Fearsome (26 page)

I maintain my composure and give away nothing. “I’m not leaving. In fact, Imogene and Lauren are moving in. They need to get out of their parents’ homes so they’re going to pay rent while also setting up their jewelry business upstairs in the old playroom, since I never use it. It was Archie’s idea and I think it’s a pretty great one. We were celebrating our new living arrangements when you came in and blew a gasket.”

“I’m not like Dylan. I don’t fly off in unexplained rages,” he defends. “Okay, I admit I can yell, but that in there was me being mad. Nothing more. I don’t hold it in when I’m pissed off. I say something.” Carson’s fear of being compared to his brother is unnecessary. After knowing him for several months, I would never consider them to be alike in any way.

I smile. “You do
mad
really, really well.”

“It gets old,” he confesses. “I spend too much time trying to control things, trying to contain Dylan.”

I lean against the porch railing and Carson walks closer, perching himself next to me.

A confidence soars in me. I am more like my true self when I’m with Carson than I ever was with Dylan, who took attentiveness to a painstaking level. Dylan couldn’t wrap his head around my art and my need to paint at any given hour of the day or night.

It’s exciting being near Carson and I know he has made a point of figuring out my likes and dislikes with a genuine interest in what makes me tick. I am deeply moved by his declaration of
I don’t want you to leave
. He may not be interested in me beyond a simple affection, but I matter to him and that’s something significant to my weak ego. Yet I also want to be more realistic about men in general, right down to reading the signals correctly and owning up to my poor decisions.

“You know, at some point I will need to talk to Dylan. I owe it to him and to myself. We can’t live in the same town and pretend we’re strangers.” I study Carson’s face for any sign of jealousy, but of course, there is none. I suppose he’s not that kind of guy and I’m not the kind of girl he’d feel that way about.

“Do you think you still have feelings for him?” he asks in a very clinical, non-emotional way.

“No. I told you no. I’m concerned about him, though.”

“You should see him, but not now. There will be a better opportunity when the time is right, to clear the air. Dylan is going to get better. He’ll be fine.”

Carson picks up my hand and looks at it while holding it gently in his own. “You’re wearing the necklace.”

I nod.

“Would you come see my house?” His steely eyes are serious as he waits for my reply.

“Ninety million,” I whisper.

Carson chuckles. “Am I making you nervous?”

Yes, and if you keeping holding my hand and caressing my palm, my body is going to shatter.

“Maybe. This doesn’t seem like a good idea. I haven’t seen Dylan in over a month and I should probably talk to him before I see your house,” I say and then realize how idiotic that sounds.

“You want to ask Dylan for permission to see my house?” Carson laughs.

“No, of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m joking. I know what you meant. You don’t want him to see you with me. You’re afraid he still has feelings for you, no matter how irrational they may be. Like I said, Dylan will be fine.”

“How do you know? Before today, you were pretty sure I needed to stay away from Dylan. Now, you think he’ll be fine. You seem awfully sure about all of this.”

“We’ve already looked into a residential treatment program and it looks like a good fit for Dylan.”

“Dylan is agreeing to this?” I ask. I’m both amazed and ticked off that Carson didn’t tell me this sooner. “Carson, this is the news you were supposed to lead with when you came crashing through my door.”

“So, now will you come over to my house?”

Twenty-Five

I drive up the solitary road that narrows with trees arching over the dirt road like a secret entrance. It’s September and the autumn colors are beginning to take over the closer I get to Carson’s home. I navigate my car through the heavily wooded patch of red and yellow trees before I burst upon a scene of unbelievable beauty.

With the trees behind me I am overlooking the valley, the same view I have from my home, but I’m more elevated up here, therefore, everything appears more majestic and vast. In the middle of it all, before the drop down to the valley, is a lone house.

Carson’s home.

It’s a contemporary design with straight lines and glass, but instead of looking grotesquely modern like an “office building” type structure, it has organic qualities of wood and shades of neutral tones that give it an earthy appearance. It’s huge, bigger than my Victorian house.

