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Birdie squinted her eyes, obviously seeing it from his point of view for the first time. But then her expression grew pleading again. "It was an accident. I won't do it again, and we don't have to tell anyone you were naked. This is all my fault. Not yours. I'm the pervert."
"Is everything okay?" Abigail called.
Leif raised a hand and gave her a flashbulb smile before directing his regard to her child. "Don't say that. You did what any eleven-year-old would do."
"I'm twelve."
"Okay, but even so, you don't have to be ashamed of being curious. I accept your apology, and I will make sure next time I pull on a suit, okay?"
Birdie nodded, diamond teardrops clinging to her long lashes. "I'm really sorry."
"Okay. We've put this behind us. And you do realize that in some art classes, students sketch unclothed bodies. Artists see things differently, right?"
"Of course," Birdie said with a nod before easing off his porch. "Thank you, Mr. Lively."
Leif smiled, even while inside his gut clenched. He would have to tell Abigail about the"secret" he now shared with Birdie. But that would be hard. He could envision Abigail over-reacting to her daughter acting on natural curiosity. She'd make it something it wasn't. Abigail Orgeron wasn't a helicopter mom-she was a tank who sat on her daughter. Poor kid. Birdie tried to escape someone who wanted control over every aspect of life.
Shove a lump of coal up Abigail's ass and he'd have a diamond in a week.
But, damn, it was a nice ass. He'd noticed as she marched up and down the halls of St. George's, outlined as it was in slim trousers that hung perfectly, the hem brushing sensible loafers... that were the same as Marcie’s mom. Abigail also had nice breasts and a slim waist. But most striking of all was the shiny black hair that fell just past her shoulders and held a single silver stripe that framed the right side of her face. The whole look was somehow sexy. The artist in him loved the contrast, the eruption of something so unexpected. It made him want to dig deeper, to know her better, to unwrap the haunting vulnerability that shaded her eyes.
He could see the sensuality in the curve of her bottom lip, the grace in the way she moved her elegant hands, and the passion trapped beneath those ugly-ass sweaters.
If she weren't such a cactus with a lonely daughter, he would take up the challenge of breaching her castle walls, but after the bad decisions he'd made with the last few women in his life, he better take a rain check.
He'd come to Magnolia Bend for one reason, and one reason only. He needed to clear up the past while finding out who his father was. After that, he would likely be off again. His papa wasn't a rolling stone, but Leif was. When things got tough, he got out.
Birdie jogged down his steps and just before she reached her mother, turned. "I'm going to ask Fancy to give me the art lessons as a Christmas gift."
"Fancy?"
"My grandmother. She hangs my art all over her house."
"Great. Thanks for apologizing, Birdie. Takes a big person to do that."
Abigail gave him a smile then. Not a big one, but one that expressed appreciation for his being gracious.
If only the woman knew.
But not yet. He'd speak to Abigail later because presently he had to get his midterm test typed and follow up with the Magnolia Bend Chamber of Commerce president about the upcoming Laurel Woods Art Festival. The chairman of the festival, Hilda Brunet, had contacted him weeks ago and asked him to serve on the committee. Being an artist of slight renown had its pros and cons. This wasn't necessarily a pro because he wasn't the committee type. Yet having some of his work featured in a few galleries across the Southwest and being named an up-and-comer inObjet d'Artmagazine apparently made him desirable as head of judging. The Golden Magnolia art prize once meant a great deal in the Southern artistic community. The town was hoping to resurrect the festival and the prestige of the award. Hilda had beamed at him when she asked him to be part of the team to put the Laurel Woods Art Festival back on the map.
What could he say?
Telling Hilda no didn't seem to be an option.
Yeah, he guessed he had a problem with telling women no. But surely saying yes to being on the committee wouldn't land him a face full of buttercream frosting.
"Good night, Mr. Lively." Abigail waved, placing a hand on Birdie's shoulder, which the girl immediately brushed away.
"Night," he called, turning to the house he'd leased four months ago. The clean lines and blank canvas of the cottage had appealed to him, and the lap pool in the backyard and nice stretch of zoysia grass for practicing tai chi had sold him. He closed the door and entered the living area he'd furnished with an overstuffed sofa and huge beanbag chairs. The soft carpet beneath his feet had come from his mother's last residence. The walls were covered with huge canvases, some done by his mother and others by friends. The incense he'd lit after Marcie's fit in order to clear the bad vibes had burned away, leaving a pungent, earthy scent.
He scooped up a crumb that he'd missed during cake cleanup.
Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend Sunday evening, but then again, what in life came when expected?
Certainly not a marauding drunken bride. Or an attractive neighbor with a disapproving stare. Or a twelve-year-old voyeur.
Long ago Leif had learned to roll with the punches, a requirement for the son of a renowned artist, for a kid with no father, for a man with no ties. Yes, he embraced the unexpected as the poetry of life.
