Haunting Refrain (20 page)

After a minute, John asked, “'Smoke Gets in your Eyes'? I'd have figured something more current for you.”

“That, too, but I love the old tunes—Porter, Gershwin, Rodgers and Hammerstein. My dad played them endlessly.” She smiled. “I'm surprised you recognized it, the way I sing.”

“I'm no Pavarotti, although I sometimes forget that in the shower.”

“Opera?
That's a surprise.”

“I'm half Italian.” John stopped in a patch of sunlight beside the lake. He spotted a fallen log at the edge of the clearing and kicked it several times.

“What are you doing?”

“Scaring away the snakes.”
He gave her a funny little half-smile. “I'm a city boy. You
know,
the concrete jungle. I hate snakes. I'll take the homeboys anytime.” He brushed off the surface and said, “Let's sit down.”

“Okay, now that I know it's safe.” She sat down on the log beside him. “Where did you come from?”

“
Philadelphia
, the city of brotherly love.”
He couldn't keep the hint of bitterness from his voice. Abruptly changing the subject, he asked, “What do you know about hockey?
Beyond Wayne
Gretsky
.”

She filed away the
Philadelphia
reference for later. “I know who he is—the Canadian hunk who sold out to sunny
California
.”

“Hunk?” he snorted. “He’s retired, but his is still the only name anyone down here knows. What do you know about hockey?”

“It's a game where frustrated roughnecks chase a tiny little ball around, looking for excuses to club each other with those misshapen golf clubs they carry.” She pursed her lips, trying to look prim. Wild red hair did not add to the picture.

He just laughed at her. “Never been to a game, huh? I love it. My brother-in-law plays for the Philadelphia Flyers. What about college football, the old Southern standby?”

“Converse.
No football.” Converse, she thought, the lovely college in
Spartanburg
where she had met J. B. She didn’t want to think about that, not today. “Ever swim in a lake?”

“No, not much.
There aren’t many where I came from. Mostly a lot of crowded city pools.” He tossed a rock into the water, watched the ripples spread. “Been sailing a few times since I moved here, had one or two unplanned swims in
Lake
Hartwell
.”

“Pools are nothing like a lake. It’s wonderful, especially in the early morning, when the mist is still on the water,” she said, looking over the small lake. Selecting a
flatish
stone, she skipped it a couple of times across the top of the water. “The snakes don’t bother you. They don’t like you anymore than you like them.”

“They swim?” He sounded horrified.

“Well, of course,” she said, checking to see if he was serious. She thought maybe he was. She skipped another stone. This one hit several times before it disappeared into the green water.

He watched closely, then selected a similar stone and threw it. It sank immediately.

“You have to put a spin on it, City Boy.” She showed him how she held it, how she threw it off her forefinger to keep it horizontal and give it a spin.

He threw another. It skipped once. Kate cheered. After he made a couple of mildly successful tries, she found a perfectly shaped stone and handed it to him. “Here’s one. You can do it,” she said, carefully arranging his fingers around it. Her face was animated, all the shadows gone.

“Right, coach.”
He drew back and let it fly, just as she had said. The rock bounced across the surface of the water. He held up his hand. She slapped it, palm to palm, laughing.

The sun was low in the sky when they started back. Watching her, he said, “You look more relaxed than I’ve ever seen you. I’m glad we came.”

“Me, too.”

They stopped in comfortable silence at a picnic table and watched the tangerine glow of clouds caught in the sunset.

Kate looked down at the big warm hands holding hers. They were square and practical, a little rough, a few calluses, but gentle. With a sigh, she withdrew. “It's getting late. We should go.”

He slid off the table and stepped back to look at her. “I know a place where you can get great Italian food.
How about it?”

“Great. I'm starving.” She smiled and jumped off the table. “I feel wonderful. Thank you for bringing me.”

“I needed some time to relax, too,” he said, ruffling her hair.

She whirled out of reach, laughing, and took
off,
calling confidently over her shoulder, “Race you to the car. Last one there buys dinner!”

He had longer legs, was stronger, but she bet the only time he ran was to get the phone. She flew across the park. He almost caught her at the bank by the car park when she lost one of her shoes. She slowed, but then kept on going, and he stopped to pick it up.

“That's going to cost you, McGuire,” he said, panting, when he reached the car. She was sitting on the hood, swinging her bare foot. “Looks like your ankles have recovered.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “You're just a sore loser. And yes, I'm fine.”

“Here's your slipper, Cinderella.” He caught her ankle with one hand and brushed the dirt off her foot before sliding the dusty blue flat over it.

“Thanks.” She liked him.
Liked the clean smell of him, the warmth of his brown eyes, his gentle humor.
A nice, caring guy who would sell his sister for good headline.
What was he? Abruptly, she slid off the hood and, turning to unlock the car, said, “We had better forget dinner. I need to work tonight.”

