Under A Painted Moon Page 2

  The image of Courtney, wearing nothing but a butternut yellow, one hundred percent Egyptian cotton towel had burned itself on his corneas.

  Damn. He was in trouble now. She'd never speak to him again.

  Well, unless it was to yell at him.

  She could yell all she wanted. That quick glimpse of her was worth a few cuss words.

  Chapter 2

  Courtney took a deep breath before she opened her door. She'd spent the last hour being thankful to any god listening that the towel had not slipped. She just hoped Barry would be gentleman enough to not mention it.

  She opened the door and stared up at Barry's face.

  "You shaved."

  Barry rubbed his chin. “I thought it best. You look nice.” He held out his hand for the jacket she held then draped it over her shoulders. “I'm glad you have a jacket. It's turned chilly.” He stepped back so she could walk ahead of him. “The limo is right out front."

  Courtney breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't going to mention the towel.

  She couldn't even be upset with him. She should have never opened the door without asking who was out there. She'd thought it was housekeeping bringing her the extra blanket she'd requested.

  Wrong again, she told herself for the hundredth time.

  He handed her into the limo, then took the seat across from her. She pressed her knees firmly together and told herself he'd not taken that spot to try and look up her very short dress.

  "Are you excited?” she asked politely.

  "Positively vibrating. I still can't believe the Hawke Gallery is showing my work."

  Courtney smiled at him. “You earned it, Barry. You've worked so hard. Oh, I know the natural talent has to be there, but you've done everything you can to excel with it."

  The corner of his mouth twitched in a quirky little smile. “That's high praise. I thank you."

  "I mean it. Every word."

  "I know you do. Your opinion matters to me, Courtney. You know what it takes to strike out on your own, following a dream. You know how much work is involved. That's why it means a lot to me to hear you say that."

  "Well, you don't have many opportunities to rest on your laurels, do you?"

  He grinned. “I'm afraid to rest. Rolling stones gathering moss and all that."

  Courtney smiled back at him. He was killer gorgeous when he grinned like that. That smile was the first thing she'd noticed all those years ago when a tall, scrawny kid had meandered in to Desert Moon and asked to speak with the owner. Now she noticed everything about him. When had that started? She didn't know.

  She'd not taken him to be the artistic type back then. She'd taken him to be cheap labor and offered him a minimum wage job. He'd stared her down, then accepted. He'd shown up for work the next morning with three paintings that he'd calmly set out on display before starting to wash the windows.

  The paintings had sold within his first week there. He'd boldly offered her a ten-percent commission.

  Cheeky didn't begin to describe him in those days.

  That had been the start of it. He'd steadily built his reputation and his clientele. He brought in customers to Desert Moon and Desert Moon gave him all the display space he needed. Barry, Courtney and Tyler had built a solid working partnership.

  She looked at him and suddenly felt old. Turning forty had been hard. It was, for her, the end of her youth. The end of possibilities.

  Here she was, divorced, childless, abandoned by her best friend, and feeling old.

  Knock it off, Courtney. You're not old and gray yet.

  "Well, we wouldn't want Barry McWaters to gather moss, would we?” she teased. “Green is not your color."

  "Green is my color. The color of money,” he replied smoothly. “It's a color the ladies like."

  "You can't really believe that."

  "Sure I can. All I have to do is look around."

  Courtney didn't respond. She couldn't. She was living proof that he was right. Money had played a big part in why she'd married Wayne Collins.

  Oh, not that she'd given much thought to Wayne's money. Desert Moon was profitable and had been right from the start. Even back then, she and Tyler were making a very comfortable living brokering arts, antiques and collectables. When they started supplying all sorts of high quality goods to interior designers, the business had soared to new heights. And now that Tyler was opening a new shop on the east coast, the sky would be the limit.

  But Wayne Collins had pursued her, wooing her with dinners at expensive restaurants and weekend trips to Los Angeles and Dallas for gala fundraisers, theatre, art shows. He'd said he loved her and asked her to marry him. So she had.

  She'd not realized that what she'd perceived as his willingness to provide for her was actually a means to control her. Now she was sure the world thought she'd married Wayne just for his money.

  Hadn't he told everyone that when he'd divorced her with a nice little settlement?

  No one knew she'd carefully given all of it to charities. No one would believe it if she told them.

  Certainly not Barry.

  The limo glided to a stop in front of the Hawke Gallery. The driver opened the door for them. Barry held his hand out for her. She smiled up at him, determined not to ruin his evening. “I'm proud of you, Barry,” she said softly.

  He fixed her with an enigmatic stare then nodded. He took a deep breath and led her to meet his public.

  * * * *

  Barry walked Courtney to her room. She'd grown quieter as the evening progressed, subtly withdrawing from him. Now she looked like a beautiful, albeit slightly wilted, flower. She congratulated him yet again, then closed the door between them.

  He stood there, the familiar sadness seeping into him.

  He needed to forget about Courtney and move on.

  He'd told himself that every day for fifteen years.

  Instead of going to his room, he went down to the lounge. He'd sipped champagne all evening but what he really wanted was a beer. The bartender was prompt when Barry slipped onto a stool. He paid the tab with a wry smile.

