she given her? Certainly nothing like Eileen’s.
She knew she should resist, but now that the question had been raised, she couldn’t. She called up the address book, scrolled down to the T s. A first quick glance showed no entry for Therese.
A second sharp glance showed she was wrong. She was listed, all right, just under another name.
TheB*tch.
Carefully she set the phone down. She put the Bible beside it, turned off the lamp, drew her knees to her chest, and she wept.
Chapter Five
S aturday morning found Carly running through her usual routine: cleaning, doing laundry, vacuuming. Next she did her grocery shopping for the week, and then the rest of the day was free.
Free had been so much better when there was someone to share it with.
Today, though, she had plans for the afternoon. She was going to move the furniture away from the main wall in the living room, put down a drop cloth and open those three small cans of paint. It had been too late Thursday by the time she’d come home from Therese’s, or so she’d told herself, and Friday evening she’d had a headache. The smell of paint, she’d convinced herself, would likely have made her sick.
But she’d slept well last night, and today was sunny and warm, and she felt energetic. Who knew? She might even clean out the cabinets and closets when she was done or organize the mess of her desk or even find something to do in the yard.
After she finished putting away the groceries, including two cartons of her favorite Braum’s ice cream—an excellent reason in and of itself for staying in Oklahoma—she ate the fast-food lunch she’d picked up on the way home, then started prepping the living room.
Despite its heft, the couch slid away from the wall easily. The end table, a hand-me-down from Jeff’s grandmother, was easy, too. She reminded herself to switch it to the other end when she put it back, so she could keep her promise to Lisa.
With everything in—or out of—place, she pried open the first can of paint and stirred it. It looked like the richest, most luxurious chocolate before it was poured into molds to set, and it flowed over the dingy white with each stroke.
The hunter green was gorgeous, too, peaceful and serene, and the burnt orange warmed the room with a pop of color.
Done, she sprawled in the chair across the room, slumped down, stared at the three rectangles of beautiful change and wondered, just as she had at the paint counter, how she was supposed to decide. She liked all three. Compared to the bland white, she might even love them.
The ring of the cell phone drew her gaze to it. The people who called often had personalized ring tones—the margarita club’s was “Margaritaville,” of course—but this was the standard ring for not-family, not-close-friends. Still gazing at the wall, she picked it up and absently murmured, “Hello.”
“Hey. Uh, it’s Dane. Is this, uh, a bad time?”
Pleasure coursed through her with a flare of heat, her lips curving into a smile as she sat straighter in the chair. “Depends on what you want to do. It’s not the best weather for sunbathing or building snowmen. It’s too early for planting flowers, too late for breakfast, and you’ve missed trick-or-treating by five months.”
He chuckled. “Let me be more specific. Is this a bad time to talk?”
“No. I’m just contemplating my wall, so it’s a very good time to talk.”
“Have you chosen a color yet?”
“Nope. I like all three of them. It’s a shame I can’t paint the room in stripes.”
“Actually, you could. You just have to—”
“No, no,” she interrupted. “You’re going to say something about rulers and tape and straight lines, aren’t you? And I don’t do straight lines. I don’t even hang a picture unless it’s the only thing on the whole wall. That’s how bad my idea of ‘straight’ is.”
There was a moment’s silence, then in a low voice, Dane said, “Wow. You’re really flawed, aren’t
She knew she should resist, but now that the question had been raised, she couldn’t. She called up the address book, scrolled down to the T s. A first quick glance showed no entry for Therese.
A second sharp glance showed she was wrong. She was listed, all right, just under another name.
TheB*tch.
Carefully she set the phone down. She put the Bible beside it, turned off the lamp, drew her knees to her chest, and she wept.
Chapter Five
S aturday morning found Carly running through her usual routine: cleaning, doing laundry, vacuuming. Next she did her grocery shopping for the week, and then the rest of the day was free.
Free had been so much better when there was someone to share it with.
Today, though, she had plans for the afternoon. She was going to move the furniture away from the main wall in the living room, put down a drop cloth and open those three small cans of paint. It had been too late Thursday by the time she’d come home from Therese’s, or so she’d told herself, and Friday evening she’d had a headache. The smell of paint, she’d convinced herself, would likely have made her sick.
But she’d slept well last night, and today was sunny and warm, and she felt energetic. Who knew? She might even clean out the cabinets and closets when she was done or organize the mess of her desk or even find something to do in the yard.
After she finished putting away the groceries, including two cartons of her favorite Braum’s ice cream—an excellent reason in and of itself for staying in Oklahoma—she ate the fast-food lunch she’d picked up on the way home, then started prepping the living room.
Despite its heft, the couch slid away from the wall easily. The end table, a hand-me-down from Jeff’s grandmother, was easy, too. She reminded herself to switch it to the other end when she put it back, so she could keep her promise to Lisa.
With everything in—or out of—place, she pried open the first can of paint and stirred it. It looked like the richest, most luxurious chocolate before it was poured into molds to set, and it flowed over the dingy white with each stroke.
The hunter green was gorgeous, too, peaceful and serene, and the burnt orange warmed the room with a pop of color.
Done, she sprawled in the chair across the room, slumped down, stared at the three rectangles of beautiful change and wondered, just as she had at the paint counter, how she was supposed to decide. She liked all three. Compared to the bland white, she might even love them.
The ring of the cell phone drew her gaze to it. The people who called often had personalized ring tones—the margarita club’s was “Margaritaville,” of course—but this was the standard ring for not-family, not-close-friends. Still gazing at the wall, she picked it up and absently murmured, “Hello.”
“Hey. Uh, it’s Dane. Is this, uh, a bad time?”
Pleasure coursed through her with a flare of heat, her lips curving into a smile as she sat straighter in the chair. “Depends on what you want to do. It’s not the best weather for sunbathing or building snowmen. It’s too early for planting flowers, too late for breakfast, and you’ve missed trick-or-treating by five months.”
He chuckled. “Let me be more specific. Is this a bad time to talk?”
“No. I’m just contemplating my wall, so it’s a very good time to talk.”
“Have you chosen a color yet?”
“Nope. I like all three of them. It’s a shame I can’t paint the room in stripes.”
“Actually, you could. You just have to—”
“No, no,” she interrupted. “You’re going to say something about rulers and tape and straight lines, aren’t you? And I don’t do straight lines. I don’t even hang a picture unless it’s the only thing on the whole wall. That’s how bad my idea of ‘straight’ is.”
There was a moment’s silence, then in a low voice, Dane said, “Wow. You’re really flawed, aren’t
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