Nine
“Is it okay if I unpack into the top drawers of the dresser?” Annie asked, although she was already refolding her vacuum-packed underwear. “I like to settle in, even if it’s only a few days.”
Meg eyed her, amused as Annie hung up her T-shirts and clipped her shorts to the pants hangers. Even when they were in college, when they were bumbling from hostel to hostel on road trips, they had traveled this way: Meg’s backpack bursting with unfolded, flowing pants printed with elephants or sea turtles; Annie’s socks and underwear partitioned into separate Ziploc bags. Now, bundling the contents of her backpack into her arms, Meg dumped them into the bottom drawer.
“I can’t wait to lie down.” Annie flounced onto one of the downy mattresses. “Oh. This is heaven. Let’s hold off on playing pickleball till tomorrow. I think I’ll go to bed early.” Her eyes flagged, then snapped open. “Or maybe I better get a bite to eat. Or sleep. No. Eat first. Very conflicted.”
Meg laughed. On the drive from the ferry, Annie had talked wistfully about sleep, as if it were as elusive as the Golden Pickledrop.
Food first, they decided, and trudged down the narrow stairwell into the quaint café on the bottom floor of the Outlook Inn. Perched on a low hill overlooking the sunset on Pleasant Beach, the inn held a privileged seat. As she sank into the cushy chair, Meg felt her shoulders drop and her city-tension melt. Now, this was relaxing.
“Wow,” Annie said. She wasn’t looking at the view. She was gazing at the newspaper articles and documents pressed below the dining table glass.
They were historical artifacts, articles and photos dated from the 1940s. Roosevelt to Announce Executive Order to Remove Japanese Americans from Pacific Coast . A notice stated Instructions to All Persons of Japanese Ancestry , while another headline declared Sad Farewell While Troops Stand By . In a photo beside one of the articles, a mother and her teenage daughter clutched each other. To Meg, they looked like any mother-daughter pair, set off on a shopping expedition or headed to school. Except that identification tags hung from these women’s coat collars, as if they were the items at a shop to be cataloged.
Annie tapped on the table glass and pointed out a photo of a woman dressed in several layers of coats and carrying a toddler. “I’ve seen this picture before. It’s from the time of the Japanese exclusion order during World War Two. They evacuated the residents here and sent them to concentration camps. Even though my family is Korean, my grandma talked about how tough it was to be Asian here during the war. The Japanese and anyone with Asian features, really—everyone was perceived as the enemy. But the community on Bainbridge—they were the first to get sent to the internment camps.” Annie traced the line of the toddler’s cheek. “She’s so cute. That must have been scary. If I were that mom I’d be freaking out.”
“Can I get you ladies a coffee or a glass of wine?” Jolting at the voice, Meg looked up to see a straight-postured, slender Asian woman in her sixties peering at them over her reading glasses.
“Water, thanks. A pitcher, please,” Meg said. “And a club sandwich.”
Annie perused the specials chalkboard. “I’ll take a lemonade. With mint if you have it. And the onion rings. And the burger. No. Wings. Actually, the burger would be great. Mustard on the side, please. And instead of fries could I have a…No, forget it. Fries are fine.”
The woman smiled, wrote down the order, and tucked the pad into her crisp apron before marching back to the kitchen. Her confident bearing gave Meg the impression that she owned the inn.
While they waited, Annie and Meg continued to peruse the photos beneath the table glass, both absorbed in their own thoughts. But their food arrived quickly, and Annie dove in. Meg observed with wonder as Annie ate twice her body mass in onion batter.
Sensing Meg’s eyes on her, Annie smiled between bites. “I miss hanging out with you like this,” she said.
It hit Meg then. How much she missed grabbing a quick bite or being each other’s Saturday night. The years with Vance had eclipsed her other relationships, and it occurred to her that she liked who she was when she was around Annie. More relaxed. More fun. More…herself. She missed that girl: the old Meg.
“I miss you, too. It’s good to sit and talk,” Meg said.
Annie squeezed the ketchup bottle with two hands. “And eat.”
“You deserve a break, that’s for sure. How’s work been going?”
Annie groaned. “This week was crazy. I had a kid who put a magnet up his nostril, and then put a second one up the other nostril to see if he could drag it down. Not a bad idea, actually. Good problem-solving instincts.”
