That’s what he’d said when she’d informed him she was leaving. He’d looked at her with those serious brows of his, furrowed in judgment. You’ll never survive in the real world without me, Dottie. Your head is in the clouds, and I’m the only thing anchoring you to earth.
She’d cupped his cheek then, because it hadn’t been hate that had driven her away, despite all the ways he’d tried to clip her wings, and said, And that’s exactly why I have to let you go.
“Where’d your mind go just then?” Beau asked. He didn’t release her hand as he opened the back of the car and retrieved an oversized bag. When he saw her looking at it, he gave a little shrug. “I didn’t have a picnic basket.”
“I like it,” she said. “I was thinking about the past right then, and I’d rather not dwell on it.”
“A worthy cause. Shall we shake on it?”
“I’d much rather keep holding your hand.”
“Good, because I didn’t have any intention of dropping it.” He grinned at her and led the way to the top of the ridge. It was a short hike up, not too difficult even though she hadn’t worn the shoes for it, and the breath gusted out of her when they got there. Not because she was old, although people liked to accuse her of it, but because it was one of the loveliest views she’d ever seen, and not a single other person was up there with them. The mountains stretched in either direction, gentle rolling humps of blue and violet, and beneath them and all around them trees stretched out in a glorious canopy full of life. There was a picnic table up there, right above that view, and she set the dessert box down on it, wanting to hold nothing but Beau’s hand.
“It’s beautiful.” She turned to him. “I only wish I’d thought to bring my painting things.”
He looked so pleased with himself, as if he believed bringing her here was a greater victory than the sales they’d made today.
Then his grin stretched wider and he reached up behind her ear. For a moment she thought this was it, he was going to kiss her, but he plucked a piece of confetti out of her hair and lifted it to show her before pocketing it. Good. If he’d littered, she would’ve had to break the moment to pick it up.
“Open the bag, Dottie.”
He’d set it by his feet to take in the view, but she glanced at him, curious now, and opened it. There were two small canvases, an empty palette, several unopened tubes of paint, brushes, and two cups for water. Beneath all of that were two wrapped sandwiches and a few bottles.
It wasn’t very often that Dottie felt flabbergasted.
He’d had one hour. How had he arranged all of this? How had he even known what to buy?
When she glanced up at him again, his eyes were twinkling as if he knew exactly what was going through her head. Because this was the masterful sort of setup that she would plan, and someone else had gotten ahead of her.
“How?” she finally managed.
“I was thinking of your peonies,” he said. “The ones that looked real to me. I figured you must have been looking at real flowers to paint them so beautifully, and I thought of this place.” He lifted a shoulder. “Luke told me what to bring. He’s spent a lot of time at art stores with Leda.”
Dottie lifted a hand to her heart, even more touched by the gesture. “But how did you do it all in an hour?”
He shook his head, pushing up the ridge of his glasses. “I’m not much of a cook, and it nearly took me an hour to make two sandwiches. I did this yesterday.”
“Before I even had your number,” she said in disbelief.
“I wanted to do something special for you.” He paused, looking off at the view for a moment before focusing back on her. “You see, I fell into a rut without realizing it, lord only knows when, and I’d been there so long that I’d forgotten what life looked like without dirt walls on both sides. But meeting you, Dottie, it was like someone threw me a lifeline.” His mouth hitched up. “And not just because you have a way of charming other people into buying my beer. You inspire something in the people around you. Not just me. It’s obvious with your young friends, and with your nephew too. I guess I just wanted to say thank you for pulling this old man out of that rut.”
“You don’t look so old to me,” she said, lifting a hand to stay his words before he could reciprocate the comment. “And before you say the same about me, I’ll have you know that I believe only people who consider themselves old become that way.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He hadn’t said anything about romance, about pink quartz beads or doves or hearts in tea leaves, but then again, she supposed he wouldn’t. He was used to being a practical man, and he would need her to push him toward the impractical if they were to become a pair.
She thought she was up to the job.
“There are two canvases,” she pointed out, because that seemed like a good first step.
He shrugged a little, self-conscious again. “I wasn’t sure if painting was like drinking and you wouldn’t want to do it alone.”
“Not usually, no, but I would very much like it if you would paint with me. You can learn a lot about a man from the way he paints.”
“Oh?” he asked, his tone teasing again. “How did the other Beau paint?”
“He didn’t. Ever. And he rued the day he married a woman who did.”
“I already thought he was a fool for letting you go, and you’re doing nothing to revise that opinion. I’m ashamed to share his name.”
She smiled at him, then stooped and started to divide the brushes into two cups and squeeze the paints onto the palette. And just like earlier, they worked well together. Beau took out the sandwiches, putting one in front of each of them, and opened the two beers he’d brought.
“The Serenity Ale, for you,” he said.
“My favorite.”
“I noticed,” he said, touching the small of her back. The pleasure of the touch surged through her, as delicious as the strawberry and rhubarb notes in the beer. “The sound you made when you tried it was enough to give me inappropriate ideas.” He paused. “Which brings me to something I should have said earlier. If you’re uncomfortable with me courting you because we’re working together, I can find someone else to do the tastings with me. I know plenty of people in town, and any of them would be lucky to offer you employment.”
