The You I Never Knew Part 24

"You b.i.t.c.h," she whispered, her eyes glazing over with yearning and frustration. "I don't need any of this."

"Oh, honey." Natalie grabbed her flowered bag and hefted it over her shoulder. "You do. You absolutely do. What else are you going to do while Gavin recovers?"

"I-" Well, really, thought Mich.e.l.le. Natalie had a point. The studio was still there, untouched, as Sam had showed her the other night. "I guess I could mess around in my spare time."

"Good girl. So let's get a move on. We've got to bring poor Camille in out of the cold."

Camille was her cello, a 1968 Juzak concert instrument from Hungary. She never went anywhere without it. She kept it in a hard sh.e.l.l case plastered with stickers from all the places she'd visited-places like Sri Lanka and Lake Lucerne and Montreal and Rio de Janeiro.

They walked across to the bungalows, and Mich.e.l.le stowed the photo alb.u.ms in the Rover. She wondered if she would dare to show them to Sam. Natalie was right, Mich.e.l.le conceded reluctantly. He needed and deserved to see what Cody's first sixteen years had been like.

They toted the paints, brushes, and Belgian linen canvases into the studio. Then Mich.e.l.le helped Natalie carry her stuff into the guesthouse. It was already warm and cozy inside, and Natalie sighed with satisfaction. "Let me freshen up a little, and we'll go together."

"Go where, Nat?"

"To Sam McPhee's. Didn't you say Cody's working there? He needs a ride, right?"

"Yes, but-"

"Do you think I could stay away?" Natalie rummaged in her bag and found a brush, which she used to draw upward through her spiked hair. "I'm dying here, Mich.e.l.le. You're my best friend, and you've got a scarlet past I know nothing about. Do you have any idea how crazy that makes me?"

In spite of herself, Mich.e.l.le grinned. "I sort of like this."

"b.i.t.c.h," Natalie said, and gave her a hug.

Chapter 25.

Sam walked out onto the front porch with Edward Bliss as the Range Rover pulled into the yard. Sam felt a now-familiar lurch in his chest when Cody got out of the car.

My son. I have a son.

Yet other than st.i.tching his wound, Sam had never touched him.

"He's doing a little better in the wardrobe department." Edward sipped from a mug of coffee. "Starting to dress for the weather and the job, eh?"

Cody still appeared a little ragged, though he had abandoned the studied slouchiness of his city garb in favor of old jeans, work boots, a fleece-lined denim jacket. A warm hat covered the new haircut and the bandage.

"Who's that in the car with Mich.e.l.le?" Edward asked.

Sam squinted, but the glare of the sun off the windshield blinded him. "Not sure. Gavin again?"

The pa.s.senger door of the car opened and out stepped the strangest woman Sam had ever seen. She resembled a b.u.t.terfly, wearing a long multicolored shawl, crazy purple boots, and a Sherpa mountain guide's alpaca hat. With her skirt and shawl flowing, she skimmed over the snow toward the house, gabbing with Cody the whole time. Mich.e.l.le went around to the back of the car, lifting the rear cargo door.

"Ai caramba," Edward said under his breath. "Who's the babe?"

"... so unbelievably cool of your mom," she was saying to Cody as they reached the porch. Barely pausing for breath, she tilted her head back, revealing earrings in unexpected places, and said, "Okay, Cody, shall we play What's My Line? Which one's your dad?"

She took off her hat to reveal spiked hair with purple and green streaks. She had slightly uptilted eyes and the face of a pixie-impish, animated, and sly. Tinkerbell on acid.

Red-cheeked but clearly enjoying himself, Cody said, "Sam and Edward, this is-"

"Wait, wait!" The imp held up a hand, impractically covered in fingerless black lace gloves. "Don't tell me. Let me guess." She grew very serious, looking from Cody to Sam to Edward to Cody. "No contest," she said. "It's the tall one. So introduce us, numb-nuts." She elbowed Cody in the side.

"This is my mom's friend."

"Not your friend?" Tinkerbell looked wounded.

"Yeah, mine too." Cody stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Natalie Plum."

"Actually, I'm his fairy G.o.dmother." She stepped up onto the porch. "He didn't tell you about me?"

"I better get to work," Cody said, hurrying toward the barn.

Sam was gratified by his haste to check on the mare and foal. He wanted to believe the kid could get interested in the horses. Maybe that way they'd find some common ground.

Natalie stepped up onto the porch and shook hands with Edward, then Sam. "You'll have to excuse me," she said. "I've had about nine gallons of coffee. You might find me a tad talkative. Hope you don't mind."

"We don't mind a bit," Sam said.

Edward put the full force of his charm into a comical bow. "Welcome to Montana."

Natalie's face lit up. "Thank you."

Mich.e.l.le arrived, lugging an armload of large, thick books.

"Here." Sam jumped down from the porch. "Let me help you with those."

"Mich.e.l.le, you b.i.t.c.h," Natalie burst out, turning on her friend. "You didn't tell me he was George Clooney!"

Sam took the top two books from Mich.e.l.le. "I'm not George Clooney."

Natalie Plum raked him with a frankly a.s.sessing glance. "Close enough."

"But I'm friendlier," Edward cut in. "And I have better work hours."

