The Color of Us Read online

  Paul stays silent until I abandon my rant. Then, he smiles. “This is your kitchen. And it’s your house. That is very clear. Right?”

  My resolution astounds even me. “Yes. This is my house. My home.”

  “And you are going to stay here,” he finishes for me.

  “Yes, I am going to stay here. I am not going back to Los Angeles.”

  There is such relief in saying these words out loud. And also such terror.

  “But you haven’t told your mother?” he prompts.

  “I haven’t even told myself, so no.” My hands shake, and I can barely breathe. “What if she doesn’t let this house be mine? What is she makes me sell it? That’s what she wants.”

  Paul’s audible exhale is practically deafening. “Callie?” He now sounds exasperated, and I’m a bit taken aback. “Do you honestly believe that your mother would sell this house out from under you?”

  It only takes a second to answer. “Yes. Of course she would.”

  “Well, you’re damn wrong. She’s hardened, and she has reason to be. But she loves you, and she’ll hear you out when it’s time.” It’s surprising to see how irritated he looks. How he defends her so easily.

  “She loves me?” I turn and slump over the sink and let out a dry laugh. “It doesn’t feel like it most of the time.”

  Paul sighs, and I can hear his sadness. “I’m sorry to hear that. And I’ve worried about what happened after she took you girls away,” he admits. But then he raises his voice and sounds firm. “Of course she loves you. I’ve known your mother for years and years. It’s hard for Cindy to talk about what happened. About her husband dying. Losing Mike and what that did to her? And now, this house, having to address all it needs? She’s got too many memories here, and she runs from them all. This house shit is triggering.” He steps in and puts a hand on my shoulder. “For you, this house seems to be healing. For your mom, it’s traumatizing—yet again. Maybe she has to learn from you.”

  My choice now is to cry or to slice my first baked bread. So, I slice and share a buttered piece with Paul.

  He takes a bite and nods enthusiastically. “This bread is killer. Jesus. Anyway, we are not building an addition, okay? That involves complicated permits, not to mention that it’d look weird. But I’ll help you make this kitchen spectacular.”

  I sniff and refrain from ensnaring him in a vise-grip hug. “But lots of other new stuff?”

  “Yes,” he agrees. “Lots of other new stuff. It might still be a small space, but it’s going to be wonderful.” He leans back and gives me a mischievous look. “Have you thought about a greenhouse window in here?”

  I smile. “Overlooking the lake?”

  He nods and takes another bite of the bread.

  “Are you going to tell her what I’m doing? What I’m asking you to do?”

  He whispers a few curses and runs a hand back and forth over the top of his head before he basically growls and blurts out, “No, I’m not. I mean, you’re paying me for more hours, so technically, I could say I thought you’d taken over …”

  Paul is so on my side, and I like it.

  I also like when Matteo and Slowski bust in and announce that the roof is done.

  “You must see!” Matteo yells. “It’s bellissima! Look at the tin!”

  “So much better. Like, that last roof was all shitty, right?” Slowski agrees and shouts out the window. “Danny, look!”

  I watch from the kitchen as Danny drops his tool belt and walks to the front of the house.

  “That’s a perfect roof. Good job, my friends!” he calls out. “And good call on the black tin roof, Callie! Super sharp!”

  Matteo makes a show of glancing at my cutting board and grinning. “Ah, is maybe lunch?”

  “Yes, is maybe lunch,” I agree.

  “Is muffuletta?” he asks with excitement.

  I try not to deflate. “You’ve had it?”

  “Is one of my loves. I know this sandwich comes from New Orleans, but I still thank you, as is all Italian ingredients and is one of my family’s favorites.”

  “Figures I’d make something you’re familiar with. At least you’ll know if I did this iconic sandwich justice,” I grumble as I shoo them out of the kitchen. “Ready in ten. Go wash up and get Danny.”

