Chapter 1 #2
“You are not a carpenter.” She cut him off. “You’re an artist. I can’t believe she called you a carpenter.”
He appreciated the compliment, but in his mind all woodworkers were artists of sort. “I usually go with craftsman.”
She handed the photos back to him. “You’re right. Don’t show them to her. And don’t tell her I like them. That would be the kiss of death for sure.”
Nick gave a short laugh. But he wasn’t sure whether that was a joke. She caught him off guard when she reached out and placed her hand on his arm, a frown marring her delicate features.
“I’m serious. In fact, Mr. Summers, I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re probably wasting your time.”
She left him standing with his photos, his arm still buzzing from her touch, and wondering what the hell that was all about.
With a mental shake, he picked up his small portfolio then shrugged into his coat as he walked to the door. “Thanks, again,” he called, unsure whether anyone could hear him. Outside, he blew out his breath. Those were some weird vibes.
He climbed into his car ready to knock out one more errand then get on the highway back to Colorado Springs before rush hour traffic hit.
But when he turned the key in the ignition, the telltale click of a dead battery greeted him.
Groaning, he banged a fist on the steering wheel.
The car had been slow to start this morning, but he’d chalked it up to the cold and figured the drive to Denver would restore the juice.
He glanced at the house, hoping no one would notice his car still in the drive. Not a good look. Now what? No way did he want to go in and bother Mr. Andrews for a jump. Roadside assistance could take forever and certainly wouldn’t be discreet. The options were limited.
Swearing under his breath, he pulled out his wallet and found his service card.
When the call went through, he explained the situation, gave the scheduler the address and was told the wait would be forty-five minutes to an hour.
And his weather app said the temperature was twenty-seven degrees.
He couldn’t remember if he’d passed any coffee shops close by.
Probably nothing within walking distance deep in this ritzy residential area.
He looked at his phone again—then jumped when a knock sounded on his window.
He looked up to see Kat Andrews in her sunny yellow coat peering at him through the glass. With no power, he couldn’t roll down the window, so he gently opened the car door.
“Hi. Is everything okay?” She gestured toward the house. “I saw your car still out here and wasn’t sure if you were just making calls or needed something.”
Nick forced a laugh. “Sounds like a dead battery. No worries, though. I’ve got assistance on the way. Thanks for asking.”
“Oh, what a hassle. You can come back inside and wait. It’s too cold out here.”
“Nah, I’m fine. Thanks, though.” It was a nice offer, but he couldn’t impose like that on a potential client.
She raised her brows and studied him. The skepticism on her face plainly showed she thought he was an idiot.
“Nick? I’ll be the first to admit my mother has a sharp bark, but also, she doesn’t suffer fools.” She smiled and cocked her head toward the house. “Come in and have a cup of coffee while you wait. You can use the study if you need to make some calls.”
The study? He almost laughed. Was that what wealthy people called a home office ?
He was about to decline again, but those gray-blue eyes were compelling.
Up close, he could see a smattering of light freckles across her pink cheeks.
Her hair blew across them in the breeze, and he— Oh, jeez.
He was acting like a clod letting her stand out in the cold waiting on him to make up his mind.
“Thanks. If you’re sure I won’t be in the way.”
“Not at all. Come on.”
Feeling ridiculous, he grabbed his computer bag and followed Kat back to the house.
“No sense sitting out there freezing.” She casually tossed her coat over one of the chairs at the huge kitchen island, and Nick couldn’t help wondering if that was allowed. He could imagine Rebecca objecting to any form of clutter in the museum-like house.
“Do you drink coffee? It’s already made.”
Yeah, he’d smelled the brew earlier. “I do. Just black, thanks.” He hovered between the kitchen and family room while she filled a mug. He had no idea how to find the study.
“We could sit here, if you like.” She handed him the mug then gestured toward the seating area. “I mean, unless you need to work.”
Blood rushed to his head. We? The pretty little rich girl wanted to keep him company?
Or did she think he might run off with the silver candlesticks?
His eyes met hers, and he admitted a tightening in his chest. He stared at Kat a moment and checked his attitude.
Her smile seemed genuine. She might be from a wealthy family, but he had the feeling she was naturally warm and friendly—certainly more so than her intense mother.
And that sounded like a better offer than the study.
“Sure. I should probably hang out someplace where I can see the driveway.”
She settled onto the sofa, and he took an adjacent chair with a clear view out the large picture window.
“So how did you connect with Mom?” she asked.
Nick’s mind went blank. Rebecca Andrews had called out of the blue.
“I believe it was a referral.” He thought that’s what she said, but he couldn’t remember where the referral had come from. It was the mention of the homes tour that had piqued his interest. That made the job a whole lot more enticing.
“Ah. That’s great,” Kat said. “Is all your work custom-made?”
“The big-ticket stuff is, but I also sell smaller pre-made pieces in my shop.”
“Your shop? You have a gallery?”
He shot her a wry smile. “I wouldn’t call it a gallery exactly. It’s not like something you’d find at a big-name arts community in California or New York. It’s a retail shop that features local art. Kind of a co-op. I sell some smaller pieces there like bowls and small cabinets. It’s all handmade.”
“Sounds great. I wish there were more shops like that, more places for artists to sell their work. Seems like there isn’t much between high-end galleries and weekend art fairs.”
Meaning she was familiar with those? An art shopper? “Right. I like to think it fills a niche.”
“What’s it called?”
“All Things Beautiful.”
“Oh, that’s cute. Where is it?”
“Colorado Springs. That’s where my studio is, too. I’m expanding into the Denver market, but Colorado Springs is home.”
