The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel) (11 page)

He nodded, considering her closely before asking, “Do you want me to call him off?”

Oh, that’s hardly fair
. “If I say no, does it make me a hypocrite?”

“Not at all,” he said, pushing up from his chair and walking to the counter to brew a latte. “You care about your brother. Finding him is more important than how it gets done. But I’d like to think you would’ve come to me eventually if you did need the help.”

She looked down at her hands, at her keys, at the marks the teeth had made in her palm. “It’s hard for me. To ask. I’ve been doing things on my own so long.”

He held her gaze, the espresso machine hissing behind him, hot coffee streaming from the spout, neither one of them moving, or doing more than breathing. After a moment, he broke the strange tension, gesturing toward her with a second cup. She nodded, and he went back to the task, saying, “I get that. But that’s what friends are for.”

So was that what they were? Friends? Sure. She could work with that. “It’s weird, but since Tennessee got in touch back in March, I’ve made more here in Hope Springs than I’ve had since college. Kaylie and Luna. Angelo. Mitch and Dolly. Will. You.”

He brought both coffees to the table and sat, crossing his legs again and lifting his mug as if he had all the time in the world for this conversation. As if he was used to being on no clock but his own. As if he was, indeed, Merrilee Gatlin’s son.

She thought back to the reason she was here. “Your mother basically told me to leave you to your friends and go play with my own.”

“Somehow I don’t see you as the type to pay a lot of attention to my mother,” he said, hiding the tic in his jaw behind his mug as he drank.

He got points for not being unaffected. “Thank you. For hiring the investigator. You shouldn’t have, but thank you.”

He set his mug on the table, held it by the rim with one large hand, turned it in a circle as if the motion helped center his thoughts. As if his thoughts were weighing heavier than he liked. As if that heaviness wasn’t easy to shake.

Then he looked up and caught her gaze. “Would you like to get dinner one night? Maybe see a show?”

His words were almost an echo of Will’s, yet the tone, the intent, none of that sounded familiar. She was glad, because she didn’t want to make the mistake of conflating the two. They were not the same at all.

She would wonder later whether asking her out was what had given him pause, but at the moment, the only thing she cared about was that he had. And it was hard not to split her face grinning when she asked, “When?”

“Saturday night? If you’re not busy.”

“Not at all,” she said. “It’s a date.”

Because she didn’t question for a single moment that it was.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

D
eciding where to take Indiana wasn’t hard at all, though Oliver hadn’t realized the timing was perfect until the reminder of his father’s showing popped up on the calendar synced to his phone. He’d been looking forward to going, but not having to go alone was a plus. Especially since he’d get to introduce his father to Indiana, and show her off in return.

Strangely, he was anxious to do both. He wanted Indy to see that his father, though often distant and somewhat neglectful, was never purposefully rude the way his mother was. And he wanted his father to know Indiana for no reason but that she was who she was, a free spirit. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that his father would approve of her at first sight.

That sounded like he needed to have his choice of companions Gatlin rubber-stamped, but such wasn’t the case at all. Indiana’s personality was just impossible not to enjoy, and he wanted to spread her around—even while a part of him wanted to keep her all to himself. That part was giving him trouble tonight, because she looked like an absolute dream.

He was so used to her boots and her sundresses and her T-shirts and jeans that having her open her cottage door wearing heels and a long-sleeved, body-hugging, knee-length black dress left him speechless. Then she turned in a circle, giving him the full effect of the low-scooped back, and he thought he might’ve drooled. He knew he’d felt his blood stirring, and he’d had to shift his stance to keep it to himself.

“Wow.” It was all he was able to get out. “You are absolutely stunning.”

He thought she might’ve blushed when she asked, “Didn’t know I had it in me, did you?”

“Honestly?”

She stepped onto the porch and laughed while pulling the door closed behind her. “I don’t need that much honesty, thanks.”

“I’m not even sure what I expected.” Being that honest seemed safe enough. “Especially because you told me to pick you up here. I haven’t kept up with your progress on the cottage. I wasn’t sure if you were still roughing it.”

“I’ve got electricity, hot and cold running water, and enough lights and mirrors to see what I’m doing,” she said as she walked down the stairs.

Whatever she’d been doing, she’d done every bit of it right. He offered her his hand. She took it, then made her way gingerly across the uneven ground to his car. Getting in, she couldn’t help but flash a whole lot of leg, and as he shut her door and circled to his side, he told himself to back off. This date was not about getting her out of her dress, though as he drove, and as she crossed her legs and her skirt rode high, he knew he’d be reminding himself of that several times before he brought her home.

The gallery was small, off the beaten path even for the Hope Springs warehouse district, and the last place he imagined anyone expected to see Orville Gatlin’s metalwork on display. That was the thing about his father that probably irritated his mother most. She hated seeing him stoop—as she called it—to such a pedestrian level when he had the attention of critics worldwide. As if only their opinions held sway, and those of the audience who’d launched his career were now moot.

