Meeting at Midnight (6 page)

“That makes sense. It's not like I'm predictable.”

She laughed and settled on the other end, curling one leg up beneath her. That surprised me. She'd mostly stayed away this afternoon unless I needed something…which I figured was my fault. Because of that kiss. With my leg stretched out between us, I couldn't jump her. That's probably what she was thinking.

And I was not thinking about that kiss again. I was just wondering if she was.

“I liked watching you and Zach together,” she said. “Gave me the idea that you're crazy about him.”

“Well, yeah. Of course I am. Any man…” My voice trailed off as I remembered that her father hadn't acted like he was crazy about her. I cleared my throat. “Of course, some men are jerks.”

“I can agree with that.”

The bitter note in her voice surprised me, though it shouldn't have. She had a right to be bitter. “Do you hate him?” I asked abruptly. “Your father, I mean.”

She blinked. “I…oh, damn, I wanted to say no, that he doesn't matter enough to hate. And that's almost true. But sometimes…”

She shrugged and looked away, but not before I'd seen the unhappiness in her eyes. “It's like having a trick knee. You go along fine for days, weeks, even months. Then all of a sudden you put your weight on it, and it doesn't hold. Every now and then I still get angry. Dumb, isn't it?” Her mouth twisted. “I'm thirty-two years old. I should be over it by now.”

“I don't see what ‘should' has to do with it. Seems to me we can control our actions, but thoughts and feelings don't pay much attention to rules.” Or I wouldn't be thinking about that blasted kiss again.

She looked startled, then smiled. “I suspect a lot of people underestimate you.”

That was probably a compliment. I studied her a moment. Though her body was easy, relaxed, I thought shadows lingered in her eyes. I decided to steer us into less painful territory. “So, what would you change in here?”

“Me?”

“You said things hadn't been changed in a long time. You must have had something in mind.”

“I'd paint the walls,” she said promptly.

I looked around critically. “Nothing wrong with the paint.”

“It's white, Ben.”

“So?”

“So the room could use some color. Red would be great.”

“You're kidding.”

“Green would be good, too—a rich green, nothing wimpy. But this couch is a lovely, warm brown. I think red would be great with it. And maybe some molding over the fireplace to match the crown moldings. That would make the mantel really pop.”

I eyed her dubiously. “You sound like an upscale decorator.”

She laughed. “I'll admit to being hooked on those shows on cable.”

“They have decorating shows?”

“Don't watch much TV, do you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Well, there's a whole network devoted to it. Shows about gardening and all kinds of decorating—window treatments, kitchen remodels, painting techniques, all that sort of thing.” She grinned. “A friend of mine calls it female porn. We can look and drool, but we can't touch.”

“Sounds about right.” I gave a thoughtful nod. “Green, maybe. I could see a pale green in here. Or purple.”

“Uh…purple?”

“Sure. Put a little gilding on the crown moldings, too. It would really dress the place up.”

She caught on. “Gilding the moldings! I never would have thought of that. But then, you really must use red for the walls. Chinese red. And maybe a little pagoda in the corner?”

We spent the next few minutes turning my living room into a Chinese emperor's nightmare, complete with bamboo, lacquered screens and dragons, all in the most garish cast of colors possible. Somehow that evolved into a discussion of building styles, remodeling and how to honor the architectural integrity of a building when creating an addition.

Now, all this was right up my alley. I don't often swing a hammer or hang drywall myself these days, but I've done it enough in the past. A good builder has to know a little about everything, from the right temperature to pour concrete to the current craze for paint glazes to how to shore up a damaged load-bearing wall. So it might seem like I was enjoying some shop talk and Seely was humoring me, but it wasn't like that. It wasn't about me at all. I would have talked about blueberry muffin recipes if that's what got her this excited, just so I could watch her glow.

This slow-moving woman came alive when she talked houses. Which was downright peculiar for a woman with no nesting urges.

“Your den is an addition, isn't it?” she said. She was snuggled into the corner of the couch, her shoes off and her feet tucked up. A strand of hair had worked loose to wiggle along her temple and cheekbone like a hyperactive question mark.

I grimaced. “Sticks out like a sore thumb, doesn't it? I've always meant to redo it. The roofline messes up the rear and side elevations. My father had it done, and I don't think he gave a thought to how it fit with the rest of the house's style.”

“He wasn't interested in construction and architecture himself, then?”

“Sure, if it took place two or three thousand years ago.”

“I've wondered about that,” she said slowly. “I would have thought there would be exotic mementos scattered around
from all the time he spent abroad. Pot shards, maybe, or a scarab or two.”

