Kiss Me Goodnight
Summer LeFey’s love story begins with a loss that nearly broke her. Long before she painted her Echo Falls mural or rebuilt her life with Tom Applegate, she faced a moment that changed everything. Here’s how their story truly began…
Chapter One
Summer LeFey looked out over the lush garden visible from her work studio.
Mild San Francisco summer weather had made the greenery and the flowers explode.
The colors rioted through the garden—yellows, reds, and oranges.
Lush green ivy vines stretched across the ground and up the trellises and trees.
The wild ambience prompted memories of her grandmother—way back when Summer had lived in Echo Falls, Texas.
A blank canvas beckoned on an easel in front of her.
Every hue and shade of the rainbow whispered from her side table.
The smell of turpentine and paint thrilled her nostrils.
The paintbrush gripped in her hand sent an anticipatory hum through her senses.
And yet, here she loitered, playing with the colors on her palette.
Mixing and discarding. Mixing and discarding. Mixing and discarding.
The painting she’d attempted yesterday sat turned against the wall, ready for the trash. Uninspiring. Overdone. She’s lost her God-given talent. That’s what the art critics would say.
The yellow calico cat sat at her feet and gave a yowl.
“I know Suzy. They suck.” She reached to pet the criticizing cat.
Acid churned in the back of her throat. She reached for an antacid, crunching the tablet to chalky dust before swallowing.
Probably should have eaten something other than M&M’s and coffee, but stress had reduced her appetite to almost non-existent.
She had an art show in three months in New Mexico and not one painting finished.
“If you don’t quit throwing them in the trash, you’ll never get anywhere.”
Summer looked up from her paint doodling.
Jonathan Freeman, her best friend and manager, leaned against the doorway.
His salt and pepper hair, lean body, and striking face still made her itch to draw him, which she had countless times over the years of their friendship.
Ten years ago, as a poor college student, she’d painted on the pier and hawked the finished product to pay the bills.
He’d leaned over her shoulder one day to critique, and he’d ended up with a wet painted canvas over his head. He’d been her only family ever since.
“They aren’t any good.” She pushed away the emotion, but it was there in the waver of her voice. He bent and turned one away from the wall to study the work.
Summer’s fingers cramped where she squeezed the paintbrush.
He moved to the next painting. “Hmm. Experimenting with a new style?”
She rubbed her lips together, debating. She blew out a resigned sigh. “Trying to reconnect with the old one would be more helpful.”
His eyebrows rose, and he let the last canvas fall back against the wall.
He didn’t say a word. Instead, he went to the corner where she kept coffee and drinks in the small refrigerator.
He poured himself his usual diet cola. He sipped the Coke for a long moment, then walked to the cat and bent to pet her.
Suzy arched her back and purred. Finally, she put her tail in the air and walked away from her lord and master, jumping on the perch near the window.
His attention finally on her, Summer squirmed on her stool.
Yet he stalled a moment longer, gazing at her. Finally, he asked the questions she’d been dreading. “Why didn’t you say something?”
She hedged. “About?”
He grimaced. Irritation enhanced the lines at the bridge of his nose. “You’re blocked.”
“It’s temporary.”
He stood his ground. “How temporary? How long?”
She bit her lip, not wanting to state anything verbally.
She’d avoided that jinx for months. But Jonathan wouldn’t be put off.
He took a step toward her. The expression on his face guilted her into talking.
Considering how much of his time, his contacts, and his fortune he’d risked for her career, she couldn’t justify not telling him the truth.
Heck, she lived in his mansion because she refused to buy a house of her own. Wasn’t that reason enough?
She took a deep breath. “Six months. Maybe a tad longer.”
He choked on a sip of his Coke and swallowed hard. “Six…months? You don’t think you could have said something before now?”
She dropped the paintbrush onto the paint palette and went to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water.
Taking a long sip, she mulled over the entire problem.
“I thought it would go away. I thought it was from spending so much time traveling instead of painting. Obviously, it’s a little more severe than I thought. ”
He took a moment to reflect. “Just one more thing to add to the list of problems this morning.”
