Falling for the Mum-to-Be

Probably a broken heart.

That was something Marta could definitely relate to.

* * *

Leif caught himself humming while he cooked dinner and sipped wine. Cooking was one of the few things that brought him contentment. Well, that, his dogs and building houses, oh, and his favorite pastime, woodworking. See, his life wasn’t nearly as empty as he’d thought. Building was the one endeavor that he felt came anywhere near to being creative in Marta’s sense. He wouldn’t dare call his woodwork artistic, but he liked what he saw whenever he finished his mantels and built-in bookcase projects. He’d done all of the woodwork for his home, right down to the posts, and was proud of it. Ellen had loved his special touches throughout the house, and her being an interior designer, he’d loved hers, too. He hadn’t changed a thing since she’d died.

He took another sip of wine, then used clean hands to mash together the fine bread crumbs, parsley, minced fresh garlic and ground chicken with egg. He formed it into small meatballs and put them into the frying pan lined with olive oil. Not knowing what Marta’s eating habits were, he’d taken the safe route and used chicken instead of ground beef for the meatballs.

He couldn’t get Ellen out of his mind, maybe because of the new woman in the house. A dozen years ago, when he’d worked for his father and was still a bachelor, he’d make excuses to go back into the model homes they’d completed, knowing Ellen would be there. Her job was to stage the homes before the open-house events. He loved her style, and, more important, he liked the way he felt whenever he was around her. The first time she’d smiled at him, well, his world had changed forever.

He washed his hands, tossed the diced mushrooms into another pan, began to sauté them and took another sip of wine.

He’d taken a shower and thrown on fresh clothes after taking the dogs for their long afternoon walk through the hills. He’d put on his broken-in nicer pair of jeans instead of one of the dozens of work-worn pairs in his drawers. In lieu of a sloppy sweatshirt, his usual go-to, he’d chosen a polo shirt, one without any visible holes in it.

And he’d said he wasn’t going to let having a woman in his house change how he lived. Right.

The dogs had been fed, but they still sat expectantly behind him praying for fallout, no doubt. He added the sliced zucchini and diced sweet red bell pepper to the simmering mushrooms, threw in some salt and stirred. The water had started to boil in the third pot, and after he moved the meatballs around to brown on another side, he put the angel-hair pasta in the boiling water. And took another sip of wine as he hummed another nameless song.

Moments like these were the only remaining shadows of joy he once knew. Feeling good, he tossed each dog a cooked chicken meatball after blowing on it to cool.

The table had been set and the pasta was about ready. He’d told Marta he’d holler when dinner was served, but somehow that didn’t seem right. He’d given her plenty of time to unpack and get organized, so he turned everything down to simmer, quickly covered the distance from the kitchen to the stairway and took the steps two at a time to tap on her door. The dogs followed and beat him there. Just as he was about to knock, he saw her shadow behind the thick milky glass and the door swung open.

“Oh,” she said.

“It’s time for dinner.” The dogs watched her curiously. So did he.

She’d changed clothes. Had put on lounging-type pants and a bright green patterned tunic over a black tank top, which dipped low enough to display cleavage.

“Thanks,” she said. “I could smell the cooking up here.”

As they descended the stairs he said over his shoulder, “I hope you’re hungry.” He got a murmured response.

They entered the kitchen. She held back a little bit, but he pretended he didn’t notice.

“I’m having wine. It’s a blend of three whites and is pretty good. Would you like a glass?”

“Oh, no, thank you. Water will be fine. Actually, make that milk if you could.”

Okay, so she wasn’t a drinker. No problem. “Kent, my doctor, has me on fat-free milk. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Fine. Thanks. May I help with anything?”

“You can take the plates to the table while I get your drink. How much pasta?”

He used a pasta spoon to measure the cooked angel hair for her plate.

“A little less, please.”

