Summer on the Mountain Page 6

  Her mouth watered as she eagerly searched the pantry. She found graham crackers and marshmallows, but no chocolate bars. She dropped the items onto the table, and then headed to the table beside the front door where she’d left her car keys. She decided to make a quick run to the country store for chocolate bars.

  She had no sooner opened her front door than Jarrod strode past her and into the house. “How are you?” he asked, heading for the kitchen where he dropped into a chair at the dinette table.

  “I was just leaving,” she said pointedly, annoyed that he seemed to think he owned the place.

  He read her face. “I do own the place, sort of.” He drummed the tabletop, causing her to watch him curiously. “So, do you have anything exciting on the agenda for the evening?”

  “Nope,” she said crisply.

  He spied the marshmallows and graham crackers. “Smores!”

  “I was just going to drive to the store for chocolate bars,” she informed.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said eagerly, rising from the table. “Wait a minute, I have chocolate bars at my place. I’ll be right back.” He left, only to return in short order with a six-pack of candy bars. “I keep these on hand for my nieces when they come up to visit.”

  “Oh, Holly, Naomi, and Brianna.” Summer knew the girls well, since they often came into the gallery to visit Gwendolyn.

  “Myself, I don’t eat much chocolate,” he admitted. “Watching my figure.” Despite the declaration, he watched her expectantly.

  “Oh, well then, you probably don’t want to join me,” she said with mock disappointment.

  “Sure I do,” he said, laughing lightly. “You know, there’s an art to making smores. Besides, you’ll need to start a fire, and you may very well need supervision, being as you’re a newbie mountaineer.”

  “There’s a fire pit out back,” she reminded him. “And I’m perfectly capable of striking a match.”

  “I constructed that fire pit,” he told her, clearly proud of his efforts. “And starting a fire involves more than striking a match.” He strode into the kitchen, retrieved matches from a drawer, and indicated with a toss of his head that she should follow him.

  Out back, he deftly started a fire, and then retrieved two lawn chairs from the back porch. Summer watched him curiously as he jogged off, to return with two long sticks. “Marshmallow please,” he said.

  She passed him one, which he slipped onto the end of one of the sticks. He passed it to her, and then slid a marshmallow onto a second stick for himself. He indicated with a nod she should sit, and he did the same. “Will you open the chocolate bar?”

  Once both marshmallows were a toasty brown, he quickly opened the graham crackers, took two, and then reached for a couple squares of chocolate. He put them onto one side of the graham cracker, carefully laid one marshmallow onto the prepared cracker, then pressed the other cracker onto the confection before pulling the stick out. He passed her the treat.

  “Looks good,” she said, and took a bite. Her eyes widened with pleasure. “It is good!”

  Jarrod prepared his, and the two sat fireside, enjoying their treats. They remained in companionable silence, until he spoke.

  “So, do you still like it up here?”

  She met his gaze. “I do. I love everything about it.”

  “Everything?” he asked, arching his brows suggestively.

  “Well, not everything,” she said pointedly.

  He chuckled. “Hey, your cold is completely gone now.”

  “Just about. And how are you feeling? You look a little tired.”

  “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She shrugged. She decided to forgo mentioning he’d kissed her when she had been at the end of the cold, but had still had some minor symptoms. If he was run down, he might very well catch it. And it would serve him right, she decided.

  “How’s the painting coming along?” he asked suddenly, and she winced.

  “Haven’t started it yet?” he asked with surprise.

  “Can’t seem to begin,” she admitted.

  “Why?”

  Jarrod didn’t miss the flash of uncertainty in her eyes, or the frown that marred her face. She shrugged. “I haven’t painted for some time.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged again. “No reason really.”

  “Come on. There has to be a reason. Tell me.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Please tell me,” he persisted, leaning forward in the chair to snare her gaze.

  She considered telling him, measuring him with a questioning look. Should she confide in him?

  “You can talk to me. Confession is good for the soul,” he urged.

  She sighed. “I took on a commission over a year ago and worked on the painting for some time. When it was done, the clients hated it.”

  He sat upright in the chair. “So?”

  She was taken aback. “They didn’t like it…”

  He watched her, stunned. “And you stopped painting because a couple people happened not to like one of your paintings.”

  “But people always…”

  He chuckled, but sobered when she shot him an angry stare. “Who are these people?” he asked curiously.

  She wasn’t sure she should mention names, but did so anyway. “Van der Wayons. You wouldn’t know them.”

  “The heck I don’t!” he exclaimed. “They have a cabin on the east side of the lake. Well, if it is a cabin,” he added ruefully, “it’s the Taj Mahal of cabins.”

  Summer swallowed over a lump in her throat. Jarrod knowing the couple was unsettling.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “you really let the negative opinions of two people hamper your ability to paint?”

  “It’s not that simple,” she protested. “They demanded multiple revisions, weren’t pleased with a single one, and then…”

  “What?” he prompted.

  “They called me a … second-rate painter.”

