A Kiss to Build a Dream On (10 page)

W
illa sprawled in a chair at Knots and Bolts, gulping water between ragged breaths.
Never again
, she vowed, closing her eyes against the memories of the track and the athletic girls and their impossible speed, all while she struggled to keep her out-of-shape ass moving.

This was ridiculous. She was a terrible assistant on the field, and she wasn't helping anyone. All her “volunteering” did was ensure she showed up to the Thursday recipe exchange sweaty and tired.

Next to her, Betty smirked. “Looks like it went great,” she said as she sewed the wool tooth of an old witch's head. Vintage Halloween gear. A good online seller apparently.

Willa groaned and Audrey let out an exasperated sigh.

“Willa,” Audrey said, “it wasn't that bad. You're being a baby.”

“I am not,” she replied, her voice whiny.

Next to her, Stephanie giggled, placing a freckled hand over her pretty mouth.

Okay, maybe she was being a baby. A little. But still. It was her second week, and the practices weren't getting easier. Willa had nearly collapsed during the mile warm-up around the track. It only got worse when Audrey had asked her to keep an eye on the sprinters, while she coached the hurdlers.

There was no way Willa could just stand there while that frizzy-haired blonde ran with her arms entirely too low. So Willa raced over to tell her to keep her hands up by her boobs, not by her pockets. And then of course there was the caramel-skinned girl who stared at the ground while she ran, and not at the finish line. So Willa dashed to her side, to explain how seeing her goal was going to help her get there faster. Back and forth she raced, from girl to girl, from starting line to finish line, trying to help and encourage. She could barely remember names or faces, but she could hear her old coach's voice in her brain, and she was compelled to pass along the advice.

“Willa was great,” Audrey said to the group, “I don't know why she's pretending she wasn't.”

“Because I wasn't,” Willa grumbled. “I'm fat and out of shape.” She crossed her arms, glad at least that Anna wasn't at the recipe exchange and couldn't see her mortification up close. It was a bummer that Juniper was sick, but if it kept Anna from blabbing to Burk what a mess Willa was every time she came to the recipe exchange, maybe that wasn't so bad.

“Willa, don't say you're fat,” Audrey scolded. “You're not.”

“She's a little fat,” Betty offered.

“She's just not used to the workouts. Give it another week, and this will feel like old hat.”

“I don't like old hats,” Willa pouted.

Betty grinned, looking back and forth between the women like it was a tennis match.

Audrey crossed her arms over her fleece track jacket. “Is this about something else? Like the fact that you and Burk Olmstead looked pretty cozy when I showed up yesterday? Did I happen to
interrupt
something?”

Betty's wide-set eyes got big with interest. “You don't say.”

“No, she
doesn't
say,” Willa replied, striding off to the kitchenette for a snack. She rummaged until she found a piece of casserole and a fork. She brought it back out and slunk back into her chair at the red table. Audrey and Betty just stared.

“What?”

“You're blushing,” Audrey said.

“Am not,” Willa replied, spearing the casserole with her fork. But she could feel the heat in her cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the recent workout.

“I'm surprised he's helping you in that house,” Betty said plainly. “I thought he'd hate you for the bitchy way you left him after graduation.”

It was a good thing Willa hadn't taken a bite of the casserole yet. She wouldn't have been able to swallow it. Instead, she took a deep, steadying breath.

“I did hurt him. I was awful to him.”

Betty narrowed her eyes. “Karma's a bitch.”

Willa started. Betty had every right to be angry with her, it was true. After the first Knots and Bolts meeting, part of Willa had hoped they could just sweep the past aside, but that clearly wasn't the case. Betty hadn't forgotten it, and Willa needed to face it.

Now is the time
, Willa thought. She had to own up to her past. And either Betty would accept that, or Willa had to find a different hangout besides Knots and Bolts.

Willa scooted her chair closer to Betty's. She could see the other woman lean back, uncomfortable. Nevertheless she pressed ahead.

“Betty, it occurs to me that I've shown up here and invaded your space and I've done all that without actually telling you how sorry I am. For how I treated you in high school.” Willa looked at Audrey. “You, too, Audrey. I was terrible to you both. And I'm sorry.”

“Oh, it's in the past,” Audrey started, waving her hands like she didn't want to talk about it anymore, “and no one—”

“But it's
not
in the past,” Willa interrupted. “That's the whole point. We can't put it into the past unless we address it in the present. Unless
I
address it anyway, and say, ‘I was a bitch, and there's no excuse for the way I treated you.' So here I am, saying it to you both. I am sorry. Truly sorry. I have spent a lot of my life being shallow and awful. I don't want to be that way anymore.”

