“MAY I ASK YOU SOMETHING, MR. LEONARD?”
Chet grinned as he looked at her. “I thought we were done with the formality. I’m Chet to everybody I know, except kids and teens.”
“All right. May I ask you something . . . Chet?”
“Sure.”
“How do you feel about Sam taking Tara to the prom?”
He didn’t know what he’d expected her to ask, but that wasn’t it. For a moment or two, he couldn’t put together a reply.
She stopped walking. “You’re against it.”
He’d taken one extra step and had to turn to face her. “No. I don’t have any objection to Tara as a date for Sam, if that’s what you mean.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. But I’m afraid it’s caused some hard feelings between brothers.”
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on.
“Pete’s got a crush on your daughter.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t know.”
“Maybe I should ask you the same question. How do you feel about Sam taking Tara to the prom?”
She gave him a somewhat shaky smile. “Nervous. She’s never been on a date before, let alone gone to prom.” She slid her fingers into the back pockets of her calf-length black pants. “I worry about Tara. Maybe more than I should. All she’s cared about is horses since she was little more than a toddler. I used to hate that, her constant asking for a horse of her own, her disinterest in pretty, girly things.” Her smile faded, sadness filling her expressive eyes. “But now I . . . I just don’t want her to get a broken heart. They take so long to mend, you know.”
Sympathy welled inside of him. Who broke your heart, Kimberly? He swallowed, not sure he wanted to know the answer even if he had the nerve to ask the question. “Yeah, I know.”
They resumed walking.
“Sam’s a good kid,” he said after several minutes of silence. “He’ll treat Tara with respect. I promise you that.”
“I believe you. He impresses me as a nice boy. Both of your sons do. But will it complicate things . . . with you as her trainer if . . . if this goes beyond one dance?”
“No. Tara and I will be okay.” Strange, how important it felt to Chet that Kimberly trust him with her daughter. It shouldn’t matter that much, but all of a sudden it did.
Silence enveloped them for another short while before Kimberly said, “It isn’t easy. Being a single parent.”
“No. It isn’t easy.” Chet sent a sideways glance toward her. “But life has a way of handing us the unexpected, and we just do the best we can. Making lemonade out of lemons, like the old saying goes.”
She released a soft laugh. “Lemonade has become my least favorite beverage. But it will get better once Tara and I are able to go back.”
“Back?”
“To Seattle. I much prefer living in the city, and there are so many more opportunities there.”
It wasn’t like this was news to him. She’d said something similar on Easter. But it hadn’t mattered to him then. Now it did, crazy as it seemed. “You plan on going anytime soon?”
“As soon as I can find a job that will support us.”
Chet didn’t care much for the way her words made him feel. Abandoned. Rejected. Left behind. Familiar feelings. Time to change the subject. “How are things going in the cleanup of the cottage?”
“It’s been an interesting few hours. Before I left to take a walk, we uncovered the cradle your grandfather made before your dad was born. Anna said it was your cradle too.”
“Yeah, it was.” Welcome memories flitted through his head. “Haven’t seen that cradle in a month of Sundays. Well, not in almost sixteen years anyway. Pete was the last to use it, and he outgrew it fast.”
“It’s a beautiful example of furniture made by a true craftsman.” She stopped walking once again and gave him a pointed look. “It’s not right to hide it under a sheet. It should be displayed somehow.”
He had no choice but to stop and answer her. “Tara said you have an eye for antiques.”
“I appreciate them. That’s all. I’m not a trained expert. But I used to love decorating our home with antiques.” She swept some loose strands of hair away from her forehead. “A cradle like the one in your guesthouse doesn’t have to be relegated to a bedroom. It could hold silk flowers in a corner of your living room. Maybe drape it with some sheer fabric. You could—”
Kimberly’s suggestions made him laugh.
“Did I say something funny?” She frowned up at him.
“No. I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. Not really. But I don’t think decorating is in the Leonard men’s DNA.”
Her frown eased, replaced slowly by a soft smile.
Mercy, was Kimberly Welch ever pretty when she smiled. Why did he have to notice it now, when he knew her plans were to go back to Seattle as soon as she was able? But knowing that didn’t seem to matter. His mouth went dry and his heart began to thump as he continued to stare at her, unmoving. What was he? Sixteen again? That was how he felt. Tongue-tied and discombobulated. He had to look like an idiot to her.
“Hey, Mom.” Tara’s voice came to Chet’s rescue.
