by Maddie James
Or without Greg Andrews, the man she loved.
She was in love with Greg. The realization hit her when she was wrapping the painting he had liked best. It had been bought by a collector from Gatlinburg. Too late, she wondered if maybe she should have taken down the painting and set it aside to give Greg sometime. Maybe he would have appreciated it, or maybe he would have considered it a grandiose gesture from a diva. She hated not understanding him. She wanted to make things right with Greg, even if he didn’t care for her except wanting to get her into bed. She wanted to clear the air, listen to the way he saw things—the way he saw her and her behavior. And after considering all that, she wanted to tell him why she was the way she was. She wanted him to understand her, even though it would open that armor-chink a little wider. It was something she needed to do if they were to have a relationship. If a relationship was out of the question, Greg’s inclination to see women in only one way was still something he needed to get over. She had forgotten Greg was her adopt a highway program, hadn’t she? She had let emotions get in her way. She’d let herself fall in love, and that was plain stupid.
Because Chloe never, never let herself be that vulnerable. She kept her heart securely locked in a beautifully painted box, hidden away where nobody could find it. She needed to replace the old lock, as it evidently had rusted away.
****
“Wow. What a night, huh, Chlo?” Anna held up a glass of champagne punch. “Cheers to you!” She drank it in one gulp. “And now for the clean-up.”
“Girls. Forget that.” Chloe looked around, jarred back to reality. “There’s not that much to do, and it’s late.” She took a glass of punch, too, and swallowed it. Non-alcoholic. Oh well. “I mean it. Let’s call it a night.” It took fifteen minutes to get them out, and while she worked on one, two of the others were washing glasses, picking up stray bits of celebration here and there. Maureen ran the dust mop before Chloe could get it away from her.
“We’re outta here.”
The evening ended as it had begun—with a group hug. Chloe locked the back door and sighed in relief and exhaustion. The customers had stayed later than she’d expected, and once the place had quieted down, Midnight and Martin had left. Betsy and Mike had made a brief appearance sans LizBeth Ann, as had most of the McClains. There had also been loads of people she’d never seen before—art people. And they had seemed to like her work. Chloe refused to think about Damien Phillips. He had never approached her, and she wasn’t certain how long he stayed. What would Google alert have to say about Chloe McClain in the next few days? She might ask Midnight to set up an alert for her name, but to only tell her of the positive reactions. She really didn’t need negativity right now. Now she was on top of the mountain from the success of the opening. Or at least part of her was. Part of her couldn’t care less—the part that wondered how Greg Andrews had spent his evening. That part was her troublesome heart, which she really needed to get back under lock and key. Life had been so much simpler when her heart wasn’t a problem. Back in the old days, a month or so ago, there had been only one Chloe McClain, the one who was an artist. This freakishly romantic Chloe was a problem. The fact that she was in love with Greg Andrews, and second-guessed her own motivations, was a real pain.
Chapter Eleven
Greg swore at himself, something he’d done a lot of in the approximately twenty-four hours since the blow-up with Ms. Sexy Ears. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut when he was around her? Why did he always push her to the point of anger, and match it himself? Made no sense. If he wanted her, which he did, clearly he needed a change of tactics. Something mellow would be better. Non-combative. Like going to her opening night. Why hadn’t he just put on a jacket and strolled into the gallery, greeted a few people, impressed her with his urbanity? Well, for one thing he didn’t have any urbanity to impress her with. As he’d told her, he was an uncomplicated guy. Going to the opening of an art gallery was something he had never done, and likely he never would. Greg looked at the clock on the wall of his living room. Nearly midnight. He tossed the fishing magazine in the general direction of the coffee table and headed out the door. Nice night for a walk.
