CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Seven Candles

THE CARRIAGE HOUSE IS built into the side of a hill and is white on white with gray Indiana fieldstone on the lower level. The old barn has been completely refinished. It’s amazing. I’m really impressed, no, more than impressed.

I’m gobsmacked.

“Shane, this is . . . I mean, wow,” I say, as we climb the last few steps to the upper deck along the back. Twinkle lights hang from the pergola, giving the tables below a guaranteed starry night.

Shane’s walking ahead of me with a wide grin that reaches his eyes and causes crinkles along their sides. “We’ll have enough seating for regular dining inside and out. But the best part . . .” Shane unlocks the huge double barn doors and slides them open on their tracks. “Is in here.”

The space is still under construction and huge with exposed post-and-beam throughout. We’re level with a partial loft and a full two-story screen resides along the back wall.

“The kitchen is below us and the murals—your murals—” Shane’s pointing to the bare walls along either side “—will be hung throughout. Come on.”

I follow Shane downstairs. My eyes are still puffy from all the waterworks, and I wasn’t able to get much breakfast down. I’m still not sure what I’m doing here or really in general, but I’m grateful for the distraction and in awe of his accomplishment. He always had big ideas, and I knew, of course about the Carriage House, but to see it actually in development is amazing. He’s really doing it. Maybe he has grown up.

Shane lights up while he shows me the kitchen, adjoining dining area, and theater. I like seeing him like this. Even though his jeans are well worn and his hair’s a glorious mess, he’s never looked better. Well, maybe in the towel earlier.

My eyes fall to the empty spaces designed to house the murals. My work, my murals, will be . . . everywhere. A small flitter of excitement finds its way to the surface. Then it slams my heart. My mouth hangs open and I blink, not believing my eyes.

“No way. No frickin’ way!”

In the hallway three stretched canvas paintings hang. They’re mine.

The same ones Shane printed from my Facebook gallery and that hang in the conference room at work. The two figurative illustrations of couples and the close-up portrait in reversed color blocking, the same ones missing from under my Kensington box.

Mom didn’t throw them away.

I had them flat for storage. He had them stretched? They’re hung at eye level with a single light illuminating each one. They look . . . beautiful.

I glance at Shane. He loops his thumbs in his jeans pockets and leans against the wall; a small twinkly smile plays on his lips. I’m floored.

“But how? How did you get them? When?” My mind spins around the implications. My chin lowers to a slight angle, eyes darting between my work and him.

“I stopped at your parents, about a month or so before the agency meeting. Had lunch with your dad, actually.”

My head kicks back. “What?”

“I popped by and, well, we started talking.”

“You ‘popped by,’ why?”

He smiles and shakes his head, as if the question didn’t make sense. “To see you. It was never my intention to show up out of the blue at your office. And I told you, when I started developing the Carriage House concept, it was largely in part because of you. So I came by to see if you’d be interested in developing the concept with me.” A soft smile turns at the corners of Shane’s lips. “And it was a legitimate reason to see you.”

“And then what? One lunch with Dad and you changed your mind?” The thought steals my breath. “Don’t tell me he told—”

“No. No, quite the opposite. He was a gracious host and we enjoyed a long conversation. I told him my business plans, he told me where you worked, I was considering hiring your agency, and how my concept was based on your paintings, your love of cinema . . . and well, when I dropped him back he found them for me.”

“He gave them to you?”

He laughs. “I didn’t intend to keep them, only use them to demonstrate what I was looking for in the first concept meeting, but well, I rather like them here . . .”

I’m confused. “You used printouts from my Facebook album.”

“I know.”

“And you never contacted me—well, on Facebook—but you never said anything about—”

“I know.”

My hands are raised, he’s not explaining. “Shane . . . ?”

“Your father told me you were engaged, so . . .” He shifts position, leaning his shoulder on the wall. “I, I don’t know. Didn’t want to overstep.”

I laugh softly, wrinkling my nose. “I’d say you kinda—”

“That was after I saw you with him, and . . .” His lips press into a hard line, his entire expression falling cold. “He didn’t deserve you. Gloves came off.”

I step back, soaking in his words and remembering Ren’s. Your mom was really upset when you left. Your parents got into a fight. That’s why Mom was ignoring me, and they didn’t say anything because Bradley was there. She must’ve been angry at Dad and oh, guilt drops heavy in my heart. And she probably didn’t bring it up on the phone because, well, she didn’t really want Shane back in the picture. Mom’s firmly in Bradley’s corner. Is she still?

“So yes, I still have your paintings. Really love them. I hadn’t found the right time to—”

I walk over and surprise him with a kiss on his cheek, and smile. “You bought my chairs.”

“I have no idea what you mean, but if it makes you happy, then yes, okay, I bought your chairs.”

My smile widens. “The movie Phenomenon, remember that one?”

His eyes narrow a smidgen in thought. I don’t wait for an answer.

