A Love Made New (15 page)

“I'm sure you could. But I'd like to
geh
with you.”

To the bank. Even though he liked bookkeeping, she couldn't fathom why he would want to accompany her. She couldn't try to puzzle this out anymore—Asa wanting her friendship, but looking at her as if . . . as if he wanted more. And despite her doubt that he did, sure she was seeing things that weren't there,
she was tired of being confused. “Asa, I need you to be honest with me.”

Asa swallowed, worried she was going to ask the question he dreaded answering. He couldn't be anything but honest with her. Sitting here tonight, admitting his secret that he wanted to be a bookkeeper, sharing cookies and milk and relaxing, had been nice. Very nice. And it had felt right. When she admitted she didn't know anything about bookkeeping, he knew he could help her, which would give him an excuse to spend time with her. Maybe it was a little underhanded, but he was desperate.

“Is there something going on here?” She gestured to him, then to herself. “Between us?”

He pulled in a breath. This would be the time to tell her he wanted more than friendship. She was giving him an opening. But something held him back. More like someone.
God, don't let me make a mistake here
. “Other than friendship,
nix
.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I asked for honesty.”

“Honest, that's the truth.”

Abigail looked at the table and threaded her fingers together. “Then you don't . . .” Her voice grew soft and she wasn't looking at him. “Feel anything?”

Right now he was feeling a lot of things. Any other time he would appreciate straightforwardness. He had a deep-seated feeling that this wasn't the time to lay his heart bare to her. But he couldn't lie to her either. “I think,” he said, measuring his words, “maybe something.”

Her head popped up and she let out a small chuckle. “Well.
That was definitive.” Then she tilted her head. “Do you feel sorry for me?”

He could answer this question easily. “
Nee.
I definitely don't feel sorry for you.”

“Because I'd understand if you did.” She averted her gaze. “It's been a tough few months for me and
mei familye
.”

“I know.”

“With
mei
parents dying . . .” She swallowed. “And then Joel dumping me . . .”

His hands curled into fists for the second time during their conversation. “Joel's an idiot.”

She half-smiled. “
Nee
, he's not. He just knows what he wants. And it's not me.” She looked down at the last quarter of her cookie and frowned. “I can see why.”

He barely heard her last words. She was opening up to him and he didn't want to mess anything up. “Like I said, he's an idiot.”

Abigail's frown didn't disappear, but she did look at him. “Since I wanted honesty from you, I'll give it in return. Joel broke
mei
heart.” Her bottom lip trembled. “Shattered it in a thousand pieces. I'm still putting it back together. I won't
geh
through that again.”

“Abigail—”

She held up her hand. “Please, let me finish. If there's one thing you've proven to me over the past few months it's that you're a nice guy. A really nice guy. But so was Joel.” She kept her eyes level with his.

What do I do now, Lord?
He schooled his features and made sure he could speak without emotion when he said, “I understand.”

She let out a breath, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. “That said, I do want to start taking
mei
business
seriously. So I'll take you up on
yer
offer to help me with
mei
bank account and show me how to keep the books.”

He sat up a bit. “I can do that.”

“I feel the need to warn you I'm a slow learner.”

“That's all right. I'm a patient man.”
In more ways than one.

She yawned. “I'm heading for bed.
Gute nacht
, Asa.” She glanced at the container of cookies. “Thanks for the snack. And that talk. I feel better.”

He nodded and watched her as she went back to the addition. Her hair was in a thick braid and he had longed to touch it. She was still wearing her dress, and he couldn't keep his eyes off her as she walked away. He smiled. He'd stretch out his bookkeeping lessons with Abigail as long as he could.

Y
ou sure you don't mind doing this?”

Irene looked at Sol. Although the weather had improved since the blizzard two days ago, it was still cold and snowy outside. She could have put off starting on the birdhouses, but she didn't want Sol to think she didn't want to help him. As it was, he'd been tense since her arrival at his workshop a few minutes ago. He seemed nervous. Very nervous. She smiled, hoping to put him at ease. “Sol, for the last time, I want to help. Besides, I'm sure it will be
fun
.”

He looked at her as if he had no idea what the word meant.

They couldn't have this tension between them. “Sol,” she said, making sure to keep her voice soft. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

He looked down at her, and she saw the lines of strain around his mouth decrease. “I've set up a place for you,” he said. “It's small, but well ventilated.”

She followed him to a room in the back of his shop. It was
chilly in the small space, but not too cold. The workshop was clearly well-insulated.