“I've got a pretty little Egyptian lady in my bedroom, on the dresser. Most of that stuff is boxed up, though. Never really knew what to do with it. Now what,” I demanded, “did I say to put that polite look on your face?”

“Who, me? Polite?”

“Like you're thinking something you're too nice to say.”

“Oh.” She flushed. “And here I'm trying to be tactful…it just seems like you have some issues with your parents. Maybe with the way they died and left you to raise the family they'd started.”

My good mood evaporated. “I did what had to be done. That's all.”

“And that was a less-than-delicate hint to close the subject. Good enough.” She said that with perfect good humor, but rose to her feet. “I'd better go check on the roast.”

“Don't rush off. I didn't mean to…dammit, you can't get offended every time I'm an ass, or we won't be able to talk at all.”

She patted my shoulder. “No offense taken. I don't blame you for getting testy when people make a fuss about the way you took on the responsibility for your brothers and sisters. It must seem sometimes as if you're defined by what happened twenty years ago. As if nothing you've done since then matters, compared to that.”

Having leveled me with a few words, she swayed gently toward the door. “Supper should be ready soon. You want to eat on a tray in here?”

I must have answered, because she left the room. God only knows what I said. I don't know how long I sat staring at the wall and seeing nothing, either.

Eventually sheer physical discomfort roused me. My shoulder this time. I mushed some pillows around to create more support for it, leaned back and waited for the fire to die down.

The blasted woman had a bad habit of saying outrageous things, then wandering off, leaving me no one to argue with but myself. That would stop, I promised myself. If she was going to drop bombshells, she could damned well hang around and deal with the debris.

But Seely wasn't in the habit of hanging around.

Never mind. People could change, right? She was big on changing walls and furniture. She could just get used to the idea of changing a couple of habits, too.

It was a helluva thing, but somewhere between Chinesered walls and that irritating pat on my shoulder, my gut had made a decision without consulting the rest of me. For the next few days, I'd be such a good patient my family would worry about me.

Because I had to get well and fire Seely. Soon. I was going to have that woman out of my employ—and in my bed.

T
he next day, Manny came over for lunch. He dropped off the paint we'd chosen and some painting equipment, then helped Seely move the furniture out of the living room.

I can't explain how I came to agree to this. Slippery, that's what she is. She started out by acting as if I'd already agreed. I recognized this trick, since Annie used to pull it. She'd get me to agree that music is important, mention that she wanted to spend the night with a friend, then pretend that meant I'd agreed to let her go to a concert in Denver with that friend.

When I explained Annie's teenage tricks to Seely, she looked thoughtful and said she really needed to meet my sister. The next thing I knew we were discussing paint colors.

I did protest. She wasn't being paid to paint my house, for God's sake. And I couldn't help her. She wouldn't have let me, for one thing. I couldn't pretend it would be unreasonable to
forbid me to paint the living room, so I was bound by our agreement.

But that did not make it reasonable for her to do it, either. I asked if she'd ever done any painting.

“Not a lick,” she'd said cheerfully. “We'll pull the couch into the middle of the room. You can lie there and supervise.”

Sage green. That's the color we ended up with.

I sat on the couch with my bad leg stretched out, and scowled as Manny and Seely carried the last of the chairs into the dining room. Supervising didn't suit me nearly as well as everyone seemed to think.

“You sure you don't want me to help with the prep?” Manny was asking her as they rejoined me. “Or move the rest of the junk out?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in my direction.

“I'm sure I can work around the couch.”

“Wasn't talking about the couch.”

Seely's lips twitched.

“Manny thinks he's a wit,” I mentioned. “You might not be able to tell, since his face muscles atrophied years ago. That's the only expression he's got.”

Manny has an evil chuckle, like a machine gun misfiring. He employed it as he headed for the front door, advising Seely in between bursts not to let me give her a hard time. He paused in the arched entry. “Meant to tell you—that doctor called this morning.”

“What doctor?”

“The one that put you back together in the E.R.”

“Oh,” Gwen said. “The idiot.”

Manny fired another couple of bursts. “That's the one. He seemed to think you'd hurt your shoulder a few days ago instead of when you drove off a mountain. Wanted me to confirm that.” He shook his head. “Weird guy.”

“Yeah.” I frowned as Seely walked Manny to the door. Harry Meckle was weird, but he wasn't really an idiot. Just the opposite.

The doorbell rang. I heard them talking to someone else at the door and reached for my walking stick.

“Stay put,” Seely called. “It's just a delivery.”

I sighed and put the stick down. A moment later I heard the door shut, then she came back into the room carrying a box. “I like Manny. I wish you'd told me, though. I'm afraid I stared at first.”

