Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
CELESTE
“Da—Hank, are you okay?” I drop to my knees by the shelf of records that’s been knocked over, the vinyls spread over the hardwoods.
“Ah, I’m fine.” He bats my hand away and pushes up off the floor, first onto all fours then to his feet.
What on earth was he doing?
“Sorry ’bout all this, Quin. I was just looking at your artwork. Guess I lost my balance.”
It’s now that I see a large landscape hanging over where the shelf was against the wall of the living room.
“I can clean it up.” Bending down, I gather the records as Quinton rights the shelf, returning it to its place against the wall.
“Tisha,” Dad says, excitement lining his voice, “hell, this is one of yours!”
I snap my gaze up, and finally I see the tiny scrawl of mom’s signature in the bottom right corner. A Tisha Black original, by the looks of it. Mrs. MacKelvie must have bought it from her all those years ago.
“So it is.” I stand and come to stare up at the painting as my father is doing.
Dad gives me a curious look, as if I’m the one who’s lost their mind, not recognizing my own work. Except it’s not my work. My art pales in comparison to my mother’s. Always has. Her oil paintings were incredible, with depth and detail I’ve never been able to achieve.
And that is the sole reason I haven’t stepped foot in her art studio at the back of our yard since the day she died. Twenty-three years. And I’ve not seen a single work of hers apart from the few in our house and now this one.
“How long ago was it when you did this one?” Dad asks before turning to Quinton. “You’ve got good taste, man.”
It’s been so long since I’ve thought about my mother’s work in any practical sense.
Her style and talent were her gift, and she was happy to share it with the world.
Much like Maisey has, apparently, shared her love of Christmas with the world.
This house is absolutely dripping with green and red festivities.
It’s hard to find a surface not decorated.
The grinch in me wants to cringe at the vibrant display of happiness.
“CC! Are you coming back?” an impatient voice drifts down the stairwell.
Speak of the—
“Manners, Maise!” Quinton calls up the staircase.
I tamp back the grin that wants out over my face. He’s just like every other parent I’ve met—overprotective, trying his best to install manners into his daughter despite her rebellious streak.
“It’s fine, I should get up there.” I glance between Dad and Quinton.
“Yeah, sure, we could use a whiskey in the cigar room, couldn’t we, Hank?” Quinton chuckles.
Ah, secret men’s business.
I know my cue . . .
I take the stairs two at a time back up to the bedroom Maisey has decorated with her own touch, including an overload of Christmas cheer. I knock softly on the wall by her doorframe. She jumps off the bed, scooting my way. Grabbing my hand, she tugs me inside and swings the door closed.
“What took you so long? I thought my dad stole you away from me.”
She’s frowning, all pouty and cute.
“No, he didn’t. But I did help a little. It’s the right thing to do when you’re a guest.”
“Sure. But he can do it, you know. He just likes the company.”
I bet he does.
It must be lonely raising a kid on your own.
Much like caring for an ailing parent on your own, I guess.
“Want to play hairdressers and do our makeup? I made Daddy buy me a makeup kit. It’s really cool.”
She rushes to her dresser and returns with a pink plastic makeup case. Through the clear lid, I see bright pinks, outrageous blue eye shadow, sparkly lip gloss, and something that looks like neon-pink blush.
Dear Lord.
“Sure, you want me to do yours first?”
“Nah, Daddy will make me wash it off for bedtime. But I can do yours!”
“Oh, I—”
She makes something that looks like puppy dog eyes at me and pleads with her small hands pressed together.
“Fine, okay. But if I end up looking like a clown—I mean—just take it easy. My dad’s going to make me wash mine off, too . . .”
She giggles and manhandles me onto the edge of the bed. I sit as she shifts behind me and quickly wraps my hair up before adding a claw clip. Half of my hair falls from it, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she instructs me to stay still.
Maisey drags her dresser chair close to me and stands on it. The palate lands in my hands and she gets to work. I close my eyes, letting the light touch of her brush drift over my face. Her soft fingertips graze my skin occasionally, reminding me how little she is.
She’s adorable.
Feisty and independent.
I love that for her.
I wish I had more Maisey in me and less . . . CC?
A girl could learn a lot from this little lady, as my dad calls her.
When I’m all done, she holds a mirror up to my face.
And I absolutely look like a drag queen.
I clear my throat and turn my head side to side as if assessing her makeup skills. “Brilliant, thank you.”
“You really like it?” I swear she’s holding her breath.
“I do.”
“We should show Daddy.”
“Oh, oh no. Maybe—”
“Daddy!”
She’s off the stool and out the door a heartbeat later.
There’s nothing left to do but laugh. Maybe Maisey’s Christmas cheer is rubbing off on me, after all.
So I decide to run with it.
“You look pretty,” Quinton says, barely keeping a straight face.
“Why thank you, Mr. MacKelvie.” The words are loaded with sass, as if this is some 1920s black-and-white romance film from the Deep South. Gone with the Wind type stuff. I swing the tea towel over my shoulder for dramatic effect.
And god . . . I must look ridiculous.
His shoulders shake as he washes the last dish from the dessert we snuck in, secure in the knowledge that Maisey was sound asleep.
“How long you going to keep this new look?” he prompts.
“Well, I was thinking about heading down to the market, or maybe Maple Acres, you know. Might catch the attention of somebody special.”
He doubles over, hands gripping the edge of the porcelain sink.
I can’t help but laugh, too. When he comes up for air, his laughter petering out, tears stream down his face. “I’m sorry, it’s just been a really long time since I laughed that hard.”
