Ain't She Sweet? (27 page)

She turned the volume louder. She should be thinking about how she could get into the attic instead of about hot fudge sundaes. Jewel wanted her to start the day after tomorrow, which meant she had to accomplish her goal right away. Her stomach grew queasy at the thought.

When she returned, she found the door to Colin’s office shut, but she couldn’t hear his keyboard clicking. She was beginning to realize that the writing life would be a lot more glamorous if writers didn’t actually have to write. Ryan’s coffee mug sat in the sink.

Sugar Beth didn’t like the pain she’d seen on his face, and fair or not, she blamed Winnie for it. What kind of spineless woman ran out on her husband just because an old girlfriend showed up?

A movement outside distracted her. She gazed through the sunroom windows and saw a workman digging at the far end of the backyard. As far as she knew, no one was scheduled to—

Her eyes widened. She shot to the door, bolted across the yard, and came to a dead stop next to him. He propped a wrist on the handle of his shovel and regarded her with his customary hauteur. She held up her hand. “For the love of God, don’t say anything until my heart starts pumping again.”

“Perhaps you should put your head between your knees.”

“I was only teasing when I told everyone you had a drug problem. If I’d thought for one minute . . .”

“You will let me know when you’re done caterwauling, won’t you?”

He wore the raunchiest pair of Levi’s she’d ever seen—threadbare in the right knee, a hole in the butt—an equally ratty gray T-shirt, worn work gloves, and scuffed, dirt-encrusted brown work boots, one of which had a knot holding the shoelace together. An honest-to-God smudge ran up alongside that gorgeous honker of a nose. And he’d never looked more irresistible. She scowled. “Even your hair’s a mess.”

“I’m sure a quick trip to my stylist will set it right again.” He pushed the shovel back into the ground.

“I’m not kidding, Colin. If the Armani people see you like this, you’re going to get blacklisted.”

“Horrors.”

She wanted to drag him into the pecans, wrap her arms around his neck, and make love with him until they were both senseless. So much for one hot fudge sundae being enough to satisfy her.

Dark patches of sweat stained his T-shirt, and the muscles bunched in his arms as he drove the shovel in again. He tossed a square of turf into the wheelbarrow at his side. He was digging some kind of trench. Or maybe a shallow grave . . .

He knew she was curious, but he kept digging for a while before he condescended to explain. “I’ve decided to build a stone wall. Something low that defines the property. It’s warmed up enough to get started.”

“Does this have anything to do with how quiet your computer’s been lately?”

“I’ve been thinking about doing this for a while,” he said with a trace of defensiveness.

He pointed toward the west, where the property dipped toward a small ravine. “I’m going to build some terracing back there. I want everything to conform to the landscape. Then I’ll extend the wall up the sides of the property.”

“It’s going to be a lot of work.”

“I can do it at my own pace.”

Although the front of Frenchman’s Bride had been exquisitely landscaped, no one had ever paid much attention to the back. He dug up more turf. There was something about a man with a shovel, and the sweat on his neck might as well have been chocolate sauce. It wasn’t fair. Brains and brawn should be two separate categories, not bundled into one irresistible package. She needed to pull herself together before she went after him with a spoon. But where to start?

“I have to get into the attic. I heard something scampering around up there while I was in your bathroom.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“If you’d been upstairs you would have.”

He stopped what he was doing and propped both hands on the shovel to study her.

“You’ve been trying to get into the attic ever since you started working for me.”

“I’m a housekeeper. It’s part of my job.”

“You’re not that good a housekeeper.”

Time to make her getaway. “Fine. If you want squirrels nesting over your head, I’m sure I don’t care.” She flipped her hair and turned away. Unfortunately, she wasn’t fast enough because he threw down his shovel and stepped in front of her.

“This new book has distracted me more than I thought, or I’d have caught on faster. You think your painting’s in the attic.”

Her stomach sank.

“All those stories you’ve come up with . . . Squirrels, looking for dishes. They were excuses.”

She tried to see a way out, but every exit was blocked, so she stuck her nose in the air.

“Call it what you like.”

“Why didn’t you just come out and ask me?”

