ter.
Rick peeled back the now-brittle plastic on the album and took out the picture for a closer look. It was her all right, though clearly much younger than she’d been when he’d last seen her. There was no mistaking that dark hair and the big brown eyes that always seemed to be hinting at humor. He’d always liked Marian. She’d never had kids of her own, but whenever there was a town function she was there helping and she talked to the kids like they were human beings, not stupid or babies. He turned the picture over. The pen on the back was faded, partly worn away by the semi-sticky surface of the album page. But he could make out the blue ink. Meeting our new baby son, June 11th, Camden.
Rick touched the writing with his fingertip. June 11th—he’d been exactly one week old.
He read the words again. Meeting our new baby son …
He put the photo back in the album, smoothing the plastic sheet back. A wrinkle creased down the middle of the page and didn’t want to smooth out. Over the years the plastic had dried out and yellowed slightly. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. There he was, bundled in a tiny blue blanket, only a week old, while the words “meeting our new son” ran through his head. That was the moment, then, that he’d become Rick Sullivan. His heart constricted as he stared at his mom, so young and obviously happy. He didn’t know the circumstances surrounding his birth parents, but he was in no doubt that he’d been wanted and loved.
God, how he missed her.
He put the album back in the box and returned it to the closet.
“Rick?”
The sound of his voice being called from downstairs made him jump.
“Rick, are you up there?”
It was Jess. Shit. Hurriedly he tucked the top on the box. “I’ll be right down,” he called, wondering what the hell she was doing here. He shut the closet door and his stomach suddenly clenched. He’d left the porch door open … and he’d been working on a new project—sunflowers on a four-pane window he’d found out in the back of the shed.
She couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see what he did with his days … and sometimes nights, if the nightmares kept him awake. Quick steps took him to the stairs and then down. “Hang on, be right with you!” he called, hoping she’d stayed in the kitchen.
But he smelled the soft scent of her perfume the moment he hit the bottom step. Damn. “Jess?” he called, hoping she answered behind him.
“In here.”
His stomach seemed to drop to his feet. In the porch. Where his easel was set up, the window propped on it, the frame sanded until it was soft and the glass cleaned and prepped for painting. He’d finished one pane already, with three sunflower blooms surrounded by dark green leaves and a smattering of miniature daisies. Dread rolled through his stomach … he hadn’t wanted anyone to find out, not here in Jewell Cove. There was a reason why he took his finished pieces to Portland and sold them to a shop there. He could remain anonymous.
Jaw clenched, he stepped to the door of the porch. She was standing in front of his easel, her eyes wide as she examined the work. Lord above, she was beautiful. He never tired of seeing that black tumble of curls, just begging to be tamed by a man’s strong hand, or the curves that were only hinted at beneath her loose, casual clothing. Today it was a soft white tunic shirt and a pair of tan linen trousers. Her skin was still tanned from the summer and he could see a light dusting of freckles on either side of her nose, making her look younger than she was.
She was life and beauty and vitality. She was beach glass, made smooth and vibrant from the water while he was driftwood washed upon the shore.
And now she knew his secret.
* * *
Jess looked up and saw him there. He looked angry, annoyed, and if she was any judge of facial expressions at all—guilty.
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The long, narrow room had been transformed into an artist’s studio, complete with easel, rags, tubes and bottles of paint, brushes, sponges … it was the real deal. In Rick’s house. She couldn’t be more surprised if he’d announced he was the Dalai Lama and was petitioning for world peace.
“You did this? These?” She swept her hand out, the gesture encompassing the half-dozen paintings he’d finished, which were placed along the wall beneath the windows. Glass and frames of various sizes, with images of flowers, trees, birds, the ocean. Spectacular.
He didn’t answer, just stared at her. Jess doubted anyone in Jewell Cove knew what Rick did in his spare time.
He’d been a Marine, for God’s sake. All-star first baseman in his senior year and Jewell Cove hell-raiser before that. It was hard trying to reconcile that testosterone-fueled image to one of him as a painter. As an artist, she corrected mentally. There was no doubt about it. He was incredibly talented.
“They’re beautiful, Rick. Really stunning.”
“Was there something you wanted, Jess?”
She was taken aback by the sharp question. Did he really think she’d ignore what she’d walked into? He’d barked the words with more than a hint of accusation; he might as well have said get out.
“Well, yes. But it can wait a few minutes. How long have you been doing this? And why glass? What are you doing with the paintings?”
“Let’s just try to forget you saw them, okay?” He turned away from her, taking a step back inside the main part of the house. Was he hoping she’d follow?
“Forget? Not likely. I really like this one.”