by Julia London
On his way back, he saw Eckland’s Hardware on the right. It was closed, but Brennan pulled into the parking lot, debating whether he should turn up the road here and pay an unexpected call on Mia.
He turned up the road.
The lights in the main house were blazing, but there was no sign of life at the barn. He got out and looked up at the apartment windows. They were dark. Brennan glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to nine and she wasn’t home. But he’d come this far, so Brennan walked around to the stairs and jogged up to the door and knocked.
No answer.
Okay, she wasn’t home. Not surprising, really—it was Saturday night. Of course she’d be out with friends. It was just that he had this idea that Mia was the girl who stayed in on weekends to paint.
He drove home, and once there, with a vodka in hand, he tried to resume his work. But he found it difficult to concentrate. He kept seeing Mia in one of her funky outfits hanging out in some bar. He could see guys walking up to her, could imagine their thoughts—none of them good. Jesus, he was fretting like a teenage boy about where she was.
He managed to put her out of his mind the next day and concentrate on his work.
Monday morning, Brennan was startled awake by the sound of some pretty aggressive hammering. Shit.
Eventually, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen for coffee. His mother had failed to take her little beasts with her, he grimly noted as they attacked his feet. Magda emerged from the laundry room with a basket of folded towels as he studied the contents of the fridge. “Hi, Magda,” he said.
“Mr. Yates.”
“There’s no food. Are you going to the grocery store, by any chance?”
“Not my job,” she said, walking past him and out of the kitchen.
“What about lunch?” he called after her.
He heard nothing but the sound of a door being slammed. Magda had to be the toughest crowd Brennan had ever played to, and early in his career he had played in some very rough joints.
Okay, so he would have to make a run for food. He fired up the coffeemaker, and as he waited for a cup to brew, he heard laughter. He walked to the doors that led to the back terrace and looked out. A man wheeled a barrow full of debris past the door. Brennan heard the laughter again—male laughter, but not the guy with the wheelbarrow. He craned his neck to look to the edge of the terrace and caught sight of Mia. She was wearing paint-spattered overalls with a cropped top beneath. And she was smiling up a man who could only be described as an Adonis.
Brennan’s heartbeat quickened slightly—the guy was handsome and muscular. Mia was smiling as she spoke to him, her hands fluttering in the air as she animated whatever she was saying. Brennan was rooted to the floor, watching her and the man through the panes of the French doors like a jealous lover.
Adonis casually tucked Mia’s hair behind her ears, then lifted a long necklace she was wearing to have a look. And then the two of them strolled out of sight and around to the back of the house where he could no longer see them.
Brennan turned back to the kitchen, and stared blindly around him, trying to absorb this new knowledge of Mia. He didn’t know who that guy was, but his intuition told him that’s where she’d been Saturday night when he’d driven by her apartment like a pimply teen boy. Was she seeing Adonis? If she was, why hadn’t she told him? Why did he think she would? And did he really have the right to care? It was Mia’s life; he should be happy that she had someone. He should be happy that he didn’t have to answer the questions he’d had about her the last few days.
But Brennan didn’t feel happy; he felt pissed. He felt hot and unpleasant, and wronged. He liked Mia, and in that moment, he didn’t give a shit that he had no right to interfere in her life.
So that’s exactly what he did.
He abandoned his coffee and went upstairs to dress to go out. He came back down and walked through the house to the work going on at the end of the north wing.
He was surprised that the room had been completely stripped since the last time he was here, and, even more astonishing, her mural was half gone. That’s what the hammering had been, he realized—they were knocking down that brick wall, a chunk at a time, and Mia’s painting, the view of Lake Haven was just . . . gone.
“Hey!”
Brennan turned around. Mia had come in through the French door. She smiled at him. “How are you?”
“Hello,” he said.
“I see you’re doing the rock star thing again.”
“What?” he asked, startled by the remark.
She gestured to his hat and his shades. “The rock star thing.”
