Cross Roads, page 34
She nodded and bounced up on the balls of her feet.
“There are two packages on the passenger seat. Will you take them inside and put them on Lena’s bed?”
“Are they for tonight?”
He waggled his eyebrows, making her giggle. “You’d better run home afterward, so you won’t be late.”
“My art station—”
“I’ll make sure it gets back to the cabin safely.”
Before she could run around the car, he plucked the wet paintbrush from her hand. She laughed and wiped her hands on a towel hooked over the tie wound around her narrow waist.
Rohan had considered trading in the Verge for a pre-technology classic vehicle. But he loved that damn car. Instead, he’d contacted the manufacturer and alerted them to the vulnerabilities of their system. He might have even given them a few suggestions on how to fix the issues.
He found Lena standing before the infamous blank canvas in the shade of a giant tulip tree. She wore a larger version of Sadie’s paint-covered smock over leggings and long-sleeved tee. All that glorious hair secured at the back of her head by a large clip.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
At the sound of his voice, she turned and grinned.
Rohan’s step faltered at the sight of her. She had paint . . . everywhere. Her hair, her face, her neck, her hands. In all the times he’d watched her paint, he’d only ever seen her get paint on her fingers.
She looked adorable.
And happy.
“I did it,” she said, moving to the side so he could see.
It was a landscape, but unlike anything he’d ever seen. She’d hand-sketched the scene and was now applying strategic splashes of color.
Puffy clouds raced across an azure sky. A tall, ominous cloud shimmering with lightning gathered behind them. Something about the little clouds beckoned him forward. Yet as he drew closer, the illusion changed, solidified into an unremarkable splash of white.
He backed away a few feet and one of the clouds transformed into a child’s face. Others did, too, and their tears rained down on a mountain meadow teeming with wildflowers of every shape, size, and color.
Some of the flowers leaned into the rain and some hunched together petiole-in-petiole. Others sagged to the ground against the weight of the child-cloud’s anguish.
One courageous sunflower, whose brown center took on the characteristics of an older version of Lena, ran toward a small cloud that was being swept into the forbidding thundercloud.
A tangle of emotions caught in the center of his chest as he stared at the dual scenes.
Lena moved to hover at his elbow.
He traced a finger a few centimeters above the pencil sketch of the orphaned teen clouds and their families before moving on to the painted sunflower who was leaving a trail of wilting petals in her wake.
“Your mom?”
He heard the audible click of her swallow. “Yes,” she whispered.
He pointed at the fat-cheeked cloud being sucked into the storm.
“You?”
She nodded.
“It’s beautiful, Lena.”
“I have so much more to do—”
“It’s beautiful,” he repeated, wanting her to believe it. “Emotional.” He placed a hand on his chest. “I can feel their sadness, their fear.”
“Their hope?” A paint-covered finger pointed at the sun’s first rays pushing through the roiling clouds.
“Their hope,” he agreed. “I would kiss you, but I can’t seem to find a paint-free spot.”
“A little paint never hurt anyone.”
“True, but I see a clean spot right here.” He kissed the area behind her ear and loved how she angled her head away to give him better access.
He accepted her invitation and trailed a path down her neck, along her jawline until he reached her lips. He let her know how much he missed her, even though it had barely been ten hours since she’d slipped out of his bed and returned to the cabin.
Though all of her possessions remained here, she spent her nights with him at the Friary. Tomorrow, he would ask her to move in with him permanently and use the cabin only as her studio. He didn’t think she needed more time, but he’d give her as much as necessary.
Pulling back, he said, “As much as I would enjoy a tryst in this meadow, you might need the time to, um, wash away today’s exertions.”
“Ohmygod, what time is it?” She pulled her phone out of a pocket in her leggings and checked. “Crap!” She started flinging her extra brushes into a carrying case he’d found for her.
He grasped her shoulders and turned her toward the cabin. “Go take care of you. I’ll handle this.”
“Are you sure?”
“What else am I going to do for the next hour?”
She made a face, then lifted up on her toes and kissed him. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Open the two packages on your bed first.”
Her eyes widened. “Presents?”
“Yes, now go or we’ll be late for dinner.”
As she ran toward the cabin, she yelled, “I knew there was a reason I loved you, Rohan Blackwell.”
Rohan smiled.
I love you too, Anjali Kumar.
* * *
Lena’s fingertips touched the pendant, hanging from a delicate gold chain around her neck.
The last time she’d seen the gold pendant was when she’d placed it in Ash’s hand, asking him to give it to her grandparents as proof of life.
The heirloom had come back to her in a box. Inside, she found a note.
The symbol on the back represents the Kumar family’s motto. Devotion. I gifted it to you on the night of your fifth birthday. Welcome home, Anjali.
Love, Dadi
Just thinking about it again made Lena’s throat tighten. Why had Ash given it to Rohan instead of her?
She had questions.
They would’ve been answered by now if her life hadn’t blown up. First the arrests and the endless statements, then filing insurance paperwork and searching for a new home studio, despite Rohan’s assurance that she could use the cabin for as long as she wanted. If that weren’t enough, she was going through the legal process to become a guardian to four teenagers while finishing the Caravaggio for the Blackwells.