“Lace, Kyra Sedgwick’s character, makes these chairs, all kinds, and tries to sell them. And all at once, they start to sell, so she makes more.” I’m not sure he remembers the movie, but I keep going. “It was John Travolta’s character, George. He bought them all. In fact, his whole yard was full of them.” I shrug, my movie-spiel recap winding down, and nod to my paintings hanging on display. “You bought my chairs.”

“So I did.” Shane smiles warmly, then straightens. “I’ll be right back, why don’t you have a seat,” he says, motioning to a large booth. He disappears into the kitchen.

From speakers tucked along the walls, music kicks on and Shane appears with . . . I puzzle my brows. “What is that?” Flowers. A circle of flowers?

“This is for you,” he says, placing it on my head with exacting care.

With him standing so close, the scent of his aftershave fills my nose. It’s a familiar mix of woodsy and Shane. My hands immediately pull the flowers from my head so I can see them. They’re wild and wound loosely to form a wreath of pink and white. I smile, brows knitted. What is he doing now?

“Nope.” Shane takes it back, replaces it on my head, and pulls down securely. With a final adjustment, his hands fall. But his gaze still lingers. “That needs to stay there, and hang on . . .” He disappears again to the back.

My fingers touch the flower wreath on my head. A small smile forms on my lips as my eyes again rest on my paintings illuminated by soft light in the hall. On display. Not in a drawer, but up for everyone to see. Tears pool on my lower lashes.

Music starts playing through the sound system. It’s . . . “If You Leave” by OMD. Fiddling with my jacket’s cuffs, I hum along to the song. I haven’t heard it in years. Seven years went under the bridge, like time was standing still . . .

It has been seven years . . . Funny, and the next line asks what will happen now? That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

My phone vibrates again from my pocket. It’s been buzzing all day. Fishing it out, I’m firmly restating the rules in my head. I can’t listen to any messages. I will only look at the screen.

Three missed calls.

I scroll and see two from Ellie and one from Bradley. Instead of listening, I open my e-mails to view the Love Like the Movies list. I know he’s up to something.

1. Sleepless in Seattle

2. Pretty Woman

3. Bridget Jones’s Diary

4. 27 Dresses

5. Dirty Dancing

6. Sixteen Candles

7. Love Actually

8. Say Anything

9. You’ve Got Mail

10. My Best Friend’s Wedding

It’s number 6. When I see Shane round the corner from the kitchen, it confirms it. I’m wearing a flower wreath, “If You Leave” is playing, and . . . He’s walking in with a birthday cake. My heart floats high in my chest like a balloon.

This is Sixteen Candles.

And it’s surreal.

Shane smiles. “You need to be sitting up there, I believe.” He nods to the wooden table. “Legs crisscrossed.”

My throat tightens, and I already have tears as I climb up. Folding my legs, I adjust my skirt over them. In the movie, Samantha’s birthday is eclipsed by her sister’s wedding. I feel like my wedding was overshadowed by Ren’s baby announcement. I’m invisible. No one cares, and my big moments don’t matter. And here’s Shane, just like the handsome Jake Ryan, doing all of this for me. Just for me.

Placing the cake in front of me, he steps up on the booth then slowly lowers his weight onto the table. “Okay. Good. Wasn’t sure it would actually hold me.”

I laugh through my tears and gaze at him across from me.

Shane smiles crooked. “Thanks for coming over.”

“Thanks for . . . coming to get me.” The movie lines are swallowed by my breath. I give a closed-mouth smile, choked by emotion.

Wiping under my eyes, I clear my throat and watch Shane light the candles. There’s . . . two, four, six . . . “Seven? You have only seven candles.”

Honey-gold eyes flick to mine. He leans in close and says softly, “I only missed seven birthdays.”

My stomach flutters. I was twenty-three when he left. Seven years ago. Seven birthdays. A lifetime between then and now. But like the song says, it’s like time has stood still.

“Happy birthday, Kensington. Make a wish.”

My gaze drops from his to the cake because I remember the line. The scene.

The kiss.

I’m glowing from within. Little nervous butterflies are attracted to the inner light. They may be too close. They could get singed.

Gazing up through my lashes, I bite my lip and debate if I should say the line, knowing what follows. Knowing I’m not quite ready. Not knowing what he expects.

But he doesn’t give me the chance.

Placing a hand in front of him for support, he leans over and delivers it. “Mine already came true.” It comes out low, in a breath, his lips a whisper away.

After a beat, he places a slow, lingering kiss on my cheek that causes a frenzy of flutters. Anything more would have been too much. Anything less wouldn’t have completed the scene.

There are no more lines.

The credits simply roll over the still frame of Samantha and Jake, frozen in a kiss. The song’s hypnotic melody drones on in the movie, just as it is now. The viewer knows everything will be all right. That Samantha is fine. Someone finally sees her.

