Chapter Twelve
The visit reminded Arden she liked having neighbors. Especially when they proved entertaining and interesting. Add in someone who’d made her laugh so much inside a half hour her sides ached, and you had a winner.
She decided she’d accept the Sunday brunch invitation and marked it on her calendar.
She took two days to decide on the paint, and opted for the deepest green—her first instinct. And yes, the other would work for the library, and be gorgeous against dark wood bookcases.
She contacted the painter, and three days later, set up a temporary office in the dining room.
Tessa Miller arrived on the dot of eight.
A petite blonde, curvy and compact, she wore white painter’s pants and a black tee. She had a small hawk tattoo on her right inner forearm and a trio of studs in each ear.
“Arden Bowie?”
“Yes.”
She shot out a hand. “Tessa Miller. Hey, doggie.”
“Zorro. He’s very friendly.”
“Easy to see that. Can you show me where you want me to set up?”
“Yeah, upstairs.”
When they reached the office, Tessa looked around.
“So this is where you write books, huh?”
“It is.”
“Joe said I should read one—he’s a big reader. I figured I might try the audio, listen while I’m driving. I need music when I work. Earbuds, so it won’t bother you.”
She gestured to the built-ins. “That’s where you want the Dark Forest Green?”
“Yes. Everything that’s white gets painted.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tessa nodded as she scanned. “That’s going to work in here. I’ll set up.”
“I’ll be in the dining room. I can work there. If you need anything, or want coffee, a cold drink, just let me know.”
“Bring my own, but thanks.”
Arden left her to it, and within an hour had forgotten the painter painted. She’d written her main characters, and herself, into a corner, and needed to find the way out.
In writing her way out of it, she took them all down a path she hadn’t planned on. She checked her notes, added a few more, then continued because the new path caught her interest.
“Sorry.”
The voice made her jump. And Tessa winced.
“Double sorry. You were into it.”
“Oh boy, yeah. It’s okay. Heart started up again.”
“I wanted to tell you the first coat’s done. I’m going to take a lunch break, then come back and do the second.”
“I lost track. I can make you a sandwich.”
“I—really?”
“Sure. I need to let Zorro out, and I’m still keeping an eye on him when I do. I’ve got turkey, ham, chicken, and roast beef from the deli, provolone, mozzarella, sharp cheddar, and Swiss. Arugula, sprouts, radicchio, Boston lettuce. Mustard—Dijon or spicy—mayo and aioli.”
Tessa blinked tawny hazel eyes. “Wow, you must like sandwiches.”
“They’re my go-to.”
“I wouldn’t mind one. Any of those or any combination thereof works for me. I eat anything.”
“Great. Whole wheat or rye?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
After setting Zorro free for his run, Arden laid out ingredients.
Tessa took a counter stool. “I figured you’d be snooty.”
“Oh? Why?”
“You write books.” Tessa lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “I don’t mind snooty as long as it pays on time. But you’re not.”
“I’ll still pay on time. Joe tells me you’re the best painter in the area.”
“He’s not wrong, even though he’s a softie.” She watched Arden build the sandwich. “That sure beats my method of slapping a couple of slices of ham and American cheese out of the wrapper between two pieces of bread.”
“My father taught me making good sandwiches is an art.” She cut it neatly in two, slid it across the counter. “Want a drink with that?”
“Got milk?”
“I do.”
“Aren’t you having one? The sandwich.”
“Actually, I’m saving mine for dinner later. I’m on a roll in there, and I think it’ll ride straight through that. So I’m making a smoothie.”
She poured Tessa a glass of milk.
“I like your tattoo.”
“My hawk. It’s my husband. Hawk Miller. I took his last name because mine was Kazimieras.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“Tell me. Blame my Latvian ancestors. And you get tired of spelling it for people all the damn time. This is a hell of a good sandwich.”
“It’s one of my things.”
Arden traded the sandwich makings for smoothie ingredients.
“Before you go back upstairs, would you mind looking at a room down here? I’m not ready to start in there yet, but I think I have the right paint color. I could show you, see what you think.”
“Sure.” Tessa took another bite of sandwich. “Do you want honesty or validation on your choice?”
“Since I want to enjoy the room, and live with it for a really long time? Honesty.”
“Check. You really drink that? With avocado in it?”
“Healthy fat. Without healthy fat in my diet, I fade into a scarecrow.”
“Never been my problem. I always wanted to be tall though.”
“I always wanted to be petite.”
Tessa grinned. “Ain’t that always the case?”
When they finished, Arden got the little paint can and a brush. Then led the way to the proposed library.
“Let’s see it on the wall.”
“I’ll just get something to put on the floor.”