Audrey's face was turning pink. “Willa, no—”

“Yes. Please let me own this apology. I just hope you can forgive me.”

Audrey blew out a puff of air. “Well, as long as you've said you're sorry, then I need to say something, too.” She played with the ends of her ponytail. “I knew these track practices would be hard for you. But part of me wanted to see you wheeze.”

Willa could feel her eyes widen. Mortification and amusement flooded her all at once.

“But you're doing really well with the girls,” Audrey continued. “That part wasn't bullshit. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, we're even.” She walked over to Willa's chair and leaned over to give her a hug. It was strong and honest—and Willa hugged her back.

The two women looked to Betty, who had set down her sewing. Her hands were shaking, and Willa braced herself for what was coming. Betty would yell at her and kick her out of Knots and Bolts and that would be that. And Willa wouldn't blame her. Not one bit.

“I spent a good part of my life believing I was an ugly, beaver-faced girl,” Betty began, “all thanks to you, Willa. I didn't try out for any of the high school plays, because who would cast ‘the beaver who loved wood'? And I didn't always sleep well, worried that you were going to find me the next day and make my life even worse.”

Willa listened, her heart shattering with pity and regret.

“My grades weren't very strong, on account of how I didn't sleep much. But I managed to get into community college, and would you believe it, once I was away from you, my life got better. I did the costumes for some local theater productions. I got my teeth fixed. And you know what? I forgot about you. I really did. Until you came back anyway. To be honest, I wish you'd stayed away. You were not a good person to me, Willa Masterson. Not to any of us.”

Willa nodded. It was true. She couldn't say that she'd react any differently if her nemesis came back, either.

“Why are you even back?” Betty asked finally, her eyes sharp. “You say you want to open a B and B, but why now? Why here?”

Willa swallowed. No one had asked her that yet. People had listened to her plans, but no one wanted to know the driving force behind them. She thought about lying, but she knew if she did, she'd lose any chance to reconcile with Betty. Ever.

“I lost everything in New York,” she said, trying to keep the warble out of her voice. “The man I was dating made some terrible investments with my money. The only thing I had left was the house back in White Pine. I had nowhere else to go. This was the only place I could think of to start over.”

Betty's mouth opened slightly before she snapped it shut.

“Oh, Willa,” Audrey breathed, “I'm so sorry.”

Willa shook her head. “Don't be. I wasn't being smart, and I should have known better than to trust one person with everything. In a way, this has been a wake-up call for me. For the better.”

Betty studied her. “Well, here's another wake-up call. If you ever—and I mean
ever
—treat me now the way you did in high school, I will kick you out of Knots and Bolts forever. You can have a second chance, but not a third. Understand?”

Willa nodded.

Betty's eyes softened slightly. “All right, listen, it's been a long time, and I have to give you a little credit here. So let's just say we'll put the past behind us for now. And I don't want any reason to pull it out and look at it again. Deal?”

Willa found she couldn't speak. Her throat wasn't working. So instead, she held her hand out to Betty, who shook it.

“Well, that's better!” Audrey said, and Willa wondered if this was what it felt like to have friends. Real friends, who forgave the worst parts of you and tried to see the good parts. If there were any. Willa closed her eyes briefly and hoped there were—for her.

“There's a catch, though,” Betty said after a moment. “No bullshit here. This group shares its secrets with each other, and that means we want all the details about you. Well, you and Burk anyway. You don't get to play coy with us.”

Betty tucked a stray piece of her curly, corn yellow hair behind an ear, seemingly pleased with herself. Willa looked to Audrey, whose brown eyes were glinting with amusement, and to Stephanie, whose freckles stretched as she grinned. No help there.

Willa gathered her thoughts. It was doubly good Anna wasn't here tonight. “All right,” Willa said, “but I don't know what to tell you about Burk exactly. It's confusing.”

“Confusing how?” Audrey asked, pulling out the coffee liqueur. Willa was never so grateful to see a bottle of booze in her whole life. She wondered if she could just forgo the coffee and drink the hooch straight.

“Wait,” Stephanie said, standing. “Before you answer that, I can't let you sit here and eat that hot dish cold. Let me go and warm it up for you.” She pulled the casserole away from Willa.

“I went a decade without eating that in New York,” Willa said. “Now I can't get enough of it.”

“They don't have hot dish in New York?” Betty asked.