“Why, Beau Buchanan,” she said, lifting an eyebrow, “did you in one breath say you’re courting me and fire me from my job?” He blushed, the dear man, and she nearly laughed. Perhaps she would have if he didn’t have the audacity to look even more handsome this way.
“No, that’s the very last thing I want to do. But I don’t want to do anything to make you feel…coerced.”
She did laugh then, and he smiled at her even though it was clear he knew she was laughing at him. “I called you tonight, Beau, and I invited you to my party on Saturday. If anyone’s been coerced, it’s you.”
His whole manner brightened, as if a bulb had been lit within him, and she found herself thinking of what he’d said about that rut. When had a man ever told her anything like that?
“Now, if you don’t hurry up and kiss me, I’m going to take it personally.”
And then he reached for her.
Chapter Eleven
Kissing Beau made her feel like a woman half her age. Only she hadn’t felt like this when she was thirty. No, back then she had felt coerced and cornered, nudged into a box that didn’t fit.
Because even her mother, who’d loved her more than anyone, had told her that women of a certain age should be married. Old Beau was good enough, and after all, what was she waiting for? Wait a few more years, Dottie, and you won’t be able to have children. And you, my dear, were born to be a mother.
That was the real reason she’d done it. Because she had wanted a baby like Kate, with soft skin and a nuzzling head. With tiny feet and hands that would curl around her finger. She’d wanted it badly enough to do the thing she was supposed to do, even though she knew it was a mistake.
O
f course, as it turned out, she couldn’t have a child anyway.
So it had all been for nothing.
But this. This. The connection that had been building between her and Beau since their first meeting had inflamed into something she’d never expected. And his hands on her waist, in her lilac hair, made her forget that they had both lived previous lives with previous partners, possibly twice over. Because the only thing she could remember was the present and the man who was savoring her as if she were a petit-four after an unusually fine meal.
And—
“Oh. My. God. You could be my grandparents,” a boy’s voice called out in disgust.
Beau pulled away slightly, glancing in the direction of the voice. “Consider it your great luck that we are not,” he said, mirth in his eyes.
Two teenagers had climbed up the ridge, hands wrapped around each other as if they couldn’t get close enough, and it was obvious they’d come for the same reason Beau and Dottie had.
“Find your own spot,” Dottie called out. “There’s a whole mountain range out here. Plenty of room for all of us.”
They left as fast as if the devil himself had been riding their heels, and Dottie couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. And of finding such a fierce connection now, when it should have been too late. When she’d decided only days ago that it was too late.
“Dottie.” Beau traced her lips with a finger as though memorizing them. “I didn’t expect this.”
“No, neither did I, but fate had other ideas.” And she told him about the signs that had led up to their meeting.
To her surprise, he didn’t laugh at her; he only smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I guess you didn’t have much of a choice then, huh?”
“There’s always a choice, and at first I felt resistant to the pull.” She smiled at him. “But something changed in your car that night. I guess we have a habit of spilling our secrets to each other in cars.”
“I guess we do, and I find I don’t have a single problem with it.”
He kissed her again, a soft kiss, and then he pulled away and waved to the canvases. “You’re a lady who enjoys games. Care to play one?”
“Consider me intrigued.”
“Whoever paints the winning painting gets to name the beer Luke and I are making tomorrow. It’ll be the next one to go on the line.”
“And who picks the winner?”
“Luke will. Let’s give him a win.” His grin was infectious, and something about knowing she’d put that smile on his face sent a wave of electric pleasure through her. She was helping to awaken him just as this place had helped awaken her.
“All right. But I warn you, you may be at a disadvantage.”
“Oh, I hope so,” he said, lifting a hand to touch her chin. It was like he couldn’t stop touching her now that he’d started, and she didn’t want to encourage him to try.
“Then you have an agreement. Let the best painting win.”
They spent the next hour painting their canvases and eating the sandwiches Beau had made, talking about anything and everything. At her suggestion, they stood on opposite ends of the bench so they couldn’t see each other’s work. She found herself telling him more about her life in Fayetteville. Not Old Beau, but the joy she’d managed to create despite being hemmed in and unloved. And he told her about his soda factory and the drive to innovate that had shifted his focus to craft beer. He also told her a little about Gail, whom he’d clearly loved. Losing her had been hard on him, especially since he was a man of action, and there hadn’t been a damn thing he could do about it.
With every word, it felt they were painting on a different canvas. A canvas of Beau and Dottie. It was nearly blank right now, but she sensed it would be a long, broad canvas full of color. And it felt unbelievably good, unbelievably big from her vantage point.
Finally, as the sun began to sink, painting the clouds a beautiful mix of orange and purple and pink that made her want to gasp anew at the beauty, she said, “I think it’s probably time for us to stop. Are you done?”
“Not nearly, but I suppose you’re right. I don’t want to miss watching the sunset with you.”
