When Summer Comes (Whiskey Creek #3)(17)
Author: Brenda Novak

“Is mine, yes.”

“It’s nice.”

She seemed gratified. “Thanks.”

“So how often do you go into your studio?”

“I used to go every day. But…I’m taking the summer off.”

“To photograph nature.”

“And to say goodbye.”

He studied her carefully. “To whom?”

Sitting up, she tilted her head so that the sun could hit her face. “To this place. It belonged to my grandparents before they died. I spent a lot of summer days and weekends here when I was growing up, have a lot of fond memories.”

“That’s why you’re living out here alone?”

“That’s right. Why?”

He hesitated to put what he was feeling into words. He sensed that something was wrong, something beyond having to sell a piece of property that had been in the family for years. But he didn’t really know Callie and could easily be mistaken. He hoped he was. As much as he was determined not to feel anything, he appreciated her kind heart. He’d never experienced much gentleness. Not until he met Behrukh.

Maybe that was why he’d been foolish enough to get involved with her. He’d returned to her father’s store again and again, to buy gum, candy, bottled water, anything he could think of. He’d never been with a woman before and his hormones were running rampant.

“Who’s taking care of the studio?” he asked. “Or did you close it for the summer?”

“We couldn’t miss bridal season. So I have an assistant—more like an apprentice, I guess—who’s handling things for me.”

“While you work out here, taking pictures of nature and getting the farm in shape.”

“Basically.”

She wasn’t wearing any makeup. He got the impression she’d climbed out of bed, pulled her hair up and headed outside. But he liked her this way. She looked fresh and dewy and soft.

Suddenly, he craved some of that softness. A moment of tenderness. A respite from the bitterness that had left his own heart so hard. It felt like forever since he’d lost himself inside a woman.

But the only woman he’d known in that way was dead because of him. So was the baby she carried—his baby.

He tried to steel himself against the memory he avoided more than any other, but nearly swooned beneath the vision that broke on his mind. Being around Callie made it almost impossible to forget what happened. Although she looked nothing like the woman he’d loved, the two had a similar spirit.

“Are you okay?” Callie’s voice was soft, practically a whisper.

He opened his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. This wasn’t Behrukh, he reminded himself. And what had happened in Kandahar? There was nothing he could do to change it.

“Fine,” he managed to say. He wanted to get away from Callie, needed to get away.

Soon, he promised himself. As soon as he fulfilled his obligation. “Where’s the paint?”

Although she didn’t look convinced that he was as fine as he said, she didn’t inquire further. She dusted off her knees and got to her feet. “I’ll get it for you. After we have breakfast.”

6

Callie turned on some music while she made fried potatoes, omelets and toast. She’d always enjoyed cooking, but having someone to fix a meal for was even more fulfilling. Had she been on her own, she would’ve settled for toast and juice, since she often felt nauseous after a big meal.

“You don’t have to go to so much trouble.” Levi spoke from where he was cleaning up his bedding in the other room.

She didn’t bother to come up with a response. She’d awakened this morning feeling inexplicably happy just to be alive. Part of it was the sunshine pouring into the old farmhouse. She loved it here, was glad she’d moved. But Levi was another reason she felt so good. Trying to help someone else gave fresh purpose to her own life. It also dragged her attention away from her various worries and complaints—and the inevitable, should she be unable to find a liver donor.

“Did you hear me?” he called.

“I heard you,” she replied.

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“Because I’m going to make what I’m going to make.”

“Okay, forget I said anything.”

She smiled at the pique in his voice. She had no idea what his story was, or if he’d tell her before he left. Most likely not. She didn’t care either way. He had a right to his privacy. She simply liked thinking that she’d made a positive impact on someone, if only in a small way—giving him a place to stay, some food to eat, a few days of peace.

“We need to go into town so I can get a new rod for your shower,” he said.

“Why not take the one from the other bathroom?” she suggested.

“We have to get parts for my bike, anyway.” Having folded his bedding, he was now standing in the doorway. She could tell by the sound of his voice, but she didn’t turn.

“Callie.”

She was pretty sure it was the first time he’d called her by name. She cast a glance over her shoulder. “Hmm?”

“What’s really going on with you?”

The gravity in his voice told her this wasn’t a casual question. He could sense that something wasn’t ideal. But she didn’t want him to know about her diagnosis any more than she wanted anyone else to know. She couldn’t say why. Maybe she was afraid he’d see her as flawed or defective. Why would he choose to spend even a few days with a woman who wouldn’t be around in a couple of weeks or months? And she didn’t want him to go. She was intrigued enough to hope he’d finish out the week.

“What’s really going on with you?” she asked, turning his own question back on him. “There’s got to be a reason a handsome, capable guy goes rambling around America.”

When he grunted, she took it to mean “Touché,” and chuckled to herself.

“You’re not like other women,” he said.

She got a plate out of the cupboard. “Are you like other men?”

“I like the same things they do.”

There seemed to be added significance to this statement, as if he was talking about liking women, liking sex, but she chose to ignore that—just as she chose to ignore the way he was looking at her. “Good. Then you should enjoy your breakfast.” She carried his omelet to the table before returning to the counter for his toast and hash browns.