“So you paint toy trains?”
He frowned, carefully replacing the packaging and closing the box. “They’re not toys. Model railroading is actually an expensive hobby, especially if you model brass, which most of my clients do. It’s my job to take this shiny engine and make it look real, and I’m not cheap, either.”
“Do you have one done I can see?”
He looked pleased that she asked and, after replacing the green box, walked over to a corner and turned on a section of overhead lighting. She saw a platform, done up to look like...land. There was a meadow with train tracks running across it, with woods in the background made of tiny trees. The wall was painted to look like a sky and it was all so well done it looked real. On the tracks sat a lone engine and, unlike the shiny brass one, this one was grubby and looked old.
“This is another 2-8-0, but in Union Pacific livery. See how it looks real?” He went to what was obviously his primary workbench and picked up an engine, which he set on the rails behind the Union Pacific train. “Now look at this one.”
She didn’t have to be an expert to see the difference. The one from his workbench had been painted, but it looked brand-new. Like a Hot Wheels car. “It doesn’t look real. It looks like a toy.”
“Exactly. See those pictures?” He pointed to a frame hanging on the wall that held side-by-side eight-by-ten photos.
She moved closer and saw that the pictures were almost identical. A steam train pulling cars along the track, through the woods, with steam blowing out of the smokestack.
“One is a photo of a real engine and one is a photo of the brass model that the client sent me after I painted it. I work from historical photographs of the actual engines and rolling stock the clients are modeling whenever possible.”
“That’s amazing, Max. It really is. So you didn’t paint that one, then.” She pointed at the new-looking engine he’d set on the tracks.
“No, I didn’t. A gentleman sent that little 4-4-2 to a friend of a friend for painting to save money. I’d hoped to be able to weather it for him with minimal work—and cost—but the paint is bad, especially on the detail work. I’m going to have to strip it down and essentially start over.”
“You’re such a wonderful artist.”
“I have a reputation for quality work in the model railroading community.”
“That’s very modestly put.” She wandered to his workbench, looking at the various tools of his trade. “Why do you hide what you do from people?”
“I have the security system because I’ll often have thousands of dollars worth of rolling stock in here, and some of them are hard to replace, to say nothing of my equipment. Then the rumors started and I have to confess, I’ve enjoyed hearing the theories.”
She laughed. “You’re a little twisted, Max. I like you.”
*
Max followed Tori back upstairs, feeling pretty good about the evening so far. Even though she didn’t know anything about trains, she’d recognized the artistry and skill of what he did, and a lot of people hadn’t in the past.
Her eyes had never glazed over with boredom and she’d even asked questions about his process and how he’d gotten into it. His dad’s brother had done model cars when Max was a kid and had let him help. His love for trains, love of models and natural aptitude for the painting had all come together and that was that. Because of his meticulous attention to detail and willingness to put in hours of research for historical accuracy, it hadn’t taken long for his reputation to spread.
Once he’d closed the door and reset the security panel, he led her back to the kitchen, where she took a seat on one of the bar stools at the island. “It should only take about fifteen minutes to make supper.”
“What are we having?”
“Marinated steak and mushroom kebobs, with rice pilaf.”
“Uh-oh. What if I’m a vegetarian?”
His brain froze for a second and then kicked into overdrive. He should have asked her if she had any dietary likes or dislikes. Or allergies. He hadn’t given any thought at all to her tastes and had simply rummaged through the chest freezer until he found something he thought he cooked particularly well.
“Max?”
“You can probably pick out the steak. Or I will, before I put them on the grill. It’ll be a mushroom kebob.”
She laughed, and he blew out a sigh of relief. At least she wasn’t annoyed with him. “I’m not a vegetarian. I just wanted to see how you’d react.”
A pop quiz, he thought. And he felt as if he’d failed somehow. “I should have asked you if you have likes or dislikes in advance.”