“Where are your parents?” Apparently, he hadn’t entirely forgotten how to make conversation.
“Dead. Breast cancer for Mom six years ago, small-plane crash for Dad a couple of years later. He was taking lessons, and there was a mechanical failure.” Clearly, she didn’t want to expand. But she did raise her eyebrows. “What about your parents?”
“My mother died when I was ten.” One of his worst memories, despite everything that came after. “Sudden, splitting headache. Aneurysm, as it turned out.”
“Can’t those be familial?” She sounded worried.
“That’s what the doctor said. My sister and I were tested, but we didn’t have whatever weakness they were looking for.”
Erin nodded. “Your dad?”
“He’s alive.”
He split and buttered a biscuit, hoping she got the message. No more questions.
“And…your sister?”
“Dani. We stay in touch.” He hesitated. “Her husband isn’t so sure about me.”
“Oh.” She squished a potato with her fork. “I’m sorry.”
Cole searched for something to say. “The house looks good.”
Appearing grateful for the rescue, Erin said, “I wish Nanna could see it.” Another crinkle of her nose. “Except I don’t think it’s ever been painted any color but white. Maybe she’s rolling over in her grave.”
“I doubt it. She wouldn’t have left it to you if she didn’t love you. And the trim color reminds me of your hair.”
“My hair?” She gaped at him.
A little panicked, he said what he was thinking, anyway. “It’s sort of…peach-colored. With gold and a red that’s more of a russet.”
She kept gaping. Feeling heat in his cheeks, Cole couldn’t meet her eyes. Way to let her know how much time he’d spent studying her to come up with a description like that!
Yeah, and so poetic.
“I… Um, thank you?” When he failed to respond, she said, “So the house and I are coordinated?”
“Yeah.” Hoarse again. “Something like that.”
Both ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Where’d you grow up?” she asked at length.
“Seattle. You?”
“Salem, Oregon. Dad taught at Willamette University. Physics, of all things. I never liked any of the science classes I had to take. Mom illustrated children’s books.” She smiled, her eyes momentarily losing focus. “I have copies of the books she illustrated in a box somewhere.” With a one-shoulder shrug, she returned to the here and now. “I didn’t inherit any artistic ability whatsoever. Or musical. Dad played the piano. I took lessons for six very long years before Mom and Dad gave up.”
“I played the guitar.” He didn’t know why he was telling her this, but his dreams of rock stardom were another good memory, along with playing football. “Had a band. A friend’s mother let us practice in their basement. We played at some parties, got a few gigs at small clubs around Seattle, but I don’t think we’d have made it even locally in the music scene. After we graduated from high school, two of us stuck with it for another year, bringing in replacement band members, but it wasn’t as much fun.”
Amusement lit her face. “Did you sing?”
“Howled, more like.”
She had a rich, full laugh. “Did you prance around the stage?”
“God forbid. I sulked and brooded and let my hair hang over my face.”
“You do brooding well.”
“What?”
“You do.” Studying him, she said, “That wasn’t an insult.”
“I’m quiet. I don’t brood.” Yeah, he did.
“Okay, you just look like you’re thinking deep, dark, dangerous thoughts.”
Exasperated, he gave up.
He both wanted and didn’t want to ask what else she had for him to do once they’d finished painting the house. Originally, she’d talked about having him take care of the overgrown yard, but he could level it in a day with a weed whacker. Then what?
Apprehension sat heavy in him, as if he’d eaten too much. He stared down at what was left in his bowl.