A Kiss to Build a Dream On Read online

  She closed her eyes, hoping her mom was looking down on her right now. Maybe she was the one, Willa mused, who was sending her decorating ideas every minute. Good ideas, too. In her mind, she was mixing old and new in the perfect balance. She could all but see the results in her mind’s eye.

  Either way, whether it was a little bit of Edna or her own innate talent—or both—Willa couldn’t stop the ideas from flowing. Which was a good thing since rehabbed furniture would save money. She’d already had to give Burk a chunk of change for the roofing, the plastering, and some lumber to fix rotting boards on the siding, back deck, and front porch. But beyond all the repairs and decorating were the supplies she’d need for her guests. New dishes plentiful enough to feed a group of up to ten every morning. A load of new towels and bed linens. An industrial washer and dryer in the basement so she could wash them all. Or perhaps enough for a small salary so she could pay someone to wash them all.

  Money was tight, and getting tighter. At this rate, she might need to go to the bank for a small loan. Not that that should be a problem. Her dad had owned the bank, after all. He had been adored there and she couldn’t imagine they would refuse the daughter of Harold Masterson money if she needed it.

  But even with the financial concerns darkening a corner of her mind, she could see the B and B coming together, and the progress made her elated. She hadn’t felt this excited about anything since moving to New York twelve years ago.

  And it was all thanks to Burk, really. Not only was he commanding a crew on the big projects, but he’d taken her to the hardware store and helped her pick out paint. He’d given her lessons in sandpaper coarseness. He’d sat here in this very room and helped her paint every surface of the table.

  And he’d nearly kissed her again.

  Willa took her merlot back to the kitchen, trying not to think about how close she and Burk had been—again—earlier in the week. When she’d told Betty, Stephanie, and Audrey about it, they’d both sworn up and down that Burk still had feelings for her.

  Willa sighed. If only that were true. The reality was, Burk probably just had a handful of old, residual emotions being dredged up now that she was back in town. Knowing the new Burk, he’d probably experience a few sparks of feeling, and then douse them with his flat pragmatism.

  In a way, Willa wished for the same stiff sensibility in herself. Her tousled hair would never move him to action—whereas the messiness of his ebony locks had the air catching in her lungs. He could see her fingers on a hammer or wrench and it wouldn’t stir a single thing in his heart—whereas Willa would find herself wishing she was one of those tools in his hands.

  She shook her head and stared out the window above the kitchen sink. Burk was such an all-consuming idea in her brain lately. She very much doubted she was one in his mind, however. Not that she needed to be.

  The only thing she really needed to be in was his bed.

  She tried to replace the picture of them sleeping together with the scene outside her window. An early frost covered the ground with a ghostly white sheen. Stars pierced the fabric of the black sky like jeweled needlepoints. There had never been this many stars in New York—ever. Not with all the lights and noise and pollution. Here, though, everything was quiet and still. The sky, the streets, the houses. Even her heart seemed to slow its frantic pace, her brain seemed to race less.

  Unless she was around Burk.

  Willa took a sip of wine, her lips curving into a smile around her glass. It was shocking, really, that she’d spoken her ideas about Burk out loud to her friends at the recipe exchange last night. Ideas wasn’t the right word, though. Neither was plan or agenda. Those words sounded so calculated, when really, all Willa wanted was Burk.

  In bed.

  With her.

  “You made a great couple in high school, why not again now?” Audrey had asked. Willa didn’t have the heart to correct her. She didn’t want to be a couple.

  She just wanted…Burk. No strings attached. Friends with benefits, she supposed you could call it.

  They were consenting adults. She could give him a few wild nights; he could give her a few in return. It wouldn’t have to be anything exclusive or complicated. Just great sex. And then they’d have something between them besides the past.

  She giggled involuntarily, wondering how she was going to approach Burk with all this. Should she sidle up to him in a negligee? Should she ask him, businesslike, over the wet paint of a project? Burk was so regimented. Maybe she should draw up papers and create a contract.

  The thought made her laugh out loud. The sound echoed in the empty house, which made Willa laugh harder. She was crazy, cracking herself up in this old space, all alone. The merlot must be going to her head. Willa grinned and decided to pour herself another glass. Why the hell not? She was enjoying herself enormously.

  She crossed the battered tile floor to the makeshift wine rack and was just reaching for the bottle when her cell phone rang. Her mind raced, thinking it might be Burk. What if he was coming over now?

  Only she hadn’t proposed anything to him yet. The deal was still all in her head. “I’m going crazy,” Willa giggled to herself, pulling her phone out of her pocket. But when she saw the caller ID, her smile disappeared.

  It was Lance.

  And it was his sixth call of the day.

  Willa reeled. He’d been calling her constantly since his first text at the Rolling Pin. The calls dredged up a mixture of confusion and compassion—but also apprehension. She might have been slightly sympathetic toward him if his remorse had been genuine, but how real could it be if he was suddenly blowing up her phone, asking for her help?

  Maybe it was time to hear what he had to say and be done with it. Emboldened by her plan to seduce Burk—and maybe with merlot as liquid courage—Willa hit Talk. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  There was a long pause. She could hear Lance breathing—the same high sound the air always made through his long, aquiline nose.

