All I Ever Wanted(92)

I looked up at him and smiled, shaking off any melancholy. “Well. Let’s go see if there’s anything as pretty as my chair,” I suggested, and off we went.

Each piece of furniture was lit from above, reinforcing the churchlike atmosphere. The show was well attended, and people murmured with the appropriate amount of awe. Little placards described each piece—Butler’s table, 1984, cherry & oak, made for the Glidden Family of Bennington, Vermont, mortise and tenon joinery… Dining room table, tiger maple with mahogany inlay, 1993, made for Edwin Whitney, New York, New York.

There were benches, small cabinets, kitchen chairs, end tables. Each one was unique, each one seemed to glow, the clean lines and innate strength creating a sense of surety. Mr. Morelock had really had a gift.

At the end of the exhibit was the show’s crowning glory…the rocking chairs. Four of them, arranged as if they were on a porch, waiting for a family to sit down and relax.

“They’re beautiful,” Ian murmured. I nodded. “None as nice as yours, though,” he added with a little smile.

“You’re right,” I said. “And mine’s also the last one he made, apparently.”

A short, gray-haired woman suddenly materialized at my side, quivering like a hummingbird. “Did you say you own a David Morelock rocking chair?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered, a tad smugly.

“The last one he made?” she answered, then glanced at Ian. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m Colleen McPhee, the curator of this museum.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “The exhibit is beautiful.”

“So you own the last chair? Are you sure?”

“I think so,” I said. “Mr. Morelock gave it to me three days before he died. My grandfather told me it was the last one.”

“There’d be a number on the bottom,” she said.

“Fourteen,” I confirmed.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “That’s it. You do own the last one.” She took a deep breath, as if overcome with the news. “We’d be very, very interested in acquiring your piece.”

I smiled. “I’m sorry. I’d never sell it.”

She smiled back firmly, a woman on a mission. “We have quite an endowment, Miss…”

“Grey,” I said. “Callie Grey. It’s not for sale.”

“I could offer you $25,000 for it right now.”

“Holy guacamole!” I blurted. Twenty-five grand was a down payment on a house! But even as staggering a number as that was, I knew I’d never do it. “That’s really generous, but it’s not for sale,” I told the curator. “But thank you.” Ian smiled at the floor.

Her face fell. “All right,” she said, her voice considerably less enthusiastic. “Well, if you ever change your mind, we’d really appreciate the chance to acquire it.”

“You know,” I said, “you might be interested in meeting my grandfather. Noah Grey of Noah’s Arks. Have you ever heard of him?”

“You’re kidding! Noah Grey is here?”

I pointed over to where Noah and Jody were standing, admiring a dining room chair. “The man with the white beard and the cane,” I said.

“Thank you!” she said, springing away. “Lovely meeting you!” We watched as she approached my grandfather, said something, then clasped her hands to her chest, no doubt gushing.

“You’re very good with people,” Ian commented.

“Was I working the room?” I asked.

He gave a half smile, acknowledging our little discussion a few weeks back. “I’ve never seen you sit in your chair,” he commented. “Why is that?”

I glanced up at him, then back at the display. “I’m sort of saving it, I guess,” I said.

“For what?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Um…just for…I don’t know.” For when I’ve earned it. I slipped my hand into Ian’s, and he looked at me, always seeming a little startled—and happy—when I showed him some affection. My heart gave a nearly painful squeeze. Standing on tiptoe, I kissed his cheek. “I like you, Ian McFarland,” I said.

His eyes crinkled a little. “I hope so.”

“And you like me, too, of course,” I prodded.

“Yes,” he agreed. “You’re fun to look at.”

“Like a circus monkey?”

“Exactly.”

I punched his shoulder. “I’ll bet you never expected to be with the crazy woman from the DMV.”

“You would win that bet,” he answered easily.

I paused. “What did you think of me, that day?”

“I thought you were a junkie.” He grinned.

“Nice, Ian! I have to teach you to lie a little bit.”

“Well, it was logical. You were clearly agitated and very…kinetic.”

“Got it, Mr. Spock,” I muttered.

“You couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t finish a sentence. I thought you needed a fix.”

“Flatterer,” I muttered.

He squeezed my hand. “I also thought you had pretty hair. And I liked your ears.”

Ears. Who knew what men would fixate on next? There was that smile again, starting in his eyes and staying there, making that pure blue seem as warm and lovely as a September sky.