Her Secret Love Page 10
“Can you pick up?” she called out to him a few seconds later.
He set down his torch and slipped off his mask.
The call was from Lil. She wanted to know if he’d organize an art exhibit for the upcoming cherry festival. She’d provide artwork from students if he’d handle the adults and arrange for the venue.
Already, he had one in mind. What he didn’t have was the time.
Or the ability to say no.
He hung up the phone, committed to something he wasn’t sure how to handle. He wasn’t comfortable with people he knew passing opinions on his art. His work was so…personal. He knew nothing of exhibits or venues, either. That was why he’d chosen to go through the MountainWorks Gallery.
But the Montreau Hotel, even though under renovation, would make an amazing showcase for the cherry festival. It would give school kids a taste of what a real art show was like. There were plenty of other local artists in and around Cherry Lake who could use the extra promotion, too.
He could ask Jess for help. She knew about fancy things. She could take care of it through the week while she was working. It might even keep her from painting the walls in the customer service area, which she’d been threatening to do. And yes, he could see that the walls needed it. He didn’t want her falling off a ladder and breaking her neck. He’d fight that battle when she got proper footwear.
Besides, it wouldn’t hurt her to become more involved in the community. She talked a lot about leaving Cherry Lake, but not what she planned to do with herself when she did. It made him think maybe she didn’t really have any plans—which would be typical Jess.
Nate had it right by making her stick it out here for six months.
When Damon went to talk to her about the festival, she was perched on the stool behind the counter, painting her nails to match the peach-colored blouse she had on.
He rubbed the back of his neck. He was going to hear about this, he knew it. “Since when did you open a beauty parlor? Competing with ole Reg’s gas station wasn’t enough?”
At least this paint job didn’t put her in any danger of falling off ladders.
“How would you like to organize an art exhibit for the cherry festival?” he asked.
She put the cap back on the polish and blew on her nails. “That all depends. Who would I be doing it for?”
“Mostly for me.”
She crossed her legs, swinging one foot. A high-heeled sandal dangled from her toes. “And?”
“Lil. She wants to include art from the schools.”
Her glossy lips tightened into a frown. “I don’t know, Damon. It involves working with people on other committees. There’ll be meetings. I’m not really interested in getting too involved with town functions. My mother was the volunteer. Not me.”
And she couldn’t have anyone comparing her to her mother. Of course not. Jane Palmer had been well known for control issues and a healthy respect for her own status in the community. Being a Jackson meant something—especially to a Jackson. Jess was afraid she might not live up to expectations.
Or maybe that she would. Which made Damon more determined than ever to have her take on this exhibit. She was a bossy control freak by nature. All she was missing was confidence in her abilities.
No.
What she was missing was a willingness to let anyone see how capable she really was. She’d spent her formative years hiding a disability she saw as an imperfection. She’d rather pretend to be stupid than have it proven as fact.
“You were the one who said I should be asking my friends to help me out more,” he said.
“You have lots of friends. Why not ask one who actually lives here?”
“You live here right now. And look at it this way. If things go south, you’ll be gone in a few months and I’ll be Teflon. It’s a win-win all around.”
She sighed, a distinctly unhappy sound, and he knew that he’d won. “Where, exactly, is this exhibit going to be set up?”
Victory was sweet. “I was thinking the Montreau.” The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea. “The renovations to the main level are almost complete. It’s going to be something. I’m betting management would love the chance to show it off. An art exhibit would suit their branding. Earl Norris is the man in charge.”
Her sandal stopped swinging. She went all tense, like a cat spotting prey. “The main level is where the restaurant is.”
“So?”
“Do you remember Shanda, from high school? English class?”
This didn’t sound like a good time to mention he’d taken her out a few times in the past. He proceeded with caution. “You guys were cheerleaders together, weren’t you?”
“She manages the restaurant. Let’s just say she’s not my biggest fan.”
“Were you nice to anyone in high school?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. Besides, people grow up. Think of this as your chance to prove that you have and change her opinion of you.”
“I’m not sure that’s going to happen.”
“It won’t if you don’t try. And if she can’t get over something that happened when you were kids then she’s not worth worrying about. Come on,” he wheedled, pushing a little harder. This was for her own good, after all. “I thought you were an actress.”
“A failed one, remember?”
“You gave acting a good try. That’s an accomplishment to be proud of. Why not give this a chance, too? You might surprise yourself. And Shanda.”
She gave in with poor grace. “If the exhibit doesn’t work out the way you think it will, you can’t say you weren’t warned. You don’t get to blame the fiasco on me, Mr. Teflon.”
“Fair enough.”
He wasn’t at all worried about how successful she’d be. She’d give it one hundred percent and that was all anyone could ask of her. Besides, this was a volunteer position. She wasn’t going to lose her job over it. The world wouldn’t come to an end if a few things went wrong. The cherry festival wasn’t halftime at the Super Bowl.
