*Sunlight streamed through the French doors in Cam’s garage workshop as he ran a loving hand over the top of the dower chest. Several years ago, he’d replaced the old overhead door with two sets of French doors and long windows in between and on the sides. He loved how the sun lit up the space. The windows on the east side also caught the morning light, while the skylights he’d installed last year when he’d redone the roof, and the fluorescent fixtures hanging from the ceiling provided even more brightness. He needed light. Not only did it make woodworking much easier, it helped his mood to be working in a well-lit studio. He craved the sun the way his brother Joe craved sweets.
Sometimes he even used a clip light if he was routing a particularly delicate piece or carving a design into a table skirt or chair back. It probably would have been easier to use pre-pressed chair backs, but Cam loved the intricate work of creating flowers or dentil molding or curving a chair arm or leg—his heart went into every piece he designed and created.
Time was running short. Christmas was in a few weeks, and he needed to get the chest painted, so he’d ordered buttermilk paint in a variety of colors from an online vendor that a guy in a cabinetmakers’ chat room had recommended. He’d broken into the box the previous night, opening each can of color—bright blue, sunny yellow, crimson, a soft buttery shade of cream, pure white and a couple of shades of sage green—and tried them on a scrap piece of poplar. The colors were still vibrant this morning.
With a determined sigh, he set Harper’s drawings on top of the sanded chest. Maybe he could imitate them. He took up a newly sharpened carpenter’s flat pencil, ran it across a file to round the point, and slowly circled the piece, debating where to start. His cat wove his way between Cam’s legs, purring with such vigor he could hear him over the sound of the big ceiling heater that hummed above them. “Whaddya think, Mee?” He stooped down to pick up the gray tabby, who purred even louder against his shoulder.
“Your cat’s name is Mee?” Cold air and a voice from the doorway brought his head up with a start. Harper Gaines, looking angelic with the winter sun making an aura around her slim frame, smiled at him.
He caught his breath. Cheeks rosy, she was exquisite in jeans and a ski jacket, the fur-trimmed hood framing her lovely face.
“Come in! Come in!” His greeting was too hearty, so cheeks flaming, he set the cat down and eyed Harper as she closed the door behind her and shoved her hood back to reveal her long hair pulled back into a clip on the back of her head. Tendrils of golden hair had escaped the clip, and he longed to tuck them behind her ear, just for the pure pleasure of touching her.
Harper bent to stroke Mee, who actually put his paws on her knee, begging to be picked up. The woman was magical. Mee normally avoided strangers at all costs. Usually, he ran under the workbench and hid.
“Hullo, kitty.” She obliged, picking him up and rubbing her cheek on his fur. “Mee? Seriously? That’s its name?”
Cam shook his head to clear it, but he should’ve cleared his throat because the words, “No, his—” came out in a croak. He did clear his throat then. “His name is Chairman Meow, but I call him Mee for short.”
“Chairman Meow. Clever.” She held the cat out to look into his unblinking green eyes. “Hello, Chairman Meow. How did you get that name?”
Inanely, Cam waited a few seconds, not really thinking the cat would answer, but having Harper show up at his door was a miracle, and he was certainly up for more. Finally, after she transferred her gaze to him, he said, “Joe and I found him on the River Walk a couple of winters ago—wet and shivering under one of the benches. I brought him home, dried him off, and gave him some scrambled eggs. Put an ad on the local lost-pet Facebook page, but nobody claimed him.”
“And Chairman Meow?” She wandered farther into the workshop with a limp Mee lying on her shoulder like a furry scarf.
“Ah, that was all my brother Joe. When Mee was a kitten, his head was so round and seemed way too big for his body. Have you seen pictures of Mao Tse-tung?”
She frowned. “If I have, I don’t remember.”
“Round face. Plump cheeks, plus that cat took over my house like a little general.” He chuckled. “Couple of days after I got him, we were drinking hot buttered rum and tossing out names for the poor thing who was glaring at us like we were the enemy, and Joe mentioned he looked like Mao … so Chairman Meow.”
“Ah, okay.” She gave the cat a final stroke and set him back on the concrete floor. “I like it.”
Silence stretched between them for what felt like minutes but was probably only a few seconds. At last, she said, “This is the dower chest?” And she walked over to it.