Sees me.

Shane always has.

“FAVORITE COLOR?” IT USED TO be blue. I want to know everything, if only to distract myself from my phone. My thoughts. My nerves.

We’re situated in rockers on the upstairs balcony of the main house. It’s peaceful with the temperate breeze and backyard view. I remember sitting here with his grandparents years ago having iced tea.

“Um, I will say blue,” Shane says, finally.

“Still blue? Just blue? Not sky blue or ocean blue?” I push off the deck with my toes to get my chair rocking steadily again. “There are actually fifty-nine shades of blue, and that’s only if you don’t count the made-up ones like toilet water blue.”

“Toilet water blue? Yes, perfect for a paint swatch.” He smiles. “I’m sticking to plain blue.”

“Okay, fine, blue.” I wrinkle my nose. “Moving on. Favorite number?”

“Mm, I’d say number two. And five, yes, I’m quite fond of number five.”

I knit my brows together as his meaning registers. “Number five was Dirty Dancing and two was Pretty Woman. You liked shopping?”

“I liked watching you.”

I smile. “I think you enjoyed the Marys fawning all over you.”

He shrugs. “I liked seeing you happy, Kensington.”

I can feel the burn creep across my cheeks as I turn and look at him. There’s a beat, a pause, an understanding. Maybe the tiniest glint of happy.

“I needed this,” I half whisper. “Thank you, Shane.”

“You are very welcome.” He tips his head back and closes his eyes. His lips are curled in a contented smile.

Trees rustle like paper in the light breeze while sparrows squabble over a feeder that hangs from a low branch. I shift my weight to set the rocker in motion again.

This is nice.

“I think your grandfather would have liked the Carriage House plans. What you’re doing, I’m sure he’d have been proud.” Shane hasn’t mentioned much about his passing. Only that he left him everything and that included looking after Gram.

His rocker stops, and he looks to me. “Have you considered leaving Safia for real? Finally having your own studio?”

I look back at the horizon. The shades of yellow are now a deep grainy tan with dusk. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“You could do it.” Shane’s sitting up, leaning over the chair’s arm. “I’d hire you. You wouldn’t need to go back to Safia.”

“What?” My brows pull down. “You mean, work for you?”

He laughs. “No, you’d work for yourself, and we would be your first client, or your only client, and then you could . . . I don’t know, paint.”

My heart is beating loudly in my ears. That’s what I’d always wanted to do. Life somehow pushed forward and I never got around to it. I’m lost in thoughts of what is, what isn’t, and what I’ve left behind. I want the same things I wanted yesterday. I want to be married. I want a baby. And today, right now, I’m further away from both.

But maybe I’m somehow closer to me.

“You like the cottage?” Shane asks with obvious excitement in his voice.

“Of course. And you were right, the view’s beautiful.”

“What if we change it around to be a studio? Your studio.”

“Why would—”

“It’s just something to think about. You could set up here, if you wanted. The whole town is crawling with tourists in the summer. You could use it to build your name.” He leans over and lowers his voice. “I know I’d like you around.”

He wants me around.

I sit back to juggle his words. Closing my eyes, I try and picture the cottage and me in it. I’m painting. The windows are open and an afternoon breeze blows through, clearing the fumes out. I could be messy. God knows I’m messy when I paint. It ends up everywhere.

Shane likes my work. He wants me here. Why am I thinking of Pretty Woman again? Edward offered Vivian an apartment, a car, unlimited shopping, whatever she wanted. What she wanted was him. It’s all I’m capable of right now, he says.

Shane’s offering me a place to live, my own studio, him? But right now, at this moment . . . It’s more than I’m capable of.

Leaning back in the rocker, I turn toward him. “I think that sounds fast . . . I think having my own studio and really trying is exactly what I need to do, but . . .”

Shane pushes out a breath. His smile is hesitant. “But, not here—”

“Not yet.” Wetting my lips, I swallow and sit up. “I think I need to do it on my own first. Be on my own for a while. Does that make sense? I mean, up until yesterday I was engaged, and only last week I believed that was the right direction for my life, and then you showed up and . . .”

Shane searches my eyes. “You are not the impulsive girl I once knew. Not as quick to jump, a bit more reserved.” His lips lift slightly at the corners. “She’s all grown up, isn’t she?”

I smile with a sigh from somewhere deep. After seeing this place and what Shane’s accomplished, I can’t help but think maybe we both have.

The sound of tires and kicked-up gravel from the front drive interrupts the country quiet. Gram must be here.

Shane looks confused. “Be right back.” He’s up and off.

I’m up, too. Smoothing my dress and fixing my hair. I’m nervous to see her after all this time. I shouldn’t be, though. She always liked me. Everything will be—

Shane comes bounding back onto the balcony, he’s leaning in the doorway, jaw clenched.

I feel my eyes go wide. “What? What is it?”

“It’s Bradley.”