A Regular Joe: A Regular Joe / Mr. Right Under Her Nose

He didn’t like to hear her put herself down that way, especially when he admired her unique qualities and talents. Joe shook his head in contradiction. “You’re way wrong, sweetheart. You possess amazing gifts and creative skills. Power tools may be the tools of your trade, but it’s what you create, the love and intensity you put into your art and crafts that make you special. You fix things and make them right, whether it’s repairing broken knickknacks or solving problems in your grandfather’s and his friends’ lives. You are caring and generous of heart, and your neighbors and customers come to you for ideas, help and advice. And furthermore, glamour is superficial and short-lived. It rubs off with soap and water and it hangs in a closet. You have inner beauty that runs soul deep.”

Mattie stared at him, amazed that he perceived her as something special when she considered herself unremarkable and had never put forth the effort to make much of her physical assets. But what really hit her where she lived was that Joe didn’t care that she didn’t gussy herself up in attempt to gain attention and impress others. He seemed to appreciate her for who and what she was. She wanted to hug him for that, but, considering their explosive physical reaction to each other, she predicted they’d wind up naked on the living room floor—and things would get totally out of hand, or in hand, in this case.

“There’s something else you should know, Mattie,” he whispered as he wrapped his arms around her and drew her full length against him, nuzzling his chin against the top of her head. “I like who I am when I’m with you. I had to get away from the life I was living because I wasn’t sure if I was liked for myself anymore. You helped me find the person who got lost somewhere along the way. I enjoy being a part of your life. If the intimacy is too much for you to handle, then I’ll suffer the raging hormones. I’ll leave it totally up to you to let me know if, and when, you’re ready to take the intimate step.”

Willfully, Joe set her away from him, though he preferred to hold her, to absorb her into him. He glanced over her head to notice several large paintings, surrounded and accentuated by curio shelves, a plant stand, deacon’s bench, and Shaker-style reading table. Studying the interior decor of her home was the distraction he needed to keep himself from doing something crazy—like tossing good sense to the four winds and succumbing to the unruly urges of his body.

“Damn, woman, do you know how talented and gifted you are?” he said as he strode up to the painting that had reached across the room to draw him closer. “You put so much life, detail and color into your artwork that it grabs hold and won’t let go.”

Joe forced himself to move to the next landscape painting that depicted the old wooden bridge south of town that he’d noticed while cruising with the Roland Gang. Mattie’s artwork transported him to the scenic location, filled him with a sense of peace. It dawned on him while he appraised the third painting that Mattie’s artwork depicted all those safe, serene havens where a person might go to achieve a sense of inner tranquillity. When she added memorabilia and collectibles to the surrounding shelves and tables, the entire wall became a peaceful sanctuary of sorts.

Lord, what a creative, artistic knack she had. She always managed to come up with just the right combinations of arts and crafts. Oh, how he’d love to have her in the creative design department of Hobby Hut Enterprises. She was a font of unique ideas.

“Joe, would you like a cup of hot chocolate? I get the feeling you’ll be wanting the whole tour of my arts and crafts, considering how fascinated you seem to be with the living room walls.” Mattie was enormously pleased and proud that Joe appreciated and admired her art—and said so.

“Cocoa would be great, thanks,” he said without glancing at her, so intent was he on the seaside painting that hung above boat-shaped shelves filled with hand-painted knickknacks. “When did you find time to do these detailed paintings?”

“It’s been several months since I’ve worked on time-consuming paintings like these. The store monopolizes my time, and customized jobs for clients fill up my evenings. Running back and forth to check on Pops takes up the remainder of my spare time. I keep thinking the custom projects will slow down, but word of mouth appears to be promoting my work, and clients keep showing up with requests.”

While Mattie ambled into the kitchen to mix and heat the hot chocolate, Joe went from one wall to the next, mesmerized, fascinated. Mattie’s home was a veritable showcase of art and crafts that gave the place a personality all its own. Subtle, understated themes were carried out in each display. But it was the painting hanging above her bed, bookended by curio shelves, that sucker-punched him.

Children, laughter etched in careful detail on their faces, played in the shade of a sprawling oak tree. In the background was the depiction of an old clapboard homestead, barn and outbuildings. A young couple was cozied up on the porch swing, watching contentedly while their children played on the lawn.

Joe stood there, motionless, feeling himself drawn into the circle of the loving, close-knit family he’d never had—and probably never would if he remained on this same course in his corporate world. He felt as if he was falling into the artist’s unspoken dream of a simple life, surrounded by a caring family.

Suddenly Joe wanted to be there, sitting on the swing, watching his children, cuddling up with his wife. He wanted it all—the good life—not the executive suite, surrounded by yes-men and -woman who kept telling him what they thought he wanted to hear. He wanted honesty, true friendships, the opportunity to create with his hands as Mattie did. Love. He wanted that most of all. To love and be loved. To matter, to be wanted and needed. To make a difference…

Feelings, deep and intense and sentimental, bombarded him with the force of tornadic winds. He staggered, realizing how empty and materialistic his life had become. Mattie’s life was full, and complex, because of her dedication to customers, friends and to Pops. Yet, he realized that on some level this painting depicted what Mattie needed to complete her life. She filled her time with substitutes for love, but this painting was her elusive dream.

“Joe, the hot chocolate is ready.”

