Читать книгу Finding His Way Home - Mia Ross - Страница 12

Chapter Three

“We can lay the window down over here,” Jenna said, sweeping a pile of crumpled sketches from a nearby workbench.

In one of its previous lives, her studio had been a garage with a lofted workshop space and small bathroom above. Cramped but functional, that was where she crashed at night. The place wasn’t large, but the yoga teacher who’d rented it before her had retrofitted the wide-open room with skylights and a bank of windows that let in a ton of natural light.

Unfortunately, they also revealed the general state of disarray she preferred to work in. Two landscapes in progress were propped on easels, with completed pieces protected in Bubble Wrap and stacked in one corner. In another, her pottery wheel held something that was beginning to resemble the terra-cotta planter a customer had requested for her front porch.

A fine coating of stone dust covered everything. After he set down the window, Scott drifted toward the garden sculpture she was working on. Tilting his head one way and then another, he finally admitted, “I give up. What’s it supposed to be?”

She heard that all the time from people who didn’t understand the artistic process, and she swallowed an exasperated sigh. “It’s for Lila Davidson’s rose garden. When it’s finished, it’ll be a girl gnome to match the boy one I made for her last year.”

“Yeah, she always did love her gardens. She reminds me of Gram that way.”

It was the first time he’d mentioned being fond of anyone outside his family, and she seized on the opportunity to encourage him to open up a little. “From what I hear, they’ve been friends a long time.”

“Lila’s husband, Hank, was Granddad’s foreman at the sawmill when I was growing up,” he replied as he carefully unwrapped the fragile chapel window. “The four of them were pretty close back in the day. Stood up at each other’s weddings, stuff like that. I’d imagine that hasn’t changed any.”

“It’s nice having lifelong friends like that.” When he shrugged, she sensed he wasn’t pleased about the direction the conversation was heading. Prickly didn’t begin to describe this man, she groused as she picked up two corners of one of the quilts while he did the same. Walking toward him, she tried again. “So, you must be glad to be back home with your old crowd.”

“I haven’t seen any of ’em.” Apparently, her shock was obvious, because he met her stare with a hard one of his own. “I’m not in the mood to see anyone from high school. Me being here is awkward enough for my own family, so it’d only be worse with anyone else.”

“You’re not giving them much credit. I mean, I know all about what happened, and that hasn’t stopped us from getting to know each other. If you gave them a chance, some of them just might surprise you.”

He didn’t respond to that, but his expression clearly said he doubted it. This guy would try anyone’s patience, and even a natural-born optimist like Jenna had her limits. “Well, it’s up to you. I appreciate you helping me get this window here. If you’ll just drive me back to the cemetery, I’ll be out of your hair and you can get on with your day.”

Once they were finished folding, he stacked the blankets on the floor and glanced around. Shoving his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, he slanted her a hesitant look. “I’m not really in a hurry or anything. I wouldn’t mind seeing what kind of stuff you make here.”

So, she thought with a little grin, the hunky hermit wasn’t as averse to company as he claimed to be. Maybe he’d gotten so accustomed to keeping his guard up in prison he was having a tough time adjusting to his calmer, less dangerous surroundings. If that was the case, she was more than happy to help him make the leap.

“Since I’m a freelancer, I do a little of everything. Garden gnomes,” she added, pointing to the one he’d made fun of earlier. “Portraits, landscapes, pottery, whatever people want. This one—” she crossed to one of the easels “—is going to a client in Roanoke. Their golden retriever is getting on in years, and they wanted a painting of her with their grandkids to remember her by after she’s gone.”

Strolling over, Scott tapped the photo she’d clipped to the top corner of the easel. “They’ve probably got a hundred pictures of her just like this one. Why spend money on a painting?”

“You can’t get the same effect out of a camera,” Jenna explained patiently. “An artist can capture a lot more with different brush techniques and subtle blends of color. Photographs only show what something looks like, not how it feels to experience it.”

He took a few seconds to digest that, and a measure of respect crept into his eyes. “Y’know, I’m not the creative type, but I totally get what you’re saying. Where’d you learn that kind of thing?”