She still couldn’t believe she would be responsible for four precious lives. The thought terrified and excited her, in equal parts. But she, more than anyone perhaps, was uniquely qualified to help them transition into a stable and loving life.
She knew her decision had taken Rohan by surprise. Although they were spending more and more time together, they hadn’t made any promises to each other. Becoming a guardian to those kids had become as important to her as Rohan’s family was to him. She hoped—no, she knew in her bones—that he understood.
The series of delays had nothing to do with Lena’s fear of not measuring up to her grandparents’ expectations. Absolutely nothing.
Honestly, how many families could—or wanted to—say they had a genuine art forger in their ranks?
When Sadie had shown up on her porch this afternoon, asking to paint outside again, Lena had nearly balked. But she hadn’t had the heart to disappoint the girl, so she’d grabbed her easel and set up under the tulip tree.
It wasn’t until she’d gone back inside to get her canvas that she realized she was commission-free. She had nothing to copy.
An unexpected panic had swept through her until Sadie had skipped into the cabin, snatched up the blank canvas, and skipped back out.
Lena had counted to ten, squared her shoulders, and followed her student. As she walked through the meadow, she’d noticed a small cloud in an otherwise cloudless sky. An unaccountable sadness had gripped her.
Her mind started making connections to the events over the past two weeks and, before she knew it, her hand was racing over the canvas, sketching out the scene as if it were a storyboard.
When she finished, she and Sadie had stared at the canvas, a little awed at the transformation. Then Sadie threw her arms around Lena’s waist and exclaimed, “I knew you could do it.”
Lena had vowed then and there to contact her dadi and schedule a visit. It was time.
She backed away from the full-length mirror attached to her bedroom door, swinging her hips left and right. The green teal dress hugged her arms and torso, then fanned out into a voluminous skirt.
Intricate gold embroidery adorned the bottom third of the skirt and scalloped neckline. The skirt’s split front revealed legging-style silken pants beneath.
Lena grasped the edges of the split skirt and twirled in place, loving how the material rippled outward.
A double-knock preceded Rohan’s dark head peeking around the door. “Time to go, Buttercup.”
Lena jolted to a stop. Her skirts swished against her legs.
Rohan’s smiling face transformed into one of male admiration. He prowled toward her, and Lena couldn’t help but feel beautiful under his intense regard.
She drank him in, too. Since she’d left him in the meadow, he’d added a dark blue, thigh-length dress coat over his black, long-sleeve, V-neck tee and slacks.
He looked absolutely delicious.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Sounds like you finished cleaning up my mess just in time,” she said.
Rohan cupped her face with both hands and bent to kiss her. The gentle, almost reverent, slide of his tongue against hers made her eyes burn.
“Do you like your gifts?” he asked.
“I love them. Where did the dress come from?”
“Same loving person as the pendant. A traditional Indian kameez with zari embroidery. The shantoons,” his fingers trailed up her leg, “were my suggestion.”
“It all feels . . . right. Do you think they’d mind if I wore this to dinner tonight?”
He smiled. “I’m sure they’d be delighted. Ready?”
“I would rather see you in this coat,” she plucked at his black tee, “without this.”
“Later,” he promised. “Tonight, I must share you with the family.” He glanced down at her bare feet and frowned. “I didn’t think—”
“No worries.” She pulled away to rummage in her closet and held up a pair of gold stilettos. “Shoes are my superpower.”
Ten minutes later, they dashed into the Friary, laughing and wiping droplets of rain off their faces and shoulders.
“How pretty,” she said, noticing the candles and multihued flowers on the entryway tables.
Then her nose picked up on a familiar scent. She closed her eyes and inhaled the rich aromas of cumin, ginger, turmeric, and other spices she couldn’t name.
“Did your mom make an Indian dish for me?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.” He grinned. “We’re gathering in the Great Hall before we eat.”
Weaving his fingers with hers, Rohan led the way to the large rectangular room that boasted an enormous fireplace at each end.
The scene that opened up before her took her breath away. More candles and flowers decorated every available surface, and illuminated stars hung from the giant timbers above. Lanterns lined both sets of stairs leading to the second level and strings of flowers curled around the banisters.
She was aware of the entire Blackwell clan, Sadie and her family, and even Kayla watching her reaction.
But what drew Lena’s attention was the silver-haired couple standing with their hands clasped together in the middle of the room.
They both wore what Lena considered traditional Indian-style dress, but she was embarrassed to admit she didn’t yet know the names of the garments.
Rohan whispered in her ear. “Happy Diwali, Anjali Kumar. My love, my life.” He kissed her temple. “Go say hello to your grandparents.”
He released her hand and stepped back.
She moved forward, then paused to peer over her shoulder at Rohan. Saw tears brimming in his eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Smiling, he gave her a watery wink. “Team effort.”
She took in the crowd around her. Looked into each of the eyes, and let her gratitude and love rise to the surface for all of them to see, to feel with their hearts.