Willa laughed. “No, they don't. Or if they do, it's some so-called ‘refined' version. A reduction of something or other, on a bed of braised blah, with a leek and fennel hoohah.”

“Leek and fennel hoohah? You don't say.”

Stephanie put the now-warm hot dish in front of Willa. “Well, let New York have their version. We'll keep ours. Try that and tell me what you think.”

Willa speared the mixture of hamburger, green beans, cheese, and tater tots. She closed her eyes at the burst of richness and comfort that filled her mouth. These were the odds and ends of the fridge, mixed together to make something better than the sum of its parts. This is the stuff you ate with your friends, your family. This was a meal that told you that you were cared for.

“Oh God,” Willa said on the verge of another food orgasm. “This is amazing.”

“This one is Betty's specialty,” Audrey said. “But Stephanie makes a good one, too—a hot dish that's a little like a mac and cheese, only it has these delicious fingerling potatoes in it.”

“Don't sell yourself short,” Betty said. “Audrey makes a hot dish with sausage and egg and a flaky crust over the top. Won third place at the county fair last year.”

Willa swallowed. “When can I try them?
All
of them?”

Audrey laughed. “We'll make hot dishes the focus of next week's recipe exchange—how's that?”

Willa nodded eagerly, digging into her hot dish with renewed vigor.

“You'd better bring extra wine,” Betty cautioned, “since you can't cook yet.”

Willa considered it. “If I can paint a table, I bet I can make a hot dish.”

Stephanie stared at her. “You painted a table?”

Willa grinned. “With Burk Olmstead.”

The ladies scooted their chairs in closer. “All right,” Betty said, “tell us.”

Between bites of hot dish, Willa brought them up to speed. And like a good hot dish, she threw everything in—all the details she could remember. When she was done, she didn't know if what she'd presented was any good, but one thing was certain: From the looks on Betty and Stephanie and Audrey's faces, it was a brand-new dish indeed.

B
urk took a deep pull from his beer bottle, wondering why he couldn't stop thinking about a stupid picture. Ever since Willa had shown him that collage of the room earlier in the week, he hadn't been able to forget it. The colors. The furniture. The way her fingers had slid over the image, highlighting the parts she wanted him to notice.

It's just a
photo.
Get over it already.

Except it wasn't just an image. It was images. Plural. Willa hadn't been satisfied with one decorating magazine. No, she'd had to cut a pile of them up and make something even better than what they offered individually. There was a gnawing in his gut about that image that he just couldn't shake.

And he wasn't sure he liked the feeling.

He shifted on the barstool, while strains of an old Johnny Cash song filled the dark corners of The Wheelhouse. His favorite bar was beginning to get crowded on this Friday night, as folks came in for the cheap beer, good food, and a dance or two. Behind the bar, his buddy Dave flipped the top off another beer and slid it to him. Burk nodded his thanks. Dave always knew when he needed another. Good bartenders always did.

Burk tapped the bottle's amber glass and tried to concentrate on his settings: the crack of the pool balls from the table in the corner, the buzz of the neon Pabst sign above the bar, the burning stare of the leggy redhead over by the jukebox. But his surroundings were like a sepia picture in comparison to the bright memory of Willa in his mind: her dark blond hair tousled as she sanded her table, her perfect lips pressed together in concentration as she painted, her soft skin brushing against his as they studied the decorating collage together.

Damn that stupid collage. Burk shook his head. The room she'd showed him had been a searing revelation, burning into his brain in painful detail. It was the decor he'd always wanted inside the house he always wanted. Only he'd never been able to
envision
it. He'd gotten as far as the flooring, the shelves, the granite countertops, and the penny tile in the bathroom. But he had no idea how to tie it all together. In fact, he probably would have thrown his old plaid couches and La-Z-Boy into the living room and called it a day.

But when Willa explained her ideas, when she pointed to that picture she'd made, it had all come together. Willa had reached into the recesses of his subconscious and pulled out something he didn't even
know
how to conjure. She'd brushed color and detail onto his plain canvas, completing the picture in his mind.

The room was ideal. It was perfect. And now that Burk had seen it, he wanted more of the same. He wanted Willa to look at every other room and bring his desires to light. Desires he didn't know he had. She could finish what he'd started, and make his house a
home
.

It complicated things to say the least.

Just when Burk had finally been able to imagine his house without Willa in it, here she was, inserting herself into his desires all over again.

He grunted, taking another swig of beer.
His house.
The idea was beginning to wear thin. Too thin maybe. He hadn't done a very good job of convincing Willa to sell him the title, or go back to New York to her glamorous, un-Minnesotan life. More alarming than that, he wasn't so sure he minded her being around.