I park near his detached garage, which is a low structure covered by a green screen of living plants. As I get out of the car to view my surroundings, Carson steps out of the house and walks towards me with a casual gait. No tool belt hanging on his hips and no muddy boots. He’s barefoot, in jeans and a white T-shirt.

“Hi,” he greets, smiling. His intentions are clear. He wants to be with me and I have every inch of desire in my body and brain pushing me towards him. The way he looks at me is all I need to feel wonderful and special.

We’re surrounded by clean, crisp, cool air and it makes the mood incredibly promising. It’s just us with no pretext of doing anything else. I’m here to see him and he looks happy. I don’t know what to make of this homebody. I’ve only known the work-driven, hard-edged Carson who’s usually covered in saw dust or dressed for an unwanted occasion. This is the most relaxed I have ever seen him and it causes me to smile in return.

“I’m really glad you’re here.” He puts a hand on my back and guides me towards the house.

“I had to see the house that is forbidden to all of Carson’s dates.”

“That sounds like something Imogene and Lauren cooked up.” He leads me through the front door. The first thing that strikes me is the thirty-foot high ceilings, the polished concrete floors and the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“This is amazing,” I say with my head swiveling around.

“Thank you. I know most people think it looks too stark, kind of bleak, but it’s really very comfortable. I wanted a casual place. I don’t have a lot of possessions, but everything is made for comfort, not show.”

It’s so Carson. There’s no clutter, no nick-knacks. Everything has a purpose. Two leather couches and Blackard chairs grace the living room that opens into a dining area with a massive Blackard dining table and chair set. The dining room wall is one of those retractable windows like you see at a gas station. There are a few area rugs, some exceptional works of art on the walls and a wood-burning fireplace that comes down in the middle of the living room. It’s simple, tasteful and very masculine.

“It looks very comfortable,” I agree. “So have you brought a lot of your dates here?”

“Why do keep bringing up my dating life?” Carson looks flustered by where I’m going with this.

“You implied that Imogene and Lauren were making up stories. They said you’ve never brought women here, meaning the women you were or are dating. Is it true?”

Carson smiles. “You’re here.”

“You’re not dating me. Then there are Lauren and Imogene, they’ve seen this house and you’re not dating them, either.”

“I’ve never brought a date here,” he admits. “It’s true. You’re the first.” He’s smiling when he says this.

“Mmm, I suppose this is a date,” I say as I walk around the fireplace to the dining area. I stop and pause, staring at one particular framed painting. It’s positioned on a narrow wall between two large windows, a special exhibition space, a place where guests have to pass by it on their way to the dining area so they will notice this piece.

It’s my painting, one of the originals I gave to Tom’s gallery last year. It’s a dark image of a man in a grubby suit and hat grasping a bottle of whiskey, shuffling through Bryant Park with his head hung low, surrounded by neon explosions of splattered paint and dancing girls.

“That’s one of my favorites,” Carson says from behind me.

“Did you buy my painting at Tom’s gallery or did Ginnie buy it and give it to you?”

“I bought it. I was visiting one of our stores and stopped in at the gallery.”

I’m still staring at my painting. “This was one of the first pieces that sold. I remember Tom calling me.”

“‘
Searching for Hope
’,” Carson says.

It dawns on me that he’s telling me the title of my own painting.

“That’s right. It’s ‘
Searching for Hope
’, but I thought it sold with two other pieces.”

“It did. I purchased those, too.”

I turn around and stare at him in disbelief. He’s full of surprises and I want to kiss him. Not a thank you kiss, but a full on, passionate I’m-crazy-about-you kiss.

“You don’t believe me?” he asks. “Let’s finish the tour and you’ll see the other paintings.”

“I believe you. I’m surprised, that’s all. Dylan thinks my paintings are strange.”

“Consider the source.” Carson reaches out and brushes a lock of my long hair back, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder as though he’s contemplating what to do next. “I like strange. I like different. I like intelligent, beautiful, smart-alecky and funny. I like it all.”

