Two Family Home (11 page)

“No.” Red had talent, but Walker wouldn't call him an artist. His skills were more of mimicry than of original vision, although Red would argue that his vision
was
mimicry. That was Red's real strength: shaping the truth to suit his needs. Or at least shaping the appearance of the truth. And blaming the other guy whenever he did something wrong. “My dad . . . encouraged my art.”

Especially when he discovered he might be able to make money from it.

“I thought your dad was a jerk?”

“He was. He is. He probably still is.” Walker couldn't imagine that prison would have made Red more appealing in any way.

“But he encouraged your talent.”

“No, he encouraged a way for him to make money off me.”

“Hmm. It seems like if a parent wants to get rich off his kid, art should not be the field he pushes him into.”

“He didn't care if I really made art. He just wanted to be able to sell it. Or, sell the idea of it.”

“I don't get it.” She really wouldn't let it go unless she could find the sunny side.

Well, he'd show her. There was no sunny side, which she would discover once she knew the whole story.

“He's in prison.”

She sat up. “Why?”

“Wire fraud. He made a bunch of fake Civil War-era paintings and tried to pass them off as the real thing.”

“Wow. And he got caught?”

“Eventually.”

“Hmm. Seems like that wouldn't be a great way to make a living. How did it work more than once? Didn't people catch on?”

“He was always good at knowing when to skip town. Usually the gallery or shop would want to keep it quiet to protect their reputation, and he counted on that. We moved a lot.”

“Oh.” She tightened her hold around his chest, then let it go. “When I was growing up, I always wished we would move. Not because I didn't like Arizona—”

“Of course you did.”

“Of course I did. I like everything.” She pinched his side. “The new kids always seemed so . . . cool. They came from these other, exciting places. What was it like in those mysterious places they came from? What was sixth grade like in Indiana?”

Walker snorted. “You thought Indiana was exciting?”

“I've never been there. It might be exciting.”

“You really were sheltered, weren't you?”

She rolled on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. “And that's why I live in exotic Kentucky.”

“Lucky me.”

“Damn right, lucky you.”

She leaned down to kiss him, and he was just getting into it when she lifted her head up.

“So how did he get caught?”

It took Walker a second to realize that Lindsey was talking about Red. “Sold a piece to an undercover federal agent.”

“Oops. Where were you?”

“I was finishing high school. They wanted me to testify against him, but the lawyer they appointed got me out of it.”

She rested her hands on his chest, rested her chin on her hands. “Wait. How did you get out of testifying?”

Walker rolled out from underneath her.

“You're killing me, Walker.” When he didn't turn back toward her, she snaked a hand around his waist.

“Are you trying to bribe me with sexual favors?”

“Yes,” she said, with absolutely no hesitation.

“If I answer this question, can we be done with the inquisition?”

“We can be done for tonight.”

“With the inquisition?”

She smiled at him and kissed his chin. “Yes. Just the inquisition.”

Walker sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He really, really liked having sex with Lindsey. But he really, really didn't want to answer her question.

“Hey,” she said gently, rubbing a hand across his chest. He thought if he waited long enough, she might let him off the hook.

No such luck.

“I didn't have to testify because I would have incriminated myself.”

She wrinkled her brow. “You mean you—”

“I helped him make fake art.”

“Oh.” She started the rubbing again, then leaned up on her elbow and turned his chin until she was looking into his eyes. “Walker, that's a terrible thing your father made you do.”

“Is this going to be pity sex?”

“Hush. I've seen what you do now. You're not painting. You're not faking some historical canvas. That giant metal tree out there? That's your own work. That's all you.”

Walker blinked and looked away from her. He knew that. He didn't need Lindsey to tell him that. He couldn't quite explain the squeeze that went from his gut to his throat, but it definitely was not because he'd been waiting a long time for someone who had nothing to gain to see his work for what it really was. Not a way to fake people out, not a way to make money. Just something beautiful.

But he didn't want to think about how much that meant to him, or how much Lindsey was starting to mean to him. So when she crawled over him and asked, “Ready for those sexual favors?” he grunted and flipped her on her back and ended the inquisition.

