Page 65 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
His direct gaze held no reserve now. His eyes were all-seeing. “It’s different. She was married.”
“So were you—”
“But I didn’t have a kid or even think of myself as a wife really,” she protested. “I…”
He leaned forward. “Yes?”
She worried her lip. He couldn’t be right. They couldn’t be the same. She and Megan were completely different. “But I’ve always taken care of Megan. When I was married, I took care of Randall and then later another guy named Saul.”
“What did this Tyson do?” Carrick asked.
“He was a solider and gone most of the time overseas,” she said, aware her heart was agitated and beating faster. “We’re not alike.”
“Aren’t you a little? You might take care of everyone around you, and Megan likes to be taken care of—as did those men. But there’s a similar thread to all this that I keep hearing.”
The deep, persistent thud of her heart seemed to drown out his voice. She didn’t want to hear it. The sweet smell of oranges washed over her, relaxing her. She took a breath and leaned forward, sensing a breakthrough. “Okay, tell me. What’s the thread?”
“Youbothlost yourselves,” he said, taking her hand and rubbing the back of it with his thumb.
Her solar plexus tightened. “Oh, shit. Wearealike. But we’re… I don’t know. She’s always been the good sister, and I’m the wild one—or so my father dubbed me until I got a day job. I found it rich that my dad only approved of me when I wasn’t painting. He wasn’t thrilled I wanted to come here and paint, but then again, he always thought Cousin Bets was a bad influence on my mom.”
“Ah… The black sheep comment makes sense now.”
“The thing is, I don’t think I’m wild. I’ve been reviewing a lot of my life since coming here, and going out, traveling, talking to people, exploring new ideas, and having fun doesn’t seem all that wild.”
“You like to be free—like a wild horse does,” Carrick said with an emphatic shake of his head. “Completely different. You’re an artist. You need to be open to life, people, and experience. Otherwise, how could you convey anything powerful in your paintings?”
Tears burned her eyes. “You know, for someone who avoids me, you’re turning into one of the best friends I’ve ever had. No one’s ever understood me like you.”
He covered her hand and squeezed it. “You’re awfully canny yourself, when you have a mind to be.”
“Thank you.” His hand was warm and comforting, and she could feel the compulsion to paint their hands like this, woven together.
“Where you and your sister are different is that you’re struggling like a worm on a hook to be free, to face your problems on your own, and maybe she’s not so into struggling. The way your sister’s taken to Kade’s dog suggests she might need love and affection to get through a crisis. My mother is like that. She always talks about healing in community.”
She studied him, sitting there so handsome and yet so wise. She’d never been attracted to a wise man before. Her taste in men improving was a sign of growth. “She mentioned that at our welcome party. My first thought was that it had to be the right community. The right people. Otherwise, you’re throwing yourself to the wolves when you’re in a vulnerable state.”
“Stupid that,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Good thing neither of us is stupid.”
The scent of oranges touched her nose again, but she didn’t say anything since it didn’t seem to affect him the way it did her. “The painting is going really well because you turned me down. That’s why I thanked you earlier.”
He scoffed, a lock of hair falling over his brow. “A jab to my ego for sure, you telling me the prospect of not having sex with me fired up your creative engines.”
She rolled her eyes. “Carrick, it wasn’t the prospect of not having sex that turned my painting mojo around. It was your decision to put me and my needs first. To not take anything from me. You knew I needed to find my voice again more than I needed to have sex.”
The sex wouldn’t have been simple, had they attempted such a relationship. They both knew that.
Desire hovered in the air.
“It would have been a distraction to both of us,” he said, releasing her hand then. “I’m glad you’re painting again. I’d love to see your work, if you’re willing.”
“And I’d love to see the house you’re building sometime. From the outside, it looks like you have an eye for architecture.”
His expression grew shuttered. “You don’t think I’m mad to be building a house for a woman who’s dead?”
Her throat immediately thickened. Is that what people said? She supposed there was a touch of judgment in the way they spoke of Fitzgerald’s Folly. “I don’t think it’s mad. When you said you made a promise and wanted to keep it, I believe you.”
“I promised her a bigger house from the very first we moved in here, shortly after our wedding,” he said, drinking his whiskey as if the words had dried out his mouth. “The kitchen was small, and she had to go to the store more often than she would have if there had been more room for foodstuffs. She was killed in a car accident going to the store. I’ve never forgiven myself for it.”