But underneath all the bad attitude, he could see how nervous she was. He hoped he was doing the right thing. He could have asked his sister Alayna to take care of this for him. Alayna, however, had been MIA.
Jess, on the other hand, was already six weeks into her six month mandatory sentence and he’d seen no signs she had anywhere to go once released. She’d be better off facing her past rather than keep glossing everything over the way she’d been doing.
She might even discover that Cherry Lake wasn’t such a bad place to be, after all.
Chapter Nine
‡
Earl Norris, manager of the Montreau Hotel, turned out to be a nice man in his late fifties. With gray hair trimmed short and neat, and an obvious eye for male fashion, he reminded Jess of television personality Tim Gunn. He greeted the idea of using the lobby for an art exhibit with enthusiasm. He even offered to call the local businesses selling artwork to tourists to inquire after the names of their artists.
She took it upon herself to find out from Lilian the names of the students who’d be participating, and who their parents were. Once she had that information, she searched out and memorized little details about each individual.
She cornered Damon a week before the festival as he was coming back from lunch.
“We need to choose what pieces you’ll be showing,” she said.
“We do, do we?” He took a thoughtful sip of coffee from his travel mug. “I can’t be trusted to do that myself?”
She’d tried to convince him to install a commercial coffee maker at the gas station for his customers but he’d have none of it. He said he wasn’t competing with the Cherry Pit Diner. He liked their coffee better than anything he could brew.
She flipped her notepad closed so he couldn’t see her doodles of the floor plan and her illegible version of shorthand. She tapped the end of her pen on its thin cardboard cover. “No. I have limited space available and I want them arranged so they show to th
eir best advantage.”
“Are you picking out everyone’s pieces?”
“Of course not. I’m not worried about anyone else’s. I’m interested in how yours are displayed.”
She’d checked out the local talent and seen some beautiful work. All of it was meant to appeal to tourists. For that reason, she wouldn’t call it real art. Not from a curator’s perspective. It was too commercial.
That was why Damon’s had to be so carefully selected. His was different. More symbolic. In order to be memorable, his work should be noticed for the right reasons. She didn’t want it overwhelming the other pieces, particularly not anything done by the children.
He took another swig of coffee, his gaze lingering on her in a way that made her squirm on her stool. “You know this isn’t a competition, right?”
Oh yes, it was. If he planned on running a business he needed to work on his competitive edge. He knew nothing about attracting new customers or stirring up interest.
She, however, was an expert—the one area in which she truly excelled. “Of course it’s not.”
His gaze remained steady, as if he suspected her of being up to something, which she totally was. She smoothed her expression into one of innocence. I have no idea what you’re talking about, officer. I was home all day.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you come home with me after work so you can see what I’ve got.”
She’d love to respond with “I’ve already seen it,” and add something equally witty, like “Let’s see if you know how to use it,” but her filter wasn’t lacking, just dusty from disuse.
Stirring up interest was one thing. Drawing attention to things best left alone was another.
She followed him to his place in her car.
He lived well out Mission Range Road, toward the Swan Range.
A pretty, one-story log cabin nestled in the woods on top of a rise—not a large building, but no one-room, early pioneer homestead, either. A low verandah followed the two lines of its prow front, forming a vee. Late afternoon sun glinted off enormous windows overlooking the foothills and the mountains beyond.
Jess parked her car beside Damon’s truck and opened her door, stepping into the sunshine and fresh air. He hadn’t bothered with landscaping and she could see why. The rugged terrain was stunning enough on its own, without the benefit of a lawn and flower beds that would only feel out of place.
But right now, it was turning her strappy Giuseppe Zanottis into twin safety hazards.
“You’ve got to get yourself more practical shoes.” Damon eyed her drunken navigation around the trunk of her car with a hint of amusement and a touch of concern. “Or at least borrow something off Carrie.”
She lifted her chin. He might be right but she’d never admit it. It was bad enough she’d had to borrow her cousin’s jeans. The jeans were practical, the kind meant for actual physical labor, not looks, and fit a little too tight in the hips. The silk camisole was hers. And she liked her own shoes.
“Everything she owns has low heels.”
“That was kind of what I was getting at.”
That quiet half smile—the one that always told her his attention was on her one hundred percent—made her stomach do backflips. He took her hand as if it were a natural thing for him to do, leading her down a narrow gravel footpath that extended around the end of the cabin, adjusting his stride to accommodate her sandals and shorter legs. His fingers, rough from hard work, solid and strong, swallowed hers in a snug, safe cocoon.
They’d been seeing each other almost every day at work now for weeks. She’d taken numerous drives in his truck. This shouldn’t be any different.
But it was. They were alone here. No interruptions. No destination to reach.
She didn’t want to ruin things between them again.
Behind the cabin, he’d built a steel shed against an outcropping of rock. He stretched one tanned arm over the wide door and ran his fingers along the frame. As he did, the edge of his t-shirt hiked a few inches above the low rise of his jeans to bare a flat, lickable belly and well-defined abs any woman living and breathing would be happy to run her palms over.
