More important, she'd proven that she could stand on her own and make a very contented life.
Which didn't mean, she admitted, that she didn't miss a certain amount of companionship, or sexual heat, or the heady challenge of the mating dance with an interesting, attractive man.
She heard his tires crunch on her gravel drive. One step at a time, she told herself, and waited for him to knock.
All right, she thought, so she did feel a rush of heat the minute she opened the door and looked at him. It only proved that she was human, and she was healthy.
"Good morning," she said, as manners had her stepping back to let him inside.
"Morning. I love this place. I just realized that if you hadn't snapped it up before I got back home, I would have."
"Lucky for me."
"I'll say." He scanned the living area as he wandered. Strong colors, good fabrics, he mused. It could've used a little more clutter for his taste, but it suited her with its good, carefully selected pieces, the fresh flowers and the tidy air of it all. "You said you wanted to work outside."
"Yeah. Oh, hey, your painting." He shifted the package wrapped in brown paper under his arm and handed it to her. "I'll hang it for you if you've picked your spot."
"That was quick." And because she couldn't resist, she sat on the sofa and ripped off the wrapping.
He'd chosen thin strips of wood stained a dull gold that complemented the rich tones of the flowers and foliage so that the frame was as simple and strong as the painting.
"It's perfect. Thank you. It's a wonderful start to my Seth Quinn collection."
"Planning on a collection?"
She ran a finger over the top of the frame as she looked up at him. "Maybe. And I'd take you up on hanging it for me because I'm dying to see how it looks, but I don't have the proper hanger."
"Like this?" He dug the one he'd brought with him out of his pocket.
"Like that." She angled her head, considered. "You're very handy, aren't you?"
"Damn near indispensable. Got a hammer, and a tape measure, or should I get mine out of my car?"
"I happen to have a hammer and other assorted household tools." She rose, went into the kitchen and came back with a hammer so new it gleamed.
"Where do you want it?"
"Upstairs. My bedroom." She turned to lead the way. "What's in the bag?"
"Stuff. The guy who rehabbed this place knew what he was doing." Seth examined the satin finish on the banister as they climbed to the second floor. "I wonder how he could stand to let it go."
"He likes the work itself—and the profit. Once he's finished, he's bored and wants to move on. Or so he told me when I asked just that."
"How many bedrooms? Three?"
"Four, though one's quite small, more suited to a home office or a little library."
"A finished attic, which has potential for a small apartment. Or," she said with a glance at him, "an artist's garret."
She turned into a room, and Seth saw immediately she'd selected what suited her best here as well. The windows gave her a view of the river, a sweep of trees and shady garden. The window trim was just fussy enough to be charming, and she'd chosen to drape filmy white gauze in a kind of long swag around them in lieu of formal curtains. It diffused the sunlight and still left the view and the craftsmanship of the trim.
She'd gone for cerulean blue on the walls, scattered a couple of floral rugs on the pine floor, and had stuck with antiques for the furnishings.
The bed was tidily made, as he'd expected, and covered with a white quilt with intricate interlocking rings and rosebuds that seemed to have been crafted specifically for the sleigh bed.
"Great piece." He leaned down to get a closer look at the workmanship of the quilt. "Heirloom?"
"No. I found it at an arts-and-crafts fair in Pennsylvania last year. I thought the wall between these windows. It'll be good light without direct sun."
"Good choice." He held the painting up. "And it'll be like another window, so you'll have flowers during the winter." Her thoughts, Dru admitted, exactly. "About here?"
She stepped back, checked the position from several different angles—resisting, only because it was a bit too suggestive, lying down on the bed to see how it would look to her when she woke in the mornings. "That's perfect."
He reached behind the painting, scraping a vague mark on the wall with his thumbnail, then set it aside to measure.
It was odd, she thought, having a man in her bedroom again. And far from unpleasant to watch him with his tools and his painting, his rough clothes and his beautiful hands.
Far from unpleasant, she admitted, to imagine those beautiful hands on her skin.
"See what you think about what's in the bag," he said without looking around.
She picked it up, opened it. And her eyebrows lifted high as she took out the long, filmy skirt—purple pansies rioting against a cool blue background—and the thin-strapped, narrow top in that same shade of blue.
"You're a determined man, aren't you?"
"It'll look good on you, and it's the look I'm after."
"And you get what you're after."
He glanced back now, his expression both relaxed and cocky.
