The Ashtons: Cole, Abigail and Megan
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“Ah…” Deep inside, a laugh was trying to climb out. “Let me get this straight. You are nagging me to talk about my feelings?”
“Bottling everything up—that’s my deal. I’m used to that. Comfortable with it. You aren’t.” He sat on her couch without waiting for an invitation and began pulling more things out of his tote and putting them on the pine coffee table.
A bottle of wine. Two glasses. A box of chocolates. Nail polish. Peppermint-scented foot lotion. Cotton balls. Polish remover.
She sank down on the other end of the couch. The laugh was getting closer to the top. She waved weakly at the objects on the coffee table. “Cole? You want to clue me in here?”
“Just call me Sheila. I’m a stand-in.”
“For?” A smile started.
“This is one of those female parties. The kind where you women get together to do each other’s hair or nails and end up telling each other the damnedest things.” He shook his head, marveling.
Oh. Oh. He was giving her every signal he could, even playing surrogate female, to tell her he was here as a friend, and nothing more. Because he was worried about her. Dixie’s eye’s filled. She stood, took two quick steps, bent and kissed him on the cheek. “This is about the sweetest thing…thank you.”
“You’re not going to cry, are you?”
She laughed. And if it came out a bit watery, tough. “I’m not making any promises. Are you going to paint your nails or mine?”
“I’m going to drink the wine.” He inserted the bottle opener and twisted. He had strong hands, and they made quick work of the cork. “But you’re welcome to join me.”
“Does cabernet sauvignon go with chocolate?” She sat down and opened the box of candy. “Mmm. Dark chocolate at that.”
“Mercedes seemed to think chocolate was essential.”
She slid him a look. “You talked about this with Merry?”
“Yeah.” He poured wine into one of the glasses, and its heady perfume drifted her way. “For some reason she thinks you’re fine.”
“Maybe because I am.” She selected one she thought might have caramel. She loved caramel.
“Glad to hear it. So what do you talk about at these female shindigs?”
“Pretty much anything—men, work, hair, men, family, movies, men, books, politics…did I mention men?”
“The rat bastards,” he said promptly, handing her a glass of wine. Hulk jumped up beside him and pointed out that no one was petting him by bumping his head against Cole’s arm. Wine sloshed in the glass without spilling. Absently he began scratching the side of Hulk’s face. “They never call.”
Dixie shook her head sadly. “Or remember your birthday.”
“And if they do, they forget the card. Would it kill them to spend some time picking out a card?”
“So true. And they only want one thing.”
“Damn straight. Uh-oh. Sorry—I slid out of character there for a moment.”
“Watch it.” She took a sip, trying to keep a straight face. “Hey, this is good.”
“Ninety-eight was one of our better years.” He swirled the wine in his glass to release the scent, held it up and inhaled, his eyes half-closed. For a moment she glimpsed the closet sybarite in the pure, sensual pleasure on his face. Cole was a deeply sensual man. He mostly didn’t let it show. “It’s aging well,” he observed, and took a sip.
“So what were you doing in ninety-eight?” She leaned back and nibbled at her chocolate. She liked to eat them slowly, let the taste melt into her tongue. “Note that I don’t ask who you were doing.”
“I’d get in trouble if I put it that way.” He continued to send Hulk into a stupor of delight with those elegant fingers.
Quit staring at his hands, she told herself. “Women can say things to each other that men can’t get away with.”
“So you talk about sex at these things?”
“Sure. It’s a subheading under men. For most of us,” she added. “I had a couple of lesbian friends in New York—my downstairs neighbors. We mostly did not talk about sex, out of consideration for my comfort level.”
He chuckled. “My comfort level, on the other hand—”
“Don’t go there, Sheila.” She reconsidered. “On the other hand, I’ve always wondered why men get excited by—”
“You were right the first time,” he said. There was a spark of amusement—and something else, something warmer—in his eyes as he took another sip of wine. “We’d better skip the sex talk.”
She met his eyes as she took another sip, letting the wine sit on her tongue for a moment to develop the secondary flavors the way he’d taught her.
Not a good idea, enjoying her own sensual side while looking at Cole. “A hint of blackberry,” she said hastily, looking away. “See how well I know the lingo? Should be nice with chocolate.” She took another nibble of that. “Want to argue about politics?”