She took another swallow. “Meaning?”
“Three of your paintings at a gallery in Miami have been verified to be imitations. They are so damn close to yours, they could have been painted by a clone.”
She rose off her stool and gaped at him. “What? What?” She floundered for another response.
“You heard me. That’s all I know at the moment. I have a private investigator on the way to Miami.”
“Were any fakes sold?” She sank back onto her stool. “Please tell me no. This is my reputation!”
He took his time answering which made her gut seize. “Not sure,” he growled.
“Great.” Anger rolled into frustration from her lack of painting. She took a deep breath and deliberately forced herself to relax. “Who would do such a thing? And why?”
Jonathan laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure this out. You need to paint. Get the goods ready for your next show.”
Summer snorted. “Can’t. Trying. But nothing’s working.”
“Could it more likely have to do with the message that’s on your desk? The one you got two days ago marked urgent? Aren’t you wondering?”
Fury blindsided her, and she picked up her paintbrush and tossed it with considerable force onto her worktable. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
His gaze drilled her. “Of course you don’t. You never do. It’s time, cher.”
“That has nothing to do with my painting.”
“Really? From where I’m standing, that’s the crux of the problem. I told you ages ago that holding onto a senseless grudge would come back and bite you.”
A growling protest erupted from the back of her throat, Jonathan’s words burning.
He held up a hand before she could interrupt.
“Don’t,” he said. “I watched this thing between you and your grandfather for a long damn time and kept my mouth shut. You’ve explained what happened between the two of you, why you’re so adamant about not seeing him.
You talk to the nursing home staff, you send him money, but you don’t go see him and clear the air. Why is that?”
She wrapped her arms around herself and turned back to the window.
The explanation dammed up in the back of her throat.
Always and forever trapped there.
She’d adored her grandmother. She’d worshiped her grandfather.
Until her grandmother died and her grandfather had become a stranger, lost in the depths of his grief.
Her grandparents were her world, important to her as nothing else was after losing her parents.
Without her grandmother, the fights had begun with him over her art—her vocation, her heart.
He insisted she stop painting and be sensible.
He’d made her choose.
Turn away from her gift or turn away from him.
The silence stretched. “I can’t talk about it,” she whispered.
After all these years, it ought to be possible, but every time she thought about giving in, pain closed her throat, hemmed her in, killing her slowly like roasting meat on a spit. He hadn’t believed.
“You have to. Tom Applegate has never called here unnecessarily, has he?”
She reluctantly shook her head. Tom Applegate.
She’d talked to him a handful of times over the years and had a caustic quarrel with him six months ago about visiting.
The subject had never been mentioned again.
Her most vivid memory still plagued her—eighth grade, hours sitting in the bleachers, sketch pad on her knees, drawing him up to bat in high school baseball.
She’d shyly given it to him. It had been the first time she’d let anyone see her drawings except her grandparents.
His polite smile and easy dismissal still flayed her.
She jerked from her chair. “No. I haven’t called him yet. ”
“Summer, your grandfather isn’t getting any younger, and he’s been sick. You know this.”
She turned to him. “What are you saying?”
“You should call. Now. Quit putting it off.”
“I…”
“No. You do it. Or I will.” Jonathan’s easygoing demeanor had fallen away, replaced by a determined, irritated male.
Summer straightened. Everything inside her rebelled at the direction.
She turned back to the garden again, forcing herself past a childish reaction, forcing herself to think.
He rarely ordered her around, and while he was vocal with his opinion, he always respected hers.
Truth be told, she’d been carrying around the angst and the misery over the situation for ten years and was so very tired of blocking the thoughts, of justifying walking away. “Okay. I’ll call.”
“Thank you. Because it’s all connected, you know?” He gave her a half-smile filled with concern.
“All connected?”
“Your artistic block and your grandfather and your life as a whole.” He crossed the room and turned her toward him. “It’s time, Summer. Time to go home and put this behind you. Maybe then you can paint.”
She shook her head. “It’s the pace I’ve been living, the lifestyle, not painting for too long.”