Secondhand secrets, p.15
Secondhand Secrets, page 15
“If that’s the plan, I’m sure to sorely disappoint everyone.” He snapped his focus back to Dean and took a quick swig of his beer. “I have too much to return to in Boston.”
That much was true. He did have things to achieve and a skillset and career that needed exploring. He would never be happy without seeing that part of his life through. But then Ally—the woman he fast envisioned his future with—well, she lived here in Harlow and perhaps always would.
“You mean, like that grant everyone keeps talking about?” Blaine pointed his bottle at Chip before retracting it. “I hear you’ll be outta here in about nine days, ready to collect your prize.”
Chip’s quick chuckle faded to a silent frown. Everyone’s talking about this grant. Maybe the pressure to impress wasn’t so removed from Harlow after all, although the people here would likely give him less flack if he failed to win.
His father’s voice whispered in his ear, “Mediocrity is not an option. You have to be flawless.” Physically. Intellectually. Professionally. But right now, Stonewall had flaws. The security components weren’t fully stable yet, and being a security program, that was a huge deal.
But Encode doesn’t expect a finished product.
But if Stonewall was imperfect, then so was Chip, and imperfection opened him to failure and scrutiny soon after.
He took another sip of his beer, his focus pinned to the meat sizzling on the grill ahead. As much as he rebelled against his dad’s thinking, his fear of failure was so ingrained that incessant doubts left Chip something to prove. To himself. To his father. As though proving himself would heal him or set him free.
Perhaps financially, but not in the ways I’d like.
“It’s nice not to be the one cooking for a change.” Gordon nodded to the grill Chip stared at, as if the man assumed Chip’s line of sight meant he’d been thinking about food.
“Here’s hoping Ally’s dad can level up to a Gordon O’Dwyer steak.” Blaine gave Gordon a friendly slap on the back. “Otherwise, you and the rest of us might be heading back to Maynard’s for a meal after all.”
“I think I’m morally obliged to stay.” Chip shrugged and gave a mock sigh. “But Sarah tells me Gordon’s pies net Maynard’s a healthy stream of positive online reviews, so save one for me if things don’t work out here.”
“Uff-dah.” Gordon gave a light-hearted chuckle and nudged Chip with an elbow, his pale cheeks sporting a distinct flush. “Thanks for giving me a reason to hit Sarah up for a pay raise, but I’m sure Mr. Egan is more than passable on the grill. I’m also sure he, like the rest of us, is just glad to see Ally Egan happy for a change.”
Chip took a few moments to stare down at his beer bottle, pretending the red and white label held far more interest than it actually did. “For now, anyway.”
“I don’t know, Chip.” This time Blaine spoke, the jovial spark in his green eyes expressing hopefulness. “You’ve brought a new spark to her eye. Maybe you’ll both figure out a way to make things work.”
Though Chip opened his mouth to express his doubts, Gordon cut in first. “Not as though we haven’t seen more unlikely couples end up together.”
He, Blaine, and then Dean gave a unified and knowing nod.
“Oh, yeah?” Never one to admit defeat, Chip jutted his chin in Gordon’s direction. “And what about you? Have you ended up with anyone lately?”
“Ha!” Dean threw his head back before returning his focus to the group. “The man’s caught in a perpetual loop of hiding in Maynard’s kitchen or sleeping off a late shift. I’d be surprised if any woman here even remembers what he looks like.”
“Hey!” Gordon sent Dean a mock glare. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
A flurry of activity exploded from Ally’s general direction, and Dean’s chance to reply died.
Chip twisted around to see Ally’s mother hurrying toward the back porch, her hand pressed over her cheek in a gesture of despair. Laila ran close behind, her daughter Whitney, joining the train of Egan women disappearing into the house.
All but Ally. She sat alone on her outdoor chair, her fingers clawing into the wooden armrests, her wide and baffled gaze flicking over the crowd of visitors before stopping dead on him.
