Читать книгу Prescription For Seduction - Darlene Scalera - Страница 12

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Eden?”

She went still, the cookies she’d been about to put with the others in the napkin-lined basket hovering. She knew the tone. She’d known it all her life. You’re a pal, Eden…a good kid…. I can talk to you as if you were one of the guys…. You’re like a sister to me.

She glanced behind her. Brady sat at the kitchen table. He looked tired tonight. She shouldn’t have kept him so long last night, plying him with cookies and cups of tea, but she had so loved sitting across from him, hearing his voice, watching his features change, seeing him smile.

He’d come late again tonight to order another arrangement. He’d also brought back her empty cookie tin. Even before he’d grumbled about having to share the contents with half the town, she’d already suspected he hoped she would fill the tin again. She’d opened it to do just that and found first aid supplies. She’d looked questioningly at him. “My moth—” He’d caught himself and began again. “We were taught never to return a container empty.”

She’d looked at the gauze pads, the tube of triple antibiotic ointment, the box of butterfly closures.

“It’s something you can always use. You never know when you might have an emergency.”

His voice had been so earnest and sincere, she’d had to smile. Who needed diamonds and Godiva chocolates when you had sterile gauze pads in a variety of sizes?

Now Brady waited for an answer to the question he’d just asked. Despite his fatigue, his green eyes didn’t miss their mark. She put the cookies in the basket. “I like to think of you as a friend, Brady.”

She saw his features relax, and her own worries grew. She’d thought she’d been careful. Had she, somehow, revealed to Brady how attracted she was to him? Had he sensed she dreamed of more, much more than friendship? Was he now attempting to let her down easy?

“And friends who bring you first aid…well, they’re rare.” She smiled at him, trying to postpone what she feared was inevitable. She knew the routine. She’d heard it before. I like you, Eden. I really do. You’re a great girl. It’s just that I don’t like you in that way. But we can still be friends, can’t we?

She brought the basket to the table. Brady’s face was pensive, weary. She’d take friendship. Except for her fantasies, she’d never expected more.

“You look beat tonight.”

He smiled, but even his eyes now had the unfocused look of someone who needed sleep. She picked up the basket. “Why don’t we sit in the living room? You’ll be more comfortable on the couch. We can have our cookies and tea in there at the coffee table.”

She led the way into the room painted soft apricot and cozy with plants and plump pillows. She cleared off the cedar chest that had been passed on to her by her parents when they’d retired and moved to Florida. She set the basket on the chest.

“I’ll just get some plates and napkins.”

“Let me help you.”

She shook her head. “You make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

He started to sit, but when she returned, he was standing across the room, looking at the painting that leaned against the wall.

“That’s not finished yet,” she said.

“You painted this?” He picked up the canvas, held it at arm’s length and examined its vibrant color splashes, its heavy black shapes, its strong assault on the senses.

“It’s a hobby.” She dismissed the work, embarrassed and self-conscious. She set down the plates and napkins. “I’ll bet you didn’t eat anything again today. Come have a cookie.” She tried to lure him away from the painting.

“I don’t know much about art—”

“Neither do I.”

He looked at her, his eyes once again intent. “You’ve had no formal training?”

“Some appreciation classes in college, but my major was horticulture, of course. Like I said, it’s just something I do.”

“Really?” Brady looked at the painting. “I like it.”

She sat in the rocking chair next to the sofa. “You do?”

He propped the canvas against the wall and stepped back, studying the painting. “I like it a lot.” He looked at her.

Perched on the chair’s seat, she felt as if he could see right through her. She touched her throat above her buttoned collar. The kettle on the stove whistled.

She jumped up, grateful to get away from Brady’s gaze. “Tea’s ready,” she sang out too loud. “Peppermint? Cinnamon apple?”

“Peppermint’s fine,” he answered, his eyes still on her as she went into the kitchen.

She gathered the tea things and carried them on a tray back into the living room. Brady had picked up the painting again.

“Do you have any more?”

She stopped. “Any more?”

“Paintings.”

“Why?”

He smiled. It was the smile the others talked about—the smile they said could save lives.

“I’d like to see some more.”

She looked at the strong shapes, textures, the powerful mix of primary tones on the rectangle in his hands. It was a hobby, something she did when her quiet world got too quiet and the perfect balance, careful symmetry of her arrangements made her shake. She would bring out her canvases, her darkest, richest colors, and brushes so soft to the touch she had to close her eyes and rub them across her lids.

She hadn’t been allowed to paint as a child. Crayons were okay; paints were too messy for parents used to a serene, orderly household. No being loud, running, banging, acting like a baby, being silly. Not only did that type of behavior disrupt the household, but Eden could get hurt. Her mother, having longed for her for so long, had been especially overprotective, spying potential dangers everywhere. By the time Eden went to school, her natural timidness had become a deeply ingrained shyness. Uneasy around people, strange places, unfamiliar experiences, she created her own imaginary world. There she was safe.

Eventually the extreme fearfulness and shyness had shifted into a content quietness, a dignified reserve. The world she had once only envisioned in her head was now real. Flowers always bloomed, people always smiled, nothing evil or hurtful was allowed. And the quiet that had been born in her and entrenched by experience was tolerated, welcome even, and only occasionally painful.