“No need.” Tessa took the can, the brush. She pulled an opener out of her pocket. Slapped some on the wall without spilling a drop.
“Good, rich color,” she said. “What’s this room?”
“A library, eventually. I want dark wood bookcases.”
“Okay. I see that. You want to live with it awhile, and definitely choose the wood first. But cozy and moody with a touch of class? That’s a good choice.
“Who’s doing the cabinetry?”
“I don’t know yet. Do you know someone?”
“Have Joe talk Gideon into it.”
“Oh.” Arden considered, thought of her lamps, her bowl. “Does he do cabinetry, too?”
“He knows his way around wood. Easy to see you’re embracing the elevated rustic in your place. Yeah, he could do it. LAPD’s loss is Riverbend’s gain.”
“I heard he used to be a police detective.”
“Yeah. He did the right thing, ended up getting kicked in the balls. Anyway, Joe could talk him into it. I’ve gotta get back to it. Thanks for the sandwich.”
“You’re welcome.”
Arden took the paint and brush back to the mudroom. She gave Zorro his afternoon treat and wondered just what the right thing had been. And how did a man like Gideon Riley get kicked in the balls?
She wanted to ask, really wanted to ask. But since she knew, too well, what it felt like to have people poke and pry into your life, especially the hard parts, she let it go.
Amazed at the change two coats of paint made, Arden settled into work with a vengeance. The novel’s progress, the progress in making the house her home spiked her mood high enough she invited Zoey and her family to dinner.
Sandwiches were her go-to, but she made damn good spaghetti and meatballs. And she found cooking on her gorgeous stove a pleasure.
They’d celebrate her first month in Oregon.
Through Jamie, her new, non-related best friend, she learned Nick’s bakery took special orders. She tried her luck with a loaf of Italian bread and a dozen cannoli.
After working till noon, she went down to make the meatballs. While they browned, she started the sauce. Though she didn’t often cook other than the quick and easy, she enjoyed it quite a bit when she cooked to share.
And her stove? A dream.
She used her mother’s recipe, and the scents rising up brought her mother right there.
“That’s nice,” she whispered. “It’s nice to remember.”
The Sundays, or rainy Saturdays, when her parents had time for more than the quick and easy. Her mom making meatballs, her dad baking bread.
They’d had such a nice rhythm. Not perfect, not fairy-tale shiny. There’d been hot looks, sharp words, or simmering silences now and again. But they’d always come back to that rhythm.
As an adult who’d seen relationships come and go, including a couple of her own, she admired what they’d made together.
Two people with demanding careers, her mother a pediatrician, her dad a lawyer. But they’d never stinted on home and family. On her.
They’d loved each other and loved her. That had been the center of everything.
Though she’d lived half her life without them now, she’d always have that center.
She added the meatballs to the sauce and set it on a low simmer. After setting the kitchen to rights, she turned to her snoozing dog.
“Let’s go for a ride.”
He jumped up, and crooning, ran to the mudroom, then came back with his leash.
“That’s my boy.”
People worked in the vineyards; horses grazed in fields. A woman with a big straw hat over gray hair past her shoulders weeded her front garden. Arden saw a heron—what she thought was a heron—sail over a curve of the river, then over the cattails beyond.
Her life now, Arden thought, absurdly delighted. Her life, a short drive to town for baked goods and watching a heron’s flight.
Riverbend bustled. Ten minutes out, she lived in the quiet, and here people walked the sidewalks, breezed in and out of shops, sat for lunch under awnings.
“We’ve got it all, Zorro.”
She had to hunt for parking, and when she found a slot, turned to Zorro.
“I won’t be long. Be a good boy.”
She walked the two blocks briskly, and since she had the dog in the car, and sauce simmering, resisted window-shopping on the way.
She turned into the bakery, and her senses rejoiced.
It looked like a candy box with its cheery chocolate browns, candy pinks, and snowball whites.
And smelled like cookies baked in heaven.
She wondered if she could come back in her next life as a baker just to spend hours engulfed in the glorious scents.
The staff wore candy-pink shirts and chocolate-brown pants and, despite the busy, plenty of smiles.
She waited her turn at the counter, where a young blonde, pretty as one of the cupcakes, rang orders.
“Hi. I’m here to pick up an order. Arden Bowie.”
“Give us one sec.”
During the one sec, Arden listened to the voices. She loved overheard conversations.
I’m eating this cupcake for lunch so I get happy and don’t just go back to work and tell my boss to shove it.
The way things are going, I don’t see how they last the summer. She’s got one foot out the door already.
She looks just like Carrie did at that age. Look at those cheeks!
“Arden.”