With her green eyes glittering up at him and her fresh, clean smell all around, he had downright enjoyed painting that table with her. And if he was honest, he'd wanted to do more than just paint the table. He'd wanted to spread her across it and undress her slowly, taking in her newfound curves. He'd wanted to tangle his fingers in her hair and press his mouth against hers, hearing her moan and whimper like she used to in high school, meeting his hot need with her own. He wanted to spread her soft thighs with his knee and settle between her, laving her skin with his tongue, especially between her—

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

Burk started, nearly tipping over his beer. He looked up to find the redhead from the jukebox suddenly standing at the barstool next to him. Up close, her mouth looked hard, her body even harder. All sinew and bone. Burk wanted to buy her a sandwich. Instead, he gestured to the stool. “Be my guest.”

She settled in, crossing one lean leg over the other. Her black tank top dipped dangerously low as she turned to face him. “You from around here?”

“Born and raised,” Burk replied. On a normal night, he'd already have a beer in front of her, and
he
would have asked the first question, not her.

“What'll you have?” he asked, glimpsing the pale top of one breast over a strip of hot pink bra.

“Whatever you're buying,” she replied. Too loudly. Trying too hard, Burk thought. He caught Dave's eye and got her a beer.

“And how about you?” Burk asked, taking in her flinty cheekbones, her straight red hair. “From around here?”

“Over in New Prave,” she replied. “I'm a nurse there.”

It was a town a few miles southwest of White Pine, with fewer shops and no river and miles of farmland marooning it. If she was a nurse, she didn't work at a hospital. New Prave didn't have one.

For the first time in years, the idea of another one-night stand with a stranger left a sour taste in Burk's mouth. It was suddenly tiring, this endless parade of women through his door. He imagined curling into bed and resting—sleeping instead of fucking for once—and how good it would feel to ease the bone-weary ache in his body.

Ready to tell the stranger he was turning in, Burk looked into the woman's eyes and noticed they were pale like dried moss. Green—sort of. Not like Willa's, but maybe in the same family.

Desire for Willa surged just under his skin. It flooded him, and he stiffened with its intensity. The raw, primal need for Willa was so overpowering that he was suddenly willing to do anything to redirect it. He was ready to give anyone—anyone at all—his time and attention to keep his longing for Willa at bay.

Wanting her was too dangerous. There was too much risk, and God knew he'd already lost enough.

He leaned closer to the redhead. She smiled at him, revealing small, uneven teeth.

“I bet you're a good dancer,” he said. “We should hit the floor later.”

“Dancing's not all I'm good at,” she purred in reply.

Burk stared at her mouth to avoid her eyes. If he could stay focused on her lips and not see the hint of green in her irises, it might be enough to forget Willa.

For one night anyway.

A glass of merlot in hand, Willa strolled around her home, not minding that she was inside on a Friday night. She had Tupperware containers full of food, thanks to the previous evening's recipe exchange, and she had a new pile of decorating magazines to peruse.

With an online eighties radio station playing her favorite (albeit corny) hits from that era, she walked through the dining room—where peeling chintz wallpaper hung like broken sails—and into the living room, where her bright blue table sat in stark contrast to the dull trim and flooring.

Willa had spent the past few days figuring out how to rough the edges of the table, discovering that if she painted a dark color underneath as a base, then chipped off some of the blue, the distressed effect would come through. She wasn't sure how Burk would feel at her revelation, since it would mean they'd have to paint the table over again, but the fact that she'd figured out how to do it made her eyes gleam. Plus, she was pretty sure she'd need to learn how to use a palm sander—whatever that was—and she was dying to try it.

Everywhere in the house, Willa was suddenly looking at things and wondering if she could repurpose them. The dusty old hutch stored in the basement. The ancient dresser in her bedroom. The brass bed in the guest room. The baker's rack in the kitchen.

She sipped her wine and wondered how her mom would feel if she could see how Willa was reusing all the old pieces in the home. At the end of her life, Edna had softened—even apologizing to Willa—so there was a chance she might have grinned and said, “Go for it.”

Willa could picture her mom's thin hands, so brittle and wrinkled the last time she'd seen them five years ago. They'd covered Willa's own with a dry rustle. Her old woman's voice had been shaky when Edna told her she loved her. That she wished she could have been there for her more, especially after Willa's dad had died. She confessed she'd fled to Minneapolis and into the arms of Max because she didn't know how to be without a man.

