Wingman: Just a Guy and His Dog Page 7

  I couldn't let my feelings get in the way of the triumphant moment. I walked straight over and hugged him. "You did it."

  "Wasn't too sure if it would work." Fynn stared up at the lacy spray of water shooting from the top of the fountain. A cooling mist filled the air, and it drew people even closer. Once again, the three horses proudly spit long arcs of water from their mouths. Frothy bubbles cascaded from the bowls into the base.

  "It's just like I remember," I said. "Beautiful frilly sprays of white water sliding over teal gray stone. It brings back so many memories."

  Fynn discretely put his hand against my back as we watched the townsfolk, my neighbors and friends, my extended family, scoop up the cool water from the base and stand in the mist with faces lifted and eyes closed. For those few moments, some of the sadness was lifted and the town flickered with life.

  Mayor Fran walked over, her smile stretched from one side of her hat brim to the other. "Well done, Fynn. It's truly splendid. Makes the rest of the park look extra dreary, but I think this was just what this place needed. You know, I never got your whole name. I would love to have your mailing address so I can send you a little something for your troubles."

  "Uh, it's Chandler, Fynn Chandler," he said it almost as if he couldn't remember his last name. "And I don't need any compensation. Seeing these people enjoying their fountain is plenty."

  Fran shook his hand. "Handsome, handy and noble." She winked at me. "Great combination." She returned to her constituents to frolic in the retell of old stories and memories.

  Fynn stared proudly up at his accomplishment.

  "You did a good thing here, Fynn." And then my earlier revelation about the fountain being his reason for staying in Butterfield crept back into my mind. I couldn't find the courage to bring up the topic.

  He seemed to read my mind. His hand slipped under my shirt and his callused palm, still moist from the water in the fountain, smoothed over my skin. It sent a rush of heat through me that could only be cooled by that same callused touch.

  "You know, Starshine, I was thinking that I might tackle that pavilion next."

  I tried to keep my feet on the ground, but his sensual touch on my back and the prospect of him staying in town was making that difficult. "Really?" I asked casually as if my heart wasn't beating a million times a minute.

  He looked at me and his gaze dropped to my lips. I badly needed that second kiss. His golden eyes lifted. "Unless you think I should go."

  "Nope," I said quickly. "I think that pavilion needs your tender touch."

  His hand slid down and his finger trailed seductively beneath the waistline of my shorts. "Then that pavilion is in luck because tender touch is my specialty." His gaze shot toward the small crowd gathered around the fountain. Excitement vibrated the air around them. With everyone's attention diverted, Fynn took hold of my hand and led me across the street. Boone followed obediently behind.

  Fynn took me around the corner of the market out of everyone's view. Boone barked, sat up on his haunches and pawed at my leg. I scratched his head.

  "Hey, you shameless flirt, get your own girl." Fynn took hold of both my arms and pulled me closer. "This one is mine." His mouth covered mine, and the fireworks went off right on cue.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fynn

  "You make the best burgers in the world." I wiped my mouth with the napkin.

  Ella picked up my plate. "And you are the best sweet talker in the world. Besides, I can't take too much credit for the burgers. All I did was cook them. My mom had already seasoned and shaped the meat. She tends to treat me like I'm a little girl. Both my parents spoil and coddle me like I'm still a kid."

  "Spoiling and coddling, I see no problem with that. And I might be able to top the burger shaping. When I go back home to visit, I wake up to find that my mom has washed and folded all my clothes, and they are laid out in matching sets, just in case I can't figure out which t-shirt goes best with which pair of jeans."

  Ella turned to the sink with a laugh. "Yep, I think you beat me there." She tossed Boone the leftover meat from her plate, and he gobbled it up without even tasting it. "My mom hasn't bothered to give me wardrobe advice since I was six and I threw a foot stomping fit because I wanted to wear my plaid skirt with a yellow polka dot blouse. She decided to give in and let me learn the hard way about fashion sense. And yes, the older girls at school had a good giggle about my untraditional outfit choice."

