfast at the inn. School preparation was Dad’s beat—and he paid me well to help out."
I envisioned an adolescent Fletcher and his father, braiding hair and packing lunches with the efficiency of an assembly line. I chuckled. "What about Tia?"
He scoffed. "Please. None of the girls ever let Tia do their hair more than once—she pulled too hard. She was much happier cleaning up the dishes."
I was quiet a moment, absorbed in my imagination. So Mitchell had fixed my hair, once upon a time. I must have provided good training.
"So," Fletcher asked, drawing me back to the present, "are you going to bring that piece to life, or aren’t you?"
I focused my attention back on the wood, thinking how wonderful it must be to make good money doing what one loved. My own real passion, if I allowed myself to admit it, was camp directing. I enjoyed the freedom, the opportunity to create my own activities and curriculum, the unfettered joy of living in the midst of nature. School teaching had its rewards, but it was more restrictive. I was contained in a concrete-block building, told what subjects to teach, assigned my textbooks and supplies, and expected to adhere to whatever inane policies the administration currently had a whim for. But it was teaching that paid the bills. My summers were an indulgence.
I struck the chisel with the mallet, and a tiny sliver of wood began to peel, leading me to wonder if I really might have some artistic talent. But after five minutes and a fine sheen of sweat, I determined that if I did, it had nothing to do with wood carving.
"Harder than it looks," I announced, rising and returning the tools. The wood was barely dented.
"Well, naturally, it takes practice," Fletcher encouraged politely.
He picked up the future candlestick again, and as I watched the strokes of his carving settle into a masterful rhythm, I became transfixed. It was pleasant just to sit here—being together, not talking. For almost an hour I indulged in his hospitality, watching him work with only occasional small talk, and for most of that time, my mind was relatively burden-free. But as the sun sank lower in the sky, my anxiety began to increase. A desire for physical comfort wasn’t the only reason I had come here.
"There’s something I want to ask you," I said at last, breaking another lengthy stretch of silence.
He nodded without looking up.
"I’ve never considered myself paranoid," I began, cursing my pulse for speeding up already. "But I’m having a little trouble distinguishing paranoia from caution at the moment, and I need a second opinion."
Fletcher stopped carving. He laid down his gouge and looked at me.
"The open door at my parents’ house," I continued. "It may have been nothing. But when I got there, I found out that Jake had sent a bouquet of flowers to that address yesterday. He also left a message for me on the answering machine."
Fletcher studied my face. "What did the message say?"
I relayed the contents of the card and recording. "There was nothing inappropriate about either. I understand that. But still, I can’t help feeling that maybe the coincidence is a little—" I broke off, embarrassed. "You think I’m overreacting, don’t you?"
He studied me some more before answering. "That depends. What exactly did Jake say or do at that diner that scared you so much?"
It was a question he had asked me before, but I hadn’t fully answered it. I suppose I was afraid that once I put my worry into words, the threat of it would seem more real. But I couldn’t put off facing the issue any longer.
"He was polite enough," I explained. "But when I looked in his eyes—" I stopped and swallowed, forcing the words out slowly. "I told you I got the impression that he could be violent. But it was more than that. He was looking at me as if he hated me."
Fletcher straightened. "Hated you? Are you sure?"
I nodded. "He got so defensive when I asked if he were my birth father—I was sure he was lying when he said yes. Now I can’t help but wonder if he resents me—maybe even blames me."
Fletcher was quiet a moment. Then he rose. "I don’t think you’re overreacting," he proclaimed. "Given what we know of his background, you have every reason to be cautious."
I rose with him.
"Was there anything at your house that could tie you to the inn?" he asked.
My heart beat wildly at the thought. "I don’t think so. I’ve kept all of David Falcon’s paperwork with me, here. No one in Pittsburgh even knows where I am, except Alex, my real estate agent, and he’s a friend."
"That’s good." Fletcher smiled. There was worry in his eyes, but he was trying not to show it. "I’ll give Ben another call and tell him what you told me. I don’t think you have enough cause for a restraining order, but it wouldn’t hurt to get some advice from a pro."
I let out a pent-up breath. As much relief as I felt at having finally shared my fears, I felt even more guilty at having laid additional angst on the Black family’s doorstep. "I’m probably way off base," I suggested, backing off a bit. "I’ve got nothing to go on, really—just gut instinct. And how accurate is that?"
He looked at me thoughtfully. "Meara, when we first met I was practically hostile to you. What did your gut instincts say then? Were you afraid of me?"
I considered, though I already knew the answer. "No. I was never afraid of you. I knew you were a good person—you were just angry. And hurt."
The answer seemed to be more than he bargained for. He stiffened. "Right," he said finally. "And as we both know, I’m a model citizen. Which means maybe you should trust your instincts."
An awkward silence descended, but he broke it quickly. "Until we’re sure there’s not a problem, why don’t you stay here at the inn? Tia will enjoy your company. She’ll be around a few more days at least, sorting through Dad’s things. And she could use a friend right now. It’s been a tough year for her."
And for you, I added mentally. But the invitation exhilarated me. "I would love to stay a few more days," I said with gratitude. "But you have to let me buy the food and cook for everyone. I insist. Unless Tia would mind my being in her kitchen?"
He laughed out loud.
I took that as a no.
***
"Meara, my dear," Tia cooed, finishing off the last bite of her stroganoff with a flourish of her fork. "You are a godsend. This meal is heavenly. Forget teaching—you should be a chef."
I blushed. I knew she was laying it on thick, but I was still proud. Stroganoff and cheesy potatoes wasn’t a bad meal to pull off in forty-five minutes with no advanced p
lanning. I only wished I’d had time to make dessert.
"Thanks for the compliment," I responded. "And I did think about culinary school once upon a time, but you don’t get much money for making hamburger casseroles, and I prefer real food to gourmet."
"Amen to that," Fletcher added. He had been quiet for most of the meal, immersed in a succession of extra-large helpings. Despite my tendency to cook in volume, I suspected there would be no leftovers.
"Dad was a great cook," Tia said fondly, grinning. The area around her eyes was no longer puffy, as it had been when I returned to the inn before dinner. I had made no comment then, suspecting that she, like me, preferred to indulge her sorrow in private. Indeed, her mood was now upbeat, with talk of her father seeming to cheer rather than sadden her. "He grilled one mean peppercorn burger, didn’t he? And his lasagna was to die for. But when it came to teaching us to cook—" She threw her brother a smirk. "Well, let’s just say it was hopeless."
He smirked back. "Speak for yourself. I can make pancakes."
"Oh, you can not," she snorted. "Dog Frisbees, maybe."
I chuckled. The two of them had been picking at each other all evening, and I had enjoyed every minute of it. Despite every scattered, horrible thought still weighing on my brain, being in this place, cooking for three, and feeling like a part of something had made me feel better—and happier—than I had in a long time.
"You’d better learn to cook, though, and quick," Tia informed him. "Unless you think Estelle’s going to haul your dinner up that mountain every night. No personal chefs for you out here, brother dear—you’re going to have to rough it."
Fletcher rolled his eyes. "For the eight-thousandth time, I never had a personal chef. I just ate out a lot. And you’re one to talk—last time I was in a kitchen of yours, I couldn’t even find a plate."
"There were paper plates in the bedroom," Tia retorted. "And I do not need my own kitchen. That’s what friends are for. A fringe benefit of the nomadic lifestyle. Take Meara here, for instance," she teased. "I identify a good cook, and she’s a friend for life. By the way, is there a guestroom in your house?"