He broke his gaze away from Kimberly, looking toward the barnyard. Tara waved at them.
Kimberly called, “Coming, honey.”
They fell into step once again, their pace a bit faster than it had been before.
Tara hurried forward to meet them. The first thing she did was pat Chet’s horse’s neck. “How you doing, boy?” Then she looked at her mother. “Wait until she sees what we uncovered after you left. An oil painting of Ms. McKenna when she was about my age. Mom, she looked like a movie star back then. I’m not kidding. You won’t believe it.”
Kimberly put an arm around Tara’s shoulders. “I guess we’d best get inside so I can see it.” She glanced at Chet. “Want to see it too?”
There went that odd thump in his chest again. “I’d better put my horse up. I’ll see the portrait later.”
A coward’s retreat, but the wisest course of action to take. So he took it.
KIMBERLY PAUSED AT THE FRONT DOOR TO THE COTTAGE, letting her daughter enter before her. She hesitated long enough to look over her shoulder and watch Chet walk toward the barn.
What was it about the way he looked in those clothes—jeans and boots, T-shirt and hat? What was it about the picture of him leading that horse by the reins that made her feel so peculiar on the inside? What was it that had passed between them a few moments ago? What was it—
“Mom? You coming?”
“Yes.” She gave her head a shake. “Yes, I’m coming.”
The portrait in question had been brought into the living room and leaned against the old upright piano, where light from the window could fall upon it. When she saw it, she stopped still and stared.
When they first met, Kimberly had thought Anna McKenna attractive for a woman her age. If there were beauty pageants for women in their eighties, Anna would surely win. Still, Kimberly hadn’t realized what a real beauty Anna had been in her youth. Unless the portrait painter had lied with his brush, Anna could have been a sister—perhaps a twin—of the actress Maureen O’Hara in her earliest films. The color of her hair. The arch of her brows. The shape of her mouth. The flawless pale complexion.
In the painting, Anna stood near a fence made of lodge pole pine. Beyond the rails stood a bay horse, his coat the exact same dark shade of red as Anna’s hair. The girl smiled as she looked toward the artist, and something about the look in her eyes made Kimberly think of a girl in love, perhaps for the very first time. Who had been the object of that love? The artist? One of the hired hands? A boy at school?
“Hard to believe I ever was that young.” Anna stepped to Kimberly’s side. “I still feel that way sometimes on the inside, but the outside hasn’t looked like that in decades.”
“Who painted it?”
“His name was Miles Stanley. He came to Kings Meadow with an army buddy of his. Gracious. What was his friend’s name?” Anna’s eyes narrowed as she searched her memory. “Oh, yes. Frank Jansen. Frank’s father owned the hardware store in Kings Meadow. Jobs were hard to come by right after the war, so the boys were both glad to get employment in the hardware store. I don’t suppose Mr. Jansen actually needed two clerks working for him. It wasn’t a big store. He hired Miles more out of gratitude, I’m sure. Miles saved Frank’s life in some battle outside of Paris, though I’ve forgotten the details now.”
“He had this kind of talent, and he was working in a hardware store?” Kimberly asked.
Anna stepped away from Kimberly’s side and approached the portrait. With a tender gesture, she reached out and touched the horse on the canvas. “Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime. Did you know that? The other nine hundred some-odd paintings by the master became famous after his death.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Anna smiled over her shoulder as she moved to one side of the painting, opening it to Kimberly’s view again. “I wouldn’t have known it either if Miles hadn’t told me.”
“How old were you in this portrait?”
“Seventeen. Almost eighteen.”
Kimberly took a couple of steps closer to the painting, studying the way the artist had used his oils to create shadow and light, to bring life to the girl and her horse. She had no talent for painting herself, but she had a good eye for the talent of others. This young man had had talent in abundance.
“Miles painted this not long before he left Kings Meadow,” Anna said softly. “He was pursuing an opportunity in California. One that would allow him to paint more, to grow as an artist.”
“I’m surprised I’ve never heard of him.”
“Many artists with talent remain in obscurity. Miles was one of them.”
“You were in love with him, weren’t you?”
Anna nodded, her eyes turned misty.
Kimberly felt her throat thicken in empathy. She suspected this was a tragic love story and that it would be better not to ask the older woman for details. The sadness she’d felt earlier came rushing back. Her own love story hadn’t had a happy ending either. Did she believe it could happen for anyone? For her? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.