Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A WEEK LATER, RAYNE STILL hadn't resolved where she was heading with Brent. And she still hadn't heard from her agent. So no progress there. But things were progressing nicely with the inn. Brent had stopped work on the porches for a few days in order to finish another job. It had given her a temporary reprieve from his presence but not from the desire that sat hot and heavy in her belly. He was a Krispy Kreme doughnut and she was a dieter. The more she tried not to think about him, the more she did. So she kept busy trying to not think. Instead, Rayne focused on doing. The result was a completed menu for the inn, a first draft of the new cookbook, and a new website ready to go live when the inn reopened for business.
They had three weeks until the magazine writer's visit, and they still had much to accomplish. Today Brent had returned to paint both porches. Which meant, of course, she kept looking out the window or going to check the mail... and the male. She was no better than the single gals down at Cooley's honky-tonk. Or the viperous Brandi, who'd hired Brent for personal eye candy.
She tore her gaze from the window and examined the parlor critically.
“Let’s try the sofa under the window. I think it will balance the room," Rayne said, motioning the two teenagers holding the large piece of furniture. They shot each other a look. It was a long-suffering look. She shrugged. They'd only moved it three times. She was helping them build muscles. Plus, they'd gotten out of school with the career shadowing program. Lifting a couch was better than doing calculus, wasn't it?
"Rayne, you know everything about running a restaurant, but I'm not sure you're great at decorating," Aunt Fran said, surveying the room with a critical eye.
Rayne felt herself bristle, but then realized her aunt was absolutely correct. ''But this is our project. I don't want to call in a designer."
Aunt Fran shook her head, making her silver-streaked brown bob ripple. "We don't have to call in a designer. Let's ask Dawn if she'll come take a look. You should see what she's done to Tucker House. Not to mention, the bungalow she and her husband remodeled actually landed a page in Southern Living."
Rayne raised her eyebrows. “Wow.”
"Yes, all us backwoods folks don't have cotton for brains." Aunt Frances left the room and returned with a ragtag address book stuffed with note cards and scraps of paper. Rayne was certain her aunt had had the same one when she lived here years ago. Some things didn't change, which was oddly comforting.
"Whoever implied you were backwoods or cottonbrained? I happen to know Grandmother Rose was from Chicago, and you scored the highest in your class on your college admission test." Rayne motioned the two high school seniors to the kitchen where delicious zucchini bread rested on the baking rack. A glass of milk and three pieces later, she sent them outside to help Brent haul away the lumber scraps and rotten boards. By the time she'd made it to the parlor, Aunt Frances had moved a side table to sit between two wingback chairs. "Dawn is going out of town tomorrow and said she'd pop by in about thirty minutes."
"If it's too much trouble..." Rayne narrowed her eyes at the newly arranged seating. Something wasn't right.
"Nope, she's taking her car to get the oil changed and said she'd swing by."
Rayne shrugged and went and made coffee.
An hour later, the coffee was gone and the room looked incredible.
"I like the way the chintz looks against the soft gold of the wall. Warm and inviting. I'll whip up a few throw pillows in a toile and paisley when I get back from Houston," Dawn said, nudging the sofa an inch more to the right so that it was perfectly centered across from the hearth. Her hair was gathered into a low ponytail and she wore a navy short-sleeved sweater set with a trim pair of plaid pants. A silver cuff on one slender arm along with a pair of Brighton wedges gave her a Town & Country appearance. But there was nothing remote or snooty in her warm smile.
"It's odd," Rayne said, wrapping several pieces of zucchini bread in waxed paper for Dawn's husband. "We shoved this furniture all over the room and couldn't figure it out. But you step inside and whamo! you knew exactly where to place it."
"Sometimes it takes an outside person to see what ought to be," Dawn said picking up her purse and surveying the room with a satisfied gleam in her eye. She gave Aunt Frances a small squeeze before heading for the door. "And I'll be glad to serve the outside person role anytime. Tyson might start hiring me out if I come home with treats like this. He'll mow through this bread in seconds. Thanks."
"You're welcome-" Rayne's words were interrupted by a crash on the front porch.
All three of them spun toward the door.
