Treasure on Lilac Lane: A Jewell Cove Novel (9 page)

“My great-grandmother would have liked you,” Abby said. The comment struck Jess as a bit strange, seeing as Abby had never met Edith Foster. “You’re stronger than you think, Jess.”

Before Jess could even react to the odd words, Abby dropped her hand and moved away to the kitchen table, where the buffet was spread. What did Abby know? Was it possible Josh had said something to Tom since her call the other night? It was the only explanation she could think of. On one hand the idea made her furious. It wasn’t Josh’s secret to tell. On the other … it was good to know she wasn’t alone if Mike did show up in town again.

You’re stronger than you think.

She certainly hoped so. Because the idea of facing Mike Greer alone scared her to death.

C
HAPTER
6

On a cloudy Monday morning, Rick finally got up the nerve to go through the spare room closet.

He’d been thinking about it ever since closing the bank box lid over the photo albums. He hadn’t even known they were there … boys didn’t pay attention to that sort of thing growing up. Sure, he’d posed for a few sports photos but for the most part a mom with a camera was a nuisance.

Now he wasn’t sure if he was happy to still have the memories or not.

With a stainless steel mug filled with coffee, he dug the boxes out of the closet and sat on the bed, sipping and looking through pictures.

The ones on top were the most recent, but ended several years before, when he’d officially become a Marine. There he was, a few pounds lighter, tall, and in the best shape of his life in his uniform, standing with his arm around his mom. She looked so happy and proud, and it sent another pang of regret slicing through him that he hadn’t given her many reasons to be proud in the last while. He stared at the face looking back at him. It was so young, so energized … that young man had thought he was ready to face whatever the world would throw at him.

He missed that guy.

That guy—that
boy
—had been slowly worn down by the unrelenting monotony of sand and sun, by miles of roads littered with IEDs, by the bodies of the enemy, and worse, the bodies of comrades. The man he’d become had seen the ugliness of war and it had taken its toll.

Long, hot days, the isolation, the constant stress. And one ambush that changed everything.

He was so sick of people saying he was lucky it was only his hand. They had no idea what he’d lost over there. None. His friend. His self-respect.

He flipped backward through the photo album. Basic training, summers at home, his skin tanned and healthy, his arm strung around Josh after a day on the water. Graduation … Jess standing in the background with her family. In his baseball uniform and a team picture from high school at the state championships. He’d been a junior, Josh and Tom seniors. Looking like they had the world by the tail …

His coffee was long gone by the time he’d flipped through two more albums, each one going back in time to earlier years, complete with cowlicks and T-shirts sporting the logos of his favorite teams. At ten years old, standing on skates and a hockey stick in his hand. At six, riding a two-wheeler. His chest constricted as he saw a picture of his dad, smiling, standing behind the bike as if he’d just let go of the seat, pushing Rick to go forward on his own.

The preschool years, complete with curly hair and pudgy cheeks. First steps. First birthday. And the very first picture in the album.

The plain-painted walls and trim were rather utilitarian, like a hospital, though he couldn’t be quite sure. His mom, looking impossibly young and happy, a blue bundle in her arms, and his dad, standing behind her, a huge grin on his face. And someone else—a young-looking Marian Foster.

Rick peeled back the now-brittle plastic on the album and took out the picture for a closer look. It was her all right, though clearly much younger than she’d been when he’d last seen her. There was no mistaking that dark hair and the big brown eyes that always seemed to be hinting at humor. He’d always liked Marian. She’d never had kids of her own, but whenever there was a town function she was there helping and she talked to the kids like they were human beings, not stupid or babies. He turned the picture over. The pen on the back was faded, partly worn away by the semi-sticky surface of the album page. But he could make out the blue ink.
Meeting our new baby son, June 11th, Camden
.

Rick touched the writing with his fingertip. June 11th—he’d been exactly one week old.