  Eight dollars for a brew. He was a long way from home.

  He was about finished with his drink when an older man sat beside him and offered to buy him another. Barry politely declined, devoutly wishing some of the men in this city would stop trying to pick him up. It happened every time he came here.

  He was about to toss a tip on the bar and call it a night when his wilted flower edged through the door and took a table away from the brighter lights. She had changed out of that slinky fuck-me dress. Barry liked the dress, what there was of it, but it hardly mattered. He thought she was beautiful in jeans, too.

  She saw him and her eyes widened. Her shoulders slumped. He turned to the bartender and ordered another beer and a soda then carried the drinks to her table.

  "I'm not down here to pick up a man,” she said as he eased down across from her.

  "Did I say anything? I'm not here to pick up a man, either, as that fellow at the bar can attest."

  "I'm just restless."

  "Yeah? So am I. Nervous energy, I suppose.” He slid her soda to her. She swirled the ice with her straw.

  "It was a great showing, Barry."

  He covered her hand with his. She didn't pull away. “Yeah, it was. I still can't believe it."

  He leaned back and draped his arm over the back of her chair. She fidgeted, licking her lips nervously. He leaned closer to her. She straightened, moving slightly away.

  And what really annoyed him was the fact he was going to be nice and let her move away. He was getting tired of being patient, and nice, and gentlemanly.

  He'd never been this patient with a woman in his life. Then again, this was Courtney. The only woman he'd ever met worth being so tied up in knots over.

  "We could go for a walk,” he suggested.

  "Right. That sounds safe."

  "I'd protect you."

  "Right.” She gulped down half her soda. “I'm going to
bed. Thanks for the soda."

  She jumped up and was gone before he could manage to get his brain to make his mouth say anything. He sat there for a few minutes, then took a healthy swallow of his beer.

  He walked to the front desk and asked the concierge to book him a seat on the first flight home to Reno.

  * * * *

  Courtney collapsed onto her sofa. God, it was good to be back home. Even if home was lonely these days.

  Maybe that was the problem. Her spacious three-bedroom rambler wasn't home now that she wasn't sharing it with her best friend.

  She checked for messages and found the one she'd expected from Tyler. She pressed the button and listened to her friend's voice say a simple and cheery ‘welcome home'. It was something they always did when one of them had traveled without the other.

  It was familiar, reassuring and Courtney needed it.

  The trip to New York had been a mistake. Make that a huge mistake.

  She kicked off her sneakers and curled up on the couch. She should go unpack her suitcase. She should call Desert Moon and let her employees know she was back. She should find something to eat.

  She should do all sorts of things instead of sitting on her sofa feeling sorry for herself.

  She should call Barry and see if he'd talk to her. Although just what it was she'd done this time was a mystery. She only knew she'd done something.

  It had to be her. There was no other reason in the world for him to leave so abruptly following such a successful opening.

  Courtney had called his room this morning and found out he'd checked out at three in the morning. The concierge had gone so far as to give her his flight arrival time in Reno while booking her flight home.

  She held the phone and stared at it. No.

  This time she wasn't going to do it. She wasn't going to call him and coax him to talk. She was too damn tired.

  She dragged her suitcase to her bedroom and unpacked. Settling in the tub, she called Sally, her girl Friday at Desert Moon.

  All was well at the shop. Business had been good following their announcement of the arrival of a new line of authentic, hand-woven Southwestern textiles. Sally had already placed a second order for some items.

  It should have boosted her spirits, but it didn't. Instead, a bone-deep weariness settled over her, and along with it, a touch of self-pity.

  Oh, she recognized it. She knew it for what it was.

  Tyler was getting married. Sally was getting married. Her parents were on an anniversary cruise. Her brother was happily married. Barry's career had just soared to new heights. Even her housekeeper was happy with a new grandbaby.

  And here she was, up to her chin in bubbles and alone.

  Forty and divorced. Yep. That's just the way she'd planned her life to turn out.

  She rolled to her feet in a shower of bubbles. Water sloshed onto the floor, soaking her throw rugs. Damn tough.

  She snatched her towel off the rack and marched out to her living room, drying off as she went. She grabbed the newspaper and plopped down at her dining room table.

  She was moving. She was going to have the house she'd always dreamed of being her home. A big old Queen Anne Victorian. There were plenty of them around the area.

  And maybe she'd even get a cat. She liked cats. Hell, maybe she'd run a freakin’ cat rescue if the mood struck. She could live alone and be the neighborhood cat lady.

  She found the real estate section and spread it out over the table, knocking the rest of the newspaper to the floor. It could just lie there in a heap. Screw it.

  She leaned back, shocked. There it was, just like that. Picture and all. Just outside the city limits on a full two acres of land.

  The description was glowing. It had a turret, a wraparound porch, rooftop balcony, pocket doors that worked, stained glass, and gingerbread trim. It had the original hardwood floors and decorative tile throughout, and a central mahogany staircase.

  Private courtyard and carriage house be damned.

  It was the most awful color of after-dinner mint green she'd ever seen.

  And the last line of the ad read ‘great fixer-upper'.

