Secondary Colors (26 page)

When I wake the following morning, Holt is already gone. With a stretch, I check the clock on Holt’s bedside table, discovering a bouquet of purple lupine with tiny white daisies speckled between, the stems tied with soft bits of straw. Picking them up, I notice a piece of paper underneath and lean in to read it.

I bring the flowers up to my nose. Their fragrant aroma triggers memories of our afternoon in the meadow, playing in the stream, lying naked in the sun. These flowers only grow in one area on our property. He must have gone back up there to pick them for me.

Now, I have to figure out where he’s gone. I don’t see Max either. I note the time, ten-thirty.

I get up, grabbing his plaid button-down and my jeans draped over the brass footboard of his bed and throw them on. His shirt is big on my average frame, the hem hanging well below my average ass.

I head down to the first floor, rolling up the cuffs that hang past my hands. As I’m walking into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, Meredith comes through the front door with her arms full of bags. I hurry over when I realize she’s about to drop them and grab an armful.

“Thank you, baby. There’s about a thousand more in the car.”

I help her lug bag after bag of decorations for the party into the living room.

“Did you leave anything at the store?”

“You can never have too much, baby. We’re going to send you off in style.”

“The party’s not for another week-and-a-half, and—I know about our financial problems, Mom. You shouldn’t waste money on things like parties.”

“Who said I was having financial trouble?”

“Well, it’s a small town. People talk.”

“What else have you heard?”

She’s seeing if I know about the affair, but I have no desire to dive right into it.

“I’ve heard Mr. Channing has been offering you money for years, for the land. You aren’t going to sell it, are you?”

“No, I have no intentions of ever getting rid of this place. It’s our home, Evie. It always will be.”

“I’ve also been wondering if I should leave right now, when you’re in need of money. It’s my responsibility to help.”

“No, baby. It’s not. Believe me when I say, we are fine.” She runs her fingers through my hair. “And we have Holt to thank for it.”

“Holt?”

My Holt?

“He gave me a very large sum of money this morning. I didn’t want to take it, but he insisted.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, the corner of her mouth faintly lifting. “For you.” My body tenses and my heart melts at the same time. “He said you loved this place and he wanted to make sure it was here for you when it was time for me to pass it on.”

He gave my mother his inheritance? He should’ve used it for himself, to set up his future, not on me.

“That was nice of him, but very stupid.”

“Evie,” Meredith scolds.

“It was. He just gave up his future.”

I walk out of the room without excusing myself and seek out Holt. I need to understand why he would throw away his plans. Why would he give it away for me?

I check the entire first floor, porch, knowing he enjoys coming out here when he reads, and then down at the lake. He isn’t anywhere. He may have left the property altogether
or
—I hear faint music coming from the thick of the forest to the right of the clearing our house occupies, the same woods where he kissed me for the first time.

Instead of going back inside for shoes, I locate my mom’s gardening boots at the bottom step of the front porch and slip them on. They’re a little big, but they work.

I enter the path he usually takes when he disappears, and after five minutes of walking, the music playing in the near distance is louder, clearer.

Tucked away in the thick of the forest, a clearing with lush emerald grass and beautiful flowers in a mosaic of colors and the once rundown Victorian cottage, restored to its former glory, shining like a white pearl. Growing up the posts and along the delicate lace trim of the wraparound porch, lavender wisteria adds the perfect accent of color against the white paint. It’s like walking through the woods and into a fairy tale.

The gravel of the newly maintained driveway crackles under the stress of my footsteps.

To the right of the clearing, trees line the shore of the lake, hiding it from the view from the water, but allowing the tranquil blue to shine through.

I spot Max chasing something through the bushes toward the back of the property. There’s a whistle from the front porch. Holt stands at the top step, shirtless and dirty, looking better than he should. It’s selfish for any one person to hog up all the pretty. But I’m sure glad I get to look at him.

When he notices me coming up the driveway, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lip. It actually stops me in my tracks...again.

Totally selfish.

Why did I come here?

Oh, the money, right.