And yet he chose to spend his spare time alone in a shed.
Or maybe he didn’t. Not according to Shanda, at least.
Jess had hired the Montreau’s restaurant to cater coffee and sweets for the exhibit at her grandfather’s expense. Jackson Cherry Orchards was now the exhibit’s official sponsor. Nepotism had its upside.
And while the Earl Norris experience at the Montreau was better than she could ever have dreamed, the one with Shanda had gone much as expected. The restaurant’s manager had been professional when it came to the catering. Jess couldn’t fault her for that. She’d also, however, gotten in a few personal digs once the menu discussions were over.
Jess hadn’t needed to know that Shanda and Damon had dated. It created all sorts of mental images she couldn’t unsee.
And yes, it made her jealous.
“How come you’re still single?” she asked Damon now. “I’m sure there are plenty of lonely women in Montana who’d love to ‘work your cash’ for you.”
He raised his eyebrows at the euphemism. “We’re getting a little personal, aren’t we, Miss Palmer? Isn’t that question crossing some employer/employee boundary? Plus, it makes it sound as if my shelf life has expired. That I’m an old man at thirty, destined for stray cats and bachelorhood.” He found the key, removed the padlock, and with a jerk, slid the door open along its tracks. “I’ve heard a rumor that I’m a workaholic, though. That might explain why my cash register’s currently low on funds.”
“I can’t imagine why you being an old bachelor workaholic would bother Shanda White. It’s not like she has a whole lot of options to choose from.”
Damon plugged an extension cord into a box on the wall by the door. The shed flooded with light from a bare overhead bulb.
The shed was bigger inside than it appeared from outdoors, and crammed with a jumble of various metals—thin sheets of steel, strips of copper, chunks of iron. He had old car parts stacked on shelves. Buckets filled with hardware—nuts and bolts of all different sizes, and other items she couldn’t identify—spilled onto the floor. Welding and cutting equipment, along with torches and guns, were either hanging from hooks or sitting on benches and tables. A welding shirt and safety goggles hung near the door. Its floor was gritty and black with scorched metal shavings.
“She told you we dated, didn’t she?”
“Words to that effect.”
In fact what she’d said was, “Damon’s total eye candy and great in bed. But at the end of the day, all he talks about is his garage. That gets old fast.”
If that was how Shanda felt, then the woman might have tried introducing a few subjects of mutual interest. Or it was possible that she simply wasn’t a good conversationalist, leaving Damon with no other topic but work. Jess already knew she had no sense of humor.
But that was just her opinion. And yes, maybe she felt a wee spark of jealousy.
He grinned. “And she said I was boring, too.”
Jess studied her manicure and found a small chip. “Don’t worry. I defended you. I told her you aren’t boring—you have a phobia about fat legs. And maybe a fetish for women who wear practical shoes. You do seem obsessed with them.”
“Good to know you’re in my corner. I shudder to think what might have been said if you weren’t. Okay.” He swept an arm around the interior of the shed. “You’re the art expert. Take your pick.”
His cavalier attitude rubbed her the wrong way. He made it sound as if he were humoring her, when she’d taken this project on as a favor to him.
“I may not be an art expert,” she said, her response a little too tart, “but from what I’ve seen, I am better than you at branding an image.”
“So many things I could say…” To his credit, he left it at that. “It’s a local art exhibit featuring the work of third graders, Jess.”
“You think it matters to anyone if an exhibit in a Montana cherry festival doesn’t meet LA standards?”
It was time to come clean.
“I think,” she said, carefully choosing her words, “that I might have called the press and it’s possible there may be some national coverage.”
She waited for the fallout. To see how he’d react.
A mountain chickadee warbled into the silence. “Wow,” he finally said. “When you tackle a project you go all in, don’t you?”
“You’re angry.” She could feel it.
It was what she’d hoped to avoid.
“No.” He rumpled a hand through his hair. “Caught off guard is a better description. Okay, blindsided. I wasn’t expecting to go from a local exhibit in a small festival to a national news story. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that level of attention.”
“You’ll be front and center at the MountainWorks Gallery art show. That’s a much bigger deal. This will be a good opportunity for you to see what all the attention is like. Besides, you aren’t the only angle I pitched. I mentioned the talented children, and how the historic Montreau is undergoing extensive renovations, too. Those angles might be considered more newsworthy.”
Humor returned to his eyes. “Way to sell it to me—telling me I’m not as interesting as a bunch of third graders.”
She relaxed. He was going to be okay with it. “Shanda did say you were boring. She would have been in a position to know.”
He caught the double meaning in that comment, too. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he fought back a smile. “Maybe I wasn’t boring. Just bored.”
She couldn’t leave well enough alone. She always had to go that one step too far. She watched the line she’d been so careful not to cross coming at her like a train wreck in slow motion as the words slid from her mouth. “Or maybe you don’t know how to keep a woman’s attention.”