“Oh no you don't.
You can't weasel out on me now,” he said, opening the passenger door. “You owe me for that shoe trick.”

Kate started the engine before she answered. “All right, but you still
have
to buy dinner.”
 
She cruised slowly through the park, telling herself she could handle one dinner with him.

John directed her to a small street in the downtown area where older homes of all sizes and styles sat comfortably side by side.

The tree-lined street looked decidedly residential, Kate thought. So where was the Italian restaurant? She felt her stomach tighten; she hadn't been in a situation like this since she had met J. B., and that had been more than ten years ago.

“That's it,” he said with obvious pride, pointing to a house almost hidden behind a row of cedars.

“You think somebody stole their sign?”

“Sign?
What sign?”

“The one that says 'Italian Restaurant—Great food.'” She looked out the car window toward the house, a narrow brick with a steeply pitched roof. Exposed beams crossed the
stuccoed
gables, giving it a Tudor look.

“Who said restaurant? It's my house. But it does have some of the best Italian food in town,” he said. “Come on in. I'm still working on it—will be for the rest of my life, I think.”

Kate hesitated.

He smiled. “Should I be flattered or offended? Come on, I'm harmless.”

She locked her car and followed John.

The soft twilight disguised any signs of disrepair, and the sharp angles of the roof gave the house an interesting look. More interesting than galley proofs, she thought, recalling Gwen's comment. It was strange, going into a man's home like this, a man she hardly knew. She had been in a couple of apartments when she was in college, but then J. B. had come along, and there had been no one in her life since. At least she had her car, could leave when she wanted.
Feeling a bit like little Red Riding Hood being lured by the wolf, she watched John as he sorted through his keys.
He looked innocent enough. Actually, he looked very good. Watching him, she began to feel more like the wolf. She turned away and reached over to shake the railing. “Hmm, pretty solid. I'm impressed.”

“You may not be when we get inside.” He unlocked the door and flipped a light switch. “Watch out for the paint trays.”

“How long have you been working on it?” she asked.

“About a year, off and on.”

The house smelled faintly of fresh paint. The entrance hall, a surprising deep salmon, was accented by snowy white woodwork. The dark wood floor was partly covered by the edge of a paint-spattered drop cloth that extended into the next room. Skirting a ladder, she walked across the cloth into the living room. Two walls were a dingy white, but one was a softer, paler version of the entrance-hall salmon. The wall surrounding a large diamond-paned window was half finished.

“The colors are beautiful. Not what I expected.”

He laughed at her awkward compliment. “The colors make a nice background for your hair.”

Was he serious? She put a hand up and felt her hair, wild now from the wind and the run.
Too bad.
She wasn’t going to a mirror to fix it.

He turned on the next light. “I haven't decided about the dining room yet.”

“What other colors are you using in the living room?” she asked.

“The sofa's upstairs for safe-keeping.
It's
dark green with some of these colors in the pattern,” he said, indicating the salmon walls. “You'll see—it's on the tour.”

She shrugged uneasily and suggested, “Maybe, uh, dark green in the dining room?” She made a little coughing sound.
 
“To lead from one room to the next, sort of.”

“Good God. You’re doing everything but drawing circles on the floor with your toe.
Uncertain?
You?”
It clearly surprised him.

“I don’t know much about decorating.” She hated herself when she mumbled.

“Is this the same woman who scorched my eyebrows when she found out I was a reporter? Who blasted me over privacy rights? Who taunted me and raced through the woods today?” He spoke to the air, waving his hand.

“Come on, I’m not that bad.” But she wished she’d never mentioned his colors. Scenes with J. B. flashed through her mind. She really was a wimp.

He laughed and gave her a skeptical look, opened a swinging door for her. “The kitchen was my first project, for obvious reasons.” He patted his stomach. “Let's eat before we finish the tour.”

“Yes, let's.”
She looked around the big kitchen. A stained-glass lamp hung over a scarred pine table, giving a warm, comfortable glow to the peach walls.

“Here, have a glass of tea while I cook.” He took a pitcher from the refrigerator, filled a glass with ice, and poured cold tea over it. “Sugar and sweetener are on the table. Help yourself.”

She sniffed at the glass.
“Mint.
I love it.” She added sweetener, stirred the tea, and held the glass to her forehead for a moment, enjoying its cold touch, watching while he pulled things from the cabinets and the refrigerator. He seemed at
ease,
as if he knew what he was doing and was comfortable with it.

“Are we having bacon and eggs?” she asked, checking the ingredients. “I didn’t know that was Italian.”

“Something
like
that.” He added a spoonful of olive oil to the pasta water. “What I'm doing doesn't take long.”

In a surprisingly short time, he had two bowls of salad on the table. She left the chair and moved over beside him to see better when he started frying the bacon in small pieces. “What are you making?”