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  Reed walked through the hall by the open bathroom door, through the kitchen, and back to his studio for a second time, calling Olivia’s name. Her car was on the drive, but she was nowhere to be found.

  He went back to the window. Maybe she was in the car and he just hadn’t seen her. Those shaded windows sometimes played havoc with his unpredictable eyesight. She’d probably sat in the car waving and wearing that winsome smile of hers and he’d rushed by, ignoring her. He’d hid his handicap from her pretty well, he thought. Not that he was trying to deceive her. After all, she knew she’d been hired to be his “eyes.” Even so, he tried to be as independent as possible. He didn’t need her feeling sorry for him or rushing to do for him what he could and should do himself.

  He pulled the curtains back and looked out on the drive. The blue Intrepid was still there and this time the sun’s angle was such that he could make out a figure through the driver’s side window. It almost looked like she was huddled over the steering wheel. Was something wrong? Maybe she was just listening to the tail end of a radio broadcast or a favorite song. Kristina had been funny about that, never letting him turn off the car until the end of whatever song was playing on the radio. He smiled to himself, thinking of her quirk, then felt the muscles of his brow twist into a frown.

  Where had that come from? He mentally brushed away the painful cobwebs of memory.

  He watched the street through a split in the curtain, expecting Olivia to emerge from the car at any moment. But when he checked again five minutes later, the doors were still tightly closed and he didn’t see any movement inside the car. Was she okay? He opened the door and strode across the lawn to her car.

  He tapped on the window of the driver’s side door. “Olivia?”

  Her head jerked up at the sound of his knuckles on the safety glass. Through the darkened window, he saw her swipe at her cheeks. Was she crying?

  Before he could think about the implications of his action, he pulled open the car door. “Olivia? Are you okay?”

  She turned away, but not before he saw the dampness on her cheeks.

  “Is…is everything all right?”

  She turned and flashed a smile, sliding out of the car as she did, avoiding his eyes. Something was definitely wrong, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to let him in on it.

  A frisson of regret coiled through him. Why had he even come out to her car? What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed she was crying.

  “Are you okay?”

  She recreated the plastered-on smile from a minute ago. “I’m fine. Sorry I’m late.”

  Okay. She didn’t want to talk about it. He let relief replace regret. He could pretend too. “I’ll be inside,” he said. “No hurry. Whenever you’re ready.”

  She reached for her purse on the passenger’s seat, and with one smooth, feminine motion, shut the door with one hip and pressed the keyless entry to lock the car.

  She led the way to the house and he watched her, trying to interpret the reason for her tears from her demeanor. Whatever it was, she seemed perfectly fine now.

  “What’s on the agenda for today?” she asked as they passed through the kitchen. Was he imagining it, or did her voice hold the vibrato of recent tears?

  “Are you sure you feel okay?”

  She sniffled and turned to face him, her hands raised like a shield. “I’m fine. Do you want me to cut some more canvas?” She walked across the room, tossing her purse in its usual corner before pulling down the roll of canvas she’d been working with yesterday.

  He hesitated. He’d wanted to show her how he kept his inventory with the galleries, but he sensed she’d rather keep to herself today. He gave himself a swift mental kick. The inventory was what needed doing most. He was starting to resent having Olivia in the studio, but it was his own fault. He made a terrible boss, worrying too much about his employee’s feelings, or whether she’d feel put upon if he asked her to do something he considered grunt work. He was paying her a decent wage. Maybe after he wrote out her first check today, he wouldn’t feel so guilty about the work he assigned her.

  As if she’d read his mind, she straightened and put her hands on her hips. “I can do whatever you want. If you want me to clean the studio or something, I don’t mind. Really.”

  That settled it. “Would you mind making some phone calls? I need to check in with my galleries and see what they need. I’ll show you the inventory lists and contact information. They’re over here on the computer.”

  He sat down on a high stool to one side of the computer desk and pulled out the chair beside him, motioning with a toss of his head for her to sit with him.

  She slid into the chair and gave the mouse a click. The computer screen flickered to life and she leaned in to study the array of files scattered haphazardly atop the desktop wallpaper. The desktop picture, a dusky landscape, faded and morphed into a sunny nautical. He’d set slides of his own favorite artwork as screensavers. In her presence, it suddenly seemed a little vain, but her reaction put the thought immediately to rest.

  “Ooh, I haven’t seen this piece before.” She turned to him with admiration on her face. “It’s gorgeous. Is it a real place?”

  “Sort of. It was a port of call on a cruise I took with my grandparents when I was a teenager. I don’t even remember which island we were on… Saint something… St. Thomas maybe? This is how I remember it. I’m sure the reality is even more beautiful than I remember.”

  “Oh, we were on St. Thomas once.” A faraway look glazed her gold-flecked irises, and gently fingered the heart-shaped locket she always wore around her neck. “On our honeymoon.”

  “How long ago was that?” The words were out before he could think better of speaking them. She’d always been reticent about discussing her marriage. This was the first time he’d heard her use the intimate “we.”