She downed an enormous bite of the burger, a feat that might have choked a less determined person. “So good!” she said. “Help me eat these onion rings, will you? What else? Oh! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you about this. This woman came in with her kid; she didn’t want me to treat him. She only wanted to show me that his diaper rash looked exactly like Bob Ross.” She swirled her fry around in the ketchup. “She wasn’t wrong.”
Meg laughed. It felt so good. She couldn’t think of the last time she had laughed aloud—at least outside the pickleball court. Annie let out a giggle of her own and then it slipped into a frown. “I gotta say, though. All this trying to find balance is exhausting. I work my ass off so I can be the best at my job, and then I work my ass off on the courts so I can beat everybody. Pretty soon I’ll be left with no ass at all, and my pants will slide right off.”
Meg’s lips lifted and she nodded, but truthfully, it was hard to relate. Meg had not thrown herself into a pursuit for…she didn’t know how long. After months of moderate effort, she was still a beginning pickleball player. After two years, her tepid marriage had failed. If she had to level with herself right here, right now, she worried she might always linger in the levels of domestic and athletic mediocrity.
“What about you?” Annie asked. “What’s making Meg happy these days?”
“What makes Meg happy?” she repeated slowly, buying time. Unbidden, an image of Ethan popped into her head. Now, what was she supposed to do about that? “I guess I’m just trying to get through this, one day at a time.” She scrunched her face into a facsimile of not caring and picked at the label on the ketchup bottle.
Sliding the collection of condiments out of the way, Annie reached across the table to squeeze her friend’s arm. “Maybe it’s time to get onto one of those dating sites and put yourself into the mix again.”
“Says the woman who hasn’t dated since prom.” Meg dipped an onion ring into the lake of ketchup on Annie’s plate.
“Touché,” she countered, but her wistful expression reminded Meg that Annie had come all the way to Bainbridge not only to help Meg through a tough time, but also in pursuit of the mysterious Michael Edmonds.
Annie added, “At least you sidestepped falling into another rough relationship. I can’t believe that ferry guy turned out to be the one closing down the courts.”
Meg sighed into her lap. “Why do I always pick the wrong guy?”
“You just need to learn to not not pick the right guy.”
“You lost me at the second ‘not.’?”
Yet her friend’s mention of Ethan wormed its way into Meg’s thoughts. Although she knew he was staying in Seattle to oversee his court-wrecking initiative, he had told her that his home was on Bainbridge. Could he be here now? Discreetly, Meg scanned the beach out the picture window. What did she expect? For him to appear like an apparition on the pebbly shoreline? And why was she so drawn to flirting with the enemy? She’d come here to get away from that confusion.
No. She could only control what she could control, and right now, Meg wanted to focus on Meg Bloomberg. If only she could take this mini vacay as an opportunity to spark her own passions, then maybe she would be in a place where she could consider dating again.
But first, she needed to break out of her habit of lukewarm efforts. The one thing she was good at, the one area in which she excelled, was painting, but to date, all that her art background had gotten her was a stack of canvases in her closet and a small following of people who were a little over-the-top about their cats. Tomorrow, she decided, she would toss herself into her painting and pickleball with passion. Tomorrow, she intended to step it up.
·····
Meg muffled a yelp of pain as her toe drove into the bedstead. The digital clock read 5:40 but the blackout curtains blocked the breaking daylight. She trapped the cell phone flashlight between her chin and her chest while her hands riffled through her drawer for her painting kit. Lifting it into the dim light, she unrolled the travel bundle. Her fingertips skimmed one of her paintbrushes and she held it aloft. She weighed the perfect balance of the stem and flicked the soft horsehair bristles along the inside of her palm. It was the journey, not the product that drove Meg’s passion for painting; the tactile act of creating something from nothing. The fresh opportunity of dipping into a spot of paint, blending it on her palette, and watching something unique appear. She dug out the travel kit of oil paints, the wooden palette, her dab rag, and…
Wait a sec. Canvas. Did she forget the canvases?
Another minute of sifting followed, but no luck. There was an art store in Winslow, but that wouldn’t be open for hours. Stumped, she shone her flashlight around the room, as if stretched canvases might be included in the room rate along with the fresh towels.
