Harvest Love Read online

  Harvest Love

  A Sweet and Steamy Short Story Romance

  Rosewood Romances Book 4

  by Amelia Star

  Copyright © 2020 by Amelia Star

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any

  manner whatsoever without express written permission of the publisher except for the use of

  brief quotations in a book review.

  Portions of this book are works of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real

  places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the

  author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or

  dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Book Cover by

  Ella Barnard

  Table of Contents

  ONE – ALICIA

  TWO – MICAH

  THREE – ALICIA

  FOUR – MICAH

  FIVE – ALICIA

  SIX – MICAH

  SEVEN – ALICIA

  EPILOGUE – MICAH – Three Years Later

  Thank You

  Join Me!

  Also by Amelia Star

  About the Author

  ONE – ALICIA

  “What part of the mural will you work on tonight?” Leslie asks, standing back from the wall in the recreation room of Rosewood Community Center, seriously considering the success of my work so far. She’s the only child left here—all the other parents have already been by to pick up their children. Leslie is a smart little girl, and always has a hundred questions to ask.

  “There’s going to be a family of bunnies right here.” With my paintbrush, I indicate the area of the wall near the door to the kitchen. The rest of the wall so far is covered with light sketches—I’ll be filling them in with more images of animals, kids doing yoga and meditating, and things like flowers and trees.

  “Good choice,” Leslie nods, her black pigtails bobbing up and down, then turns when she hears Ted call her name.

  “Your daddy is going to be here in a minute, Leslie. Go get your sweater, munchkin. It’s getting cold outside.”

  Leslie skips off to the coatroom, and Ted approaches me, then stops in front of my work. “This is really going to look great when it’s done.” He holds his dark hands at his hips, pondering what he sees.

  “I hope so. It will take a few weeks, since I can only come in during the evenings. But it will be a nice break from painting builder’s beige in living rooms and dining rooms during the days.” I dip my brush in a small can of gray paint, and get started on the first bunny.

  Painting murals is not really my life’s dream as an artist, but it’s closer to my dream than painting the interior of houses, which I’ve been doing for the last ten years to support myself. Abstract landscapes are really what I love and dream of focusing on someday. I just have to be patient, I keep telling myself, and eventually I’ll have a studio of my own. But patience isn’t one of my strongest character traits. That’s partly why I started painting years ago—it helps me focus and keep calm when life doesn’t go the way I expected it to go.

  While I work on the bunnies, Ted and I talk about how his honeymoon in Venice with Hailey went. “Oh, we had a killer time. The food there is incredible.” Ted describes how he and Hailey are adapting some of the recipes they picked up in Italy to add to the menu at their restaurant, Delicious for You.

  “You should come over and try some of them out sometime,” Ted suggests.

  “Sounds good,” I say, though I’m thinking the pasta is not exactly what my curves need.

  Soon, Leslie skips back over to us. Seeming confused but excited, she asks, “Why is my daddy picking me up today? Did something happen with my mom?”

  “No, munchkin, something just came up at work that she had to take care of,” Ted explains.

  While Ted fills in Leslie on the situation with her mom, I glance back at the door into the recreation room just long enough to catch a glimpse of someone I recognize. Wearing a suit and tie, he’s tall and wide-shouldered, with intense brown eyes and skin the color of brown late autumn leaves. Suddenly, the warm colors of autumn are glowing inside my heart. I remember how I felt the night I met this man at Ted and Hailey’s wedding—happy and carefree, as if all the possibilities of life were opening before me.

  He gazes at me intensely. Then, a split-second later, his face breaks out in a smile.

  “Alicia?” Micah asks in a happy tone. “How have you been doing?”

  Before I can say anything, Leslie steps forward and lets her father know, “She’s doing great, daddy! She’s painting the rec room. You can see the bears on the other end she finished yesterday. Today, she’s going to finish the bunnies!”

  Micah crouches down to look his daughter in the eye and give her a big hug. I feel a melting sensation in my core, and find myself wishing that I was the one getting a big hug from him also.

  “Is she really?” Micah asks his daughter, and glances up at me, his dark eyes intensely looking me over in my paint-spattered smock. “I bet she’s going to do a beautiful job.”

  Micah stands. He looks just as sharp and athletic as he did the night we danced together. “You remember me? From the wedding?” he asks. His daughter holds his hand, dancing around him in half-circles.

  “I sure do, Micah,” I say and set my brush on the paint can, then pick up a cloth to try to wipe my hands with. “You were the one who insisted we play limbo with the kids. That was so fun, seeing you out there with them, cheering them on to go lower and lower under the pole.”

  “Yeah, guilty as charged.” He laughs. “I got some good pics of you with Leslie that I should show you sometime.”

  “Daddy, Alicia is the one who caught Hailey’s bouquet, isn’t she?” Leslie puts her sweater on. “And that means she’s supposed to get married next, doesn’t it?”