She tried to think of a polite way to explain that she didn’t trust him not to claim the painting for himself. He was a smart man. Let him figure it out.

Except he didn’t.

The bridge of his nose furrowed. He cocked his head and waited. Right then, she had one of those blinding realizations that told her she’d made a gross miscalculation. She tried to save the situation.

“It occurred to me that you might . . . The house is yours, after all, and . . .” Her voice faded. She licked her lips.

Another few seconds passed before he finally got it, and then outrage took possession of his dirty, elegant face. “You thought I’d take the painting from you?”

Her reasoning had been sound. Surely he could see that. “You do own the house. And I didn’t have enough money to hire a lawyer to figure out what my rights were.”

“You thought I’d take your painting.” It was no longer a question but a cold, hard accusation.

“We were enemies,” she pointed out.

But she’d offended his honor, and he was having none of it. He leaned down and snatched up the shovel.

“I’m sorry,” she said as he rammed it back into the ground with enough force to sever a spinal column. “Really. A miscalculation on my part.”

“This conversation is over.”

“A gross miscalculation. Come on, Colin. I really need your help. Show me how to get into the attic.”

Another clump of turf flew into the wheelbarrow. “What if your painting’s there? Aren’t you afraid I’ll steal it?”

He sounded sulky now, and sulky she could deal with. “See, this is the problem with having so many character flaws. I assume everybody else does, too.”

That chipped a bit of ice from his offended British dignity. “You don’t have that many character flaws. But you
are
an idiot.” He pronounced it like an American so she’d get the point.

“Does this mean you’ll show me your attic?”

“There’s nothing up there. Winnie cleaned everything out before I moved in. She might have put some of it in storage. I’m not certain.”

“Maybe you don’t know where to look. For example . . . there’s a hidden cupboard.” She could see that he wasn’t entirely mollified, but she also detected the first hint of curiosity.

She pushed her bottom lip forward, going for a pouty, adorable look. “I really am sorry I offended your honor.”

He saw right through her, but he didn’t call her on it. She held her breath.

“All right,” he said begrudgingly. “Let me get cleaned up, and we’ll have a go at it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She wanted to tell him not to get cleaned up, that his grungy self was perfectly fine with her—more than fine—but she held her tongue.

Half an hour later, the sweaty stonemason had traded in his jeans for Dolce & Gabbana.

He led her down the hallway to the upstairs study. “The door to the attic had to be moved for the renovation. But I didn’t want to lose wall space, so the architect got creative.” He headed for the built-in bookcases.

She’d already noticed that the center unit stuck out farther than its mates, but she’d assumed it had been built that way to accommodate ductwork. As Colin pushed on the edge of a shelf, however, the whole thing came forward a few inches, then slid to the side. Behind it, a narrow flight of stairs led to the attic.

“I’d never have found this.”

“Prepare to be disappointed.”

She followed him up the new set of stairs, then came to a stop at the top.

The attic was empty. The last time she’d been up here, her family’s dusty relics had filled the place, but now Colin’s footsteps echoed off the bare wooden floor and bounced against the faded green beadboard walls. The odds and ends of three generations of Careys had been wiped out. The Christmas boxes were gone, along with her grandmother’s steamer trunk and her grandfather’s golf clubs. Diddie’s ugly wedding china and the zippered plastic bags holding her old evening gowns had been swept away.

A nail still protruded from the old paneling, but Griffin’s fraternity paddle no longer hung from it, and the basket holding Sugar Beth’s precious Care Bears collection was nowhere in sight. Everything erased. Winnie Davis had thrown away all the pieces of Sugar Beth’s history.

Dust motes swam in the shafts of sunlight coming through the small windows, and the floorboards creaked as Colin wandered toward the middle of the attic, the place where a Rubbermaid bin had once overflowed with her old dance recital costumes. “Nothing here.”

He had his back to her, which made it imperative to find her voice. “Yes, I see.” As he turned, she somehow managed to pull herself together. “The old house has a few secrets, though.”

The attic was filled with nooks and crannies from chimneys and dormers. She headed for a corner just to the left of the main chimney where she and Leeann had built tents from two broken chairs and an old stadium blanket.

