His mouth tightened. “You want another chance to act like an idiot in front of Mad Jack, don’t you?”
“I’m more mature now.”
“Sure you are.” He picked up her sketches from the bed. “Yeah, they’ll all be there. Tell me what you need.”
As long as she stayed with the group, she could go. Just this once. She mentally reviewed the contents of the pantry and gave him a short list, which he didn’t bother to write down. He held up her final sketch. “This is great, but I thought you were painting her dog.”
“Nita decided she has to be in the portrait, too.” Nita cared more about keeping Blue around as her indentured servant than she cared about the painting. “Are you ready to go home yet?”
His gaze wandered to the bed. “Definitely not.”
She set her hand on her hip. “I’m supposed to take off my clothes just because you got bored and decided to hop over my balcony railing tonight? I don’t think so.”
His eyebrows drew together. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it, that I stayed away.” He jabbed his finger in the general direction of her face. “You’re not the only one who’s allowed to be pissed off.”
“I didn’t do anything to you! I needed a job, and don’t tell me I had one with you because I didn’t.”
“I was counting on you, and you turned your back on me. Obviously, you didn’t care how I felt.”
He looked honestly angry, but she didn’t believe him. “You’re overprivileged, overindulged, and perfectly capable of holding your own with all of them. What really bothers you is not getting your way.” She marched to the balcony door so she could throw him out, but as she pushed the handle, she imagined his body sprawled on the ground with his legs twisted underneath him, and she backed away.
“What really bothers me,” he said from behind her, “is believing you were someone I could count on.”
She set her jaw against a twinge of guilt and headed across the room. “You’re going out the front door. Don’t make any noise, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He shot her a hard look, stepped in front of her, and opened the door himself. She followed him out into the pink-carpeted hallway, past an excruciatingly ugly painting of a Venetian canal, and down the steps, so she could lock the door behind him. Just past the landing, he stopped cold and turned. She was on a higher step, and their eyes met. In the light from the dusty crystal chandelier, his face was both familiar and mysterious. She pretended she understood him, but how could she? He lived in the stars, and she was good, solid earth.
She stood without moving as he lifted his arms and channeled his fingers into her hair. The loose rubber band that had been barely holding up her ponytail gave way as he tunneled under it.
His kiss was harsh and thrilling. She forgot everything she knew about herself and slipped her arms around his neck. Tilting her head, she opened her mouth. He cupped her bottom and squeezed. She pressed closer, and her hips rubbed against him.
He broke away so suddenly she got a head rush and had to grab the railing. Of course, he noticed. She flipped her hair, sending the dangling rubber band flying. “You are so bored with yourself.”
“I don’t feel bored.” His low, rough voice scraped her skin like sandpaper. “What I feel…” He curled his hand around her bare thigh, just below the hem of her shorts. “What I feel… is a hot fuckable little body…”
Sparks erupted inside her. She licked her lips and tasted him. “Sorry. Now that I’ve had you, my curiosity is satisfied, and I’m not interested. No offense.”
His gaze held steady. He deliberately brushed his fingers across her breast. “None taken.”
As her skin pebbled, he gave her a less than friendly smile, turned away, and let himself out of the house.
Blue felt hungover the next morning as she walked out to the curb to get the Sunday paper for Nita. Last night, Dean had tried to change the rules on her. He had no right to be angry just because she wouldn’t worship and adore like all the rest. When she went to the farm today, she needed to give him as much trouble as possible.
As she leaned down to pick up the paper, she heard a hissing coming from the other side of the hedge. She looked up and saw Syl, the owner of the local resale shop, peeking at her around the shrubbery through a pair of red cat’s-eye glasses. Syl had short salt and pepper hair and thin lips she’d enlarged with dark red lip liner. Blue had enjoyed her sense of humor when they’d met at the Barn Grill after the big fight, but Syl was all business now, hissing like a garden hose and gesturing for Blue to approach. “Come here. We need to talk to you.”
