That Kind Of Girl

“Maybe I’m toying with the idea of becoming a nun, but I just can’t commit to the black habit.”

“Is joking about it your way of saying you don’t want to talk about it?”

Becca faced him, and he could see what a struggle it was for her to look him in the eye.

“Yes, it is. It’s an embarrassing subject.”

“I don’t mean to embarrass you, Becca. I just—”

“Then, let’s not talk about it. I’ve worked really hard, Colt, to overcome the person I used to be. And…I don’t know, seeing you again…for a while it was like I was back in high school again.” She swirled her brush in a dab of paint before she met his eyes again. “For some people, that’s a pleasant trip down memory lane. For me, it’s not. I don’t want to go through all that again, and I don’t want to think about it. The past is the past, and I can’t undo it. I’d really rather just not talk about it.”

He was silent for a moment, then picked up a rock and tossed it into the quarry. It arced and seemed to hang, then finally went down with a plop. “So, you’d rather I just keep away from you while I’m here.”

“No.” She looked at him, her brow furrowed. “No, I would not rather you do that.”

“You said seeing me made you feel like you were in high school again. If I bring back bad memories for you…”

“You make me remember what a fool I made of myself. That’s not your fault, it’s mine. But you bring back good memories, too. Like now, here in the quarry. Some of my fondest memories from growing up were right here. No, I don’t want you to stop coming to see me. I just don’t want to talk about the state of my nonexistent sex life anymore.”

He reached over and rubbed a finger lightly over her collarbone. The surprisingly intimate contact made her jump. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, and he drew his hand back and pulled her sweater closer around her neck. “Sounds fair enough.”

Colt arched suddenly, pressing his fist into the small of his back.

“You okay?” Becca asked.

He nodded, looking around as the rising dark drifted almost imperceptibly up from the quarry, turning the bottom a dark, dusky pink, the sides a golden rose. “It’s not bad. Just a little stiff. You remember those stories you used to make up when we came out here?”

“Sure. Parts of them, at least. Why, you want me to make up a story for you now?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I was just thinking you should try to sell those. You know, write them down. You could do the artwork, too. Have your own series of picture books.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” She sat on the boulder between them and tucked her feet up beside her.

“Seriously, you should. Why not?”

“Only about a jillion reasons. I have no education in writing or art. The stories were just fanciful things I made up.”

“I liked them.”

“You were nine. Book editors are a little older than that.”

“Their readers aren’t. Look, who cares if you have formal education or not?”

“It must be somewhat important. Everyone else who writes children’s books gets an education. You can’t believe how stiff the competition is in that field, Colt. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“How do you know until you try?”

Becca looked away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The breeze was picking up, rustling through the trees and waving in the tall grass. “I know.”

“You already tried.”

“Yes, I did. A few years ago, when I first started painting again. It got rejected.”

“And that was it?”

“There’s not much you can say after that.”

“How about ‘try again’? Becca, no one would get anywhere if they gave up after the first try.”

“Maybe I don’t want it bad enough to try again.” She moved her shoulders.

Colt was silent a moment, then stepped in front of her. The setting sun shone behind him, a red ball on the horizon at his back. The wind blew his dark curls, and his brown eyes looked intently at her. “But you do want it.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I really do.”

Colt sighed, then squatted in front of her. “Okay, the thing to do, when you’re faced with an obstacle, is list the things you have to overcome, then figure out how you’re going to overcome them, one by one. You said there were a jillion reasons, and the first one is your lack of education.”

“And how am I going to overcome that? Run off to art school now?”

“Not a bad idea. But no.” He stood and sat down on the rock beside her, taking her hand. “I don’t think that’s necessary. How long has it been since you sent that first book in?”

Becca shrugged. “Almost four years ago. Right after Mama died.”

“And since then you started painting again, right? And you’re doing the drawings for Dunleavy’s, too. So you have more experience, and therefore more education. You’ve learned things.”

“I suppose I have learned a few things, but—”

“No ‘buts.’ You’re better now than you were four years ago. So that problem is taken care of. Now, what’s the next?”

Becca shook her head and smiled. “I don’t know. A lot of publishers accept only computer artwork now. I don’t even have the programs on my computer. My old computer probably wouldn’t handle the programs even if I did have them.”

“But that problem could be solved pretty easily, with a little money.”

“Oh, yeah, a new computer and software. I’ll just run down to Circle D and pick those up.”

“What I’m saying is that it’s not impossible.”

“Spoken like someone who is not on a teacher’s salary. Do you have any idea how much computers cost?”

He ignored the question. “Okay, so what’s our next obstacle? That’s only two out of a jillion.”

Becca drew her head back and sighed. “Colt, seriously—”

“I am serious, Becca. What’s the next problem?”

She studied their fingers linked together. How was it, she wondered idly, that he felt so comfortable just picking up her hand, when she couldn’t seem to drag her mind away from the feel of his palm against hers, his fingers twining around her own?

“Come on, what is it?”