  I took the opportunity to watch Ella's smooth curves and sleek legs as she leaned into the refrigerator to pull out two beers. She sat at the table across from me. Her home was cozy and lived in, and it seemed there were a lot more furnishings and pictures from the past than from the present.

  "I like this kitchen. It reminds me of the kitchen in my grandfather's farmhouse. The kind of place you can sit and eat your cereal and banana and think I've got it pretty darn good. Nothing fancy. Just good."

  "This has always been one of my favorite rooms in the house. I always used to love to get up early on Thanksgiving and help my mom in the kitchen. She'd let me drink coffee, which at that time I thought tasted like liquid soil, but I sipped it anyway, knowing it was a big deal to be drinking coffee like an adult. My mom would be wearing her special turkey apron, which instantly made my mouth water and my stomach growl, sort of like a Pavlov response in dogs." Ella glanced around the kitchen with sort of a homesick smile. "You're right. Nothing fancy. Just good."

  We tapped our beer bottles together in a toast to good kitchens. Ella took a short sip of beer and crinkled her nose. "Sorry, bubbles make my nose itch. Speaking of bubbles, Patty heard through the rumor mill, which is strong in Butterfield, that with the fountain running again, the high school seniors are plotting to toss bubble bath into it after graduation. Thank you, Fynn. You put a little spark of life back into a town that has sorely needed it."

  I titled my head and looked at her with her bright blue eyes and cherry pink smile. She never dressed up or slathered on makeup, but she always looked stunning. "The only true spark is sitting right in front of me with eyes and lips any man would cross the hottest desert and climb the iciest mountains just to see."

  Ella's cheeks darkened. She glanced away pretending to be interested in Boone who was doing nothing except licking his paw.

  "Believe it or not, Butterfield used to be a busy tourist stop on the way to the coast." She took another sip of beer after quickly steering away from the previous topic. "That shop with the faded pink and white awning at the end of the block, near the park pond, or I should say the cement hole with the world's loneliest stone flamingo, that used to be Jilly's Bakery." She sighed contentedly as the memory drew her back to that time. "We would all stop in there on our way to school and buy one of Jilly's blueberry muffins. Except on Wednesdays. Wednesdays were chocolate donut day, and Jilly's chocolate donuts were pretty much the best thing the culinary world has ever tasted. Every morning, the aroma of yeast and sugar would waft across the entire town square. On the weekend, when people were traveling to the beach, there would be a long line of cars all day just waiting for one of the three parking spots in front of the bakery. These days, Jilly occasionally opens the shop on Fridays for cookies and coffee, but that's about it. And it wasn't just Jilly's shop that people stopped for. Patty's mom, Cynthia, used to cook up homemade fudge for the weekends and Patty's sister, Sheila, and I would sit outside of the store at a table and sell fudge to the people passing through town. We always sold out. And we had our share of samples too. It's actually a miracle that I wasn't a big ball of butter by the time I reached puberty."

  I laughed. "There's sure a lot of cute to go with all that cuteness, Ella. It's too bad the town fell into disrepair. I guess it's sort of understandable. I have to say, I wasn't too sure how people would react to seeing the fountain spray water again. I was relieved to see they enjoyed it." I picked at the label on the beer bottle. "I've got to ask, why have you stayed? There's a great big world out there, and frankly, you seem
like too much dazzle for a small town like this. Why did you stay?"

  Ella propped her feet up on the seat next to her and pushed her hands between her thighs. It occurred to me too late that I probably shouldn't have asked her why she stayed.

  Just when it seemed she wouldn't answer, her lips parted. "So many things keep me here that sometimes I don't know how to piece them together. I guess that's because I don't really have a coherent reason for staying. I'm twenty-three and as much as I want more than Butterfield has to offer, I can't leave. Sometimes I tell myself it's because of my parents. I'm their only child, and I'm sure leaving would be hard on them. And sometimes I can't stomach the idea of leaving this town because this place has all my Ethan memories." She smiled, it was a gentle, pensive smile. "Sometimes I think I'll wake up in my bed and hear Ethan in the room next door and I'll discover the last eleven years never happened. And the accident never happened. And everything was just as it should be. Guess that sounds crazy."