They made eye contact so she could direct him on the portions for the sautéed veggies and meatballs. Either this one was a small eater, or she didn’t care for what he’d prepared. Either way, he wasn’t going to let it bother him. Then he served his own plate with generous portions and handed that to Marta, as well. She carried them to the table as an idea popped into his head. He’d wired the entire house for sound and rarely used it anymore. So he flicked a switch, and they had music to dine by. But then he quickly worried she’d get the wrong impression—like this was a date or something.

“Is music okay, or do you prefer silence?”

She listened to the light classical sounds and nodded. “It’s fine.”

He poured her milk, topped off his glass of wine and brought them both to the table. The basket of whole-grain sourdough bread was already in place. So was the butter. It had felt dumb for them to sit one at each end of the long dining table, and he thought it would be too casual to sit at the breakfast bar for their first dinner together, so he’d sat her to his left, like he and Ellen used to do.

They ate for a few minutes with the soft music in the background but without conversation. After a bite of the chicken meatballs, she complimented him on his cooking. She seemed to mostly move her food around the plate, eating very little. She did drink her milk and managed half a piece of bread, though.

He enjoyed his meal and decided not to worry about this grown woman. She could and would take care of herself. Maybe she was nervous about this new project. Or, even though she’d said she didn’t have a problem staying here with him, maybe she was uncomfortable about the living arrangements. He could make guesses all night.

“You’re a good cook,” she said again. “I wish I could eat more, but my stomach has been giving me fits lately.”

She did look a little drawn, but because of her olive complexion it was hard for him to tell if she was paler than usual.

“Sorry to hear that. I’ve got antacids if you need—”

“No. No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

There she went again cutting him off. His impression so far was she only tolerated being around him. He’d make a point to stay out of her way from now on.

But a meal was meant to be accompanied by conversation, and damn it, he couldn’t enjoy this delicious dinner—if he did say so himself—nearly as much in silence. Leif racked his brain for an ember to spark a conversation.

“So tell me about your work. Your studio. Your home in Sedona.”

She took a small bite of zucchini, then smiled. A genuine smile, and it almost pushed the wind out of his lungs. “Are you familiar with my work?”

“I’ve been to your website. You’re very talented. Obviously.”

“I’ve lived in Sedona for the past eight years, though I grew up in Phoenix. My father is still there. I was fortunate enough to acquire a benefactor who believed in my painting. Without him, I don’t know...well, I doubt I’d be nearly as successful.” She took a sip of milk.

“You seem to like to do landscapes. Do you paint outdoors?”

“Sometimes, but it gets terribly hot in Sedona several months of the year, so mostly I spend a few days taking photographs of what I want to paint at different times of day. I try to capture the perfect lighting, then I blow them up, cover my studio walls with the pictures and go from there.”

He thought of a few more questions to prod her along, but his mouth was full so he waited.

“I have an art showroom downstairs and I live upstairs where my studio is. I’m fortunate to have a small staff working for me so I can concentrate on painting.”

“You’re not married.” It sounded matter-of-fact, and maybe intrusive of her privacy, but he’d had a glass and a half of wine and just sort of blurted it.

“No.” She looked at her plate, but just before she did, the subtle crinkle of her brow made him wonder if he’d hit a sensitive nerve.

She was what, thirty-four? Did women these days still get touchy about being single after a certain age? What did he know? He’d lived in a cave for the past several years. At forty-two, he’d often felt his life was over in that department. Now, that was one hell of a pill to swallow for a perfectly healthy man, but, nevertheless, that was how he felt. He took another sip of wine; the glass was almost empty. He could save this sorry excuse for a conversation. He used to be good at it. Think back, Leif. Or, here’s an idea—pretend she’s a man.

“Well, I’ve got to tell you,” he said. “I think your painting will be perfect for the mural.”

“Thank you.” She still looked at her plate, moved some pasta back and forth.

“So walk me through this mural-painting process. I’m a novice.”

She popped a small piece of bread into her mouth and drank a sip of milk. Then she said, “I have to be honest and tell you I’ve never painted an entire mural before.”

Now, that was a surprise. Maybe that was what she was nervous about. Come to think of it, he’d only seen her huge canvas paintings at her website. She’d also submitted a preliminary mural design, which had helped the committee make their choice.

