Hummingbird Lake (16 page)

For a long moment, she didn’t move but simply allowed it to ring. It was probably Sarah calling, maybe Nic. She should answer and apologize for her outburst last night, but she simply didn’t have the heart for it. So she let the phone ring until it stopped.

It rang again five minutes later. Again she allowed it to go on until it went silent after ten rings. When it
sounded again two minutes later, she gave up and switched on her answering machine.

To her surprise, once her leave-a-message recording played, the voice she heard wasn’t one of her ticked-off girlfriends.

“I know you’re there,” Colt Rafferty’s voice rumbled from the answering machine. “I see the lights.”

Listening to him, Sage felt her pulse rate speed up.

“I’m not gonna bother you tonight,” he explained. “However, you need to go check your front door. I left something for you.”

“More chili?” she said aloud.

“It’s not supper,” he continued, as if he’d heard her. “I had a trout dinner in Gunnison, and I all but licked my plate clean. Still, you need to bring it in before it freezes. I hope you had a great workday today and that whatever plans you have for tonight are pleasant ones. Speaking of pleasant plans, I’m gonna go soak in the hot tub and think of you. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like, but I probably should warn you—I won’t be wearing swim trunks.”

Standing in the middle of her living room, staring at the answering machine, Sage swallowed hard. No trunks? Now that was just cruel.

“G’night, Cinnamon,” he continued in a low, intimate tone. “Don’t forget to check your front porch.”

The machine clicked and fell silent. Sage sucked in a deep breath, then hurried to the front of her cottage. She flipped on the porch light and opened the front door.

Spying his offering, she began to laugh. Daisies, sunflowers, spider mums, and greenery emerged from a truly hideous ceramic flower vase that depicted a Taylor River rainbow trout.

Seeing it, Sage fell a little bit in love.

TEN

Sage didn’t see or speak to another soul for days. Her friends gave her the space she’d requested. Wanting to avoid any further confrontation phone calls might bring, she sent emails to Nic and the others apologizing for her outburst and asking them to respect the boundaries she’d drawn out of necessity. The notes they’d sent back remained a bit on the frosty side but did indicate a reluctance to allow the situation to permanently damage their friendship. Grateful, Sage told herself that the situation would improve with a little time, and she tried not to let herself fret about her relationships with her friends.

She also tried not to be too curious about the man next door.

She hadn’t seen or spoken to Colt Rafferty, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t made his presence known. The man kept leaving gifts at her front door. A CD of Irish folk tunes. A butterfly carved from wood. A ridiculous four-foot-tall hot pink teddy bear that she knew had been for sale in one of the tourist shops downtown since she moved to Eternity Springs.

She loved it. She loved all the gifts. Each day she looked forward to opening her door. She found herself peeking through the curtains in an attempt to catch him coming or going. Frankly, she enjoyed the attention.

Sage had gone on a handful of dates since Peter’s
death. They’d all been casual, and each time she’d felt awkward and unready to resume that part of life. Not only had she needed time to mourn Peter, she also recognized that dating was an exercise in futility. Relationships required openness and honesty, and that she simply couldn’t give. She couldn’t let anyone in.

Look at the damage her secrets had done to her relationships with friends. Imagine throwing a man—a lover—into the mix. Nope. Wouldn’t work. Couldn’t work. Not unless she was ready to pour out the whole ugly story, and even if she summoned the courage to tell it, there was no guarantee that the person who heard it would understand the enormity of what had occurred.

Words couldn’t explain what had happened that day. Her nightmare paintings couldn’t begin to depict the horror. How could anyone understand her, accept her for who she was, without knowing what had happened that hot African morning?

And if she did try to tell people, then what? Would they blame her? Pity her? Hate her?

Just like she hated herself?

No. She wasn’t ready to go there. She simply couldn’t do it. Not that she had abandoned all hope of working past the problem. She would never forget, but she trusted that eventually she’d learn to live with the memories. After all, she’d been doing pretty well before Nic’s babies came. She had to believe she would claw her way back to mental health. She could do it. She simply needed more time.

In the meantime, due to the fact that Colt Rafferty’s time in town was temporary—now less than a week, she believed—she could enjoy his attentions without worrying about the future because the future wasn’t on the table. He was just a visitor. He lived thousands of miles away. He was safe.

Which was why, on the fifth day of her self-imposed
isolation, she picked up her phone and dialed the Landry cabin. Colt answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Is this the North Pole?”

He remained silent a beat, but when he spoke, she heard the smile in his low-timbred drawl. “That depends. Are you naughty or nice?”

“I’m nice. Definitely nice.”

“Darn.”

She chuckled at the regret in his voice, then said, “I’m so nice that I’m calling to invite Santa to a pot roast supper tonight if he doesn’t already have plans.”

“Ho ho ho.” Now she heard delight in his tone. “What time should my bag of toys and I arrive?”

“Better leave your toys at home, big guy. This is a dinner invitation only. Seven o’clock would be good.”

“See you at seven, beautiful.”

Sage hung up her phone and glanced at the teddy bear she’d propped in a seated position on her cream-colored sofa. “We have a dinner date. We’d better get moving.”

Not that she had too much to do to get ready. She’d managed six whole hours of sleep last night and she’d awakened in the mood to cook, which was why she already had a pot roast simmering on the stove, homemade bread rising on the counter, and an apple pie fresh from the oven. All she really needed to do to prepare was to primp. With a spring in her step, she headed for her bedroom with the thought of taking a nice warm bath. As she passed her studio, she paused, then stepped inside, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled the door shut. Her nightmare paintings were not for public display.