He pivoted to see her smiling at him, and he just couldn’t bear to be alone with her until he pulled himself together, got these spinning emotions under control. If he didn’t leave now, the feelings squeezing at his heart, and this abrupt sense of desperation, were going to overpower him. He might do something stupid—like appease the sense of vulnerability that had overcome him by seducing Mattie, right here, right this minute. He just couldn’t do that to her, not after he promised he would give her time to make her choice.

“I gotta go,” he said as he whizzed past her, refusing to glance at her.

“Joe? What’s wrong?” she called as he made fast tracks toward the front door. “Are you feeling okay?”

“No, definitely not.” He was feeling too much, too fast, too intensely…and it scared the hell out of him. He had to sit himself down and think. He would go to his apartment, park himself in front of that gigantic mural of towering pines and sky-scraping mountains, and stare at them until he pulled himself together.

“Joe?”

Mattie’s shoulders slumped when the door closed on his heels. Damn, he’d been in a strange mood. Curious, Mattie retraced her steps to the bedroom and stood where he’d stood, peering at the painting of an old homestead and family. Is that what had shaken him up?

“Why on earth…?” Mattie’s voice evaporated when she remembered what had compelled her to paint this picture. This was the family she decided she was never going to have, after she gave up on meeting the man of her dreams, a man who shared her need and desire for a loving family, shared her appreciation for art and crafts.

Had this painting reminded Joe of what he didn’t have?

Mattie couldn’t answer that question, because Joe had only confided bits and pieces of his past to her. Oh yes, he told her that his parents had taken off, much as hers had. Told her that his grandparents had raised him. But she didn’t know where he’d worked during the years in between. Didn’t know who had come and gone and influenced his life. Obviously something was bothering him, something he hadn’t confided in her.

“Give it up, Mattie. Dr. Freud you’re not,” she told herself as she ambled to the living room to sip the two cups of hot chocolate. “This is your life, and you liked it well enough until Joe showed up. Just be thankful for what you have and don’t dwell on what you don’t have.”

Having given herself that sound advice, Mattie flicked on the TV news broadcast and lounged in her chair.

There was no sense wasting time trying to figure out Joe, when she couldn’t even diagnose what caused this restless, edgy feeling that was thrumming through her. Must be the caffeine in two cups of cocoa, she tried to convince herself. But deep down, Mattie had the unshakable feeling that the affliction ailing her went by the name of Joe Gray. She was becoming emotionally involved with him, whether that was a good idea or not. She sensed that he was only going to be a temporary resident in Fox Hollow, considering what he’d told her tonight. If she let herself fall in love with the man she would get her naive heart broken.

Take a few risks, Shortcake. You’ll always regret the opportunities missed.

Mattie vaulted to her feet, shut off the TV, the lights, then went to bed. The last thing she needed right now was Pops’s devil-may-care philosophies spinning in her head. What she needed most of all was a good night’s sleep.

5

SITTING IN THE DILAPIDATED recliner, Joe stared at the large mural of pines, a crystal-clear lake and towering mountains. A sense of peace stole over him—as long as he concentrated on the lifelike scenery. He still wasn’t sure why the painting hanging over Mattie’s bed had shaken him so badly. He hadn’t spent much time dwelling on what lay in his future, or regretting his past, just worked to build the company until it exploded into a multimillion-dollar business. But that painting represented a circle of family he’d never had as a kid and probably wouldn’t have as an adult. He’d programmed himself to be satisfied with the life he led—until he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“God, listen to you,” Joe muttered at himself. “There are people all over the planet who would like to be in your shoes.”

On impulse, Joe bounded up to retrieve his cell phone, then punched in his grandfather’s number. The phone rang three times before J. D. Grayson picked up.

“Hello?”

“Gramps, it’s me.”

“D.J., where the hell are you? I’ve tried to reach your cell phone, but all I get is voice mail,” J.D. said. “Your junior executives have been calling and leaving messages all week, wondering where to reach you so you can tell them what to do.”

“That’s why I skipped town,” Joe replied. “It was time to force the whole lot of them to earn their salaries and stop depending on me to make every decision.”

J.D. obviously noted the undertone of bitterness and frustration in Joe’s voice, because he chuckled. “Told you that you’d spoon-fed them too long. They definitely need weaning, but it’s not like you to just take off to parts unknown without leaving a forwarding address. So where the devil are you, D.J.?”

“First you have to promise you won’t disclose my whereabouts,” Joe requested.

“Me? Shoot, no. I won’t tell those candy-ass executives where you are if you don’t want me to.”

“I’m in Fox Hollow, working incognito as hired assistant at the local Hobby Hut.”

“What the blazes are you doing that for?” Gramps crowed.

How to explain without sounding like the irresponsible, self-serving father who had bailed out to follow his own rainbows. It was a touchy subject with Gramps. “Because I needed to get back in touch with the reason you and I started designing and constructing crafts and knickknacks in our garage workshop,” he said finally.

Dead silence.

“Gramps?” Joe prompted.

“Tell me you’re not turning into your father or your social butterfly of a mother,” J.D. said, then scowled.

Joe was afraid Gramps would get the wrong impression. Sure enough. “No, I’m not my father, Gramps. I just needed to take the off-ramp from the fast lane of life and wander the backroads to recapture the enthusiasm the business held for me when it was just the two of us pitching our woodcraft creations to other companies.”