Watercolor Hearts Page 16

  Blake, not missing a beat, said, “Why on earth didn’t you tell me? That’s the kind of thing you should put on a resume!”

  Shrugging one shoulder, I said, “Didn’t want to brag.”

  “How very humble of you.” He joined me while the steaks cooked and took the glass of wine I poured for him. “Shall we toast?”

  I finished pouring a glass of wine for myself and gazed up at Blake. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever toasted to anything before.”

  “Then we should make it a memorable one, shouldn’t we?”

  Smiling, I said, “You start.”

  “All right, let’s see…to new beginnings.”

  “To happy endings.”

  “And a middle that would make the angels blush.”

  On that note, we clinked glasses and drank to fresh starts, happy endings, and a nice, naughty middle. The spark in his eyes was nothing short of devilishly sexy, and I dare say he saw the same glimmer in my eyes.

  About twenty minutes later, the steaks were done, the au gratin potatoes were dished up, and I had just placed the salads on the perfectly set dining table. Blake had set it up earlier, making sure to sit me at the head of the table, with his seat to my immediate left. He must have had someone deliver the centerpiece before we arrived earlier today. Thistles, fall leaves, corn stalks, sunflowers, and little primitive ghosts attached to spokes cascaded over a rust-red clay pot. Surrounding the pot were pumpkins of varying sizes; I always loved those teacup-size pumpkins.

  “Allow me,” he said, sneaking up behind me and pulling out my chair.

  “Aren’t you a gentleman!” I said, taking my seat.

  “Comes with the meal,” he teased.

  I giggled. The man never failed to jump-start my mind in absolutely indefinable ways.

  Back in the kitchen, Blake piled our plates and a few other dishes onto a tray. “Now,” he began, returning to the dining room, tray in hand, “I made two dipping sauces. Not everyone in my circle agrees with having dipping sauces with steak, but I’m off like that.”

  “Hey, it can’t be any more offensive than having white wine with steak.”

  He nodded. “We make excellent outcasts.” I smiled up at him. Blake removed two gravy boats from the tray and four tiny dipping bowls—two for him, two for me. Pouring a little of each sauce into the bowls, he proudly explained the sauces to me. “This one is simply some garlic butter infused with the natural juices of the meat. And this bad boy is a warm, garlic mustard sauce.” He set my sauces on the corner of my mat and then placed my plate of steak and au gratin potatoes before me.

  “Blake, this looks incredible,” I said, my mouth watering worse than that time I walked into a bakery, broke. “And these sauces smell insane. You’ve outdone yourself, truly.”

  A broad grin stretched across his face as he finished lighting some candles. Sitting down, he said, “Might want to hold that praise until you’ve tried it.”

  Sitting taller in my seat, I shot him a defiant, ‘challenge accepted’ glare and took a bite of his ‘world famous’ Caesar salad…crammed a forkful of cheesy potatoes in my mouth…then followed with two bites of steak, the first dipped in the garlic butter juice, the second drenched in the garlic mustard sauce. And, yes, I did actually swallow in between bites. The meal was a masterpiece.

  Clearing my throat, I tore my eyes away from my plate to face Blake, who, by his expression, was quite entertained by my journey of first bites. “As I said, you have outdone yourself…truly.”

  Pride swelled in his eyes as he chuckled heartily. “I’m glad you approve.”

  “Show me one person who wouldn’t approve, and I’ll use some of my newly acquired ninja moves to punch their lights out.”

  “Blair.”

  “Oh, let me.”

  Blake propped his forehead on the back of his hand, laughing. In fact, the entire dinner was nothing but good food, good laughs, and just plain fun. Whatever happened down the road, I knew by the end of dinner that I would forever treasure this weekend with Blake. He had gifted me a freedom from myself, my past, and my incredibly foggy future, and for that, I would be forever grateful.

  Once we were done cleaning up the kitchen, Blake brought the bottle of wine into the heart of the great room and started a fire. We curled up on the couch together—close together—and laughed and talked and laughed some more. God, it was so amazingly freeing.

