Love Makes the Difference (Sully Point Book 1) (6 page)

BOOK: Love Makes the Difference (Sully Point Book 1)
5.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

* * * *

As Sam drove the Aston-Martin back to the store, Frank sat
quietly in the passenger seat. He was thinking about several things. He found
he was glad Sam was not an assassin, hit man, con man or even a Hollywood
producer. The idea that he was a writer was unexpected, but Frank could live
with that easily. The reason he was so glad had been the look in Anna's eyes at
the loft. He'd suspected before now she might be finding herself attracted to
Sam. But the hurt and betrayal in her eyes as she looked at Sam in the loft
made it a certainty. Those feelings were only so strong because she did feel
something for him.

What he also found reassuring about Sam not being a hit man
was that he'd seen Sam's face when Anna got upset. And it was the face of a man
falling in love.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Anna curled up on the old, beat-up couch and stared at the
wall. She couldn't think. All she could do was feel betrayed. Her own father...granted
what he said made sense. She knew he'd never have purposely violated her trust
and her space if he'd known the paintings were out in plain view. But it had
happened. And it wasn't just him, it was Sam, too!

That was the part making her squirm inside. Because deep
down she was beginning to wonder what he thought of what he'd seen. Like she cared
what he thought of her work! And she couldn't blame anyone else for that curiosity
about his opinion. Plus, all this was her own fault because she hadn't put away
the paintings in the first place. She wanted to crawl under a rock and not come
out for a century or two.

Sighing, she scrubbed her face with her hands and yanked her
hair out of the pony tail holder. She stood up and realized her shoulders were
slumped. Enough! Straightening her shoulders, she glanced around the room and
decided she was not going spend the rest of the day crying her eyes out. Nor
was she taking up residence under a rock. There was one thing she knew to do
that would help with all the confusing feelings and that was to paint. First,
though, she moved all the paintings along the walls into the crate as she had planned.
Pulling out a new canvas, she set it on the easel and starting choosing paint
colors based on her mood.

Surprisingly enough, the paint colors weren't all dark. They
were intense colors, a brilliant red, deep orange, white, yellow--and she
realized by looking at them that her main emotion now was anger. She just
wasn't quite sure who she was most angry at--her father, Sam, or herself.

* * * *

That night at dinner, Anna didn't show up. Frank was worried
about her, but also understood she needed her space after the intrusion into
her loft.

Cody arrived looking worried.

"What's up with you, son? You look like some dog ate
your homework."

"It's not funny, Dad. I heard something today that
kinda freaked me out. Have you heard the new rumor about Sam Carter?"

"No, can't say that I have," Frank said as he
served pot roast with potatoes and carrots to both of them.

"People are saying he's chasing Anna. That he's been going
to visit her at the bakery every day and he's been paying her all kinds of
attention. Meanwhile, we don't even know what he does for a living. He could be
a terrorist for all we know."

"He's not a terrorist," Frank said flatly. "Something
much more complex. He's a writer."

Cody's mouth fell open for a moment. "What? A writer? You
mean, he writes books? How did you find that out?"

"He told me, and I have good reason to believe he was
telling me the truth, at that time in particular. And if he is visiting Anna at
the bakery--so what?" He reached for the bowl of salad and passed it to
Cody.

"Well, yeah, I guess, but it's Anna, Dad. I wonder if
he really is a writer or if--"

"Cody! I believe the man. He came here to work on his
novel. And I think we should believe him and let him be."

"A writer--well, that is way better than him being a
terrorist, but not as cool as if he were a spy. Still, what about Anna? You
think he's interested in her? Shouldn't we do something?"

Frank regarded his son thoughtfully. "What would you
have me do? They're both adults and if she doesn't want his attention she'll
tell him so."

"Yeah, yeah, I guess she could. Good food tonight. Where
is Anna, by the way?"

"She's off on her own tonight. Speaking of which, Anna
has decided to move out into her own place. We're going to do some renovations
on her loft and she'll be living there. And by we, I mean you and me are going
to do most of the work."