But no. She would have to punt. There was probably some surface she could paint on, down in the reception area: the back of a place mat, a cardboard drink coaster. The world, as Meg saw it, was full of empty canvases. Packing her brushes back into the travel kit, she hustled down to the hotel café.
As expected, Meg found the room deserted of people at this early hour. A weak glow of dust-filled morning light filtered through the broad window. She seated herself at a booth, the same one with the photos beneath the glass, and stared out the window at the bay. The shape of the landscape was barely visible beneath the breaking dawn, but Meg could make out the thin layer of fog that floated over the still water and crept up the legs of the pier and toward the pebbled beach.
There were napkins on the sidebar, and she spread one beneath a cardboard coaster. The front of the coaster was decorated with a stylized art deco image of the Outlook Inn. The backside was conveniently blank. Squeezing shades of greens, browns, and blues onto her color-spattered travel palette, Meg set up a Northwest landscape assortment of hues. Painting in miniature was a challenge to begin with, and the dim lighting didn’t help, either.
As if she had conjured them, the lights blinked on in the room. Her head spun to find the same stately woman who had served their lunchtime feast. Meg squinted in the fresh light. “I hope it’s okay if I’m down here.”
“Make yourself at home. We don’t serve breakfast until eight. Vacation hours. But you’re welcome to sit.” The woman disappeared into the kitchen.
Meg’s fingers dabbed the brush into the light green and blended it with a smidge of brown. She laid down a light background coat, right down to her horizon line. She blended the paint below the line, adding cobalt and coal gray to darken the shade as she moved toward the foreground, where her details grew darker and more refined. The porous cardboard coaster absorbed more of the oils than her canvases, but it was an interesting effect, one that gave some texture to her background.
Without much mental input, Meg’s hand began to fill the stippled shoreline, the flat strokes that made up Pleasant Beach, blocky gray rocks, and swipe-stroked evergreens. Even her thinnest brush made painting the pier pylons tricky on her tiny canvas. The result was pretty, although tame. Realistic landscapes were a staple of her early work, and although it was technically a strong piece, Meg scolded herself. The view from the window. That was comfort-zone stuff. A warm-up. Her better self would create from the heart. Stretch. Embrace the challenge.
Clanging sounds poured from the hotel kitchen. An unmistakable, earthy scent tingled her nose. Coffee. That was usually a good first step to stimulating the creative process. Meg treaded to the kitchen and rapped gently on the doorframe. “Sorry. I know you’re not open yet, but would it be possible to grab a cup of coffee?”
“Of course. Come on in. I’m Mayumi.” The woman stretched out a hand. “Are you enjoying your stay?” she asked with the comfortable air of ownership.
“It’s beautiful here,” Meg said, reaching out for the handshake and introducing herself. “Look, I don’t want to be a pain,” she added, “but could I order a pastry or something?”
“Actually.” Mayumi waved Meg toward an industrial-sized stainless steel fridge. “Our cook doesn’t get here for another hour. But I was just thinking I was getting hungry, too.” Yanking the door open, Mayumi perused the offerings. Over the proprietor’s shoulder, Meg noticed several plastic containers labeled with the same Japanese characters.
Mayumi jiggled one of the containers and said, “We can eat this.”
“That writing. What does it say?” Meg asked, pointing to the taped label.
“Everything on this shelf is labeled Mom. Me!” Mayumi confided. “I have two teenage sons. It’s like living with grazing locusts. If I didn’t save something for myself, I’d never eat.”
She pulled two small plates and a couple of souvenir Bainbridge mugs from a cabinet and set them up on the counter. “Peanut butter and jelly,” Mayumi said, placing a sandwich on each plate. “The world’s most perfect snack, in my opinion. But not something I’ve ever had the guts to put on our tourist menu.”
When they carried their food into the dining room, Mayumi caught sight of the painted coaster. She said nothing, and for a moment, Meg worried that the hotel owner was upset that she had used the table as an art workspace, but Mayumi sat at the next table and waved Meg into the seat across from her. They munched on the sandwiches, and all the while Mayumi stole glances at Meg’s coaster landscape. When her self-consciousness finally got to her, Meg said, “I forgot to bring my canvases. I hope you don’t mind; I was super careful about protecting the tables…”
“Not at all.”
“This sandwich is delicious.”