As he’d expected, all the cars were gone. The lights were still ablaze in Chloe’s gallery, though. She was wandering around in there like a lost kitten. She looked like she was wearing molten bronze, as her outfit shimmered in the light. Showing an awful lot of skin up top. As he watched, she leaned over, and he caught his breath. A whole lot of skin. When she straightened again she was carrying a pair of deadly-looking high heels in one hand. He couldn’t make out her facial expression from his vantage point across the street. Looking both ways—of course there wasn’t any traffic on Main Street at almost midnight—Greg slipped across the street, trying to avoid the best-illuminated areas. He should be okay here. The lights were bright inside. She shouldn’t be able to see him, and he’d be real still so he wouldn’t catch her attention. Hm. No, she really did not look happy. Wouldn’t she look happy if the night had gone well? Maybe nobody came from the city. Or nobody bought paintings. Surely something sold! She was an amazing artist—even Greg could tell that. He stepped carefully to one side so he could see better. There were definitely fewer paintings on the walls than last time he was here, so she had made some sales. What then? Why did she look sad?
“Greg Andrews! Get in here!” Chloe was hollering at him, and he hadn’t even seen her walk to the door. He was slipping. He was also caught.
He ambled to the door. “You need to talk to me about something? I was just out—you know—and thought I might as well walk by and check…” Completely unbelievable, and he didn’t even bother to finish the excuse.
“Just shut up and get in here.”
Bossy wench. He remembered why he didn’t like her.
She closed the door behind him with a slam.
“Hey, babe, you break that glass, it’s gonna cost you—”
She was on him in an instant, her gorgeous body plastered up against him, pulling his head down so she could kiss him mercilessly. Man! How great is this?
Then he remembered who was supposed to be in control of the situation, and pulled her arms away from his neck. Still holding her hands, he took a half step backward. Now if he could just get his breathing back to normal. He looked down into her big chocolate brown eyes.
Breathlessly, she said, “I want you to tell me what you think of me. I need to know what your problem is.”
Is that the weirdest thing he’d ever heard from a woman he’d just pulled off him? Not that he’d ever pulled a woman off him before, now he thought about it.
“Excuse me? You want me to tell you what I think about what?”
“Tell me why you don’t like me. Why I’m a bad person.”
“I never said that.”
“You certainly did.”
“I certainly did not. I said you’re spoiled and, well, maybe bullheaded and too full of yourself, and take advantage of everybody.”
She looked stricken. “You didn’t say all that.”
“No? Well, I can’t remember exactly…”
“You think those things of me?”
“Well…”
“No wonder you hate me. I can’t believe I just kissed you like that! How horrible! Okay, just get out then!”
“You just yelled at me to come in. I swear, woman, make up your mind.” He took back the half step. “I liked it better when you were kissing and not talking. Sorry I stopped that.”
“Greg Andrews, you make me sick! How can you even consider kissing me if you think I’m such a terrible person?”
“Not terrible. Just a little misguided. I think you can be salvaged.” He tried very hard to maintain eye contact and not let his gaze stray too often to the neckline of her shimmery blouse.
“No. Forget it. I thought we had—” Chloe sighed deeply, giving Greg a brief but breathtaking view. “Sorry I called you in. Good night.” She looked sadder than ever, and Greg cursed himself a
gain. Was he destined to screw things up with this woman forever?
“Um. Okay, I’ll go. Maybe we can talk again some other time. You’re tired.”
“Yes. I really am. Good night, Greg.”
And he was on the sidewalk, wondering what in the hell just happened.
Chapter Twelve
It was the darkest, rainiest September Chloe could remember. She felt the dampness in her bones every minute, and even the bright, energy efficient lighting of her beautiful new building couldn’t raise her spirits. Nor could the good review she’d received from Damien Phillips, or the decent number of paying customers who came to Legend to buy her art. She didn’t work on any more Little Legend pieces, or the ones she was supposed to be making for customers. She didn’t have the heart for it. She painted, though, capturing on canvas the sullen grayness that hung over her mountains. Chloe wept over one of the paintings, touched by its cold bleakness. That’s what she felt like, cold and bleak. Maureen had seen it when it was on the easel, and her shocked reaction told Chloe she was right. This one was too personal to display. She feared others might know too much about her if they looked at that painting. They might see the real Chloe McClain, who worked very, very hard at being strong, in spite of her insecurities. The real Chloe McClain, who had only been in love once and had ruined it.
