Читать книгу Maid Under The Mistletoe - Maureen Child - Страница 9
ОглавлениеA few hours in the workshop didn’t improve Sam’s mood. Not a big surprise. How the hell could he clear his mind when it was full of images of Joy Curran and her daughter?
As her name floated through his mind again, Sam deliberately pushed it away, though he knew damn well she’d be sliding back in. Slowly, methodically, he ran the hand sander across the top of the table he was currently building. The satin feel of the wood beneath his hands fed the artist inside him as nothing else could.
It had been six years since he’d picked up a paintbrush, faced a blank canvas and brought the images in his mind to life. And even now, that loss tore at him and his fingers wanted to curl around a slim wand of walnut and surround himself with the familiar scents of turpentine and linseed oil. He wouldn’t—but the desire was always there, humming through his blood, through his dreams.
But though he couldn’t paint, he also couldn’t simply sit in the big house staring out windows, either.
So he’d turned his need for creativity, for creation, toward the woodworking that had always been a hobby. In this workshop, he built tables, chairs, small whimsical backyard lawn ornaments, and lost himself in the doing. He didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to remember.
Yet, today, his mind continuously drifted from the project at hand to the main house, where the woman was. It had been a long time since he’d had an attractive woman around for longer than an evening. And the prospect of Joy being in his house for the next month didn’t make Sam happy. But damned if he could think of a way out of it. Sure, he could toss her and the girl out, but then what?
Memories of last December when he’d been on his own and damn near starved to death rushed into his brain. He didn’t want to repeat that, but could he stand having a kid around all the time?
That thought brought him up short. He dropped the block sander onto the table, turned and looked out the nearest window to the house. The lights in the kitchen were on and he caught a quick glimpse of Joy moving through the room. Joy. Even her name went against everything he’d become. She was too much, he thought. Too beautiful. Too cheerful. Too tempting.
Well, hell. Recognizing the temptation she represented was only half the issue. Resisting her and what she made him want was the other half. She’d be right there, in his house, for a month. And he was still feeling that buzz of desire that had pumped into him from the moment he first saw her getting out of her car. He didn’t want that buzz but couldn’t ignore it, either.
When his cell phone rang, he dug it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. His mother. “Perfect. This day just keeps getting better.”
Sam thought about not answering it, but he knew that Catherine Henry wouldn’t be put off for long. She’d simply keep calling until he answered. Might as well get it over with.
“Hi, Mom.”
“There’s my favorite son,” she said.
“Your only son,” he pointed out.
“Hence the favorite,” his mother countered. “You didn’t want to answer, did you?”
He smiled to himself. The woman was practically psychic. Leaning one hip against the workbench, he said, “I did, though, didn’t I?”
“Only because you knew I’d harangue you.”
He rolled his eyes and started sanding again, slowly, carefully moving along the grain. “What’s up, Mom?”
“Kaye texted me to say she was off on her trip,” his mother said. “And I wanted to see if Joy and Holly arrived all right.”
He stopped, dropped the sander and stared out at the house where the woman and her daughter were busily taking over. “You knew?”
“Well, of course I knew,” Catherine said with a laugh. “Kaye keeps me up to date on what’s happening there since my favorite son tends to be a hermit and uncommunicative.”
He took a deep breath and told himself that temper would be wasted on his mother. It would roll right on by, so there was no point in it. “You should have warned me.”
“About what? Joy? Kaye tells me she’s wonderful.”
“About her daughter,” he ground out, reminding himself to keep it calm and cool. He felt a sting of betrayal because his mother should have understood how having a child around would affect him.
There was a long pause before his mother said, “Honey, you can’t avoid all children for the rest of your life.”
He flinched at the direct hit. “I didn’t say I was.”
“Sweetie, you didn’t have to. I know it’s hard, but Holly isn’t Eli.”
He winced at the sound of the name he never allowed himself to so much as think. His hand tightened around the phone as if it were a lifeline. “I know that.”