  I can feel my pale skin flushing, so I’m sure I must be bright pink. That Micah also caught the garter thrown by Ted flashes into my memory. Still, there’s no reason for me to be so embarrassed—the idea of me becoming a bride is about as unlikely as my chances of becoming a full-time artist at this point in time. “Oh, it’s just a superstition,” I tell Micah’s daughter.

  Ted smiles mischievously, noticing my embarrassment. “It could mean anything, munchkin. Let’s go get your crafts projects together so that you can take them home tonight.”

  Leslie shrugs. “Okay, Ted.”

  Ted takes her hand, and she skips alongside him, asking twenty questions all the way to the crafts room, leaving Micah and me alone in front of my unfinished mural.

  “Kids say the funniest things,” I remark.

  “They say whatever they are thinking,” Micah observes, looking at me with deep intensity. I can tell where Leslie gets her questioning nature. Her father impresses me as someone who is always thinking—he may not be as impulsive as his daughter, but I can practically see the gears turning in a thought-bubble over his head before he speaks again.

  “Go out with me Saturday, Alicia.”

  He reaches out and takes my hand. I feel so warm and relaxed, as if we were sitting in front of a glowing fire. But the fire I feel is burning inside me.

  Then I remember and pull my hand away. “Oh, Micah. Ummm, you might not want to hold my hand now. I kind of have paint all over me.”

  “I don’t care,” he insists, taking both my hands this time. “You look so beautiful. I remember how you looked that night you caught the bouquet and I caught the garter.”

  As soon as he says it, I feel the rush in my heart that I felt when the bouquet landed in my hands. We’d danced the rest of the night away with our little prizes, but then we never exch
anged numbers so we could contact each other later. And now here he was asking—or practically demanding—that I go out with him. “Where will we go? Will you need to get someone to watch your daughter?”

  “Oh, no, that’s not a problem.” Micah furrows his brow slightly. “She’s usually with her mother here in town. I live across the river and teach chemistry and coach football at Larsden High School. I’ve got four classes full of kids, and a whole team to watch over.” He smiles almost proudly, and I get the feeling this is a man who takes his teaching and coaching responsibilities seriously.

  “Okay, so it sounds like you have a pretty full plate. How will you fit me in?”

  Micah squeezes my hands. “You tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.”

  “Well, lucky for you, I’m a woman with clear-cut tastes. How about if we go to the Art Museum tomorrow, the one in Forest Park.”

  Micah grins like a man who just won the game for his team. “I think I can make that happen.”

  At that moment, Ted and Leslie enter the rec room. Carefully carrying a paper bag, she calls to her father, “I got my crafts projects, Daddy! Take me home and I will show them to you.”

  Micah takes the bag from his daughter. “Okay, sweetie. Let’s get going now.”

  I watch them moving toward the door together and see how Leslie even walks with the same agile gait as her father.

  Ted, who will be staying at the center with me while I paint tonight, notices me looking at them. “You know, it wasn’t so long ago that my mom caught the bouquet and my dad caught the garter at a wedding. They went out after that, and the rest is history.”

  “Is that right?” I ask and turn to face the family of bunnies I’m painting. I know it’s superstitious of me, but I add, “I guess those traditions have a reason for being continued.”

  TWO – MICAH

  “I hate to admit how long it’s been since I’ve been here,” I confess as we slowly make our way through the last gallery for today’s visit, the Modernist section of the St. Louis Art Museum.

  “Well, to tell the truth, it’s been awhile for me, too,” Alicia says. We turn the corner, and she catches her breath. “Oh my gosh, I remember that painting. Wow. It’s one I always felt drawn to. Rosalind Fargo’s Landscape with House.” She steps up closer to examine it. I can’t help but admire her pale skin and her shape against the large, bright canvas. Her short, brown hair with its asymmetrical style, and full figure in jeans and a sapphire, form-fitting sweater—she looks like she could walk into that fun painting and fit right in.

  It’s an abstract piece with colorful patches and a central spiraling structure that resembles some sort of whimsical home. That picture is something I could relate to, even as a child.

  “You like this one?” I ask. I step up next to her, looking at the painting closer also.

  “Oh, my, yes. I remember the first time I saw it, on a fieldtrip in junior high. I looked at this funny house in the middle of a bright, happy field of color and said to myself—yes, that’s where I want to live someday.” She laughs a little, and I can tell there’s a story behind her words. But I won’t push her on it.

  “Well, I remember this painting myself,” I say. “But I never thought of the spiral house as a place I would live someday. I always thought of it as a place I would travel to and visit sometime.” I tilt my head, and try to remember how old I was when I first saw this artwork.

  “Amazing how two people can look at the same picture and see something completely different.” Alicia leans toward me as she speaks.

  I can’t resist. I reach out and take one of her hands, and a feeling of power and strength rushes through me. Always having prided myself on my logical approach to life, I never imagined I would be intrigued by an artist. But Alicia has a unique way of looking at the world, and I like that. I feel ready to tackle anything for this woman.

  “Well, if you think about it, we’re looking at the painting pretty much the same way—we both want to get to the house. You wanted to stay there though. Maybe we can find it together someday.” I face her and lift her chin. “You deserve to have the home of your dreams.”