“Glad you like it. The jam is from last year, but it’s nearly blackberry season and I have my jars ready.”
Meg smirked. Blackberries. Loved the taste, hated the prickers. The invasive spread of Himalayan blackberries in the Northwest had become a much-debated local blessing/curse. The loathers vehemently argued the need to poison them into extinction, and the lovers treasured the tasty opportunities. It was clear which side Mayumi fell on.
“I like the stylized quality of your painting.” Setting her coffee on the glass surface, Mayumi tapped at a newspaper article beneath. “If you’re looking for surface area, you could paint these tables. I’d pay you, of course.”
Meg glimpsed the images and articles beneath the glass. “I wouldn’t want you to have to move these photos.”
“Yes. They are important reminders,” Mayumi sighed. “But it’s not easy to see them every day.”
“You could make an album…”
“I suppose.” Suddenly, Mayumi straightened. “Listen. I’ve got a better idea than painting these tables.” Her eyes twinkled. “What would you think about painting a fence?”
A fence? Was this a joke?
“You’ll know what I mean when you see it,” Mayumi pressed. “Coasters are small. Your work needs a broad platform.”
Meg’s lips began the slow climb. She recognized the gimmick from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer : the part where Tom managed to get another kid to do his chores for him. Whitewashing a fence was not an obligation, Tom explained, but a privilege.
On the other hand, Meg had left her canvases at home. Was she really planning on dabbling in coasters for the duration of the vacation? Besides, painting was like pizza or sex. A painting project of any sort was better than no painting project at all.
“Just take a look,” Mayumi suggested, waving Meg toward the door. “I’ll make you a trade. Free room and board. As long as you need to finish it.”
Now that intrigued her. She wouldn’t have to rely on Annie’s generosity. Meg would love to be the one to cover their hotel bill. And she could earn a swankier, longer vacation. Besides, a fence did create opportunities for incorporating the outdoors into her vision. In fact, she reasoned, this could be her shot to imagine something unique. Something notable. Shouldering her tote, Meg followed Mayumi outside.
The fence divided the property between the inn and the beach, a classic picket with a swinging gate at the center of the pathway. From inside the enclosure, Meg squinted at it. Through the slats, she glimpsed a family with small children. The kids tossed rocks into the water until their mother pulled them back from the quiet shoreline. In a few hours, the beach would be busy with strolling tourists and picnicking families.
Tilting her head, she checked out the fence at an angle. A hint of an idea formed. The interesting thing about a fence was this: Some were designed to keep people out. Others to keep people in. Maybe she should take away the gate so that the enclosure would lose its function. She could concentrate on the slats as a canvas. That was the beauty of art. Removing the element of practicality was part of the challenge.
The other interesting thing about a picket fence—now Meg’s mind was really rolling—was that it alternated between positive and negative space. Meg could take advantage of the missing pieces by implying something that was lost, or incomplete. On the other hand, she could focus on the positives, and let the viewer fill in the gaps.
Meg trailed a finger along the point of a picket. When she lifted her eyes, Mayumi was smiling at her. The more Meg thought about this unlikely canvas, the more intrigued she grew. Her mind made up, she gave a sharp, decisive nod.
“Excellent,” Mayumi said. “Paint is in the shed, and you can have an open budget if you need more. I know how to snatch up talent when I see it. Take all the time you need.”
Traipsing over to the shed, Meg slid open the door and found a large can of light blue exterior paint. She picked out a thick, nylon-haired brush, ideal for laying down a base coat. The paints were crusty, but once she figured out where she would go with this project, she could pick up more suitable supplies in Winslow.
By the time she lugged the supplies to the fence, the bay reflected a hazy pink in the brightening morning light. Stirring the paint with a stick, she whisked the separated liquids and wiped the excess from the side of the can. Without thinking, she put brush to wood and dragged it up along the grain. She pulled the paint down and then did it again. And again, on another picket. Three pickets. A sudden tightening in her throat gave her pause.
What was she doing? Improvising was one thing when painting for pleasure, but for this project, she needed a plan.
She plunked down on the grass, right where she was, stared at the three grayish-blue slats, and channeled the painter Salvador Dalí. The surrealist claimed that he would stare sometimes for hours or days at a canvas until a painting appeared to him. That, and ask his wife to stand bare-buttocked before him until he had an epiphany. Meg surveyed the beach and turned her head back toward the inn. There were no buttocks to be found, so alas, no inspiration.