Lena rushed forward, into her dadi’s and dada’s open arms. The three of them laughed and cried and laughed some more.
Festive Indian music began to play.
Dadi finally set her away. “Let me look at my baby girl.”
Her grandmother’s voice held a slight accent. Lyrical and beloved to Lena’s ear.
She hugged Lena again and whispered, “I have so much to tell you about your maa and pita.” Then she straightened. Placed a warm hand on Lena’s cheek. A twinkle in her dark eyes.
“But first, samosas.”
Thank you for reading Cross Roads. Stay tuned for details on book 4 in the Steele Ridge: The Blackwells series. If this is your first Steele Ridge book, you may want to check out Steele Ridge: The Steeles or Steele Ridge: The Kingstons.
* * *
Did you miss book one in the Steele Ridge: The Blackwells series? Check out the following excerpt from Flash Point.
Flash Point
by Tracey Devlyn
Chapter One
Charlotte, North Carolina
Zeke Blackwell shifted his attention from the antiquities dealer’s hopeful face to the incredible array of weapons splayed out before him—an Italian stiletto dagger, an English mortuary sword, a Polish rapier, and a longsword of indeterminate origin.
It’s not here.
The stab of disappointment cut deeper this time, and the hope he’d been holding on to for the past year took a severe nosedive. He couldn’t keep this up. Couldn’t continue staving off the inevitable collapse of all he held dear while searching for an artifact he would never find.
Even so, he went through the motions of examining the sword on the off-chance that someone over the past one hundred years had replaced the longsword’s distinctive wooden grip and twisted quillons.
He indicated the sword. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Please.” The antiquities dealer made an encouraging motion.
With gloved hands, Zeke lifted the longsword from its black velvet bed. No four-headed wolf on the pommel or ancient Latin etched on the cross guard.
An extraordinary piece, but not the one he was searching for. A familiar, yet efficient numbness slid through his mind and loosened his taut muscles. He returned the artifact and picked up the other pieces, appreciating their craftsmanship and excellent condition. He saw no telltale signs of modern construction or technology, but, as much as he’d like to think otherwise, he was no expert.
But Lan Sardoff could identify a reproduction in a single glance, so Zeke didn’t question their authenticity.
“The pieces are not to your liking?” his friend asked, a note of concern in his voice.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Lan.”
“But none are the one you seek.”
He shook his head. “You have provenance for each?”
“Do not say after all of these years you doubt me now?”
“I would be a fool to overlook the fact that yours is a for-profit business.”
A slow smile etched tiny lines in Sardoff’s perfectly tanned face as if he intended to deliver one of his oily salesman quips. Then the curve of his lips straightened and an uncharacteristic seriousness took hold of his features. “Anyone else would need to be concerned about my profit margin. If not for you,” he waved a ringed hand around his expansive shop, “my business empire would have crumbled before it ever had a chance to rise.”
Zeke’s friendship with the dealer stretched back to their days at UNC, when Sardoff had helped him join the fencing team. Sardoff, two years older, had been fencing since grade school. He was a master. The best on UNC’s team, and he’d taken the raw promise in Zeke’s technique and molded it over the course of many private lessons.
A few years later, Zeke had been presented with an opportunity to pay his friend back when Sardoff told him about suspecting a potential buyer of stealing a vintage comic book, worth more than a quarter of a million dollars, from the shop after Sardoff refused to negotiate the price.
Zeke had broken into the thief’s home and taken back the stolen comic book, and Sardoff had thanked him by recommending his “services” to trusted clients.
His occasional recoveries—or what his brothers referred to as shadow operations—became the precursor to what would eventually become a lucrative family business. But Zeke’s first recovery hadn’t been smooth. In fact, Zeke’s ass hadn’t even cleared the thief’s office window sill before the guy entered and caught him in the act.
Even now, reliving how his surprised expression had turned into a furious, you’ll-pay outburst, as Zeke slipped, er, fell out of the window, still made him smile.
Zeke waved off his friend’s words. “Sardoff’s Antiques and Uncommon Treasures would have survived the loss of the comic book. Its owner is too stubborn, and too smart, to fail.”
The dealer bowed his head in amused acknowledgment, then studied him with a salesman’s intensity. “I’ve heard whispers about an early sixteenth-century British longsword with a four-headed wolf carved on the pommel and familia primum inscribed on the guard,” Lan said, studying his face with a salesman’s intensity. “Is this something you would be interested in?”
Familia primum. Family first.
Shock turned Zeke’s muscles to glass. One wrong move, and his world could shatter into a million fragments. Had Sardoff found Lupos, the sword that had defended the Blackwell family for generations until it was stolen from his great-great-grandfather a century ago?
“An antique longsword,” Zeke said, infusing amused disbelief into his voice. “Do you really have to ask?”
“No, I suppose not. But I cannot obtain something the possessor has no desire to sell.”
Disappointment coiled in his gut. “Can you get me a name?”
Sardoff lifted a brow. “Do you really have to ask?”
