“Hello?”
“Crockett, it’s Calhoun. Minnie says you’re going to help me with the windmill.”
“Yeah,” Crockett said reluctantly, knowing that Valentine had walked the kids home. She would be at Calhoun’s house. Even if he didn’t want to avoid her, which he did, he was trapped in the attic. The biggest problem of the two was Valentine, hands down. “Not right now,” he said.
“When?” Calhoun asked. “Valentine’s here. Olivia says she’ll whip up some barbecue if you want to head this way. She’s going to teach Valentine how to ride Gypsy after supper.”
That would be worth seeing, but he knew he shouldn’t see it. “Tell Olivia thanks, but I can’t do it, dude.”
“Why?
“I’m busy,” Crockett said. “Look for me tomorrow.” He snapped the phone off and sat in front of his canvas again, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.
Then it came to him. He should start easy, with a warm-up. Nothing difficult. Something that would waken his muse and loosen up his inner artist.
A small challenge would totally keep his mind off Valentine and how she would look while learning to ride the cagey Gypsy. A still life would keep him from sitting here thinking about how all of Valentine seemed to bounce so cutely whenever she…well, bounced.
A pear would be the perfect thing to paint. “A pear in a bowl,” he murmured. “Very still.”
Slowly, his hand unsure, he trailed his first colored stroke against the empty whiteness.
“IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE supernatural,” Crockett heard someone whisper. “Don’t you get it?”
“I think it’s extraterrestrial maybe.” The voice sounded puzzled. “Could be a heart, Van Gogh style. With something cut off. Wasn’t Van Gogh famous for cutting things off?”
“I don’t quite see that,” came the quiet reply. “I think it’s a woman’s buttocks.”
Crockett’s eyes snapped open. Last and Mason were standing over him, staring at his painting. He jumped to his feet. “What the hell?” he demanded, trying to cover his precious secret from their puzzled glances.
“Sorry,” Mason said. “We sent out a search team for you when you didn’t hit the table for supper. It’s not like you to miss a meal.”
“Nope,” Last said, his eyes huge. “What the hell is that thing you painted? And why are you up here, hiding out with the dust bunnies?”
“So you wouldn’t bug me,” Crockett snapped. “And I wish I’d stayed hidden. I’m feeling very intruded upon.”
Last’s eyes widened. “We were worried about you.”
“Entirely unnecessary.” He’d just gotten tired and had decided to stretch out and rest his eyes. “How’d you find me up here?”
Mason shrugged. “There’s all kinds of dirt on the floor from the attic door being opened. I don’t guess anybody’s been up here in ages. We really ought to clean it out.” Glancing around, he sighed. “When we have time.”
“So, what did you paint?” Last said. “Mason thinks it’s a Picasso-style heart—”
“Van Gogh,” Mason corrected.
“I’m thinking the red tones are sexual,” Last said. “The curves are feminine and delicate, so it’s probably a woman’s fanny. It almost reminds me of Georgia O’Keeffe. You know how she revealed the sexual nature of women when she painted those petals.” Last scratched his head as he looked at his brother. “But you never think about sex when you’re holding a paintbrush. I probably just didn’t get your vision. Let me have another look.”
“No!” Crockett hopped away with his overcritiqued treasure. Gently, he set it down where it could dry in peace. “Look, do you guys mind getting the hell out?”
“No problem, Picasso,” Mason said. “But since it seems your creativity has fizzled for the moment, you think we could get you to come down for supper?”
“Why not?” Crockett said, following them down the stairs. “I have nothing better to do than be harassed by my brothers.”
“Excellent.” Mason headed into the kitchen, then sat at the table and tucked a napkin into his lap. “Helga cooked a wonderful meal.”
He beamed, delighted that Mimi didn’t borrow the housekeeper so much now that Mimi lived in town. With a smaller place and with her daughter being older, things were going more smoothly for Mimi.
Except for her cockamamy idea of running for sheriff, with Mason as deputy, an idea that Crockett knew Mason opposed. It was no job for a woman, Mason had said, especially a woman like Mimi.
The brothers had rolled their eyes, ignoring Mason. Mimi would do whatever the heck Mimi wanted—and Mason would no doubt find himself neck-deep in Mimi-schemies.
“It’s delicious, Helga,” Crockett said to the housekeeper. Actually, now that he was eating, he was glad his brothers had rescued him from his upstairs jail. He had gotten hungry. And now that he’d survived their mockery and realized they hadn’t made as much fun of his first attempt at painting as he’d feared, he was feeling almost good about his dysfunctional family.
And then the door opened and Valentine walked in with Olivia, Calhoun and the kids.
“Ah, just in time for dinner,” Calhoun said, grinning as he helped his kids and Olivia onto the plank seats.
Crockett stared, all his contentment shriveling. “I thought you were eating at your house.”
“Yeah, but Helga called and said she’d made extra, and why didn’t we come on up? So here we are,” Calhoun said.
Yes, here they were, Crockett thought, before remembering his manners. He stood and pushed the plank seat back a bit so Valentine could more comfortably seat herself. Beside him, of course, because the table was then balanced with an equal number of people on each side. Helga quickly handed out extra plates, but Crockett’s creativity and hunger left all at once, replaced by a different kind of need.
He suddenly realized the delicate floral scent he smelled was coming from Valentine. He quickly drank some water. She looked at him, her smile somehow unsure, and he put the glass down.
Across the table, Last watched them curiously. Minnie and Kenny ate happily, and Annette sat in her father’s lap, grinning as she dug her fingers into Last’s mashed potatoes.
Tension spread through Crockett. He turned his attention back to the food he couldn’t eat.
“In case you’re wondering what’s in that box on the counter,” Valentine said when the silence at the table grew long, “it’s a cake for Mason.”
“Really? That was nice of you, Valentine,” Mason replied sincerely. “We love your cakes.”
Valentine beamed, clearly pleased with the compliment. “It’s a birthday cake someone ordered for you, a secret admirer,” Valentine said. “I didn’t know it was your birthday.”
Crockett turned his attention back to Valentine, relieved that he had a reason to look at her.
“It’s not my birthday,” Mason said, frowning. “It’s not any of our birthdays.”
The smile slid from Valentine’s face, and Crockett felt sorry for her.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“Who sent it?” Last asked.
“She paid cash,” Valentine said. “She just said she was a secret admirer. I thought you knew her.” A becoming blush spread across her delicate cheeks. “I’ll take the cake back.”
“No way,” Mason said. “I never give up cake.” He took