He nodded. “I was thinking of trying to paint it myself, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have the skill … or the courage.”
Wordlessly, she ambled around the table containing the chest, peering closely, then leaning back as if to get a different perspective. She stroked the sanded surface, chewing her lower lip, closing one eye as she traced the three sunken panels on the front. Opening the top, she examined the inside, opened the till and dipped her head inside to open the secret drawers beneath it. “This is a cool feature. Love the little drawers.”
“I saw that on a chest at Newfield’s, the art museum in Indy. They did an exhibit of Pennsylvania Dutch folk art and furniture last summer. Fascinating stuff.”
“I saw an exhibit like that at the Art Institute in Chicago several years ago. That’s how I knew to lift the front of the till.”
He retrieved a book from the workbench. “Look at this. Your designs would be perfect.” He opened to the page showing his favorite dower chest. The base paint was deep Wedgwood blue with the highly stylized flowers, birds, and stiff folk art characters like the ones she’d drawn. “So, time shortage. I ended up buying buttermilk paint.” He pointed to the case of quarts and pints of paint and produced the piece of wood on which he tested the colors. “What about this for the base coat?” He rapped one finger on the darker of the two blue shades.
“That would look good—it’s pretty close to the photo. I think we could make it work.”
Heart in his throat, he crossed his arms, the chunk of wood dangling from his fingers. “We? You saying you want to do this with me?”
She tapped her sneaker-clad foot, shifting her gaze from the unfinished dower chest to the photo in the book and back again. “What are you paying?”
“That’s negotiable.”
She wet her lips and, for a second, all he could think about was how that lush mouth might taste, but then she named a figure. Not outrageous, but high enough to make his belly clench and remind him who she was to him. The look in her dark-green eyes was a weird blend of challenge and uncertainty.
He thought about his budget for this piece, which had already gone over what he’d expected because the price of poplar had gone up. He considered the money he was expecting to bank in the next few weeks. Four finished pieces would go out the door this week and be paid for. Then there was his salary, his reserves pay, plus the extra money Jack was paying him for the custom hickory cabinets in Mrs. Yoshida’s kitchen, as well as the built-in corner cupboard and the two glass-front cabinets on either side of the fireplace in that house.
He’d said negotiable, but he didn’t want to negotiate. Certainly, he wanted her artistic skill, but even more, he wanted to get to know her. To see if they were going to be friends … or more. To discover if this attraction was real, although it felt more real than anything he’d experienced since … Scarlett. The last thing he wanted was to bargain Harper Gaines out the door. Not when she was standing there, interest gleaming in those gorgeous eyes. “Deal.” He held out his hand to shake.
After hesitating for the briefest of moments, she accepted and they shook. Surprise, surprise, she took off her jacket and underneath it she wore a T-shirt and a pair of worn denim overalls with a paint-splattered University of Michigan hoodie unzipped over it all.
He laughed out loud. “You were so sure I’d accept your price?”
Her lips bowed in a smile. “I hoped, but I was prepared to walk if you didn’t.”
*
The look in Cameron Walker’s eyes gave Harper pause. She hadn’t seen that expression since the last time she’d welcomed Drew home from deployment. Hot, hungry, and yearning. She didn’t want to see any of that in Cam’s eyes … or any man’s for that matter, so she took up a quart of the blue paint and pulled a wooden paint stirrer out of the box. “I see you already did the water-based staining, so we can start painting right away.” She held out one hand. “Something to open the can with and brushes?”
“No primer?”
She shook her head. “I did some reading last night and—”
“You were thinking about me last night?” Cam put one hand over his heart. “I’m touched.” His blue-gray eyes twinkled.
“Are you always this”—she narrowed her eyes at him—“impossible?”
He grinned, playful and disarming. “Pretty much.” He was flirting, but it was so mild, it didn’t bother her.
Harper took the paint can opener from him, careful not to let her fingers touch his. “Don’t waste it on me, charm boy. I’m here to work.”
He waggled his brows. “Sure you don’t want to pop into the house, maybe check out my etchings?”
Harper burst out laughing. “That line may have worked for Louis Icart in Paris in the twenties, but—”
“Icart?” He held up one hand. “Wait, you know 1920s Paris? The ex-pat era?”