She added lavender-scented oil to her bath and managed to take a full hour getting dressed and ready. She chose brown slacks and a forest green V-necked cashmere sweater, dangling topaz earrings, and, just for fun, a barrette of fairy wings for her hair. At five minutes to seven, she took her bread from the oven and set it on the
counter to cool. He knocked on her door at precisely seven o’clock.

Sage drew a deep, calming breath, checked her reflection in the hallway mirror, and answered the door. She burst into laughter. He was dressed in jeans and the top half of a Santa suit, and carried a dark pillowcase draped over his shoulder. Stepping back from the doorway, she waved him inside. “Where in the world did you find a Santa costume on such short notice?”

“Costume? What costume?”

She rolled her eyes and eyed the pillowcase. “I thought I told you no toys.”

“No toys. Wine.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a lovely Napa Valley cabernet that he handed to her, saying, “Okay, maybe I did bring a toy, too.” Reaching inside the pillowcase once again, he drew out a small box.

“A Slinky!” Sage exclaimed with delight. “I love these things.”

“I couldn’t decide between that and Silly Putty, so …” He drew out the famous egg. “I got both.”

“You’re crazy.” She removed the Slinky from the box, balanced it in her hands, and played with it. Her grin grew slowly but surely, and she felt a lightness of heart that she hadn’t felt since … well … since the teddy bear showed up on her porch the day before. Glancing up from the toy, she asked, “Why the gifts?”

Unbuttoning the Santa top, he slipped it off, revealing a green cable-knit sweater beneath, and said, “You strike me as a woman who can use a few gifts.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You have a beautiful smile and I haven’t seen it enough. Besides, I’ve had fun picking out the presents. I like thinking about you during my day.”

“You have quite a line, Rafferty.”

“It’s not a line when it’s the truth.”

She fumbled for a comeback to that and settled for inanity, “I’ll go open the wine.”

She escaped to the kitchen where she pulled the cork and checked her roast. She returned to the front room carrying the bottle and two glasses, and found him studying the brochure from Art on the Bricks in Fort Worth.

She folded her arms. “If you’re going to criticize my work, you might want to hold off until after dinner or you’re liable to go to bed hungry.”

He set the brochure down and winked at her. “After spending the evening with you, I rather suspect I’ll go to bed hungry whether I eat your pot roast or not.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

He laughed. “Okay, here’s an honest question. I’ve spent a good share of the past week working with wood, and it’s made me curious about your creative process. How did you get started with fairies?”

Sage sipped her wine and savored the taste of cherry and oak as she recalled the day she had produced the work that changed the direction of her life. “It was the first year after I’d moved here. I woke up to a miserable, muddy day in late spring. It was dark outside, I felt dark inside, and I wanted some light in my world. I turned the TV on to the movie channel, and Julie Andrews was singing ‘My Favorite Things’ in
The Sound of Music
. I picked up my sketch pad thinking I’d sketch my version of the song, and the first thing that came to mind was Tinker Bell. It took hold of me then, and my list of favorite things ended at one.”

Colt studied her thoughtfully. “Define ‘it’ for me.”

“My muse. Sarah calls it my creativity wind. I don’t dial into it every time I work, but when I do …” She shrugged. “I suspect it’s what a crack high must be like. It’s addictive. I think of it as the Force.”

When he frowned thoughtfully, she gave in and acknowledged
his own artistry by asking, “What is it like for you?”

Now his frown deepened into a scowl. “I’m a chemical engineer, not an artist. I carve for something to do, to keep my hands busy. Anything I’ve ever carved has been the result of deliberate planning and design.”

Although his sentence ended, Sage sensed that he had yet to complete his thought, so she remained silent. A few seconds later, he added, “Until this week.”

“What happened this week?”

His answer was slow in coming, but he finally replied, “The day I fished the Taylor River I ran into Celeste.” His brow furrowed and his lips tightened, causing those dimples to wink. “She has an uncanny way of cluing into people, have you noticed?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He told her about finding wood and a note on his car. “After I left the flowers on your porch that night, I went back inside and turned on ESPN. I watched a basketball game. I don’t remember picking up my knife or the aspen log Celeste left me, but by the time the game ended, the butterfly I gave you was almost finished.”

Sage nodded. “The Force.”

He glanced at her easel, where a half-completed painting of a rose garden sat. “I’m not sure I like your Force.”

“Oh, I do. There is nothing I like better than losing myself in the work.”

With a smile, Sage suggested they sit down to dinner while the bread was still warm from the oven. They discussed college basketball while they ate, arguing potential selections for the upcoming NCAA tournament. He was sufficiently complimentary about her cooking and had second helpings of everything and thirds of her bread. When she politely but firmly refused his help dealing with the dishes, he asked if she minded if he
started a fire in the fireplace. She joined him a few minutes later carrying slices of apple pie.

Welcoming flames crackled in the fireplace and Norah Jones played on the stereo. He sat on the couch with his boots off and his feet propped up on the ottoman. He idly pulled and stretched the Silly Putty while he stared into the flames. He looked totally comfortable, totally at home. As if he belonged here.

Sage handed him his pie, kicked off her own shoes, and sat beside him—not too close—curling her legs beneath her. “So, when are you heading back to D.C.?”

“Sunday.”

“Are you anxious to get back to work?”

“I should be. My team deployed to an incident in Alabama this morning. Ordinarily I’d be chomping at the bit to join them.”

“And you’re not now?”

“Nope.” He took a bite of his dessert, hummed appreciatively, and added, “I’m blaming it on Celeste and her block of wood.”

“My butterfly?”

“The myriad of possibilities.”

“I don’t understand.”

He didn’t respond right away, but instead finished off his pie in three quick bites. Sage was wondering if she’d given him too small a piece when he set aside his plate.