“My life was boring compared to yours. My mother came from a middle-class San Clemente family. Oh, wipe that gloating sneer off your face. I’m not rich, no matter what you think. My grandparents died right after she and my dad were married, so we lived in the family house.”
“Acres and acres, I suppose.”
“At least. Actually, it’s on a rather small lot on a tree-lined street. A nice house, don’t get me wrong, but not a mansion, by any means.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Stop being so sarcastic.”
“Okay. Continue. You lived on Leave-It-to-Beaver street in middle-class America and…?”
“Behave.” She slapped his arm. “My mother got cancer soon after I was born. It was a slow progressing type, but she was sickly most of the time. She died when I was eight.”
Rafe set down his pan and put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into the crook of his neck. He kissed the top of her head and said, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. It was a long time ago,” she said, drawing away eventually, although she loved the feel of his soothing embrace. He picked up his pan again. “Anyhow, I don’t think my dad ever intended to be career military, but after Mom died, he seemed restless, without direction. I guess the military gave him order and meaning at a time when he had none. We lived on fourteen bases in seven different countries by the time I graduated from high school.” She glanced at Rafe, whose face held tender compassion for her. “Hey, it wasn’t that bad. Remember, we drove expensive cars and went on fancy vacations.”
“Yeah,” he said, probably remembering his earlier envy of that lifestyle. Then he forced a cheerful note in his voice. “Too bad I didn’t know you then. I could have sent my brothers and sisters over to keep you company. In fact, you could have adopted them.”
She grinned at the image. “I probably would have welcomed them with open arms. You, too. I would have shown your sisters my paper doll collection. And your brothers would have liked my dad’s tin soldiers on a miniature battlefield in the library — ”
“Library? You have a library? Hell, do you have a drawing room, too?”
She made a harrumphing sound.
“And how would you have entertained me?” he asked suggestively. “Would we have played doctor? Or spin the bottle? Or grope?”
“Grope?”
“I made that up,” he admitted sheepishly. “Sounds good, though, doesn’t it?”
She laughed. “You must have been a very naughty boy.”
“I tried. So, why did you go to Stonewall and not some artsy, high-class private college?”
She braced herself for the mockery that was sure to follow when she answered, “Because my dad went there.”
He raised both brows at her, and they were mocking.
“Well, I had no idea what I wanted to do,” she said defensively. “It’s not as if I was giving something up for my dad. And he never pushed me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“What are you implying?”
“Don’t get yourself all steamed up, sweetheart. I just wonder if you weren’t trying real hard to please your daddy.”
She refused to answer.
“What about your art?”
“How do you know about my art?”
“I saw some paintings you had in an exhibit in Grant Hall. They were really good, Helen. Anyone with that kind of talent should use it. Even a crude, city jerk like me could see that.”
“There’s no future in being an artist, except for teaching. And I never wanted to teach.”
“No future? Like in making money?” He scoffed. “That doesn’t sound like you. It sounds like something that might come out of the mouth of a… father?”
She exhaled loudly. “Well, I made a decision, and I’m living with it. So there.”
“Do you still paint?”
“Rarely. I don’t have time.”
He studied her intently, seeing way too much.
“Let’s change the subject.”
“To what?”
“Us.”
He stiffened and shifted away from her a little on the bank, putting a distance of several feet between them.
“Rafe…” She searched for the right words and could only come up with, “I love you.”
“Uh huh. I love you, too, babe. So?” He was still staring at her suspiciously, as if he expected her to jump on him any minute and tear off his clothes.