In a Moon Smile (20 page)

The handyman was intently poking around in her personal life. And she was at fault. A few minutes ago, if she had sprinted out of the house, she wouldn’t be sitting here now, being interrogated.

“I didn’t live there all the time,” Chesney said slowly. “I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and spent most of my summers here in Bean Blossom with Grace. First I worked in journalism. After I launched my writing career, I was in New York for a few months several times a year. In fact, Gloria, my agent is there.”

“And so, one day you just decided to leave your life and come here?” he pressed. “That sounds like a pretty abrupt decision.” Those eyes again stared straight through her. “Moving away from all that… for a simple change of scenery?”

“Well my family and friends questioned my sanity,” Chesney said. “But the truth is that I have always loved to be here. And it was time, you know, time to come back to a place where I only have fond memories.”

“Unhappy memories up north?” Dalton pressed again.

“Stop acting so clueless, Mr. Moore,” Chesney said in a crisp voice. She was now irritated by the word games they were playing. “I know how people around here talk about me. So don’t act like you know nothing about me. It’s pissing me off.”

“Pissing you off, huh?” he chuckled. “What if I tell you that yes, I have heard the gossip, but I’d rather hear the story from you?”

“I don’t have time to tell you a story, Mr. Moore,” Chesney stood and angrily grabbed the empty breakfast plates. “And maybe you should mind your own damn business.”

“Hey,” Now Dalton was standing inches away from her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. We were just talking, right? What’s your problem, Ms. Blake?”

“My problem?” She spluttered. “You really want to know my problem? I happen to be cursed, Mr. Moore. That is my problem.”

Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Why did I say that?

“What in the hell does that mean?” he looked at her, genuinely puzzled. “Cursed?”

“Yes,” Chesney nodded since it was now too late to shut her fat mouth. “When it comes to men and relationships, I’m cursed. Just like my grandmother. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have wallpaper to strip off the plaster.”

But then her cell phone rang and the shrill sound made her jump, startled.

“Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Moore,” Chesney said in a cool tone. Then she walked out on the back porch to answer the call. It was Gloria Brewer, her agent in New York.

“Of course you know why I'm calling,” Gloria said with a snap to her voice.

“Yes,” Chesney said as a throbbing began behind her right eye. “But I'm still struggling for time to finish the last few chapters.”

“We can't plan the book cover design without the book, Chesney
.
”

“I'm working on it,” she lied. “I know you feel a little bit anxious, Gloria. But you know me, I always meet deadlines.”

“I'll call back in a few days,” Gloria said. “You know I love you dearly. I love to work with you and I adore your work. But I'm concerned, dear. If you're experiencing writer's block, you've got to say so. I will put everything else on hold. You've been through a lot. And Chesney, it's perfectly understandable if you don't feel like writing.”

Pride prevented Chesney from telling Gloria the truth. That, for the first time in her life, she could not focus on her work. Words stagnated in her mind. Sentences simply refused to make their way from her thoughts to the computer keyboard. The truth was that Chesney had not touched the book draft for months and didn't feel a desire to even try.

“Don't worry,” she said softly to Gloria. “I'll come through for you.” When they said good-bye, she was queasy with anxiety. Her heart pounded in her ears.

“What is wrong with me?” Chesney whispered as she squeezed her eyes shut. “I can't write. I can't admit to Gloria that I can't write. I can't do anything but work on this house. And everybody in my life thinks I have lost my mind.” She walked the length of the wood porch, tapping the cell phone against her leg. “Call Gloria. Tell her you can't write,” Chesney said aloud. Then she answered herself. “No, don't call. Don't let her know you're struggling. She'll lose trust in your ability. You've got to write. It's a mental thing. You've got to take control.”

Two more paces across the porch and Chesney’s right foot suddenly crashed through a rotten board. “Damn it!” In a rage, she threw the cell phone into the grass. Trying to push herself back to her feet, she got nowhere. Half of her leg and foot was stuck. She could not budge. She nervously looked around, hoping Dalton Moore had not seen this unfortunate moment. Why did she give a damn what he saw or didn’t see? Why wasn’t she more concerned about whether her stupid leg might be broken?

