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“I should go back to Hoyt Harbor,” she pouted her lips, and then just as quickly dismissed the idea. She had come this far, and there was a reason. For despite the clothes, the makeup and anything else she did, what could not be concealed was the transparent sparkle of eagerness in her eyes.
She simply had to see him again.
24.
Blake heard the crunch of tires on gravel and looked up with a puzzled frown from underneath the open hood of the old truck. His hands were black with grease. He plucked a dirty rag from his back pocket and wiped at them. The car pulled up just a few yards away and Connie stepped out into the bright sunshine.
His pleasure to see her again was transparent, and his smile a handsome welcome for her. Connie was suddenly very glad she had come. Blake straightened and drew the back of his hand across his forehead. He was sweating under the warm sun. The front of his shirt clung wet to the contours of his chest and Connie saw his chin was blued with a day’s growth of stubble. She hooded her eyes and had a tantalizing image of him leaning close to kiss her, and then fantasized how his whiskers would feel bristling and electric against her cheek. She caught her breath.
“What a waste,” she said.
Blake furrowed his brow.
“It’s a beautiful day and you’re working on a truck,” she said around a warm smile. “Your hands were made for painting, and a day like this was made for swimming.”
Blake nodded. “Well the truck won’t fix itself,” he said laconically. “And I don’t paint any more. I don’t go in the water, either.”
Connie looked stunned, not understanding. “You live on a beautiful beach, and you don’t go in the water?”
“That’s right,” Blake said with an edge of dry finality. He turned towards the house then and got to the porch steps before he glanced over his shoulder, back to where Connie was standing. “Come on,” he said. “I need to wash my hands, and I don’t think you drove all this way to talk about the beach. I feel like I’m going to need to be sitting down before I hear the rest of what you have to say.” He smiled widely then, and the pleasure in his face smoothed away the edge to his words so that Connie was helpless to do anything other than to smile impishly back.
Connie came into the living room, her eyes adjusting to the shaded gloom while Blake went to the sink and scrubbed his hands. Ned was asleep on his bed. Connie crouched down and scratched the big dog behind his ear. Ned’s eyes opened and the Great Dane yawned. He thumped his tail against the mattress and then rolled over. Connie scratched under the dog’s chin and his huge brown eyes rolled back with pleasure.
When Blake returned to the living room he had cold drinks in either hand. He offered a glass to Connie and gestured for her to sit. She propped herself on the edge of the sofa like she was poised to take flight. Her eyes were bright and glittering.
“So…” Blake said. “I never thought I was going to see you again.”
Connie smiled. She reached into her pocket and produced the roll of bank notes. She handed them across to Blake. “It’s the five hundred dollars you loaned me,” she explained. “I came to pay you back.”
Blake nodded. He set the money aside and watched Connie as he sipped at his drink. She was beautiful in a way he couldn’t describe. It was something intangible that transcended the physical appeal of her, he realized. It was something more – a special quality about her that seemed to make her body hum with a vitality and energy he found infectious. He lowered himself into the chair across from the sofa and spent a moment just admiring her, remembering every feature that he had burned into his memory. Artists, by training, have a keen eye for detail, and Blake compared his recollections of this young woman against the reality now that she was here again. Her nose was slim, and there was a sensuality about her mouth and chin that seemed to radiate inner strength and yet soft femininity. Her eyes were alive and bewitching, and her hair that hung down over her shoulders seemed to shimmer as she turned her head. She was very beautiful, but also very appealing, he decided. There was substance behind the stunning façade of face and figure.
“What are you thinking?” Connie asked at last, and Blake’s thoughts came bubbling back to the surface like a drowning man reluctant to be saved.
“I was just thinking about your car,” he concealed the truth. “Did you get it repaired?”
Connie nodded. “I took it to the mechanic at Hoyt Harbor,” she said.
“And you sold both of the paintings, I assume?”
“Yes.”
He lapsed back into reflective silence and Connie felt compelled to say something – to fill the contemplative void. “I also left New York,” she blurted.
He arched his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “What about your job at the art gallery?”
“I kind of got fired,” she confessed.
“Kind of?” Blake became bemused. “Why?”
Connie gestured with her hands. “It’s a long story, but it basically boiled down to the fact that the gallery director wanted to know where you were living and how I came across the paintings. When I refused to tell him…”
“He fired you?”
She nodded.
“But you sold the paintings?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re right for money for many years to come, no doubt.”
Connie shook her head. “No,” she said. “I have five thousand dollars. The rest of the money from the sale went towards taking care of my mother, and I also gave Mr. Ryan at the grocery store more money for the paintings.”
Blake sat back in the chair, taking everything in. He narrowed his eyes with curiosity. “So where are you living?”
Connie gave a bitter laugh of wry self-depreciation. “I have another week left in my vacation rental at Hoyt Harbor. After that,” she shrugged. “I’ll probably be sleeping in my car.”
She paused and wondered if she had been too dramatic. She saw Blake’s eyes become darker and there was a deepening scowl on his face.
She laughed the moment off lightly. “I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to live,” she said quickly. “It’s the price I am willing to pay.”
“Pay? For what?”
“For following my dream,” Connie’s voice became soft as a shy whisper. “My dream of owning a little art gallery somewhere here in Maine.”
They stared at each other in the pointed silence. Connie’s words hung in the air between them like an omen to the next stage of the conversation. Blake said nothing for a long time and then sat forward in the chair.
“There are two things that define a person,” he said levelly. “Your patience when you have nothing, and your attitude when you have everything.”
Connie watched Blake’s mouth, listened to the deep rumble of his voice. She felt delicious little shivers dance up her spine. She understood the importance of what he was saying, but she wanted desperately to keep the atmosphere between them happy. She grinned. “Well I have nothing,” she said, “And I’ll try to be patient. Hopefully one day, I’ll have everything and a good attitude to go with it.”
Blake smiled despite himself, a wry curl of his lips. “Everything isn’t necessarily measured in terms of money,” he cautioned. “For some people, their everything is family and loved ones.”
Connie nodded and glanced away. She had been shocked at how pleased she was to see him again, and how intensely she had missed being near this man. Her pulse was thumping like a drum in her ears. She plucked at the leg of her jeans and licked her lips, as though to bolster her reserves of determination.
When Connie glanced back, she saw that Blake was studying her with an intriguing look in his eyes that might have been amusement, or perhaps wariness.
Or maybe something else entirely.
The smile faltered on Connie’s face, and she felt a hot flush of blood burn on her cheeks.
“Blake, I want to do an exhibition of your old paintings,” she blurted before her resolve deserted her entirely. Her throat felt suddenly swollen, and the
words came out in a choke. “I want to be your agent.”
For a long tense moment Blake said nothing. His features seemed carved in stone. “I don’t need an agent.”
She nodded, took a deep breath. “But I need a client,” she said at last. “And you told me to follow my dream and not let anyone stop me. So please,” her face became pleading, “Give me this chance to turn my dream into reality.”
Blake rose stony faced from the chair and walked wordlessly into the kitchen. Connie followed him with her eyes, her heart full of dread.
“Do you despise me?” she called to him softly. Her expression was stricken.
Blake turned back to her, left her question unanswered.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” he asked. His voice was flat.
“I would like to show your paintings – not sell them, nor profit from them. Just exhibit them, so that they can be seen.”