Blue tucked the paper under her arm and followed Syl around the corner. A gold Impala sat parked on the opposite side of the street, and two women climbed out: Dean’s real estate agent, Monica Doyle; and a slender, middle-aged African American woman Syl quickly introduced as Penny Winters, the owner of Aunt Myrtle’s Attic, the town’s antique store.
“We’ve been trying to get you alone all week,” Syl said as the women gathered around. “But whenever you show up in town, she’s always around, so we decided to stake out the house before we went to church.”
“Everybody knows Nita has a fit if she doesn’t get her Sunday paper first thing.” Monica pulled a tissue from the navy and yellow Vera Bradley bag that matched her dressy blue suit. “You’re our last hope, Blue. You have to use your influence with her.”
“I don’t have any influence,” Blue said. “She can’t stand me.”
Penny fingered the gold cross at the neck of her red dress. “If that was true, she’d have gotten rid of you by now like she has everybody else.”
“It’s only been four days,” Blue replied.
“A record.” Monica gave her nose a delicate toot. “You have no idea how she runs over everybody.”
That was so not true.
“You have to convince Nita to support Garrison Grows.” Syl shoved her cat’s-eye glasses up on her nose. “It’s the only way we can save this town.”
Garrison Grows, Blue quickly learned, was the plan the city’s leaders had put together to revitalize the town.
“Tourists drive through here all the time on their way to the Smokies,” Monica said, “but there’s no decent restaurant, no lodging, hardly any shopping, and they never stop. If Nita will let us go ahead with Garrison Grows, we can change all that.”
Penny tugged on the small black button between her breasts. “With no national franchises here, we can take advantage of the nostalgia factor and make this place look like everybody’s memory of what small American towns were before KFC moved in.”
Monica slipped her purse to her shoulder. “Naturally, Nita refuses to cooperate.”
“It would be so easy to draw tourists if she’d only let us make a few improvements,” Syl said. “Nita wouldn’t have to pay for a dime of it.”
“Syl’s been trying to open a real gift shop next door to her resale shop for five years,” Penny said, “but Nita hated her mother and won’t rent her the space.”
As the church bells rang, the women began outlining other parts of the Garrison Grows plan, which included a bed-and-breakfast, converting Josie’s into a decent restaurant, and letting someone named Andy Berillo add a coffeehouse to the bakery.
“Nita says coffeehouses are only for Communists,” Syl said indignantly. “Now what would a Communist be doing in East Tennessee?”
Monica folded her arms across her chest. “And who worries about Communists anyway these days?”
“She just wants to make sure everybody in town knows how she feels about us,” Penny said. “I don’t like to talk bad about anybody, but she’s letting this town die out of spite.”
Blue remembered Nita’s anxious-to-please expression in those early Garrison photographs and wondered how different things might have been if the local women had welcomed her when she’d arrived instead of shunning her. No matter what Nita said, Blue didn’t believe she had any intention of selling the town. She might hate Garrison,
but she had nowhere else to go.
Syl squeezed Blue’s arm. “You’re the only person who has her ear right now. Convince her these improvements will mean money in her pocket. She likes money.”
“I’d help if I could,” Blue said, “but the only reason she’s keeping me around is to torture me. She doesn’t listen to anything I say.”
“Just try,” Penny said. “That’s all we ask.”
“Try hard,” Monica said more firmly.
Nita pitched a fit that afternoon when Blue announced she was taking off, but Blue didn’t give in and, around four o’clock, amid threats of calling the police, she left for the farm in the Roadster. Since her last visit, the pastures had been mowed and the surrounding fence had been repaired. She parked by the barn, next to Jack’s SUV. The warm wind plucked at her ponytail as she crossed the yard.
Riley dashed out. The Silly Putty smile stretched across her face made her look like a different child from the sad little girl Blue had found sleeping on the porch just over a week ago. “Guess what, Blue?” she squealed. “We’re not going home tomorrow! Dad says we get to stay a couple more days because of working on the porch.”
