In a Moon Smile (16 page)

“Good plan,” Dalton said as he scribbled measurements on a notepad.

He turned away and she swallowed hard, still fearing that she might just burst into tears from humiliation, from exhaustion and from being caught red-handed, lusting over the handyman.

“I will re-hinge the front door on my way out,” Dalton said.

After Dalton walked away, Chesney leaned against the kitchen counter, rubbing her temples. Damn it. She was frustrated and confused. Trying to suddenly be seen as something more than a pushover was a lot more difficult than she anticipated. In her effort not to be a doormat, she had given Dalton Moore the impression that she should straddle that broom as soon as she finished swatting cob webs with it. Chesney sneaked over to the living room window and peeked outside. Her handyman was diligently repairing the front door. In the safety of the empty room, she didn’t have to hide the fact that she was staring at those bulging muscles in his tanned arms. She couldn’t ignore the way the sunlight glinted on the back of his neck, either. “The last thing you need to think about is a man.” Then she forced herself to stop being a voyeur.

“What time would you like me to start working tomorrow?” Dalton asked from the back door.

“You work on Saturday?” Chesney asked, instantly impressed.

“I work if you want me to work,” he said.

“Whatever time you'd like to get here is fine,” she said, secretly enjoying that empowered feeling of being in charge. “I'll be painting tomorrow in the kitchen.”

“I'll be here by 6 a.m.,” Dalton said.

What? Chesney blinked, wide-eyed. Was he serious? But Dalton was already gone. He was on his way across the driveway to a shiny, new pick-up truck. “Great,” she groaned. “Now I have to rise and shine by dawn, so Mr. Moore doesn't see me without makeup.”

Before five o’clock the next morning, Chesney rolled out of her sleeping bag. The early morning chill forced her to grab an old flannel shirt before she wrestled her unruly mane into a ponytail. She then chose a melon-colored, sleeveless shirt and a pair of cut-offs. She wanted to look cute without looking like she put any effort into it. But she was aggravated at herself for caring at all about what she looked like. “I am stupid for getting up so early to greet the good looking handyman,” she muttered as she made her way through the house, which now smelled sweetly of cleaning supplies and polished wood. Her heart danced around in her chest, falling more in love with her surroundings with every step she took. “Yep, I’m stupid about men. But I’m definitely not stupid for buying this place.” She was pouring a second cup of coffee when Dalton Moore arrived. She tried not to appear to notice the slam of his truck door. And she cursed her heart for fluttering around when the crunch of his boots on the driveway gravel got closer. Dalton knocked twice on the back door and opened it. He was wearing faded overalls with a light blue tank top. A bandana was tied around his forehead. A scruff of soft brown stubble was on his chin and jaw line. Any other man dressed like this would nauseate her, maybe even frighten her. Dalton Moore, however, could pose on the GQ magazine cover while wearing this attire. Chesney wondered for a moment if she might pass out from an amazing wave of lust as it washed over her man-hating heart.

“Good morning,” Dalton said cheerfully. “I didn't expect to see you so early.” He walked in with an assortment of tools.

“I like to rise and shine with the crows,” Chesney said with a sigh as if she had been awake for hours and popped out of bed before the sun every single day of her life.

“I think you mean, 'with the chickens,'” Dalton grinned.

“I'm an early riser,” she lied.“Coffee?”

“I brought my own.” He pointed at a beat-up silver thermos stuck in the back pocket of his overalls. “Thanks, though.” As Dalton wandered around the kitchen, he glanced at her again. But Chesney pretended not to notice. She made herself busy by scribbling a to-do list on a scratch pad. Dalton pretended not to admire her petite frame, the bruises dotting her legs and the lovely color of her eyes.

“City girl, huh?” he asked.

She did not answer. It wasn't his business where she came from. Just as it was not Dalton Moore's business to know that Chesney Blake had not seen what 6 a.m. looked like since she was a child, grumbling but up and ready for the school bus to rumble past her parents' house in the suburbs. Better that she not converse with him at all. In fact, the less she spoke to him, the faster Dalton Moore would complete his work and go away. He was cute, well, he was fabulous. But Chesney was hell-bent on staying away from him.

