Love - From His Point Of View!. Maureen Child

said things hadn’t been changed in a long time. You must have had something in mind.”

      “I’d paint the walls,” she said promptly.

      I looked around critically. “Nothing wrong with the paint.”

      “It’s white, Ben.”

      “So?”

      “So the room could use some color. Red would be great.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “Green would be good, too—a rich green, nothing wimpy. But this couch is a lovely, warm brown. I think red would be great with it. And maybe some molding over the fireplace to match the crown moldings. That would make the mantel really pop.”

      I eyed her dubiously. “You sound like an upscale decorator.”

      She laughed. “I’ll admit to being hooked on those shows on cable.”

      “They have decorating shows?”

      “Don’t watch much TV, do you?”

      “Not if I can help it.”

      “Well, there’s a whole network devoted to it. Shows about gardening and all kinds of decorating—window treatments, kitchen remodels, painting techniques, all that sort of thing.” She grinned. “A friend of mine calls it female porn. We can look and drool, but we can’t touch.”

      “Sounds about right.” I gave a thoughtful nod. “Green, maybe. I could see a pale green in here. Or purple.”

      “Uh…purple?”

      “Sure. Put a little gilding on the crown moldings, too. It would really dress the place up.”

      She caught on. “Gilding the moldings! I never would have thought of that. But then, you really must use red for the walls. Chinese red. And maybe a little pagoda in the corner?”

      We spent the next few minutes turning my living room into a Chinese emperor’s nightmare, complete with bamboo, lacquered screens and dragons, all in the most garish cast of colors possible. Somehow that evolved into a discussion of building styles, remodeling and how to honor the architectural integrity of a building when creating an addition.

      Now, all this was right up my alley. I don’t often swing a hammer or hang drywall myself these days, but I’ve done it enough in the past. A good builder has to know a little about everything, from the right temperature to pour concrete to the current craze for paint glazes to how to shore up a damaged load-bearing wall. So it might seem like I was enjoying some shop talk and Seely was humoring me, but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t about me at all. I would have talked about blueberry muffin recipes if that’s what got her this excited, just so I could watch her glow.

      This slow-moving woman came alive when she talked houses. Which was downright peculiar for a woman with no nesting urges.

      “Your den is an addition, isn’t it?” she said. She was snuggled into the corner of the couch, her shoes off and her feet tucked up. A strand of hair had worked loose to wiggle along her temple and cheekbone like a hyperactive question mark.

      I grimaced. “Sticks out like a sore thumb, doesn’t it? I’ve always meant to redo it. The roofline messes up the rear and side elevations. My father had it done, and I don’t think he gave a thought to how it fit with the rest of the house’s style.”

      “He wasn’t interested in construction and architecture himself, then?”

      “Sure, if it took place two or three thousand years ago.”

      “I’ve wondered about that,” she said slowly. “I would have thought there would be exotic mementos scattered around from all the time he spent abroad. Pot shards, maybe, or a scarab or two.”

      “I’ve got a pretty little Egyptian lady in my bedroom, on the dresser. Most of that stuff is boxed up, though. Never really knew what to do with it. Now what,” I demanded, “did I say to put that polite look on your face?”

      “Who, me? Polite?”

      “Like you’re thinking something you’re too nice to say.”

      “Oh.” She flushed. “And here I’m trying to be tactful…it just seems like you have some issues with your parents. Maybe with the way they died and left you to raise the family they’d started.”

      My good mood evaporated. “I did what had to be done. That’s all.”

      “And that was a less-than-delicate hint to close the subject. Good enough.” She said that with perfect good humor, but rose to her feet. “I’d better go check on the roast.”

      “Don’t rush off. I didn’t mean to…dammit, you can’t get offended every time I’m an ass, or we won’t be able to talk at all.”

      She patted my shoulder. “No offense taken. I don’t blame you for getting testy when people make a fuss about the way you took on the responsibility for your brothers and sisters. It must seem sometimes as if you’re defined by what happened twenty years ago. As if nothing you’ve done since then matters, compared to that.”

      Having leveled me with a few words, she swayed gently toward the door. “Supper should be ready soon. You want to eat on a tray in here?”

      I must have answered, because she left the room. God only knows what I said. I don’t know how long I sat staring at the wall and seeing nothing, either.

      Eventually sheer physical discomfort roused me. My shoulder this time. I mushed some pillows around to create more support for it, leaned back and waited for the fire to die down.

      The blasted woman had a bad habit of saying outrageous things, then wandering off, leaving me no one to argue with but myself. That would stop, I promised myself. If she was going to drop bombshells, she could damned well hang around and deal with the debris.

      But Seely wasn’t in the habit of hanging around.

      Never mind. People could change, right? She was big on changing walls and furniture. She could just get used to the idea of changing a couple of habits, too.

      It was a helluva thing, but somewhere between Chinesered walls and that irritating pat on my shoulder, my gut had made a decision without consulting the rest of me. For the next few days, I’d be such a good patient my family would worry about me.

      Because I had to get well and fire Seely. Soon. I was going to have that woman out of my employ—and in my bed.

      Six

      The next day, Manny came over for lunch. He dropped off the paint we’d chosen and some painting equipment, then helped Seely move the furniture out of the living room.

      I can’t explain how I came to agree to this. Slippery, that’s what she is. She started out by acting as if I’d already agreed. I recognized this trick, since Annie used to pull it. She’d get me to agree that music is important, mention that she wanted to spend the night with a friend, then pretend that meant I’d agreed to let her go to a concert in Denver with that friend.

      When I explained Annie’s teenage tricks to Seely, she looked thoughtful and said she really needed to meet my sister. The next thing I knew we were discussing paint colors.

      I did protest. She wasn’t being paid to paint my house, for God’s sake. And I couldn’t help her. She wouldn’t have let me, for one thing. I couldn’t pretend it would be unreasonable to forbid me to paint the living room, so I was bound by our agreement.

      But that did not make it reasonable for her to do it, either. I asked if she’d ever done any painting.

      “Not a lick,” she’d said cheerfully. “We’ll pull the couch into the middle of the room. You can lie there and supervise.”

      Sage green. That’s the color we ended up with.

      I