Diddie had shown her how to open the cupboard long ago, but also made sure Sugar Beth wasn’t tempted to do it herself.
“See, precious. Nothing’s in there except great big bugs
and hairy spiders.”

Sugar Beth knelt in front of a two-foot-wide section of the old bead-board paneling and felt along the base. “My grandfather lived in terror of a return to Prohibition. He said that knowing this was here let him sleep at night.” She felt for the concealed latch and released it. “There’s another latch above the ledge at the top.”

The expensive fabric of Colin’s trousers brushed her shoulder as he moved closer. “I have it.”

The paneling had warped over the years, and she pushed hard on the sides to loosen it.

Colin stepped in front of her and lifted it away.

The cupboard was too small to hold one of Ash’s larger, mounted canvases—she’d known that all along—but he might have left Tallulah a smaller work. Or a larger one could have been rolled up. She’d dreamed of the moment for weeks, but now that it had come, she was afraid to look. “You do it.”

He peered inside. “It seems to be empty, but it’s hard to see.” He turned his shoulders and crouched so he could reach along the floor. “There’s something here.”

Her mouth went dry, and her palms felt clammy.

He withdrew a dusty old liquor bottle. “My God, this is fifty-year-old Macallan scotch.”

Her spirits crashed. “It’s yours. See what else is there.”

“Be careful with that,” he exclaimed as she jerked the bottle away from him and set it on the floor with a hard thud. He reached into the cupboard again. “This definitely isn’t scotch.”

She gave a soft cry as he pulled out a fat tube about three feet long wrapped in ancient brown paper tied with string.

He straightened. “This doesn’t feel like—”

“Oh, God . . .” She pulled it from his hands and rushed toward one of the windows.

“Sugar Beth, it doesn’t seem heavy enough.”

“I knew it was here! I knew it.”

The string broke easily, and the brittle craft paper fell apart in her fingers as she peeled it away. But underneath, she found only a fat roll of paper. Not canvas at all. Paper.

She slumped against the window frame.

“Let me look,” he said softly.

“It’s not the painting.”

He squeezed her shoulder, then opened the roll. When he finally spoke, his voice held even more awe than he’d shown toward the scotch. “These are the original blueprints for the window factory. They were drawn in the 1920s. This is quite a find.”

To him, maybe. She hurried back to the cupboard, crouched down, and reached inside. It had to be here. There was no place else to look. She felt along the floorboards and into the corners.

Nothing but cobwebs.

She sank back on her heels. Paper rustled as he set the blueprints aside. He knelt next to her, bringing with him the smell of cologne and sympathy. He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, ran his thumb along her cheekbone. “Sugar Beth, you don’t need the painting. You’re perfectly capable of supporting yourself. Maybe not in the first lap of luxury, but—”

“I have to find it.”

He sighed. “All right, then. We’ll search the carriage house and depot together. Maybe I’ll see something you overlooked.”

“Maybe.” She wanted to lean against him so badly that she pushed herself away. “I’d better get back to work.”

“I’m giving you the rest of the day off.”

That unbearable sympathy again. She rose to her feet. “I have too much to do. And I don’t need coddling.”

He’d only been trying to be kind, and she’d snapped at him, but she couldn’t manage another apology, and as she made her way to the stairs, she felt as blue as a person could get.

He stayed in his office the rest of the afternoon. Whenever she passed the door, she heard the muffled clatter of the keyboard. As evening approached, she put one of the mystery casseroles from the freezer into the oven, set the timer, and left him a note saying she’d see him in the morning. She felt too fragile to risk having him showing up at the carriage house later, so she added a P.S.
I have cramps, and I intend to do some serious self-medicating. Do not disturb!

By the time she left Frenchman’s Bride, she still hadn’t told him she was quitting to take a job with Jewel, hadn’t thanked him for his kindness in the attic, hadn’t said anything to him she should have.

It had begun to drizzle again, and Gordon shot ahead. She let him in the house but didn’t enter herself. Instead, she made her way to the studio. As she opened the lock and stepped inside, she tried to convince herself that what had happened today hadn’t marked the end of her search. Colin had said he’d help. Maybe fresh eyes would see something her own had missed.