“I'll just crack this open to let out any fumes,” he said. The room was so small that he had to reach over her to lift the window open a few inches. She couldn't help but breathe in the clean scent of his blue shirt, her heart thumping at his nearness.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling away from her. “I should have opened it before you arrived.”

“That's okay.” It definitely was. She looked for signs to see if he was as affected by their nearness as she was, but she didn't see anything. He moved a chair over to a table where he had set up a variety of brushes, small cans of paint, and newspaper. He'd even thoughtfully put an apron next to the supplies.

“I tried to get as many colors as I could find,” he said. “But not too many crazy colors.”

“
Nee
neon pink, I see.”

He smiled. “
Nee.
Definitely not neon.”

She looked at the birdhouse on the table. She was glad he gave her a simple one to do for her first attempt. She had decided to go to the library within the next few days to study up on colors and designs and, of course, birdhouses. She did know enough about painting wood, however, to say, “I'll have to prime it first.”

He reached around her again and grabbed the can of primer. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. But he didn't move quite so far away this time.

“
Danki
.” She looked up at him, breathless. He was so handsome, guarded and vulnerable at the same time.

Then he moved away. “I'll leave you to it,” he said.

“Any particular way you want me to paint this?” she said, gesturing behind her.

“Surprise me.” Then he grinned. It was a genuine grin, one
she'd never seen before. She'd seen him cocky, sullen, dangerous. But never bright and open like this. She was so surprised at the transformation she couldn't speak.

“I'll be in the workshop if you need anything.”

She nodded, still unable to say anything.

He stood in the doorway, as if he seemed eager to leave. “I appreciate you doing this, Irene.”

“
Mei
pleasure.” And as he nodded and turned away, she definitely meant it.

What am I doing?

Sol leaned over the table, trying to catch his breath. It had been foolish to be so close to her moments ago. He closed his eyes, but all he saw was her pretty face. She was so lovely . . . so perfect.

She was also off-limits.

He opened his eyes and went back to work. He'd hoped she'd change her mind about painting the birdhouses. He probably should have tried to paint them himself. But then they would have looked horrible. So while a part of him was glad she hadn't backed out, another part was on pins and needles knowing she was close by.

He had thought about her almost constantly since the blizzard. How kind she had been to him, to the point of being concerned about him sleeping on a pink quilt. She had also taken his apology with grace. She was special, even more special than he'd initially thought. And that had made him leave the Beiler house before breakfast the next morning. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to see her again. It was that he wanted to see her too much.

He stood and rubbed the back of his neck. He had work to
do, and thinking about Irene wasn't helping him get it done. He continued with the finishing touches on Jalon's birdhouse and put all his mental attention on his work instead of the lovely woman in the next room.

After working for an hour he decided to take a break. He needed some coffee. He started to open the door of the shop, then realized not asking Irene if she needed anything would be rude. He went to the workroom. The door was open slightly, and he pushed on it, hesitating halfway. He couldn't keep himself from staring at her.

She was a study in concentration, and he could see she was already doing a good job. Three cans of paint were open beside the birdhouse, and she had put on his mother's old apron he'd left for her. He continued to watch, forgetting himself, noticing the way her tongue stuck out a little as she focused on applying a thin, light blue accent line on the edge of the tiny roof. When she finished, she set the paintbrush on the lid of the can and arched her back.

He sucked in a breath, losing his balance and hitting the door, which swung completely open. He stumbled into the room.

“Sol,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth, her pretty blue eyes wide and startled. Then she removed it. “You scared me.”

His mind flashed back to when he was sixteen. He'd been hiding in the cornfield, waiting for Sadie Schrock to pass by. He'd been drinking, as he always had back then. He'd tried to kiss her, but she escaped. He had seen fear in her eyes then, and again a few years later after she married Aden. In a drunken stupor Sol had tried to assault her, only to have Aden kick him out of the house.

His hands started to shake with shame. “I'm . . . I'm sorry,” he said, backing away from Irene. “I . . . I didn't mean to . . .”

She went to him, her face twisted in concern. “It's okay, Sol.” She peered up at him. “Don't look so serious. I was just startled.”

“I would never hurt you, Irene.”

Her body stilled. “Where did that come from?”

He wasn't sure, and he tried to find something to cover himself, to backtrack. He moved away from her and hit his shoulder against the wall. “Never mind,” he said, turning to go.

But she put her hand on his arm. “Sol. You don't have to run from me.”