She painted a fourth and a fifth board. No. It was no use. She should have a plan. Painting without an endgame was irresponsible and reckless. Cats marrying dogs. Balloons and barbed wire. Meg stared some more at the fence.
“Meg?”
Meg started. For an instant, she thought she had imagined that voice. Her parents, her old friends, and of course Annie had said her name with that same lilting clarity that indicated they were authentically happy to see her. Her name sounded just like that, but better. Like honey on the tongue.
From her patch of the grass, she did not have a clear view through the slats, so she rose onto her knees and peered over the top of the fence. Her heartbeat did a double cartwheel back handspring.
Ethan!
Bolting to her feet, Meg rose. Blood rushed from her head, and she threw her arms to the sides to steady her stance. “Whoa!”
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, laying his hand on his salmon-toned cotton dress shirt.
His relaxed manner contrasted her inner freak-out. He looked different from the last time she’d seen him, no longer the rugged, hard-hatted Stud-in-Boots from the construction site. Now, with his quirky grin and that fresh color against his sandalwood skin, he gave off an effortless air of sexy-hip-sophisticated-casual. “We ought to stop running into each other like this,” he said.
What in the world was going on with her tongue? It had transformed into a sea sponge and swollen to twice its usual size. And what was with her eyeballs? They widened, performing a perfect impression of a surprised goldfish.
“I didn’t know you worked with Mayumi,” he continued, with what Meg noted was valiant effort. Of its own volition, Meg’s head bobbed up and down. He said, “We go way back. We worked together on shoreline preservation when she expanded the inn.”
She clipped the jumper cables to her mental battery and opened her mouth. She really needed to participate if it was to be a dialogue. Right now.
“I’m painting the fence.” What was up with her sparkling conversation starters?
“I see that. Excellent coverage. Just the right size brush. Good decisions on the coat thickness,” he said, standing there in his dapper duds and backed by the wild Sound. What a contrast to the Ethan of a few days ago—the man who had stood in the pouring down rain, threatening the very life of their courts. This upmarket Ethan was so out of context. And why was he staring at her? Ah. Because this was a dialogue. It was her turn now.
“You…live on the island, right?” Good job. It may have been stating the obvious, but at least she’d managed to ask a sensible question. She’d even remembered that she was surrounded by water. Baby steps.
“Part of the time. I’m usually working on more than one project at a time. So, if I’ve got a job on the mainland, once I get it going, my crew can get a lot done without me.” At the mention of his mainland job, they pitched into an abyss of awkwardness. Meg, finding no portable toilet or other suitable hiding space, dropped her gaze to the ground. The silence between them began to stretch like a rubber band wearing thin. At last, the elastic snapped, and their words tumbled out on top of one another.
“I’m sorry about your courts—”
“I’m sorry about the balls—”
“What?” they both asked.
He jumped in quicker. “I’m really sorry that the restoration is affecting your courts. I wanted to say something the other day, but I didn’t get the chance. I know how important the courts are to your group.”
“No. It was wrong, what happened…with your construction plans and the…toilet,” she said. “And with Jeannie’s balls. That was low.”
One of his brows dipped. “Low-hanging balls?”
She couldn’t help the laugh that came out as a snort. The left side of his lip hitched upward, like he thought her snort was cute and not disgusting. Which further pushed her toward the conclusion that, despite garnering her entire team’s loathing, he was cute and not disgusting. She was relieved, at least, to run into him again in neutral territory. Here, the war over the courts was a distant skirmish on somebody else’s land.
“No apology necessary,” he said. “That truck prank—that was funny. Driving home was like being in one of those ball pits they used to have at the fast-food places before they realized kids were pooping in them.”
Meg grimaced. “Kids were pooping in them?!”
“Well, maybe. Or that might have been an urban legend.” How could a person be talking about poo and still be so attractive?
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he continued, “but those school courts sit up against the marshland. I’ve seen all kinds of wildlife nearby. Northern shovelers, pied-billed grebes. I once saw a green heron right near there.”
“For a guy in construction, you know a lot about the wetlands.” It occurred to her that she knew nearly nothing about him. On the afternoon of their seat belt snafu, the “getting to know you” portion of the day had quickly turned into “getting to grope you.”