  I gazed at her across the table. "Not crazy at all. I've felt the same way myself many times."

  The twinkle returned to her fathomless blue eyes. "I can't believe how much you get me. It's as if we knew each other in a different life or as if there's some unexplained connection between us."

  I sat dumbfounded for a second, not sure what to say. I hadn't said anything, but it almost felt as if I'd been caught in a lie and there was no way to talk myself out of the mess. Ella had been the one unexpected variable I hadn't counted on when I made the decision to drive into Butterfield.

  "Yep, Starshine, I feel it too," I said, lightly and then deftly changed the subject. I pointed to the refrigerator where a picture of a horse, drawn with colored pencils, was stuck to the door with an apple shaped magnet. "Did you draw that?"

  Ella covered her face to hide the blush. "Yes, when I was nine. I don't know why it's still there. All the other stuff we stuck on the fridge slid off years ago, but that darn apple magnet is strong like the earth's core."

  I stood up from the table to get a closer look at the drawing. "It's damn good for nine." I turned back around. "Will you show me your work? The stuff you're working on now?"

  There was a long pause, and I half expected her to change the subject. She got up from the table and motioned for me to follow her. "My studio is in the basement, but I must warn you, tamp down your expectations now. I just putter around with my own ideas and then things flow from my fingers. But I've never learned any real techniques, so it's basically amateur hour down there."

  We descended through a cloud of pungent paint smells as I followed her down the cellar steps. She stopped short at the bottom to switch on the light, and I hadn't put on the brakes yet. I smacked into her and grabbed hold of her before she fell forward off the bottom step. I used the collision as an excuse to hold her against me.

  "Oops," I whispered into her ear. I put my hand over hers on the light switch to keep the room dark for a moment longer. I lowered my mouth to the side of her neck and kissed her while my hands dipped under her shirt and rested against her stomach. "Don't think I thanked you for dinner yet."

  "I guess not," she said breathlessly. I was taking just a little too much pleasure in reducing her to sighs with just a kiss on the neck and a brush of my palm on her skin.

  "I don't know what's more intoxicating, your body tucked against me or the heady fumes of those paints."

  My wry comment made her laugh. She spun around in my arms and peered up at me from the bottom step. "Occasionally I walk out of here forgetting what day it is." She hopped up on her toes for a kiss and then flicked on the light.

  The room was almost windowless and utilitarian looking, typical for most unfinished basements. Only in this cellar, artwork was lined along the cinderblock walls. I knew my mouth had dropped open because I could taste the paint fumes on my tongue, but I couldn't stop my reaction.

  I walked closer to the paintings, thinking maybe the strong odors and the dim lighting had made me see more than was actually there. But no. I hadn't imagined the stunning quality of Ella's art. If anything, the colors and details became more vivid, more intricate on closer inspection.

  Ella stood back, silent and still, as I perused her work. Each square of rustic looking wood was covered with a collage of pictures. A face was painted in the middle of the pictures, along with a number. A number. These were the Butterfield Angels. She was painting a plaque for each of her lost classmates.

  It was rare for me to lack words but the pictures had rendered me speechless. You could feel the personality of each person in the collage. I walked to the easel Ella had set up in the corner where the most natural light could pour through two small windows. Next to the square of wood, a small school picture was taped to the easel frame. The face smiling out from the school photo was the same face smiling up at me from the center of the plaque. The name Sandra was neatly written in blue paint next to the number four just below Sandra's face.

  "If you don't say something soon, I might run from the room in total embarrassment."

  "Holy shit, Ella." I'd found my voice but barely. "I'm looking at Sandra's plaque, and I feel like I grew up with her."

  I looked back at Ella. Her eyes were glittering with uncertainty. "That's good, right?"

