walked to the cabinet and found a mug. “All over the hangover?” He grinned.
“Yes, all over it,” I said. “My first and last time getting drunk.”
“It’s just as well.” He spooned sugar into his mug. “Drunk isn’t very attractive.”
“Now you sound like my mother.” I said it as a quip, then realized I didn’t like those words. I stuck out my tongue. “I thought you didn’t take sugar in your coffee.”
“Only in yours.” A chuckle rumbled his chest.
“Aw, that’s right. You’re a coffee lightweight,” I said, my tonedeliberately condescending. “How could I forget?” But Eli was so humble, he was easy to forgive.
He grinned. “Oh, by the way. I called the electrician who usually works with me on jobs like this one.”
“And?” I perked up. We couldn’t put in the new central heat and air or my new ceiling fans until the electrician rewired the entire house and added a new breaker box.
“It’ll be mid-June at the earliest before he can get here.”
“Well, that’s a relief. At least I can get the AC in before it gets too hot out.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Uh-oh. Don’t tell me he’s the sort of contractor who says June but means December?”
He chuckled in his deep, comforting way. “Maybe not quite that bad, but just about.”
“So I might be using fans and the window unit this summer after all?”
“Probably. But we’ll have to talk about how much electricity you can have going on at once. The dishwasher, washer, and dryer all going at one time is taxing enough on this sixty-year-old breaker box. Add the window unit and fans, and we might be talking a fire hazard.”
An hour later, after I arranged the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, I went to the hallway and started unloading boxes. By noon, the house was eighty degrees, which was pretty warm for this early in the year. It made me a little nervous, given my discussion with Eli this morning about the electrician. In mid-May, it should be in the upper sixties, maybe low seventies from time to time. Eighty reminded me ofTexas. But I was dying to get outside and see if I could find that bridge Eli mentioned yesterday. A covered
Bridges of Madison County
kind of bridge.
At twelve thirty, I heard Eli’s boots coming down the stairs. I had tackled half a dozen boxes, and I was sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by all the things I had yet to put away. Eli stepped carefully and glanced around at my things. His eyes stopped on my paint supplies. “You’re an artist?”
“Used to be.” I accepted the hand he reached out to me, and he yanked me to my feet. He didn’t respond, and I sensed he didn’t want to pry. Though I wasn’t going to dredge up all the reasons I’d put my supplies away for years, I did feel the only way to remove the awkward atmosphere was to offer some explanation. “My sister went to medical school. I went to art school.” And my mother was still hyperventilating over that choice.
I played it off as nothing, but inside I could see myself then—all those years of painting. I was good. I knew I was. “Brilliant,” some reviews said after art shows during college. Fresh and innovative.
Eli followed me into the kitchen, and I pulled out the food he’d brought over. He leaned against my counter and watched me as I went about heating our lunch.
“Do you only paint for fun now, or just not at all?”
I shrugged. “Honestly? I haven’t painted in ages. Not since I married Jarrod, really.”
His eyebrows rose. “Why’s that?”
I pulled a couple of plates from the counter and set the table. “Well, I had the choice of marrying Jarrod or accepting a position at an artgallery in Dallas where I could display some of my art. And I chose him.” Besides, my mother had gotten me the job at the gallery. I’d never really wanted it in the first place.
“Yeah, I know he was relocated right after you got married, but to give up something you love?”
I smiled as I pulled the
“Yes, all over it,” I said. “My first and last time getting drunk.”
“It’s just as well.” He spooned sugar into his mug. “Drunk isn’t very attractive.”
“Now you sound like my mother.” I said it as a quip, then realized I didn’t like those words. I stuck out my tongue. “I thought you didn’t take sugar in your coffee.”
“Only in yours.” A chuckle rumbled his chest.
“Aw, that’s right. You’re a coffee lightweight,” I said, my tonedeliberately condescending. “How could I forget?” But Eli was so humble, he was easy to forgive.
He grinned. “Oh, by the way. I called the electrician who usually works with me on jobs like this one.”
“And?” I perked up. We couldn’t put in the new central heat and air or my new ceiling fans until the electrician rewired the entire house and added a new breaker box.
“It’ll be mid-June at the earliest before he can get here.”
“Well, that’s a relief. At least I can get the AC in before it gets too hot out.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Uh-oh. Don’t tell me he’s the sort of contractor who says June but means December?”
He chuckled in his deep, comforting way. “Maybe not quite that bad, but just about.”
“So I might be using fans and the window unit this summer after all?”
“Probably. But we’ll have to talk about how much electricity you can have going on at once. The dishwasher, washer, and dryer all going at one time is taxing enough on this sixty-year-old breaker box. Add the window unit and fans, and we might be talking a fire hazard.”
An hour later, after I arranged the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, I went to the hallway and started unloading boxes. By noon, the house was eighty degrees, which was pretty warm for this early in the year. It made me a little nervous, given my discussion with Eli this morning about the electrician. In mid-May, it should be in the upper sixties, maybe low seventies from time to time. Eighty reminded me ofTexas. But I was dying to get outside and see if I could find that bridge Eli mentioned yesterday. A covered
Bridges of Madison County
kind of bridge.
At twelve thirty, I heard Eli’s boots coming down the stairs. I had tackled half a dozen boxes, and I was sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by all the things I had yet to put away. Eli stepped carefully and glanced around at my things. His eyes stopped on my paint supplies. “You’re an artist?”
“Used to be.” I accepted the hand he reached out to me, and he yanked me to my feet. He didn’t respond, and I sensed he didn’t want to pry. Though I wasn’t going to dredge up all the reasons I’d put my supplies away for years, I did feel the only way to remove the awkward atmosphere was to offer some explanation. “My sister went to medical school. I went to art school.” And my mother was still hyperventilating over that choice.
I played it off as nothing, but inside I could see myself then—all those years of painting. I was good. I knew I was. “Brilliant,” some reviews said after art shows during college. Fresh and innovative.
Eli followed me into the kitchen, and I pulled out the food he’d brought over. He leaned against my counter and watched me as I went about heating our lunch.
“Do you only paint for fun now, or just not at all?”
I shrugged. “Honestly? I haven’t painted in ages. Not since I married Jarrod, really.”
His eyebrows rose. “Why’s that?”
I pulled a couple of plates from the counter and set the table. “Well, I had the choice of marrying Jarrod or accepting a position at an artgallery in Dallas where I could display some of my art. And I chose him.” Besides, my mother had gotten me the job at the gallery. I’d never really wanted it in the first place.
“Yeah, I know he was relocated right after you got married, but to give up something you love?”
I smiled as I pulled the
Similar Books
