He enjoyed his meal and decided not to worry about this grown woman. She could and would take care of herself. Maybe she was nervous about this new project. Or, even though she’d said she didn’t have a problem staying here with him, maybe she was uncomfortable about the living arrangements. He could make guesses all night.
“You’re a good cook,” she said again. “I wish I could eat more, but my stomach has been giving me fits lately.”
She did look a little drawn, but because of her olive complexion it was hard for him to tell if she was paler than usual.
“Sorry to hear that. I’ve got antacids if you need—”
“No. No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
There she went again cutting him off. His impression so far was she only tolerated being around him. He’d make a point to stay out of her way from now on.
But a meal was meant to be accompanied by conversation, and damn it, he couldn’t enjoy this delicious dinner—if he did say so himself—nearly as much in silence. Leif racked his brain for an ember to spark a conversation.
“So tell me about your work. Your studio. Your home in Sedona.”
She took a small bite of zucchini, then smiled. A genuine smile, and it almost pushed the wind out of his lungs. “Are you familiar with my work?”
“I’ve been to your website. You’re very talented. Obviously.”
“I’ve lived in Sedona for the past eight years, though I grew up in Phoenix. My father is still there. I was fortunate enough to acquire a benefactor who believed in my painting. Without him, I don’t know...well, I doubt I’d be nearly as successful.” She took a sip of milk.
“You seem to like to do landscapes. Do you paint outdoors?”
“Sometimes, but it gets terribly hot in Sedona several months of the year, so mostly I spend a few days taking photographs of what I want to paint at different times of day. I try to capture the perfect lighting, then I blow them up, cover my studio walls with the pictures and go from there.”
He thought of a few more questions to prod her along, but his mouth was full so he waited.
“I have an art showroom downstairs and I live upstairs where my studio is. I’m fortunate to have a small staff working for me so I can concentrate on painting.”
“You’re not married.” It sounded matter-of-fact, and maybe intrusive of her privacy, but he’d had a glass and a half of wine and just sort of blurted it.
“No.” She looked at her plate, but just before she did, the subtle crinkle of her brow made him wonder if he’d hit a sensitive nerve.
She was what, thirty-four? Did women these days still get touchy about being single after a certain age? What did he know? He’d lived in a cave for the past several years. At forty-two, he’d often felt his life was over in that department. Now, that was one hell of a pill to swallow for a perfectly healthy man, but, nevertheless, that was how he felt. He took another sip of wine; the glass was almost empty. He could save this sorry excuse for a conversation. He used to be good at it. Think back, Leif. Or, here’s an idea—pretend she’s a man.
“Well, I’ve got to tell you,” he said. “I think your painting will be perfect for the mural.”
“Thank you.” She still looked at her plate, moved some pasta back and forth.
“So walk me through this mural-painting process. I’m a novice.”
She popped a small piece of bread into her mouth and drank a sip of milk. Then she said, “I have to be honest and tell you I’ve never painted an entire mural before.”
Now, that was a surprise. Maybe that was what she was nervous about. Come to think of it, he’d only seen her huge canvas paintings at her website. She’d also submitted a preliminary mural design, which had helped the committee make their choice.
“But I’ve put a lot of thought into this project, and I’ve studied how it’s done. First, I lay my idea out on a grid. Since this is the biggest painting I’ve ever tackled, I’ll go about the process one step at a time. I’ve already started the grid and plan to paint it in the one inch to one foot scale first. After that I’ll transfer it to the wall one section at a time.”
So that was why she had three suitcases. One was probably filled with supplies.
“Will I need to prepare the walls for you?”
“Oh, good question. Yes, please.”
“Just tell me what you need and when and I’ll get her done.”
“Great, thank you. That won’t be for a while, though.”
They continued chatting about the steps to undertaking this project, both engaged and distracted from whatever other cares they had. He promised to take her to the college to see the outdoor walls soon. After she explained what needed to be done, he planned to remove the stucco and prep the walls to her specifications while she painted her smaller-scale grid.
After dinner she helped him wash the dishes, then she went on and on about how beautiful his house was and how extraordinary her living quarters were. Suddenly the day, and meal that had gotten off to a rocky start, was ending on a much better note.
Because she’d eaten so little, he showed her where the leftovers would be and several other choices for snacks, making sure she understood the mi casa es su casa philosophy they needed to agree on. It was called Scandinavian hospitality or the Viking code and the god Odin had originally laid down the law in the poem Havamal: “Fire, food and clothes, welcoming speech, should he find who comes to the feast.”
She thanked him again and said good-night, then quietly went up the stairs. He planned to take the dogs out for one last quick walk, but before he did, he watched her hair sway as she ascended the stairs and, to his surprise, he also noticed the twitch of her hips. But what man wouldn’t?
Having a woman in the house had already changed things. A life force was again coming from that end of the second floor. The often overbearing emptiness of the house seemed tamped back a bit, and it felt...well, it felt damn good.
Later, when he laid his head on the pillow, he tried to remember the last time he’d engaged a woman in a conversation for more than two minutes. Not counting women trying to engage him in conversation, like his guesthouse renter, Lilly, who was always full of questions about the town. But what could he expect from a reporter? Or little old ladies at the market with single daughters or granddaughters.
Nope, he’d initiated this conversation tonight, and somehow he’d managed to draw Marta Hoyas out of her shell, even if only for a little while. The thought made him happy, a foreign feeling for him. Well, he’d had a couple of glasses of wine, which probably helped that along.
Yeah, that had to be the reason for that goofy-feeling grin pasted on his face.
Not the beautiful woman from Sedona.
“Ellen?” Leif rolled over in bed, mostly asleep. “Ellen?” No flash of a dream came back to him like usual. What had driven him out of deep sleep thinking of his dead wife? And what time was it? He looked at the bedside clock—quarter to five. Almost time to get up anyway.
Leif sat up, gave a quick shake of his head and pulled on his jeans for the short walk to the hall bathroom. Another inconvenience of having a woman in the house. As he woke he understood he must have been dreaming about Ellen, but usually when he did he remembered it. He didn’t remember anything about this dream. If that was what it was.
He heard a sound and stopped. It was very faint but undeniably a sound he remembered.
He