“What? Oh. That's right—you hadn't met him in person.” In addition to being a pain in the butt, a master electrician and the best foreman I've ever had, Manny is a dwarf. “I didn't think about it. To me he's just Manny.”

She handed me the box, treating me to that slow smile. “Not ‘Manny the dwarf.' Just Manny.”

“Well, yeah.” The logo was printed in the corner, so I knew what it held. I didn't want to open it now. “You know how it is. Once you know someone, you don't see them the same way.” I decided to give her a hint. “There should be a screwdriver in the toolbox. You'll want to remove the switch plates first.”

“I was hoping for a tool belt.” She bent and rummaged through the toolbox. “I'm sure I'd feel more competent with a tool belt.”

My lips twitched. Picturing a tool belt slung around those thoroughly female hips didn't make me think of competence.

Seely ambled over to the entry and began unfastening the switch plate there. “You like to read, don't you? I noticed that your bookshelves are heavy on history.”

It turned out that Seely enjoyed history, too, though she was a slow reader. A mild case of dyslexia, she said, made a book
a major investment of time for her. She considered herself lucky, since she'd been diagnosed early, and talked about a teacher who'd helped her. When I asked, she claimed paramedic training hadn't been too hard. It might take her a while to read something, but, as with many dyslexics, she had an excellent memory.

Though she usually leaned more toward historical fiction than the straight stuff, she asked if I could recommend something on American history “without too many battles,” since she was more interested in people than military action.

I did, of course, and invited her to borrow my copy. By then she'd finished taping off the woodwork and was prying open the paint. She poured it into the pan. “Oh, look! Isn't that luscious?”

I looked. She'd taken the drapes down already, so light from the two tall windows flooded the room. The old pair of painter's coveralls I'd found for her completely obscured that glorious figure; her exuberant hair was braided tightly away from her face.

Which glowed. Not in an unearthly way, though. With pure delight. “Luscious,” I agreed.

Maybe I did know how I'd ended up agreeing to let her paint the room, after all.

As she spread great, sweeping strokes of sage green across my walls, I found myself telling her how I'd come to enjoy reading so much. I didn't miss the architectural career I might have had; the hands-on business of construction suited me. But abandoning college before I could get my degree had nagged at me, as if I'd drawn most of a circle and never finished that last arc. So I'd started reading the kinds of things I thought would complete my education. In the process, I discovered a taste for history.

“It's full of great stories,” she agreed, stepping back to survey her work. The roller work was almost done; next came the nit-picky brush work. “Daisy says we have to know where we come from to understand where we are.”

“Your mother sounds like a bright woman. You missed a spot up by the ceiling in the west corner,” I pointed out politely.

She glanced at me over her shoulder. “You're enjoying this.”

“Who'd have thought it?” I shook my head in amazement. “I never tried sitting around watching someone else work. I like it.” Especially when she bent over and the coveralls stretched tight across her round, lovely bottom.

She'd ordered me to stay on the couch. I doubt she was thinking about me making a quick tackle, then rolling her onto her back on the drop cloth. I was, though. Never mind that I'd probably have passed out if I'd tried. It was just as well that our agreement kept me from pitting common sense against the irrational optimism of lust.

Seely got the spot I'd pointed out, then stretched…an inspiring sight. “So what do you think? Will it need a second coat?”

I made myself take a good look at the walls. “Hey,” I said slowly. “This looks good. Really good.”

“It does, doesn't it?” She put her hands on her hips, surveying her work. The streak of green paint along her jaw curled up at one end, as smug as her smile. “Though I still say red would have worked, the green looks great. Refreshing.”

She'd brought me some paint chips to choose from that morning. I'd held out for a lighter, warmer shade than she wanted, being more familiar with translating the way a color looked on a tiny chip to an entire room. “You were right about the room needing color.”

“Well!” Her eyebrows rose. “A man who can admit he was wrong. Color me amazed.”

“You have brothers,” I muttered. “Or used to. You probably murdered them and buried the bodies.”

She let out a peal of laughter. “Watch it, or you'll end up with a green nose.”

“To match yours?”

She lifted a hand to her nose. The bracelet she never removed slid down her arm. “It isn't…”

“It is now.”

“I must look like a little girl who's been finger painting.”

“No,” I said slowly. “You look like an uncommonly beautiful woman. Only
slightly
green.”

The smile she turned on me was different. Hesitant.

“Why have you never married, Seely?”

Her smile faded, as if it were on a dimmer switch and I'd just turned it down. “You're changing the rules on me. Feeling safe, are you, over there on the couch?”