“Oh. Right.” He glanced back at the wall. “Your mural is gone.”
“Yep.” She moved to where he stood and looked at what was left of the wall with him. “It wasn’t any good anyway.”
“Yes, it was,” he said curtly. He stooped down to pick up a chunk of brick and mortar.
“You don’t have to say that on my account. It was angry, remember?”
“I happen to like angry lakes and people hanging from trees on the beach.” He looked at the chunk of wall he held. It had been part of one of the hills around the lake with hazy forms of houses on it. Looking at it now, Brennan could see details he hadn’t noticed before—like the dark and tiny strokes of trees around the houses. The shadowy form of a dog romping on the lawn of one house. “I liked it.”
“Did you?” She sounded surprised. “I warned you the wall was coming down. I never would have painted it otherwise.”
He wished she’d warned him that other walls were coming down, inside and outside of him.
“Is there a problem?”
Brennan’s head snapped up at the sound of a man’s voice.
“He’s just looking. I think.” Mia shoved her hands into her pockets, and with eyes twinkling with light, she said to Brennan, “This is Jesse Fisher. He’s doing the construction work. And this,” she said to Jesse Fisher, “is Nancy Yates’s son, Brennan.”
“Hey,” Jesse said. He grinned and extended his hand. Brennan shook it. Yep, Jesse Fisher was a good-looking guy. He was big and fit—put a fig leaf on him, and he was Adonis. Standing next to him, Brennan couldn’t help but feel a little run-down by the years he’d spent on tour.
“Man,” Jesse said, squinting at him. “You sure look familiar.”
“He does?” Mia said and peered closely at Brennan.
“Are you from around here?” Jesse asked.
“Me? No,” Brennan said.
“I could swear we’ve met,” Jesse said.
“Why does everyone say that about you?” Mia asked laughingly.
“I must have one of those faces,” Brennan said. Whatever that meant. He turned away from the two of them back to the wall so that Adonis couldn’t study him too closely.
“You know how it is, Mimi. Everyone looks like someone we went to school with, right?”
Mimi? She was Mimi to this guy?
“Remember David Green?”
“Umm . . .” Mia squinted into the distance, apparently trying to conjure up David Green. “I think?”
“I swear I see him about every three months,” Jesse said. “Only he lives in Europe now, so I’m pretty sure it’s not him. But so many guys look just like him. It’s weird.”
The two of them laughed together about the weirdness of David Green’s doppelganger.
Jesse turned his big, friendly smile back at Brennan. “So what do you do, Brennan?”
“Not much, really,” Brennan said vaguely.
“That’s not true,” Mia said. “You’re a musician.”
In this context, musician sounded so lame. For the first time in his life, Brennan wished he were a Navy Seal or a spy, especially when he glanced at Jesse and could tell he thought musician sounded lame, too.
“What kind of music?” Jesse asked.
“All kinds,” Brennan said.
“Love songs,” Mia said.
Something flickered in Jess
e’s eye. “Cool,” he said, although it was clear to Brennan that Adonis didn’t think it was cool at all. Yeah, well he’d bet the bastard had probably sung a few of his songs driving around town.
“Do you teach?” Jesse asked.
Did he teach? This guy thought he was a school teacher? “No.”
“Hey, that’s a great idea,” Mia said. “You could get a job with the East Beach schools and teach guitar lessons. We never had a music teacher at school. Did we?” she asked Jesse curiously.
“I don’t think so. I don’t know—I was always into sports.”
Naturally. “Speaking of work,” Brennan said, “I should get back to it.”
“He’s writing music,” Mia said to Jesse.
“Oh yeah?” Jesse’s gaze flicked over him. “A song?”
Brennan adjusted his sunglasses. “Actually, a soundtrack for a film.”
Jesse’s smile was full of undisguised amusement. “Good for you! You know, I should get to work, too. Mia, I want to show you something . . . that is, if you’re all through here,” he said, gesturing between her and Brennan.
