“Tell me about something you made for the love of it,” she says, her eyes shining.
“An armoire,” I say, the memory washing over me. “It was commissioned, but the clients didn’t give me a lot of direction. That can be a bad thing—more room for them to hate it—but they knew my style and simply gave me the dimensions they needed.”
“They adored it, of course,” she says as though there’s no other option.
I shrug. “They did.”
“And what’s your favorite piece you’ve ever made?”
My heart stutters because I instantly know. A piece infused with love—the cradle I made after Alice told me she was pregnant. I was so happy I started on it right away, even though she didn’t want me to. It wasn’t until later that I understood her lack of enthusiasm.
But I don’t want to tell Molly that, because I don’t want to drag Alice into what I have with Molly any more than I can help it. So I suck in a breath and say, “The first thing I made in woodworking shop in high school. It was a cutting board—so, obviously not a piece of furniture, but it made me fall in love with working with wood. Each type of wood has its own feel, and no two pieces are alike. Part of it is listening to how the wood wants to be worked.” I see the wide-eyed look she’s giving me and release a self-conscious laugh. “You probably think I’m crazy now.”
“No,” she says softly. “I think that sounds just right.”
A lump fills my throat.
“What about your parents?” I ask, wanting to change the topic. “You mentioned your dad. Were you close to him?”
A shutter slams over her face and firmly locks in place. “I was.”
The words are full of pain, but it sounds too sharp for simple grief.
I want to ask more, but I hate when people push me, so I settle for, “What about your mom?”
Her tension uncoils but only slightly. “My mom was like one of those TV moms. You know, the perfect ones. Involved in everything. Room mom. Team mom. Dance mom.”
“You danced?” I ask.
Grinning, she lifts her shoulder, then sips from her glass. “When I was little, but Mary was the real dancer. She took ballet from preschool to high school. She could dance en pointe. Her dance teacher wanted her to go to dance school.”
“So what happened?”
She rolls her eyes. “Mary’s much too practical to do something like go to dance school. There’s no security in dancing.”
I study her for a moment. “Sounds like Mary’s all about security. Good job. Dependable husband. Right?”
She laughs. “So you’ve met her.”
I laugh too. “No. But I know the type.” Or, more precisely, I was married to someone like her. “Maybe that’s the reason you and Mary have trouble seeing eye to eye.”
“What do you mean?”
I’m getting into dicey territory, but I’m the one who started down this path. I can’t turn it around now, and part of me doesn’t want to. “You have a much higher risk tolerance, and I’m guessing your sister can’t understand it. In her world, risk-taking equals irresponsibility.”
Molly scoffs. “So you have met her.”
“My wife was like her,” I blurt out.
Molly freezes as though she’s worried I’ll run away if she moves too quickly.
“Alice hated that I didn’t have a real job.” I take a breath. “She didn’t mind so much in the beginning, but after we’d been married for a few years, she said my job was too unstable. That I was supposed to provide consistently for our family, and I couldn’t do that if I continued down the same career path.”
Molly looks shocked. “So you gave up woodworking for her?”
“Not exactly.” My nerves are taut. I didn’t mean to tell Molly any of that.
Putting my wine glass on the table, I abruptly stand. “I should go.”
Disappointment washes over her face, but Molly’s not the passive type. She sets her glass down beside mine and gets to her feet. Then lifts her hands to my chest as if she’s going to zap the life back into me. “I know you have a past, Cal. I know you had a wife. I don’t expect you to have stepped out of a vacuum.”
My chest tightens.
“I like you. Really like you, and that hasn’t happened in a long time.” She gives me a coy look. “I think you like me too. I don’t know what the future holds, but I say we enjoy ourselves. See where this goes.”
Like is too weak a word to describe what I feel for her. I’m not deluded enough to think I love her. I don’t know her well enough, but she’s wormed her way into my heart, and I know that excising her won’t be without pain. She’ll leave eventually, and when she does, it will hurt like hell. At this point, the degree of pain seems meaningless.
I reach for her, threading my fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. Guiding her face up toward mine, I hold back a few inches and stare into the rich depths of her hazel eyes. “I really like you too, but I’m going to need you to be patient with me. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
I press my lips hard against hers, my tongue sweeping along her bottom lip. Her mouth opens for me, and as our tongues dance, I give in to the need I’ve felt all night and pull her body flush to mine. Her stomach presses against my growing erection, and she makes a happy sound and grinds against it. At that moment, I want nothing more than to pick her up and carry her inside, throw her on the closest flat surface and show her what she does to me. This woman drives me crazy with need.
But that feeling is back—something deep inside my soul needs more from her than sex.
I pull back and take in her swollen lips and hooded eyes. “I should go.”
“What?” she practically screeches.
“I want to take you on a date.”
She smiles smugly, looking like she’s not only gotten what she wanted but a bonus too. “Okay. We can go out after Mary goes home. Sunday night.” She stretches up to kiss me again. “In the meantime, I think you should stay the night.”
“No,” I say, taking her hands in mine and stepping back. “Not until we’ve had a real date.”
The expression on her face is one of pure disbelief. “I’m not a prude, Cal. Obviously.”
“Maybe I am,” I say, grinning, and then kiss her again, but with less heat this time. “Dinner Sunday night. I’ll pick you up. What time?”
She’s at a loss for words, which has to be a first, but she finally chokes out, “Seven.”
“Okay.” I drop her hands and take a step back. “See you Sunday night at seven.” Then I walk down the porch steps and get in my truck.
Molly watches me drive away.
Chapter Nineteen
Molly
I’m told that it’s best not to always tell the truth, that the truth can hurt. But I’ve decided I’ll always share my truth, because it’s the one that matters.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
After Cal leaves, I find myself standing and watching him like a dog whose owner is going off to work. I feel besotted and stupidly happy. He opened himself to me tonight, in a way I never thought he would, and even though my stubborn mind won’t stop poking at his secret, I want him more than I want to know what he’s hiding.