“Not the effect I’m going for tonight.”
“You probably voted for the governor,” she said darkly. “All right, all right—I won’t get into that. So we’re left discussing work or hair. I vote for hair.” She tilted her head. “Who does yours?”
“Carmen at The Mane Place. She has magic fingers. I like your hair.” The warmth in his voice did not belong to anyone named Sheila, unless Sheila had been of the same persuasion as Dixie’s New York neighbors. “You left out a couple choices. Movies, books…family.”
She took a healthy swallow of wine. “Read any good books lately?”
“No. How’s your mom?”
She huffed out an impatient sigh. “Your male side is showing, Sheila.”
So he asked again, but in an absurd falsetto, “How’s your mom?”
Dixie nearly choked, trying not to laugh, and gave up. “The same as ever, pretty much. Only happier.”
“Because of this man she’s going to marry?”
Dixie nodded, sipped, and a smile slipped out. “She always used to try so hard with whatever man she thought was going to fix everything for her. With Mike, she’s relaxed. She isn’t desperate to make him happy, or trying too hard to be happy herself. She just feels good with him, and it shows. Not that she doesn’t hurt because of what’s happening to Jody, but she’s…I don’t know. Somehow she’s okay about it.”
“You aren’t okay about it.”
She frowned, not answering. He didn’t say anything, either. Just sat there and sipped and petted Hulk, watching her.
“All right.” She set her glass down with a snap. “All right! You want to hear about my feelings? I’m mad. Pissed as hell.”
“You would be, of course.”
She shoved to her feet and started to pace. “It’s so horrible and so unfair. She still knows who we are. She isn’t so far gone that she’s lost that, but she will. She’s already lost so many pieces of herself, and it hurts me. This shouldn’t be about me, but every time I see her…the bewildered look on her face…My mother’s dealing with this so much better than I am.”
“She’s been here, watching it happen. She’s had time to adjust.”
“And I’ve been on the other side of the continent, letting her deal with everything. You know what makes me crazy?” She stopped, shook her head. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”
“I have no problem with you being stupid.”
“You’re in danger of slipping out of supportivefriend mode,” she warned him.
“Afraid you’ll shock me?”
“No.” She took two steps, stopped and threaded the fingers of both hands through her hair. “It’s all this praise I keep getting. It makes me nuts.”
“Yeah, I hate it when people praise me.”
“Very funny. You know how often I hear some version of how strong I am?” she demanded. “Or that I’m such a great daughter and niece for moving back here. God. Aunt Jody was diagnosed two years ago. Two years. And I’m just now showing up.”
“I guess you haven’t done anything to help these past two years.”
“I sent money. Big deal. I gave up a couple of vacations, flew out for more of the holidays. Then I’d go home and throw myself into work so I wouldn’t have to think about Jody.”
He shook his head. “Now that I can’t understand. Throwing yourself into work to avoid dealing with something? You mystify me.”
A reluctant smile touched her mouth. “You hinting that you have some experience in those lines?”
“I might.” He stood, ignoring Hulk’s protest at being disarranged. Crossing to her, he rested his hands on her shoulders. “What is it you think you should be doing differently, Dixie? Hurting less? Fixing things so your aunt doesn’t hurt?”
“Don’t forget the part about keeping my mother from hurting, too.” The shape of his hands woke a visceral memory, a wordless surge of feeling that tangled past and present. She swallowed. “I said it was stupid.”
“According to you, feelings are never stupid. They just are. It’s what we do about them that matters.”
“I could have sworn you never listened to my preaching.”
Cole smiled that half up, half down smile without answering.
Dixie felt the impact low in her belly. Her heartbeat picked up as the present turned compelling, wiping out the whispers from the past. Desire bit, sharp and sweet. Her lips parted.
His gaze dipped there, lingered. His hands tightened on her shoulders, and the look on his face was unmistakable. He was going to kiss her…and she wanted that, wanted the taste and heat of him.
He dropped his hands and stepped back, his smile lost.
The disappointment was as disorienting as his sudden retreat. She put a hand on her stomach as if she could ease the sense of loss that way and tried to sound amused. “What was that? An attack of nobility, or common sense?”
He snorted. “You think I know?” He turned away, heading for the door. “This was a dumb idea. Enjoy the wine and chocolate and carry on with the nail painting. I’m leaving before I forget Sheila entirely.”