His question took her back to one of the happiest times of her life, and even though it hadn’t worked out the way she’d hoped, she smiled. “I went to art school for a year after high school. One of my professors was this tiny woman who was so old she’d actually met some of the artists we studied. Anyway, she taught me that true art is more than something to be displayed on a stand or hung on a wall. It should come alive and make you feel something. Exceptional pieces inspire you to see the world in a different way than you did before.”

“Interesting.” Looking around the room, his keen eyes landed on a smaller canvas hung for display instead of wrapped up for a customer. It was a watercolor of a yellow Cape Cod house with a white-railed porch running the width of the front. Accented by hanging flowers and others lining a walkway made of large stones, it had a cozy, welcoming look to it. “This is really nice.”

“Thanks. I painted that ages ago, when Mom and I were moving around a lot. It’s my dream house.”

Studying it for a few moments, he announced, “Hang a swing on the porch, it’d be just about perfect.”

“That’s a great idea!” She approved heartily. “I’ll add that in sometime along with one for that big tree to the left. I love swings.”

As he continued strolling along the outer wall of her workspace, he commented, “Most of these things are done or pretty near it. Where are you headed when you’re done here?”

His interest in her plans amazed her, since most of the guys she’d known were too consumed with their own lives to be curious about hers. “Usually I follow the art-show circuit because that’s where the business is. People are out traveling, hunting for unique souvenirs to take home with them.”

A slow grin edged across his face, and he cocked his head in a challenging pose. “You didn’t answer my question. Does that mean you’re thinking about staying in Barrett’s Mill awhile longer?”

“No,” she answered reflexively. When he lifted an eyebrow, she had to admit he’d nailed her on this one. She’d been in this particular town longer than any of the others she’d visited, and her mind recognized it was time to move on. The trouble was, the people in Barrett’s Mill had embraced her, making her feel welcome even though they obviously thought she was a nutty artist. “Okay, maybe I am, but only to finish the window for the chapel. It belongs there, and I’ll make sure it’s sound before I give it back to you.”

“And then?”

“I’m not sure,” she confided with a shrug. “I’ve got space reserved in a few art fairs, but none of that’s set in stone. I usually just start driving and pick a place that looks good.”

“Must be nice. I’m stuck here till my parole officer says it’s okay for me to leave.”

His envious tone told her the years he’d spent away from his Blue Ridge hometown were no accident. “Do you have somewhere else you want to be?”

“Anywhere but here. Ironic, huh?” he added with more than a touch of bitterness. “You want to stay, but you’re leaving. I’d like nothing more than to leave, but I’m staying.”

The upshot was they were both staying, at least for the near future. Of course, her ultimate decision had nothing whatsoever to do with Scott being here. The fact that they seemed to be developing some kind of friendship would only make it easier for her to work with him to finish her last job before leaving town.

So, in her usual upbeat way, she did her best to lift his spirits. “Life’s funny that way, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he muttered in disgust. “Tell me about it.”

* * *

“So tell me something,” Jenna began in the curious tone he’d quickly learned to be wary of. “Does anyone ever say no to your mother?”

He made a show of thinking that over, squinting up at the beams in the ceiling. Focusing back on her, he grinned and shook his head. “Nope.”

“I wonder what her secret is.”

Stepping closer, he leaned in and murmured, “We’re all afraid of her.”

Jenna laughed at that, and it struck him that she was one of the most cheerful people he’d ever met. With a ready smile and a dry sense of humor that mirrored his own, she was sweet and fun, with a heart open enough to care about a sad teenage girl and an ex-con who’d given up on having the kind of life he wanted more than anything.

Something deep inside him that had been dead a long time began rustling, as if it was waking from a long sleep to discover the sun was shining. Much to his dismay, a single morning with Jenna Reed had him rethinking his vow to be content with his own company.

Knowing how dangerous such sentimental thoughts could be, he firmly pushed them back down where they belonged. She was leaving town in a few weeks, and after that, chances were he’d never see her again.

Considering his disastrous track record with women, knowing they’d remain friends should have eased his worries. Instead, it made him wish things could be different.

“Ready to go?” Hoping to conceal his conflicting emotions from her, he leaned down to pick up the quilts.

“In a sec.” Leaving him by the door, she scampered up the open-backed steps that led up to the loft and came down with a glass dish. “Olivia sent some leftovers back with me after one of your family’s Sunday dinners a couple weeks ago. Her house is on the way out to the cemetery. Would you mind stopping there real quick so I can return this?”