“But I’ve put a lot of thought into this project, and I’ve studied how it’s done. First, I lay my idea out on a grid. Since this is the biggest painting I’ve ever tackled, I’ll go about the process one step at a time. I’ve already started the grid and plan to paint it in the one inch to one foot scale first. After that I’ll transfer it to the wall one section at a time.”

So that was why she had three suitcases. One was probably filled with supplies.

“Will I need to prepare the walls for you?”

“Oh, good question. Yes, please.”

“Just tell me what you need and when and I’ll get her done.”

“Great, thank you. That won’t be for a while, though.”

They continued chatting about the steps to undertaking this project, both engaged and distracted from whatever other cares they had. He promised to take her to the college to see the outdoor walls soon. After she explained what needed to be done, he planned to remove the stucco and prep the walls to her specifications while she painted her smaller-scale grid.

After dinner she helped him wash the dishes, then she went on and on about how beautiful his house was and how extraordinary her living quarters were. Suddenly the day, and meal that had gotten off to a rocky start, was ending on a much better note.

Because she’d eaten so little, he showed her where the leftovers would be and several other choices for snacks, making sure she understood the mi casa es su casa philosophy they needed to agree on. It was called Scandinavian hospitality or the Viking code and the god Odin had originally laid down the law in the poem Havamal: “Fire, food and clothes, welcoming speech, should he find who comes to the feast.”

She thanked him again and said good-night, then quietly went up the stairs. He planned to take the dogs out for one last quick walk, but before he did, he watched her hair sway as she ascended the stairs and, to his surprise, he also noticed the twitch of her hips. But what man wouldn’t?

Having a woman in the house had already changed things. A life force was again coming from that end of the second floor. The often overbearing emptiness of the house seemed tamped back a bit, and it felt...well, it felt damn good.

Later, when he laid his head on the pillow, he tried to remember the last time he’d engaged a woman in a conversation for more than two minutes. Not counting women trying to engage him in conversation, like his guesthouse renter, Lilly, who was always full of questions about the town. But what could he expect from a reporter? Or little old ladies at the market with single daughters or granddaughters.

Nope, he’d initiated this conversation tonight, and somehow he’d managed to draw Marta Hoyas out of her shell, even if only for a little while. The thought made him happy, a foreign feeling for him. Well, he’d had a couple of glasses of wine, which probably helped that along.

Yeah, that had to be the reason for that goofy-feeling grin pasted on his face.

Not the beautiful woman from Sedona.

Chapter Two

“Ellen?” Leif rolled over in bed, mostly asleep. “Ellen?” No flash of a dream came back to him like usual. What had driven him out of deep sleep thinking of his dead wife? And what time was it? He looked at the bedside clock—quarter to five. Almost time to get up anyway.

Leif sat up, gave a quick shake of his head and pulled on his jeans for the short walk to the hall bathroom. Another inconvenience of having a woman in the house. As he woke he understood he must have been dreaming about Ellen, but usually when he did he remembered it. He didn’t remember anything about this dream. If that was what it was.

He heard a sound and stopped. It was very faint but undeniably a sound he remembered.

He stood quiet and listened harder. There it was again.

Retching.

The old and familiar heaving from when Ellen had suffered through chemotherapy came rushing back. He must have heard that unmistakable sound in his sleep.

Retching? What was up?

He squinted and listened. It had gone quiet again, but the puking sound had come from Marta’s room. Had she gotten food poisoning from what little she’d eaten last night? Damn, that would be horrible. He felt fine, so why would she get sick?

After he finished his quick pit stop and washed his hands he heard more retching and fought off a wave of terrible memories. Oh, God, Ellen, what you went through. He strode to the end of the hall, not wanting to be nosy but unable to let this lie. It was quiet again.

Marta was curvy—not ultrathin like anorexics or bulimics tended to be. What a crazy thought to even entertain, that she might have an eating disorder. That couldn’t be it. But she’d picked at her meal and looked queasy during dinner, even said her stomach had been giving her fits.