  Olivia shook her head as if coming out of a trance. “A long time ago. Ten years. I suppose everything is different now.”

  Her raised brow and sad smile told him that she, too, had caught the obviously unintended double meaning of her words.

  He looked at the floor and rubbed at an imaginary smudge on the smooth pine board. “That must have been really hard—” He dared to meet her eyes. “—losing your husband, I mean.”

  She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, but not in time to hide the sheen that had come to them.

  He dropped his head. Vincent, you idiot. Why did he have to go and bring that up? And how could he even wonder what she’d been crying about in her car a few minutes earlier? The woman had lost her husband just two months ago. Why wouldn’t she be crying? He could only imagine how she must be feeling. And then he had to open his mouth and insert his big fat foot.

  He put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  She gave a little nod. “No…it’s okay.” She took a deep breath and leaned into the computer screen. “Now which file do I open for the inventory?”

  He opened his mouth to apologize again, then thought better of it and bit his lower lip. He pointed to a file among the half dozen lined up on the computer’s desktop. “Open this folder first,” he said, making his voice all business.

  Chapter 14

  The antiseptic smells of the doctor’s office took Olivia by surprise, bringing back disturbing memories of that terrible night at the hospital after Derek’s accident.

  She sat on the edge of the examination table, twisting the hem of the too-short gown until it looked like it had been through a wringer washing machine. A week ago it would have driven her crazy to look so unkempt, but now all she could think about was the verdict she would get today.

  The door opened and she started at the sound of her name.

  “Mrs. Cline?”

  Dr. Bennington was a pretty blonde who couldn’t have been a day older than Olivia. Yet something about her demeanor made Olivia feel she could confide in her. She’d never had a female physician before, but now she was g
lad she’d chosen a woman.

  The doctor bent back the cover of a folder and looked at the lone sheet of paper it held before glancing up at Olivia. “Well, your suspicions are correct. You are indeed pregnant.” She quirked a thin, penciled eyebrow. “That’s good news, I hope?”

  Olivia couldn’t answer. Her head suddenly felt too heavy for her neck to support. She dropped her chin to her chest, struggling to fill her lungs with air.

  “Not such good news, I take it?”

  She tried to shake her head, but her neck muscles felt paralyzed.

  The doctor put a hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I understand. You need some time to think about it.”

  She forced her head to bob up and then down.

  “Would you like to call someone to take you home? Is your husband…?” She let the words trail off, obviously hinting.

  “My husband…died.”

  She didn’t see the shock on Dr. Bennington’s face, but rather felt it in the tightening of her grip. “I’m so sorry. Then the father of this baby isn’t…involved?”

  Olivia looked up, startled. “No. Oh, no. The baby is my husband’s,” she said with more force than she intended. “He’s only been gone a few weeks…ten weeks, I guess. Or twelve…” She shook her head. Had Derek really been gone that long? She stared at the advertising calendar hanging behind the small cabinet in the corner. Derek had died March 14. The glossy page was turned to the month of June. How could that be? Three months? It seemed like only yesterday.

  A mortifying thought struck her. Would others assume this baby had been conceived after Derek’s death?

  “Mrs. Cline? Mrs. Cline, are you all right?”

  She forced herself back into focus. “I…I’m okay.” Her voice came out in a squeak. “Just give me a few minutes.”

  “You take all the time you need.” The doctor’s tone turned gentle. “We don’t want you driving if you’re upset. You can stay right here until you’re ready. I won’t need this room for a few minutes. Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone for you?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  Dr. Bennington gave Olivia’s shoulder a pat and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “I’m fine,” Olivia whispered to the empty room. But she wasn’t fine. She was pregnant. She was pregnant without a husband, without a real job, without medical insurance, with a mortgage she could barely pay. She could try to sell the house. But it had been on the market for over a year before she and Derek bought it. What were the chances she could sell the house at all in this little town, let alone sell it before she had to default on the loan?

  She tried to inhale, but her throat constricted and her lungs seemed unwilling to inflate. Sheer panic ran through her veins and she clawed the air for her next breath. It came, involuntarily, and she forced her shaking hands to steady. She had to get out of here.

  She slid from the table and pulled on her clothes. She would have to tell Reed. But not yet. She needed her job, and he didn’t need the worry about whether she could do her job or not. Besides, this wasn’t the kind of thing you talked to a man about—even if he had become a friend.

  This job was too important to her. More important than ever now. She’d just have to tough it out.

  The streets of the little town seemed extra quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Olivia pulled into the driveway and got out to open the garage door. The automatic door opener had broken the second week she’d been here and she hadn’t dared to even have someone come out to look at it.

  She pulled into the garage, then got out to close the door behind her. The pulleys creaked and groaned as they crept down the track, but just before the heavy door met the concrete floor, the little tiger cat scampered underneath. Olivia gasped and stuck her foot out, trying to stop the door. She and the cat squealed in unison as the door smashed her toe and his tail.

  Hopping on one foot, she reached for the cat, but he scuttled to the corner of the garage to lick his wound. Olivia’s toe throbbed, but she welcomed the pain that matched her emotions.