Scott recognized a setup when he heard one, and he gave her a long, hard stare. Most people backed up a step or two when he did that, but this woman didn’t even flinch. She took it in stride, patiently waiting for him to answer her. He’d already told her more than he should have about himself, but he couldn’t seem to help going a step further. “It’s not that I don’t want to see her.”

“This isn’t about you seeing her,” Jenna informed him as if she had no clue what he was referring to. “It’s about me returning a dish. You don’t even have to get out of the truck if you don’t want to.”

“That’d look stupid, and you know it.”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, folks have plenty going on in their own lives without worrying about what you’re up to,” she retorted primly. “If you’d rather she doesn’t know you’re there, I won’t mention it. Go inside or don’t. Totally up to you.”

With that, she sailed past him and out the door to his truck.

“Do you always leave your door open like this?” he shouted.

“Just pull it shut. It’ll lock behind you.”

Outmaneuvered for now, he followed along and joined her in the cab of the ancient pickup. Mentally crossing his fingers, he turned the key and was relieved when the engine turned over with only a mild protest. As it settled into a throaty rumble, he pulled out onto the highway and headed for town.

Heading up Main Street, he was treated to the full-color version of Gretchen’s sketch and couldn’t help smiling. He hadn’t experienced spring in the Blue Ridge Mountains in a long time, and he had to admit it was even prettier than he remembered. A warm breeze wafted through the open windows, scented with a combination of various flowers and the barbecue cookers out back of The Whistlestop.

Originally built from an old trolley and section of track, the town’s landmark diner now boasted a modest-size dining room that served up some of the best food anywhere. He’d visited lots of places and eaten in dozens of restaurants, but for him Molly and Bruce Harkness’s down-home cooking still ranked at the top.

“I love that restaurant,” Jenna said, taking a long sniff of the air. “Not only can those two cook up a storm, they were my first customers when I came into town. Beyond that, Molly’s the best PR I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, she knows everyone hereabouts,” Scott agreed, recalling his grandmother’s old friend with a grin. “If she likes you, you’re golden.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

He gave a mock shudder. “I don’t even wanna think about it.”

On the other side of the tiny business district, he took a right into his grandparents’ driveway. Well, Gram’s driveway now, he amended soberly. Granddad’s beloved blue sedan sat in its usual spot, its cover of dust showing it hadn’t been moved recently. Parking beside it, Scott said, “Someone should take that old clunker out and make sure it’ll run if she needs to use it.”

“Good idea,” Jenna agreed lightly as she reached for the handle. “I won’t be long.”

“Don’t be a goose. I’m going with you.” When he climbed out and walked around to open the passenger door for her, he found her smiling at him. “What?”

“You’re going to make her day, you know.”

“Or ruin it,” he parried, suddenly uncertain about his decision to tag along. Glancing at the old farmhouse, he still could remember racing around the yard with his cousins and climbing the tall oaks that shaded the front porch. With a collection of white wicker furniture and hanging pots of bright flowers, it invited you to come up and sit for a while.

Welcoming, he thought with a frown. The trouble was, he’d been gone so long he wasn’t sure he belonged here anymore. While he debated with himself, the front screen door creaked open, and his grandmother stepped onto the porch. She gave him a long look, and he fought the urge to squirm the way he had when he’d been a little boy caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“I’ve got fresh snickerdoodles and lemonade,” she said finally. “If you want some.”

His favorite childhood snack. He couldn’t imagine how she’d known to make it. Then it hit him, and he turned to Jenna. “You called her?”

“When you were hunting for those quilts,” she confirmed with a poorly concealed grin.

So, the sunny artist had a devious side, he mused as he opened Jenna’s door and walked up the front steps with her. Who knew? When he reached the porch, he saw tears welling in Gram’s eyes and stopped dead. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just so happy to see you. It’s been such a long time.”

She opened her arms wide, and the last bit of his misgivings evaporated as he went into that warm embrace. He’d dreamed of it so many times, he’d begun to believe the recurring image was simply the result of being homesick. But now, standing there with her, knowing she forgave him for the mistakes he’d made, he actually could believe that somehow, someday everything would be all right.