She’d also refused alcohol.

A lot of people didn’t drink. But a warning thought planted inside his brain and made him back off as he heard one more round of intense dry heaves. He wanted to help her out, but it could prove embarrassing for her, and that wasn’t his intent. She needed—deserved—privacy. If she was sick, he’d gladly take care of her, but not without an invitation. She was a grown woman and he assumed she wouldn’t hesitate to ask for help. Unless she was one of those superproud ladies who couldn’t ask for anything.

He ran his hand through his hair, torn. Let it be, Andersen. He listened to his intuition stemmed from the fact she’d refused any wine last night. A troubling thought of what a woman throwing up first thing in the morning usually meant made him step away from the door, then he headed back to his bathroom for a shower.

* * *

Later, Leif had eaten and was feeding the dogs, having decided to take them with him over to the job for the day. He’d promised to finish the add-on to Gunnar Norling’s house in six weeks, and Gunnar had offered to help as much as possible. That meant today, before the sergeant’s shift at Heartlandia PD, they’d install the triple-paned windows that had arrived yesterday. Even though he’d been driving his crew hard on this project, no way would Leif ask them to work on Sunday. The guys needed at least one day off. He and Gunnar could handle it.

After both dogs took a quick whiz, he whistled for them to jump into the bed of the truck. He’d removed the cover and had thrown in his window installation tools. Just as he finished closing the tailgate, he noticed Marta standing in the kitchen doorway in a robe that looked like a Native American blanket. With her hair parted down the middle and not brushed, it tumbled over her shoulders in a wild mess. The vision moved him in ways he hadn’t felt in years. It also bothered him to react so viscerally to a near stranger. She might be pregnant, for crying out loud.

“Where are you going?” Curiosity knit her brows.

“I’ve got a job today. I left you a note in the kitchen. Sorry, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Oh, okay.” She folded her arms. “That’s all right, then. I’ll wait to talk to you later.”

“Is there anything you need?” He thought back to the noises emanating from her suite earlier.

“Besides a good night’s sleep and peace of mind?” She offered a wan smile. Her pained look made him want to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay, and what was up with that impulse? But other than having a pretty solid hunch, Leif didn’t know what her problem was. He really didn’t have a clue if things were okay in her world or not. Obviously, something had robbed her peace of mind.

“Do you want me to stick around? Take you anywhere?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll be fine. I’ll work on the grid.” She glanced down at her slippers, then quickly back up. “I would like to talk to you about something when you get home, though.”

“If it’s urgent, I’m all ears.”

“Not really urgent. I’ll talk to you later.” She started to back away from the door.

“Okay, then.” Leif opened the cab door and started to get inside.

“Oh, hey, what time will you be home?”

“Gunnar’s got to be at work at three, so I’ll see you before then.” It felt eerie having a woman ask when he’d be coming home after all these years. “Do you want me to bring some lunch or anything?” Saltine crackers?

“You’ve got plenty of food here. Thanks. We’ll talk later.” With that, the beautiful, straight-out-of-bed vision disappeared from the door.

As he backed out the truck, Leif was certain Marta was going to tell him she was pregnant, and he chided himself for having already developed a little crush on her.

On a pregnant lady. How desperate is that?

* * *

Seven hours later, Leif returned home and put the dogs in the gated backyard and pool area. He went in the back door, took his dirty shoes off in the laundry room, then headed to the kitchen. The house was quiet enough to hear a drip of water in the sink. As he turned the faucet completely off, he noticed a bowl in the sink. She must have eaten cereal, so at least that was something.

He headed up the stairs in his stocking feet. Not wanting to come off as a sneaky surprise, he cleared his throat and made a fake cough, preparing to hear her news—I’m pregnant.

“Marta?” he said, taking a turn for the studio.

“I’m in here.”

He entered the bright white room, thinking maybe he’d overdone it with three skylight panels, but Ellen had always loved it, saying it was the perfect natural lighting for intricate stitchery. Maybe Marta would like that, too.