He read the words again.
Meeting our new baby son
 …

He put the photo back in the album, smoothing the plastic sheet back. A wrinkle creased down the middle of the page and didn’t want to smooth out. Over the years the plastic had dried out and yellowed slightly. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. There he was, bundled in a tiny blue blanket, only a week old, while the words “meeting our new son” ran through his head. That was the moment, then, that he’d become Rick Sullivan. His heart constricted as he stared at his mom, so young and obviously happy. He didn’t know the circumstances surrounding his birth parents, but he was in no doubt that he’d been wanted and loved.

God, how he missed her.

He put the album back in the box and returned it to the closet.

“Rick?”

The sound of his voice being called from downstairs made him jump.

“Rick, are you up there?”

It was Jess. Shit. Hurriedly he tucked the top on the box. “I’ll be right down,” he called, wondering what the hell she was doing here. He shut the closet door and his stomach suddenly clenched. He’d left the porch door open … and he’d been working on a new project—sunflowers on a four-pane window he’d found out in the back of the shed.

She couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see what he did with his days … and sometimes nights, if the nightmares kept him awake. Quick steps took him to the stairs and then down. “Hang on, be right with you!” he called, hoping she’d stayed in the kitchen.

But he smelled the soft scent of her perfume the moment he hit the bottom step. Damn. “Jess?” he called, hoping she answered behind him.

“In here.”

His stomach seemed to drop to his feet. In the porch. Where his easel was set up, the window propped on it, the frame sanded until it was soft and the glass cleaned and prepped for painting. He’d finished one pane already, with three sunflower blooms surrounded by dark green leaves and a smattering of miniature daisies. Dread rolled through his stomach … he hadn’t wanted anyone to find out, not here in Jewell Cove. There was a reason why he took his finished pieces to Portland and sold them to a shop there. He could remain anonymous.

Jaw clenched, he stepped to the door of the porch. She was standing in front of his easel, her eyes wide as she examined the work. Lord above, she was beautiful. He never tired of seeing that black tumble of curls, just begging to be tamed by a man’s strong hand, or the curves that were only hinted at beneath her loose, casual clothing. Today it was a soft white tunic shirt and a pair of tan linen trousers. Her skin was still tanned from the summer and he could see a light dusting of freckles on either side of her nose, making her look younger than she was.

She was life and beauty and vitality. She was beach glass, made smooth and vibrant from the water while he was driftwood washed upon the shore.

And now she knew his secret.

*   *   *

Jess looked up and saw him there. He looked angry, annoyed, and if she was any judge of facial expressions at all—guilty.

She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The long, narrow room had been transformed into an artist’s studio, complete with easel, rags, tubes and bottles of paint, brushes, sponges … it was the real deal. In Rick’s house. She couldn’t be more surprised if he’d announced he was the Dalai Lama and was petitioning for world peace.

“You did this? These?” She swept her hand out, the gesture encompassing the half-dozen paintings he’d finished, which were placed along the wall beneath the windows. Glass and frames of various sizes, with images of flowers, trees, birds, the ocean. Spectacular.

He didn’t answer, just stared at her. Jess doubted anyone in Jewell Cove knew what Rick did in his spare time.

He’d been a Marine, for God’s sake. All-star first baseman in his senior year and Jewell Cove hell-raiser before that. It was hard trying to reconcile that testosterone-fueled image to one of him as a painter. As an artist, she corrected mentally. There was no doubt about it. He was incredibly talented.

“They’re beautiful, Rick. Really stunning.”

“Was there something you wanted, Jess?”

She was taken aback by the sharp question. Did he really think she’d ignore what she’d walked into? He’d barked the words with more than a hint of accusation; he might as well have said
get out
.

“Well, yes. But it can wait a few minutes. How long have you been doing this? And why glass? What are you doing with the paintings?”

“Let’s just try to forget you saw them, okay?” He turned away from her, taking a step back inside the main part of the house. Was he hoping she’d follow?

“Forget? Not likely. I really like this one.”

He turned back. She stood in front of a long pane, again in an old window frame. He’d painted the frame an antique white and then distressed it to make it look old. Then on the back side he’d painted a winding profusion of hollyhocks climbing a cedar log fence with an oak tree in the background. The colors were vivid and yet soft on the clear medium. It was absolutely gorgeous. And worth money, she was sure of it. A lot of it. He should be selling these things, she thought.