“No,” she said. “Me neither. But I do want to see your painting, and I want you to have some dessert.”
His laughter was balm to a wound she hadn’t realized she’d sustained.
“Yes, your mysterious dessert. I’d almost forgotten. My mind was on other things.”
Goodness.
“Let’s turn our canvases at the count of three,” she said, and his grin widened.
“One, two—”
But he’d already turned his canvas, like he was toeing the line at a race, only it wasn’t the same at all, of course. He was just eager for her to see it, which made her throat clog with emotion. The painting even more so.
He wouldn’t win any awards for his ability to put paint to canvas, but there was a raw sort of beauty to it, and it wasn’t his artistic ability that spoke to her—it was the soul that had seen fit to paint Dottie, with her purple hair and bright outfit, rather than the gorgeous expanse in front of them.
Her painting was an expanse of mountain and sky. Two figures had their backs to it, arms around each other.
“You painted us,” he said, his smile stretching wider if possible.
“And you painted me. It almost seems that should be against the rules.”
“Only we never set any.”
“There is that.”
And because she couldn’t wait any longer to touch him again, she set her canvas down gently, careful not to get any wet paint on the wooden table, and went to him, pulling him into a kiss against that expanse of beautiful sky. His hand did have paint on it, something they only realized after he’d left a handprint over her butt. They both laughed as they settled onto one side of the bench and Dottie opened the box.
“Strawberry rhubarb pie?” he asked in disbelief. “There’s no way you did this in one hour either.”
“Yesterday,” she said with a nod. “It wasn’t for us, necessarily, but your beer made me think of my mama’s pie. It made me think of home.”
“I can’t think of a better compliment.”
They cut a slice and put it onto one of the plates he’d brought, sharing it between them as they looked down at the view and enjoyed each other’s company, a touch here, a touch there.
And as a moment, it was pretty damn near perfect.
They stayed out until the sky was full of stars, then carefully packed their paintings into the back seat and drove back to Dottie’s house. She fully intended to ask him to stay over—River loved him and wouldn’t mind the company one bit—but when Beau pulled up to the curb, she saw Kate’s car in the drive.
The air whooshed out of her.
Would Kate be angry that she’d allowed River to spend time with Leonard and Doris? She’d wanted Leonard to be her plaything, but he wasn’t available for the taking because of Dottie, and she wouldn’t put it past Kate to consider it some grievous offense.
“Your niece’s car?” Beau asked, taking in the change in her as he pulled into the drive.
“It is,” she said. “I’d planned on asking you in, but I expect she’ll be in a surly mood. Perhaps tomorrow night?”
“I’ll look forward to it all day.”
He kissed her sweetly.
She pulled away, despite wanting to do nothing of the sort. “And no showing Luke the paintings until we’re both there for his judgment.”
He gave her the boy scout salute, which pulled delighted laughter from her. She could just imagine Beau as a young man, earning his scouting badges. “I’ll trust you at your word if you’re a scout.”
Then, because she really didn’t want to leave him, she kissed him again, lingering a little in the warmth of his car and the space they were building together. “You take the rest of that pie home to Luke, now. If he drank that whole tonic, he’ll sleep through the night, but he’ll wake up with a powerful hunge
r.”
He shook his head slightly. “I don’t even want to know what was in that.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, and left the car. She turned back to look at him when she reached the door, and he was still there in the drive, watching her. He waved, and she felt a surge of sweetness at the realization that he was waiting for her to go in. He wanted to be sure she was safe.
She unlocked the door, then blew a kiss before she stepped in.
But her good mood popped like an effervescent bubble as soon as she saw the bags by the door.
River was sitting on the sofa, glumly watching as Kate ran around, gathering their things together.
“You’re leaving,” Dottie said, her voice hitching a little. She’d thought there would be more time, that she could take River to the drum circle and her favorite bead store and the lookout Beau had brought her to this evening.
“I saw a flyer in a shop. A craft store in Charleston is looking for part-time help. I called them up, and they’re willing to give me an interview. If that doesn’t work out, there are plenty of places to sell my jewelry there.” She glanced at River. “I thought River might like to be by the ocean for a while.”
“I want to stay here, Mom,” he said, jutting his lower lip out.
“You know not to call me that.”
“Fine. I want to stay here, Esmerelda.”
Dottie’s brow furrowed. “Why is he calling you that?”
Kate turned to her, and it was then Dottie saw the look of elation in her eyes. “I meditated in one of the salt caves, and I had a revelation. I’m not meant to be Kate. That’s the name they gave me, and it doesn’t fit me any better than an old shoe. I’m supposed to be Esmerelda.”
Dottie didn’t bother pointing out that the “they” she was referring to included Dottie’s sister, because Delia, bless her heart, hadn’t been much of a sister or a mother. Nor did Dottie feel inclined to turn her back on someone else’s revelation. If that’s what Kate wanted to be called, fine, although she would have preferred it if River weren’t being pulled into it.
All the Luck You Need (Asheville Brewing) Page 8