But this was Orville in his wheelhouse; he lacked every bit of pretension his wife wore like social armor. He knew himself as an artist. He wanted his work to live in the eye of the beholder. Art was an experience, he said, and no two people would have the same.

Judging by Indiana’s expression, what she was seeing was not what she’d expected. Oliver wasn’t surprised. His father’s pieces were not what usually came to mind when picturing metal sculptures. Most, in fact, didn’t appear to be constructed out of metal at all, but flower petals, and feathers, spiderwebs, and cat whiskers, and lace.

But as fragile and ethereal as they seemed, they were unaccountably sturdy, especially for their size, and took hours of patience to solder and weld, which Oliver well knew. As a child, he’d sat and watched, falling asleep only to wake and find his father still engrossed in perfecting the same foot-long strand.

“And what about you?”

Her question rolled out of nowhere and into his musings, so he took in her unbound cloud of hair and dark shining eyes and asked, “What about me?”

She looked back at the piece in front of them, gesturing with one hand. The motion had the fabric of her dress clinging, and had Oliver appreciating that it did. “What is your artistic talent, because I can’t imagine you didn’t inherit some of this.”

“This fascination with metal? No. And working in 3-D isn’t my thing, no matter the medium. But I do paint. Or I used to paint. I haven’t in a while,” he said, and left it at that. She didn’t need to know why he’d stopped, when, the connection between the two.

But instead of pushing for an answer to that, she asked, “What about music?”

“Do I have any musical talent? No.” Though he had enough taste to applaud the string quartet playing in the adjoining room. “But I grew up with Oscar, so I have a great respect for the art form.”

Thankfully she didn’t angle for any revelations about his brother, or drop into sympathy mode. She simply asked, “And your mother?”

“What about her?”

She shrugged, reached out, and tugged on his tie. “I’m just trying to decide if she really
is
your mother, or if you’re only your father’s son.”

He laughed at that. “I can be a bit of a snob. I guess I get that from her.”

“Oh, yeah?” She turned, talking as she walked away. “What are you a snob about?”

He followed, wondering where to begin. “Clothes. Cars. I like to fly first class. Food. But I fell off the truck somewhere, because I have totally lowbrow tastes in movies and TV.”

She stopped and looked back. “So you’re human.”

“I wouldn’t be half this much fun if I wasn’t,” he said, taking her arm and pulling her aside to allow another couple to pass.

She moved close, her thigh brushing his, one hand pressed to his chest. And though the contact was fleeting, he swore he felt her fingers flex before she ducked through the doorway into the next room. He touched the spot, took a deep breath, and followed.

“I’m not sure you and I have the same ideas about fun,” she said, once he’d regained his mental balance and caught up with her.

That had him frowning; was she not having a good time? “We don’t have to stay. But I thought you might like to meet my father.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked, her expression wide-eyed and awed. “I would love to meet your father. And I am having fun. It’s just . . .”

He thought about her sundresses and boots, the dirt that defined her life. “Art galleries aren’t your thing.”

She shrugged as she turned to take in the room over his shoulder. “Since I can’t remember ever walking through one before . . .”

“Then you picked the best ever for your inaugural visit,” he said, his words bringing her gaze back to his.

She studied him closely, her chest rising and falling, her teeth catching at the edge of her lower lip before she asked, “How’s that?”

He reached up a hand to scratch at his temple, because otherwise he was going to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her to him. “The owner, Phil Munro, is a friend of my father’s. I went to school with his son, and he’s the director now, which makes him taskmaster extraordinaire. He works as curator, he wrangles the artists, handles the art . . . Basically, he’s the one who coordinates all the logistics.”

“Is he here? I’d love to meet him, too.”

That makes one of us
, though the thought, when it came, caught Oliver off guard. He and Indiana weren’t exclusive, even if his body wanted to argue about that. But Adam Munro had a reputation for seduction that had Oliver wanting to steer clear. “I imagine he is. With the work of an artist like my father on display, Adam will want to micromanage everything.”

“Adam? Adam Munro?”

“You know him?” he asked, swearing he saw her cheeks color.

“Actually, I do. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. He used to bring his mother to the farm for okra. She pickled it by the bushel and said no one could beat my prices.” She brushed her hair from her face, then again when it refused to stay put, and paused a moment before adding, “You know he lost her last year.”

He nodded, sensing there was more to the story of Indiana’s past interaction with Adam, but not wanting to press and possibly bring up old memories. He didn’t want anything to ruin what was so far a wonderful night.

“There’s my dad,” he said, gesturing ahead to where the gallery’s featured artist stood talking to a couple Oliver recognized from one of his mother’s recent dinners. The woman served on one or another committee, but he couldn’t recall which one, or either of their names.

