he doubted it. This guy would try anyone’s patience, and even a natural-born optimist like Jenna had her limits. “Well, it’s up to you. I appreciate you helping me get this window here. If you’ll just drive me back to the cemetery, I’ll be out of your hair and you can get on with your day.”
Once they were finished folding, he stacked the blankets on the floor and glanced around. Shoving his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, he slanted her a hesitant look. “I’m not really in a hurry or anything. I wouldn’t mind seeing what kind of stuff you make here.”
So, she thought with a little grin, the hunky hermit wasn’t as averse to company as he claimed to be. Maybe he’d gotten so accustomed to keeping his guard up in prison he was having a tough time adjusting to his calmer, less dangerous surroundings. If that was the case, she was more than happy to help him make the leap.
“Since I’m a freelancer, I do a little of everything. Garden gnomes,” she added, pointing to the one he’d made fun of earlier. “Portraits, landscapes, pottery, whatever people want. This one—” she crossed to one of the easels “—is going to a client in Roanoke. Their golden retriever is getting on in years, and they wanted a painting of her with their grandkids to remember her by after she’s gone.”
Strolling over, Scott tapped the photo she’d clipped to the top corner of the easel. “They’ve probably got a hundred pictures of her just like this one. Why spend money on a painting?”
“You can’t get the same effect out of a camera,” Jenna explained patiently. “An artist can capture a lot more with different brush techniques and subtle blends of color. Photographs only show what something looks like, not how it feels to experience it.”
He took a few seconds to digest that, and a measure of respect crept into his eyes. “Y’know, I’m not the creative type, but I totally get what you’re saying. Where’d you learn that kind of thing?”
His question took her back to one of the happiest times of her life, and even though it hadn’t worked out the way she’d hoped, she smiled. “I went to art school for a year after high school. One of my professors was this tiny woman who was so old she’d actually met some of the artists we studied. Anyway, she taught me that true art is more than something to be displayed on a stand or hung on a wall. It should come alive and make you feel something. Exceptional pieces inspire you to see the world in a different way than you did before.”
“Interesting.” Looking around the room, his keen eyes landed on a smaller canvas hung for display instead of wrapped up for a customer. It was a watercolor of a yellow Cape Cod house with a white-railed porch running the width of the front. Accented by hanging flowers and others lining a walkway made of large stones, it had a cozy, welcoming look to it. “This is really nice.”
“Thanks. I painted that ages ago, when Mom and I were moving around a lot. It’s my dream house.”
Studying it for a few moments, he announced, “Hang a swing on the porch, it’d be just about perfect.”
“That’s a great idea!” She approved heartily. “I’ll add that in sometime along with one for that big tree to the left. I love swings.”
As he continued strolling along the outer wall of her workspace, he commented, “Most of these things are done or pretty near it. Where are you headed when you’re done here?”
His interest in her plans amazed her, since most of the guys she’d known were too consumed with their own lives to be curious about hers. “Usually I follow the art-show circuit because that’s where the business is. People are out traveling, hunting for unique souvenirs to take home with them.”
A slow grin edged across his face, and he cocked his head in a challenging pose. “You didn’t answer my question. Does that mean you’re thinking about staying in Barrett’s Mill awhile longer?”
“No,” she answered reflexively. When he lifted an eyebrow, she had to admit he’d nailed her on this one. She’d been in this particular town longer than any of the others she’d visited, and her mind recognized it was time to move on. The trouble was, the people in Barrett’s Mill had embraced her, making her feel welcome even though they obviously thought she was a nutty artist. “Okay, maybe I am, but only to finish the window for the chapel. It belongs there, and I’ll make sure it’s sound before I give it back to you.”
“And then?”
“I’m not sure,” she confided with a shrug. “I’ve got space reserved in a few art fairs, but none of that’s set in stone. I usually just start driving and pick a place that looks good.”
“Must be nice. I’m stuck here till my parole officer says it’s okay for me to leave.”
His envious tone told her the years he’d spent away from his Blue Ridge hometown were no accident. “Do you have somewhere else you want to be?”
“Anywhere but here. Ironic, huh?” he added with more than a touch of bitterness. “You want to stay, but you’re leaving. I’d like nothing more than to leave, but I’m staying.”
The upshot was they were both staying, at least for the near future. Of course, her ultimate decision had nothing whatsoever to do with Scott being here. The fact that they seemed to be developing some kind of friendship would only make it easier for her to work with him to finish her last job before leaving town.
So, in her usual upbeat way, she did her best to lift his spirits. “Life’s funny that way, I guess.”
“Yeah,” he muttered in disgust. “Tell me about it.”
* * *
“So tell me something,” Jenna began in the curious tone he’d quickly learned to be wary of. “Does anyone ever say no to your mother?”
He made a show of thinking that over, squinting up at the beams in the ceiling. Focusing back on her, he grinned and shook his head. “Nope.”
“I wonder what her secret is.”
Stepping closer, he leaned in and murmured, “We’re all afraid of her.”
Jenna laughed at that, and it struck him that she was one of the most cheerful people he’d ever met. With a ready smile and a dry sense of humor that mirrored his own, she was sweet and fun, with a heart open enough to care about a sad teenage girl and an ex-con who’d given up on having the kind of life he wanted more than anything.
Something deep inside him that had been dead a long time began rustling, as if it was waking from a long sleep to discover the sun was shining. Much to his dismay, a single morning with Jenna Reed had him rethinking his vow to be content with his own company.
Knowing how dangerous such sentimental thoughts could be, he firmly pushed them back down where they belonged. She was leaving town in a few weeks, and after that, chances were he’d never see her again.
Considering his disastrous track record with women, knowing they’d remain friends should have eased his worries. Instead, it made him wish things could be different.
“Ready to go?” Hoping to conceal his conflicting emotions from her, he leaned down to pick up the quilts.
“In a sec.” Leaving him by the door, she scampered up the open-backed steps that led up to the loft and came down with a glass dish. “Olivia sent some leftovers
