Mountain Sanctuary (11 page)

He expects a kiss, that little voice in her head reminded her. And you sure hope to honor that promise.

Stella sighed into the clean creamy-yellow towels that belonged to the Sunflower Suite. What would it be like, to be kissed by Adam Callahan? After all, he was a handsome man. Rugged and a little hard-edged, but good-looking in that mystery man kind of way. He had a good work ethic, no doubt about that. He sure wasn’t a slacker like her dearly departed Lawrence had been. No, sir. Adam was one of those men who just knew how to take care of things. He’d be good to any woman lucky enough to get him.

But…you don’t want him, do you? And you sure can take care of yourself. She was using the excuse of him being honest to hide her own dishonesty—she
was
very interested in Adam Callahan. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair, but she and Adam both had some soul-searching to do before they could move forward.

It wasn’t that Stella didn’t want to get to know him better and maybe even consider him more than a friend. It was as though she was afraid to even think about that, afraid to expose herself to something she couldn’t see or explain. It was just all too scary right now. She should have never teased him with the promise of more. Not even a kiss. Not even a touch. She should have kept things on a professional level. But last night…Forget last night, forget how he made her heart sing. Forget a future together.

She had a business to run, a son to raise, a sick daddy to take care of. How could she find any time for a love life anyway? That was just a silly dream, a lapse in good judgment.

She stood there in the sunny white laundry room, the scent of lemons and vanilla surrounding her as she held on to the fluffy towel, her crushed dreams as bright and full of hope as the sun’s rays falling across the picture she’d hung there of an old farmstead with the laundry stretched across the clothesline blowing in the prairie wind, and she wondered why she felt like crying.

Then she heard the doves cooing, heard their babies chirping in the little nest cloistered there in the sweet honeysuckles and suddenly Stella understood.

She wanted someone to walk in the garden with her, someone to cuddle and coo with her. She wanted a helpmate, a soul mate, a partner. There was a tear in her soul and she wanted that tear healed and sealed up with hope and love and happiness. That wasn’t such a bad dream, was it? Could she let go and have all of that with Adam, after all?

“Is it him, Lord?” she asked in a soft whisper. “Did You send this strange, intriguing, interesting man here to rescue me? Or to test me?”

For a minute, there was a sweet silence. Then a gentle, overwhelming thought popped into her head with such clarity, Stella wondered if the Lord had indeed spoken to her.

Maybe God had sent Adam to be rescued by
her
.

Stella heaved a shuddering sigh and wondered if she could live up to that particular command. Or was she just chasing rays of sunlight in the middle of a summer morning?

A
dam headed up the long main street into town, shifting the gears of his old truck as he left the hardware store on the outskirts of the city. He’d just been by the bank to cash his check and he had money to burn. Maybe he’d buy Kyle a set of those toy cars he liked so much. Or maybe he’d buy Wally a flash drive for his computer and show him how to use it to store information. Or maybe…No, he wouldn’t buy Stella anything.

Because she’d just get the wrong idea. And because he was tired of her mixed messages. One minute she wanted him to kiss her and the next…well, he just needed to remember the woman’s many moods and steer clear of trying to figure her out. But he couldn’t get the image of her standing in that window out of his mind.

Telling himself he had to stay the course and relax, Adam said a little prayer.
I leave it in Your hands, Lord.

Then he glanced over at the little art shop where they’d seen one of Estelle Clark’s paintings. And before he knew what had hit him, Adam was parking and walking toward the open door of the shop.

The proprietor, a stout little man with a gray beard and a name tag that stated Richard Lampkin, grinned from behind the counter. “Good to see you, young fellow. It’s been such a slow day, I was getting downright lonely. What can I do for you?”

Adam shifted back on his feet, then glanced around the long, narrow shop. “I’m looking for a certain painting by an artist named Estelle Clark—”

“Well, well,” the man said, getting up to come around the desk, “you sure do have good taste, son. That is one of my prized possessions. It’s right over here.”

Adam followed the man to the back of the shop. “I want to buy it. I’ll pay cash, but we need to do some negotiating. I don’t have enough on me for the asking price.”

The little man scratched at his beard. “You do realize an Estelle Clark painting is a rare find these days?”

Adam nodded as if he knew all about art. “So I hear. Why is that?”

The man scratched his bald head. “Well, we all knew her around here, of course. And while she was alive, she always sold real well at any kind of arts-and-crafts shows we’d put on. Then when she got sick, well, she couldn’t participate so much. Of course, after she died, well, then everybody and his brother wanted one of her paintings. I had several in stock—I held them on consignment for her and we’d split the difference. Made a good bit of money that way. She had one fancy showing in a gallery just around the corner, too. Went pretty good.”

“Why didn’t this one sell then?”

“I can’t explain that. The artist herself gave it to me just before she died, wouldn’t hear of me buying it outright. Said to make sure I sold it to someone very special. But for some strange reason, it just hasn’t gone out the door like I expected it to. I finally decided to just keep it—unless someone had a very good reason to buy it.”

