“Your company built the entire college?”
He nodded. “My father started his construction company fifty years ago from scratch. He built half of the bungalows and sloping-roof Scandinavian log houses you see scattered across the hills. When he was fifty and I was twenty he developed rheumatoid arthritis and asked me to take on more responsibility for when the time came he couldn’t do the hard work himself. I learned the business from the ground up for the next ten years, and when my dad moved to Arizona at sixty, I took over. I’m glad to say the business didn’t fall apart when I stepped in.” He flashed a smile she could only describe as charming, and there went that fizzy feeling again. “I’ve actually brought the company to a new level but only because of the foundation my father laid down for me. And the work ethic he instilled in me.”
“That’s very impressive,” she said, meaning it.
“Thanks.”
They pulled into a large lot and parked close to a long and low building to the left of the main three-story administration center and a cluster of other one-and two-story structures. They’d gone the clean, midcentury modern route with a definite Scandinavian influence in architecture.
He opened the door for her, and she followed him toward the long, low bungalows.
“This is the history quad,” he said. “We thought this would be the best place to put your mural. See those walls over there?”
She nodded and sped up her pace to keep up with him.
“Those are your walls.”
She liked the sound of that—her walls.
“The mural will be visible to everyone as they enter the campus. Pretty good, huh?”
“Fabulous. Now I’m getting excited but nervous, too.”
“No need. You’re very talented. I’d say quit stressing about your artist’s block. Things will work out in their own way. You may be surprised. Just keep getting your grid together.”
She walked ahead of him and followed the long twelve-foot-high walls, imagining what her mural would look like when she’d finished. “Wow, this is great. See, I’m getting goose bumps.”
He politely took a look at the raised hair on her arms. “I’ll get right to work prepping these walls for you. When you’re ready to start, nothing will hold you back. I guarantee.”
“I wish I had as much confidence as you do.” What if she couldn’t break through the mental block about the beginning of Heartlandia’s history? What would she do then? She’d been hired based on two reasons, and she was sure the first carried the most clout. Her great-great-grandfather had designed and built the town monument. Also, the mural committee liked her style of painting. She’d only done extralarge canvas paintings so far and they were much smaller than these walls, but the committee had chosen her once she’d submitted her preliminary vision for these walls. They must have seen something they liked.
“Are you kidding? You’re a fantastic artist. Listen, if it will help I’ll arrange with the school librarian and the history department chair to get you more books and photographs from our town. We have a great Maritime Museum with loads of old pictures, but it’s undergoing renovations after a recent fire. There’s all kinds of stuff for you to look at right here.”
“That’s really nice of you. Thanks.” It meant a lot to her to hear Leif praise her work.
“I want to help in any way I can. I built this college and I want to see it at its full potential. Your mural will make all the difference in the world.”
If she could only believe in herself half as much as he did. She couldn’t let her personal circumstances and disappointment hold her back on this project, or let the insecurity of not being wanted by the father of her child spread to her art, and she silently vowed to make this mural her best work yet. She needed the job for financial security and the recognition it would bring for her and the baby’s future.
“So what will you need?”
Lost in her thoughts, she glanced at him blankly.
“For painting,” he said.
“You mean paints?”
“Yeah, and brushes and drop cloths and any other supplies.”
“Acrylic mural paints are a must, and I’ll be needing gallons and gallons of the colors. It might be tough on the city budget.”
“Do you have a list of your colors yet?”
“I have a good idea what I’ll need.”
“Then, let’s go shopping.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. It’s four o’clock, so we better hurry because our hardware and paint store closes at six on Sundays.”
With that they rushed back to the truck and hopped inside. Marta hadn’t felt this excited and full of energy in weeks.
“Tell me about your family,” she said as they drove, deeply curious about the man, a near stranger, who had so much faith in her abilities.
“My people came here in the 1800s. They were fisherman, like most of the other Scandinavians in this area. I think my first relative might have been an indentured servant on a fishing boat from Denmark. I’m Danish, by the way. Well, I’m actually an American of Danish descent. I guess you’d say that is more accurate.”
She understood. “My ancestors are from Argentina, but like you, I think of myself as American with Latino roots.” Her mother had always been too traditional for her taste, and overprotective, but that was to be expected and it was her way of showing she loved Marta. But they’d argued constantly about her free-living lifestyle, and it had driven her away. Now she wished with all of her heart she could have mended their differences before her mother had died. Family had taken on a whole new meaning eight weeks ago.
Leif ran down his brief genealogy chart while they headed for the paint store, then he suddenly hit a bumpy patch in the story. “My father died eight years ago, so we moved my mother back here from Arizona where they’d retired. I’d originally built the guesthouse for both of them to come and visit whenever they wanted. Five years ago, Mom had a massive stroke and died on the way to the hospital.”
“I lost my mother last year and can only imagine how tough it must be to lose both parents.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes me an orphan.”
“I believe you’re right.” So who had he built that big gorgeous house for? “Were you ever married?”
“Yes.”
Of course he was a traditional kind of guy. The kind of man she’d never run into while living her sophisticated artist’s life.
“I built my future wife’s dream house as a wedding gift. I had to do something to get that woman to marry me.” He worked at a smile, but it came off as wistful and far from his eyes. “My wife was Norwegian, since we’re talking about Scandinavian ancestry.”
“Are you divorced?”
“No.” He grew quiet for a moment. “She died from ovarian cancer three years ago.”
Things suddenly added up—why he’d offered her the master bedroom and studio, why he hadn’t slept in that room