Free Secrets of You by Mary Campisi

still smell it on you…
    “You’ve never been to a small town, have you?”
    His dark gaze slid over her, landed on her mouth, waiting. There was a stillness about him as though her next words were vital. She cleared her throat and smothered the memories of life before Philly. “No, I’ve never been.” Those eyes shot to hers, burrowed deep. Was that disappointment on his face? Or hurt?
    He backed away. “Of course not. I didn’t think a cosmopolitan girl like you would know anything about baling hay or canning tomatoes.”
    Oh, he was wrong there. She’d been able to hook a night crawler on a fishing hook by the age of nine. By ten she could paint a fence, cut grass, and can jelly. By seventeen she was gone. “What exactly is your point?” And why are you looking at me like you know I’m lying?
    “My point is I’m not going to profit from the kindness of others. I’ll sell those paintings to Ian and whoever else wants them.”
    “And?”
    “I’ll give the money to the people whose photos I took. If they’re shots of the town, I’ll donate the money for improvements.” His voice grew more animated. “Think of the good an influx of cash would do for those towns. They could buy books and computer equipment for the schools. New park benches. Hell, they could replace fire trucks, police cruisers, maintenance trucks, whatever they need.”
    “But how would you even begin to decide who gets what?” He had no idea what he was starting, which was a disaster on so many levels. “They won’t take your money . ” He stared at her as though he didn’t understand. And he didn’t.
    “You can’t walk into a small town and start throwing money at these people. That’s like telling them what they have isn’t good enough. The schools, for example. Do they need the latest in technology to function? What about the kids who graduated last year and the year before that? Have they suffered for not having these opportunities? Are you implying they’re subpar?”
    “Of course not.” He sighed, clearly frustrated by her questions. “I want to help them. That’s all.”
    “Who says they need help? Maybe they’re content exactly where they are.” Hadn’t her father returned every check she’d ever sent him with notes like “We don’t need your charity” and “We don’t accept guilt money” and even, “Not everybody wants a Mercedes”? Later, there hadn’t even been notes, just a plain white envelope with the folded check inside and that had hurt the most.
    “Maybe some are content, but the ones I talked to were looking for opportunity.” He stared at the picture on the wall, a photograph of a young man dressed in coveralls and a T-shirt next to a tractor, his wife beside him, tall and proud, their young daughter perched on her father’s broad shoulders. “They said they wanted to make a difference, find their place in life, and all they needed was a chance—for themselves, their children, their children’s children.” His voice dipped, softened. “I could give them that.”
    “They’re not going to take anything from a rich do-gooder bent on reshaping their world.”
    He swung around, eyes narrowed, brows pinched, jaw tight. “Why are you so against this? You don’t know them, what they’ve been through.” He advanced on her, stopped when he was less than a foot away. “What do you know about small towns and doing without? You’re a rich girl living off a trust fund from your dead parents.” He paused a half-second too long. “Aren’t you?”
    It was that last part that stole her breath, made her focus on a section of the wall behind his head. Calm, calm. He couldn’t possibly know the truth, he’s only goading you because he’s angry. She sipped in air and when she could speak in a normal voice, she said, “I might have money but I’ve had a lot of friends who haven’t. Starving artists are called that for a reason.”
    The left side of his jaw twitched. “Right.” He said