Adam decided this man sure was lonely. He seemed to want to talk. But Adam wasn’t in the mood to chat.

“Why have you held on to this one for so long? You could have swapped it out, or sold it to an art dealer, right?”

The man touched a hand to the flowers on the canvas. “I guess I didn’t push it enough, even with the low price. You know, it is the last one, so unless someone really knows art and knows about Estelle, I don’t go into a lot of detail about my little treasure here. I set it out occasionally, but I don’t make a big fuss about it. I’d sure hate to see it go. And like I said, it’s the strangest thing. Almost as if this particular picture is just waiting for the right person.”

Adam leaned close. “Well, I might not be the right person, but I’m buying it for her daughter, Stella. It kinda needs to be a surprise.”

“Oh, well, now, ain’t that interesting! We’ve all heard the rumors about that situation. Not a pretty thing, a mother leaving her child like that. But I tend to believe there are two sides to every story.”

Adam was losing patience. “I’m not here to discuss Stella’s personal life. I just want to buy this picture.

She saw it here a while back and I think she’d like to have it back where it belongs—in the Sanctuary Inn.”

The man drummed his fingers on the glass counter. “In that case, I’ll make you a fair deal.”

Adam wondered at that, but the man did seem smitten with Stella’s deceased mother. And he couldn’t help being curious himself. Feeling guilty since he’d practically told Stella off because of her own curiosity, he asked, “What was she like?”

The man grinned. “Estelle? She was a sweet, quiet woman. Everyone loved her. She had that big old house but she rarely visited with her boarders. That was part of her mystery. She was a bit of a recluse, I reckon. But when she entered a room, well, she sure lit things up. Depending on what kind of mood she was in, of course.”

Adam didn’t want to think about that. Why couldn’t Estelle have shed some of that light on her daughter. Stella had obviously inherited her moodiness, though. “I need that painting,” he said, shuffling through his stack of twenties. Then an idea hit him, clear as a bell. “And I might have some artwork you could take on consignment.”

“You paint?”

“Not me, sir. But someone else I know. And not canvases like this. China painting.”

“China painting? You mean, on plates and cups and such? That might go over pretty good with the tourists. They love anything hand-painted.”

“Let’s talk business, Mr. Lampkin.”

The storekeeper gave him a shrewd look. “A man on a mission. I’m willing to consider part cash and part swap.”

“I’ll bring in a couple of teacups for you. And maybe some porcelain plates, too. You can price them and give the artist her part and the rest you’ll earn back toward the price of this picture. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds fair to me, depending on the artist. I need to know if it’ll be worth my effort.”

“Stella Forsythe—she’s the artist.”

Mr. Lampkin beamed. “You don’t say. Well, don’t that beat all?”

Adam knew he was treading on very dangerous ground, bartering some of Stella’s artwork for this last painting of her mother’s, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I need the painting now, though.”

Mr. Lampkin nodded. “Okay, son. You look honest enough. Besides wanting to give it to Estelle’s girl, why is this particular painting so important to you, anyway?”

Adam smiled. “Because I just might have to trade it for a kiss.”

The little man let out a cackle of laughter. “Well, I sure don’t want to disappoint you then. Let’s get down to business.”

Stella came downstairs to find dinner sitting on the table. Resentment toward Adam colored her world until she saw her father and her son setting out plates and napkins.

“Where’s Adam?”

Wally glanced up as she entered their private dining room. “He said he had some things to do. He grabbed a sandwich and took off.”

“Really?” Stella tried not to worry or wonder what things Adam had to do tonight. And she wasn’t going to fret just because the man had been avoiding her since she’d listened in on his conversation with Mrs. Creamer earlier. What did she care anyway?

“He said not to wait up, either,” Kyle added as he slammed silverware onto the table. “Ready to eat, Mom?”

“I am. What did you two cook up anyway?”

“Just a casserole,” Wally replied. “Chicken and vegetables with a mashed-potato crust. It’s like shepherd’s pie without the lamb. I reckon it’s an Arkansas-type shepherd pie.”

Kyle laughed at that. “Grandpa, you’re so silly.”

Wally made a face, then motioned for Kyle to sit down. He waited for Stella to do the same. “Let’s say grace.”

After they’d said the blessing, Stella looked at the bubbling casserole centered on the table. “Who taught you two to cook anyway?”

“Adam,” Kyle replied before shoveling in a steaming mound of food. “He said this is so easy even—”

“Even I could do it,” Wally interjected, giving his grandson a warning frown. “You just throw everything into one dish and bake it. Easy.”

“I could have cooked dinner,” Stella said. “It seems I never cook anymore. I got so busy with cleaning the upstairs rooms and checking the supply closet, I guess time got away from me.”

“We don’t mind,” Kyle said, his tone a bit too joyous.

“I guess you don’t at that,” Stella said, smiling over at him. “I appreciate the help. I got all the upstairs rooms cleaned and ready for this weekend’s boarders. And the Creamers won’t be leaving until Thursday, so we need to show them special treatment. They’ve been very loyal to the Sanctuary Inn.”