She spent time with Maureen, Janelle, and Anna; had dinner once in a while with Mike, Betsy, and LizBeth Ann; and often stopped for coffee at Midnight’s Emporium. Chloe had replaced the lock on that beautifully painted box that held her heart, and she would be cautious of it from here on out.
“Chloe, what do you think about renting a limo and going to Knoxville Friday night? We could surely scare up four guys to drag along and go to some clubs. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Maureen asked as the two of them browsed the shelves of Jane Winchester’s bookstore.
“Um… No thanks.”
“Come on. It would cheer you up to get out among some different people. You’ve been moping around Legend too long.”
“Maybe some other time.” Chloe picked up a paperback romance and tried to read the back cover blurb, but her eyes misted. “I don’t feel like acting happy,” she said softly.
“Sweetie, you have got to talk to him,” Maureen said.
Chloe didn’t even bother to pretend she didn’t know who Maureen was talking about. The whole family knew—the whole town no doubt knew—that Greg and Chloe had had a fight in the front window of the gallery on opening night. Typical that you couldn’t do anything in Legend without the entire population hearing about it.
“You ladies need help finding anything in particular?” Jane came around the end of the bookcase stroking a small calico kitten. Jane was famous for books and for loving animals.
“We definitely need help!” said Maureen. “Is there such a book as Relationships for Dummies? If so, Chloe needs a copy. Actually, do you have two?” She looked sheepish. Did Maureen have something going on that Chloe didn’t know about? She’d been too busy wallowing in her own misery to notice whether Maureen had been dating somebody.
Jane smiled and set the kitten down on the floor. It pounced on a small yarn ball a few feet away. “There is a book called Relationships for Dummies, but I’m afraid I don’t have it. I can order it if you want. Or how about this?” She held out Men are From Mars, Women are from Venus.
The cousins left a short while later, each carrying a romance novel instead of a relationship self-help book. Jane had gone through her catalog of possibilities while the cousins looked over her shoulder at the computer.
“Well, one thing is obvious. If there are that many different books on the subject, at least you know you’re not the only one who can’t get it right.”
“Thanks, Maureen. That helps so much.”
“Wasn’t really supposed to help. I’m not babying you, Chloe. I want you to be happy, but you’re going to have to suck it up and figure this thing out. You. Need. To. Talk. To. Him.” She had reached her car. “Later, okay?”
Chloe didn’t blame Maureen for being frustrated with her. She knew she had been sulky ever since the fight a couple of weeks ago. She didn’t know how to take the first real step toward making things right with Greg. She had managed some cosmetic things, and hoped Greg might realize it someday. She’d had her nephew Daniel change the back panel of the McClain Art Gallery flyer to include “before” and “after” pictures of the gallery space, and contact information for Deluxe Home Improvements. Chloe figured she owed it to Greg and the crew for the phenomenal job they’d done. She’d also asked Mike to bring her one of the business’s yard signs. Setting her artistic snobbery aside, she posted it in the front window of the gallery. She was probably making this way harder than it really was. Maybe she should have ordered that Dummies book after all.
****
Greg threw a hammer against the wall and walked out of the house. No big deal about the hole he’d punched in the wall. Ed and Fred would be here next week to take care of all the plaster and drywall problems. They could deal with one more. That’s what he paid them for, after all. They’d better not complain about it.
He’d had a lot of bad days lately, but today was the worst. That witch Chloe McClain haunted him constantly, and today she was right in front of his eyes every time he tried to do something. He had looked up from the door frame he’d been putting finish nails into—and saw her stupid face reflected in the glass of the storm door. Her stupid, stupid face. The one he missed seeing. The one he ached to touch, to kiss… Yeah, pretty sure Chloe was a witch, because no other woman had ever had this effect on him. That’s when he threw the hammer.