“Good.” Her voice was brisk again, with that clipped tone that told him she was arranging everything in her mind. “Now that that’s settled, you be nice. Kaye and I think you and Joy will get along very well.”
He went completely still. “Is that right?”
“Joy’s very independent and according to Kaye, she’s friendly, outgoing—just what you need, sweetie. Someone to wake you up again.”
Sam smelled a setup. Every instinct he possessed jumped up and shouted a warning even though it was too late to avoid what was already happening. Scraping one hand down his face, he shook his head and told himself he should have been expecting this. For years now, his mother had been nagging at him to move on. To accept the pain and to pick up the threads of his life.
She wanted him happy, and he understood that. What she didn’t understand was that he’d already lost his shot at happiness. “I’m not interested, Mom.”
“Sure you are, you just don’t know it,” his mother said in her crisp, no-nonsense tone. “And it’s not like I’ve booked a church or expect you to sweep Joy off her feet, for heaven’s sake. But would it kill you to be nice? Honestly, sweetie, you’ve become a hermit, and that’s just not healthy.”
Sam sighed heavily as his anger drained away. He didn’t like knowing that his family was worried about him. The last few years had been hard. On everyone. And he knew they’d all feel better about him if he could just pick up the threads of his life and get back to some sort of “normal.” But a magical wave of his hands wasn’t going to accomplish that.
The best he could do was try to convince his mother to leave him be. To let him deal with his own past in his own way. The chances of that, though, were slim. That was the burden of family. When you tried to keep them at bay for their own sake, they simply refused to go. Evidence: she and Kaye trying to play matchmaker.
But just because they thought they were setting him up with Joy didn’t mean he had to go along. Which he wouldn’t. Sure, he remembered that instant attraction he’d felt for Joy. That slam of heat, lust, that let him know he was alive even when he hated to acknowledge it. But it didn’t change anything. He didn’t want another woman in his life. Not even one with hair like sunlight and eyes the color of a summer sky.
And he for damn sure didn’t want another child in his life.
What he had to do, then, was to make it through December, then let his world settle back into place. When nothing happened between him and Joy, his mother and Kaye would have to give up on the whole Cupid thing. A relief for all of them.
“Sam?” His mother’s voice prompted a reaction from him. “Have you slipped into a coma? Do I need to call someone?”
He laughed in spite of everything then told himself to focus. When dealing with Catherine Henry, a smart man paid attention. “No. I’m here.”
“Well, good. I wondered.” Another long pause before she said, “Just do me a favor, honey, and don’t scare Joy off. If she’s willing to put up with you for a month, she must really need the job.”
Insulting, but true. Wryly, he said, “Thanks, Mom.”
“You know what I mean.” Laughing a little, she added, “That didn’t come out right, but still. Hermits are not attractive, Sam. They grow their beards and stop taking showers and mutter under their breath all the time.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, then caught himself and sighed.
“It’s already started,” his mother said. “But seriously. People in those mountains are going to start telling their kids scary stories about the weird man who never leaves his house.”
“I’m not weird,” he argued. And he didn’t have a beard. Just whiskers he hadn’t felt like shaving in a few days. As far as muttering went, that usually happened only when his mother called.
“Not yet, but if things don’t change, it’s coming.”
Scowling now, he turned away from the view of the house and stared unseeing at the wall opposite him. “Mom, you mean well. I know that.”
“I do, sweetie, and you’ve got to—”
He cut her off, because really, it was the only way. “I’m already doing what I have to do, Mom. I’ve had enough change in my life already, thanks.”
Then she was quiet for a few seconds as if she was remembering the pain of that major change. “I know. Sweetie, I know. I just don’t want you to lose the rest of your life, okay?”
Sam wondered if it was all mothers or just his who refused to see the truth when it was right in front of them. He had nothing left to lose. How the hell could he have a life when he’d already lost everything that mattered? Was he supposed to forget? To pretend none of it had happened? How could he when every empty day reminded him of what was missing?