"So far. You got any of those…" He made a circle with his finger in the air. "Hoop ear things. They'd work with that." I should've known, Dru thought, but only said, "Hmm." She laid the skirt and top on the bed, then stepped back as he fixed the painting on its hook. "Left bottom needs to come up a little—too much. There. That's perfect. Painted, framed and hung by Quinn. Not a bad deal on my side."
"It looks good from my end, too," he said, staring at her. When he took a step toward her, she considered taking one toward him. Before the phone rang.
"Excuse me." For the best, she assured herself as she picked up the bedside phone. "Hello."
"Dad." Pleasure, distress and, shamefully, a thread of annoyance knotted inside her. "Why aren't you on the seventh green by this time on a Sunday morning?"
"I've got some difficult news." Proctor let out a long sigh. "Sweetheart, your mother and I are getting divorced."
"I see." The pulse in her temple began to throb. "I need you to wait just a minute." She pushed the hold button, turned to Seth. "I'm sorry, I need to take this. There's coffee in the kitchen.
I shouldn't be long."
"Okay." Her face had gone blank on him. It was very still and very empty. "I'll grab a cup before I go out to set up. Take your time."
She waited until she heard him start down the steps, then sat on the side of the bed and reconnected with her father. "I'm sorry, Dad. What happened?" And bit her tongue before she could finish the question with: this time.
"I'm afraid your mother and I haven't been getting along for quite a while. I've tried to shield you from our problems. I have no doubt we'd have taken this step years ago if it hadn't been for you. But, well, these things happen, princess."
"I'm very sorry." She knew her job well and finished with, "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Ah well. I'm sure I'd feel better if I could explain things to you, so I'm sure you're not upset by all this. It's too complicated to discuss on the phone. Why don't you come up this afternoon? We'll have lunch, just you and me. Nothing would brighten my day more than spending it with my little girl."
"I'm sorry. I've got a commitment today."
"Surely, under the circumstances, this is more important." Her temple throbbed, and guilt began to roil in her stomach. "I can't break this engagement. In fact, I was just about to—"
"All right. That's all right," he said in a voice that managed to be both long-suffering and brisk. "I'd hoped you'd have some time for me. Thirty years. Thirty, and it comes down to this."
Dru rubbed at the tension banding the back of her neck. "I'm sorry, Dad."
She lost track of the times she echoed that phrase during the rest of the conversation. But she knew
when she hung up she was exhausted from repeating it.
No sooner had she set the phone down, than it rang again.
Thirty years, Dru thought, might account for the sixth sense her parents had in regard to each other. Resigned, she picked up the phone.
HE'D SPREAD a red blanket on the grass near the bank of the river where there were both beams of sunlight and dappled shade. He added a wicker picnic basket, propping an open bottle of wine and a stemmed glass against it. A slim book with a ragged white cover lay beside it.
She'd changed into the clothes he'd brought, put on the hoop earrings as he'd requested. And had used the time to steady herself.
His table was up, his sketch pad on it. At the foot was a portable stereo, but instead of the driving rock, it was Mozart. And that surprised her.
"Sorry I held you up," she said as she stepped off the porch. "No problem." One look at her face had him crossing to her. He put his arms around her and, ignoring her flinch, held her gently. A part of her wanted to burrow straight into that unquestioning offer of comfort. "Do I look that bad?"
"You look that sad." He brushed his lips over her hair. "You want to do this some other time?"
"No. It's nothing, really. Just habitual family insanity."
"I'm good at that." He tipped her head back with his fingers. "An expert on family insanity."
"Not this kind." She eased back. "My parents are getting divorced."
"Oh baby." He touched her cheek. "I'm sorry."
"No, no, no." To his bafflement, she laughed and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. "You don't get it. They whack the D word around like a Ping-Pong ball. Every couple of years I
get the call. 'Dru, I have difficult news.' Or 'Dru, I'm not sure how to tell you.' Once, when I was sixteen, they actually separated for nearly two months. Being careful to time it during my summer break so my mother could flee to Europe with me for a week, then my father could drag me off with him to Bar Harbor to sail."
"Sounds more like you've been the Ping-Pong ball."
"Yes, it does. They wear me out, which is why I ran away before… before I started to despise them. And still, I wish to God they'd just go through with it. That sounds cold and selfish and horrible."
"No, it doesn't. Not when you've got tears in your eyes."