  Jarrod tossed his head back and laughed heartily.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You obviously don’t know these people well,” he said, shuddering with distaste. “I’ll have to drive you by their cabin. It’s a monstrosity—an offense to the natural beauty around it. I don’t know how they managed to get it built, although I suspect they greased somebody’s palms.”

  Summer opened her mouth to speak, but promptly clamped it shut. What could she say? Jarrod had effectively made her realize she’d given an inordinate amount of power to the couple, and allowed them to alter the course of her life. Was she really that sensitive?

  He eyed her speculatively. “They really got to you, didn’t they?” he said, watching her with concern.

  “It … hurt,” she said with a self-effacing shrug.

  “Well, I say, it’s time you got back on the horse, so to speak.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Yes it is,” he said with authority. “Just paint.”

  Summer startled when a beeper on his belt sounded. He grimaced and snatched it off his side, narrowing his eyes to see the number. “I have to go,” he said with a beleaguered sigh.

  Summer stood, finding herself sorry to see him go. The realization surprised her.

  Jarrod shot a glance at the fire pit. “Be sure to snuff out the fire,” he told her.

  “I will.”

  After he’d gone, she carefully put out the fire, and then headed inside. She thought about Jarrod’s assertions that she should simply pick up a brush and start painting. Perhaps he was right, she realized. She had put off the process, procrastinating—something she had never been guilty of in the past.

  With a sigh, she decided to organize her painting supplies, and then finished up by setting up her easel on the screened-in front porch. She resolved to start a painting in the morning. Maybe it wouldn’t be the painting Gwendolyn would ultimately gift to Leonard, but it would be a start.

  ***

&nbs
p; The next morning, Summer stepped onto the porch, inhaling the crisp mountain air. It never failed to enliven her senses, and she smiled as she scanned the lake before her. She spotted a fish jump out of the water, and then land with a splash. Briefly, she considered dashing to the back porch and grabbing a fishing pole, but forced the thought aside. She was going to paint today if it killed her.

  She decided to paint the lake scene as viewed from the front porch, and quickly picked up a brush, dipped it into the paint she’d already prepared on the palette, and then began. Surprisingly, she soon found herself painting with abandon, each stroke seeming to free her from her painter’s block.

  Before long, she had the foundation of a painting that she found herself liking already. She smiled with pleasure, but frowned when Jarrod appeared at the base of the porch, heavily-lidded and apparently cranky.

  “So you’ve taken my advice,” he said smugly.

  She noticed his voice sounded different, hoarse and thick. “Yes, and I suppose I should thank you for it.”

  “Anytime. And I suppose I should thank you for this cold. Do you happen to have any coffee?”

  So he had indeed caught her cold. She nodded and motioned for him to follow her inside. He climbed the porch steps but paused briefly to study the painting. He nodded approvingly. “Looks good,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’m nowhere near done, but, at least I’m painting.”

  “That’s really great, Summer,” he said, nodding his head in measured intervals. “I can see you’re really talented.”

  She warmed under the compliment. “Well, let’s get you that coffee.” She led him into the kitchen where she poured him a steaming cup. He took it and braced it between two hands, as if warming them. She eyed him curiously, noting two bright red splotches colored his cheeks.

  Without thinking, she stepped forward and checked him for fever with a gentle palm to his forehead. “You are sick.”

  “And it’s your fault,” he accused.

  She bit back a smile. “No, it’s your fault. You should learn to keep your lips to yourself.”

  He grinned. “It was worth it.”

  “I hardly think so,” she said. She led him out of the kitchen and to the couch. “Sit down.”

  “Planning on nursing me back to health?” he asked. “Seems only fair, since I helped you.”

  She sighed tiredly. “I thought you looked a little worse for wear yesterday,” she observed.

  He sighed. “Hit me in the middle of the night, while I was on a stakeout.”

  She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “A stakeout for what?”

  “Poachers.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “There are actually poachers up here?” As soon as she posed the question, she remembered Deputy Sanders had mentioned them.

  He nodded. “They’re taking elk and even brown bear.”

  “That’s criminal,” Summer said angrily. “Harming innocent animals in their own habitat!”

  “Exactly,” he muttered, leaning back against the couch.

  “Did you have breakfast this morning?” she asked.

  “I don’t feel like eating.”

  “I’ll make you a hot lemon.”

  “That’s all right,” he mumbled. “I need to head home.”

  Summer watched him curiously, noting he had slurred his words, and wondering exactly when he intended to leave. His eyelids suddenly closed and she noted the steady rise and fall of his chest. He’d fallen asleep.

  Unsure what to do, she glanced around furtively. With a sigh, she decided to let him sleep. Clearly the man was exhausted.

  The sofa boasted recliners on both ends, and she bent to lift the lever to raise the foot rest where he sat. She grasped the back of the chair and pushed it to its most extreme reclining position and then covered him with a blanket.

  She watched him briefly and then headed outside to resume painting. There was no telling how long he might sleep.

  She had just picked up a paint brush when the phone rang. She hurried into the cabin, hoping to get to the phone before the ringing disturbed Jarrod.

  “Hi,” she said breathlessly into the receiver.