  She smiles and admits, “Well, actually, I pretty much have the home of my dreams now. It just needs a little more fixing up and it will be perfect.”

  “Oh, really? Tell me about it,” I say as I start guiding her toward the exit.

  As we move through the stately marble hallways, she tells me how she moved into her friend Serena’s house after she married a gardener who had already fixed up the place. “I’m getting all sorts of cabbage and broccoli now. It’s great to just go out on the patio and do oils of the vegetables, or even go into the woods across the field and do some painting there.”

  “Sounds idyllic. So, what needs to be fixed up about it?”

  “Well, there’s an old shed in the back that I’ve always wanted to clean out and make into a studio. I just haven’t found the time, between painting house interiors and doing murals.”

  We arrive at the coat-check room and hand our tickets to the clerk, who hands our jackets back to us. Then I take her hand again, and we go on through the high-ceilinged entryway out the front doors.

  Outside, it’s crisp and cool, with a slight breeze. But the sun is shining brightly, and the terraces and fountains stretch out invitingly in front of the museum. Before us, the brilliant colors of autumn leaves spread out. “Want to go for a walk?” I ask.

  “You read my mind,” she says.

  We pass couples and families as we follow the path down the hill. Then near the long pool with all its spouting fountains, we come across a sidewalk artist doing caricature drawings of people. We stop and watch the artist work, how his hand moves swiftly over the paper, bringing to life the person sitting before him in a new and amusing light.

  When he’s finished, the little girl he’s drawing stands up to see what he made of her.

  “Oh, wow! I’m a princess, Mommy. See!” The little girl is so happy and excited. She reminds me of my daughter, and I wish she could be here now. But things didn’t work out as I’d hoped when I married my high school sweetheart at the age of nineteen. Almost ten years later, my life is completely different from the one I expected to have now. But I haven’t given up on believing it can keep getting even better.

  “Next?” The artist calls.

  Alicia shouts back, “We’ll go!” and, pulling me along in her wake, she steps to the front of the crowd, not a shy bone in her body.

  The artist looks up at us. “A loving couple, ready for the altar.” He laughs boisterously, and the others stand about, curious to see what will happen next.

  Alicia steps back then and says, “Well, actually, we’re on our first date.”

  The artist is thrilled. “All the better—there’s nothing like new love. So, tell me more about yourselves. What are your hobbies? Your passions in life? What makes you special, that will make your portraits special.”

  The beautiful woman with me lavishly describes her own passion for art, and the caricaturist nods his head. It seems he’s getting some ideas about what he might be able to do with at least half of our drawing.

  Then the artist turns to me. “And what about you? What are the things that make life worth living for you?”

  “Well, I’m a chemistry teacher and a football coach,” I tell him.

  “I could have told you that. You’ve got teacher and coach written all over your face. But what do you do for fun, besides work?”

  I look at Alicia, then I look back at the street artist. And I suddenly realize that my life is all about my work. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been told that before by my colleagues when they invite me to join them for some of their activities outside of school. But I’m always either working on lesson plans or on the field with my team.

  And sometimes, well, there are some team players who just need me for help they can’t get anywhere else. Life for a teenager in high school these days isn’t the way it was when
I was growing up. I need to be ready for my students and team when they need me.

  “Well, that’s about it,” I say.

  “That’s fine, that’s fine.” The artist says, and indicates the seats for us to take.

  Alicia and I sit close to each other, holding hands, and while the artist works, all I can think is how my life is passing by. If I’m not careful, my job will be all I have to look back on if I don’t go after my heart’s desire.

  When the artist finishes our drawing, we pay for our caricature and thank him, then walk along the path around the pool some more. Alicia holds our caricature up to the light, and we take a closer look at it.

  “Is it just me, or do we look a little stiff in the picture?” I ask, feeling a bit disappointed in the results.

  “Well, that artist doesn’t know the real you,” Alicia responds, handing the caricature to me. Yellow leaves fall from the oak trees running alongside the pool, and some are already dry on the sidewalk and crackle beneath our shoes.

  We walk a little farther, to a large oak tree off the path where we sit on a bench, and I think of an idea. “I know it may sound rather quaint, but would you like to come to a high school football game Friday night, Alicia? Afterward, there will be a barbeque at my house, which I usually throw for the team, the cheerleaders, and my chemistry students. You could see what my life is like, if you’re interested.”

  “Ted, that sound fun. I always loved rooting for our team when I was in school. How about if I invite Ted and Hailey, that way I’ll have someone to sit with while you’re coaching the game.”

  “That’s a great idea. And they can come to the barbeque also, of course. I hope you’ll enjoy it.” I squeeze her hand, excited about having her get a closer look at what I do. Then I turn and look at her in the bright autumn light, fallen leaves whisking across the ground. “You look so much more beautiful than the picture drawn by the artist. You look like an angel.”

  “And you look so much more handsome then your picture.” We watch the people walk around the pond, and stop at the artist’s stand for more caricatures.