His first instinct was to race over there, but in his momentary shock, Aggie, Maureen, Emilia, and Sheriff Marlin got to her first. All those people.
All far more reliable than he could be. Maybe he had no place in that huddle. Maybe it was unfair to establish himself as a source of comfort in her life. Aggie turned to him, her gaze sage in color and in character, a slight tilt of her head commanding him to gather some courage and come on over.
So, he did. He excused himself from the guys. He crossed the lawn. And the gathering around Ally parted through some unspoken pact to have him be the one to soothe her.
She lifted her watery gaze to him, and a silent beat passed before she rose. Instinct took over, and he wrapped her in his arms, dropping a kiss to her forehead and only disconnecting enough to ask, “Are you okay?”
She slid back and nodded, her throat bobbing in denial of whatever ease her nod conveyed. “I only half-know what just happened.”
She peered over her shoulder to the house, to where her mother had disappeared, the space between Ally’s brow now indented with shallow wrinkles.
His pulse climbed, and his mouth dried at the unspoken things she half-knew about her mother’s sudden exit, and the pure anguish of not knowing had him capturing Ally’s chin and turning her back to him. “Are we okay?”
Her expanding pupils paired with a non-reply, his question seeming to hit a pertinent dilemma while her unsteady nod once more failed to convince.
All signs of chatter and joy left the people around him, and the burn of their stares seared into his skin. He didn’t want to ask her to follow him wherever his career took him. Harlow was her home. She’d said that herself. She’d said that she couldn’t leave the people she loved. This gathering alone attested to the value they added to her life. A value he’d experienced for himself, where his own family fell short. A value he could never hope to replace. Besides, just asking would be too close to a commitment—a commitment he wasn’t sure either one was ready to make. Still, anguish surged into desperation and his once-reliable logic fled.
“Come to Boston with me.”
He clenched his jaw shut, and his insides shifted at his impulsive and completely selfish invitation. Probably the last thing she needed right now. Probably the last thing he needed, too. What about his plans to establish his career ahead of anything personal? And what if she wouldn’t follow him? Would he ever stay here?
That he even posed that question meant that something had just changed, but he didn’t want to analyze what. So, he scrambled to put things right, by adding, “Not to stay. Just a visit to decide what you think of the place. You know, a chance to see somewhere outside of Minnesota?”
Crapola. Her mouth wavered open and closed, but she said nothing, his reasoning not much stronger than his initial invite. Not that he could retract anything now. Heck, did he even want to?
A few creaks escaped her lips all while a new rush of thoughts conspired to convince him that having her accept his offer was suddenly critical.
But the background screech of hinges left Ally’s attention pinned to the house, where her mom and sister soon came strolling out the backdoor. Laila’s hand rested on her mother’s shoulder, and Velma’s chin tilted down, half-obscuring a sheepish smile.
Her cheeks held a red glow, but she extended a small wave to her guests. “Don’t mind me, everyone. Just having a moment.”
Her trudging steps took her across the lawn to her seat, and she gave a wobbly laugh, winking at Ally, which drew a few, relieved chuckles from the engrossed crowd.
Renewed conversations broke around, but the lighter shift in mood couldn’t be applied to him and Ally.
He reached out and pulled her into him, admitting through embrace that their problems had no clear solution. That maybe he’d been wrong to ask for anything more than what they currently shared.
And still, he couldn’t keep from asking because asking was, by far, less excruciating than having to leave her behind.
Twenty-Four
The next day, Chip stood amongst the bustle of children and parents gathered at Aggie’s nursery, a place he hadn’t visited since he’d been a kid. New shade cloths stretched overhead, sun rays piercing the in-between spaces while nearby fountains burbled a soothing and watery song.
The woman of his affection hadn’t yet noticed him and sat at a table surrounded by children, wincing at the green paint Whitney dabbed at the center of her forehead.