  She dropped her face into her hands. Why wouldn't it be a great fixer-upper? That was too prophetic. She needed to treat her life as a fixer-upper, not some dilapidated old house. She turned the page and kept looking. The old Victorian would have to wait for someone else.

  She was looking forward to getting back to Desert Moon. She hated to be away from her business. The last twenty years of her life were wrapped up in her shop. She'd poured everything she had into it and it was a resounding success.

  Night had fallen when she decided she needed to eat something. She called for pizza delivery, then decided she'd better at least put on a robe. She'd been wrapped in the towel for so long it had dried.

  Her order arrived and she settled in front of the television. The local public television station was running a show on historic homes. The last house they featured was the mint green monstrosity. Courtney sat up and paid attention as the camera panned from room to room.

  Completed in 1895, the house was one of the last pure Victorians built in the area. Commissioned by gambler Orion Means, the house had immediately fallen on hard times with his death in 1896.

  "That's what happens when you cheat at cards,” Courtney told his daguerreotype as they flashed it on the screen.

  The house had changed hands approximately two times a decade since. The historical society had placed a bid on the property and the current owner had rejected it. It was outside the historical district jurisdiction, so they'd let it go. The current owner was named and Courtney quickly jotted down the information.

  The rest of the show was dedicated to the historical society and how people could give monetary gifts and bequests.

  Courtney flicked off the television and went to the smallest bedroom of the house that served as her home office. Taking a deep breath, she opened her small lock box and pulled out a ragged photocopy of a letter from her grandfather.

  She'd borrowed from the trust fund he'd left her when they'd started Desert Moon. Every cent, with interest, had been returned. It had grown into a sizable amount.

  She tucked the letter back into the box. There was no need to tap into the account. If necessary, it could serve as extra collateral if she actually bought that green elephant.

  Desert Moon opened at ten o'clock in the morning. That would give her plenty of time to drive out and see what the house looked like.

  Shaking her head, she flipped off the office light.

  So was this what middle-aged crazy was all about?

  Chapter 3

  "Oh, dear Lord,” Courtney mumbled to herself as she rolled to a stop in front of the old Victorian. The picture had not done justice to the color, fading it. In the bright morning sun it was, well, awful. Garish.

  The front yard was pretty awful, too. It didn't appear anyone kept up the mowing. The metal chain link fence was sagging and rusty. The latticework that enclosed the underneath of the porch showed several large, gaping holes. There were probably all sorts of cats already living under there.

  She eased her car up the dirt driveway. There had been gravel on it in another lifetime. Now it had washboard bumps and very large potholes. The drive went all the way back to the carriage house. There was not any sort of walk from the driveway to the house. The backyard was worse than the front.

  Saying there was a courtyard was a bit of a stretch these days, but she could picture what it must have looked like decades ago. The bricks were still there, along with a low wall. A crumbling fountain stood in decrepit majesty in the center of the area.

  Courtney trudged through the ankle deep wet grass to the back porch. The steps and railing were surprisingly sound. She bounced her weight up and down. The wood was solid. She looked closer.

  The deck boards were newer. They couldn't be more than a few years old. The paint showed only a few cracks. The entire porch floor, all the way aroun
d, was sound. Whoever had been doing the work had just stopped before finishing the latticework.

  And the gingerbread. That didn't appear to be in such great shape, either. A closer inspection gave her hope that all it needed was a thorough stripping, sanding and a new coat of paint.

  Not mint green.

  She cupped her hands around her eyes and peeped through the back door window. She must have leaned against the door. It swung open, almost toppling her to the floor.

  Damn. Was this breaking and entering? She'd not touched the doorknob. The door hadn't been locked. The door hadn't even been latched.

  "Well, I'm inside now. I might as well look around,” she whispered to the house.

  She was standing in a little mudroom cum laundry room cum powder room. It was rather obvious that the room had been hurriedly framed in from part of the kitchen. An old washer resided there, as did an old webbed lawn chair. The powder room was in definite need of restoration. Or maybe even demolition. The kitchen was not much better.

  But there was a very new looking kitchen sink and faucet. The stove was a dinosaur. There was no refrigerator. The vinyl floor was avocado in another lifetime. In a 1970's lifetime. All the cabinetry would have to be, at the very least, refronted.

  She wandered through the dining room with its carved woodwork to the south parlor. The dark hardwood floor was grimy and dirty but in pretty good shape. The wallpaper in the foyer was partially stripped. The railing on the grand staircase was loose. She stepped into the north parlor and stopped, staring at its faded beauty. Someone had put a lot of effort into this room.

  The hardwood floor had been refinished in the not too distant past, as had all the woodwork. The wallpaper was intact. The bay windows of the turret boasted stained glass panels that infused the room with a soft pastel glow. A large fireplace, free of debris, graced the north wall. An archway with pocket doors led to the morning room.

  Courtney jolted out of her reverie. If she were going to get a look upstairs, she'd better do it quickly. She ran up the stairs, going to the bedroom with the turret first. It was spacious and airy, full of light from the large windows in the turret. A coat of paint, some new carpet and it would make a fantastic office.