Chapter 9

“Damn, Mel. First off, for all I know he’s married and his wife tends the garden while he’s out looking for deer or what have you. Or he’s single, straight, and happily so. Living a life he loves with no entanglements.”

“I’m sure you’ll find out while you have him in your studio.” She took a bite of her dessert then pointed her finger at him. “You need to find a new man before you turn into a hermit.”

“Not happening.”

“Finding someone or being a hermit?”

“Both. I can’t be a hermit with you living so close.” He winked at her. “And I’m not looking. Two bad relationships are enough. I don’t think I’m meant to have anyone.”

Mellie reached across the table to pat his hand. “You’ll find the right man. You’re too cute, and too nice, not to.”

“Thank you for that. But then you have to say it. You’re my sister.”

She rolled her eyes, and the conversation moved on to other things before she told him she had to get back to work.

* * * *

As Daniel drove home it began to rain. By the time he got to the house the rain had turned to light snow—just a dusting on the trees and bushes. He ran up to his studio to get his camera so he could take some pictures before, hopefully, it melted. There was a fairytale quality to it that might work well in one of his paintings.

With pictures taken, he went to what had been his grandfather’s office or study on the second floor. The room was still in a bit of a shambles since he’d been using it to store everything that was now in the studio. The massive oak desk that had belonged to his grandfather stood against one wall. Bookcases lined the wall opposite it, as well as the two overstuffed chairs and an end table he’d rescued during his rearranging of the ground floor. He put the chairs on either side of the window, with the table between them. The shelves held some books, although not as many as the ones downstairs, so he made a mental note to get a few of his grandmother’s nicer figurines and knickknacks to fill the empty spaces.

After dusting the desk, which needed it, Daniel opened the box containing his files, as well as the various pads and pencils he used to take notes when he did research. He put them away, then took out the small printer, setting it on one corner of the desk. Lastly, he put the laptop in the center of the desk and reinstalled the printer. Finally, with everything setup, he downloaded the photos from the camera, putting them into a new file in his picture program.

With that completed, he set up his wireless service with the local phone company. As he did, he wondered what the chances were that it would actually work when the weather got bad—especially considering how far outside of town he was.

“Oh, well. Nothing for it but to hope if it does go down, it won’t be for too long,” he muttered as he went online to check his mail. There were, unsurprisingly, two messages from PayPal telling him that money had been deposited in his account from the Cleveland galleries. There was also the usual spam, which he quickly deleted. Then, with a groan, he opened an email from Ray. He had an idea what it would contain and he was correct. Ray apologized profusely for his actions the previous evening. Then he went on to outline in great detail exactly what he had in mind for turning the house into a very upscale and exclusive restaurant that would draw in people from all over the state and the country who came to Colorado to ski.

“Not happening,” Daniel growled, tempted to delete the mail without responding. Common sense took over and he politely replied, accepting Ray’s apology and then telling him he had no intention of doing anything more with the house than living in it and using the studio for his work. He ended with, “I hope you have a safe trip back to Cleveland”, signed his name, and hit the send button.

He glanced at the window then, and saw that it was still snowing, albeit as lightly as it had been when he arrived home. It was also getting dark; reminding him it was close to supper time. Not that he was terribly hungry, considering all he’d eaten for lunch, but he was aware that, living alone, he had to keep to some sort of schedule or he’d find himself skipping things he should be doing—like preparing meals.

Supper was light, consisting of a bowl of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich that he took into the dining room. Then he got a book from the shelves in the living room and sat down to eat. He was halfway through his meal when he got that strange feeling again. The one that said something wasn’t quite as it should be. This time he knew it wasn’t because of the book he was reading. It was a hardboiled mystery, not a fantasy one.