But saying any of that to his mother was a waste of time. She wouldn’t get it. Couldn’t possibly understand what it cost him every morning just to open his eyes and move through the day. They tried, he told himself. His whole family tried to be there for him, but the bottom line was, he was alone in this. Always would be.
And that thought told Sam he’d reached the end of his patience. “Okay, look, Mom, good talking to you, but I’ve got a project to finish.”
“All right then. Just, think about what I said, okay?”
Hard not to when she said it every time she talked to him.
“Sure.” A moment later he hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. He shouldn’t have answered it. Should have turned the damn thing off and forced her to leave a message. Then he wouldn’t feel twisted up inside over things that could never be put right. It was better his way. Better to bury those memories, that pain, so deeply that they couldn’t nibble away at him every waking moment.
A glance at the clock on the wall told him it was six and time for the dinner Joy had promised. Well, he was in no mood for company. He came and went when he liked and just because his temporary housekeeper made dinner didn’t mean he had to show up. He scowled, then deliberately, he picked up the sander again and turned his focus to the wood. Sanding over the last coat of stain and varnish was meticulous work. He could laser in on the task at hand and hope it would be enough to ease the tension rippling through him.
It was late by the time he finally forced himself to stop working for the day. Darkness was absolute as he closed up the shop and headed for the house. He paused in the cold to glance up at the cloud-covered sky and wondered when the snow would start. Then he shifted his gaze to the house where a single light burned softly against the dark. He’d avoided the house until he was sure the woman and her daughter would be locked away in Kaye’s rooms. For a second, he felt a sting of guilt for blowing off whatever dinner it was she’d made. Then again, he hadn’t asked her to cook, had he? Hell, he hadn’t even wanted her to stay. Yet somehow, she was.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d deal with her and lay out a few rules. If she was going to stay then she had to understand that it was the house she was supposed to take care of. Not him. Except for cooking—which he would eat whenever he damn well pleased—he didn’t want to see her. For now, he wanted a shower and a sandwich. He was prepared for a can of soup and some grilled cheese.
Later, Sam told himself he should have known better. He opened the kitchen door and stopped in the doorway. Joy was sitting at the table with a glass of wine in front of her and turned her head to look at him when he walked in. “You’re late.”
That niggle of guilt popped up again and was just as quickly squashed. He closed and locked the door behind him. “I don’t punch a clock.”
“I don’t expect you to. But when we say dinner’s at six, it’d be nice if you showed up.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s just me, but most people would call that ‘polite.’”
The light over the stove was the only illumination and in the dimness, he saw her eyes, locked on him, the soft blond curls falling about her face. Most women he knew would have been furious with him for missing a dinner after he’d agreed to be there. But she wasn’t angry, and that made him feel the twinge of guilt even deeper than he might have otherwise. But at the bottom of it, he didn’t answer to her and it was just as well she learned that early on.
“Yeah,” he said, “I got involved with a project and forgot the time.” A polite lie that would go down better than admitting I was avoiding you. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix myself something.”
“No you won’t.” She got up and walked to the oven. “I’ve kept it on warm. Why don’t you wash up and have dinner?”
He wanted to say no. But damned if whatever she’d made didn’t smell amazing. His stomach overruled his head and Sam surrendered. He washed his hands at the sink then sat down opposite her spot at the table.
“Did you want a glass of your wine?” she asked. “It’s really good.”
One eyebrow lifted. Wryly, he said, “Glad you approve.”
“Oh, I like wine,” she said, disregarding his tone. “Nothing better than ending your day with a glass and just relaxing before bed.”
Bed. Not a word he should be thinking about when she was so close and looking so...edible. “Yeah. I’ll get a beer.”
“I’ll get it,” she said, as she set a plate of pasta in a thick red meat sauce in front of him.
The scent of it wafted to him and Sam nearly groaned. “What is that?”
“Baked mostaccioli with mozzarella and parmesan in my grandmother’s meat sauce.” She opened the fridge, grabbed a beer then walked back to the table. Handing it to him, she sat down, picked up her wineglass and had a sip.