“They went out earlier,” Wally said. “I think they were going to have dinner at the restaurant out near Lake Hamilton.”

“I like Mrs. Creamer,” Kyle replied. “She tells me funny stories about her dogs. They like to chew everything.”

“Animals can be that way,” Wally said. They enjoyed their meal, laughing and talking about everything from dogs to the upcoming summer camp Kyle wanted to attend out on the lake. Then Wally pushed back his plate and let out a sigh. “I’m mighty tired tonight. Think I’ll watch some sitcoms, then turn in early.”

Stella gave him a searching look. “Daddy, are you taking your medicine?”

“Of course I am.” He patted her hand. “Now, don’t go get all worried. I’m old, Stella. And that means I’ll have good days and bad days.”

“But are you eating right? Does this casserole have too much fat?”

“No, it doesn’t. Adam made sure he got low-sodium vegetables and the chicken is all lean, white meat. It’s all right, honey.”

“I just want you to take care of yourself,” she said as she got up to clear the table. “I’ll do the dishes. Kyle can help.”

Kyle bobbed his head and carried his plate to the sink, then rinsed dishes to hand to Stella. “Can I stay up with you, Mom?”

“Nice try,” Stella said, shaking her head. “But you still have a few more days of school. You need to get your sleep.”

Kyle made a face, but when his grandfather held out his hand to the boy, he took it. “I’ll get him bathed and in his pajamas,” Wally said. “We can read a book before I tuck you in and we say our prayers,” he told Kyle.

Stella watched as they marched off together, one old and tired and one young and full of energy. Which left her standing here, loading the dishwasher, all alone and full of inner turmoil.

Then she looked out at her studio and saw a light on there. Did she forget to turn it off earlier? Finishing up the dishes, she looked around the tidy kitchen then headed out the back door, the scent of gardenias and magnolias merging in the quiet night air as she moved through the garden.

When she opened the door, she found Adam standing in the middle of her workshop, his hands on his hips and a guilty expression on his face. “What are you doing?” she asked, all of her emotions coiled and frayed.

“I…uh…I cleaned it up in here a bit and I…uh…made you some new shelves.”

He had indeed cleaned things up. At first, she wanted to scream at him for messing in her space. But how could she do that when he’d only organized things so she could find her tools and brushes and paints? The entire place seemed a little brighter and much more cheery. The man had even put a potted plant in one of the high windows.

“Alcohol and turpentine are right here,” he said, waving toward a neat shelf. “And olive oil and kerosene are on the next shelf. Your paints are over there, in order and by mixture. I didn’t mess with your drawings or sketches. Or the stuff you’ve got all ready to go into the kiln.”

“I can see that,” Stella said, her voice just beyond harsh. She couldn’t find fault with his handiwork. “Why did you do this, Adam?”

“I was restless. I needed something to do, is all.”

She smiled over at him, wondering if they could get past last night and this morning and everything else standing between them. “So you ran out of things to do inside the house and decided to come on out here?”

“You don’t mind, do you? I mean, I tried to keep things where you could find them.”

She didn’t miss the way he averted his eyes. He was still uncomfortable after their spat this morning. “I don’t mind. I have to admit I did at first. I’m kind of picky about people messing in my stuff. But this looks very neat and tidy and I can find things just by looking up at the shelves. That should make my work go much better.”

He put his hands in his pockets. “Good, then. That’s what I wanted. To make your work go much better.”

“Well, that was nice of you.”

“I didn’t do it to be nice.”

“Then why did you do it? Really, why?”

He shrugged, looked uncomfortable all over again. “I thought maybe if you could come out here and relax you’d feel better about things in general.”

“I just might,” she said, wondering if she’d been so cranky that the man felt obligated to make things pretty for her. “Trying to soothe my savage soul, Callahan?”

“No. You don’t have a savage soul. But I do think your soul is a bit bruised.”

“I’m fine,” she said, a shard of anger cutting through her even while his kind words tugged at her heart. “We got everything cleared up between us this morning. You don’t need to be fixing
me,
understand?”

“I’m not trying to fix you. Just trying to make your life a little easier.”

“So that’s your job now? You fixed things in the Big Easy, and you can’t seem to stop here in sleepy little Hot Springs, Arkansas?”

“You don’t have to make it sound like that.”

Stella hated herself for being so cynical and mean, but it was her only armor. “You’re right. I didn’t mean it to sound like a condemnation or a whine. It’s nice to have someone fixing things for me for a change.”

He came closer. “That’s what I mean. You’re so used to being the one in charge, I just thought maybe I could soften things up for you some. You know, prove to you that your work has value, same as anyone else.”

Stella wanted to tell him that he had done just that. He’d softened things so much around here, made things work so much better—including her—that she wanted to run to him and cry tears of joy. But she had to refrain from doing that. After all, she didn’t want to get too comfortable depending on him. “You’re almost too good to be true, Callahan, you know that.”