Cody's eyes widened. "Anna's moving out? Will wonders
never cease! I thought she'd stay here with you forever, she always seemed so
comfortable here. What do you know, she's finally going to be on her own. I
haven't been to that loft since--well, I guess since Mom died. I remember going
there and watching Mom paint. Anna still uses the loft to paint, right?"

"Yes, she does."

The two of them were quiet as they ate steadily through the
food on the table. Cody looked at his father finally and said, "It does
seem kind of strange--a good strange--that Anna ends up painting in the same
loft Mom did. I guess Mom knew she would, though, since she left the loft to
Anna."

"Your mother was pretty perceptive about you kids. The
plan is to make the kitchen in the loft bigger and also fix up the bathroom. I
know you don't have a ton of free time, but if you could spare some hours, I'd
appreciate it."

"Sure thing, Dad. Especially because it's for Anna. I'll
tell Maria what I'm doing and she won't mind. She's pretty easygoing."

"Is Maria your latest?"

"Maria could be my last, Dad. She's really something.
She even loves to fish!"

"Hmm. I guess we'll see."

"Yeah. A writer. I definitely wouldn't have guessed
that one. Contractor, fisherman, something outdoorsy like that, but not an
indoor job like a writer. Wow."

* * * *

The next morning Sam drank coffee and thought about the town
of Sully Point. He'd developed the habit of writing his books in small towns.
The series was based in a small town, and he enjoyed living in one to pick up
the ambience, the little quirks and oddities, and normal ways of life to
incorporate into his books to add reality. He always chose a different town and
fixed up a place to work, and spent six to eight months writing the book. Thus
far, he'd managed to keep his identity a secret. His pen name was famous. His
own name was not.

He wandered into the living room. After having lived here a
while, the living room with its sliding glass door out to the beach seemed an
inspiring place to set up his computer. He knew he'd like looking up to see the
ocean out there, and watching storms roll in would probably be exhilarating.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and realized his
delivery would be arriving soon. He'd bought a vintage-style stove and
refrigerator, but with modern equipment so they functioned well as contemporary
appliances. With the ocean practically on his doorstep, he'd bought the beach-blue
color for both. The house was from the fifties, it seemed only natural that the
appliances match the retro fifties' blue.

The morning was taken up by deliveries. The appliances got dropped
off and installed. Next came the truck with his belongings. The little house
filled up quickly once everything was unloaded and brought inside.

Sam turned around and looked at the living room once he was
done setting it up.
Yes,
he thought,
this will do.
A brown leather
couch ran along one wall, with his desk and laptop computer situated right in
front of the glass doors. He'd put a large rug down on the wood plank floor,
good for pacing with bare feet. And a rocking chair was across from the couch,
always useful for thinking time. The room could still use a few odds and ends,
something for one wall in particular, but Sam thought he'd seen a sign in town
about a craft fair opening May first. Today, it was time to go food shopping
and fill up the new fridge and cabinets, along with picking up some beer--and
vodka and a jar of olives for martinis.

Facing the blank screen was hard to do, no matter how many
times he'd done it before, and running errands was a way to put it off. Besides,
he wanted to stop by the bakery and see if Anna would accept his apology for
yesterday's gaffe.

Once in town, he drove directly to the bakery. To his shock,
he discovered Anna wasn't there. The young woman managing the shop said Anna
was taking a few days off. Sam was so thrown by this he didn't even buy the
cookies he planned to stock in his kitchen.

He drove around the square twice before he realized he was
being a coward. Turning the car sharply off Main Street, he ended up parking in
front of Anna's building. As he climbed the stairs, it occurred to him that
bringing flowers would have been a good idea.
Too late to fix that now.

Sam knocked on the door three times and waited. He was
surprised by the level of trepidation he felt. After a minute-long wait, and
about the time he'd decided to leave, the door opened.

Anna stood there, auburn hair flowing down, looking as if
she'd run her hands through it numerous times. Her eyes looked more brown than
green today, matching her long brown t-shirt that had various colors of paint
smudged on it over tight, washed-out jeans. He couldn't help but notice her
phenomenal body and he stood staring at her, sensing an energy to her he'd never
felt in the bakery.

"Yes?" she said impatiently.