It was then, when longing became pain, that she locked her apartment door and went to her paints. Brush in hand, she became someone else—someone wild, loud, spontaneous, shocking. She painted, and she was free.

She’d never shown the paintings to anyone.

Holding the canvas, Brady waited for her answer. The lights in his dark-brown hair were as strong as the deepest color in her painting.

She set the tray on the cedar chest. “Just a moment.”

She went into her bedroom and kneeled by the canopy bed with the Battenburg lace duvet and the Victorian doll propped against the pillows. She lifted the bedskirt and saw the canvases lying there in the dark. She pulled them out. Some were smaller than others; all were passionate and intense. The work of a woman possessed, Eden thought, sitting back on her haunches, once more hesitating.

“I like that one. That one, too.”

She started, not having heard Brady come in. She looked over her shoulder and saw him leaning against the doorjamb.

“May I?” He looked not at her but the paintings.

She stood, brushed off her creased pants. Brady, not waiting for her answer, came and stood next to her. Together they looked at the colors and contrasts and textures and shapes spread out across the floor like a madwoman’s quilt. She felt him beside her more keenly than if she were in his embrace.

He picked up a smaller one and brushed off the dust that clung to its thick edges. “Why do you hide them under your bed?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “They’re only a hobby.”

They both knew they were much more than that.

He turned the canvas over. “You don’t sign them?”

He was too near. She was too exposed. She looked away from the brilliant colors and found his eyes on her. “The tea’s getting cold.”

He smiled. “Yes, the tea.” His fingertip followed a ridge in the painting where the color had been applied thick and fast. He laid it next to the others. “Thank you for showing them to me.”

“You’re welcome.” The words were stiff; her voice a schoolmarm’s. “Shall we go have our tea?”

“Can I help you put them away?”

“No.” The answer was firm. “I’ll do it later.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. He looked at her but didn’t ask again.

She followed him into the living room, turning off the bedroom light, leaving the paintings in darkness.

She sat on the hard seat of the rocking chair, leaning forward to pass Brady his tea. He took the mug from her hand, his fingers meeting the tips of hers. A current moved up her arm from his touch. She pulled her hand away. Stop being silly, she told herself.

She straightened in the wood seat, balancing her mug on her thigh. She tried a tiny smile, added some small talk. “Anna Kelsey and Molly came in today.”

“Oh.” He leaned against the back of the sofa, resting his elbow on the upholstered arm, his mug held in his wide hand. He shifted toward her, stretching one leg diagonally across the couch so that his foot dangled. His other arm extended and stretched along the sofa’s back.

“They came in to choose the decorations for Jenna’s baby shower—a floral arrangement for the buffet table, some favors, balloons, that kind of thing.”

He nodded. She was boring him. “Anna mentioned she ran into you the other night outside the shop.”

He smiled, but the tiredness she’d seen earlier in his face deepened. “She was walking Martha home to Worthington House.”

“She said Martha gave you a hard time.”

He nodded again. “She’s trying to scare up another couple ready for a wedding present. The Quilting Circle must need a new project.” He leaned forward to set his tea on the chest, then sat back, stretching his arms over his head. “I told her the Spencer family has already done their share for a few years.” He settled into the couch. “I should’ve never sat down.”

He straightened, pressing his palms against the seat cushions. He shook his head apologetically, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I’ve got to go, Eden, before I fall asleep right here.”

“Of course.” She jumped up from the chair. “Let me just wrap up some cookies for you to take home.” She put the basket on the tea tray and carried it into the kitchen.

She opened a cupboard and took out another tin like the one Brady had returned this evening.

“You can warm them in the microwave and they’ll taste like they just came out of the oven.” She piled the cookies in the tin and pushed down the lid as she walked into the living room. “I gave you all the cookies I had in case you have to share.”

She heard a snore. “Brady?”

He had settled into the sofa, his leg propped up, his arm outstretched. His head had fallen back, his mouth parted.

“Brady?”

He snored again.

She should wake him. But as she was about to touch his shoulder, he snored. She snatched her hand away.

“Brady?” Her whisper was urgent.

He shifted onto his side and brought both legs up on the cushions. The side of his face pressed against the needlepoint pillow propped against the sofa’s arm.

She really should wake him. Her hand reached out again to lightly tap his shoulder. He shifted once more, only to burrow his body deeper into the cushions.

Eden retreated to the rocking chair. She rocked, watching him. His body was too long to stretch out fully and so was tucked, the knees bent, the arms folded across his chest. His snores were rhythmic now, a deep, full bass that sounded of authority even as he slept. His mouth had opened but was not slack. None of the strong lines, the flat planes of his face had softened. She rocked back and forth and wondered if this solid, self-reliant man ever rested.

His body turned again as if searching for comfort. His shoulders were as wide as the couch. One hand fell from its tight press to his chest. It lay against his leg, the fingers unfurling, reaching, the palm exposed, and that hand that had healed so many was at rest.

She couldn’t wake him now. She wasn’t bold enough to slip off his shoes, but she did take the crocheted afghan out of the wicker basket in the corner and unfold it, letting it fall across his body. Some fringe fell on his chin, across his opened mouth. She brushed the yarn away, careful not to touch him.