My own laughter fades at that.
“In that case, you absolutely need a makeover, too.” I give him a mock sympathetic look, pretending to assess the angles of his face, his jawline, his . . .
Deep blues catch my gaze. The corner of his mouth still tipped up, he swallows as it drops, his lips parting.
I want to . . .
I brush the pads of my fingers over his jawline. The angles that I’ve been noticing all night. I shouldn’t be—
Quinton clears his throat.
I step out of his space, realizing too late that I wandered into his proximity.
“You want a baby wipe or a warm washcloth to take that off?” His voice is low and all business. A stark contrast to the happy tone it was just seconds ago.
“Sure,” I finally rasp out.
He pulls the plug in the sink and dries his hands before disappearing from the kitchen. I wander to the living room, finding my father snoring. He looks so content, peaceful.
And I just watch him for a moment, taking him in.
Letting the seconds turn into a cluster of time, creating a new memory of my dad.
It’s bittersweet, knowing his peace will be lost when he opens his eyes.
That this may be one of the last memories I make of him before the disease renders him too far gone.
Emotion clogs my throat, and I wrap my arms around myself, willing the morbid thoughts away.
“Hey,” a soft baritone interrupts my sad state.
I turn to find Quinton, warm washcloth in the hand he has extended to me. But I can’t bring myself to take it. Still fighting the reality of what’s left of my last parent. Overcome with hurt and grief in the shape of another impending loss.
Tears burn as I meet his gaze.
“Celeste,” he says softly.
A tear slips from the well lining my eyes, and I slam them shut.
Warmth, sandalwood, and spice surround me instantly. My face meets a hard wall of muscular chest.
Oh shit.
I chug a sob into the warm comfort he affords me. His hand wraps around the back of my neck like we’ve been doing this our whole lives. The other hand is holding me to him like if he only holds tight, he can ward off whatever is causing me hurt.
He feels so . . . safe.
The loneliness I’ve been barely keeping at bay finally retreats far enough away that I can’t feel its cold bite.
It’s a relief. A grounding feeling I never knew I needed.
He swallows, and I feel his Adam’s apple bob.
Shit, I’m lingering.
I push from his hold, drying my face, breathing through the last of the emotion. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to snot all over your shirt. Crap.”
He doesn’t look down, only releasing me from his hold gradually as if he can’t let go until he’s sure I’m okay.
No wonder his daughter is so incredible. She has the most amazing parent as a role model.
“Celeste, you don’t have to do this alone.”
“Says Mr. Single Parent.”
Instantly, I know it was the wrong thing to say. But I’ve never been very good at tense moments. One of the reasons I could never hold a career, let alone a decent-paying job. “I—”
He waves a hand, shaking his head. “Forget it, I know what you mean. I’m not exactly over here asking for help, either. It’s always just been me and Maise. I’ve never felt the need to ask. She’s my kid, so I’ll raise her, you know. My responsibility, not anyone else’s. Besides, it’s my privilege.”
And . . . there goes my ovaries.
I huff a strained laugh, and he tilts his head, saying, “What?”
I work through a breathy chuckle. “Nothing, really.”
“Well, Little Miss Nothing, you still have,” he says, waving a hand in front of my face, “a cleanup job on your hands.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I grab for the washcloth.
He doesn’t relinquish it.
Instead, he moves in, tilting my face with a finger under my chin. “I got it.”
Methodically, gently, he wipes away the gawdy makeup from my face. Taking his time, he moves over my cheeks, forehead and jaw.
“Close your eyes, CC,” he rasps, shifting a little closer.
His warmth wakes up my body. The touch of his palm holding my face at an angle to help remove the makeup tingles, radiating through my jaw, down my neck, and straight to my chest.
My breathing shallows out as he turns the rag to use the corner and swipes it over my eyelids. One, then the other.
“Almost done,” he says, voice like gravel.
No words form as my lips part. His grip reaffirms over my jaw as the cloth brushes over my bottom lip. And I swear the room just got a hundred degrees hotter.
Didn’t it?
When the fabric meets my top lip, I can barely draw a useful breath.
I chug through each plummeting cycle as his touch sears through my skin. But the cloth disappears, as does his warmth, a beat later. “All done.”
Eyes fluttering open, I feel like someone’s sent my body through the wringer.
The cloth is still in his now white-knuckled grip.
“Qui—”
He’s in my space again, the cloth falling from his hand as he palms my face. I search his gaze, his pupils now blown out, the blue almost swallowed by the darkness lingering in them our proximity has caused.
“I want to . . .” He tilts his head, closing his eyes briefly.
“Then do it,” I rasp.
“You sur—”
“Celeste? Why’d you let me fall asleep?” My father pops up from the sofa, his face slackened by sleep, but his eyes holding a clarity I rarely see.
Quinton’s hold falls away as he makes space between us, snapping his attention to Dad. “Had quite the nap there, Hank.”
Dad rubs his hands over his face, confusion lining his gaze as he takes in Quinton and me standing by the sofa. And then, as if someone shuttered a filter over his gaze, his eyes all but glaze over. “Where am I?”
“Next door, we had dinner here. Remember, Da—Hank?” I say, shoving my hands into my back pockets.
“Oh, yes, so we did. Well, we better be getting home, Tish.”
“Sure.” I offer my hand, and he rises from the sofa.
“You okay? Your face looks funny,” Dad says.
How do I answer that? Is it because I’m not his Tisha or because I just had a pound of neon makeup wiped from my face? Or is it because I almost kissed the handsome, sweet single dad next door?
And I really, really wanted to.