Dalton noted with some amusement that the feisty redhead was ignoring him. So he turned his back like she wasn’t in the room. While he hammered and
clamored
to remove the old counter tops in the kitchen, Chesney pretended to be completely enthralled with painting the wall behind the kitchen door.

Dalton heaved one of the old counter tops over his head and Chesney’s breath caught when her eyes scanned those muscled arms, that small waist, that…

“Married?” Dalton asked over his shoulder.

“Nope,” she shook her head, hating how thrilled she was that he seemed curious. After a moment, she added a question, “And you?” but then she hated herself for asking. When Chesney realized how much she wanted Dalton to answer, she hated herself even more.

He shrugged, shook his head and stared at the freshly painted wall.

“You should paint elsewhere,” he said after a moment. “I'm tearing out the floor today, too. So the kitchen will be too dusty for fresh paint.”

For some reason, Chesney felt like crying. She was embarrassed. Did Dalton think she was slapping paint on the kitchen wall just so she could be in his presence? And was that what she was subconsciously doing?

Oh, for heaven’s sake, you know damn well that you have never jumped out of bed to wear make-up at this hour for another man. You know you wanted to paint the kitchen while he worked in there, too. Just like you know how much you enjoy every single moment you get to watch the hottie bend over or carry something or smile or breathe.

Clearing her throat and praying that her face would not flush a bright, tell-it-all pink, Chesney grabbed the paintbrushes. “I have a zillion other places to paint.”

“It might be best if we devise a work plan,” Dalton said. “That way, we would know, day-to-day, what projects to tackle.”

I want to tackle YOU
.
I hate it, but it’s true, I absolutely want to tackle you.

“Yes, that’s a good plan,” Chesney nodded as she clumsily tried not to drop the brushes and paint cans.

“I really don't like to share my workspace with other people,” Dalton said.

Again, humiliation burned on her cheeks. She left the kitchen without saying another word and marched toward the parlor. “No problem, Mr. Moore,” Chesney whispered as she climbed the stairs. “I'll work upstairs. You can work downstairs. And we'll avoid each other like the plague.” As she wandered through the upstairs hallway, trying to decide where to start painting, Chesney stopped and smiled at the room which would become her office. She made a mental note to see if the Internet was now available.

I absolutely have to make an effort on my book or Gloria will hunt me down.

Then she walked a few more steps down the hall to peek into each of the remaining three bedrooms. One room was wallpapered with tiny pink rose buds. This room had been hers when she visited Grace. The tall, white wrought iron bed was still there, against the wall by the window. When the house was sold at auction, the buyers wanted the bed. For some reason, they left it behind when they moved out. Chesney was grateful that her bed was still there. She remembered being propped up on pillows, reading for a while before turning the bed lamp off. She left the paint paraphernalia in the hallway, went into the room and sat on the edge of the naked mattress. She ran her hand along the headboard. It was cold to the touch even though the room was musty and warm. A pink chenille bedspread and lace-edged pillows had been on the bed of her past years in this room. For some reason, Chesney had not yet felt comfortable to ditch the sleeping bag and stretch out here, on this memory from yesterday. It would be a hell of a lot more comfortable. But she couldn’t yet make herself sleep upstairs. She didn’t know why, either. She gazed out the dirty naked window at the overgrown pond. When she was a child, ducks quacked around the pond. Feeding them leftover biscuit crumbs from breakfast was Chesney’s job. She loved to watch the plump little ducks waddle from the bank to the water. Fat bullfrogs plopped off rocks and disappeared. June bugs as big as her thumb buzzed in the cattails. The pond water was murky now and the weeds were higher than her head. Whacking blindly at the wild weeds would be a job she would tackle later. And when she did, the pond would be beautiful again, just as it was when Grace was alive.