He started to pull Indiana aside and wait till his father was alone, but Orville caught sight of him and waved him over. “Oliver! What a surprise,” he said, offering his hand, then pulling Oliver into a hug. “It’s good to see you. You remember Dean and Joanne Larsen.”

“Of course,” he said, wondering how his father had known he needed saving. “And this is my good friend Indiana Keller.”

Smiling, Indiana shook the Larsens’ hands, stepping aside as the couple excused themselves to tour the rest of the gallery, then turned her full attention on his father. “I’m so happy to have the chance to meet you. I know your name, of course, but hate to admit I’m totally unfamiliar with your work.”

“Oliver? Is this true?” his father asked, his gaze all for Indiana. “Do you not speak of your old man’s work to your friends?”

Oliver held up both hands and laughed. “Don’t look at me. I haven’t even had a chance to talk to her about mine.”

“And what about your passion, Indiana?” Orville offered his arm, and Indiana hooked hers through, Oliver taking up the rear as the two moved to the nearest exhibit. “Tell me what you do and how you came to know my son.”

“Actually, I’m a farmer,” she said, and Oliver had the time of his life watching his father’s jaw fall.

“That absolutely cannot be true,” Orville said, stopping in front of a sculpture Oliver didn’t remember having seen before, one that had him thinking of Dickensian steampunk, with its tiny filaments and lantern windows and bits of patina-greened brass.

“If you don’t believe me,” she said, smiling over her shoulder at Oliver, “you can ask Adam Munro.”

“You know Adam?” Orville’s question had Oliver wanting to roll his eyes.

Indiana nodded. “I knew his mother, too, though I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting his father.”

“Then we must remedy that right away,” Orville said, escorting her from one displayed piece to the next.

They walked by fragile-looking spheres and what appeared to be wings, or maybe feathered tails, unattached to any sort of being. Freestanding branches and blossoms with no stems sat on pedestals or hung suspended, and Oliver was struck, for really the first time, how many of his father’s projects were parts instead of wholes.

Was there something missing in the older man’s life that had him echoing the same in his art? Had this only been the case since Oscar’s accident? Were the pieces designed to appear unfinished, or did he lose interest and leave them so? Was his father, as an artist, simply more interested in the bits and pieces than anything that might be complete?

And what, Oliver was left thinking, did any of those options say about the absentee parent Orville Gatlin had been? Or the husband, distant more than he was present, oblivious more than he was aware, that he was in name only?

On the way through the gallery, Orville spoke to friends and art patrons, introducing both Indiana and Oliver every time, and when at one point he was drawn into deep conversation with an entertainment editor from an Austin paper, Indiana stepped back and asked, “Where’s your mother?”

Uncanny how her question came on the tail of his recent musings. “It’s probably her book-club night, or she has some meeting.”

“Isn’t she interested in what your father does?” When he found himself frowning instead of answering, she asked another question. “Or does he not want her here?”

Where to even begin. “What they have, their marriage . . .” He held Indiana’s arm and guided her away from the group where his father held court. “It’s complicated, I guess. I mean, whose marriage isn’t in one way or another? But my parents have never been who I’d hold up as marital role models.”

“Even though they’ve been together all these years.”

“It works for them,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t know why. Or how. But it does.”

“Absence making the heart grow fonder maybe?”

Oh, he was pretty sure it wasn’t that—

“Indiana Keller? Is that you?”

At the sound of her name, Indiana turned, while all Oliver had to do was look over her shoulder as Adam Munro approached. “Adam. Hello,” she said, allowing the other man’s quick embrace and kiss to her cheek before turning to include Oliver. “You know Oliver Gatlin.”

“I do.” Adam stepped forward to shake Oliver’s hand. “Though what you’re doing here with the likes of him . . .”

Yeah, yeah. “Good to see you, Munro. Nice turnout.”

“Hardly a surprise,” Munro said. “We’re showing the work of Orville Gatlin. You may have heard of him?” Grabbing three flutes of champagne from a passing server, Munro led them into a small alcove out of the meandering flow of traffic. “It really is nice to see you, Indy. And you, Ollie. Wow. It’s been a long time. I know since before Mother passed.”

“I was so sorry to hear that,” Indiana said. “And I’ve missed seeing you. Orville was on the way to introduce me to your father. The one member of the family I haven’t yet met,” she said, giving Oliver a smile he would be a long time forgetting.

“I think Dad stepped out.” It was all Munro said in answer before moving on. “And I’ll have to get back to work here, but fill me in. What’s going on with the two of you?”

They spent the next ten minutes talking about IJK Gardens and the Caffey-Gatlin Academy and Munro’s work with the gallery. And they compared notes on Orville’s pieces, Indiana loving the same steampunk sculpture that had caught Oliver’s attention earlier, Munro favoring the bigger, bolder ones because of how they defied all scientific principles that would have them bending and breaking and crashing to the ground.