An overly enthused beam tugged at his face, and he drew closer. From her fitted pink t-shirt to her short and fluttery green skirt—plus, the fact she didn’t mind Whitney’s form of artistic expression—Ally looked a vision in what was a very Ally moment.
He tracked his gaze down to the skirt again, a scintillating portion of her thigh exposed, though he was quick to wipe his grin away, his current thoughts not right in a family setting.
“How did you know to find me here?” Ally’s bright lilt jolted him from his daydream, and he snapped his attention to her upturned stare.
“The flyers around town tipped me off.” He shrugged, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an I should have figured as much expression.
He jutted his chin to the tables teaming with children, paint, clay, wayward soil, and potted plants. “The flyers also said you’ll be finished soon. So…”
“So you’re staging an ambush?” She smiled, then winced again, another spot of paint hitting her right cheek. “There’s a lot to clean up before I can go anywhere.”
“All good.” He pulled out a chair and sat beside her, waving away Whitney’s slow approach to paint his face too. “I’ll help you.”
Her eyes shone their brilliant blue, causing his heart to do a hard thump beneath his ribcage. “Well, thank you.”
Seeing her here, absorbed in her self-created world of color and fun, a world that contradicted her claims of being a woman incapable of pulling her act together. She had her act together just fine. Only her act looked a million ways different to his, and he couldn’t help but be transfixed.
The mess. The squeals of laughter. Seedlings in pots and splashes of paint. Her presence sat at the core of all this joy, a joy only marred because he’d asked her to come with him to Boston, and she hadn’t yet given him an answer.
Then again, how can I take her away from all this?
“Nice to see you again, Chip.” This time, it was Aggie’s voice that interrupted his thoughts, and she strolled toward him from between a line of tall shelves. “I’m gonna guess your presence means I don’t have to help tidy up?”
He stood and confirmed her theory with a laugh, giving her an obligatory kiss on the cheek when she reached him.
Meanwhile, Ally clapped her hands, her outward gaze vying for the children’s attention. “Judging by the state of this nursery, it’s safe to say you all had an awesome time. Unfortunately, today’s session is over, so anyone with work left in the potting or painting station can take their art home now. Everyone with clay pots waiting to be fired in the kiln, you can come back and collect those in two days.”
The noise level lifted, and children jumped from their seats, scattering in all directions, many to Ally for a goodbye hug before returning to their parents.
“She’s great”—Aggie nudged him in the side with an elbow—“isn’t she?”
He stared at Ally, his heart thudding again because the moment held a hard to define magic, and his time with her seemed to tick faster and faster away.
“She is.”
He suppressed a frown. Maybe because he’d been wrong to ask her to come away with him. Maybe because she had more working for her here than he ever did on his side of the country, forever tripping over himself to make the right choices, all the while not knowing what they were.
He shook the thought off and focused on Ally strolling over while the last child skipped away. “Ready to get to work?”
He nodded, and Aggie gave Ally a farewell pat on the arm. “I’m off to shoot the breeze with whoever I can find at Maynard’s. I’ll set the lock on the nursery gate, just be sure to pull it all the way shut when you leave.”
While Aggie strolled away, Ally turned to a table and began collecting paint palettes, leaving him to figure out the mess strewn across the potting station.
“Ahh…” He stared at the multiple piles of dirt about the tempered glass surface. “Any chance you got a pan and brush stashed around here somewhere?”
She pointed to one of three metal carts, a stack of cleaning equipment nestled on the second shelf. “Over there. But first, let’s load the other carts with whatever’s on the tables. There’ll be less stuff to clean around, and then we can wheel what’s left to the kiln room.”
“Great idea.”
He collected what he could, shifting spades, unused pots, paint palettes, and brushes to a cart. Fifteen minutes of comfortable silence passed before everything was loaded and the tables wiped down.
Soon, he pushed the heaviest cart toward the pottery shed, Ally leading the way to a small, white building with two windows and a tiny wedge of wood holding the solitary door open.