“You gave my mother your inheritance, why?”

He assesses me with careful consideration.

“She needed it,” he says with a nonchalant shrug before taking a sip of his water.

“You had plans for that money,” I remind him. “It was your future.”

“I still have plans for it.” He wipes sweat from his brow. It’s sweltering outside. I can’t imagine how hot it must be inside. “Besides, my future doesn’t concern you. We’re nothing more than a couple of lonely people screwing around, right? We have no attachment.”

Ouch.

I know we have an agreement, but that was an awakening slap in the face.

“Of course it does,” I mumble, trying to recover from the blow of his blunt words. “I mean, I’ve become accustomed to you.”

Accustomed to you?

I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, as I do when I get uncomfortable with a topic or situation. I tilt my head down, my hair gathering in front of my eyes, which are firmly planted on him through the gaps.

“I’ve even grown to like you.”

“Have you?”

“Well,” I hesitate for a fraction of a nanosecond, “yes. And I want the best for you. Don’t you want the best for me too?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice soft and genuine.

“Why did you do it, really?”

“You know why, Evie.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” he says as if he’s inside my head. “And I didn’t give it all to her, only my brother’s portion. I wanted it to go toward something good. Plus, I’ve decided to settle here for a while.”

“You have?”

“Mm-hm.” He nods at the little cottage. “Here.”

“You’re going to live in the cottage?”

“I figured I should probably get out of your mom’s attic. I’ll be moving in here when I’m finished. Shouldn’t be much longer now.”

I love that attic and the time we’ve spent there.

“Why?”

“Well, I’m sure she wants her space…”

“No.” I stop him. “I meant, why are you staying?”

“I found something worth staying for.” He steps into me, sweeping his knuckles over my jaw. I’m beginning to regret my question. Before this heads where I think this is heading, I change the topic.

“How much longer before it’s ready?”

“Oh, maybe a month or two.” He glances over the work in progress. “Would you like to see the inside?”

“I’d love it.”

He claims my hand and leads me into the house.

“I’ve gotten a lot done in here, but I have cosmetic work to do. It’s almost unrecognizable from how I found it.”

I know how it was when he found it. This place has been rotting on this plot of overgrown land since before my mother was born. It wasn’t anything like the diamond in the rough it is now.

He shows me through the cozy cottage. I begin to see it for what it could be. I picture comfy, worn furniture in the living room, paintings on the walls, bouquets of wildflowers on every table, and a fire going in the fireplace during the winter.

He takes me through the whole layout, working our way toward the back until there’s only one room left. We walk into a bedroom or an office. It has lots of windows. The sun really floods the room. It has built-in shelves and a bench seat under the large window watching the lake. I could imagine myself here, painting. It would be a perfect art studio.

I shake my head and laugh internally, realizing my mind is wandering to an unfathomable circumstance.

“This place is going to be incredible, Holt. I have no doubt with your masterful craftsmanship this cottage will be nothing less than picturesque.”

“Thank you, Evie. That means—a lot.”

He steps deeper into the room with me, taking my hand in his again, running his thumb over my knuckles. He looks down at our fingers interlocking. I look down, too. We stand quietly like this, our hands fastened, our eyes locked on them.

“Ask me,” he orders, like he did that day in the field. Except this time, I’m not sure I’m ready for the answer.

“Holt,” I breathe, but he places the callous tips of his fingers over my lips to stop me.

“Don’t.”

In one word, he breaks me down.

“I’m terrified.”

“Why?” he asks, sweeping his rough knuckles over the side of my face.

“Because I’m starting to feel things for you,” I blurt without processing what the words actually mean.

“Thank fuck,” he whispers, placing his hands on my face and dragging my mouth onto his. His arms wrap about my body, one hand now in my hair and the other gripping my backside, happily imprisoning me in his hold.

“I’m already there, Evie.”

“I don’t want to love you,” I confess in a broken voice, my heart beating out of my chest.

