with slate-you like?”
“I’m not going to give you compliments for being brilliant. They’d go straight to your head,” she said.
He chuckled. “Okay. So you like it. But now you can see the problem.” He motioned.
On both sides of the fireplace were two huge, new bay windows. The Cochrans’ backyard looked over a ravine, with overgrown woods to the west and a meadow drifting off to the east-a meadow Daisy could so easily imagine in springtime, coming in pale green and then turning lush with wildflowers. “Mrs. Cochran doesn’t want curtains,” she said absently.
“No?”
“I’m assuming that’s why she wanted a swatch, because she thinks she’s supposed to have some kind of draperies. A ‘swatch’ is a piece of fabric so she could see different designs, see how the fabric worked in the room. But she doesn’t want to cover these windows, Teague. There are no neighbors to see in. The view is part of the beauty of the room.” Daisy wandered, touched, looked. “What she’s probably more afraid of is that all these new textures could come across as cold. Attractive, but not warm, not like a home.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And the truth is that the textures are cold. Beautiful, but cold.” She touched the marble fireplace, the slate wall. “The thing she needs to work with, though, is the furniture. No wood, no arms or legs showing. All upholstery. She needs to choose soft fabrics, like ultrasuede or micro fiber. And then colors bright enough to attract the eye-colors with courage. No grays, no colors with gray in the paint. Yellow would warm it up. Or red. Or prints with warm colors. And then she needs a throw rug-just one-round, not rectangular or square. The rug also needs to have some kind of thick texture, like sheepskin or fur or fake fur-something with body and depth…” She could picture it. Her fingers itched to get into the colors, the fabrics, that could make this fabulous room come to life.
“Um, you wouldn’t mind telling Mrs. Cochran this stuff, would you?”
Daisy glanced back at him, startled. “I can’t imagine she’d want to listen to a stranger’s advice. I was just woolgathering to you.”
“Trust me. This is exactly the stuff she wanted me to tell her. Only, I didn’t get it. I understood how to make better use of the space, how to make the view come to life, showcase the fireplace, all that kind of thing. Hell, I love those kinds of problems.”
“And you did fabulously. If this were a room in my house, I’d hang out here and never leave.”
That was obviously too much praise. Whether consciously or unconsciously, he backed away a few steps, looked out at the snow-covered woods. “I like it okay. It isn’t my best. Mostly what I like about carpentry is studying someone’s house, figuring out what works for what they want, what they need, what would make the most of their specific living space. So each job is individual to the person or couple, you know? Except…”
“Except what?”
“Except that I just can’t handle the decorating-stuff part of it.”
The way he shivered in mock horror made her chuckle. “What, you’re afraid of curtains? A great big lug like you?”
He turned, pinned her with a look that was suddenly quiet, suddenly intense. His eyes seemed to catch fire. “And what are you scared of, Daisy?”
She didn’t immediately answer, simply because she didn’t have to. They both heard the clip of footsteps, and then the Cochrans walked in. Introductions followed, and faster than two women could smell a sale, she was sharing decorating ideas with Mrs. Cochran.
It was well over an hour later before they left the house-with the Cochrans still trailing them, coaxing them to stay for another glass of wine.
By then the temperature had fallen a good dozen degrees and snow glistened in the air. She was warm enough, with fur mittens and a fur scarf, but Teague was hunched in his jacket.
“You goof, where’s your hat?” she teased him.
“The town’s decorated with my hats. I don’t like them, so I seem to unconsciously leave them wherever they get tossed.”
“You’re going to freeze.” She hooked her arm with his, snuggling closer. They’d been getting along like brother and sister, she told herself. Teasing. Talking. Just being together. It was only three blocks back to the cafe.
Unfortunately, it just wasn’t long enough to delude herself. She didn’t feel like a sister with Teague. He didn’t look at her like a brother would. It wasn’t working, the pretending, no matter how hard she tried.
When they reached the cafe, it was closed tighter than a drum. An occasional car dawdled past. Streetlights turned red and green with no one to see. The overhead security light helped her find the key in her purse. She plucked it out, looked at him and then hesitated. “Would you like to come up?” His expression changed so fast, she added swiftly, “Not for the reason you’re thinking.”
“What, you think I planned to jump your bones the instant we walked in the door?”
“I wasn’t worried about you, Teague. I was afraid I might jump you, not the other way around.” She could see he liked it, the teasing, but as she led him up the dark stairwell, her heart seemed to be suffering sharp pangs of nerves.
He’d allowed the easy familiarity between them. Hadn’t asked her a single question. Hadn’t implied in any way that they’d spent one wild, long night naked together, hadn’t pushed in any way.
It wasn’t natural, a man being that nice. In fact, it was so unnatural it was nerve-racking.
It wasn’t that she owed him an explanation of her life or anything else, just because they’d slept together. But there was something about the damn man that made her want to be honest with him. At the top of the stairs she opened the door, but before she flipped on a light, she turned and said seriously, “If you see my place, I think it’ll explain a lot. Enough so that you just might not want to jump my bones the way we did before. That was a blizzard. A wild moment in time.”
“As compared to this moment, which is…?”
“More like straight old real life.” She flipped the light switch. Without looking at him, she slipped off her coat and scarf, tossed her bag on a chair and aimed for the wine. She wasn’t trying to create a cozy drink-together atmosphere, but almost anyone could look at her current “home” and need some whiskey to absorb the shock.
Moments later she handed him a glass of Merlot. Not good Merlot. For damn sure, not French Merlot. Just the stuff she’d found in the grocery store-which was even then too expensive. Of course, air was too expensive for her these days.
“What in God’s name was this place when you moved in?”
“Some kind of storage attic. Which is undoubtedly why Harry was willing to give it to me rent free,” she said dryly.
She watched him look around. He’d shed his jacket, but he hadn’t sat down yet, didn’t look as if he was necessarily going to.
Her first week here was right after the blizzard-when she’d realized the farmhouse furnace needed a complete overhaul. That wasn’t her expense problem. It was Violet’s. And Violet could afford it just fine. But it was going to be another three weeks before the plumber could even get to the problem, and by then she’d realized how much it would cost her to live home…and how bad her financial situation really was. That same day she’d seen the Temporary Help Wanted sign in the cafe window.
This room…well, it had taken her seven days of scrubbing before she could even stand it. Apparently no one had ever washed it before. Mice and birds and bees had set up housekeeping under the eaves, but nothing human. There was a utilitarian bathroom with a teensy shower; the white porcelain sink was rusty, but it was all usable. And there were two windows built into the slant of the roof.
When her boxes had arrived from France at the farmhouse, she sorted through and discovered that she had all kinds of “things.” The only thing she didn’t have was money.
So there was an original oil over the couch with no springs. The old iron bed was nothing to admire, but the quilt was convent-made, in rich purples and lavenders. She’d covered a hole in the wall with a Versace blouse, draping it as if it were intended to be a wall covering. She’d used scarves-Hermes, Dior, Chanel-to cover the paint- scarred tables. Her china was fine-boned, a pale cream with a rim of gold, even if the rickety card table was the only place to eat. A hot plate and small fridge functioned as her kitchen.
“If I tried to explain this to anyone, they’d never believe it,” Teague said.
“Yeah…well, that’s my reality. I’m dead broke. And I do mean broke.”
