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He flipped her to her back. “Then how about a late-night snack?”
“You might think twice about crossing me, Miss Blue Bailey,” Nita said a few days later when Blue announced she intended to work on finishing the portrait instead of baking the chocolate Bundt cake her employer demanded. “That so-called carpenter? Do you think I’m stupid? I knew who he was the minute I set eyes on him. Jack Patriot, that’s who. As for Dean’s housekeeper…Any fool can see she’s his mother. If you don’t want me calling my friends in the press, I suggest you get into that kitchen and start making my Bundt cake.”
“You have no friends in the press,” Blue said, “or anywhere else, except for Riley, and only God knows what that’s about. Blackmail works two ways. If you don’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll tell everybody about those papers I stumbled over when you made me clean out your desk.”
“What papers are you talking about?”
“Records of the anonymous money you sent to the Olson family after they lost everything in that fire, the new car that mysteriously appeared in some woman’s driveway when her husband died and she had to support all those kids, the drug bills that are mysteriously being paid for at least a dozen needy families. I could go on, but I won’t. Do you really want everybody to know that the wicked witch of Garrison, Tennessee, has the heart of a charred marshmallow?”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Nita stalked out of the room, her cane punishing the floor with every step.
Blue had won another battle with the old bat, but she baked the cake anyway. Of all the women Blue had stayed with over the years, Nita was the first one who wanted to keep her around.
That night, Dean sat crossed-legged at the bottom of Blue’s bed, her calf draped over his bare thigh. As they recuperated from a particularly kinky round of lovemaking, he massaged her foot, which was sticking out from under the sheet she’d pulled up. She moaned as he rubbed her instep.
He stopped. “You’re not going to throw up again, are you?”
“That was three days ago.” She wiggled her foot, encouraging him to get back to work. “I knew there was something wrong with Josie’s take-out shrimp, but Nita kept insisting it was fine.”
He pushed his thumb into her instep a little too hard. “And you ended up spending the night alternating between hanging your head over the toilet and crawling down the hall to take care of that old biddy. Just once, I’d like to see you pick up the phone and ask me for help.”
She didn’t acknowledge the bite she heard behind his words. “I had everything under control. No need to bother you.”
“Are you afraid you’ll have to give up your jockstrap if you ask for help?” He dug into the ball of her foot. “Life doesn’t need to be an individual sport, Blue. Sometimes you have to rely on the team.”
Not in her life. That was a solo game from beginning to end. She fought an uneasy mixture of foreboding, despair, and panic. It had been nearly a month since she and Dean had met, and it was time to move on. Nita’s painting was almost finished, and it wasn’t as though Blue would be leaving her helpless. A few days ago, she’d hired a terrific housekeeper, a woman who’d raised six kids and was impervious to even the most blatant insults. Blue had no reason to stay in Garrison much longer, except that she wasn’t ready to leave Dean. He was the lover of her dreams: imaginative, generous, lusty. She couldn’t get enough of him, and for tonight, she shut out everything else.
She eyed his jet-black End Zone briefs. “Why did you put those things on? I like you naked.”
“I’ve noticed.” His touch grew lighter as he discovered a magical spot in the sensitive nook behind her knee. “You’re a wild woman. This is the only way I can get a little recuperation time.”
She dropped her eyes to the real end zone. “Obviously, Thor God of Thunder is fully recuperated.”
“Halftime is definitely over.” He pulled the sheet away. “And I’m calling the next play.”
Jack pulled his overnight case from the trunk of his car, which he’d parked near the barn. It had been a long time since he’d had to carry his own luggage, but he’d been doing it for the past couple of weeks whenever he left the farm for a quick trip to New York or a longer one to the West Coast. The tour was shaping up. Yesterday he’d approved marketing plans, and today he’d done some prerelease publicity for his new album. Fortunately, the county airport was large enough to accommodate a private jet, so he could get in and out fairly easily. With his pilot running interference, he’d even managed to get to and from his car without being recognized.
Dean had agreed to let Riley stay at the farm until he left for Stars training camp a month from now. That meant April was putting off her return to L.A., something he knew Dean wasn’t happy about. All of them, it seemed, were making sacrifices for his daughter.
It was nearly seven o’clock, and the workers had left for the day. He set his overnight case by the side door and walked around to the back to see whether the electrician had completed the wiring for the porch’s overhead fans. The walls were up, the roof on, and the smell of new wood welcomed him. Out of nowhere, he heard a faint female voice, so innocent, so sweet, so perfectly pitched, that for a moment, he thought he was imagining it.
“Do you remember when we were young,
And we’d awake just to see the sun?
Baby, why not smile?”
He forgot to breathe.
“I know that life is cruel.
You know that better than I do.”
She had the voice of a tarnished angel, dewy innocence tinged with disillusionment. He imagined pristine white wing feathers battered at the tips, a halo tilted ever-so-slightly off center. She improvised with the final chorus, moving up an octave, hitting the heart of every note, her range exceeding his rough rocker’s baritone. He followed the music around the back of the porch.
She sat propped against the foundation, her legs crossed, his old Martin cradled in her lap, the dog curled at her side. Her baby fat was melting away, and a shiny brown curl brushed her cheek. Like him, she tanned easily, and despite the sunblock April made her wear, her skin had turned nearly as brown as his. She’d fixed all of her concentration on hitting the right chords so that her sublime singing seemed almost like an afterthought.
The final chords of “Why Not Smile?” trailed away. Still not seeing him, she spoke to the dog. “Okay, what do you want me to play now?”