She had a degree in art for Pete’s sake, what did he think? “Of course, Picasso, Dalí, Hemingway, Fitzgerald—”
He laughed, clearly charmed. “Modigliani, Cole Porter, Max Ernst, Gertrude Stein … it’s my favorite era in history.”
“You’re joking.” It was hers, too, but Harper resisted clapping her hands in delight. “We may be the only two people our age in the entire town—the whole state for that matter—who know who Louis Icart is.” Very few people her age were as enamored with Paris in the Roaring Twenties as she was. She drove her college roommates crazy with her passion for Paris, and Drew used to groan and pretend to snore if she mentioned watching Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky—her very favorite Paris-in-the-twenties film.
He spread his arms, palms up in a gesture of surrender. “Midnight in Paris? Favorite Woody Allen film of all time. Hell, favorite film of all time. Seen it at least twenty times.” He ducked his head and suddenly seemed a little shy. “I’d love to go to Paris, live in a garret in Montparnasse, open a cabinetmaking studio in the Latin Quarter.”
Harper was too stunned to even respond. Paris had been her fantasy from the time she was ten and found a packet of postcards in an old trunk in her grandmother’s house. Grammy Jean had let her and her cousin Susie spend a rainy summer afternoon going through the stuff in the attic of her house in Warren. The place was a child’s paradise—National Geographic magazines from the fifties, boxes of old toys and books, clothes that smelled like mothballs—a cloche hat, flowered dresses from the forties, a deteriorating rubber girdle, and aprons, and near the back, a trunk with crumbling leather straps.
Inside the trunk, they’d discovered love letters between her great-grandparents during World War II, black-and-white photographs of a woman who looked remarkably like Harper’s mother, another of a man in uniform standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe, and postcards. Dozens of postcards from Paris, where according to the letters, her great-grandfather William had been stationed. Somehow, between the photos, the letters, and the postcards, Harper fell in love with Paris.
How impossible that she’d run into the only other person even close to her age who loved that era in Paris as much as she did. On the other hand—figured it would be this guy. Not that she was attracted to him—that part of her was … maybe not dead, but definitely hibernating. No, it wasn’t that, but he was funny, smart, talented, and very nice. He could be a friend, but only if he realized that was all he could be. She was going to have to watch her step.
She stirred the paint. “Have you actually been to Paris?”
“No, I’ve always wanted to go, ever since I saw Midnight in Paris for the first time. That was, I dunno, maybe senior year in high school? But”—he gave a little shoulder lift—“it hasn’t happened yet. Life gets in the way, you know?”
She nodded. It sure as hell does.
When she didn’t say more, Cam asked, “Have you?”
An automatic response, yes, was on her lips. But … suddenly, as she set the stir stick on the newspaper beside the paint can, a dull ache rippled through her. She clutched her heart as a memory washed over her. Her one trip to Paris hadn’t been wonderful at all. It had been awful.
They were stationed in Germany and Drew had had a weekend pass. At Harper’s urging they’d flown to Paris instead of going to a soccer … er, football weekend in Munich with some of his buddies. She’d booked them into a boutique hotel with a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower. They’d sat on a wrought-iron balcony that first evening, drunk champagne, and watched the city lights reflected in the Seine. Romantic and perfect, except that Drew kept checking the scores on his phone. Then he’d ordered another bottle of champagne and finished the night sprawled across the bed.
In the morning, Harper had gone out on her own to find coffee and croissants at a little café across the street, ambling along the way, enjoying the sunny June day. She’d made a list of all the places she wanted to see—Musée d’Orsay, the Left Bank, either the Louvre or Hôtel National des Invalides since they wouldn’t have had time for both museums. She’d read up and thought perhaps Drew might’ve enjoyed Invalides more because it was the French military museum. She’d wanted to wander along the Seine and check out the booksellers’ stalls, see the flower mart, and cross one or two of the many bridges in Paris. Excited to begin their day, she’d carried coffee and pastry back to their room, where Drew had been still fast asleep.
