“I was never popular, good at sports, or outgoing the way they were. I was merely okay. Nothing exceptional like them. I was, as my father told me many times, an underachiever."
"Everyone is different. It's what makes us special."
I nodded because she was right. Except in my family—special wasn’t allowed. It only made you different. Different wasn't good.
I studied our clasped hands, noting how well her fingers knit with mine. "My father is a lawyer. My brother, Calvin, is a partner in his firm. My sister, Kelsey, owns her own design company. My mother runs a high-end boutique. They all live in very large homes, drive expensive cars, and live extravagant lifestyles. They travel a lot, shop lavishly, and have lives I'm not comfortable with. I never was." I paused. "And then there’s me. The odd man out." I barked out a low laugh. “The only thing I have in common with my siblings is our trust funds. And even those, we disagree on.”
I stopped.
Why the hell had I mentioned my trust fund?
I never talked about it. Ever.
But Holly didn’t comment on my trust fund. She didn’t even look interested when I mentioned it.
"Tell me about Evan. Who is he?" she asked, squeezing my hand.
"I'm an antique restoration specialist. I live alone in a house on the edge of the water, in a little town on the East Coast. My world is a quiet one. My workshop is out back of my house, so I'm my own boss, and I don't socialize much. I live a simple, uncomplicated life. I don't live like my family. I like things…modest."
"Do you get lonely?"
I paused. I had been lonely until I took a job restoring an antique desk for Carol Whittaker. I hadn't realized how lonely I was until the Whittakers came into my life.
"Not the way I was when I was younger. I have a few good friends now who treat me like part of their family." I smiled as I thought about Dan and Carol. How they had practically adopted me, bringing me into their family, showing me what it was like to be part of one—accepted for who I was and not treated like an outsider. It took a lot of effort on their part to get me comfortable enough to accept their care and friendship since I wasn't used to being wanted. But they never gave up, and now I was no longer alone, although there were many times, I still felt lonely. Andrew, their son, and I were close friends, and I got along well w
ith his wife, Tara, who treated me like the brother she’d never had, which meant she ordered me around a lot. Used to being ignored by my own siblings, I had to admit, I liked it.
"You repair broken pieces of history, Evan? Restore their beauty? Make them useful and vibrant again?"
I like how she phrased my work. "I suppose, in many cases, yes."
"I think that’s wonderful. What else?" she prompted.
"I teach piano lessons in my spare time, and I like to carve things. I take a lot of pictures around the area I live in—it’s beautiful there, no matter the season." I paused, searching my brain. “I like watching the history and nature channels. And I coach little kids’ hockey in the winter.”
She lifted our hands and studied mine. "You have long fingers—perfect for the piano."
I chuckled. "I never get them clean, though. No matter how I scrub them, there’s always stain or paint under the nails from whatever project I'm working on."
She smiled and shook her head. "They’re still beautiful hands, Evan. Capable, strong, talented hands.”
I looked down at them in surprise. She thought they were beautiful? Capable and talented?
I was certain no one had ever used those words to describe any part of me.
I looked at her hands: small, tiny fingers that barely came to my knuckles as I held them against mine. l liked, however, how they felt nestled between my own fingers. They seemed to fit as if they belonged there.
“What about you?” I asked. “What do you like to do?”
“I rescue stranded men. Like a St. Bernard—except I have less fur. And no brandy.”
I chuckled. “Happens a lot, does it? Strange men tripping in here half frozen, looking for warmth?”
She nodded. “A regular Wednesday night occurrence.” She winked. “At least once a month.”
I laughed at her drollness. “What do you do aside from imitating a big, furry dog?”
She paused, her hesitation making it seem as if she weren’t sure how to answer. I wondered if perhaps no one ever asked her that question.