“I’m not in construction,” he said. “I’m an environmental consultant. I partner with companies to negotiate broad-range solutions on environmental concerns. My work usually involves helping businesses ascertain the impact of development and construction. But right now, the school district hired me to—”
He stopped suddenly. “God, I sound like an asshole. I help people make their businesses more environmentally friendly. That’s what I do.”
Meg smiled at his self-effacing honesty. The idea that he felt nervous talking to her, too, put her more at ease.
He continued, “I don’t know if you could tell, but that answer was rehearsed. My elevator pitch. You know. Something brief you could say in an elevator between floors if someone asked you what you do for a living. It sounded pretty good at the time. But I think it works best if you’re in an actual elevator. Captive audience,” he said, shrugging.
She considered him. Maybe it was the thrill of being the central focus of a nice-looking guy, or perhaps it was the paint fumes, but his side of the story was making more and more sense. It would be cool to see eagles and herons so near to the city. Being surrounded by nature was like being around a beautiful work of art. It awoke something central to her spirit, Meg thought as she ogled the bronze skin of his collarbone. But before her lust had the chance to entirely take over the controls, thankfully, he pointed at the paint can and said, “So. You’re a handy person?”
She had forgotten she was still holding the brush. A glob of sky blue paint pooled between the brush handle and her clutching fingers.
“Handy? Definitely not. I am actually kind of unhandy. I am”—she hesitated—“an artist.” For years, a part of her had felt like a fraud, claiming to be an artist when she made her living crafting. But now that it was out of her mouth, now that she had put the descriptor into the universe, she felt committed. After all, the fence was a real art project. She was an artist. It felt good to say so.
“Cool,” he said, nodding at her from the other side of the fence. “So, is this going to be a mural? What will you paint?”
Now, that was a good question. “TBD,” she said. “I’m planning to stare at the fence until an idea pops into my head.”
“The Dalí technique, huh?” Her heart might have leapt right at him then if not for her rib cage.
Ethan’s phone dinged. He pulled it from his pocket and checked a text. “Hmm. My meeting just got postponed till this afternoon. Feel free to say no, but do you want some help painting?”
Meg tamped down the urge to spring up and down with glee. “Sure. I think there’s another brush in the shed, but”—she ran her eyes over that swanky shirt—“I don’t know if you’re really dressed for—” She gestured, feigning noncommittal. Take off the shirt. Take off the shirt. Take off the shirt , her brain pled while her face worked overtime to remain neutrally uninvested.
“It’s a warm day. I can take my shirt off.”
That steamy afternoon in her hatchback, Meg’s fingers had explored the sculpted angles of his chest, but to see Ethan unshirted in the golden sunlight, now, that would be a salivating-worthy treat. He undid the top button and bunched the hem. Meg’s inner soundtrack played a synthesized backbeat when first, his taut, tanned abdomen appeared. His khaki pants hung low on his pelvis. Above his belt buckle, Meg caught a glimpse of the curve of his hip bone and noted the sexy trail of dark hair beneath his belly button. She let her eyes linger on his chiseled torso while she had the advantage; he was momentarily blindfolded by his own shirt as he slid it over his head.
“I’ll get a brush.” He jogged toward the shed. Meg gaped after him with a new appreciation of Dalí’s buttocks-inspiration method.
She poured out a splash of the paint into a pan for him, and when he returned, he sat cross-legged near the gate.
“Go with the grain,” she offered, which was obvious, but gave her something to say. She was much more nervous with him seated shirtless, paces away, than she had been making out with him in her hatchback. Her mind was spinning now, and she worried—what would Annie say if she saw Meg playing arts and crafts with Lakeview’s tormentor?
Meg painted in silence for several minutes, but the movement of the brush in her hand and the easy mindlessness of the task made Ethan’s nearness all the more apparent. One picket at a time, each on their own side of the fence, they moved closer and closer to each other.
She could do this. She could even make conversation. Like a grown-up. “So, did you grow up on Bainbridge?”
“Yep. Bainbridge born and bred.”
“Do your parents live nearby, then?”
Ethan’s breath hitched. “Yes”—and he tipped his head to qualify his answer—“and no. My mom still lives here. My dad’s…out of the picture.”
