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One of his brows rose. “And you wouldn’t?”
“Not like they do. They chase down what they want. I … well, I’m less certain about what I want. You’re more like them.”
“You think I know what I want?” he asked, laughing.
I frowned. “To run your family’s business? To take care of your brothers and Sophie?”
He sighed, still smiling, but the expression held a wry edge. “Needs and wants are two very different things. I doubt everything you want could be summed up in your farm and family.”
“Then what do you want?”
Keaton shrugged, reaching for his glass. “I don’t know. But let me know if you figure it out.”
I gave him a look. “Stop it,” I said, chuckling.
He set down his glass and eyed the wine inside. “Everything I want is for other people, not myself. I want the business to survive because it was my father’s, and even now I want to make him proud. I want my family to be happy, and I would take a bullet to ensure their safety. But what I want?” He shook his head. “I thought I knew a long time ago. Not so much anymore.”
“Well, what do you do besides whack stuff with a hammer?” I asked lightly.
A quiet laugh. “Saw stuff. A little light welding. What do you do besides steal honey?”
“Play music.”
“You sit around in your living room playing your French horn?”
“Nah, it’s not really a casual instrument. Mostly the guitar or the piano. But that’s all of us, even Mama, though she won’t sing. She’s tone deaf.”
“A tone deaf Blum? Never heard such a thing.”
“It’s true,” I promised. “She’s not allowed within ten feet of a microphone. We stick her in the back with the stand up bass where nobody can hear her if she decides to sing along.”
His smile was like the break of blue sky in a thunderhead. “Poor Dottie.”
“I like to read too, and draw a little. I appreciate your hammer whacking. I can manage handiwork around the farm, but I can’t build anything.”
“Sure you can. Anybody can. Take a look at my brothers, for example. If those dummies can do it, anybody can.”
“If you say so.” I took a sip of my wine.
“What do you want to build?”
“Oh, all kinds of things. I had an idea for a table and drew up plans for a window seat. I’ve always dreamed of working with an architect to build my own house, but who knows if I’ll ever leave the farm. I even drew up my own plans and everything.”
“Build it on the farm.”
“So easy,” I joked.
“I know a guy.”
“You know a few, but I can’t afford you.”
“I bet you can,” he said. “Send me your plans.”
“Why, you’re not going to build me a house, are you?”
“It’d be kind of a hard surprise to pull off.” When I laughed, he added, “I’m curious. Plus, I’d like to at least get you a quote. It’s worth having for down the line.”
My cheeks were warm from the wine or the proximity to Keaton. Maybe both. “I’d like that” I said, trying not to daydream about him without success. I could see us working side by side, building my dream house. I could imagine us together in that house, and let my mind run away with itself all the way down to a wedding and babies and beyond.
He’d relaxed into his chair, his smile easy. I saw the boy I’d known long ago with his whole life ahead of him. The Keaton I knew now spent his time on the life behind him. But this Keaton was somewhere in between, a fresh start. That second chance he needed to give himself. I wondered if I could keep this version of him, water and care for him. Bring him back from the edge of death.
Could he be mine? I asked myself again, but for the moment, the needle was moving decidedly toward the green.
“I’m kinda glad our families are nosy,” I noted, crawling out on a limb and hanging on for life. “Thank you for joining me for dinner tonight, Mr. Meyer.”
“Thank you for suggesting it, Ms. Blum.”
We raised our glasses and toasted, took a sip in silence.
“But yes, they’re nosy. And pushy.” His gaze shifted to the river, watching it roll ever away. “Everybody wants to give advice, don’t they? They tell me to move on, but what does that mean? Time passes, but it doesn’t fix anything.”
I considered his question and only knew of one answer. “I think they mean we’re supposed to date. Or at least that’s what our families seem to figure.”
He laughed, the sound like a sigh at a change of subject. “I’m gonna keep telling myself they mean well like you said. Otherwise, somebody’s getting a black eye.”
“Funny. Boys hit each other. Girls replace their sisters’ conditioner with lotion.”