“Yet another project to add to the long, long list,” she muttered before walking into the second bedroom, where stacks of fabric and a pedal powered sewing machine had been a couple of Grace’s most prized possessions. Spools of thread and tins filled with mismatched buttons lined the closet shelves. Grace created dress patterns with newspaper. She loved to work with bright colors, lots of red and purple and yellow. And she made most of her curtains, bedspreads and dust ruffles. Memories of Grace, bent over the desk light, carefully pinning newspaper pieces to rich, colorful materials made Chesney wish again that Grace was still here. While she sewed, Chesney sat at her feet and chattered about all kinds of subjects.

“When I grow up, I want to write books,” Chesney had said. “And when I grow up, I want to be a Mommy. I want a little girl named Gracie. And I want her to look just like you.” She could still feel Grace’s soft hand brush gently across her face. “I don't want to live in a neighborhood,” Chesney said to Grace every single summer when she stayed right here in this house until a new school year was back in session. “I want to be in the country with you.”

Grace always beamed. But she also shook her head. “There are no other little girls for you to play with in the country, Chesney. You'd be lonely.”

After supper, they sat outside on the porch swing. Sometimes they snapped string beans. Other times, they sang songs. Always, Grace looked up at the dark blue-gray sky as the sun sank slowly behind the trees. “When there's a brilliant light around the moon like that, it means the moon is smiling down at you.”

At the end of summer, Lyle and Madelyn arrived, ready to take their oldest daughter back to Chicago. Perfect Charlotte was perched alone in the backseat, waving crazily at Grace until she got kissed and hugged. Charlotte was invited to come along with Chesney for summer stays in Bean Blossom, but thank goodness Charlotte always declined. While Chesney was so crazy about Grace, Charlotte was equally as happy to have their mother all to herself. When she leaned in to kiss Chesney good-bye, Grace always said, “See you in a moon smile.” And her eyes rimmed with tears.

“I want to stay with Grace,” Chesney pouted from the backseat beside Charlotte. “Grace and I belong together.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” Madelyn said in her usual, statue-of-liberty way. “You’ve enjoyed spending the summer with Grace. Now it’s time to be happy about other things.”

“You'll see Grace again soon,” Lyle would say as the family waved good-bye. “Now open that box of cookies, sweetheart. We have a long drive ahead of us.”

The third bedroom was Grace’s, where a huge feather bed and bulky dressers decorated with family photographs, once filled the space. Lyle Blake’s life paraded across the dressers, first as a baby and then as a father, with Charlotte and Chesney posing on his lap. He was an only child, and definitely the light of Grace’s life. “I don't have a Grandpa?” Chesney had asked before she was old enough to know not to ask.

“He's gone away now,” Grace had said as she watched Chesney look at the framed photographs. “He's gone far away.”

Until she was ten years old, Chesney assumed that her grandfather died before she was born. But then she overheard her parents talking about Lyle’s father, Richard Blake. He left Grace when Chesney’s father was a baby. Grace managed to keep the family place, called Chesney Ridge even all those years ago, by working long hours as a seamstress. All hours of the night, she altered clothing or stitched curtains, wedding dresses, men's suits. Keeping her family homestead was important. Her dignity and her son’s dignity were at stake. Until Chesney grew into a woman herself, she never understood how much her grandmother sacrificed to keep the family home.

“We just never heard from Richard again,” Lyle say in a low voice. Of course, Chesney’s ten-year-old ears perked up, hoping to solve the mystery. “I wouldn't know the man if I met him on the street,” her father said sadly. “I know absolutely nothing about him. And I don’t think I want to know, either.”

For years, Chesney thought about that conversation. What was it like for her father not to have a father? What was it like to live the silently tormented life Grace lived? And why did Grace live all of her life alone? By the time she was a teenager, Chesney mustered the nerve to approach Madelyn. She sneaked her way into the conversation by telling her mother that a genealogy project at school required some family history. Chesney added that she was certainly old enough to know the truth about her grandfather. Where was he? And why didn’t anyone try to find him? “After Richard left, why did Grace stay alone?” Chesney asked. “She was a young woman. She was beautiful and kind. Why didn’t she want someone to love her?”