  “Well, hello,” Gwendolyn said cheerfully. “You sound out of breath, my dear. Everything all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” she assured her. “Actually, better than fine. I started a painting this morning.”

  “You did? That’s wonderful!”

  “It’s probably not going to be good enough to give to Leonard, but more an opportunity to get my hands and fingers working again,” she said. “You know, get the creative juices flowing.”

  “Well, I’m just glad you’re painting, dear. Truly I am. Hey, would you know where that son of mine might be. I tried to reach him last night and again this morning.”

  Summer paused, swallowing over a lump in her throat. She considered telling her friend a little white lie, but then decided honesty was the best policy. Particularly since Jarrod might very well divulge he’d been at her place at a later date, and then she knew she’d have explaining to do.

  “Uh, well, he’s here.”

  “Oh,” Gwendolyn said, sounding surprised. “May I speak to him?”

  “Actually, you can’t. He’s sleeping.”

  There was a lengthy pause at the end of the line. “He is?”

  Summer didn’t miss the shock in Gwendolyn’s voice. “Gwendolyn, he stopped by this morning for—well, coffee—and then to my surprise, and to yours I’m sure, he sat down on the couch and promptly fell asleep.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. He said he was on a stakeout much of the night, and during the stakeout he came down with a cold…”

  “You had a cold…,” she said, and then cleared her throat when she realized the implication of her words.

  Summer opted not to respond to that. “Anyway, I’ll have him call you as soon as he wakes up.”

  “Don’t take any guff from him, Summer,” Gwendolyn advised. “He’s like his father—a big baby when he gets sick. Men!”

  “Yes,” Summer agreed, though she wasn’t exactly certain what she’d just agreed to. She’d found Leonard both charming and sweet-natured anytime she’d been around him. However, when Jarrod woke up hours later, he was anything but.

  “Summer!” he called from the couch. “My throat hurts. And so does my head.”

  She carefully laid down her paint brush and hurried into the cabin. She found him sitting up, having lowered the foot rest of the recliner, and grasping his forehead as if he was in agony.

  “I’ll get you a couple ibuprofen tablets.”

  “Three. Get three, please,” he said. “And feel free to knock me upside my head with a mallet”

  Summer hurried to retrieve the tablets and water and passed them to him. He muttered a thanks, and then swallowed.

  “I’ll make you a hot lemon,” she offered.

  He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. “No, I’m leaving. You don’t need to catch this again.”

  She followed him out to the porch. He stopped at the painting. “It’s really good,” he told her, admiration in his voice. “And I feel … terrible,” he said after a pause, and then frowned. “I never get sick.”

  Summer folded her arms, refraining from suggesting his illness was cosmic payback for everything he had done to her. He seemed to read her thoughts.

  “Hey, I don’t deserve this!”

  She chuckled as he strode off. “Oh, Jarrod, call your mother!”

  He tossed a casual wave over his head as he shuffled toward home.

  Summer reached for a paintbrush, but then put it down. Instead, she headed back inside to the kitchen where she searched for a cook book. She wondered, was chicken soup difficult to make?

  Soon, she had her answer as she began assembling a delicious assortment of ingredients to make the healing soup.

  My, she was being neighborly, she decided. And even she couldn’t help but wonder why.

  Chapter Sev
en

  Summer strode across the wooded lawn, carefully carrying the steaming pot of soup in her hands. With some doing, she managed to make it to Jarrod’s front porch without scalding herself.

  She set the pot down on a small table beside the door in order to knock, and then knocked a second time when Jarrod didn’t answer. When he finally arrived at the door, she could see he’d been sleeping. His crisp sandy hair was tousled on his head and he reminded her of a little boy just awakening from a nap. She noticed dark circles framed his lower lids.

  “I woke you,” she observed with a wince.

  He nodded. “That’s okay. I need to get up anyway. I have a stakeout tonight.”

  “You’re not going!” she cried, surprising herself as much as him.

  “Have to,” he said, smiling slightly. He noticed the pot then, and raised his brows.

  “I made you some soup.” She lifted the pot from the table.

  “Really? Homemade?”

  She nodded, and he smiled widely, stepping back to allow her to pass him with the soup in her hands. Inside his kitchen, which she noted was rustic but well-appointed, she found a bowl after opening several tall cabinets.

  He watched her, smiling. “You could have asked me where the bowls are.”

  She filled one, then glanced around. “Pantry,” she said in response to his raised eyebrows. He nodded across the room and she hurried to scan the pantry.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Saltine crackers.”

  “Middle shelf, on the right.”

  She pulled the box from the well-organized space and joined him at the table. She rose to retrieve a plate, then passed it to him. “Spoons?” she said.

  “Over there.” He gestured to a drawer near the dish washer.

  She grabbed a spoon and then rejoined him at the table. “Aren’t you having any?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “Already ate.”

  He took a bite of the soup, and then smiled appreciatively. “This is excellent. Just what I needed.”

  “Good,” she said, warming at the compliment. “Okay, then, I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t go. I’ll try not to breathe on you.”