"What the-" Aunt Frances said, her hand clasped to her chest.
A really dirty word and a tinny thump served as a finale to the crash that had shaken the house.
Rayne was closest to the door, so she opened it and stuck her head out. She couldn't believe her eyes. She felt Dawn and Aunt Frances at her back but didn't tum around. She didn't think she could have ripped her gaze from Brent if a pig had sprouted wings and flown into the elm tree out front.
"Don't," he said, from beneath a thick coat of latex paint that dripped down his face and streaked onto his burgundy T-shirt. From the top of his wavy brown hair to the tips of his well-worn work boots, Brent was splattered with Cottage White paint. Nearby a bucket oozed its contents across the porch boards. A small ladder with a bent leg lay next to the railing.
“I-I-“ She snapped her mouth closed. She tried really, really hard not to laugh. Of course, the thought of not laughing made her snort. Which made her issue a most obnoxious guffaw. Really obnoxious.
“Sure, laugh it up,” Brent said, wiping paint from his eyes."I knew the leg was weak and didn’t fix it last week. Oh, for Pete's sake, stop laughing."
But she couldn't. And it felt good to laugh so hard, a pee-your-pants kind of laugh she hadn't used since she was a girl. And with Dawn and Aunt Fran joining in, they sounded like a chorus of hyenas.
Rayne finally managed to take a few steps toward the towel Brent had slung over the rail, and handed it to him. "Here, use this. It might-"
"So, think this is funny, huh?"
Rayne screeched as one of his paint-soaked hands clasped her arm. "Brent Jamison Hamilton! Let go!"
But h edidn't. Instead he pulled her into his arms and gave her a squeeze. Then he gave a devilish laugh.
"I can't believe you,"she said, struggling against his arms. "You're ruining my dress!"
"So? I'll buy you a new one. One that's tight and shows off those nice assets," he said, grinning at her. He looked like a crazy person, albeit a happy crazy person.
Her heart started thumping against her ribs. She caught his crazy happy bug and grinned. "I don't want one that shows my assets. This is highly... irresponsible."
Then he did something even more reckless. Some thing insane. He leaned down and kissed her. Not a peck. Nothing teasing. But a real kiss that tasted like awful latex paint. But beneath that was something she was almost certain was joy.
She giggled against his lips. A rumble of laughter started in his chest. Pretty soon it emerged and their lips were no longer locked. Instead they stood wrapped in each other's arms, covered in paint, laughing as if they'd sniffed glue. Or latex fumes.
Eventually, Brent released her and she jerked her head around and took a look at her butt. Sure enough two white handprints marred the backside of her sundress. She looked like one of those cards Henry brought home with his handprints on them each Mother's Day. Except these were large male handprints... on her bottom.
“Just look at what you did," she groaned, spinning around to show him. She should have been disgusted. Instead she felt lighthearted. As if she were thirteen again and crushing on the guy who made her heart flutter.
"Just leaving my mark," he teased, grabbing the towel that had fallen and trying unsuccessfully to mop up his face.
"You do realize we're still here," Aunt Frances said.
Rayne spun toward her aunt, her face igniting. How had she forgotten her aunt and Dawn? Good gravy.
Dawn smiled. "Looks a little messy, but fun."
Brent delivered a trademark Hambone smile, his gaze sliding to Rayne. "Hamilton Construction always appreciates a stamp of approval on our work. We want you satisfied.”
"How is this satisfactory?" Rayne quipped, rubbing at the droplets of paint on her arm.
“Let me finish the job and you’ll know.” He grinned the way Henry did when he'd done something naughty but worth it.
"Oh, brother." Rayne's groan caused the two others standing on the porch to snicker. She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the silly smile. How did one get latex paint off oneself? Thank heavens, she'd worn a braid and hadn't had her hair curling around her shoulders. That would have been messy.
"Hey, Brent, I meant to tell you earlier that Tyson wants you to call him about the proposition," Dawn said, breaking the absurdity of the moment. She readjusted her oversize purse on her shoulder and dug inside, coming out with keys in hand. "I think he's definitely interested."
Brent nodded. "Good. Tell him I'll call in a couple of days. My parents are coming back from their trip tomorrow."