  My opinion is that the bread is slightly under baked, but no one seems to mind, given how the four of them scarf down the sandwiches with grunts and groans and sling back glass bottles of Coke. I stare wordlessly as they feast rather Neanderthal style.

  “It’s just a sandwich,” I finally say.

  “Yeah, but it’s a fucking killer sandwich,” Danny gets out between bites.

  Paul thumps the table and points at him. “Language!”

  Danny wipes his mouth and swallows hard. “You swear all the time! Still, sorry. Ahem. Lovely flavor in this layered-food luncheon composition.”

  “Obnoxious but better.” Paul does smirk though.

  When they’re done and bringing their plates to the kitchen, Slowski pats me on the back, and Matteo shocks me when he picks me up in a hug and spins us around.

  “Time here reminds me of my favorite trip to the States and also the flavors of Italy. You are so much all the things!”

  A thunderous sound from the front yard makes me jump, and Matteo pulls back and lights up. “Yes! Is washing machine and drying machine!”

  “Oh”—I smile—“I forgot.”

  “Is now day off for us, I think, yes?”

  After everyone has rinsed and tossed their plates into the dishwasher, they disperse, and I wander outside. Paul has rushed out to oversee the delivery and is also ushering around another crew who will handle these installations, so I wander over to watch Danny as he addresses the broken dock, and of course, Shallots follows.

  “Pretty cute, huh?” I whisper to the best basset hound ever. “Let’s sit and watch.”

  So we do.

  And at least one of us appreciates the fact that Danny is shirtless while in the water and working away and that he soon emerges with all sorts of bulging arm muscles.

  And we both soak up the sun, view, and fresh air. And there is no smog, no skyscrapers, no excess noise. Only the sounds of a dock being rebuilt and only silent, cute glances thrown my way. Until he finally speaks.

  “This is a piece of shit—did you know that?”

  When he sets himself decidedly and rather angrily on the few crappy boards he hasn’t ripped out yet, I probably look less than apologetic, but given how adorable he looks, I’m grateful no actual drool seems to be falling over my lips.

  “No, but you should have known,” I say. “You’ve been hanging here more than I have. Illegal boating and all.”

  He laughs. “That’s true. I didn’t realize how bad it was, but it’ll be in perfect shape by tonight.”

  “I know. I know it will.” I stand and back up slowly, but I ask, “Hey, if you want to stay for dinner again tonight, I might be making a new soup. But only if you want.”

  Danny’s smile is warm and sultry and calming and perfect. “I’m on board with anything you want.”

  “I want.”

  “So, polar bears and chill?” he asks.

  Heat rushes through me. “Yeah. Polar bears and chill.”

  twenty-three

  “You wrecked it, so you’ve got to fix it, right?” Paul asks.

  “I want to fix it.”

  “Then, let’s go.”

  With his words guiding me, I slam against the fireplace and mantel. My previous partial destruction is meeting final destruction today. It’s all coming down, and it feels glorious. This is probably the only thing that could have ripped me away from ogling Danny.

  “Don’t stop,” he says firmly.

  And so I wreck what once was until there is nothing left but bare bones. My arms throb again, and my breathing is raw, but I am so happy.

  I slump over the sledgehammer. “Now what?”

  “Now?” Paul says soothingly. “Now, yo
u rebuild. With that beautiful tile you picked out.”

  “It’s white. That’s all. Danny probably hates it.” My body is hurting, and I try to stretch away some of the discomfort, but I’m tired.

  “No, he loves it. And so do you. The tile’s got a nice wave, Callie.” Paul moves a box in front of me. “It’s white, yeah, but it delivers a beautiful shape. Look at that texture.”

  He’s right. I do love this.

  “Okay.” My endurance is renewed. “Let’s do this.”

  Paul watches over me again for hours as I start placing tile, guiding me when I start to screw up and also clapping when I do well and stepping in hard when I fuck up—which I do more than once. My arms are junk when we’re done.