His arms remain locked around me like a chain, solid and secure. He rests his lips against my forehead. They’re warm and soft. “I know,” he whispers, constricting around me. “I know.”

alteration to the structure of a painting

I spend the day at the cottage with Holt, having one of our endless conversations. We tried not to bring up the impending deadline on our—arrangement. I hadn’t expected him to become more than he was. But he snuck in somewhere along the way.

Was it when he vanished for a week? When we had sex? When his lips touched mine for the first time? Or was it before that, when our eyes met in the garden on my arrival home?

I decide it wasn’t at once. It had crept up on me, stealthily, growing and budding like a flower.

When I enter the kitchen, Meredith asks, “Were you able to find Holt?” without turning to confirm it’s me. Mother’s really do have eyes on the back of their heads. She also knows the answer.

I step up to the counter, next to the stove, and lean my stomach into it. “Yes.”

“It was very kind of him to help us,” she remarks with a serenity on her face. I hate to be the one to remove it.

“Yeah,” I agree absently. She must hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

“Is everything alright, baby?”

“No.” I drop my face, evading her gaze. I’ll lose my courage. I could dance around it, or— I steel my nerves of jelly. “I know about your affair with Mr. Channing.”

She stops stirring.

Now she’s the one evading eye contact.

“Who told you?”

She doesn’t try to deny it.

Good.

I respect that.

Plus, I couldn’t take another lie.

“It doesn’t matter who told me. It’s out there.”

“Violet,” she wilts under the shame, “it’s more complex than a simple affair. It isn’t a fling.”

“A Rubik’s Cube is complex. This is—” I bend over the counter, my feet crossed at the ankle, my elbows on the cool tile, and cradle my face in my palms when a nauseating wave wipes me out, massaging my temples with my fingertips.

“What, baby?” With the hand not clenching a dishtowel, she rubs my back with broad circular strokes. “Talk to me.”

I straighten up and face her, gathering the courage from her nurturing touch.

“Christina knows.” Her eyes flash. “Not only does she know, she told him to do it. They knew you were stressed financially. That’s why Charles has been persuading you to sell the lake. If they get it, they’ll probably kick us and everyone else out of our homes because that’s the kind of people they are. I wasn’t going to butt in until I found out their intentions. I thought you should know who you were sleeping with.”

“Are you ashamed of me?” Tears make her voice faint and unsteady.

“At first, I was upset and hurt. Holt convinced me it wasn’t my business who you choose to be with.”

“He knows, too.”

“Everyone knows, Mom.”

In an eerily calm manner, she places the dishrag on the counter, turns, and walks toward the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?”

“To do what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Two hours pass since she stormed out and isn’t home yet. I’ve been tirelessly pacing the porch or sitting on the steps out front waiting, fending off mosquitos from making me their early evening meal. I have no idea what she intended to do, but I hope she doesn’t do anything irrational.

When the gravel driveway crunches under the tires of her car, I jump up. She appears withered, emotionally empty. I want to give her time to unwind and gauge her bearings, but I’m too curious to allow her the courtesy.

“What did you do?” I ask, swallowing down the lump floating in my throat since she left.

“I don’t have the strength to talk about it now, baby.”

She runs her fingers through my hair, a sad, weak grimace flashing across her lips, and then walks into the house and up the stairs. My eyes stalk her until her bedroom door shuts.

“What was that about?” Holt’s soothing voice says from the shadows of the garden.

I turn to him. He’s walking up the pathway, the lines of his face contorted with concern and confusion.

“She knows about Christina and Charles. She just got back from talking with him. At least, I think. She didn’t say anything.”

“You did it.”

“It didn’t feel the way I thought it would. When I saw the pain on her face, I wanted to curl up and die. I hate hurting my mother.”

“You’re a good daughter. You did the right thing. She had a right to know about what they were planning.”

“Then why do I feel the opposite?”

“Because you love her.” He pulls me into him and hugs me close, his chin resting heavily atop my head. “It might not make a difference, but I’m proud of you, Violet.”

A warm prickle pools in my tummy like a shot of tequila, but this makes me drunk on relief and happiness.