  “So, you said your dad was an accountant. Does that mean you got your love of the arts from your mom?” asked Blake. I suppose my narrowed eye and tight mouth relayed an especially pointed message to Blake about discussing my dark past, because he quickly added, “And I’m not trying to pry, I promise you…I’m not. I just…want to know how your rather remarkable brain got its start.”

  My expression softened, and my gaze fell to my lap as I traced my fingers around the rim of my wine glass. “Actually, the interest was sparked by my dad. He had a deep fascination for all things art, from jewels to paintings to artifacts and beyond.” Beyond…like right into the Manx’s Shade file.

  “What did your mom do?”

  I shrugged, still mindlessly playing ‘ring-around-the-wine-glass.’ “She didn’t have a profession. I mean, she quit her job as a real estate agent once she married my dad.”

  “Well, stay-at-home moms are the unsung heroes of our society. They do the jobs of countless men and women every bloody day without pay and oftentimes without the respect they deserve.”

  “Agree with you whole-heartedly, but that doesn’t really apply to my mom. I didn’t see Mom all that much. I had a part-time nanny most days. She loved me, she did, very much, but she was also caught up in the ‘mine’s bigger than theirs’ nonsense that so many of the moms in our neighborhood got sucked into.”

  “Ah, yes, I know all about that. Though my mum automatically had the social status upon marrying Dad, she was never fully accepted. Oh, they bowed to her for who she was and the weight she carried in the world of riches. I suppose you could call it ‘tolerance by default.’”

  “Yeah, see, my mom didn’t automatically have anything. She desperately tried to climb the social ladder, rub elbows with your ilk. When Mom was home, she’d devote all of her time and energy to me. It was a daughter’s dream. But as I got a little older, she grew more distant and was home a lot less. I think her constant need to be part of those circles drove a wedge between my parents. Dad was a frugal homebody. Mom would often yell at him for pulling the purse strings too tight. In some ways, I think she resented him for not bowing to the prerequisites for hobnobbing with the rich and famous.”

  “Your dad was smart. Those prerequisites are endless, literally.”

  I nodded. “I know. Mom just couldn’t see beyond the shiny platinum ring. She was blinded by the glitz your world shoves in our faces. It’s your classic slow lane vs. fast lane conflict. I loved her so much. I just wish it could’ve been enough.”

  “She would have opened her eyes one day.”

  “And she lost the chance to ever open her eyes again.”

  After a brief pause, Blake said, “I have marveled at your wisdom for such a young age. To have gathered all that you did as a mere child is astonishing.”

  “I can’t claim I realized everything as a child. Some, yes, but certainly not all, or at least I didn’t fully understand what I saw and heard in a grander context. The more I saw of the world, the people in it, the more I pieced together over the years. Maybe that’s where my disdain for your economic class originated,” I said with a weak smile.

  Blake nodded, watching me intently. “Believe it or not, I can relate to some degree. My mother was so vivacious in the early years, loved the holidays to a fault, celebrated every ‘A’ on a report card like it was my birthday. Christmases were always traditional, never pretentious. She’d make paper chains and popcorn strings for the tree with me.” He smiled fondly. “You know, Mum began wearing chokers when I was just a wee little thing. She once told me she wanted to do something t
hat separated her from the rest of the women, something they couldn’t copy without looking like a follower. I later discovered she was motivated to do so because the women would call her ‘Chokehold’ behind her back.”

  “Chokehold?”

  “Yeah, like she had a chokehold on my dad and his family money.”

  “What a tacky, horrible thing to do,” I said, frowning. Then, I slowly smiled. “And what a clever way for your mom to silence those awful women.”

  Blake nodded, smirking. “Well, one Christmas, I made her a paper choker. I was six. It was the most pathetic looking thing, but mum wore it every single Christmas thereafter. She never let me see how badly she was affected by the snobby bitches who excluded her from their ‘lady luncheons’ and such. Dad, on the other hand, was the absent one. Granted, much of that was necessary being the Manx, but certainly not all of it.”

  “Did your mom know about your dad being the Manx, or even you taking over?”

