Anything for Her(28)

Allie took a step back just as Nolan took one forward, likely with the intention of kissing her cheek the way he had the other day in the quilt shop, in front of all her customers. They stared at each other, the lines in his forehead even deeper.

“I’ll talk to you later,” she said, retreating another step, reaching behind her for the stair railing.

He nodded, and finally walked away. She was halfway up when she heard the slam of his door. Nolan being Nolan, he didn’t back out until he knew she was safely at the top, her door unlocked.

His truck’s powerful engine came to life; before she shut the door, a glance back saw three heads through the windshield. Cassie had been promoted to the seat. The pickup disappeared down the street.

Allie was appalled to realize that, instead of the relief she ought to feel, she was swept with desolation, as if she’d been abandoned. Which was patently ridiculous. Yes, Sean had rejected her today, but it would have been a surprise if he hadn’t, sooner or later. Even if he’d been Nolan’s biological son, at his age he’d have been likely to resent the threat to his central position in his father’s life. As it was, he must feel terribly insecure. No, not feel—he was insecure. Not that she believed for a minute Nolan wouldn’t stick by the boy. Still, his grandmother had died, and the first set of foster parents had rejected him. His mother had abandoned him. Allie couldn’t remember what had happened to the dad. Had he died, too? It would be a miracle if Sean ever felt secure in any relationship.

With a sigh, she let go of her anger. At least, the part that was directed at him. Nolan, she thought, really shouldn’t have pushed.

But the fault had been hers, too. She’d known better. Today’s outing had been...too much, too soon. The implication that her relationship with Nolan was going somewhere that necessarily involved Sean had definitely been premature.

She hated the lump she felt in her throat, the yearning that filled her and the hurt. She wanted...she wanted something she didn’t know if she dared reach for.

I am not Allie.

Then who am I?

* * *

NOLAN HAD A bad feeling that if he called that evening, Allie wouldn’t answer. So he didn’t, and then wondered if that was a mistake.

He couldn’t show up with lunch tomorrow, the way he had been—her shop was closed on Mondays. Fine, then he’d drop in on her at home, he decided, liking the idea—they’d be alone! But that also made him uneasy about his plan. Except for the one time, when she’d wanted Sean to see his quilt, she hadn’t invited Nolan in. She might not like it if he appeared out of the blue.

And, crap, he’d been losing a lot of work time lately, too, but right now he didn’t care. He had to see her.

The next morning, after Sean shambled out to meet the school bus, Nolan looked down at the dog who sat at his side quivering with anxiety.

“Hey, girl,” he said, resting his hand on her sleek head. “It’s going to be you and me most every day. Except I can’t let you in the workshop. Can’t let you run loose yet, either, can I?” Traffic wasn’t an issue on their quiet country road, but he had no idea whether she might prove to be a wanderer. For now, he and Sean had to make sure she knew this was home. Plus, they had to give the cats a chance to get used to her, and vice versa. So he strolled around the property with her for fifteen or twenty minutes, then shut her in the house and went to his workshop, followed by one mournful howl and then silence. He’d have liked to leave for Allie’s, but she might enjoy sleeping in on her days off.

He had commissioned jobs waiting, but instead he went to the corner where he nearly always was working on a sculpture. This one was different from his usual, the result of an erratic inspiration. It was going to have the kind of detail he’d told Allie he didn’t do.

He’d chosen a block of imported green Guatemala marble rather than his more usual granite because it was somewhat softer. He’d given thought to starting with a maquette, which in stone carver’s terms was a model. But Nolan much preferred direct carving. He got bored when he, in essence, reproduced his original concept into the large chunk of stone.

His way was sometimes a mistake—the stone might end up having a flaw, or maybe he wouldn’t like what he saw taking shape under his hands, or he made a mistake that couldn’t be corrected—and resulted in him having to discard the stone, or the idea. But surprises were what kept him engaged, transforming an unpromising raw block into something that had existed only in his mind’s eye.