  “Hello, Willa,” he said after a moment. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  At the sound of his words, her palms instantly grew damp. “I can’t do small talk, Lance. Why are you calling me?”

  “Willa, please. I’m not calling to fight.”

  “I’m not fighting. I’m just telling you to hurry up and spill what you need to spill.” She tapped her foot nervously on the battered kitchen floor.

  Another pause. “You know I’m sorry. I’ve said it a thousand times, but I’ll say it again. I messed up. I was trying to get us more money, and do it quickly, and I—”

  “I know,” she said, cutting him off. Her heart pounded. She didn’t need to rehash the pain of the past months all over again. She knew all too well what he’d done, and what he’d confessed to. She took a deep breath. “I know,” she said more softly this time. “You don’t have to tell me again.”

  She closed her eyes, picturing all the paperwork she’d pawed through when Lance was charged: IRA funds, investment portfolios, savings accounts. She called all the firms and banks, and the story was the same—all the money had vanished.

  The only account that still had anything in it at all was the one in the White Pine Bank and Trust. It was a small fund that her dad had set up when she was a little girl. She hadn’t touched it—and had never told Lance about it.

  The money was still there. All the money she had in the world, in fact.

  It was pocket change compared to the fortunes she’d inherited. But once she realized that life as she’d known it in New York was over, she’d counted her assets differently. What had seemed not to matter before suddenly meant everything.

  Back in the kitchen, Willa had to lean against the counter as the memories gathered like heavy clouds.

  “I love you,” Lance said into the silence.

  Willa straightened. She and Lance had moved in together, had shared a bed and consolidated their possessions, and she’d assumed the whole time it had been love. They’d said as much,
but now she wondered if the words had been true. Deep inside, she wanted love to be more, to mean more, than the scraps of emotions they’d meted out to each other.

  “Why are you saying that now?” she asked.

  “Because I made such a terrible mistake, Willa. I need you. No one else can get me through this but you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is. When this is all over, we need to be together.”

  “This is not going to be over for a very, very long time. And even when it is, you know there’s no hope for us.”

  “There is, Willa. I have to believe you still care for me.”

  Willa rubbed her forehead with her free hand. “Lance, you’ve owned up to your mistakes, and that’s a good thing. But beyond that, there’s nothing for us.”

  “But—”

  “I need you to stop calling me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Lance, I’m sorry. This conversation is over.”

  “Wait!” His voice was panicked, urgent. “Remember when we went to Mali and stayed in those huts? Just you and me. I want to go back there with you. I want to start over.”

  Willa shook her head. She made her voice cold. “Those days are over. You made sure of that when you stole my money and everyone else’s.”

  “I love you. I want to see you. Things here are so hard right now. No one will talk to me. I just need a friend.”

  “No.”

  “I could fly into Minneapolis. Rent a car and come see you.”

  “No. Absolutely not. You’ll violate the terms of your bond if you do that.”

  “But I need to ask you something.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “But I need you.”

  Willa ran her tongue over her teeth. This reeked of desperation. “Need me for what?”

  “N-Nothing. Just life. Happiness.” His voice was beginning to shake.

  Willa’s mind raced. Her skin prickled with unease. “What are you up to? What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?” He laughed uncomfortably. Willa could all but see his pale skin shining with nervous sweat, his narrow shoulders hunched in concentration, his eyes darting back and forth, birdlike.

  “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t care.”

  In the background, Madonna’s “Material Girl” started playing, and Willa smiled. It was time to change the station. And get off this call.

  “All right,” Lance acquiesced, “fine. Here’s the deal. I nee—”

  But Willa didn’t hear the rest. She was thinking about Knots and Bolts, about the painted table, and about coaching the girls at the track.

  She was making a go of it in White Pine, and she didn’t need Lance messing that up, too.

  She clicked End, then turned her phone off for the rest of the night.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Monday, October 1, 8:22 a.m.

  Early Monday morning, Burk brought in a crew to tear out the kitchen. Their efficient swiftness surprised Willa, who watched from a corner of the dining room, sipping coffee out of her mom’s old mug. Already there was fresh, bright white plaster drying on many of the house’s walls and ceilings, and the new roof tiles sparkled like pennies in the spring sun.

  It was satisfying progress to be sure, but Willa was starting to get alarmed at the rapidly dropping numbers in her bank account. She’d forgotten to think about landscaping, which would be a massive expense, and she’d decided that she had to hire a full-time housekeeper. Even if she could keep up with the cooking and the linens, there was no way she’d be able to clean the whole place, too. There was also advertising, because she had to tell people about the B and B; otherwise how would they know to come?

  It all meant more money, which was something she didn’t have. But she figured it was something she could get.

  After all, she had her dad’s legacy at the White Pine Bank and Trust. She might even still know a few people who worked there, and surely they would give the daughter of Harold Masterson a loan. She’d have no trouble paying it back once the B and B was up and running. She pictured telling the bankers about the food she’d serve in her B and B, about the comfy beds she’d provide, and about the beautiful space she’d create. And just in case things didn’t take off right away, she’d make sure to negotiate a loan with a reasonable interest rate. Harold Masterson’s daughter could do that, too, thank you very much.