“Cole.”
He paused but didn’t look at her.
“I was the one who switched the dial to another channel, not you. You…what you did helped.”
He glanced back at her, conflicted emotions chasing over his face before he got it smoothed out. “Does this mean I’m invited to your next sleepover?”
“Not likely,” she said dryly.
“Good. Because the next time I visit you at night, I won’t be planning to sleep.”
After the door closed behind him, Hulk came over, voicing his protest at being abandoned. “Don’t come complaining to me,” Dixie muttered, contradicting her words by picking him up and rubbing behind his ears. “At least you got stroked for a while. I didn’t.”
Which she ought to feel a lot better about, dammit.
Chapter Five
Louret’s cellars had been a disappointment to Dixie when Cole first showed them to her. She’d hoped for earthen-floored caves or something appropriately dungeonlike. Instead, the barrels and bottles were aged in perfectly ordinary underground rooms with high-tech climate control and lousy lighting.
Lousy from her perspective, that is. To a winemaker, the dim lighting was necessary, as was strict control of temperature and humidity. But her imaginings would have made such a cool setting for Eli’s painting…well, she thought, studying the barrels from her vantage point on the cement floor, you work with what you’ve got.
The barrels themselves were interesting. She’d use lots of browns in the painting, she decided. Earth tones would suit Eli and suggest Louret’s old-fashioned, hands-on approach while evoking the earth the grapes sprang from.
And gold for Caroline’s painting, she decided, staring dreamily into space. Hints of brown to tie it to the earth and Eli’s painting, touches of blue for the sky, and lots of gold—pale, glowing gold, like the sunlight that joins earth and sky.
Oh, yes. She’d use Eli and the barrels for the earth the vines were grown in, Caroline for the golden sunshine that made the grapes rich. For the end product, the wine itself…maybe a group picture? The family gathered around the dinner table, talking and interacting, their wineglasses catching the glow of sunset.
Set it outside then? And what about—
“Sorry I’m late,” Eli’s deep voice said from behind her.
“That’s okay,” she said, picking up her sketch pad and rising. “I don’t think I’ll draw you here, after all.”
Uncertainty, she’d noticed, looked a lot like a scowl when it settled on Eli’s face. “You aren’t going to paint me with the barrels?”
“No, I’m definitely putting you against the barrels. But I’ve got photos for that. Today I need to draw you. Outside, I think. I need a peek at your bones. Strong light and shadows will help me get that.” She gave him a smile as she passed, heading for the stairs.
After a moment she heard him following her up.
“You want to draw me outside, but you’re not painting me outside.”
“I use the photos for technical accuracy. Drawing helps me learn you. I don’t know a subject until I’ve sketched him or her.”
Eli looked pained. “I don’t see why you need to use my face at all, but you don’t have to, uh, know me to paint it.”
She glanced over her shoulder as she reached the top of the stairs, mischief in her voice. “Oh, but I want more than your face for the painting. I want a bit of your soul.”
He muttered something it was probably just as well she didn’t catch. She was grinning as they stepped out the side door. “This will do.” The light was good, strong and slanting. She got a charcoal pencil from her fanny pack and opened her sketch pad.
Eli squinted at the sunshine, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Better get him talking so he’d forget what she was up to. “Tell me about oaking,” she said, her charcoal flying over the page. “I gather it’s somewhat controversial?”
“More a matter of taste. Most people like some degree of oak. Heavy oaking can mask the subtleties of a really good red, but that’s poor winemaking.”
“What about whites? You’re aging your new chardonnay in oak barrels.” Needs to be heavier around the jaw, she decided, and darkened that line. “Is that standard?”
He shrugged. “Some use steel vats. We won’t.”
She had the definite impression he didn’t think much of the winemakers who used steel. “Was that your decision or your mother’s? With the new wine being named for her, I’d guess she had some input.”
“Mostly mine. Mom likes the vanilla notes from oaking, though, so it was fine with her.”
She flipped to a new page, shifted to get a different angle, and started another sketch. “And whose idea was the new chardonnay?”
“Cole’s.” He looked directly at her. “I thought you knew that.”
“Okay, so I’m fishing.” She frowned at the sketch. Something was off. The zygomatic arches? No, something about the way they related to his forehead. Dixie studied his brow line intently. “You missed your cue. You’re supposed to discreetly fill me in on him without my having to ask.”