Dammit. She had stepped in it. Not even ten paces into the pasture. “Sorry. I…”
“No. Don’t be.” Shifting the focus off himself, he asked, “Do your folks live near you in Seattle?”
Meg wished she had never started this line of questioning. “I lost my dad a couple of years ago. Cancer. It was terrible. But…” Steamrolling past that oversharing moment, she continued before she could get tangled up in a condolence-o-rama. “My mom is still around.” She paused. “Well. Sort of. She moved to live in a village near Bribri, Costa Rica. I don’t talk to her much.” This was going horribly. “We’re not fighting or anything like that. It’s the cell coverage. It’s like miles outside of the nearest…This is too much information. I am going to stop now.”
Holding his paintbrush in his lap, he turned toward her. His gaze rested on her face, calm and unflinching, as he absorbed her words without judgment. Instantly, her skin warmed under his full attentions. Her eyes flicked to the ground.
After a moment, he said, “Looks like we got a base coat on a good part of this fence.” His voice was light, and she was grateful for the change of subject. When she looked up, he was still watching her. “How long will you be staying on Bainbridge?”
“I guess I plan to stay until I finish this commission,” she said, only now realizing that completing the fence would take some time. That meant more opportunities to take advantage of Bainbridge’s state-of-the-art pickleball courts. And, a hopeful tingle in the back of her brain suggested, maybe time away from the scrutiny of the Lakeview league to get to know the real Ethan. It was a serendipitous trifecta. A win-win-win.
By now, Ethan, that inner-conflict-inducing dreamboat, had maneuvered tantalizingly close. He was so near that she could make out the shape of his lips. They looked soft, like plump slugs, only much nicer.
Meg swept her brush up the rough exterior. Ethan’s brush descended, tracing the grain. Their brushes moved in tandem, grazing up and down the pickets, matching each other’s pace. She could feel, with the slightest nudge of her imagination, the sensation of his fingers dancing up her body. Up. And down. Her breathing matched his; they responded to each other instinctively as their brushes dripped with paint. Meg sighed, feeling quite physically the effect of his nimble fingers applying the perfect pressure. Their eyes met.
“Meg!” Her head whipped around to find Annie standing on the elevated porch. Her friend’s expression was glazed with confusion. “Is that…Are you painting the hotel fence?”
Meg leapt to her feet, blocking Ethan from view, and looked at the fence as though it had manifested itself from thin air. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Squinting her suspicion at Meg’s awkwardness, Annie muttered, “We’re still playing later, right?” Annie shifted to get a better peek at the figure sitting beside the fence.
“Yes.” Meg moved a foot to the left for better blockage. “That’s right. Playing later.”
“Who is that?”
Meg shrugged and wiggled her hands, going for confusion. “I’m painting this fence right now. So…” Annie did not budge. “I’ll see you inside. Later.”
“?’Kay…” Annie replied, drawing the letter out. “See you later, then.” She shook her head, bewildered, and disappeared back inside the hotel.
Phew! Annie was none the wiser about the unpopular target of Meg’s infatuation. When she turned back around, she noticed Ethan observing her expectantly. “My friend is here with me,” Meg explained. “Not with me. Just with me.” She hoped the emphasis was clear. She didn’t want him to think she was unavailable. She was wide-open. That was the message she intended to send.
The spell broken, Ethan wiped the brush dry on a picket. He stood, stretched, and tugged on his shirt. The sight was not nearly as appealing as the reverse process. “I’ll leave you to it.”
And because she wanted to detain him a moment longer, she blurted, “Come back anytime.”
A second passed in which Meg waited for an hour. “I’d enjoy that,” he said at last. Ethan made to leave, but then turned his beautiful head back to her. “I just had this thought—there’s this place near here that I think you’d like. Can I take you on a drive? If you’re not too busy.”
With an air of calm, she shrugged and said, “Yeah. Why not?” but her insides were throwing an unsupervised house party.
“I’d say let’s take your car”—he grinned—“but you know where that would lead.” Was it possible to be embarrassed and thrilled at the same time? It was.
Popping open the door of his truck, he gestured for her to hop in. A little volcano of giddiness burbled inside her as they pulled out of the hotel drive. Checking over her shoulder for Annie, she figured she would come clean later.
But first, she hoped to get a little dirty.