"I've come to apologize."

"Oh really...well...fine. I've heard your apology, now
you can go."

"Seriously, Anna, if there was anything I could do to
undo what happened I would. I know what it is to want to keep your work
private. I'm so sorry to have intruded on yours."

"Hmm. Just what is your work, anyway?"

He paused for a moment, then said, "I'm a writer.
Working on a book while I'm living here."

"Ah, I see," she said, nodding her head. "That
makes sense of some things."

He said nothing and she looked at him for a minute, then
said, "You might as well come in, you've seen it all already."

She turned away from the doorway and he walked through.
Right away he noticed all the paintings that previously had resided against the
walls were gone. Then he turned his eyes to her easel and the canvas there and
rocked back on his heels in surprise.

"Anna," he breathed and began walking forward
slowly, hand outstretched.

"Don't touch," she said sharply.

"No, of course not. It's--it's incredible. Rage, anger,
right? That's what it is?"

He turned to her and saw her mouth quirk up into a twisted
smile.

"How did you know that's what it was?"

"How could I not? It's so clear, the colors, the
brushstrokes, the intensity. It's fantastic, Anna, it really is."

She bent her head forward and her hair fell around her face
for a moment, then she looked up at him, eyes bright. A slow smile spread on
her face. "Thanks, I appreciate hearing that. It's strange for me to hear
anyone's opinion of my work, obviously. I find it weird to actually want to
know what you think of it."

"Maybe you recognize the artist in me."

"Maybe so. Have you written anything I'd recognize?"

He went quiet as he thought fast. He didn't want to lie to
her, and of course the way she'd worded that--nothing about recognizing or not
recognizing his name, but about the work itself. Damn. Part of him wanted to
tell her.

She shrugged, looking perplexed. "Not a complicated
question there, Sam. But if you don't want to talk about it..."

He sighed. "It's a tough decision for me because I'm so
used to keeping it private--like you and your paintings. But I feel like I owe
you, of all people, the truth."

He motioned to the couch. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Sure, go ahead. You want anything to drink?"

"No, I'm fine."

Anna sat in a big, comfy dark green chair across from him,
legs tucked up under her.

"Okay. I've been writing for nine years. I'm rather
prolific, publishing two novels a year. I write a mystery series about a
detective in a small town," he said, watching her brow furrow as she
thought. "But he's not just any detective, he's a psych--"

"Oh my God! The psychic detective? Maury? Maurice
Tremblay"

He nodded.

"You're Tom Anders!" He noticed her eyes widen
again and she was grinning at him.

"No, I'm not Tom Anders. I'm Sam Carter. Tom is just a
pen name. Sam is nothing like the famous Tom Anders."

"I don't know, you are a bit like your alter-ego. Tom
Anders isn't seen that often in the entertainment shows and magazines these
days. Seems like he's pretty private as well. At least, ever since
he--you--were involved with that starlet and started getting chased by the
paparazzi. Whatever happened to her anyway?"

Sam gave her an embarrassed look. "That was a moment of
celebrity insanity that ended pretty quickly."

"Now that I look at you and remember a photo I've seen
of your alter ego, I can kind of see it--but Tom Anders always wears those
black glasses and very conservative, but clearly expensive, suits and I've only
ever seen you in blue jeans."

The blush appearing on her face after saying that fascinated
Sam.

"Yes, I dress differently for those photos. Not
terribly different, but enough so I can go around like this and not be
recognized."

"Oh my--you're doing the glasses thing like Superman!"

He felt himself turn a bit red. "Well...anyway, when
the books became popular and then when Hollywood came calling, I knew I'd still
need my privacy to keep writing. I move around to different small towns to
write my books, to get into the vibe of small town life to use it in the
stories about Maurice."

BOOK: Love Makes the Difference (Sully Point Book 1)
5.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Death Train to Boston by Dianne Day
The Apocalypse Club by McLay, Craig
The Dearly Departed by Elinor Lipman
Valaquez Bride by Donna Vitek
A Cowboy Under the Mistletoe by Vicki Lewis Thompson
Total Victim Theory by Ian Ballard