He chuckled. It was an unexpected sound, coming from a man who tended toward angry or dour. “It’s damned disconcerting to have you stare at me that way when you’re talking about my brother. What did you want to know?”
She looked at him reproachfully and repeated, “Without my having to ask.”
“Well, he’s not seeing anyone right now, and he thinks you’re hot.”
“Mmm.” Damn. It was his left eye—she’d set it too close to the bridge of the nose. Try again. She flipped to a new page. “I’m trying to come up with a modest way of saying, ‘I know.’”
Again the low chuckle. “I think so, too. When I asked him if he’d staked a claim already—”
“You didn’t.”
“Of course I did. You two were involved before. I needed to know if he was interested. Funny thing is, he didn’t seem to know, himself. I guess he’s made up his mind now.”
“I guess so.” He seemed pretty sure that he wanted to get her into bed, anyway. “He claims he’s mellowed.”
“Mellow? Cole?” There was a note of humor in his voice, but it was fleeting. “Not the word I’d choose. He’s got more control than I do, but there’s a lot of intensity beneath that control.”
“Good way to put it. He’s still pretty wrapped up in the business, I guess.” Her hand and eyes were working automatically now, which was just as well. Her mind wasn’t on the sketch.
“He doesn’t put in the sixty and eighty hour weeks he used to. That’s why you left him, isn’t it?”
Surprised, she looked at him—at Eli, that is, not at Eli’s bones. Their eyes met. “That was a big part of it.”
“Louret is always going to be important to him, and he’s always going to like winning. You won’t get a lap cat with Cole.”
Annoyed, she sketched two tiny horns at the top of Eli’s head. “I don’t want a lap cat. I don’t want to come last, either. There’s bound to be something in between.”
“It messed him up when you left.”
“From my perspective, he was already messed up. So was I,” she said, closing the sketch pad. “That was the problem.”
Eli nodded. “That’s valid. But this time…just be careful with him, okay? Don’t promise more than you mean to follow through on.”
“Are you asking my intentions?”
“I guess I am.”
She smiled suddenly, took two quick steps and went up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “That’s sweet. I don’t have any idea what my intentions are yet, and when I do I’ll let Cole know, not you. But it’s sweet that you wanted to ask.”
His ears turned red. “If you’re finished with me, I’ve got stuff to do.”
“I’m sure you do,” she said, enjoying his embarrassment more than she should have. “I hope I’ll be able to bring out your inner softie in the painting.”
Now he was positively alarmed. “My what?”
She laughed and patted his arm. “Don’t worry. Your portrait will be very manly.”
Once Eli made his escape, though, her amusement evaporated. She was frowning as she headed for the carriage house so she could work on the composition for Eli’s portrait.
It was only natural for Cole’s brother to worry about him, she supposed. Only natural that he’d see her as the one at fault for having left Cole eleven years ago. But it left her feeling flat and a little lonely. There was no one worrying about her that way, no one warning her of potential heartbreak if she got involved with a man who’d hurt her before.
Not that she’d listen, she supposed wryly as she opened the door to her temporary home. But it might be nice to have someone worry, just this once.
“You used charcoal when you sketched Eli,” Caroline observed.
“Mmm-hmm.” Dixie’s gaze flew back and forth between the woman in front of her and her sketch pad. Her pencil moved swiftly. They were in what Dixie thought of as the covered porch, though the family called it the lanai. It was open on the north side, which made the light good.
“I wondered why you’re doing my sketch in pencil.”
“I don’t know.” There was something about the flesh over the right cheek that wasn’t right…Dixie smudged the shadow beneath the cheek with her finger to soften it, looked at Caroline again, then used the side of her pencil to pull the shadow back toward the ear.
Better. “I’ll use the photos I took for technical precision,” she explained. “The sketches are to learn you. When I get your shapes down with my hands, I know them, see? I wanted charcoal to learn Eli. I wanted pencil for you.”
Caroline smiled. “My shape’s rounder than it used to be. I suppose you have to show my double chin?”
“You don’t have a double chin.” Dixie spoke absently as she adjusted the brow line, which defined the eyes. “The jaw has softened with age, but…whoops. Forgot tact.”