In the end, Edna had asked to be buried not in White Pine next to Harold or in Saint Paul, next to Max, but in a small family plot in Minneapolis. It was a decision Willa had respected enormously.

She closed her eyes, hoping her mom was looking down on her right now. Maybe she was the one, Willa mused, who was sending her decorating ideas every minute. Good ideas, too. In her mind, she was mixing old and new in the perfect balance. She could all but see the results in her mind's eye.

Either way, whether it was a little bit of Edna or her own innate talent—or both—Willa couldn't stop the ideas from flowing. Which was a good thing since rehabbed furniture would save money. She'd already had to give Burk a chunk of change for the roofing, the plastering, and some lumber to fix rotting boards on the siding, back deck, and front porch. But beyond all the repairs and decorating were the supplies she'd need for her guests. New dishes plentiful enough to feed a group of up to ten every morning. A load of new towels and bed linens. An industrial washer and dryer in the basement so she could wash them all. Or perhaps enough for a small salary so she could
pay
someone to wash them all.

Money was tight, and getting tighter. At this rate, she might need to go to the bank for a small loan. Not that that should be a problem. Her dad had owned the bank, after all. He had been adored there and she couldn't imagine they would refuse the daughter of Harold Masterson money if she needed it.

But even with the financial concerns darkening a corner of her mind, she could see the B and B coming together, and the progress made her elated. She hadn't felt this excited about anything since moving to New York twelve years ago.

And it was all thanks to Burk, really. Not only was he commanding a crew on the big projects, but he'd taken her to the hardware store and helped her pick out paint. He'd given her lessons in sandpaper coarseness. He'd sat here in this very room and helped her paint every surface of the table.

And he'd nearly kissed her again.

Willa took her merlot back to the kitchen, trying not to think about how close she and Burk had been—again—earlier in the week. When she'd told Betty, Stephanie, and Audrey about it, they'd both sworn up and down that Burk still had feelings for her.

Willa sighed. If only that were true. The reality was, Burk probably just had a handful of old, residual emotions being dredged up now that she was back in town. Knowing the new Burk, he'd probably experience a few sparks of feeling, and then douse them with his flat pragmatism.

In a way, Willa wished for the same stiff sensibility in herself. Her tousled hair would never move him to action—whereas the messiness of
his
ebony locks had the air catching in her lungs. He could see her fingers on a hammer or wrench and it wouldn't stir a single thing in his heart—whereas Willa would find herself wishing she was one of those tools in
his
hands.

She shook her head and stared out the window above the kitchen sink. Burk was such an all-consuming idea in her brain lately. She very much doubted she was one in
his
mind, however. Not that she needed to be.

The only thing she really needed to be in was his bed.

She tried to replace the picture of them sleeping together with the scene outside her window. An early frost covered the ground with a ghostly white sheen. Stars pierced the fabric of the black sky like jeweled needlepoints. There had never been this many stars in New York—ever. Not with all the lights and noise and pollution. Here, though, everything was quiet and still. The sky, the streets, the houses. Even her heart seemed to slow its frantic pace, her brain seemed to race less.

Unless she was around Burk.

Willa took a sip of wine, her lips curving into a smile around her glass. It was shocking, really, that she'd spoken her ideas about Burk out loud to her friends at the recipe exchange last night.
Ideas
wasn't the right word, though. Neither was
plan
or
agenda
. Those words sounded so calculated, when really, all Willa wanted was Burk.

In bed.

With her.

“You made a great couple in high school, why not again now?” Audrey had asked. Willa didn't have the heart to correct her. She didn't want to be a couple.

She just wanted…Burk. No strings attached. Friends with benefits, she supposed you could call it.

They were consenting adults. She could give him a few wild nights; he could give her a few in return. It wouldn't have to be anything exclusive or complicated. Just great sex. And then they'd have something between them besides the past.

She giggled involuntarily, wondering how she was going to approach Burk with all this. Should she sidle up to him in a negligee? Should she ask him, businesslike, over the wet paint of a project? Burk was so regimented. Maybe she should draw up papers and create a contract.

The thought made her laugh out loud. The sound echoed in the empty house, which made Willa laugh harder. She was crazy, cracking herself up in this old space, all alone. The merlot must be going to her head. Willa grinned and decided to pour herself another glass. Why the hell not? She was enjoying herself enormously.

She crossed the battered tile floor to the makeshift wine rack and was just reaching for the bottle when her cell phone rang. Her mind raced, thinking it might be Burk. What if he was coming over now?