She spent extra time in the master bedroom, fussing with the flowers
she'd begged off Irene, then changing the position of the vase half a
dozen times before she cursed herself. Anna would put them where she
wanted them to be anyway, she reminded herself. And would probably
change everything else while she was at it. More than likely, she would
want new everything, Grace decided as she pressed the curtains she'd
washed until not the tiniest wrinkle showed in the thin summer sheers.
Anna was city-bred and probably wouldn't care for the worn furniture and
country touches. Before you knew it, she'd have things decked out in
leather and glass, and all Dr. Quinn's pretty things would be packed up
in some box in the attic and replaced with pieces of sculpture nobody
could understand.
Her jaw tightened as she rehung the curtains, gave them a quick fluff.
Cover the lovely old floors with some fancy wall-to-wall carpet and
paint the walls some hot color that made the eyes sting. Resentment
bubbled as she marched into the bathroom to put a bunch of early
rosebuds in a shallow bowl.
Anybody with any sense could see the place only needed a little care, a
bit more color here and there. If she had any say in ita
She stopped herself, realizing that her fists were clenched, and her
face, reflected in the mirror over the sink, was bright with fury. "Oh,
Grace, what is wrong with you?" She shook her head, nearly laughed at
herself. "In the first place you don't have any say, and in the second
you don't know that she's going to change a single thing."
It was just that she could, Grace admitted. And once you changed one
thing, nothing was quite the same again.
Isn't that what had happened between her and Ethan? Something had
changed, and now she was both afraid and hopeful that things wouldn't be
quite the same.
He thought of her, she mused and sighed at her own reflection. And what
did he think? She wasn't a beauty, and she'd never filled out enough to
be sexy. Now and then, she knew, she caught a man's eye, but she never
held it.
She wasn't smart or particularly clever, had neither stimulating
conversation nor flirtatious ways. Jack had once told her she had
stability. And he'd convinced them both, for a while, that that was what
he wanted. But stability wasn't the sort of trait that attracted a man.
Maybe if her cheekbones were higher or her dimples deeper. Or if her
lashes were thicker and darker. Maybe if that flirty curl hadn't skipped
a generation and left her hair straight as a pin.
What did Ethan think when he looked at her? She wished she had the
courage to ask him.
She looked--and saw the ordinary.
When she had danced she hadn't felt ordinary. She'd felt beautiful and
special and deserving of her name. Dreamily, she dipped into a pile,
settling crotch on heels, then lifting again. She'd have sworn her body
sighed in pleasure. Indulging herself, she flowed into an old,
well-remembered movement, ending on a slow pirouette.
"Ethan!" She squeaked it out, color flooding her cheeks when she saw him
in the doorway.