“It smells great,” he said grudgingly.
“Tastes even better,” she assured him. Drawing one knee up, she propped her foot on her chair and looked at him. “Just so you know, I won’t be waiting on you every night. I mean getting you a beer and stuff.”
He snorted. “I’ll make a note.”
Then Sam took a bite and sighed. Whatever else Joy Curran was, the woman could cook. Whatever they had to talk about could wait, he thought, while he concentrated on the unexpected prize of a really great meal. So he said nothing else for a few bites, but finally sat back, took a drink of his beer and looked at her.
“Good?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Great.”
She smiled and her face just—lit up. Sam’s breath caught in his chest as he looked at her. That flash of something hot, something staggering, hit him again and he desperately tried to fight it off. Even while that strong buzz swept through him, remnants of the phone call with his mother rose up in his mind and he wondered if Joy had been in on whatever his mother and Kaye had cooking between them.
Made sense, didn’t it? Young, pretty woman. Single mother. Why not try to find a rich husband?
Speculatively, he looked at her and saw sharp blue eyes without the slightest hint of guile. So maybe she wasn’t in on it. He’d reserve judgment. For now. But whether she was or not, he had to set down some rules. If they were going to be living together for the next month, better that they both knew where they stood.
And, as he took another bite of her spectacular pasta, he admitted that he was going to let her stay—if only for the sake of his stomach.
“Okay,” he said in between bites, “you can stay for the month.”
She grinned at him and took another sip of her wine to celebrate. “That’s great, thanks. Although, I wasn’t really going to leave.”
Amused, he picked up his beer. “Is that right?”
“It is.” She nodded sharply. “You should know that I’m pretty stubborn when I want something, and I really wanted to stay here for the month.”
He leaned back in his chair. The pale wash of the stove light reached across the room to spill across her, making that blond hair shine and her eyes gleam with amusement and determination. The house was quiet, and the darkness crouched just outside the window made the light and warmth inside seem almost intimate. Not a word he wanted to think about at the moment.
“Can you imagine trying to keep a five-year-old entertained in a tiny hotel room for a month?” She shivered and shook her head. “Besides being a living nightmare for me, it wouldn’t be fair to Holly. Kids need room to run. Play.”
He remembered. A succession of images flashed across his mind before he could stop them. As if the memories had been crouched in a corner, just waiting for the chance to escape, he saw pictures of another child. Running. Laughing. Brown eyes shining as he looked over his shoulder and—
Sam’s grip on the beer bottle tightened until a part of him wondered why it didn’t simply shatter in his hand. The images in his mind blurred, as if fingers of fog were reaching for them, dragging them back into the past where they belonged. Taking a slow, deep breath, he lifted the beer for a sip and swallowed the pain with it.
“Besides,” she continued while he was still being dogged by memories, “this kitchen is amazing.” Shaking her head, she looked around the massive room, and he knew what she was seeing. Pale oak cabinets, dark blue granite counters with flecks of what looked like abalone shells in them. Stainless steel appliances and sink and an island big enough to float to Ireland on. And the only things Sam ever really used on his own were the double-wide fridge and the microwave.
“Cooking in here was a treat. There’s so much space.” Joy took another sip of wine. “Our house is so tiny, the kitchen just a smudge on the floor plan. Holly and I can’t be in there together without knocking each other down. Plus there’s the ancient plumbing and the cabinet doors that don’t close all the way...but it’s just a rental. One of these days, we’ll get our own house. Nothing like this one of course, but a little bigger with a terrific kitchen and a table like this one where Holly can sit and do her homework while I make dinner—”
Briskly, he got back to business. It was either that or let her go far enough to sketch out her dream kitchen. “Okay, I get it. You need to be here, and for food like this, I’m willing to go along.”
She laughed shortly.
He paid zero attention to the musical sound of that laugh or how it made her eyes sparkle in the low light. “So here’s the deal. You can stay the month like we agreed.”