Of course, Chesney had no such luck.

Damn curse.

“Need a handyman, Ms. Blake?” Dalton poked his head out the kitchen door to the back porch. He was grinning from one adorable ear to the other.

At that moment, no matter how gorgeous she secretly found him to be, Chesney hated Dalton Moore's guts and the cheesy grin on his handsome face. She made a face at him. Sweat beaded in her hair. The morning sun gleamed across her face like a spotlight. Struggling in vain to escape entrapment in the rotten porch didn't help matters.

“You look like you need some help,” Dalton said as he eyed the situation, that half of her leg had disappeared through the porch.

“How observant,” Chesney snapped.

Dalton walked over and bent down beside her to remove the rotten, splintered boards. He gently maneuvered her leg and foot, trying to free her. It was the first time they had ever had physical contact. His hands were warm and calloused on her skin. Chesney studied the patient, intent way he worked to free her bare leg and foot. For a moment, she didn’t care if her leg was ever set free, as long as Dalton Moore was here, holding her shoulder in his wonderful hands.

“I wish you were wearing shoes,” he said.

“I wish I was on a beach somewhere, drinking a pina colada,” Chesney sneered.

“Try not to move your foot,” Dalton said. “The skin on your leg will be scraped by the splintered wood. And who knows what you might rest your foot on under this porch.”

“What?” An alarmed breath stuck in her chest. “What do you mean?”

“Oh you know, mice, rats, snakes…” he said with a sigh. “All kinds of critters live under the porches of old houses in the country.”

“Are you kidding me?” Fighting the urge to freak out and start screaming, Chesney wiggled her leg between the planks. “Damn it. Get me out of here.”

“Hey,” Dalton said as he grabbed a hammer. “I told you not to move. It will tear the hell out of your leg.” He swung the hammer and broke the wood. As he tore a bigger, gaping hole in the porch, tears rimmed Chesney’s eyes. “Are you alright?” Dalton asked.

“Never better,” she said as she bit her lip. “My foot is being eaten by a rotten porch. And now we’ve got another damn project. The stupid porch must be rebuilt.”

“I thought your foot was hurt,” Dalton said as he studied her. “You know, tears in your eyes.”

“I'm not crying, Mr. Moore,” Chesney spat. “Let’s get that straight right now, okay? The sun is in my eyes and sweat is dripping off me like crazy. I am not crying.”

“Of course not, Ms. Blake,” Dalton said. “I should have known better than to assume something like that.”

When her foot was free, Chesney squirmed away from Dalton’s touch and wiped the perspiration from her face with the tail of her shirt. As she gently inspected her very scratched and bloody lower leg and foot, she could feel his eyes on her.

“Should we call 911? You’ve got some nasty abrasions,” he said. “At the very least, you probably need a tetanus shot.”

“Nothing too serious,” Chesney said shakily. “Nothing’s broken.” Trying not to limp even though her entire leg felt like it was on fire, she made her way toward the kitchen door.

“You probably need to find your sense of humor,” Dalton said.

Who did this smart aleck handyman think he was, anyway?

“You probably need to get back to work, Mr. Moore,”

“Not a problem,” Dalton walked back across the porch toward the door. “Remember to stay away from my work areas. I don't like company,” he said. “And now that I know about the fact that you’re cursed, I don’t want you to talk to me, either.” Then Dalton slammed the screen door behind him and disappeared into the house.

“What an ass. I should fire you,” Chesney whispered in a low hiss. “I hate you. And I think I might just fire you, Dalton Moore. What would you think about that?”