  The creak of bending nails caught her attention, and her insides quavered as she stared at Burk, who was tearing out old molding. His wide back muscles flexed underneath his work shirt. His dark hair gleamed in the lights. Next to him, two men were lifting off the top of the old counter, getting ready to haul it to the Dumpster outside. “Next we’ll start on the cabinets, okay, boss?” one of them asked. Burk grunted in reply, not looking up from his work. Satisfied with the answer, the men began the slow, careful maneuver of the old countertop through the narrow doorways and outside.

  Willa knew she should probably wade into the thick of it—maybe supervise the emptying of her cupboards so they could start ripping out the dated cabinets. Or go over the paint swatches one last time, to make sure the soft yellow she’d picked for the walls was perfect. But here she was, standing off to the side, watching Burk instead.

  She swallowed, thinking about the proposition she had for him. “I think we should spend a few nights together,” she imagined saying, running her hands over his chest, playing with the soft hair in the wide fields above his pectorals.

  She could imagine lifting her face to his…and then what?

  What if he blew her off? Worse, what if he laughed?

  Willa clutched her coffee mug. It would be horrible. Beyond mortification. She’d probably have to find a new contractor at that point. Yet he had kissed her in the Volvo. And there must be part of him that wanted more, she reasoned. She just had to convince him it was a good idea.

  God knows she’d already convinced herself. She watched Burk kick a sharp sliver of molding away from where he was working, and found she was already envying his boots. To be that close to his feet, contoured around them—it almost wasn’t fair.

  Oh God, she thought, I’m fantasizing about his feet.

  As if he knew she was watching him, Burk straightened and met her gaze. His blue eyes sparkled like the ocean in summer. Was there laughter there? Blushing furiously, worried that he could read her thoughts, Willa strode away. This wasn’t going to work if she was staring at him pathetically all day. What man wanted a woman who would stand around pining?

  She needed to be more poised than this. More aloof. It was just sex, after all. If it worked, it was going to be a glorious release, and nothing more. She couldn’t have him suspecting she was getting all moody about him.

  She followed the workmen with the countertop out the front door. While they heaved the giant scrap into the Dumpster, Willa walked the opposite way—around the house to the detached garage in the rear.

  The small structure sported crumbling wood and flaking white paint. Green mold had rotted the roof’s tiles, and the whole thing was beginning to list slightly to the left. Still, it was quiet and peaceful—and the perfect workshop, Willa had reasoned. She’d moved a few of her things out here over the weekend. Brushes, the tarp, and a small nightstand that she’d found in the attic. She was going to work on it and use it as a practice piece, until Burk could help her repaint and age the blue coffee table, which was still in the living room.

  Willa lifted the old garage door by hand. It rolled upward with a rusty groan. A startled collection of wrens fluttered nearby. They twittered into a maple aflame with scarlet leaves. The tree’s splendid color could barely be muted as gray clouds scuttled across the sky. Willa filled her lungs with the fall air, smelling the strong oaks and lean poplars that would soon send their leaves fluttering to the ground.

  Inside, the air in the garage was the opposite—dark and musty. She tried not to imagine the mice or raccoons or other creatures that might be in the wa
lls or corners. She flipped the dusty light switch and an old fluorescent light buzzed to life.

  The little nightstand sat on the tarp, as if it had been anxiously awaiting her return. It was tall and sturdy, with two planks at the top and two planks that formed a shelf about halfway down its spindled legs. It had a small drawer as well, perfect for a reading light and a book, she thought.

  Willa wanted to try a project she’d researched online, where she painted a color directly on the wood without the endless primer that Burk had made her use. He was approaching things as a contractor, and she needed to approach them more as an artist. So she was going to paint not one but three colors onto the table, then sand them out, and apply a few other layers of stain as well.

  If it worked—if she could make the nightstand come to life the way it was in her mind—she knew she could finish the coffee table using the same techniques. With one glaring exception: She would need a palm sander, a machine, because the table would be too big to do by hand. And she’d need Burk to show her how to use it.

  Willa bit her lip, thinking how funny it was that she was already planning to use power tools, when mere days before she’d been intimidated about buying paint. Somehow, working with Burk had given her confidence she didn’t know she possessed. He’d been patient, interested—and he seemed to appreciate her decorating ideas. In turn, Willa was able to believe more in herself, in her entire B and B project, in a way she hadn’t been able to before. She grinned to herself, and reached out to the table to get started.

  She paused, however, when she saw the state of her hands. Her knuckles were dry from scrubbing off residual paint, and no amount of lotion had been able to soften the Sahara of her skin. She’d chipped most every nail, as well. Not that she minded, but her hands were starting to look pathetic. If she was going to do this and not ruin her skin completely, she really needed a pair of gloves already.

  Carefully she began pushing aside old boards and shovels, rooting around the garage for a discarded pair. Dust swirled and caught in her throat. She coughed and turned away from the debris. As she did, she spotted a shelf above a rusted bike wheel and there—right on top of an old metal can—was a pair of faded leather work gloves.