Good With His Hands (Good in Bed #1)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,64

share my late lunch/early dinner with two homeless men already settling down inside.

“I bet a lady painted it,” the older, bearded guy says around a mouthful of egg salad.

“Looks like something a woman would paint,” the shorter, younger man agrees.

“No, not a woman,” the other man corrects him. “A lady. Someone sweet and classy. And kind.”

“She’s all of those things,” I chime in. “And talented and strong and funny.” I sigh. “The whole package.”

The older man smiles. “I thought so.” He claps me on the back. “It’ll work out, son. Don’t worry. Love finds a way. It really does.”

I want to believe he’s right.

If he can believe, what excuse do I have for staying a pessimist?

But I doubt I’ll feel right until I hear from her, until I know how she feels about me waiting.

And find out if she might decide to wait for me too.

27

Ruby

At my parents’ brownstone, I let myself in through the side gate and make my way down the narrow alley to the back garden. I can’t hear anyone back there, but it’s a sunny vacation day afternoon after Mom and Dad’s customary three o’clock tea-and-pie time.

I can’t imagine any place my mother would be other than her small garden, surrounded by veggies and flowers.

When I emerge from the alley, she’s exactly where I imagined: kneeling in the middle of the lettuce patch, pulling weeds while wearing a big straw hat and weathered green garden gloves. On impulse, I pull out my cell, turn off the sound, and take a few pictures before she realizes I’m here.

I’m going to paint Mom like this, but with lettuce as high as skyscrapers reaching to the clouds all around her, a symbol of how she makes things grow with such grace and dedication.

She grew the family business into a nation-wide phenomenon, the place to purchase holiday pies. She grows her garden every summer. And she grew me, never taking her hand from mine, even when I faltered or fell flat on my face.

She won’t abandon me now.

I know it the way I know the sun will rise no matter how dark and deep the winter’s night. But as I cross the paving stones to the raised planter beds, my heart lodges in my throat.

Mom glances up, grinning as she lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Hey there, pumpkin. How was your trip?”

I grab the garden stool from the planter next to hers and swing it into the shade, sitting so I’m closer to her level as I say, “I think it’s going to change my life. I did a lot of thinking. Thinking that I’ve avoided for way too long.”

She sits back on her heels, pulls off her gloves, and gives me her full attention. “Okay.” She rubs her hands on her jean-clad thighs. “Tell me everything.”

I take a deep, fueling breath. “First, I want you to know that I love Sweetie Pies.” I bring my hand to my heart, which is already beating faster. I don’t want to screw this up. I have to find the perfect words. “I love what it means to you and Dad. I love what it means to Gigi. And I love what it’s done for our family.” I swallow, a little roughly, and my mother nods, urging me to continue. “But what I love most about my job is illustrating the menu every season. I look forward to it all quarter. When I sit down at my desk and start to sketch, I’m excited to be alive. You know?”

She smiles warmly, but a little uncertainly too, as if she’s not exactly sure what I’m getting at. “Even when you were little, we had to bribe you with ice cream to get you to leave the museum without tears. Never saw a kid stand and stare at pictures the way you did.”

I nod, swallowing past the anxious lump in my throat. “Yes. Exactly. Art has always just . . . called to me. It feels right. And my card business too. It’s a small thing, but it’s growing fast. And it lights me up so much, and I . . . well . . .” I trail off, floundering now that I’m at the jumping-off point. How can I say this? How can I crush my mother’s dreams?

But how can I deny my own dreams another day?

I can’t, and deep down I know Mom doesn’t want me to, a fact she confirms when she rests a hand on my