“Jess…”

She went over to him then, took his hand, and pulled him into the porch. “Why are you trying to hide it? My God, Rick, this work is gorgeous. I had no idea…”

“And you wouldn’t have, either,” he said, pulling his hand away, “if you’d bothered to knock.”

Her brows pulled together. “I did knock and you didn’t answer. Your truck was out front and the door was unlocked. Anyway, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t be so touchy.”

“I’m not ashamed. I just didn’t want to have to explain. It’s private.”

Her heart caught a little. This was a side of Rick she never knew existed. “It is for most artists,” she explained. “What they create … it’s a part of them. It’s like revealing yourself to the world. But Rick, this shouldn’t be hidden away. You’ve got a real talent. When did you start painting?”

“Just leave it alone,” he answered impatiently.

She frowned. “No.”

He shrugged, then sighed, as if he realized he might as well speak since she wasn’t giving up.

“Fine. When I was in the hospital, I guess. Sometimes I don’t sleep that great.”

“Most people count sheep.”

“God, you’re persistent.”

She smiled. “Well, duh. This can’t be the first time you’ve realized that.”

Rick’s mouth curled up in a half smile that caused a strange pang near Jess’s heart. His eyes looked clearer today, his face cleanly shaven. The air around them relaxed as the argument dissipated, leaving intimacy in its wake. Their eyes met and something zinged between them. Attraction? Maybe. Recognition? Definitely. They had history whether they wanted to admit it or not. They’d been friends a long time.

“Yeah, it’s not the first time.” He gave a low, grudging chuckle. “You’re a wicked pain in my ass, Saint Jess.”

When he smiled like that, when he teased her, it was hard to remember the reasons why she was so determined to keep her distance. “I try,” she answered. “So. You started painting when you were laid up…” She led him with a new question.

“It wasn’t painting at first,” he explained. “I started doodling in the hospital. I was bored, and I started scribbling pictures of things I remembered from home. It wasn’t just my hand that I lost. I’d been poked with a few more holes and had to stay in the hospital longer than I would have liked. The doodling turned to sketching. I enjoyed it, and thought maybe the sketches weren’t too bad. I got a new pad, a few different pencils. After I got stateside I went to rehab at a clinic and they had this neat painting. It was the ocean but it was on glass and with the light behind it, it almost looked like the waves were moving. I did a little online research into how to do it and gave it a try.”

“How long ago?”

“A year? Maybe a year and a half.”

She shook her head. “Remarkable.”

“Not really. It’s just something I do. Besides, the first ones were horrible.” He shrugged again.

He was determined to minimize it. To make it no big deal when the truth was seeing his paintings gave her goose bumps. She was good with her hands. She was creative. But she knew her limitations, too. What Rick had was special.

“I could never do this, not in a million years. There’s something about them, something so alive and yet soft and romantic.” She grinned up at him, impressed and proud. “Who knew, right?”

“Yeah, well, can you just imagine what would happen if I admitted to the population of Jewell Cove that I fiddled around with paints? First of all, they’d never believe it. And second … well, it’d be a big joke.”

“Who cares what people think? Shoot, they already think you’re…” She paused.

“Think I’m a what, Jess? A nuisance? A has-been? A drunk?”

She felt her cheeks heat. “Rick…”

“That’s what you were going to say, right?”

She looked away, ashamed. “It’s possible I’ve been a little judgmental in that regard. I’ve also heard you’ve been doing much better … despite having to deal with your mom’s passing.”

“How generous of you.”

She looked up quickly. Her gaze locked with his and an unfamiliar breathless feeling took over as his dark eyes held hers steadily. They were clear and endless, without the red lids and fuzzy focus she’d seen in him in the past.

But was he really cleaned up or was she just looking and hoping for the best?

She took a mental step back. “Forget about all that for a moment. What are you doing with your paintings?”

He scooted past her. The room was narrow and there wasn’t much space to pass by her, but he managed to do it without touching her at all. Her gaze followed him as he made his way to the easel, touched the frame with a fingertip.