“Oh, Riley! That’s great. I’m so glad.”
Riley pulled her toward the front door. “April wants you to go in this way so she can show everything off. And guess what else? April gave Puffy some cheese, and Puffy got stinky farts, but Dean kept blaming it on me, and I didn’t do it.”
“Yeah, right.” Blue grinned. “Blame it on the dog.”
“No, really. I don’t even like cheese.”
Blue laughed and hugged her.
April and Puffy met them at the front door. Inside, the foyer glowed in the late afternoon sun with fresh eggshell paint. A carpet runner patterned with earth-toned swirls ran down the hallway. April gestured toward the splashy abstract Blue had spotted in a Knoxville gallery. “See how great the painting looks? You were right about mixing contemporary art with the antiques.”
The chest beneath had a wood and brass tray that already held Dean’s wallet and a set of keys, along with a framed early childhood photo of him wearing shorts and a football helmet so big it rested on his collarbones. Next to the chest, a curly iron coatrack waited for one of his jackets, and a rustic twig basket held a pair of sneakers and a football. A sturdy mahogany chair with a carved back offered a convenient place to change into running shoes or glance through the mail. “You’ve designed everything around him. Has he noticed how personalized this is?”
“I doubt it.”
Blue took in an oval wall mirror with a carved wooden frame. “All you need is a shelf for his moisturizer and eyelash curler.”
“Behave. Have you noticed that he hardly ever looks at himself?”
“I’ve noticed. I just haven’t chosen to let him know I’ve noticed.”
Blue loved the rest of the house, especially the living room, which had been transformed with pale, buttery paint and a big Oriental rug. The vintage landscapes Blue had discovered in the back of an antique shop looked great with the bold, contemporary canvas April had hung over the fireplace. The worn leather club chairs April had found were in place, along with a carved walnut armoire to hold stereo equipment, and an oversize coffee table with drawers for remote controls and game film. More photos sat on top, some taken of him with childhood friends, others from his teen and college years. Somehow Blue didn’t think the pictures were his idea.
Dean unconsciously adjusted his hammering to the music of the Black Eyed Peas coming from the kitchen. He and Jack had been working on the porch most of the day. The exterior walls were up, and tomorrow they’d start on the roof. He glanced toward the kitchen window. Blue had nodded at him when she’d arrived, but she hadn’t come out to say hello, and he hadn’t gone in. He was pissed with himself for losing it with her last night on the stairs, but at least he had her on his turf now, and nothing beat a home field advantage. Blue loved the farm, and if she was too stubborn to move back, he could at least remind her of what she was missing. One way or another, he was determined to get what he wanted—the affair they both deserved.
Inside, someone turned up the music. April and Riley were supposed to be helping with dinner, but April didn’t like to cook, and he could see her dragging Riley away from peeling potatoes to dance. He watched Blue set aside a mixing bowl and join them. She hopped around like a tree fairy, arms waving, her ponytail bobbing. If she’d been alone, he might have gone in to dance with her, but not with April and Jack hanging around.
“I thought you and Blue broke up.” Jack’s voice momentarily startled him. Other than a request to pass over a tool or hold a board in place, they hadn’t spoken all afternoon.
“Not exactly.” Dean drove another nail home. He’d been exercising his shoulder, and it was finally loosening up. “We’re at a transition point, that’s all.”
“Transition to what?”
“We’re figuring that out.”
“Bullshit.” Jack swiped his face with his sleeve. “You’re not serious about her. She’s just a diversion to you.”
Blue had been saying the same thing practically since the day they’d met, and Dean had to admit there was some truth in it. If he’d seen her on the street or in a club, he’d never have noticed her, but only because she wouldn’t have come on to him. With so many beautiful women trying to catch his attention, how was he supposed to notice the ones who didn’t?