“But?” she asked. “I hear a but in there.”
“But.” He nodded at her. “We steer clear of each other and you keep your daughter out of my way.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Not a fan of kids, are you?”
“Not for a long time.”
“Holly won’t bother you,” she said, lifting her wineglass for another sip.
“All right. Good. Then we’ll get along fine.” He finished off the pasta, savoring that last bite before taking one more pull on his beer. “You cook and clean. I spend most of my days out in the workshop, so we probably won’t see much of each other anyway.”
She studied him for several long seconds before a small smile curved her mouth and a tiny dimple appeared in her right cheek. “You’re sort of mysterious, aren’t you?”
Once again, she’d caught him off guard. And why did she look so pleased when he’d basically told her he didn’t want her kid around and didn’t particularly want to spend any time with her, either?
“No mystery. I just like my privacy is all.”
“Privacy’s one thing,” she mused, tipping her head to one side to study him. “Hiding out’s another.”
“Who says I’m hiding?”
“Kaye.”
He rolled his eyes. Kaye talked to his mother. To Joy. Who the hell wasn’t she talking to? “Kaye doesn’t know everything.”
“She comes close, though,” Joy said. “She worries about you. For the record, she says you’re lonely, but private. Nice, but shut down.”
He shifted in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable with the way she was watching him. As if she could look inside him and dig out all of his secrets.
“She wouldn’t tell me why you’ve locked yourself away up here on the mountain—”
“That’s something,” he muttered, then remembered his mother’s warning about hermits and muttering. Scowling, he took another drink of his beer.
“People do wonder, though,” she mused. “Why you keep to yourself so much. Why you almost never go into town. I mean, it’s beautiful here, but don’t you miss talking to people?”
“Not a bit,” he told her, hoping that statement would get her to back off.
“I really would.”
“Big surprise,” he muttered and then inwardly winced. Hell, he’d talked more in the last ten minutes than he had in the last year. Still, for some reason, he felt the need to defend himself and the way he lived. “I have Kaye to talk to if I desperately need conversation—which I don’t. And I do get into town now and then.” Practically never, though, he thought.
Hell, why should he go into Franklin and put up with being stared at and whispered over when he could order whatever he wanted online and have it shipped overnight? If nothing else, the twenty-first century was perfect for a man who wanted to be left the hell alone.
“Yeah, that doesn’t happen often,” she was saying. “There was actually a pool in town last summer—people were taking bets on if you’d come in at all before fall.”
Stunned, he stared at her. “They were betting on me?”
“You’re surprised?” Joy laughed and the sound of it filled the kitchen. “It’s a tiny mountain town with not a lot going on, except for the flood of tourists. Of course they’re going to place bets on the local hermit.”
“I’m starting to resent that word.” Sam hadn’t really considered that he might be the subject of so much speculation, and he didn’t much care for it. What was he supposed to do now? Go into town more often? Or less?
“Oh,” she said, waving one hand at him, “don’t look so grumpy about it. If it makes you feel better, when you came into Franklin and picked up those new tools at the hardware store, at the end of August, Jim Bowers won nearly two hundred dollars.”
“Good for him,” Sam muttered, not sure how he felt about all of this. He’d moved to this small mountain town for the solitude. For the fact that no one would give a damn about him. And after five years here, he found out the town was paying close enough attention to him to actually lay money on his comings and goings. Shaking his head, he asked only, “Who’s Jim Bowers?”
“He and his wife own the bakery.”
“There’s a bakery in Franklin?”
She sighed, shaking her head slowly. “It’s so sad that you didn’t know that.”
A short laugh shot from his throat, surprising them both.
“You should do that more often,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“Smile. Laugh. Lose the etched-in-stone-grumble expression.”
“Do you have an opinion on everything?” he asked.
“Don’t you?” she countered.
Yeah, he did. And his considered opinion on this particular situation was that he might have made a mistake in letting Joy and her daughter stay here for the next month.
But damned if he could regret it at the moment.