“I think we are,” she said and looked questioningly at Brennan. He didn’t say or do anything. “Okay. See you later?” she said, and with a smile, she walked away with Jesse.
There was a swing to her hip Brennan hadn’t noticed before. Damn it.
He reminded himself he wasn’t in competition with Adonis. There really was no good reason for Brennan to take off his sunglasses and tell him the truth as he so badly wanted to do. Yeah, fuckwad, you know me. I am Everett Alden from Tuesday’s End. Think I ought to teach guitar lessons now?
The moment he did something like that, word would get out, and Chance would find him—not to mention the press—and Gary, too, and Brennan couldn’t face that. Not yet. He needed more time. He just needed more time. And since when was he so jealous, anyway? He hadn’t mustered up this much energy when the grainy photos of Jenna kissing her costar had cropped up on all the tabloids.
Brennan dragged himself back to his work, feeling dejected that Mia was interested in some other man. He told himself to forget it. He was determined to hammer out some of the rougher transitions in the song and improve the bridge. Forget about East Beach and honey eyes and conversations he never got to have with anyone else. He looked at the sheets of music he’d written.
Was this all there was?
His work that afternoon was a mess. Around five, he heard laughter drifting in through the open windows of his room. He got up to look out and saw Mia walking with Jesse. He stood in the shadows and watched Jesse put her bike in the back of his pickup truck, then watched Jesse walk her around to the passenger side of his truck, his hand on her shoulder. And then on her neck.
What was that tightening in the muscles of Brennan’s neck and jaw as the pickup moved out of the gate? Ah, yes, that would be your standard full-blown male ego feeling a jealous rage.
He brooded about it all night.
The next morning, Brennan was waiting for Mia when she stuck her foot in through the front door. “Get back!” she shouted at the dogs who rushed to attack, and she pushed the door wider, nudging them away from her as Brennan strolled out of the kitchen with coffee in hand. He whistled; the dogs turned and raced back to the kitchen.
She inched her way in, saw him standing there, and smiled so brightly that the dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Oh, hey! You’re up early. Was there a fire?” She laughed at her joke.
His gaze skimmed over her. She was wearing a dress that looked as if it had been made from maps. Actual road maps, with the creases of the folds still visible.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, and glanced down at herself. “I didn’t get paint on it, did I?”
“No. I like it.” Jesus, he felt nervous. He had a plan, but he feared he was standing on the precipice of utter rejection, and frankly, he feared how he would handle it if that happened.
“Well that’s a ringing endorsement,” she said sunnily. “I don’t suppose you know how hard it is to glue maps to muslin.”
“I don’t. But it’s cool.”
“Really? Maybe I’ll make you a matching shirt. Well, not matching. I ran out of New York maps. You would have to be Connecticut. Or California. Name your state.”
He didn’t name his state.
Mia smiled, but she looked confused. She hoisted the bag on her shoulder and took a step toward the north hall. “Okay, well . . .”
“Wait,” he said quickly.
She waited.
“Ah . . .”
Mia shifted. Brennan swallowed, madly debating what he was about to do. She peered closely at him. “Have you been drinking?”
“What? No!” he said, and held out his coffee cup as proof.
“Sorry,” she said, throwing up a hand. “But you’re acting kind of weird.”
“Right. I wanted to ask . . . I was thinking about . . .” For God’s sake, he couldn’t even talk. He dragged his fingers through his hair and blurted, “Have you ever heard of Stratford Corners?”
“In the Adirondacks? Sure.”
“They have a juried art festival there this weekend.”
“Yep, I know all about it,” she said, nodding. “Actually, I’ve entered twice.”
“You have?”
She giggled. “Don’t look so shocked. It was a long time ago. And I didn’t win, thank you very much.” She bowed. “Now you should look shocked,” she teased him. “One entry was a painting. The other entry was this really bizarre idea I had for tin cans.” She shook her head and laughed. “Let’s just say it didn’t work out. Tin cans are definitely not one of my better mediums.”