 

He loved these people, he really did. They smelled interesting and they gave him good food. But sometimes, he had to run. And when they were busy with each other, doing whatever the heck they were doing, he found his chance to escape for a little while. Getting out of the door was easy, but squeezing through the holes in the fence was a little harder. He had to dig and dig and dig before he could fit through. But then he did fit, and then he was through, and then he started running.

W
hen Walker woke up, it was quiet.

The sun was streaming through the sheer curtains, which was strange because he didn't have curtains. The sheets smelled floral-y and when he opened his eyes, the sheets looked floral-y, too.

He also smelled coffee.

Three signs that he was not in his own apartment.

When he'd imagined Lindsey's room, which happened with alarming regularity when she first moved in, he'd pictured gauzy curtains and lots of pinks and purples and, for some reason, a lot of fake fur.

Aside from the curtains, he had it totally wrong. Her room was a riot of bold, bright colors—a bright blue bedspread over floral sheets, red curtains made of raw silk, a small area rug with splashes of yellow and orange. But rather than looking like a rainbow threw up, everything somehow tied together. It didn't match at all, and yet, it completely matched. For someone who claimed to have no artistic ability, she had a good eye for color.

Also, there was no hint of fake fur. A sign of good taste.

There also was no hint of real fur, which concerned him because when Booger was quiet, that usually meant Booger was doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. Walker rolled out of bed and found his jeans, threw them on, and followed his nose to the coffee.

It was in the kitchen, but Lindsey was not. Instead, there was a note. On pink paper.

His scowly face morphed into a smile. He poured himself some coffee—black, in a purple mug—and went through the laundry room to see what havoc Booger hath wrought.

There was no havoc—at least, there was no havoc that hadn't been wreaked before. There was also no Booger. Walker started walking through the house, calling the dog, saying “treats” and “walk,” knowing those were two things Booger couldn't resist.

Still no Booger. And no Booger when Walker put down the coffee and went outside, even as he increased the volume on Treats and Walk. Then he noticed the hole in the fence, and the freshly dug up grass in front of the hole.

Crap.

He went inside to throw on some more clothes, chugged his coffee, and hopped in his truck to track down his dog.

Lindsey's dog.

Whatever. The lost dog.

 

“What's gotten into you?” Myron asked as Lindsey turned off the TV in his room.

“Nothing,” she said, throwing the curtains open. “It's a beautiful day, Mr. Harris. Don't you think you should enjoy it?”

“Why, you know something I don't?”

“I know it's sunny and that television will rot your brain.”

“Fine, I'll sit inside and read.”

“Or you could go outside and read.”

“You trying to get rid of me?”

“No, I'm trying to get you to embrace the day. And to get you out of here. It's cleaning day.”

“Fine. I'll go outside. Tell those guys not to move my stuff!”

Lindsey saluted Myron as he shuffled out the door. She ushered the cleaning crew in for the scrub-down, and got out of the way as sheets and disinfectant started flying.

It was a beautiful sunny day, mercifully not too hot. She was well and truly headed toward her first real autumn. For now, there was a shed full of outdoor equipment just waiting for some intrepid head nurse/activity director to pull out and organize. Today, that intrepid person was going to be Lindsey.

As she strode merrily across the lawn, she waved at Mae and Gladys, who were gossiping on a bench under the old oak tree. “You look happy, Miss Lindsey,” Mae shouted.

She was happy. The world was bright and clear, there was a bocce ball tournament in her future, the grass was waving, the flowers were blooming. If she wasn't so totally, blissfully happy, she'd have thought she was trapped in a feminine hygiene commercial.

With old people.

And bocce balls.

As she slid the bocce ball set out of the shed, she heard a few shouts behind her. Then the ground shook with a mild thumping, and before she could turn around, she was thrown on the ground, face first.

It only took a second to recognize those giant feet that had her pinned to the gently waving grass. She rolled over and let Booger lick her face before sitting up and looking around.

“Where'd that dog come from?” Mae shouted.

“My house,” Lindsey shouted back.

The question was . . . how?

