This was the opportunity he’d waited for, but for her.
He loved Bree.
More specifically, he loved how incredibly fun it was to ruffle her feathers. To drive her mad. And to be fair, he’d tried the nice route. He’d offered up a prized Frisbee with a kind note. He’d saved her from theatre disaster that one evening, for goodness’ sake. He’d already helped her parents four times when they’d called. Once for dog-training tips. The other three about their leaking faucet and other home-related inquiries.
Could he have offered her parents his personal phone number so Bree didn’t have to be a liaison? Yes. Could they have asked for his number for the same reason? Yes, but they all seemed to find joy in communicating through her instead.
And the scowl on Bree’s face every time she had to march over to Chip’s house, phone in hand, so her stepdad could ask Chip a question about insulation upgrades? Absolutely priceless.
But now? Torturing each other now?
This was not the time.
He wanted to whisper, “Leave it alone, Bree. We will carry on when we get home!”
His neck itched beneath the fancy wool scarf he’d stolen off his brother at the last family supper. Maybe this, he hypothesized, is why artists are tortured. They’re not suffering from lack of money or food or shelter. Their scarves are choking them to death.
“You’re spot-on about the tool analogy, Bree. That position is called the screwdriver,” Theo said, raising his brow first at her, then him. “I hear it’s quite useful for expressionist painting. But of course, you could enlighten us on that, Chip?”
“Hmm?” Chip said, dragging his eyes from Mr. Richardson back to them. “Oh yes. It’s quite difficult for some artists, at first, but those who keep at it tend to agree it’s useful.”
Theo nodded as though this made perfect sense. But Chip saw something else in the man’s eyes, a cloudy expression. “So. How long have you two been neighbors?”
“A little over three weeks,” Bree replied. Her doting smile turned Chip’s stomach. “But already it’s starting to feel like a lifetime.”
The wind rippled through the blossoming dogwood trees as Mr. Richardson made his way over.
“And . . .” Theo looked with uncertainty back to Chip. “How’s the neighborhood, Chip?”
“Oh, it’s terrific,” Chip said, feeling the need to rearrange the paintbrushes. “I can honestly say I’ve never had more engaging neighbors.” He turned toward Bree. “You know, I just realized I was supposed to call your parents back. Can you call right now and tell them I’ll be a little late today?”
Bree smiled. “Of course I will, but can it wait? I wouldn’t dream of missing out on this meeting. And how funny it is that you were just telling me how nice it’d be to meet the man behind the Barter. What a coincidence.”
Theo’s ruffled brow conveyed he felt the undercurrent of tension. Mr. Richardson stepped into the circle. “Mr. Richardson, meet Chip McBride.”
The older man turned by degrees as he held out his hand to Chip. Theo said, “Chip here was just telling me about both his professional interests as well as his extracurricular passions. I think you’ll be interested to hear about them both.”
Right. It was time to pretend Bree wasn’t standing there, staring, knowing he was a complete fraud.
Chip pivoted to crop Bree out of his line of vision.
“Oh, painting is never an extracurricular passion,” Chip said as he took Mr. Richardson’s hand. “Art is the lens through which I see the world. Art is in everything, from the monochrome land conveyed in this pastureland to each brick of the Village I built at Emory and Henry last year. It’s just a matter of the medium. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Mutual,” Mr. Richardson said, his eyes shining as bright and blue as the sky. “Tell me, you’re Art’s son, right?”
“I am, sir,” Chip said. “But I’ve launched my own construction company in the last year,” he added. Technically, thirty-four days. But that was inconsequential. “Redpoint Construction. You may have heard of it.”
“No, I don’t think I have,” he said. Mr. Richardson’s eyes dimmed. “What sort of work have you done?”
“Oh”—Chip waved a hand, his paintbrush darting daringly toward Bree’s coat—“this and that. We specialize in new construction, remodeling and renovation, historical restorations—”
“You specialize in historical restoration?”
“Oh yes, sir.” Chip had added that specialty to his business cards the evening prior.
“Interesting.” Mr. Richardson stepped forward. “Where are you located?”