Dawn smiled."Well, I'll let you two get back to your, uh, fun."
"Oh, no," Rayne said. "This is not my kind of fun."
"Oh, yeah? Well, in this designer's eyes, I'm seeing what you're not. I know when things go together.” Dawn trotted down the front steps. "See y'all later. I'm off to Houston. Good luck getting off all that paint."
"Bye," Brent and Aunt Frances called.
Rayne didn't say anything. It wasn't as if she was stunned by Dawn's words. Brent had left everything up to her with regard to their relationship. She knew he wanted more. He'd said so. And she knew she wanted something more, too. But sharing that something out in the open felt too real. It made Rayne feel as vulnerable as a newly born fawn on shaky legs. She wasn't sure if the feelings Brent stirred were worth the problems that were sure to come. She wrapped her arms about herself, wincing at the stickiness of the drying paint. "Well, I better rustle up some olive oil for getting the paint out of your hair. Best be glad it's not oil-based."
Aunt Frances gave them a knowing smile before slipping into the house. This time she didn't allow the door to slam. She closed it gently.
Brent stomped around a few moments more before pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it toward a cardboard box he used for debris. Brent still had a football player's body. One that hadn’t gone soft. She thought about Brandi and the other women who used him for eye candy, and she turned away.
"I guess I shouldn't have gotten so carried away. I kinda outted us. Sorry."
She didn't respond. Wasn't sure what to say.
"Not to mention, I ruined your dress." He walked toward her and pulled the skirt that bore his mark away from where it hung at her side. "I don't think it will come out."
Rayne took the fabric from him. "It wasn't expensive. Don't worry."
"Rayne," he prodded, seemingly understanding she didn’t know how to deal with what had happened. "Don't clam up on me."
"I'm not sure about what we are. I've gotten past the hurt I felt years ago. I'm big enough to overlook the fact you were embarrassed to let others know we were-"
"What are you talking about? I've never been embarrassed of you."
"I'm not trying to dredge up the past. I'm accustomed to being your secret friend. Not so out in the open."
He took a few steps away from her."We really need to get this paint off, but I can't let that statement slide. First, we're not kids anymore. We've been to the Dairy Barn together twice. Henry's been with us, but that only enforces the idea that I'm serious about you, Rayne. I don't care if people know it or not."
She opened her mouth, but he held up a band. "I'm not finished. Look, when we were kids, I didn't parade our friendship around the school because... well, because you were mine."
What the hell did that mean?
"I know it sounds selfish,” he said, staring out at the empty street, "but when we sat in the swing or crashed on the grass and stared up at stars or clouds, it was the only time I felt like I was me. At school, hell, outside that fence, I played a part. I guess it's one I'm still playing."
He turned toward her. "But back then, I just wanted to protect this - the world that I had when I’m with you. I wasn't embarrassed about you. Just didn't want to mix my worlds because without you and those stolen moments I couldn't do it. I couldn't be that guy everyone thought I was.”
Her heart crumbled at his words. He wasn't embarrassed of her? He wanted to keep their friendship, their first inklings of love a secret? "Well, thanks for communicating that to me. Guess I didn't get a choice in the matter. Those three years of high school were freaking torture for me. I was teased about being a skinny, flat-chested freak whose parents were weirdos. I was called bastard and retard and everything else under the sun. I don't think you endured that, did you? Instead, you passed me by in the hallway with a cheerleader on one arm and an entourage at your back. Then after the world went to sleep, you met me out back to twist my hair and dream about a better tomorrow. Sorta selfish wasn’t it? When you could have made life easier for me …at school.”
Brent opened his mouth but she held up her hand."No, it's my turn."
He closed his mouth, but his eyes showed a dawning. Had he really never thought about what her life had been like at Oak Stand High? Had he not realized what everyone else in town had thought about poor knock-kneed, skinny, redheaded Rayne?
She'd been like a broken toy that kept popping up. First, when she'd been in grade school, attending Oak Stand Elementary for three months before being jerked out because her parents found a place they needed to go in order to find peace, tranquility, and people who'd buy their art. The town saw her parents as burned-out hippies, and she and Summer got lumped in by default. When she'd finally come to live with her aunt and uncle, she thought it could be different, but her mold had been cast.