He wrangled his cart inside, the room’s bright airiness catching him off guard. Despite the limited space, the muddy scent of clay added an uncomplicated mood—like memories of childhood—mixed with his ability to just see Ally spending all her spare time here. In her place of retreat.
“We’ll leave the wet clay pots on the cart to dry, and I’ll come in tomorrow to fire them.” Ally parked her cart against a wall and turned to him with a smile. “They’ll explode in the kiln if I do it earlier.”
“Exploding pots?” He left his cart next to Ally’s and peered about the room, taking in more details—the set of wall-to-ceiling shelves that supported her creations in various stages of completion, a two-person, magenta couch tucked along a side wall, the contrasting marigold and lapis blue cushions scattered on top.
He strode deeper into the room and eyed an octagonal machine he assumed was the kiln, the thing tucked into a corner not far from a small kitchenette, complete with kettle and sink.
“I’m sure exploding pots will bring about more than a few tears.” She pulled her purse from atop the kitchenette bench. “And that’s just the children.”
She let out a quick laugh and produced a hand mirror from her bag, her expression dropping the moment she brought the mirror to face level.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She flicked her wide-eyed gaze to him, and he tried not to laugh.
“What?” He shrugged, raising his hands and professing innocence. “I thought you looked cute.”
“Cute?” Her voice shouted out in an aghast tone, and she twisted the kitchenette’s tap to a heavy flow. “Half my face is painted green!”
“I guess beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” He jammed his hands into his pockets and bit back another laugh. “And just to be clear, I have no issues with your Princess Fiona look.”
“Shrek references, really?” She growled and hunched over the sink, splashing water over her face and scrubbing away before straightening and tugging a hand towel from a nearby hook. “Chip Overton, you think yourself too clever.”
He chuckled and strolled closer, reaching for the hand towel. “I have the papers to prove I am clever. Here, you’ve missed a spot.”
She dropped her shoulders and handed him the towel, her eyes closing as he drew in to remove green from around her nose creases.
“Still think you could have warned me.” Her voice was a sulky mumble, but the slight upward curve of her lips hinted at no real offense. “There I was, just merrily chatting to people, and the whole time my head looked like a cabbage.”
Her words brought another smile to his face, and he drew the towel away to press a soft and prolonged kiss to her lips. “And miss this? I don’t think so.”
Her tense shoulders eased lower, and her eyelids fluttered open, her gentle stare on him seeming to muddle through some unspoken problem in her head. “Is the paint all gone?”
Her new husky tone wrapped around him like a wool blanket, just as the light dimmed and a pronounced click came from behind him. She jolted back and then shoved past, her quick steps taking her to the suddenly closed door.
“Oh, no.” She wrestled with the silver handle and a repeated clack-clack-clack filled the air, but her efforts were to no avail. “No, no, no, no, no!”
He strode over to her, now slapping both palms to the door’s glass window. “Someone must have bumped the door stopper on the way in.”
A low growl rolled up her throat and released on a loud and frustrated “Arghhh” before she took out her mood on the ineffectual door stopper, kicking it across the lead-gray polished concrete until it bounced against the nearest wall and then rolled to a stop.
She sent him a taut and silent stare, then stormed across the room and back to her purse. Soon, the contents lay strewn over a small table, tubes of lip gloss, loose tissues, her phone… she sifted through it all in fevered sweeping motions, only to turn to him with shadows under her now glistening eyes. “They’re not here. My keys, they must be in my cardigan pocket, and that’s draped over my chair at the outside tables… I’ll… I’ll have to call Aggie.”
A small silence lingered, and she wandered over to the couch, plonking herself down onto the bright, velvety cushions, her cell phone clasped in her hand. “She’ll have to double back all the way from Maynard’s. I’m such an idiot.”
But she was so much more than she gave herself credit for, and he hated hearing her speak that way. “What about the windows? One of us could climb out and—”
