been his link to just about everything outside the studio, reminding him that there was a movie coming out he might like, reminding him of the names of acquaintances at openings, reminding him that he hadn’t bothered to eat in nearly twelve hours. “How can I trust that you’re going to help take care of this baby,” she’d teased him once, “when you can’t even remember to take care of yourself?”
Pregnancy had transformed her from the shyly smiling girl he’d first met to a laughing, excited woman with irrepressible humor. I plan to decorate the nursery behind your back—I know you’re the big-shot artist, but I’m scared you’ll turn it into some abstract expression on spatial dynamics. I was thinking ducks and bunnies.
“JT!” Sean’s tone was pitched halfway between annoyance and concern. “Did you hear anything I said? You had that look again.”
Stalling, JT sipped his water and tried to bring himself back to the present, a difficult feat given how much part of him longed to remain two years in the past. For the first few months after her death, thinking of Holly had hurt, creating electric shocks of pain that racked his whole being. Now that the sting had lessened, recalling cherished memories was comforting, beguiling. Easier than facing a future without her.
“It’s hard,” he said simply.
“I know.” Sean lowered his gaze, a touch of sadness creeping into his own voice. “I know, man, but Holly wouldn’t want you to be miserable. She would have wanted you to move on with your life. And she’d definitely want you to paint.”
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. The encaustic series he’d collaged in the weeks after the funeral—a sickening double funeral during which he’d felt he was putting his entire world into the ground—was his best work ever. But the frenzied creation of those paintings had hollowed him out somehow, leaving a void where inspiration had once been. He’d allowed Sean to hang the dark wax-and-oil images at the gallery, but couldn’t bring himself to sell them.
The gallery. JT willed himself to focus. It wasn’t fair that he left everything up to Sean these days; the two men were supposed to be equal business partners. JT was the one who knew art; Sean was gifted with people and finances.
Out of nowhere JT thought of the book he’d seen Kenzie holding—something about number crunching. Then there had been the reproachful set of her rosy mouth when she’d mentioned the importance of money. I should introduce her to Sean. Though the thought was mostly facetious, it certainly wouldn’t be difficult to arrange. JT lived directly across the hall from his new neighbor.
“I’ve lost you again,” Sean muttered.
“I was thinking about setting you up on a date.”
“Seriously?” Sean grinned. “Not that I’ve ever needed help meeting ladies, but I take it as a good sign that you’re thinking about anyone’s love life.”
“I’m not a monk,” JT said defensively.
JT had gone on a half-dozen dates this year, but nothing lasting had come of them. It wasn’t just that he missed Holly, it was more that he was still unsure of who he was without her. They’d met in Chicago when they were both college students. He’d become an adult during the years they’d been dating; he’d become a critically acclaimed artist during their marriage. He’d been about to become a father. With all of that taken away…
Since her death, JT had slept with only one woman, an art dealer Holly had liked and respected. In a bizarre way, JT had felt his late wife would approve. Marsha had been recovering from the shock of her husband walking out on her, needing to reaffirm her own feminine attraction, and JT had craved the touch of another person to penetrate his isolation. Their affair had lasted less than a month before they parted amicably, each somewhat healthier for the encounter, but knowing they had no future together. Sean had hinted several times that JT needed more of a social life. Even Mrs. Sanchez, who lived on the second floor of Peachy Acres and had appointed herself JT’s godmother, for lack of a better description, nagged that his apartment needed a woman’s touch.
Thankfully, the waitress came to take their orders, which gave JT something to think about besides his inability to paint and unwillingness to date.
Would there come a day when he could once again consider painting a joy, not an obligation? Would he ever again view love as a blessing and not a dreaded danger?
Some of his best paintings had evolved from brushstrokes with no direction, just moving his arm intuitively and watching to see what evolved on the canvas. If he kept getting out of bed each morning and facing each day, one after another, would his life begin to take some kind of shape? He couldn’t be certain. But in the absence of an actual plan, he supposed he’d find out.
KENZIE THROBBED everywhere—muscles she hadn’t realized she possessed were angrily making their presence known. She had a ton of unpacking to do, but all she really wanted was a long, hot soak in the bathtub. There wasn’t time, though. Ann had called from her cell phone to say she was en route with the kids and “backup brawn.” Besides, Kenzie was scared to test the bathroom’s hot water. If it, like the building’s elevator, the ceiling fan in her bedroom and the stove’s faulty pilot light, neglected to work, she might cry.
Reminding herself that those were all minor inconveniences easily fixed, Kenzie grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Heck, she’d already relit the pilot light herself, and the worrisome smell of gas had dissipated. She sat on the brown living-room carpet, a shade probably chosen because it wouldn’t show stains. That could come in handy with two kids. When the knock sounded at her door, she wasn’t sure her legs would cooperate enough for her to stand, but she managed. Just barely.
Instead of the relatives she’d expected, it was Mr. Carlyle, a short man of indeterminate age. His thick hair was the color of freshly fallen snow, unmitigated by gray, and he had exchanged the navy track suit he’d worn this morning for an Atlanta Braves T-shirt with jeans and a tool belt.
“Afternoon, Miss Green.” He peered past her at the cardboard boxes stacked beyond. Her apartment looked like an elementary student’s homage to Stonehenge. “You settling in okay?”
“More or less.”
“I won’t bother you long, just came up to tell you the elevator’s working again.”
Oh, happy day! She and Forrest would need to bring the mattresses up through the stairwell, but the elevator would make everything else easier. “That’s wonderful news. Thanks, Mr. Carlyle.”
“Just doin’ my job—and call me Mr. C. Everyone in the building does.”
It’s what JT had called the man this morning. For a moment, it was on the tip of her tongue to ask the property manager about the handsome mystery man. She assumed JT lived here, but didn’t know that for sure. What was his last name? Did he ever smile? She ignored the random thoughts, telling herself they stemmed from exhaustion. Normally she was too worried about taking care of her own household to be nosy about others.
Kenzie had just finished giving Mr. C. a rundown of small repairs needed in the apartment when the elevator at the end of the hall dinged. The doors parted, and a teeming mass of cranky humanity spilled forth. Blond Leslie and dark-haired Drew led the way, bickering and power walking, each apparently determined to reach their mother first. Behind them, Ann’s infant daughter, Abigail, was screaming bloody murder in her car seat. As Ann approached, Kenzie saw two wet circles on the front of her sister’s shirt and tried not to feel relieved that Ann looked harried for a change. With them was her husband, Forrest. At first glance, he seemed to be talking to himself, but Kenzie quickly realized that he was wearing an earpiece attached to his phone and was trying to set up a tee time.
Amidst the noise—perhaps because of it?—the door directly behind Mr. C. opened, giving Kenzie a clear view of the person framed in the doorway. JT.
JT lived in the apartment across from her?
Her eyes locked with his, but calls of “Mom! Mom!” broke the spell. She looked toward her two