  She rocked from side to side, then tested her step. Her toe didn’t seem to be broken, but she’d probably be limping for a couple of days. She hoped the cat had fared better. Approaching him gingerly, she reached out a hand and stroked his head. “You okay, Tiger? I’m sorry, buddy, but you can’t just go running under stuff like that.”

  He wrinkled his nose and nuzzled her hand. Olivia inched closer and sat down on the garage steps where she could rest her foot, but still reach the cat.

  “What am I going to do, Tiger?” She felt silly talking to a cat, but he pricked his ears and nudged her hand, seeming to say, “Go on. I’m listening.”

  She scooped the kitten up onto her lap. His warm, furry body and the cadence of his purring soothed her more than she could have thought possible. The garage was airless and stuffy with the odor of lingering exhaust fumes, but for the next twenty minutes, she poured her heart out to the little feline.

  Somewhere in the midst of giving voice to her fears and grief, her words turned into a prayer. She drank in the comfort that praying had offered her in the past, and she was grateful that today her heavenly father had provided a living creature to offer the physical presence she so longed for.

  She hugged the cat to her chest. “Oh, thank you, Lord, for bringing this little fellow here tonight. I don’t know what to do…who to turn to, but I know you’re there. Thank you for showing me that. I don’t know how I would have handled this news, Lord, without you in my life.”

  Cradling the cat in her arms, she rose and carried him inside. She hoped Tiger’s owners—if he had any—wouldn’t miss him or worry about him. Tonight she needed a friend.

  Reed watched Olivia from behind the protective veil of his canvas. She was going about her work as usual—affixing wire hangers to the back of several large canvases today. She worked in silence, her brow furrowed as she twisted the copper wire with the pliers. But the lines around her eyes weren’t just from concentration. She was upset about something. He could discern that much from her posture, even though her head was turned so he couldn’t see the expression on her face.

  He felt prompted to ask her what was wrong, but the words wedged in his throat. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but ended up choking out a nervous cough and hiding again behind an unfinished painting. And a miserably bad painting at that.

  Olivia had been coming here for a month now and he had completed one lousy painting in that entire time—and wasted canvas on three other pieces that were total garbage. He wasn’t blaming her. Not really. But somehow she unnerved him to the point he couldn’t seem to work. It wasn’t just her creamy complexion and those sultry gold-flecked brown eyes, or her womanly figure—though there was that. It was something more. It was the way she went about the odd jobs he gave her with such purpose and resolve, yet always managing to amuse him with her wry comments and playful laughter. Even if he tried not to let on that he found her delightful.

  He didn’t dare entertain romantic thoughts about her. Well, okay. He did dare. Several times a day. That she was so recently widowed should have been reason enough for him to banish those thoughts from his mind. But if he were honest with himself, his real reasons had far more to do with his own self-doubts. For all he knew, he might yet go blind. Yes, this last transplant seemed to have been a success. He was seeing more clearly every day. Sometimes he had to slap down the elation he felt when he looked out the window and took in the crisp outline of a leaf, or when he caught Olivia’s eye across the studio and could discern the minute nuances of her expression. Her face had been a blur from that distance only a couple of weeks ago.

  Still, the surgery came with a lot more warnings than guarantees and his doctors were only cautiously optimistic about the end result. He had no business counting on such a future, thinking about what it would be like to have Olivia as his wife.

  Wife? Where had that come from? Olivia still saw herself as another man’s wife.
He was reminded of that nearly every day when she corrected us and we to me and I. He had no right to fantasize about her belonging to him. Give the woman time to grieve, Vincent. Good grief! What is your problem?

  He jabbed a dry brush at the canvas, not caring if he ruined another painting. She glanced over at him, but quickly looked away when their eyes met. Almost as if she’d read his thoughts. He felt the heat creep up his neck. But watching her for another minute, his foolish thoughts were pushed aside. For the first time, he realized that she was upset. Hurting deeply about something. He saw it in her eyes. Something more than the haunted expression he’d attributed to her grief over her husband’s death. How long had this new pain been there without him noticing?

  He cleared his throat, working up his nerve. “Hey… Is everything all right?”

  She froze, a deer-in-the-headlights sheen in her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. You just…you’re awfully quiet today.”

  She yanked a length of picture wire from the large coil on the framing table. “I just don’t feel like talking.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “No. I didn’t mean…” She shrugged. “Never mind.”

  “What? You were going to say something…”

  “I didn’t mean I didn’t want to talk to you. I…I just meant I don’t really have anything to say.”

  He grappled for what to say next. “How’s your cat?”

  That coaxed a smile out of her. “He’s not mine.”

  “Oh, yeah. Did you ever find out who he belongs to?”

  “No. But I confess I haven’t been trying too hard. I—” She dipped her head. “I brought him in the house last night. He slept on the foot of my bed.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  She quirked her mouth in a guilty-looking grin. “What?”

  It was good to see her smiling. “You know what. He’s your cat now. Whether you want him or not.”