“Thanks for coming, Wes,” said Gretchen. “Mona said she had a dickens of a time tracking you down.”
Wes’s thoughts backpedaled. Dickens was most definitely a pageant word.
To both visitors, the mayor indicated two upholstered chairs opposite her desk. “Please, have a seat.”
Mona, the Meier ranch’s organizational rock star and his brother Nat’s mother-in-law, had found Wes scraping out the south pens. Not the filthiest he had ever been—that prize went to the seventeen days his unit had been cut off in Afghanistan, trudging through the mountain wilderness with body parts of the enemy caked on them—but in the presence of two beautiful women, Wes became hyper-aware that he smelled like shit. Literally. He hesitated at the door’s threshold.
“I believe I’ll stand here. Taxpayers wouldn’t appreciate my boots on your new carpet.”
Gretchen’s smile tipped, all bless-y
our-heart. By her expression, Amsterdam still wanted to run for the hills but settled for leaning against the high back of the upholstered chair. They formed a stretched conversational triangle with Wes at the most distant angle.
“All right then,” said Gretchen. “I’ve asked you both here because I think we can all help each other. The open workspace I promised you, Miss Blake, is no longer available. The Owens brothers have it in their heads that this town needs a warehouse-sized museum on Main dedicated to the history of farming instruments, and they’re just not willing to hold off on their plans long enough for you to complete a sculpture. The only other cavernous space I know of around here is the old barn out at your place, Wes.”
That sliding unreality when Wes awoke to find he had sleepwalked into a field and squished manure between his bare toes? That. Times two. The old barn was his reset space, the place where he didn’t have to pretend the darkness hadn’t followed him home from halfway around the world and curled up inside the places he refused to show others. He was about to mount a polite protest, lie if he must, to preserve his sanity, but Amsterdam beat him to it.
“I couldn’t impose, Mayor. Not for such a length of time. Mental space and seclusion are critical to my aesthetic.”
What she said. Whatever aesthetic meant. Mostly he tripped over the way words rolled from her tongue—not the structured bite of a defined accent, but a subtle note to set her apart.
“I can’t think of a place more ideal for mental space and seclusion.” For Miss Blake’s benefit, Gretchen added, “The barn was the place the whole town got together at harvest time before Dietrich’s opened, so it has all the space you could want. Mona said the Meiers use it mostly for storage now.”
Amsterdam’s mounting protest fizzled on something the mayor had said. Her pale, natural lips slackened. Behind studious, thick-framed glasses, her warm, brown eyes rounded, ripe with some emotion he couldn’t read. Wes rewound the conversation to puzzle what might have triggered such a change in her demeanor. The only new piece of information was his name. Miss Blake looked at him in a way he was hard-pressed to describe. Almost as if she already knew him better than just about anyone.
Wes felt naked, exposed in a way that made no sense. He challenged her with a bold stare. Without doubt, he had never met her before. Wes would have remembered the blunt fringe of dark hair across her brow, the not-so-subtle contours of her cheekbones that fell away behind overly-large eyeglasses he was certain she used as a mask to keep the world at bay, the natural set of her mouth that puckered as if she had just been surprised by a kiss. Most definitely, Wes would have remembered the repressed, captivatingly aloof, and currently mute artist Miss Blake.
Her eyes, though, stoked something familiar, out of his memory’s reach. He felt as if he’d been expecting them for a lifetime.
In typical lawyerly fashion, Mayor de Havilland continued to plead her case. “And working in close proximity to a real Marine can serve as inspiration.”
Inspiration? Oh, hell no.
“A live model would help in terms of scale,” said Miss Blake.
“Whoa, hold up—”
“Always someone around for heavy lifting at the ranch,” offered the mayor.
Amsterdam’s resistance to the idea was crumbling. He saw it in her slight nod, the thoughtful pucker of her lips. He had to do something to keep the Yankee from invading his sanctuary, but his shit-covered boots kept him at a geographical distance. It was as if the women had already reached a conclusion and moved on to the topic of where to grab a sangria afterward.
“Logistically speaking, the ranch is fifteen miles out,” said Wes. “It would be impractical for Miss Blake to travel from the Starlite Motor Lodge each day to work on her art.”
Gretchen’s pupils rimmed white with excitement. “Wes, that’s the kindest thing I’ve ever heard. Miss Blake will stay at the ranch house as your guest so she can be close to her art. Of course, the city will reimburse your family for your hospitality.”
Amsterdam did a double-take at the newest development, more like a runaway train than the logistics of where to craft a town statue.
“Oh, no…no. I couldn’t impose.” Miss Blake shored up her glasses closer to her face.
“See? She couldn’t impose,” echoed Wes, in much the same note, not entirely accidental.
“Nonsense. There are no impositions in Close Call. We’re family. One time, my granddaddy put up the entire Meier family and their herd on his land during the Great Flood of ’81. Remember that story, Wes?”
Oh…Fetchin’ Gretchen was subtle. Real subtle. Resurrecting old favors, leaving Wes in no bargaining position but to say yes.
“If it’s all the same,” said Miss Blake, “I’d like to keep my room at the Lodge.”
God, yes. That would give him some time to scrounge up a better place for her to sculpt—somewhere more ideal than underfoot. “The Dolly Parton/Burt Reynolds-themed lover’s suite is the pride of Close Call. People come from a hundred miles away for the pillows, alone.”