Page 148 of Confessions

He studied his sister intently. “I just like to keep things private.”

She laughed and waved as he climbed into the truck. “Then you shouldn’t have moved back to Gold Creek.”

“You’re telling me,” Ben grumbled, stepping on the throttle a little harder than he’d planned. Just the mention of Carlie set his teeth on edge. It was true, he’d been seeing her and he’d tried like hell to keep his hands off her. But it had been a losing proposition because it was driving him out of his mind.

He told himself that he was going straight home, but then he conjured up an excuse to stop by the Hunter house to see if the electrical crew had shown up.

As he walked up the front steps he caught sight of Mrs. Hunter peeking through her curtains. She met him in the vestibule, her eyes shining.

“Good news. I won’t have to rent the studio to you.”

“You must’ve heard I inherited a dog,” he said with a wink.

“Oh, my, no. I love animals, but you haven’t even finished your work around here and it looks like I might have a buyer for the house,” she said, beaming brightly. She was wearing a pair of her deceased husband’s overalls, a faded red flannel shirt and a smile that wouldn’t quit.

“Looks like all this remodeling worked.”

“Well, the deal isn’t signed yet, but when Thomas Fitzpatrick says he’s going to do something, he usually does.”

“Fitzpatrick?” Ben said, his guts clenching. “He’s the buyer?”

“If things go as planned.” She picked up a pair of rubber boots she’d left by her door. “Wish me luck.”

“You got it.” Ben climbed the stairs and told himself it didn’t matter who was buying the place. Mrs. Hunter wanted to sell the old house and Fitzpatrick had the money. They were working on a deal. So what if Fitzpatrick’s name was on everything in town? Who cared if he was going to be Carlie’s new landlord?

Nonetheless his good mood was destroyed, and when he rapped on Carlie’s door, he fidgeted, anxious to be away from the cloying grasp of Fitzpatrick. His feelings were irrational he realized. Just because Fitzpatrick had been part of the scheme with H. G. Monroe III that had forced the Powell family into near bankruptcy didn’t mean that Ben should hold a grudge. Oh, hell, why not?

Carlie opened the door and smiled at the sight of him. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I’m not. I thought we’d go out.”

“Are you sure? I could cook—”

“I’ll cook,” he said, anxious to leave. He wondered if Fitzpatrick had a key. Surely not yet. Nonetheless he wanted Carlie out of there.

She was laughing, staring at him as if he’d said he was going to fly to Jupiter. “Ben Powell, chef extraordinaire?” she teased.

“You’ll be surprised.”

“It won’t be any of that army stuff, will it? You know...what do they call it...something on shingles?” Her blue-green eyes twinkled and he was reminded of sunlight refracting on a tropical sea.

He laughed despite himself. “Believe me, you’ll love it.”

“Just let me get my jacket.”

He followed her into the apartment and wondered why it seemed like home. He looked around at the smattering of antiques, modern pieces of art and the cork bulletin board with notes pinned haphazardly on it. And everywhere, on the walls, propped against the floor, stacked on an old bookcase, were her photographs. All different. They hadn’t been here before. “What are these?”

“My work. I had them stored at the studio, but I decided I needed a few pieces around here. You know, to show off a little.”

As she walked to the closet near the daybed, he looked through a stack of black-and-white pictures of Native Americans in Alaska. A kayak with a single oarsman on a vast sea, whales breaching...

“Ready?” she asked.

“Not quite.” He was fascinated with the pictures. “I don’t know much about photography, but I like these.”

“Do you?”

He saw the hint of her smile and his gut tightened. “Maybe we should go—”