She heard a whistle and turned to see Walker running across the lawn toward her. He was holding a leash. She imagined the leash used to be on the dog.

She should be mad. But Walker looked cute and disheveled in yesterday's clothes, and his messed-up hair reminded her of all of the fun things they did last night to get his hair to look like that, and she just couldn't work up the anger. She took his hand when he offered it, and let him hoist her off of the ground.

“You found the dog,” he said.

Lindsey looked down at Booger, who was digging into the grass at their feet. She took the leash from Walker and snapped it onto Booger's collar. “Yup.” She handed the leash back to Walker. “How'd he get away from you?”

“Uh . . .”

“Is this the dog we were supposed to go look for?” Myron asked, coming up behind Walker.

“Yeah,” Walker said.

“Found him,” said Myron.

“What do you mean, the dog you guys were supposed to look for?”

“Uh . . .” said Walker again. “He kind of . . . got out of the yard.”

“What? How did he do that?”

“He dug a hole under the fence. Must have done it while we were sleeping.”

He lowered his voice on the last word. As if Myron couldn't guess. As if they all couldn't guess, with the way she'd been running around like a happy tampon.

“Oh, you poor baby,” she said, kneeling down to squeeze Booger's face. “Why are you trying to escape our love? Don't you know we're your best friends and we're going to love you forever and ever? Oh, you're just too precious. I want to cut off your cute little ears and put them in a sandwich.”

“I can't imagine why the dog would run away,” Myron muttered.

 

The lady was talking so funny. He had no idea what she was saying (it wasn't “treats” or “walk,” he knew that), but he liked when she talked funny and got close enough so he could lick her face. He liked this place. There was lots of grass and lots of nice-smelling people who petted him a lot. He was going to have to dig out from under the fence more often.

B
asically, the dog was following her to work.

Not that Lindsey minded. Booger was actually really good with the residents—gentle and patient, more or less doing what he was told. The fact that many of the Shady Grove cardigans were now full of dog treats surely had nothing to do with that.

But she couldn't always take the dog to work. It was nice, but it was distracting. Plus, she knew Walker missed him. He hadn't said so—the chance of Walker admitting a weakness was as unlikely as the chance of him willingly telling his secrets. But it wasn't clear who wagged his tail harder when she and Booger came home from work. She was starting to feel insulted.

Walker usually made up for that.

God, he was good in bed. She never would have guessed that a man who was so reserved in real life would be able to open her up the way he did. It had been almost every night since that first time, and if he woke up early enough, every morning, too. She should be exhausted.

She was a little exhausted.

Keeping track of Booger on top of her actual job didn't help. She spoke to the residents about how, for now, Booger was going to be a “sometimes” visitor, not all the time. And since she was pretty sure Walker would sometimes need to leave the house, they had to figure out a way to keep Booger contained.

“We need to fix the fence,” she told him over a lazy Saturday cup of coffee.

He raised his eyebrow. “We?”

“Well, you're the landlord, but it's my dog, so, yes. We.”

“Do you know how to fix a fence?”

She looked deep into her coffee mug. It contained no answers. “No.”

Walker tipped his chair back so he was balancing on two legs. She hoped he tipped over, if that would wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his face. “So, I need to fix the fence.”

“Do
you
know how to fix the fence?”

The chair crashed down on all fours. “No.”

Since it had been over three minutes since Walker had touched her, Lindsey felt compelled to climb in his lap. That, and the fact that she wanted to preserve her chair legs.

“So . . .” She stroked the hair at the back of his neck.

“So,” he said. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Lindsey forgot what the problem with the fence was, again. Something about the dog. And the broken . . . God, he was handsome.

“Linds,” he said, brushing a curl behind her ear. “It's pretty clear to me that you already have a plan for the fence, so why don't you just go ahead and tell me.”

Oh yeah. The fence.
“Well . . . I was thinking.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Since we already know a guy who knows how to fix stuff, maybe we could just call him?”

“Who do we know?”

“Jake Burdette.”

“Okay, I'll call him.”

“Well . . .”

“Let me guess. You already called him.”