  "Hell yes. Yes. Jeez. I thought I was going to walk down and see some beach paintings, a few palm trees bent over blue waves, or a few mountains topped by pine trees. Damn, Ella, these are amazing. Sandra," I read the name and turned back to Ella. "I'll bet she was one of those super sweet girls who prided herself on being the teacher's pet and who everyone liked just well enough to invite her to their birthday parties but she was never anybody's true best friend. A little too heavy on sweet and not enough humor?"

  As I spoke, Ella's eyes grew glossy and her lips parted slightly in astonishment. She had such a hard time accepting compliments. It seemed she had never considered that her teachers were telling her the truth about her art.

  "How did you know all that about Sandra?" she asked, slightly winded by my guess.

  "You painted all that right here, Ella. I can see it in every stroke of the brush." I walked over to one of the finished plaques leaning under the electrical panel. "Angel number two, Rosalind Rayborn." Jilly's bakery with a bright pink awning was painted in the corner. "This was how the shop looked back when Jilly still baked?"

  "Yes." Ella had finally pried her feet from the center of the room. She walked up behind me and rested her chin on my shoulder as I looked at Rosalind's plaque. Her nearness made every muscle in my body react, and I could feel my heart dancing against my rib cage.

  "So, that's why Jilly doesn't make muffins and donuts anymore," I continued. "Rosalind was her daughter."

  "Jilly's husband had died just a year earlier of cancer and after the accident, Jilly just floated around town like a rudderless boat. She had no one left. Everyone was sure she'd pack up and move back east where her parents and siblings lived, but she stayed here. She didn't want to leave Butterfield."

  I pointed at the soccer ball. "She was an athlete who liked to climb trees and ride skateboards. She was a close friend of yours, wasn't she?"

  "How can you tell that?"

  "She seems spunky, and you can tell by her smile that she's funny and liked to laugh. That just seems like the kind of kid you would hang out with in school."

  Her chin rubbed my shoulder as she nodded. "Rosy was a good friend. We spent every other Friday at each other's house for a sleepover where we almost always ended up scaring the crap out of each other with ghost stories. Then we had to sleep with the light on and we'd sneak into the kitchen to console ourselves with leftover pizza."

  Ella walked around to stand next to me. I took hold of her hand.

  "Have you shown these to anybody yet? To the parents and families?"

  "No. My dad has seen a few, but my parents are good about leaving this space as my own private sanctuary. I doubt I'll ever show them to anybody."

  I turned to look at her. "W
hat? No. You have to. You have to show them to the town, Ella. They are amazing. People will want to see them."

  Her face dropped, and she rubbed her toe over a few paint splatters on the cement floor. "You don't understand, Fynn." She lifted her face, and, as always, I had to catch my breath at the sight of her. "Even though the whole town suffered this tragedy, I'm sort of alone. I'm on my own island. I'm the person fate stepped in to save. For some, I'm that spot of hope that all was not lost on that horrible day, and for others—" Her long lashes dropped for a second to cover her incredible eyes. "And others wish I had been sitting in place of their kid on that bus. Don't get me wrong, everyone in town is kind to me, but it's hard not to see that wishful look in their eyes when they look at me."

  My mom always accused me of having every darn answer, sometimes even when it wasn't wanted, but I had nothing. Ella had somehow convinced herself that she didn't deserve to be the lone survivor. She was right. It was a widespread tragedy that affected everyone in town, but she was all alone on her island of misery. And at the same time, she was such a bright spot in this dreary place.

  "I've got the windows shut. We should go upstairs for some fresh air." She turned to leave. I took one last look at the finished paintings. There was still one piece of blank wood left.

  "Ella, have you made one for Ethan? I don't see it."

  "Not yet. Haven't worked up the courage to paint that one yet." She headed to the stairs.

  I followed behind, taking one last look at the faces behind me before she shut off the light.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ella

  I was still floating ten feet off the ground about Fynn's reaction to my art. Even though I let myself entertain the notion that he was just being nice, it seemed genuine. The most incredible part was how much he could read about the person in each picture. Fynn was so different than any other guy I knew and not just because he was breathtaking to look at and he could fix fountains. I couldn't believe how quickly I was falling for him.