as a building instead of a church, you’ll feel better about lending a hand.”
When she connected with his eyes, the hopeful look on her face nearly did him in. Then logic kicked in, reminding him that he was treading on very thin ice.
He hated to disappoint her, so he said, “Maybe.” While she started cleaning up his other hand, he ran his bandaged one over the mosaic tabletop. “This is really cool. I’ve never seen one like it.”
“That’s because I made it.”
She made it sound as if it was no big deal, but Seth was impressed. Leaning forward, he studied the design. “Really? How?”
“I got the table for five dollars at a yard sale and crushed up some broken Spanish and Italian tiles Gus was throwing out. After that, I just had fun with it.” Tying the last knot, she said, “All done. If that gash still looks nasty after you take the bandages off, I’ll redo it for you.”
“Thanks.”
Standing, she walked the few steps to the kitchen and started putting her things away. While he waited, Seth wandered into the bathroom to check out the ceiling. After poking around for about thirty seconds, he found several waterlogged ceiling panels. A quick look around told him why.
“You don’t have a fan in here,” he called.
“Does that matter?” she asked from the doorway. “It’s just me.”
“Every bathroom needs an exhaust fan. You should have your landlord put one in.”
Tilting her head, she gave him a get-real look, and he chuckled. “I’ll bring my tools over tomorrow and take care of it.” When her eyes narrowed, he amended his offer with, “If you want.”
“I thought you had a lot going on.” She tossed his flimsy excuse back at him with a healthy dose of sass to make sure he got her point.
He decided not to take the bait. “This is a basic drop ceiling. It’d take me about an hour to put in a fan and replace all the panels. You helped me out today. I’d like to return the favor.”
“What about helping with the church? You don’t have to be the foreman, just sign up for the crew. There’s only three weeks till Christmas, and we need every set of hands we can get.”
“I’ll think about it.” When she gave him a chiding look, he added, “That’s the best I can do.”
Lisa’s expression told him she hated his nonanswer, and he glanced around her apartment, searching for a way to get back in her good graces. He found his inspiration on the walls. Every inch of them was filled with artwork, and he strolled around admiring each one in turn. When he spotted her signature at the bottom of one, he asked, “You painted these?”
Seth recognized it was a stupid question, but it made her smile, which was a relief. After all, she was the only friend he had in this town. He didn’t want her mad at him if he could avoid it.
“Yeah, they’re mine. It’s a hobby.”
Paintings and sketches of various sizes hung everywhere, and in the corner he saw more paintings stacked on end like books. Bright landscapes were mixed with more subdued views of foggy and cloudy days. The people she’d painted had so much dimension and character, he felt as if he could walk up and talk to them.
On an easel stood a portrait in progress, with a picture tacked to the upper corner. The photo was faded, and he assumed it was fairly old. None of the six people in it looked familiar at first. Then the dark-haired woman caught his eye, and he did a quick comparison with Lisa.
“Is this your family?”
“Yes.” She looked completely shocked. “You’ve only met me so far. What made you think that was us?”
“Her.” He pointed to the woman holding the adorable, laughing toddler instinct told him was Lisa. “She looks like you.”
Some emotion he couldn’t describe flooded Lisa’s face, and for a few terrifying seconds, he thought she might cry. Instead, she amazed him with the most incredible smile he’d ever seen. How many did she have, anyway?
“That’s my mother. She died of leukemia a few months after that picture was taken.” Staring at the picture, she continued. “All us kids have a copy of it, but as you can see, they’re not holding up well. I thought it’d be nice to do a full-size oil painting that would last forever. I want to have it ready to hang over the fireplace at our farm in time for Christmas.”
Seth recalled her mentioning her father’s death. He could only imagine how much the painting would mean to the Sawyers. “That’s a real nice idea.”
“I don’t remember her at all.” Lisa tapped her mother’s face with a nail done in cotton-candy pink. “I’m having a terrible time getting her right.”
“Check the mirror,” he suggested. “She has darker hair and eyes than yours, but other than that, you look just like her.”
Lisa beamed with pride. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Normally, Seth would only vaguely understand what she meant. To his astonishment, her revelation did more than that. The part of him that he’d thought had died out in that nightmarish desert rustled, as if it were waking up from a long sleep.
Baffled by the sensation, he moved away from the easel and began flipping through the other canvases. “These are really nice. You should try selling them in a gallery or something.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head with finality. “I’m a total amateur.”
“I’m no expert but these look pretty professional to me. Did you go to art school or something?”
“Just practice,” she said with a shrug.
Clearly, she was uncomfortable talking about her impressive talent, so he thought it best to let the subject drop. From the bathroom came a thud, followed by the most pitiful sound he’d ever heard. Somewhere between a howl and a moan, it bounced off the tiles in a mournful echo. Lisa hurried over with obvious concern, pausing in the doorway with a relieved smile.
“There you are.” Going inside, her voice went all mushy as if she were talking to a child. “Were you scared, Cleo? I’m so sorry. Mama’s here now, and the storm’s over. You’re gonna be just fine.”
Still murmuring reassurance, she came back into the kitchen holding a miniature bobcat in her arms.
“Whoa. What is that?” he asked.
“This is Cleopatra, queen of the Nile.” With a mischievous grin, Lisa angled the cat toward him. “She’s a Maine coon.”
Seth wasn’t too fond of cats, and he eyed it suspiciously. “She looks like she could eat a coon.”
“Not my Cleo,” Lisa crooned, cradling the very fluffy ball of fur in her arms like a baby. Cooing some more, she rubbed noses and planted a kiss between its tufted ears. “She likes Ruthy’s shrimp salad.”
“Who doesn’t?” he joked, chuckling as he shook his head. Deciding