  “I’ll grout and seal this for you tomorrow, okay?” He crashes onto the couch. “But only if we make a deal.”

  “Whatever.” I’m so wiped that I’d probably agree to anything.

  “New furniture. This couch sucks.” He hauls himself up. “Never sitting down on that again.”

  He does have a point. All of this old furniture needs to go.

  “Deal,” I say. “I’ve had my eye on some things for this room, so I’ll order them tonight.”

  He heads for the door. “Hey? Another good day, Callie. Proud of you.”

  Paul takes off, and I let myself relax for a beat before I notice that the noise from the bathroom has ended and the workers have gone, so I force myself to get up and take a peek inside. Not only are my cool new washing machine, dryer, sink, and toilet installed, but the fun black-and-white peony wallpaper that I chose is up. My sigh of relief and pride is a first. The tile color is just right. Everything is just right, and I cannot breathe as I stand, awestruck at what I designed.

  “I know you didn’t want to talk about toilets, but this is a damn sexy one.” Danny is suddenly behind me.

  I laugh. “It is.”

  “And this is a totally hot bathroom-slash-laundry room. I’m fuckin’ impressed.”

  “My tile work isn’t perfect though,” I say. “There are a few spots where I messed up the grout, some gaps larger than I’d like between the tile and the molding—”

  “It’s fantastic!.” He puts two hands on my shoulders and leans in. “My god, take the win.”

  He’s right. I should take the win.

  “Your dock is finished. It looks fantastic.”

  I spin around. “Yeah? Show me!”

  He grabs my hand and pulls. “It’s possibly even sexier than this bathroom.”

  We get to the water’s edge, and I see that he’s not exaggerating. He used a darker wood than what was there before and increased the width by a few feet, so it’s more squared off than the original.

  “Danny, it’s …” There are no words. “I love it. I so love it. I can’t wait to hang out here.”

  “And maybe you can’t wait to jump off it?” he suggests.

  “Now?”

  “Now.” He tightens his hold and nods. “One … two … three …”

  And as we run the length of the dock, I know that I’m going to fall in love with this boy.

  Because when we fly off the end, hand in hand, and plunge into the water, we both yell, “Coffee!”

  I haven’t had a one, two, three, coffee moment in years. And this is the best one ever.

  When we surface, he guides me to the dock amid my joyous laughter, and we tread water, each with one hand on the new platform.

  “Happy?” he asks.

  “Of course I am.”

  He brushes my wet hair back and looks at me for a long time.

  It takes everything I have not to wrap my legs around his waist and sink my tongue into his mouth.

  And I’m maybe about to work up the courage, but he gently pulls away and says, “Will you run me home? I need to clean up, change, and get my truck.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “I mean, so I can drive it back here. If you’re still up for dinner? It’s okay if you’re not.” His voice wavers a touch.

  “I’m more than okay.” My hand moves slowly up his arm and over the back of his neck. I can’t help myself. He’s too damn wonderful.

  Danny grips my hand, stopping me hard. His breathing has changed slightly, and he turns to look at me intensely for a moment before helping me up onto the dock. “Drive me home?” he asks in a near whisper.

  So, after we’ve dried off, I do. On the ride, we’re too quiet, and I wonder if he’s going to come back. Of course, he did leave his dog at my place, so that says something.

  When I pull up at his house, he looks through my father’s old CDs and hands me a disc of ’80s music. “I’ll see you within an hour, okay? Play track number six.” He winks and pauses before he turns to go inside. “An hour.”

  As I leave, Survivor’s “I Can’t Hold Back” blares through the sound system, and I smile, as it’s all about trembling touches and love affairs that can’t wait. I start to head home, driving slowly and enjoying the moment, but then I decide to make a quick pit stop in town, so I pick up the pace, and by the time I’m back at the house, I am pretty much plowing into the driveway and running to the kitchen.