“I just thought, since you guys sort of knew each other already, that maybe it would be nice for you to work on the project together.”

“You don't think he would rather get paid to do it himself?”

“I bought beer.”

He looked at her, that little crease forming between his eyebrows. “Lindsey. Are you trying to set me up with Jake?”

She shrugged. “Just as a friend. He's really nice. And he likes to do dude stuff, and you like to do dude stuff, so I thought . . .”

“We could do ‘dude stuff' together?”

“Yeah. Plus, Booger really likes him.”

“You realize I'm straight, right?”

She slapped his shoulder. “I just want you to have some friends, that's all. You spend so much time alone.”

“I like being alone.”

She'd hurt his feelings. Real smooth, Lindsey. She knew nothing made Walker more defensive than challenging that Lone Wolf vibe he had going on. She leaned into him, resting her forehead on his. “I know.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Quit trying to make me make friends.”

“Okay,” she said softly.

“I don't need friends.”

“I know.”

They sat there like that, wrapped up in each other, neither of them believing Walker for a second.

“He's still coming over to fix the fence,” she said. “I promised him beer. And that you'd help him.”

Walker growled and stood, taking Lindsey with him. He tilted her back, and proceeded to compromise the structural integrity of her kitchen table.

For a man who liked being alone, he sure was good at being with her.

 

Walker's stomach decided to do a round of somersaults when he saw Jake's truck pull up the driveway.

For god's sake, he was just coming over to install a fence.

This wasn't a damn date.

“Hey, man.” Jake climbed out of his truck. “I heard your escape artist got out again.”

Walker looked toward the house, where Booger was looking pitifully out of the window at them. “Yeah. Thanks for dropping this off. You didn't have to do that.”

“It's no problem.” He slapped Walker on the back. Jake seemed to be a bit of a back-slapper. Maybe that was some kind of ‘friends' signal.

Or maybe Walker was acting like a virgin on prom night.

He'd had friends before. Jesus, Jake was his friend back in high school. There was no reason to feel pressure.

“You can just unload it here if you want.”

Jake tipped his eyebrow up at Walker. “I thought we were putting it up?”

“Well, I don't want to—”

“And Lindsey said she had beer.”

“Yeah, it's inside.” He led the way inside, then handed Jake a bottle from the fridge.

“Lindsey here?”

“No, she had to go take care of some paperwork.”

Jake took a swig. “You know, whenever I try to get Grace to work on a big project at home, she suddenly has to meet with a student or grade papers. It's amazing.”

“Oh, I think she really did have paperwork. She's been bringing Booger to work with her, and she said she needed to catch up . . .”

“Relax, man. I'm just joking.” He followed Walker and his beer out the front door. “Although I'm not joking about Grace. She hates home reno projects.”

“That doesn't bother you? That you do all the work?”

Jake shrugged. “I love that woman, but if you saw her with a hammer, you'd want her to go grade papers, too. It's actually easier if I do all the work. So, are we doing the whole yard, or what?”

Walker walked Jake around the property, showed him where the holes were the worst. Jake declared the fence pretty shoddy—which happened when wood went untreated for twenty-odd years. “Not your fault,” he assured Walker. “It was probably not that much better when you bought the place.”

“Yeah, but when I bought the house, I didn't have a dog.”

You still don't have a dog
, he reminded himself, as Booger scratched at the screen on the back door.

Jake shook one of the sturdier-looking fence posts, which sent a ripple down the entire fence. “I don't know, man. I think this whole thing has to go. That's okay, there should be enough.” The two men walked to the front of the house again, then to the back of Jake's truck, where he pulled a tarp off the bed.

Walker looked at the fence Jake had salvaged from a finished job where it wasn't needed. It was white. Walker supposed beggars couldn't be choosers, but it looked very . . . wholesome. Did everything Lindsey touch turn to Pollyanna?

“How long is this going to take?” Walker asked. “Not that I have anything better to do—I just want to know.”

“That depends,” said Jake, hoisting the first piece of fence out of the truck. “How much beer you got?”

 

WHAT WERE THEY DOING TO HIS YARD.