“Do you want to go?” he asked, inwardly wincing at his lack of finesse.
Mia’s smile faded. “Huh?”
“Do you want to go? To Stratford Corners and the art festival? Because . . . because I do.”
“Are you asking me to go to the art festival with you?” she asked, her voice full of disbelief.
“Yes, but—”
“Mr. Yates, do you have laundry?”
Magda’s timing could not be worse. Brennan whipped around. “I don’t—”
“I do laundry now,” she announced loudly, as if he should know that.
“Okay, Magda. Would you like me to trot upstairs and get it for you?” he asked, gritting his teeth.
Magda shrugged. “I do laundry now,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. Brennan sighed and turned back to Mia. She looked worried, and he assumed it was because she was going to turn him down.
How much worse could this get? He couldn’t even ask a girl out anymore. He felt like an idiot and he shrugged sheepishly. “I’m doing this very badly,” he said. “But I would like to take you to Stratford Corners’ art festival this weekend. If . . . if you’re free.”
Mia let the bag slide from her shoulder and caught it in her hand. It dangled next to her shin. She looked at the wall a minute, then at him. “You want me to go to Stratford Corners with you,” she repeated.
“Well. Not to put too technical a point on it, I want you to go to an art festival with me.”
“It’s hours from here,” she pointed out.
“Okay,” he said, wondering what the distance had to do with anything. He could not recall another time in his life that he’d had so much trouble asking a girl to go out with him. Not even when he was fifteen and told Brenda Wesley to meet him somewhere. He didn’t ask, he instructed, and she told him she would never go anywhere with him. “It’s not a trip you can make in a day.”
“I know.”
Her cheeks began to turn pink. “It’s also a big fancy resort area. Did you know that?”
“No,” he said uncertainly. “Does that mean something? Is it not the kind of art festival I think it is?”
“What it means is that the toilets up there have two flush buttons and heated seats.”
He shook his head.
“It’s not cheap.”
“I
s that . . .” He shifted uncomfortably. God he sucked at this. Everything he said made it worse. “Is that a problem?” He heard the sound of a pickup in the drive, and suddenly, Brennan was desperate for her answer. “Mia . . . do I look like I care about money?” he asked her honestly.
She shook her head, her gaze skirting over him. “Most of the time you don’t look like you care about anything, really. Not money, not puppy mills, not the rain forest—”
“Then I guess my look is working, although I have to draw the line at puppy mills. I’d really like to take you to this art festival. That’s it. Yes, it’s an overnight trip. Would you like to go?” he asked, and tried not to flinch at the sound of the truck doors slamming outside, of men walking to the north wing.
She stared at him, debating. “That depends,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard the workers’ arrival, as if she had all the time in the world to torture him with her answer. “Are you willing to walk around and look at a lot of paintings and sculptures and things made out of wood and tin cans and glass?”
“Yes,” he said with an adamant nod.
“Are you willing to listen to me talk about them? And explain things? And critique things? Because I am pretty ruthless when it comes to art shows. I figure if you’re going to enter, you’d better be good.”
“I . . . I’m totally down with that,” he assured her.
“And you’re not going to sigh or look bored or act like you would rather be anywhere else than some little town in the Adirondacks looking at art?”
He heard the men in the salon, their voices carrying down the hall. “I’m not going to sigh or look bored. I’d really like to spend some time with you, Mia. If those are the conditions, you have my word. I will not look bored.”
“Are we going to stay in the same room?” she asked.
He blinked. Was there a good answer to that? “Whatever you want.”
She tilted her head to one side, mulling that over. But then she smiled. “Then yes, Brennan Yates, I would like to go with you.”
He felt such a wave of relief that he almost swayed with it. “Great,” he said. He was grinning. He was grinning like the day his mom bought him his first bike, like the day he’d signed his first contract, like the day Tuesday’s End had their first real hit.