  After I’ve sautéed mushrooms and onions, I add in dill, paprika, soy sauce, and chicken broth. I have no idea how this Hungarian mushroom soup recipe makes sense, but the reviews are great. Later, there’s a milk-flour mix with some paprika that has to be added at the last minute or two, which also seems crazy, but after I have a simmering pot to start, I run upstairs to get ready.

  When I get in the shower, the hot water pours over my body and soothes my muscles. My arms are still aching like all hell, but it’s a wonderful feeling. I feel more alive than I have in years. The clock tells me that I have mere minutes to get dressed. Tonight, I wish I had a bit more time, but I rifle through my dresser and grab a scoop-neck shirt and ripped jean shorts. Danny is, after all, clearly a fan of the ’80s, and nothing screams ’80s like this outfit. Not to mention that I’m damn comfortable.

  I grab a blow dryer and allow myself a few minutes to run my fingers through my hair to take out knots and get it at least partially dry. It’s funny how I don’t even consider putting on makeup, but I feel pretty confident that I could toss it all at this point, as I don’t remember the last time that I wore any.

  Downstairs, I add in the milk-flour-paprika mix to the soup, cook it for a bit more, and then give it a taste. Somehow, the mishmash of ingredients has indeed created a rich soup worthy of all the online praise, so I take it off the heat, use my stick blender to puree a few cups, and add that smooth mix back into the pot. After another taste, I know I have the perfect texture.

  With a short time left before Danny gets here, I go onto my iPad and place an order for the furniture I’ve had in my cart. Paul was right about the old couch and the fact that everything in the living room needs to be swapped out for something updated. Well, and less dusty and smelly. Not that I noticed the night that Danny and I slept on the couch, but still …

  While I’m staring at a recipe that I’ve bookmarked for another day, Danny barrels through the front door.

  “Hey, sorry that took an extra few. I stopped and picked up some food for Shally. He seems to be spending a lot of time here for some reason.” He drops a large bag and a backpack onto the floor. “Zero idea why that could be.”

  I feign confusion. “I have no idea either, but I beat you to it. Picked up a bag tonight. Your Shallots will have to hang around here even more now.”

  “I suppose he will.”

  He reaches into his backpack and then raises a hand, holding a bottle. “I also brought wine. I know you like sauvignon blanc, right? I was told this is good. It’s already cold too.” When Danny finally looks at me, he freezes. “Jesus, you look hot.” Then, he all but blushes. “Sorry, that probably sounded objectifying as fuck. But you do. You look really pretty. I mean, you always do, but—”

  “Thank you,” I cut him off before he starts to squirm more than he already has and before I
get more self-conscious.

  “Did you do something different with your hair?” he asks. “It’s sorta curly. I like it.”

  I cannot believe he noticed this. “Um, yeah. This is natural. Usually, when I wear it down, I straighten it.”

  He walks toward me. “Natural suits you.”

  I could say the same because I am again appreciating how beautifully unaffected he is. How he doesn’t seem to think about his appearance, how he doesn’t try to style himself or be anyone but who he is. This guy soaped himself down, threw on clothes, and left. There was no hair gel, no flat irons, no fussing over clothing, and no worrying about his appearance because he doesn’t care about that shit. His tussled hair and simple, naturally weathered, long-sleeved red shirt and the way that he carries himself are all irresistible.

  “Soup?” I blurt out. “Do you want soup?”

  “Starving.”

  My hands tremble as I dish out two bowls of the Hungarian mushroom soup, add a squeeze of lemon juice and a heaping spoonful of sour cream to each, and carry them to the table. I’m grateful that he doesn’t seem to notice how I’m shaking. He’s poured us both big—frankly oversize—glasses of wine, and I could hug him for that, as the giant first gulps I take definitely help calm my nerves.

  “I baked bread. It’s on the table. It’s probably horrible.”

  “It’s probably wonderful.” After Danny sits and starts to eat, he asks me, “So, tell me the truth. You didn’t cook before now? Before you came back to Wake?”