know he couldn’t hurt Rita. Still, I place a hand on her lower back and usher her to her crossover at the end of the driveway, sensing my brother watching us. As we near her SUV, we pause, and I remove my hand.
“Can I ask you something? Just hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“Sure.” One brow arches.
“You mentioned that Ian was the love of your life.”
Rita turns her head, glancing back at the open garage behind me. “I’m sensing a but.”
“Do you think lightning would ever strike twice?” Her eyes leap to my face, and she stares at me, giving me those sad blues behind her red-rimmed glasses.
“Hypothetically speaking, of course,” she says, chewing at the corner of her lip. “Why?”
“A wise woman once encouraged me to believe in second chances, and it occurs to me that leaves second chances open to a variety of interpretations.”
“I suppose, should the opportunity present itself, yes. Love can happen a second time.” Rita licks her lips, and I see her fighting a smile.
“So if I presented me as a chance I’d like you to take . . .”
“I’d be a fool not to take the opportunity. Of course. Or are we speaking hypothetically still?” she teases.
My heart races. My palms sweat. I want to kiss her until she says, “But maybe we should slow down a bit.”
I falter. How much slower can we get? We’ve practically stopped. However, I nod to agree. Having faith in me doesn’t mean she’s ready to jump to loving me.
“Guess I’ll be seeing you around the Busy Bean,” I tease, trying to keep my voice light when it’s the opposite of how I feel right now.
“The Busy Bean,” she whispers as if the words mean so much more.
20
Jake
When Rita arrives at the project site the next day, I’m a sweaty mess in the summer heat. Today is sunshine and blue skies and feels prophetic for some reason. Rita hardly looks at me, but I can’t seem to look away from her, following her inspection in and around the home. Her laughter travels through the open windows where I’m painting a bedroom. God, I miss her laugh. I especially miss when it’s directed at me.
It’s been difficult to cross the front room in this house and see the covered couch, knowing what Rita and I first shared on the dusty drop cloth that now protects the floor in this room. Memories of all our moments have filled my nights, especially the softer times spent in her bedroom. Rita is a spitfire in bed, willing to try anything, do anything, and it only fuels my desire for her.
As I told her, it wasn’t all sex for me, though. I liked spending time with Rita. Cooking in her kitchen. Hanging out in her living room. Watching television with her nestled into my side. I didn’t need to be out sowing wild oats after years of confinement. I needed comfort and a home. I needed Rita.
Suddenly, a throat clears behind me, and I turn to find her standing in the doorway of the bedroom I’m painting a denim blue color for the boy moving into this place.
“Looks good in here,” Rita states, eyeing the walls and the crown molding.
“I’m not really a painter,” I admit. Rita simply nods. Silence falls between us, and I hate the quiet. I want to drop the roller and rush to her, press her into the freshly painted wall, and beg her to go back to who we were.
“Sullivan told me about the light you designed for this room.”
It’s nothing, really. Just something I thought would be fun for the boy. I found an old catcher’s mitt in the garage at home and dipped it in melted copper, preserving it like people used to preserve baby shoes. Adding the attachments to make it a light fixture, it will hang on his wall with a ball-shaped bulb like it’s being caught in a mitt.
“Have you ever considered selling your work?” Her question surprises me.
“It’s just junk soldered together with a light bulb.” I downplay the craft.
“It’s art,” she states. “You might be on to something.” Slowly, she smiles, and her expression shows that faith she has in me. She believes in my ability to turn trash into treasure. To make art. Now I just need her to have faith in me with her heart.
“I’ll be headed to the Busy Bean later,” she finally states, and I dare to hope it’s another start for us.