  “I don’t know. She’s never spoken of it. Part of me thinks she’s always known, but chooses to turn a blind eye. As for me, well, she knew I took over for Dad on everything, so if she did know about the Manx, then I’m sure she could deduce the rest. Again, it’s never mentioned, much like my dad’s extracurricular activities. By my teenage years, I knew exactly what other activities kept him away from Mum and me.”

  “It was always rumored that he was a ladies’ man.”

  “Oh, those were far from rumors. His complete fail as a husband drained my mother of all of her spirit. Don’t get me wrong, I worshipped my dad, the original Manx. But I think it was the myth I admired, not the actual man.”

  “It must have been so hard on you and your mom after he fell ill.”

  Blake stared into the fire, a sad smile curling one side of his mouth. “Greg told you that, huh?” I nodded. “Maggie, my father committed suicide. We said he was sick to keep the gossiping vultures at bay.”

  “Oh my God, Blake.”

  “I don’t pretend to know why he did it. Maybe he regretted how he treated Mum. Maybe he regretted knowing he was the reason his family fell apart and traditions faded. You know, I remember a few Christmases during my teens where I set up a tree and decorated it myself, alone. No one came down Christmas morning; no one sang carols or fought over a turkey leg. After a while, I stopped trying. Christmas became just another day.”

  My heart broke for Blake. Here he had the family, but not the devotion to tradition. Yet, despite being an orphan, when I finally did end up with someone who actually cared about me, we had spectacular Christmases filled with popcorn garland, Christmas movies, paper chains…the works.

  “Sounds to me like you’re due a big, old fashioned Christmas,” I said.

  “Nah, I was a spoiled rich kid anyway. I didn’t need more presents.”

  I shook my head, placed my wine glass on the coffee table, and put my hands over his. “Christmas isn’t about getting things. It’s about tradition, believing, and…and love.”

  Blake studied me for a moment, almost as if I didn’t really exist. He tenderly ran his hand through my hair, spreading it over one shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “No place I’d rather be,” I said quietly.

  Blake leaned towards me, his eyes never ceasing to search mine for any indication I may want him to stop. That was an indication he wouldn’t soon see—I wanted, needed him to kiss me, to touch me… Holding my face in his hands, he gently brushed his lips against mine before kissing me lightly, sweetly. After a moment, I worked my hands through his thick, silky hair and returned his kiss with a little more intensity. Feeling Blake’s hands wind around my waist, gently pulling me against him, made me tremble slightly. I parted my lips, and I wasn’t disappointed when his kiss deepened, growing intensely passionate. I’d never known a kiss could be this mind-blowing; I was both lost in his kiss and found in his touch. I almost believed life could only truly be lived within our kiss.

  As our breathing intensified and our hands could no long resist the desire to travel, Blake pulled away, his expression a mixture of elation and disappointment. “We, uh, should probably get some sleep. I have a feeling you’ll enjoy tomorrow.”

  Blake Traverz: a true gentleman, right down to the last dotted ‘i’ and crossed ‘t’. Damn it. That’s some flipping ironclad restraint you’re showing, there, Mr. Traverz, because I could tell just how much more you would like to do tonight.

  Trying to slow my breathing, I said, “Right. Probably for the best.”

  “I didn’t say that. Goodnight, Maggie.”

  He kissed me gently on my lips and headed to bed.

  Goodnight, Blake.

  Chapter Eleven

  While tossing and turning for hours, burdened by shamelessly girlie thoughts and countless replays of the kiss, I couldn’t fathom sleep would have been an option. When I awoke the next morning, I was surprised to find I had managed to steal a little sleep. Perhaps my fantasies finally wore me out.

  Stretching my arms out to the side, I felt something odd touch my right wrist. On the pillow next to me was a small pumpkin. I boosted myself up on my elbows to coo at the little pumpkin—don’t ask—when I noticed a slip of paper beneath it.

  Maggie,

  Forgive me for sneaking into your room while you were sleeping—didn’t want you to be alarmed if you wake up and find I’m not here. Have a few errands to run. Should be back mid-morning. Dress for fun! Take your time—we’ll have our fun whenever you’re ready to go.