“Be careful with her,” Jack went on. “She acts tough, but those eyes give her away.”
Dean swiped his forehead with his T-shirt sleeve. “Don’t confuse reality with your song lyrics, Jack. Blue knows exactly what the score is.”
Jack shrugged. “I guess you know her better than I do.”
That was the last thing they said to each other until Dean went inside to take a shower.
As Jack watched Dean disappear, he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Although he’d only intended to stay at the farm for a week, he wasn’t going anywhere for a while. April had her method of atonement, and he had his—building this porch with Dean. Growing up, Jack had spent summers working with his dad, and now he and Dean were doing the same. Not that Dean gave a damn about any kind of father-son ritual, but Jack did.
He liked the way the porch was shaping up. Everything was solid. His old man would have been proud.
Blue cranked open the kitchen window. Through the glass, he watched April’s lithesome, sensual movements and those blades of long hair flying around her head like knives.
“Nobody over the age of thirty should be able to dance like you,” he heard Blue say when the song ended.
Riley piped up, breathless from trying to follow April. “Dad is fifty-four, and he dances great. Onstage anyway. I don’t think he dances anywhere else.”
“He used to.” April ran her hands through her hair to sweep it back from her face. “After his concerts, we’d find some out-of-the-way club, and we’d dance until the place shut down. Lots of times they’d stay open just for him. Of all the people I’ve ever danced with, he was—” She stopped, then shrugged and leaned down to pet the dog. A moment later, her cell rang and she slipped out of the kitchen to answer it.
Yesterday, he’d overheard her address one of her callers as Mark. Before that, it had been Brad. Same old April. Same old hard-on whenever he got near her. Even so, he wanted to make love with her again. He wanted to excavate her layers and discover where her strength came from.
He had meetings in New York and intended to ask her to watch Riley for a few days while he was gone. He trusted her with his kid. The person he didn’t trust her with was himself.
Someone started pounding on the door as Dean headed back downstairs from his shower. He pulled it open and saw Nita Garrison standing there. Behind her, a dusty black sedan pulled away. He turned toward the kitchen. “Blue, you’ve got company.”
Nita smacked him in the knee with her cane, and he automatically stepped back, which opened up a hole big enough fo
r her to slip through. Blue emerged from the kitchen, followed by a trail of great cooking smells. “Oh, God, no,” she moaned as she spotted Nita.
“You left your shoes on the stairs,” Nita said accusingly. “I tripped over them and fell all the way to the bottom. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck.”
“I didn’t leave my shoes on the stairs, and you didn’t fall. How did you get here?”
“That fool Chauncey Crole. He spit out the window the whole way.” She sniffed the air. “I smell fried chicken. You never fix fried chicken for me.”
“That’s because I can’t find a place to hide the ground glass.”
Nita sucked on her teeth, then whacked him in the shin again for laughing. “I need to sit down. I have bruises everywhere from that fall.”
Riley popped in from the kitchen, Puffy trotting behind her. “Hi, Mrs. Garrison. I practiced with the book today.”
“Go get it and let me see. But first, find me a comfortable chair. I took a terrible fall today.”
“There’s one in the living room. I’ll show you.” Riley led her away.
Blue rubbed the back of her hand over a dab of flour on her cheek. She didn’t quite look at him. “I’d better ask April to set another place at the table.”
“That woman is not eating dinner with us,” he said.
“Then you figure out how to get rid of her. Believe me, it’s harder than you think.”
Dean followed her into the kitchen, protesting all the way, but Blue waved him off. He looked in the dining room and saw his antique Duncan Phyfe table had been set with fringed yellow place mats, old-fashioned blue and white dishes, a bowl of shiny stones Riley had collected, and a vase of yellow flowers. All the room needed to be complete were the murals Blue refused to paint. April ignored him as she began filling glasses with iced tea. He tried to help Blue out but ended up getting in her way. Jack appeared fresh from his shower. Blue dropped her wooden spoon.