Interior Motives Read Free Page B

did brighten her gaze a tad. “It’s like I used to tell my boys when they were little—messy, but good.”
    The globs that clung to the old overalls and tank top I’d brought to change into fit right into the first category. “I’ve never been accused of being a clean painter, so I guess I shouldn’t expect to be a neat faux techniquer either.”
    “What is that you’re using?”
    I launched into a detailed explanation, thankful I could give her a short break from the troubles she faced. Her interest fueled my zeal, so I told her how I’d mixed pigment into the mush and would later apply a blend of more color and glaze medium. My goal was a warm, aged hue on the now imperfect texture of the walls.
    “I’m so impressed,” she said in a sincere voice. “I never would have thought someone might want to make a new place look like . . . well, like my place.”
    “Really? What’s your home like?”
    “I guess it’s what’s called a painted lady, a big, old Victorian with the multicolored gingerbread trim outside and the interior plasterwork they used to do back then. The moldings are dark—Daddy never did let Mama paint them white, no matter how often she told him it looked much too old-fashioned.”
    I drew a sharp breath. “You didn’t paint them, did you?” She patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, since Daddy was so opposed. I’m afraid I was a bit of a Daddy’s girl.”
    That breath exploded out in relief. “I’m so glad. It’s a crime what some people do to those magnificent old homes. They don’t pay attention to the exquisite craftsmanship, the fine materials, the artistry that went into the construction and finish work, the pride the workmen took in everything they did.”
    “Go, Haley, go!” Dutch cheered.
    I turned toward him. “What rock did you crawl out from under? I thought you went to pick up the beams for the ceiling.”
    “That didn’t take long.”
    I faced Darlene again. “Just ignore him. He’s a necessary evil—good for construction and the occasional headache.”
    Dutch shot me one of his most wicked smiles and waggled a finger under my nose. “Ah-ah-ah! Don’t forget, you once saved me from a fate worse than death. That old cliché says now you own me.”
    “Don’t remind me.” I wouldn’t remind him of the times he’d saved me. The memories weren’t good ones, even though I was glad he hadn’t been locked up for a murder he didn’t commit. “Besides, I gave you back your sorry self. Right away too. You’re all your own.”
    He clutched his clasped hands to his chest. “You wound me, oh, Faux Finished One.” He winked at Darlene, who was, inexplicably, charmed by the goofball. “Even though she sure doesn’t look like she’ll be finished here anytime soon.”
    “Punny, punny. Just not very funny.” I tipped up my chin. “You can’t rush perfection, Merrill.”
    “What’s with the sloth’s pace, Farrell?”
    “Oh!” Darlene exclaimed. “Then you’re not married.”
    I squeaked in horror.
    Dutch gaped.
    Tedd laughed. “You’d think, wouldn’t you?”
    I spun to face her. “Are you out of your mind? I’d never—”
    “Never say never,” she cut in. “How’s it going out here? That is, besides your usual head butting.”
    Dutch snorted. “She’s slow.”
    I reached for Darlene’s arm, then thought better of putting my plastered paw on that yummy mauve silk. “If we ignore him, he might go away,” I said. “It’s going well, but you can’t hurry the process. It takes layers upon layers to make plain old drywall look like ancient adobe.”
    “It would seem very well worth the time investment,” Darlene said. “The texture she’s applied, even though the color is a bit bright, looks like that of the walls in my house. I’d let her go at her pace.”
    I beamed. “See? A woman of discerning taste.”
    Darlene again patted my shoulder—carefully, since I had splotches of plaster there