When she’d shaken him and held up the coffee and croissants, he’d groaned and announced he was too sick to go anywhere, and proved it by rushing to the bathroom and emptying the contents of his stomach. They’d spent the day in the hotel room—Drew watching football and Harper sitting on the little balcony watching Paris. She wondered now why she hadn’t simply gone out on her own. It wouldn’t have occurred to her back then. She hadn’t been that brave, and Drew would’ve probably objected. The next day they’d had just enough time to walk along the Seine, past the Eiffel Tower, and eat breakfast in a little café before they’d had to fly back to the base. So, no … she hadn’t been to Paris. Not really.
She almost told Cam the whole story, but instead, simply shook her head. “No.” It bugged her that he had that effect one her—that he made her want to open the locked-away places inside her. The places she was so reluctant to go. Times with Drew that weren’t perfect.
He was curious. She could see the wheels turning behind those gray eyes, but he didn’t press. Instead, he got a screwdriver from his very organized tool drawer. “I’m going to take this top off. It’ll look better if we remove the hinges and paint it separately, don’t you think?”
“Sounds good.” She watched as he took the chest apart before she began brushing the soft blue buttermilk paint onto the surface. The texture was different—richer than acrylic or latex.
“Will you draw the designs on with a pencil before you paint them?” Cam set the heavy poplar lid across a pair of sawhorses he’d set up and removed the hinges.
Harper had already thought about it and had practiced the tulips and trees and other images she wanted to use with her watercolors on cardboard pieces at home the night before. With a fine enough brush, which she’d brought with her in the canvas tote she’d set by the door, she thought she could do the work freehand. “I read about an eighteenth-century artist named Christian Selzer, who did a lot of these kinds of chests and he did them freehand. A lot of the craftsmen used templates, but he didn’t. His chests were extraordinary.” She opened Cam’s book to the index and, not surprisingly, found Selzer’s name. Turning to the correct page, she discovered photos of the same chest she’d found online the night before. “Here, look.” She carried the book over to him. “I want to try it his way if you’re okay with it.”
“That’s pretty cool. Sure. You’re the artist.” His breath was warm against her cheek, and she stepped back, too aware of his muscular frame and the woodsy scent of him. If he noticed her edging away, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he tilted his chin toward the wide plank on the sawhorses. “I’ll get the first coat on this while you work on the chest. While it dries, we can grab some lunch and then rub it down with those”—he pointed to a package of light-duty scuff pads—“wipe ’em off and do a second coat.” He winked. “I did some reading, too.”
Harper wrinkled her nose. “Hmmm … second coat is optional. Would you get more of an old look if we just did one, scuffed it down, and finished with a wax or a water-based varnish after I get the designs done?”
His lips twisted for a second. “Maybe. Let’s get the first coat done and see what we think.”
They worked steadily for the next couple of hours, occasionally exchanging a word or two, but for the most part, in silence, except for the big ceiling furnace. Harper was impressed with the joinery on the chest—dovetailed corners and a carved bracket base. Cameron Walker was a fine cabinetmaker. “Cam, this piece is exquisite. You have a real gift. Have you ever thought of doing this full-time?”
He tossed her a grin. “Thanks.” He sauntered over to where she was applying final touches to the base of the piece. “That looks great.” He leaned against the workbench, his long-sleeved knit shirt shoved up to reveal impressively muscled forearms. “That’s my dream. I’m saving every penny I can to have my own shop one day.”
She furrowed her brow as she walked slowly around the table, checking for any spot she might have missed with the blue paint, dabbing here and there when she came across something that appeared unfinished. “It would be a big investment.”
“I’d welcome a partner.” There was that twinkle again and the slight upturn of his full lips. He was an irrepressible flirt, but in spite of it, he was pretty much keeping his distance as if he understood she wasn’t available for anything more than friendship.
“Don’t you have to be at your real job today?”
“Monday’s my day off. Don’t you?” He returned with a grin.
“Sad to say, you are my real job at the moment. Until I hear from the nursery school anyway.”
Cam’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’ve never been someone’s real job before.”
Harper glanced at him over her shoulder. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”
He chortled and pointed a finger at her. “You’re flirting with me, Harper Gaines.”
Harper rolled her eyes as she dropped her paintbrush in the bucket of soapy water he’d fixed for cleaning them. She truly wasn’t flirting or even interested in flirting, but Cam’s sunny nature did make it easy to tease with him. “In your dreams, buddy. Now, what’s for lunch?”