Hold on My Heart (10 page)

She pushed back from the window frame, and the tape measure retracted with a metallic hiss. The ladder moved with her, even as Tom held tight.

He let go of her leg but kept his hand raised, ready to catch her as she climbed down. Her perky little ass tilted from side to side as she went from rung to rung, and it was all he could do to stop his head from tilting in unison. Christ. He looked away and dropped his hands.

Libby hopped off from the last rung and turned to face him. Her smile was sunshine bright.

He wanted to kiss her.

And then he wanted to shake her for being foolish enough to stand on the top of an old, creaky ladder.

But he couldn’t do either, so instead he picked up the tape measure from the floor and flicked the yellow strip upward, alongside the window frame. He extended it up above their heads. When the tip reached the top of the window frame, he bent down to stretch the tape measure to the window’s lower edge. He pointed at it with his other hand. “This is how you measure something. From the bottom up, not the top down. Got it?”

She leaned against the ladder. “You’re grouchy today.”

He stood up and handed her the tape measure. “I’m always grouchy when someone is careless at work. If you fall off that ladder, you know who gets blamed? Me.”

“Uh… I think I can decide for myself if I want to climb a ladder.” Her smile held, and her tone was more mocking than conciliatory.

He crossed his arms. “How’d those tennis shoes work out for you?”

She mimicked him, crossing her own arms. “Not that bad.”

“Uh-huh. Well, see this label here?” He uncrossed his again and tapped hard at the ladder right next to her face. “The one that says, ‘Danger. Do not stand on top step’?” He moved his hand and slapped the top. “Yeah, this is the step they’re talking about.”

She looked at him, not cowed in the least. Not that he wanted to scare her; he only wanted to make his point. But she just kept smiling. It was infuriating.

It made him want to kiss her even more.

There was a raccoon on her shirt today. Wearing sunglasses. Yesterday she’d worn one with a fire-breathing unicorn on it. Where the hell did she find these shirts?

“So that was your daughter last night, huh?” she said at last.

And there it was.

That’s why she was so smiley. She knew he didn’t want to talk about Rachel. All those hours of working together he’d managed to avoid any mention of his daughter, or of ever having been married, or anything more personal than the size of his shoe and the fact that he liked pistachio ice cream. But now she had him cornered and she knew it.

He ran a hand across his jaw and stared out the window. He looked back at Libby.

“Yep.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

He stepped away and folded the ladder to lean it against the wall. “Well, now you do.”

“I think it’s kind of interesting you never mentioned her.”

“I think it’s kind of interesting you think it’s any of your business.” His tone was harsher than he intended, and he could see by her change in expression that his words had stung. His cheeks went hot with remorse. He certainly hadn’t intended to hurt Libby’s feelings, but he also absolutely didn’t want to tell her about his fractured relationship with Rachel, or the reasons behind it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a pause. “It’s complicated.”

It was late in the afternoon when Marti showed up carrying two grocery bags. “Daddy! Tom! Oh, my gosh! Look how much progress you’ve made! It looks amazing.”

“Hey, I’ve been working, too,” Libby reminded her, although she wasn’t sure why she’d stayed. After Tom snapped at her, it had been a very dull and quiet day.

Dante ambled in behind her sister, holding up his hands as if framing a shot. A video camera swung from a strap around his neck. “The light is perfect right now,” he said. “Hey, Dad Hamilton, can we do some interviews for the documentary? We brought beer.”

Libby’s dad sat back on his heels from his spot on the floor and stretched his back. The scowl on his face at the sound of Dante’s voice faded when he heard the word
beer
. Every man has his price, and Peter Hamilton’s was roughly the cost of a six-pack. He glanced at his watch and then at Tom, who had been working next to him. “It’s almost four o’clock. You ready to call it a day?”

“I’ll finish this section. You go ahead.” Tom nodded at him.

Marti set down the bags and pulled out a few bottles, expertly popping off the tops. Libby took two, grabbing the bottles by the neck.

All day, the weight of her curiosity—and Tom’s reaction to it—had pushed her down. Maybe his daughter
wasn’t
any of her business, but she thought they’d become friendly over the last couple of weeks and that the whole gruff demeanor was kind of an act. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she really had been annoying him as much as he’d pretended.

Or maybe, like he’d said, it was complicated. Either way, she felt like they’d had a fight, and it didn’t feel good.

She crossed the room to where he sat on the floor and held out a beer.

He looked at it like it was a mousetrap waiting to snap on his fingers, but after a pause he reached up and took it. He gave her a single nod. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Libby,” he said quietly, after she’d turned away.

She looked back over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry about this morning. I just don’t like to talk about it.”

She smiled and felt a little better. “I’m sorry I ask so many questions.”

Tom gave her a tight smile back. “You do ask a lot of questions.”

“I know. But I’m a good listener, too. In case, you know, you ever do want to talk about it.”

He took a sip from the beer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She wanted to say more, but then again, she always wanted to say more. She sipped her beer instead and walked back over to her sister. “Holy shit, Marti, what’s that on your leg?”

Marti had plastic wrap around her ankle and halfway up her shin. But underneath it was something scaly and green.

“Oh, check it out. It’s my new tattoo. I just got it today.”

Libby’s father choked on his beer. “Your what?”

Marti grinned. “My tattoo. An early wedding present from Dante.” She tugged at the plastic and plucked it away, revealing a slightly smaller version of the same dragon adorning her fiancé’s arm. Its tail curled around her ankle as its mouth breathed bright-orange fire halfway up the back of her calf.