I presume he’s describing me, yet I’m so muddled with opposing thoughts that suddenly the autumn chill forces me to pull my baby-doll cardigan across my chest. The thin material does nothing to warm me or hide the fact that I am nervous, though.

Carson doesn’t miss a beat on reading my anxiety. He moves his hand back to my shoulder blade and propels me through the kitchen, highlighting every component that is made of recycled or sustainable materials. Sleek, modern appliances, bare counters and more poured concrete flooring.

“The house is so modern, but it’s rustic at the same time. It’s really you,” I say.

“I hired a good design team. A friend of mine does this. He knows me well, so I didn’t have to tell him to avoid anything with flowers and patterns.”

“The kitchen is immaculate. Do you even eat meals here?”

Carson laughs. “I can’t cook like Dylan, but I make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sloppy Joes. Mostly, though, I depend on my housekeeper to take care of everything.”

“You have a housekeeper? I don’t know any guys your age who have a maid. Unless they’re rich, I suppose, like my boss, Nathan.” I chuckle at the image of a housekeeper bossing Carson around in his own home.

“Is she a stout, little, old, gray-haired woman who makes her own bread and cleans everything with white vinegar?”

“No, she’s fairly young and strong. She’s Polish and blond. Her name is Talia. She’s here three times a week, cleans, does the laundry and leaves me dinners in the fridge. She’s great. And, yes, I can afford her.”

I hate her.

“You should hire her.”

First he’s telling me how awesome this young woman is and then he’s suggesting I hire her? “You think I’m a slob?”

“No, not at all, but you inherited a very big house and you have to admit you have some dust going on there. Gin’s housecleaner moved away a few months ago and she was going to hire Talia, but things happened. Gin died and I got caught up in finishing the work around the house; I forgot to mention the housecleaner to you.”

“I can’t afford her anyway.” I sound a little miffed, not about hiring a maid, but about this fabulous woman in Carson’s home.

“Yes, you can. Gin included it in the house maintenance money going into the checking account every month. You haven’t really used that account have you?”

“Archie has been going over the accounts with me.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t used the checking account Gin provided.”

“I’ve been using my own. I have enough money and I am using some of the money that came from the checks Archie gave me when some assets were liquidated. Besides, my paintings are selling, in case you didn’t hear.”

“Don’t do that. Save your money and use the money Gin left you. You’re making it harder on yourself.”

“How do you know so much about Ginnie’s accounts?”

“She trusted me. She had me sit in on the meetings with her and Archie when she was deciding how to set everything up for you. Let me talk to Talia about coming to your house at least once a week. Cleaning only. You can trust her and you can concentrate on your job and your painting. That’s why I’m suggesting her. You can focus on work instead of managing that big house. I need her to do so much here because I work long hours at the shop and, honestly, I hate doing laundry and house cleaning.”

“Well, Carson, who doesn’t?” I lean against the cool concrete counter and admire the spectacular view of fall foliage behind him.

“The view is something, isn’t it?” He grins. “You have to see the rest.”

He nudges me and I follow him back to the hallway where we head up a suspension staircase with wires and clear glass panels so no views are obstructed. The second floor is really an extension of the first level with an open hallway that overlooks the living room, four bedrooms and a sun filled room that Carson calls the office, although it’s practically bare.

I walk right up to my painting, “
Laundry
”, a scene of neighborhood residents at the local Laundromat and all the activities that go on while they wait for their clothes to wash and tumble dry. The clothes are emblazoned in more neon splatters, including some underwear with a super hero logo. All the people in the painting are drawn in black ink down to the tiniest detail. I smile nervously revisiting that one.

“You don’t really work here.” I look at the Blackard desk and chair set with a lamp made out of some vintage mechanical equipment. Except for a few papers on the desk and a stack of books, the room is bare. One wall is another retractable window that opens the whole wall onto a large terrace. The terrace has bamboo flooring and glass panels as well as a set of chairs outside. The scenic view of the valley with its palette of red, orange and yellow colors is lovely and uplifting. “If I lived here I would drink my coffee out here every morning and my easel and paints would be all over this room,” I ramble it off so quickly before I realize that I have embarrassed myself.