He couldn't answer her. He was running because he was a coward. What he wouldn't do for a drink right now. Anything to escape the pain and shame he was feeling.

“You also don't have to be so serious.” She smiled, and it reached to the darkness inside him. “Loosen up, for once.”

Before he could respond, she picked up the blue paintbrush. He held up his hands. “What are you going to do with that?”

“
Nix
, if you promise you'll relax.”

“Irene, I'm—”

She took the paintbrush and drew a streak across his face.

His eyes widened at the same time hers did.

“Sol,” she said, moving from him. “I don't know why I did that. I was only teasing you, I didn't think . . .”

He brought his hand to his cheek, feeling the paint there. He looked at her, and she seemed genuinely contrite, and a little confused. There was only one thing to do. He took the brush from her and slid it across her forehead. “Payback,” he said, unable to hide his smile. “It's only fair.”

“Payback, huh?” She grabbed another brush, and this time she flicked paint at him. “How's that for payback?”

He looked at the front of his shirt, now covered with yellow flecks. The shirt was old and stained, and he didn't care. “That's
all you got?” He smeared his brush against her chin, then regretted the impulsive action.

But he shouldn't have, because she took her yellow brush and drew a line down his nose. “How's that?” Then she started to laugh.

He couldn't help but join her, but not before he flicked paint on her apron. She parried by trying to draw an X on the front of his shirt, but the brush was out of paint. He thought the game was over until she dipped her finger in the red paint can and put a dot of paint on the tip of his nose.

“Now you look like Rudolph,” she said, giggling.

“Oh yeah?” He reached around her and put his fingers in blue paint. He started to smear them across her face, then held back. She was so close to him he could hear her breathing, smell the scent of paint on her skin. He took one blue finger and traced it across the top of her cheek, his eyes never leaving hers, mesmerized by the darkening blue color and the fringe of dark blonde lashes.

“Sol,” she said, sounding breathless.

That brought him out of his stupor, and he stood back. “I . . .”

“If you tell me you're sorry one more time I'm going to dump this can of paint on
yer
head.” She picked it up and held it in front of her.

“But you're a mess.”

“So? I think you're a bigger mess. At least I don't have a red nose.” She looked at the apron. “Besides, what's a little paint? It's water based, so it will come right off.”

“
Ya
,” he said, still frowning, still waiting for her to be angry. They'd wasted paint and time, something his father wouldn't have tolerated. But his father wasn't here. He wasn't beholden to his earthly father anymore. And for the first time in years, he'd had fun.

“We should wash up,” she said.

“There's a sink in the back.”

He led her to a small, utilitarian basin and a single tap that dispensed only cold water. He turned it on and she put her hands underneath the flow, only to pull them back. “It's freezing.”

“Sorry. You can
geh
in the
haus
and wash. There's warm water there.”

She smirked. “I can handle it.” But her body shook as she washed the paint off her hands.

“Wait,” he said, then grabbed a clean rag from a bin he kept near the sink. He put it under the water, then squeezed out the excess. He held it in his hands, warming it, then handed it to her. “This will be better.”

She nodded as she took the rag from him. She dabbed the paint off her face while he washed his hands. Then he splashed the water on his face a few times, turned off the tap, and reached for a dry rag. He wiped his cheeks and forehead as he turned to her. Somehow she'd managed to get all the paint off her face, leaving behind rosy cheeks.

“You missed a spot,” she said, pointing to his cheek.

He dabbed at it a few times before she took the rag from him. “Let me.” She slowly wiped his cheek, and this time her fingertips trailed against his skin. He closed his eyes at the slight contact, warmth filling him, finding the parts of his heart that had been cold for so long. When he opened his eyes, she was still touching him, still gazing at him in a way that made him want to hold her tight and never let go.

But he couldn't do that. He took the rag from her. “Thanks,” he said, his voice and posture stiff. He tossed the rags into a separate bin and turned from her.

“Sol, wait.”

He paused, then faced her. “I don't want to hurt you, Irene.”

“You couldn't hurt me.”

She sounded so confident he almost believed it himself. He hung his head. “I wasn't always like that,” he said, whispering, unbelieving that he had confessed it out loud. “I wasn't always safe.”

“I know.”

He lifted his head, paralyzed with fear. Did she know the totality of his past? What he hadn't confessed that day in church?

“If I was worried about you and me, I wouldn't be here. I trust you.” She lifted her chin. “I really do.”

“You shouldn't,” he said, looking away from her.

“Why not? You haven't given me any reason not to.”