“It does,” I whisper, letting out a shuddered, dragged-out breath. When I inhale again, I take in the undeniable musk of him after a day of hard work. It eases me and makes me feel surrounded by him. “Let’s go up to your room,” I suggest, my fingers fiddling with the collar of his dirty white T-shirt.

His fingers spread out across my lower back, curl into fists, and clench the bottom of my shirt, becoming more stimulating than consoling.

“I’d love a shower,” he says, leaning into my ear. “I’ve never had you in the shower.”

I’m thankful he can’t see the need in my eyes and shyness on my cheeks.

After our shower, dressed in only his plaid shirt, I cook dinner while he reads. After another long day of working on that cottage and the amazing feats he executed in the shower barely big enough for one, he deserves time to read and wind down.

Occasionally, the sensation of his fiery autumn eyes burn into my back, but I don’t confirm. Instead, I work on feeding his stomach and let his eyes have their fill. I’m beginning to like the way it makes the hairs on my body stand on end. I’m no longer unsure about the intensity in which his gaze follows me.

I distribute beef stir-fry in two bowls, dishing him a heartier portion, and grab two sets of chopsticks, bringing them over to the bed. I hand him his dish and sit facing him on the mattress, in the alcove between his outstretched legs, mine bent over his. He’s never eaten with the wooden utensil, so I demonstrate. He fails his first attempts, the food dropping into the bowl before it reaches his open mouth.

I giggle at him fumbling with the thin sticks, but he seems determined to figure it out.

“Bring the bowl closer to your mouth,” I suggest.

He lifts it under his chin, pinching a bit of meat and bringing it to his lips. When it passes the threshold, he chews with a fulfilled smirk.

“Knew I’d get it.”

“I never had a doubt,” I tease and lean in to kiss him.

Late Saturday afternoon, I hitch a ride into town with Holt and Max. He has a special order waiting at the hardware store. I need blue and red paint from the art supply store. After, we’ll meet for a cold, creamy treat from The Ice Palace. He parks the truck in front and helps me out.

“I’ll meet you inside when I’m done,” he says. “I shouldn’t be long.”

He crosses Main Street and disappears into Makayla’s family business. I walk into the art store. I’m standing in the paint aisle, with every vibrant color of the rainbow and then some around me, when someone clears their throat beside me. Taking my focus off the tubes and palettes, my eyes locate the source of the noise and narrow warily.

Charles Channing, dressed in a pale blue polo shirt and beige slacks, stares at me with a reserved demeanor. He has that rich, useless aura about him.

“I was hoping to speak to you,” he says without even a hello.

Rude
.

“Why would I do that?”

I redirect my focus back on the green paint, hoping he’d get the hint I’m uninterested in his bullshit.

“Your mother must hate me.” I notice him run his hands though his hair out of my peripheral.

“As she should.”

“I never had intentions of taking the land from your mother. Christina had found out about our affair years ago. She wanted me to use it against Meredith, but I used it as a reason to keep seeing your mother.”

“That isn’t much better.” I turn to walk away, but he steps around me and stops me.

“I never wanted to hurt your mother. I love her. You must believe me.”

“Firstly, I don’t have to do anything. Secondly, the only person you have to convince of anything is my mother.”

“Why do you think I’ve come to you? She refuses to speak to me. I’ve tried. Tina threatened she’d divorce me when she discovered the affair, take me for everything I am if I didn’t play along with her plans. I agreed, but I used the freedom she’d given me to be with Meredith. I strung Christina along until I had certain matters in order to leave her.”

“Mr. Channing, this isn’t fair of you to bring me in the middle of this. I don’t want the responsibility of this affair on my shoulders. You shouldn’t tell me these things.”

“I realize this isn’t appropriate. But I wouldn’t explain this to you if your mother would talk with me. Please, please ask Meredith to allow me the chance to explain.”

The raw hurt in his blue eyes, Aidan’s eyes, wrenches the strings of my heart.

“I’ll let her know we spoke,” I agree without real commitment.