  Blake

  P.S. You’re a beautiful sleeper.

  Ridiculous as it sounded, I flopped back on my pillow, holding the note, smiling like a teenager with a schoolgirl crush. With the grin permanently affixed to my face, I rolled out of bed and hopped into the shower. While washing my hair, I laughed at my idiocy. All immature ridiculousness aside, I had to admit it was kind of refreshing to feel such an innocent, simple joyfulness. I’d never experienced the teenage crush phase—I was too busy being angry and waiting for the day I could hunt my parents’ killer down and make him pay in the most painful ways I could imagine. You know, just being the not so typical teenager.

  After my shower, I dried my mop of hair, dusted on a little blush, added some lip gloss, and pulled on my jeans and very favorite red and blue raglan long sleeve top. I was a little shocked Ivy packed it, to be honest, considering her loathing for anything without a fancy label. Since it was shoved in a corner of the bag, I imagine her bitching in that moment must have been epic. I slipped on a pair of sneakers, grabbed my dark blue leather cross-body bag, and trotted downstairs to wait for Blake.

  To my surprise, Blake was already back and sitting on the couch in the great room.

  “Morning, room intruder,” I chided. “I reckon it’s just a happy coincidence that you decided to leave me a note while I was in all my no-makeup, messy hair, possibly drooling glory.”

  Standing to greet me, Blake said, “What can I say? Being a considerate gent has its perks.”

  “I don’t suppose the considerate gent could’ve left said note on the kitchen counter, could he?” I asked, crossing my arms.

  “Ah, well, that would’ve been boring, and you know how I loathe predictability.”

  “Two-point conversion good. Nicely played, Mr. Traverz.”

  “You force me to go for two every time, Miss Harred.”

  “Good,” I said airily.

  “You ready to go, then? Start our day of anything-but-boring?” he asked, getting up.

  “Lead the way, Manx,” I said.

  Once we were outside by the car, Blake snapped his fingers suddenly. “Damn. Forgot to turn off the coffeemaker. Be right back.”

  I nodded and waited…and waited. That must be one stubborn coffeemaker. When Blake emerged from the front door, I couldn’t help but notice the smile on his face. Hmm. Turning off a coffeemaker never garners a grin like that. Blake clearly had something else on his mind, which had to mean only one thing: he was up to something. I opted
not to pry, though it took every kernel of restraint I possessed.

  “Let’s go!” he said jovially.

  “You seem oddly jolly for just switching off a coffeemaker.” What? No one said poking around was the same thing as prying. Or maybe they did.

  He swept around me, his grin now a devilish smirk, and opened the car door. “In ya go.”

  “Wow. An all-out ignore. That didn’t go unnoticed, my friend,” I said, sliding in the car.

  Blake, laughing, closed my door, rounded the front of the car, and climbed in next to me. As he stuck the key in the ignition, he leaned close to me and huskily said, “I meant for you to notice.”

  With a quick turn of the key and shift of the gear, we were off. Roaring into a fairly quiet downtown Lake George, Blake pulled into the parking lot of a cute log cabin restaurant called Tuckner’s.

  “Figured we’d grab a late breakfast here,” he said. “Best breakfast food in the area.”

  “You know I won’t say no to food.”

  Tuckner’s reminded me of a place you’d find in a fairy tale village, albeit a dark, rustic, fairy tale village. The log cabin vibe continued inside. There were two distinct sides of the restaurant, each containing a combination of about twelve old, rickety tables and chairs and a spattering of booths near the windows.

  A stout woman with a green checkered dress and wild, curly red hair greeted us with a big, toothy grin. “Why, I haven’t seen you in here for years! Glad to have you back, fella!”

  “Glad to be back,” said Blake.

  “Smoking or non?” asked the hostess.

  “Non,” Blake replied.

  “This way, then.” She led us to one of the booths and handed us a couple of really old menus. “Can I get ya loves started with some coffee or juice?”

  “Soda, not diet,” I said.

  “And you, fella?”