Libby felt the urge to laugh and gasp at the same time, but she watched her father’s face turn purple and decided to quietly drink her beer instead. He’d be breathing fire of his own in a second. She turned around and tiptoed back toward Tom.

“Martha, what have you done?” her father sputtered. “Tattoos are permanent!” He stood up with a lurch and moved quickly over to his freshly decorated daughter.

Marti lifted her leg and put her foot up on a box, turning so he could get a better look at her new ink.

“I know they’re permanent,” she said. “That’s why they’re so totally worth how expensive they are.”

Libby heard Tom chuckle, but when she turned to him, his face was sober as a Baptist minister. He looked straight ahead, avoiding her eyes, and sipped his beer.

“Tattoos are dangerous, Martha! You’ll get an infection. You could get hepatitis. This was very irresponsible.”

Irresponsible like a man who buys an ice-cream parlor without telling his wife? Or like a boyfriend who moves to San Diego with virtually no warning?
It suddenly occurred to Libby that she knew a lot of madly impetuous people.

“I’m being super-responsible, Daddy. That’s what the plastic wrap is for. Ivan said it was the best way to keep this clean for the next few hours. Anyway, it’s too late to be mad. It’s already done, and I love it. So let’s talk about these interviews for the documentary.” She gently set her foot back on the floor. “Do you want to go first, or should we talk to Tom?”

“Who is Ivan?” her father demanded, as if that made any difference.

“My cousin,” Dante said from his spot near the door. “He’s a true artist, Dad Hamilton. He’s done all my tattoos. You know I wouldn’t take Marti to somebody disreputable.”

“No, I don’t know that.” Libby’s father shook his finger at Dante, his voice full of bluster. “Anyone named Ivan sounds plenty disreputable to me.”

Marti put her hands on her hips. “That is completely prejudiced, Daddy. Ivan is family now. And he’s a preacher, which is, like, the most reputable thing ever. He’s performing the marriage ceremony for Dante and me.”

“Wait. Your cousin is a tattoo artist and a preacher?” Libby asked. Tom gave another quiet chuckle.

“I know. Isn’t it awesome?” Marti grinned. “He got his preacher’s license online just so he could marry us. Dante’s family is the coolest ever.” Marti sighed with joy as her father deflated like a leaky Thanksgiving Day parade float.

“So, are we doing these interviews or what?” Dante asked. “This good light won’t last all day.”

“I’ll go first,” Tom offered, moving toward Dante. “I think Mr. Hamilton could use a minute.”

“Great,” Dante responded. “Libby, can you help us, too? I could use somebody to hold the microphone.”

They chose a spot on the front porch. Dante pulled out some folding chairs and a few pieces of camera equipment from his car and positioned everyone. Libby quickly found herself holding a long tube with a tiny microphone on the end. She dangled it over Tom’s head as instructed by their intrepid director.

“Try not to conk me with that thing, okay?” Tom asked, raising his hand up over his head. “You’re a little clumsy.”

“I’m not clumsy at all. You just keep assuming I’m clumsy because I’m a girl.”

Marti sat in the chair next to Tom with some blue index cards in her lap. “Whenever you’re ready, baby.” She laughed at Tom as his brows lifted. “Oh, not you. Him.” She pointed at Dante.

Tom nodded and repositioned himself in the chair, crossing and then uncrossing his legs.

“Okay, babe,” said Dante. “We’re rolling. Let me check the audio first, though. You guys just talk for a minute.”

Marti smiled at Tom. “Don’t worry about any of this. Dante says the magic happens in editing, so say whatever you want, or ask questions or whatever. Okay?”

Tom nodded and ran a finger around the collar of his navy T-shirt.

“What is your name?” Marti asked.

“Tom.”

She smiled. “Okay, now say your full name and address so Dante can check your audio.”

“Oh.” Tom flushed and cleared his throat. His gaze moved to Libby and caught there. She felt an unexpected ripple of anticipation, as if she were holding a raffle ticket and waiting for her name to be called.

A smile hooked the corner of his mouth. “My name is Thomas Murlan Murphy.”

Libby caught herself smiling back.

“Murlan?” asked Marti. “That’s pretty funky. But not as bad as mine.”

Tom’s gaze moved from Libby to her sister, and Libby found she was a little sad about that.

“What’s yours?”

“Martha Washington Hamilton.”

Tom winced.

“I know. It’s awful.” Marti nodded.

“Okay, we’re good for sound, babe. Ask him the real questions now.”

Tom’s glance flitted back to Libby again, as if for reassurance, which she found interesting. And appealing. The unease from that morning’s conversation had disappeared, leaving behind it a new understanding. Or if not that, exactly, at least a new tolerance.

“Okay, you ready?” Marti asked. “When was this building constructed?”

She went on and asked him a dozen or so questions about the characteristics of the schoolhouse and the challenges unique to restoring old buildings. He answered thoughtfully, using lots of words without any extra prompting.

“Okay, one last question,” Marti said after they’d been filming for almost half an hour. “What is it about restoration projects that appeals to you the most?”

Tom looked at his hands for a minute as he paused. Libby could see he was thinking this through, not giving some flip response. “When you build something, you can see it. It’s solid and you can grab on to it. I like that about building in general. Tangible results. But especially with these old places, you can see the attention and care that went into constructing them. They were built to be permanent, crafted with materials meant to weather just about anything that blew their way. A run-down old place like this has seen hard times. I guess I just like giving it a second chance and a new purpose.”