Painfully, she turned back around to search the grass for the stupid cell phone. Then she stomped back inside. Thankfully, Dalton was not working in the kitchen. His hammer was swinging somewhere upstairs. Good. She hated him and definitely did not want to see his damn face. In one motion, Chesney dumped the remaining biscuits and fruit in the trashcan, and then swiped at the coffee-stained mugs with a dish towel. She left the rest of the morning mess and marched through the house, as best she could, with the injuries to her right leg. “Try to forget that you hired a jerk to be your handyman,” she whispered as she viciously attacked the walls of the library with paint and frustration. With the rhythmic slap of paint on the wall, her heartbeat slowed. That motion of painting up and down had a hypnotic, calming effect. Her leg was stinging. But she refused to treat it with antiseptic until after the handyman from hell left for the day. She didn’t want him to assume she was a lightweight. Her leg could fall off right this minute, and Chesney promised herself that she would not react. She would not utter one sound. She would just hop right over the damaged leg, just leave it there on the floor and continue to paint.

“I'm sorry,” Dalton said suddenly from the doorway.

“What?” Chesney asked in a cool voice, not even daring to turn around.

“I am sorry,” he said again. “I think I hurt your feelings earlier. I think you were embarrassed about falling through that hole in the porch. So I'm sorry for teasing you.”

“I wasn't hurt,” she stammered, still with her back to him. “And I wasn’t embarrassed. I was…tired and frustrated.” When Chesney finally turned around, she immediately felt like she was in some kind of weird trance. She couldn’t stop staring at his eyes, his smile or the incredibly sexy way he leaned against the door frame. As quickly as he appeared, Dalton disappeared again around the corner. And Chesney hated herself for being so attracted to the arrogant ass in a tool belt.

When she turned her attention back to the painting project, Dalton reappeared.  “Here,” he said with a warm smile. “I brought you some iced tea since I couldn't find pina colada mix in your kitchen cabinets.”

His sudden sweetness made her smile as she took the glass and slowly sat down on the floor and sighed.

“You look so tired,” Dalton said.

“I'm alright,” Chesney said. But she was lying, of course. Every muscle ached. Her wrists were sore from stripping wallpaper and slathering paint on walls. Her head hurt. Her stomach was knotted. Every time she thought about Gloria, waiting in New York for the book draft, Chesney wanted to curl into the fetal position and sob. She was lying to her family, about how easily the house was coming together. She was lying to Becca, refusing to admit that she was the least bit lonely.

Dalton slid down the wall and joined her on the dusty floor. “First your cell phone rang,” he said. “Then you were attacked by the porch. Now you look even more stressed.”

“That phone call was from my agent in New York,” Chesney said sadly. “My book draft is due this very minute for my next novel. But it isn't even close to being ready.”

“Do you want to work on your book?” Dalton asked quickly. “Go ahead and do your writing. I'll do the painting for you.”

She was touched by how quickly and sincerely he jumped to support her. “It's fine,” Chesney lied again. “I'll write later, maybe even this evening.”

“You haven’t told me why you decided to move to Bean Blossom.” Dalton said as he produced a tube of antiseptic cream from his pocket. “May I?” His eyes again seemed to pierce through hers as he gently lifted her injured leg and placed it over his knee.

Why won’t this man stop prying? Chesney’s eyes stung. His hand on her leg made her entire body feel feverish. In a weak moment, she said, “I am in Bean Blossom because I am trying to put my life back together.”

“Moving to Bean Blossom will help you get back your life?” Dalton intently finished treating the abrasions, not looking at her. Then he stretched out his legs and leaned against the half-painted wall.

“It's a good start,” Chesney said. “Moving here, it’s a safe start.”

“Why?”

“I’m happy here,” she said. “This house, this land, this little town…all of it makes me happy.”

With a rather odd, almost distant look on his face, Dalton scooted casually across the floor. He reached in the pocket of his overalls for a tiny, still-white rag. Without a word, he leaned close and dabbed at her face. “You don't look so good with sage green paint on your cheek,” he said softly.

For only a moment, their eyes met. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted his face against hers. She wanted to put her arms around him, bury her face in his neck. Those few moments felt like hours as they sat there on the dusty floor, staring at each other. Dalton was the first to move away. “Thanks for breakfast this morning, Ms. Blake,” he said in a low voice as he scooted away and stood.