Being different in a conservative, small Texas town was beyond difficult.
''You decided for me, Brent. You had your cake and ate it, too. You can say all you want about pretending to be another person to please your parents or whoever, but being Brent Hamilton was, and is, not a hard thing to be.”
He opened his mouth again and she silenced him with her look.
"I walked around this town with nothing but a bad case of hero worship. I didn't get to go to the Dairy Barn after games with you or drive to the lake and drink beer. I sat at home on that damn swing waiting on you like some pathetic loser. It must have been nice to make out with Katie Newman as Brent the Stud and then come to me for chaste little kisses as Brent the Philosopher."
"I didn't treat you that way, Rayne." His words were tinged with irritation. No man liked to be called out. "Don't you realize you meant more to me? I loved you. You were my best friend. You gave me hope and peace and an anchor to my identity. When you left, I lost that. All those girls, football, drinking out at the lake-none of that was real."
"It felt real to me,"she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "It hurt me."
"But I didn't mean to hurt you. You were my soul mate. I could be myself with you. It's hard to explain, but you were like this perfect rose, beautiful to contemplate, a symbol of everything that was pure and good in my life. You were like reading Emerson, seeing a thing of beauty, not to partake, but to observe. To treat you like other girls would be... sacrilege."
Rayne stilled her hands. "Are you cracked?"
He stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"Seriously? You're talking to me of Ralph Waldo Emerson? Of things erudite and fanciful? I wasn't a muse. Or a... a... freak anomaly. I was a teenage girl who was in love with you."
"Emerson wasn't fanciful. Far from it." Brent moved to the rail. "And I know you were a girl. But you weren't like the other girls. It was a soul thing with us. I didn’t want to mess that up. I didn’t want to share that. I guess now it seems-”
“Selfish. Obtuse. Deal is, I’m not a symbol. I'm a person. I had flesh that needed something more than …an ode written to it. Who wants to be an image to be only contemplated?”
"Rayne-"
“No. I’m not a paragon on a pedestal. Or a rose too perfect to clip. I'm tired of being this... this ideal flower for you. I can see it now. The way you saw me. I was your counterpart, too pleasing as the yin to your yang to be anything other than your testing ground for ideas, for dissertations on self-reliance and beauty and love.
You made me something you couldn't have. Some kind of-"
"No, that's not what I meant." He ran a hand through his hair, but it didn't go far. The paint had started drying, making his hair clump together. He sighed and pulled away from the mess. "I saw you differently than other girls. That's true. And, yes, you were a bit of an ideal. But I never wanted to hurt you."
She lifted a shoulder. ''I don't think you did. But intention is one thing. Reality another."
For a moment all was quiet on the porch.
''Now I can see why you were only content to kiss me. You always backed away. Still do. Just like in the kitchen last week."
''The only reason I stopped is because I respect your wishes. You know I want more than kissing, but I value you more than a cheap lay. You mean too much," he said.
Damn if he didn't look as appealing as he ever had, bare-chested, streaked with paint and disillusioned. Rayne longed to slide her hand across his chest, feel the springy hairs as she felt his heart beat beneath her hand.
But she didn't go to him. Instead she walked to the door and slid her feet into the flip-flops she habitually left outside.
"What are you doing?" he said, straightening."We're not through talking."
She trotted down the steps. "I'm tired of talking. About the past. About the future. Instead, I'm doing what you said I should do. I'm following my gut instinct."
He watched her as she followed the path that led to his parents' backyard. "And that's taking you where?"
''Through the French doors of your house," she said. A strong impulse had knocked over the rationales she'd used to protect herself. Not to mention longing, desire, passion, and need-all balled up in to one had finished the job. If she and Brent were going to move in a direction, there was one path she wanted to walk down. And that path meant stepping through those doors literally and figuratively.
"Rayne," he called.
She turned around, flipped her braid over one shoulder, and unwrapped the elastic band that held it. She ran her fingers through the strands, releasing them so that they tumbled over her shoulders and back. "Quite honestly, Brent, if I’m your rose, I think it's time you plucked me."