“Have you ever thought about consigning to galleries in places like California or New York?”
He shook his head. “I’m not much of a big-city guy. Concrete and steel jungles like New York City feel cold and commercial. I’ll take mountains over skyscrapers any day. Plus, I like the idea of bringing art to ordinary homes.”
“Got it. You have a right-brain/left-brain thing going.”
He took a drink of his coffee and shrugged.
“I never planned to open a retail store. I try to stay flexible and be open to new opportunities. You never know where they might come from. I like the idea of having multiple streams of revenue. One artist in my shop got a corporate commission worth thousands of dollars after a guy bought a card for his wife in the shop. The card was just a small print of an original painting, but it opened a new door for her.”
“That’s great. Actually, I—”
At the sound of sharp footsteps, she broke off. Mrs. Andrews appeared in the open foyer. A frown etched her face as she looked toward the living room. Her glance moved from Kat to Nick. “What’s going on? Mr. Summers, did you forget something?”
“Seems the battery in Mr. Summers’ car doesn’t love the cold weather.” Kat spoke for him. “He’s waiting for roadside assistance.”
Her mother gazed out the window, and Nick would swear her face pinched slightly as if someone had passed gas, but she didn’t want to let on she’d noticed.
“Oh, dear.” She glanced back with a smile that barely turned her lips.
“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Nick assured her.
“Ah. Do let us know if we can help,” she said then proceeded toward the kitchen.
He took another drink of coffee and willed the fix-it service to hurry up and deliver him from this awkward predicament.
Although, he found he didn’t mind talking to the daughter.
In the short time since he’d met her, she’d asked more questions about his background and business than his potential client.
“Do you have an interest in art?” he asked.
“I do. Oh, here’s the motorist assist.” She nodded toward the window.
Nick stood and looked toward the kitchen to set down his mug.
“Let me take that.” Kat stood also and reached for the mug, her fingers brushing gently against his.
He had the ridiculous urge to take her hand.
With heat crawling up his neck, he cleared his throat.
“Didn’t take as long as they thought.” Good.
Kat seemed nice enough, but he figured she was simply being polite and had other things to do.
He needed to get on with his day and overstaying his welcome probably wasn’t the best strategy for securing the job.
Kat took a step toward the door. “Actually, I was an art major.”
“Was? Did you change majors?” Made sense she’d be home on winter break.
“No. I have an MFA from the Art Institute of Chicago.”
Surprise stopped him, and he and turned to look at her. “No kidding? That’s impressive.” He’d seriously misjudged her age.
At the door, she gave him a wide smile. An odd light danced in her eyes.
“I work at the Museum of Modern Art. In New York City.”
* * *
Kat closed the door behind Nick but watched him out the front window as he jogged down the stairs to meet the roadside assistance truck.
He seemed like a nice guy. Had a nice smile.
And a great voice. She could’ve listened to his rich voice all day.
If the woodworking didn’t pan out, the man had a lucrative career alternative as a DJ or voice talent.
Too bad he lived in Colorado and hated New York.
She glanced toward the back bedroom and heard her mother talking on the phone again.
She could hover, but Kat knew her mother wasn’t in a hurry to chit-chat with her.
Instead, she hung her coat in the hall closet then returned to the kitchen and poured a glass of chilled cucumber water that her mother always kept in the refrigerator.
Finally, she climbed the wide stairway up to her bedroom—the room that used to be hers, anyway.
It no longer bore any resemblance to her former high-school hide-away.
Her mom had redecorated it in bland earth tones.
Kat flopped onto the bed and glanced around. The room was tastefully done, she supposed. The deep tan was offset by clean cream-colored trim and a few navy accents. But she’d have to pinch herself when she woke in the mornings to make sure she was alive.
With a soft sigh, she inserted her earbuds, selected an upbeat playlist, and began unpacking her suitcase.
Thirty minutes later, she headed back downstairs and wandered through the house.
Lush holiday decorations in silver and shades of green burst from the mantels, tabletops and railings.
Every year, her mother chose a color scheme and paid a florist big bucks to transform the house into a holiday masterpiece that looked like a magazine cover.
The coordinating Christmas tree in the family room stood a good seven feet tall, full of ribbons and impressive groups of glass ornaments.
The overall effect was stunning. Kat glanced at the matching fireplace mantel.
The large oil landscape that normally hung there had been replaced by a huge wreath made of fresh greenery, twigs, and berries.
She made a deliberate effort to avoid scanning the walls of her parents’ home for her own work.
In her senior year of college, she’d painted a gorgeous watercolor with vibrant pastel accents of golden Colorado mountains in the fall.
She’d presented it to her parents as a Christmas gift, with visions of it hanging above the fireplace.
Her mother had the grace to not shove it inside a closet, but the piece now hung in the hallway outside of Kat’s bedroom—virtually out of sight.
Her mother preferred heavy oils with ornate frames—the kind of paintings she deemed worthy of hanging in a museum.
Kat looked at the mantel again, confused for a moment at the sight of matching stockings there.
Her stocking had always been different from her sister’s and brother’s since she was so much younger.
When she moved closer, it hit her. Those weren’t the stockings of her childhood at all.
They’d been replaced by new ones—and new names.
The three stockings that hung there were delicately embroidered with the names of Kat’s nieces and nephew.
The switch shouldn’t bother her, she supposed. It’d been her decision to skip the last couple of holidays. Still, the reality gave her a shock. She felt as though she’d disappeared from the radar screen at air traffic control—and nobody noticed.