Not even the Heather thing had messed with him this much, and for a while, Greg thought Chloe was just Heather all over again. They were both pretty and feisty and talented. And they both came from families with important names. He had actually started to think in terms of permanency with Heather, but as it turned out, she’d just been seeing him as a punishment to her parents. They had leaned on her once too often about her wild lifestyle, and she did them one better—she included Greg in her wild lifestyle. Greg Andrews, manual laborer.
Heather warmed to him immediately when he showed up at her family’s weekend lake house to add on an enormous sunroom/spa to their already enormous place. The job was the chance of a lifetime, he’d thought, a chance to impress the right people and let them tell all their rich friends so he’d get more great jobs. His career would take off, he could hire more people, live a little better himself.
The Heather thing ruined all of that. The instant physical attraction between the two of them didn’t take long to consummate. They managed that a couple of days after they met, when Heather showed up unexpectedly at the weekend house while he was working. He was doing some measurements, and Heather basically volunteered to be measured. Smooth. They had a beautiful house to themselves, and nature definitely took its course. The next thing he knew, Heather was inviting him to join her and her rich important friends when they went club-hopping or made appearances at different cultural events. Art gallery opening hadn’t been among them, but it sure could have been. That was Heather’s crowd, but going to art galleries or operas and stuff wasn’t what they enjoyed most. They were just very seriously into whatever made them feel good, and for a time Greg was into it, too. He told himself he still was, but that was a lie.
He had left that crap behind when he moved to Legend and changed the name of his business. Those people, those rich important “friends” he’d had, wouldn’t find him in Legend, which suited him fine because he didn’t want to be found. He liked being himself, living a simple life here among simple people. Greg still couldn’t believe how stupid he had been to think Heather really cared for him. He hadn’t realized what was going on until the day her parents confronted the two of them at the house. Thank God they weren’t doing anything at the time, just talking out by the pool while Greg and his two-man crew took a break. Heather was wearing a tiny bikini, serving sweet tea and
flirting with all of them, and her parents stormed out onto the pool deck and basically called Greg every epithet they could get their mouths around. Made a big fuss about how he had “soiled” their daughter’s reputation, and that he wasn’t good enough for her. Greg was mortified to have this confrontation in front of his crew, but stood up to them, and expected Heather to do the same. She didn’t though. She just smiled a wry little smile and told them this is what they had driven her to by complaining about the way she lived her life. If they would just let her be herself, she wouldn’t have been so desperate when Greg had come on to her, she explained. Greg remembered their first encounter being completely mutual, but there wasn’t a time in the conversation to mention that. There wasn’t a time in the conversation for him to say anything at all, because it was all about Heather. She was all about herself, and her parents relented to say, yeah, that’s okay honey. We’re all about you, too. They gave Greg a check for the completed job and told him to get out, and he and the guys did just that. The job wasn’t done, but nearly so, and he sure didn’t feel bad about taking the money after taking the abuse.
At the time he figured that not only was his self-esteem in the toilet, but his heart was broken, too. Now he realized it was just anger, embarrassment, and general hurt. He hadn’t loved Heather any more than she had loved him. She’d gotten what she wanted—control over her parents. He’d gotten just the opposite of what he’d started out wanting. This was definitely not the way to build a business. Heather and her parents trashed his name, and in a short time, the word had spread in all the right circles.
Less than a year later, the only construction jobs he could land were the absolute dregs. His love life consisted of an occasional date set up by a buddy who felt sorry for him. Greg hadn’t given any of the girls a chance, he realized now. He expected every woman to treat him like dirt, so after a date or two, he treated them that way. Things always ended there, ugly and painful. It was surprisingly ineffective at making him feel better to be the dumper instead of the dumpee.