The older woman laughed. “Tell me something. Since you won’t cater to my vanity in one way…you’re sure it’s okay if I talk?”
“Absolutely.” Dixie turned to a new page, moved slightly to the left and began a gesture drawing from the new angle in a series of quick sweeps of her pencil.
“I’ve sometimes wondered if anything of me showed up in my boys. The girls, yes. I see something of myself in them. But Cole and Eli…”
Dixie heard another question in the way Caroline’s voice trailed into silence. How much did her sons resemble the man who’d fathered and deserted them?
“The girls do take after you more than Eli and Cole do,” she said casually, as if she hadn’t noticed the unspoken part of the question. In Jillian’s case the resemblance was more a matter of manner than genetics, but Dixie could be tactful when it mattered. “But Eli has your nose and your ears.”
“And Cole?”
Cole…whom Mercedes said most resembled their father. “He has your hands. Great hands,” she added, crouching for another angle. “I plan to use them.”
When Caroline chuckled it took Dixie a moment to realize why. Then she flushed. “Ah…in the painting. I’m going to use your hands in the painting. Not Cole’s hands. I’m not planning to use them for, ah…”
Caroline smiled. “How delightful. I didn’t think anything flustered you. You’re a rather formidable young woman.”
“Me?” Dixie was astonished. Caroline was the one with the inbred class and composure, the soft voice and gentle ways Cole had once thrown up at Dixie as the feminine ideal.
“But of course. Look at all you’ve accomplished at such a young age. Though I suppose you don’t think of yourself as terribly youthful.” Her smile turned amused. “The young never do. I hope I didn’t insult you, dear. It’s just that you’re so very competent and confident. I wasn’t, not at your age.”
And yet what Dixie’s pencil had captured was a calm, determined woman. She turned back to the finished sketch, then reversed her pad to show Caroline. “Here’s what I see—strength, kindness, grace.”
“Oh, my,” Caroline said softly, taking the pad. “You’ve made it difficult for me to pry the way I’d intended. May I have this?”
“Of course.” Dixie accepted the return of her sketch pad with a silent, fervent wish that Caroline would continue to find it difficult to pry.
“I don’t know what you charge, but—”
“You’ll insult me if you offer to pay. The paintings are business. This isn’t.”
“Then I’ll just thank you. I’d like to frame it and give it to Lucas for our anniversary.” Her cheeks were a little pinker than usual. “Perhaps it’s vain, giving him a likeness of myself, but I think he’d like it.”
Dixie smiled. “You’ll be giving him a picture of someone at the center of his life. Of course he’ll like it.” She closed the pad. “I’ll need to hang on to it until I’ve finished the painting, though.”
“Our anniversary isn’t for another two months. No rush.” Caroline stood. “I take it you’re through with me?”
“For now,” Dixie said cheerfully. “I’ll be starting the paintings soon, and I may need to stare at you some more then. Or not. First I’m going to pester your vineyard foreman for a day or two.”
“I suspect Russ won’t mind,” Caroline said dryly. “Dixie?”
She slid her pad into her tote. “Yes?”
“My son was deeply hurt when you left him. I’m concerned about your reappearance in his life.”
Dixie froze. Déjà vu, all over again, she thought. First Eli, now Caroline.
And what could she say? That Cole was the one doing the pursuing? It was true, but if she was honest, she’d have to admit she enjoyed the game they were playing. “I don’t know what to tell you. He isn’t serious.”
“Isn’t he?” Caroline let that question dangle a moment, then smiled. “You probably want to suggest I mind my own business. I understand. We’ll change the subject. I’m having a small dinner party Friday, mostly family. I’d like it if you could join us.”
“Thank you,” Dixie said, wary.
Caroline shook her head ruefully. “I’m not usually so maladroit. The dinner invitation has nothing to do with the question I didn’t quite ask you. Truly, I would like to have you join us.”
“And I’m not usually so prickly.” Dixie’s smile warmed. “I’d love to come.”
“Head over any time after six, then. Casual dress. We’ll eat around seven-thirty.”
Dixie was frowning as she headed for the carriage house. She didn’t resent Caroline’s delicate prying. Mothers were allowed to worry—it was in the contract. They were also entitled to think the best of their offspring. Dixie couldn’t very well tell Cole’s mother that all he was after was a quick roll in the hay.