"Perfect," she said with a dazzling smile. "Then you can show me around the place. Cody wouldn't shut up about the new baby."

Edward took her hand and led her toward the barn. "My pleasure."

As they walked off, Sam heard her say, "... every last thing, do you hear? I want to know absolutely everything."

Mich.e.l.le watched them go. The morning light was soft on her face, nose and cheeks tinged by the cold. She held two of the books against her like a shield. "And does Edward know everything?" she asked.

"If he doesn't, he'll make it up."

"I'm serious, Sam."

"Okay, he figured out about Cody even before I did. The second he saw him. But he didn't say anything until I told him. Edward doesn't lie, and he doesn't hurt people. Ever." He indicated the books. "So what's all this? Photo alb.u.ms?"

"Uh-huh. You got a minute?"

"I'm guessing this will take more than a minute. But as a matter of fact, I've got all morning." He glanced down at the pager clipped to his belt. "So long as the beeper stays quiet. Come on in."

In the living room, he added a couple of golden larch logs to the fire crackling in the woodstove and cleared a spot on the coffee table. "Can I get you something to drink?"

She didn't answer. He glanced at her to find her staring at the painting over the mantel.

"My G.o.d," she said. "I had no idea what happened to this."

The picture had occupied a place of honor over the mantel ever since he had settled in Crystal City. It was the only gift Mich.e.l.le had ever given him. The painting had a life of its own; it glowed with the sheer wonder expressed in every brushstroke, echoing the underlying tenderness of a very young, very talented artist.

"I'm glad you kept it," she said, her voice soft, husky. "It's a good picture."

"I've always thought so. Everyone who sees it says so."

She shivered, though it wasn't cold. "I thought I had so many more pictures in me."

"I still can't believe you don't paint anymore."

"Painting took more out of me than I had to give. Life comes first, then art."

"I bet your pal Natalie doesn't agree."

"Natalie's different."

"I noticed."

Her manner became brisk, almost businesslike as she seated herself, as if her show of vulnerability had embarra.s.sed her.

"You should still be painting, Mich.e.l.le."

Her chin came up. "What, in all my spare time?"

"You make time for what's important."

The anger that flashed in her eyes was new to him. The Mich.e.l.le he'd known years ago had a temper, sure. But her anger had never been cold like this. Or strangely directed at herself.

"What's with the books?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Natalie brought these from home."

Sam lowered himself next to her. His heart thumped; until now he wouldn't have thought a moment like this was important, critical. "Pictures of Cody growing up?"

"Yes. You interested?"

Here it was, then. The past, staring him in the face. Here in these four fat books lived the history that had left him out. The years he had lost with his son.

"h.e.l.l, yeah, I'm interested."

She picked up the top one. "I haven't had time to go through these and edit them, so what you see is what you get."

"What would you want to edit?"

"You'll see when we get there." She took off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her on the sofa. Sam, who had seduced a decent number of women on this very sofa, found the gesture almost unbearably s.e.xy. He forced himself to focus on the photo alb.u.m.

She flipped open the front cover. "My first apartment in Seattle. Natalie and I shared a place on Capitol Hill when I first moved there." Unremarkable, a snapshot of a sunny room with sliding gla.s.s doors and overstuffed furniture. Neat, nicer-than-average student housing.

"I studied painting while I was pregnant," she said. "I tried to keep it up after the baby was born, but life just got too hectic."

His gaze dropped down the page to a picture of Mich.e.l.le. It wasn't a very good shot, but it moved him. She stood at the rail of a ferry boat painted white and green. Blue water and forested islands and a distant mountain range in the background. She wore her hair in a silky blond ponytail, and she had on a denim jumper.

A breeze plastered the blue dress against her round, ripe abdomen. She was the picture of a healthy young woman in the last trimester of pregnancy. Sam stared, fascinated by the knowledge that only months before the shot was taken, he had held her in his arms. He had planted that baby in her.

He lightly rubbed his thumb over the girl in the photo. "I hate it that I missed this."

"Right." She seemed to be working to keep her voice in control. "I was fat and cranky all the time. I think this is the only picture of me pregnant."

"Who took it? Natalie?"

"Yes." She turned the page. "Ah. Here we go."

The next photo showed a black-haired imp with thickly mascaraed eyes peering over a surgical mask.

"Natalie again?" Sam asked.

"She was my birth coach."

He set his teeth. Then, when he could trust himself, he said, "Should've been me."

Mich.e.l.le shook her head. With the motion, a light drift of her fragrance hit him, and his body heated with the need to touch her.

"Sam," she said, "you were eighteen. You weren't ready to go through childbirth-"

"You were only eighteen, too. Were you ready?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"I wasn't allowed a choice. I would've stuck with you, Mich.e.l.le. You know d.a.m.ned well I would have."

"I didn't know a thing. You were gone so fast, I didn't even have a chance to tell you I was pregnant." She pointed to a poorly focused photograph. "And there he is, hot off the press."

There was nothing unique about the picture. As a physician, Sam had seen his share of moments-after-birth shots, and this one wasn't particularly well done. But because it was Mich.e.l.le, holding his son, his mouth dried. He couldn't speak; he couldn't even swallow.