me on fat-free milk. Is that okay?”
“Yes. Fine. Thanks. May I help with anything?”
“You can take the plates to the table while I get your drink. How much pasta?”
He used a pasta spoon to measure the cooked angel hair for her plate.
“A little less, please.”
They made eye contact so she could direct him on the portions for the sautéed veggies and meatballs. Either this one was a small eater, or she didn’t care for what he’d prepared. Either way, he wasn’t going to let it bother him. Then he served his own plate with generous portions and handed that to Marta, as well. She carried them to the table as an idea popped into his head. He’d wired the entire house for sound and rarely used it anymore. So he flicked a switch, and they had music to dine by. But then he quickly worried she’d get the wrong impression—like this was a date or something.
“Is music okay, or do you prefer silence?”
She listened to the light classical sounds and nodded. “It’s fine.”
He poured her milk, topped off his glass of wine and brought them both to the table. The basket of whole-grain sourdough bread was already in place. So was the butter. It had felt dumb for them to sit one at each end of the long dining table, and he thought it would be too casual to sit at the breakfast bar for their first dinner together, so he’d sat her to his left, like he and Ellen used to do.
They ate for a few minutes with the soft music in the background but without conversation. After a bite of the chicken meatballs, she complimented him on his cooking. She seemed to mostly move her food around the plate, eating very little. She did drink her milk and managed half a piece of bread, though.
He enjoyed his meal and decided not to worry about this grown woman. She could and would take care of herself. Maybe she was nervous about this new project. Or, even though she’d said she didn’t have a problem staying here with him, maybe she was uncomfortable about the living arrangements. He could make guesses all night.
“You’re a good cook,” she said again. “I wish I could eat more, but my stomach has been giving me fits lately.”
She did look a little drawn, but because of her olive complexion it was hard for him to tell if she was paler than usual.
“Sorry to hear that. I’ve got antacids if you need—”
“No. No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
There she went again cutting him off. His impression so far was she only tolerated being around him. He’d make a point to stay out of her way from now on.
But a meal was meant to be accompanied by conversation, and damn it, he couldn’t enjoy this delicious dinner—if he did say so himself—nearly as much in silence. Leif racked his brain for an ember to spark a conversation.
“So tell me about your work. Your studio. Your home in Sedona.”
She took a small bite of zucchini, then smiled. A genuine smile, and it almost pushed the wind out of his lungs. “Are you familiar with my work?”
“I’ve been to your website. You’re very talented. Obviously.”
“I’ve lived in Sedona for the past eight years, though I grew up in Phoenix. My father is still there. I was fortunate enough to acquire a benefactor who believed in my painting. Without him, I don’t know...well, I doubt I’d be nearly as successful.” She took a sip of milk.
“You seem to like to do landscapes. Do you paint outdoors?”
“Sometimes, but it gets terribly hot in Sedona several months of the year, so mostly I spend a few days taking photographs of what I want to paint at different times of day. I try to capture the perfect lighting, then I blow them up, cover my studio walls with the pictures and go from there.”
He thought of a few more questions to prod her along, but his mouth was full so he waited.
“I have an art showroom downstairs and I live upstairs where my studio is. I’m fortunate to have a small staff working for me so I can concentrate on painting.”
“You’re not married.” It sounded matter-of-fact, and maybe intrusive of her privacy, but he’d had a glass and a half of wine and just sort of blurted it.
“No.” She looked at her plate, but just before she did, the subtle crinkle of her brow made him wonder if he’d hit a sensitive nerve.
She was what, thirty-four? Did women these days still get touchy about being single after a certain age? What did he know? He’d lived in a cave for the past several years. At forty-two, he’d often felt his life was over in that department. Now, that was one hell of a pill to swallow for a perfectly healthy man, but, nevertheless, that was how he felt. He took another sip of wine; the glass was almost empty. He could save this sorry excuse for a conversation. He used to be good at it. Think back, Leif. Or, here’s an idea—pretend she’s a man.
“Well, I’ve got to tell you,” he said. “I think your painting will be perfect for the mural.”
“Thank you.” She still looked at her plate, moved some pasta back and forth.
“So walk me through this mural-painting process. I’m a novice.”
She popped a small piece of bread into her mouth and drank a sip of milk. Then she said, “I have to be honest and tell you I’ve never painted an entire mural before.”
Now, that was a surprise. Maybe that was what she was nervous about. Come to think of it, he’d only seen her huge canvas paintings at her website. She’d also submitted a preliminary mural design, which had helped the committee make their choice.
“But I’ve put a lot of thought into this project, and I’ve studied how it’s done. First, I lay my idea out on a grid. Since this is the biggest painting I’ve ever tackled, I’ll go about the process one step at a time. I’ve already started the grid and plan to paint it in the one inch to one foot scale first. After that I’ll transfer it to the wall one section at a time.”
So that was why she had three suitcases. One was probably filled with supplies.
“Will I need to prepare the walls for you?”
“Oh, good question. Yes, please.”
“Just tell me what you need and when and I’ll get her done.”
“Great, thank you. That won’t be for a while, though.”
They continued chatting about the steps to undertaking this project, both engaged and distracted from whatever other cares they had. He promised to take her to the college to see the outdoor walls soon. After she explained what needed to be done, he planned to remove the stucco and prep the walls to her specifications while she painted her smaller-scale grid.
After dinner she helped him wash the dishes, then she went on and on about how beautiful his house was and how extraordinary her living quarters were. Suddenly the day, and meal that had gotten off to a rocky start, was ending on a much better note.
Because she’d eaten so little, he showed her where the leftovers would