She was hunched over a table, a long piece of white paper spread along the entire length. A second piece of paper was laid out on the other worktable.

“Come here and have a look,” she said. “Tell me what you think so far.” She glanced up, her hair pulled back into a low single braid, though a few wavy tendrils had broken free around her face. He fought the urge to tuck one behind her ear. She wore a teal-colored plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and holey old jeans. He couldn’t help but notice she still wore her slippers.

“You could have turned the heater on, you know,” he said, worried she’d been cold all day.

“I’ve been fine. The skylights bring in a lot of warmth.”

Good to know. He stepped closer, her dark eyes and olive skin quickly reminding him he was still a man. She used a graphite pencil and a yardstick to draw the final sections of grid over her mural sample.

“This is the tedious part,” she said, then stood. “Come and look at this. Let me know what you think.”

Long sections of Heartlandia history were sketched and laid out before him, beautifully depicted with her natural and flowing artistic style.

“Notice something?”

How beautiful you are?

Actually, something besides the fact she smelled like cinnamon and ginger did draw his attention. He pointed to a blank area at the beginning of the mural. “That?”

“I’ve been concerned about this project from the start. All the information the college provided me was exceptionally helpful, but when I began my sketches, I kept feeling blocked right here.” She pointed to the beginning.

“I wound up having to work backward because this strange sense of darkness stopped me from advancing. I got the Chinook and fisherman part just fine, but something—pardon me for sounding overly dramatic, but forbidding is the only word I can use to describe it—tugged at me to start even before then. Yet no one sent any information about before that point.”

Ah, jeez. Was this woman a psychic? Were artists more in tune with secrets?

For the past few months a private panel had been meeting at city hall to discuss this exact matter. Sleepy little Heartlandia hadn’t been founded by the Scandinavian fisherman with the help of the native peoples—the Chinook—as they’d always assumed, but by a scurrilous pirate captain named Nathaniel Prince, also known as the Prince of Doom.

The perfect little tourist town had been thrown into a dither over this newly discovered fact, in no small part thanks to Leif. While breaking ground for the new college, he’d dug up an ancient trunk filled with journals. The pirate captain’s journals. After authenticating the captain’s accounts and having Elke Norling, the town historian, decipher them, their worst fears had proved true. There had been a concerted effort somewhere back in time by the people of Heartlandia to suppress the truth, and now it was time to come clean.

Plans were in place for a town meeting, where the information would be revealed by mayor pro tem Gerda Rask, with Elke by her side. And Lilly Matsuda, the new journalist at the Heartlandia Herald, had agreed to run the entire historic findings in a three-part story. But that only solved the first problem; the second was even worse. Captain Prince had alluded to a second trunk filled with gold coins and jewels...buried at the Ringmuren. Which happened to be sacred burial ground for the Chinook. Even now, the thought of dealing with this town-wide problem made his head want to explode, and because he was the guy who’d kicked off the whole mess and he’d been on the secret panel from the start, he couldn’t avoid the predicament or the fallout.

The bigger question, right this moment, was how much should he tell Marta. And how crazy was it that she’d sensed a problem without knowing about Heartlandia’s dark side? One thing he did know—he’d wait a bit, feel things out more, before saying a word to her.

“The problem is—” Marta watched him as she spoke. Was she trying to read his reaction? He went still, willing his face not to give anything away, afraid he already had. “The problem is Elke gave me scant information before this shipwreck where the Scandinavian fisherman first arrived in these parts. I think that’s the issue. What about the native people, the Chinook? I need more information to do the mural justice.”

He inhaled, not having a clue what to say or how to handle things right this instant.

“I hope you don’t think I’m crazy. I assure you I’m not a woo-woo type at all. It’s just this dark feeling I keep getting has clouded my vision of the project from the start. Once I’m past this initial area, I’m fine.” She pointed to the beginning, the blank part of the mural, tapping her finger. “But this part right here, well, something isn’t right.”

“I’m sure there’s a logical reason, and we’ll find it while you’re here.” A cop-out for sure, but the best I can do right now.