My heart began to pound. I didn't have to figure out what she meant. “Not safe at all. You?”

She shook her head and bent to get the narrow brush I'd told her to use around the baseboards. She took the brush and the paint tray over to the window and settled on the floor, giving me plenty of time to wonder why I'd suddenly taken us both into the deep end.

Because I wanted her to know, I decided. I didn't want her to have any doubts that I was interested, even if I couldn't do anything about it yet. I wanted her aware of me the way I was aware of her.

I wanted an answer to my question, too.

For a while, it didn't look as though I was going to get it. She seemed totally focused on the strip of wall she was paint
ing next to the baseboard. At last, not looking up, she said, “I lived with a man for several years. His name was Steven. Steven Francis Blois.”

I chewed over that for a moment, then offered, “There was a king of England named Stephen Blois. William the Conqueror's grandson.”

She snorted. “Oh, yes. Every time Steven was introduced to someone he'd say, ‘no relation.' When they looked confused or asked what he meant, he'd grin and add, ‘to the former king of England, that is.'”

She bent and dipped her brush in the paint. “It was cute the first dozen or so times I heard it.”

Sounded like she wasn't hung up on the man anymore. Encouraged, I said, “Stephen wasn't much of a king. Weak. The country was torn apart during his reign—barons chewing on other barons, eventually civil war.”

“I don't think Steven knew or cared what kind of a king his namesake had been. He wasn't interested in history.” She chuckled. “Actually, he was an accountant.”

“An accountant.” That sounded safe and dull. Of course, a builder might sound pretty dull, too. “Doesn't seem like your type.”

“Do we have types?” She studied her handiwork, then shifted to touch up another section. “I thought he had an open, inquiring mind. He was very New Age, you see. Into meditation, drumming, psychic stuff.”

Had he given her that chakra bracelet? I frowned. “Doesn't sound like any accountants I know.”

“But he was still looking for rules, you see. Pigeonholes instead of answers. He didn't think outside the box—he just used a different set of boxes.”

“So you're not still stuck on him?”

Now she looked up. “I told you about Steven because you asked why I'm not married. While we were together, I took that commitment very seriously. We were involved for six years, and lived together for five. But it ended with a fizzle, not a bang. That was over two years ago.”

Steven Francis Blois must be a fool, to have had this woman for six years without marrying her. But maybe he'd wanted to get married. Maybe, for all her talk about taking the commitment seriously, she hadn't been interested in taking that last step. “So, was it you or him who thought living together was a good idea?”

Her lips twitched. “Something tells me you don't think much of living together without marriage.”

“It isn't a moral thing for me. I just, ah…” Couldn't think of a tactful way to put it. Well, I'd warned her I was blunt. “It's always struck me as half-assed.”

She didn't seem offended. “I take it you've never lived with anyone. What about marriage? Why have you never taken the plunge?”

“Uh…”

Her eyes lit with amusement. “Ben. You did open the subject for discussion, you know.”

I guess I had, though that hadn't occurred to me when I blurted out my question. “I was serious about someone in college. Didn't work out. After that…well, for several years I was too blasted busy. Felt as if I had to set a good example—couldn't very well tell Charlie and Duncan how to act if I wasn't being responsible myself. And Annie. Lord.” I shook my head. “I don't know how single parents do it. I didn't have time for much of a social life. Or the energy.”

She made a listening sort of sound, and resumed painting. “Annie's the youngest, right? She's been an adult for a while now.”

“I wasn't in a hurry to get tied down right away, once Annie went off to college. I guess I got out of the habit of thinking about marriage. It seemed like there was plenty of time.”

“I imagine you were due a spell of blissful freedom. You'd been shortchanged on that when you were younger.”

“By the time I started looking around…” I shrugged my good shoulder. “It's been suggested that I'm too picky.”

She paused in her painting. Her eyes were serious when they met mine. The blue seemed darker, subdued, like a pond shadowed by trees, hiding what lay at the bottom. I wondered if she was thinking about Gwen and the child we shared. “And are you looking now? Is marriage what you want, Ben?”

“I'm forty years old.”

She waited, letting her silence point out that I hadn't really answered the question.

I grimaced. I
had
opened the subject. “I want marriage, yeah. Kids to fill this old house with noise, skateboards, dolls, friends. Younger brothers or sisters to give their big brother a hard time. And a woman to share those kids with me.” Someone who'd clutter the bathroom with female paraphernalia, and sleep beside me at night. Someone who would stay.

Her smile flashed, but somehow it seemed off. “Those skateboarding kids will turn into teenagers, you know. Your experience with your brothers and sisters didn't put you off?”