Page 17 of A Small Town Spring

Toby glances at my feet, then takes a photo of them.

“Hey, those pictures better not end up online.”

He laughs.“You do have very nice feet.”

Again with a compliment and a comment about my appearance.I ruthlessly shut down the tingly feeling that wants to spread from my core to my fingers and make me reach out and touch him.

“And don’t worry.They will be for my eyes only,” he says, while I slip on faux-shearling boots and desperately try not to read anything into his words.

“Pervert,” I say affectionately as we exit through the French doors.He laughs good-naturedly and keeps taking pictures while I give him a tour of the outside, talking up a storm about the history of the house, the improvements I’ve made to it, the plans I have to put in a garage and a hot tub one of these days.

“The previous owners did a lot to establish the native pollinator garden,” I say.“I’m no expert, but I’ve tried to keep it up.”

“Beautiful,” he says.It seems to be one of his favorite words.He touches a soft green salvia leaf.It’s one of the first things that will bloom here, any day now.“I can’t wait to see it later in the season.”

“Come by anytime,” I say.“Even if I’m not here.My friends have an open invitation.”

He freezes, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped by implying he’s a friend.But he just says, “Thanks,” and starts taking pictures again.

We walk around to the front and that’s where he really gets to work, eyeing the sun and ambling into the road to get some wider shots.I duck out of what I assume is the frame, but he motions me back in.

“You aren’t painting me,” I remind him.“Or the car.”

He steps forward quickly, out of the path of an SUV that’s zooming a little too fast for my liking down Bramble Street.

“True,” he says.“But you are the soul of the house.I want to make sure I include the soul.”

I shake my head in wonder.“I don’t know how you do what you do, but I can’t wait to see how this is going to turn out.”

“You and me both.I know how to paint, but I can’t exactly explain how it comes out looking the way it does.There’s a dash of alchemy somewhere in the creative process.”

“Best not examine it too closely,” I advise.“And just do it.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Finally, he seems satisfied with the million or so shots he’s taken and comes to stand with me on the driveway between our two cars.

“Nice ride,” he says.“Had her long?”

“Her?”

He winces.“It’s a thing my dad does.Names all his cars.Of course, they’re always female.”

“So what’s her name?”I ask, pointing at his station wagon.

“Helen,” he says promptly.

“As in of Troy?”

“Actually, as in Frankenthaler.One of my favorite painters.”

I make a mental note to look her up later.“I’ve never anthropomorphized my vehicles, but if I did, this would be Daniel.”

“As in?”

“Craig.Sexy and powerful—someone I’d love to take for a ride.”

Toby, not put off by my innuendo, laughs.“Nice choice.”

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