Scandal (21 page)

His skin feels like silk to my fingers. My hands slide over his back with the sensitivity one
has when touching luxury, registering every tiny bump or scar, as it rises under my hand. Silk with
the slubs left in. The edges of his muscles are more ropy than if I'd grasped them when we were
younger, but firm enough to make me feel safe. He can take care of me, but with our ages, we share
the care.

I've missed laughing at a man's silliness. When I was in grade school I punched a boy for
calling me a silly goose. The other night I put dinner of beans and wieners on the table, saying,
"Sorry for the plainness."

He touched my wrist. "You silly goose!"

I laughed. I'm tickled now when the jokes come from my old man.

Sam's hands, what works of wonder. He can do anything with them, cut and tie up roses,
whip up scrambled eggs, or, yes, arouse in me sensations I'd thought long dead.

I'm still alive. So is Sammy. The twinkle in his eye that spoke to me those many years ago is
still sparking.

This woman turns me on. Whether she's making dinner, or absorbed in her quilting and
doesn't even know I'm there, or lying beside me in bed, her eyes looking deep in mine while our
hands explore... She gets this old blood 'a pumping.

We fit together as smooth as butter on a hot cob of corn. And to think, she made the move
on me. That second night I spent at her house, I was passing her bedroom.

"Aren't you cold in there all alone?" she called.

True, the nights have been cooling, but I can't say I was chilly. But I heard what she was
saying, so I answered, "Why, yes, I did notice a certain chilliness to the room."

"Well, then, I think you might find that this room is warmer."

I wasn't behind the door when the brains were passed out. She was right about her room
being warmer. Downright cozy in fact.

I haven't wanted... intimacy... Well, dang it, sex, since Sue's death, not to say I've not
thought of it. Until Magda, I have shied away from being, or having a lover. I've had enough to do
just taking care of myself and Dave and Teri. Danged if they haven't gone past where they need me.
As for the grandkids, I probably reach out to them more than they do to me.

I'm ready to stretch some more, grow again, and that is sure what I've got in this
relationship. I'd like to marry her, make an honest woman of her. Don't see that in the cards, right
yet. But I'd like some marker that we are special to each other; I want others to know I'm her
protector, and her lover. That she's mine, and I'm hers.

I'm thinking on it.

I arrived home late from Magda's and stayed up even later, turning Roger's den into my
sewing room. I'd brought our quilt with me. The quilt and my fabric fit nicely on the shelves he'd
built to display his ship models, with room to spare. I found the table he'd assembled the models on
equally suitable for my sewing machine.

Next morning, I rose early. From the car I retrieved my luggage and other quilt supplies I'd
gathered while with Magda. Sam had not come home with me after all. Dave had driven over with
Teri to pick up a used log truck from a seller in Willamina. At Magda's we stood around admiring it
while Sam gathered his suitcase and then, in front of everybody, he kissed Magda goodbye.

Not on the cheek, no. He grasped her about her shoulders and placed a good buss right on
her mouth. Dave, who had been about to get in the cab, stopped and watched. "Hmmmmm." He
swung on up without another word.

The sweethearts moved to the passenger side and with only the slightest assist from
Magda's hand on his butt and his grip on the inside bar, Sam swung into the cab. I imagine those
two had an interesting talk on the way home.

Thus my plan to use Sam as a shield had been hijacked, but I enjoyed being alone as I
turned the room to its new purpose. The den was an inside room, windowless, but light from the
living room windows came through an open arch. Remembering the quilting loft at Sunshine's
store, I considered adding a skylight for the light. But for now, the overhead electric lights served
well.

I was so absorbed in cutting the stripe for the quilt edging that I was startled when the
doorbell rang. I opened the door, Len stood there with a lunch sack in hand. It was from an upscale
fast food place in Portland, and no, I'd not yet made coffee. Hadn't even eaten breakfast so the food
was welcome. Len, not so much.

When he leaned in to kiss me hello, I pulled back.

"What?" He looked stung, "Am I too late, too early, not the right kind of sandwiches?
What?"

"Oh, Len, come on in." I offered my cheek, embarrassed to be treating him like this when
we'd been so intense the last time we'd been together. It wasn't his fault I'd changed my mind, not
directly. "I'll put the coffee on. I've been so absorbed in the quilt that I've not even looked at the
weather. Is it warm enough to eat outside? I had to close the window last night because of a chilly
breeze. But looks like the sun has dried the dew off the grass. We can eat our lunch at the picnic
table."

I could hardly believe I'd forgotten to make coffee. What was happening? By then I was in
the kitchen, where I pulled out my large serving tray, set coffee mugs and napkins on it.

Len was very attentive, setting the sandwiches on the tray, pointing out that he'd brought
JoJo's, "Do you have ranch dressing?"

While I put some in a dish he asked if I had any pickles. I gave him a jar and another dish on
which he arranged the small dills. When the coffee was done I poured it and he carried the tray out
to the table.

Prince Charming followed us out, jumped on the bench by me, and sat there watching us
eat.

Fall wasn't just in the air anymore. In a few days the calendar would note its official arrival.
September was winding down. We'd had a couple nights of rain, so were lucky to have this sunny
day. Recent rains had raised the river's level, and the water moved briskly with purpose to run on
to the Willamette, flow into the Columbia, and roll on to the Pacific.

I munched down my pastrami on rye, crunched the pickles, dipped the jojo's and drank my
coffee with gusto. Len remarked, "Good thing I got here when I did, you'd have fallen flat onto the
sewing machine, starved."

I laughed, "Finally, my knight in shining armor." Whoops, I was flirting with him. Mixed
messages. He gets close, I get confused. This is not the direction I want to go. Want to turn him off,
not on. "Not really. I'm holding up all right. Just got caught up in the sewing. Forgot to eat. Nothing
unusual about that."

He ignored my sudden brusqueness, said, "For you it is." He put down his sandwich. "That's
one thing I remember well, you enjoy your food." He turned to look at me, his eyes doing a slow
front scan. He scooted closer, put his arm on my shoulder, his hand rested on my neck, his fingers
slid from playing with the ends of my hair to stroking the hollow in my throat, drifting downward,
while he murmured, "No damage. You look good enough to eat." I'd sat still, yes, enjoying the
sensation as he'd leaned closer. But...too close.

I moved back.

His hand fell away as he leaned back to look at me. "What's the matter with you?"

Might as well be now. "I've been thinking, about us. And the past. It didn't work then and
it's just not going to work now. We need to stop here and stay friends. Any further and we're going
to end up right where we did before."

"How was that?" His tone was chilly. He moved down the bench as if to look at me
better.

"You were--are--too possessive, and you're still bugged because I've got interests beyond
you."

"Such as?"

"You're gonna laugh. It was my photography, now it's quilting."

"That's great! We can share, work together."

"No. Quilting is a private thing, personal. You know that about it, I'm sure."

"At times, yes. But wait, what's this got to do with us? You've turned cold to me, like you did
before. Is it another guy?"

He must have seen it in my face. "For God's sake! It is! Bet it's that damn, know-it-all
fireman." Again he saw the truth of it. "Oh, for Pete's sake!"

I wanted to say,
What is it, for God's sake, or Pete's? And who's Pete?
but he didn't
look like he could take a joke.

"Well, that just beats everything."

"Frankly, it's none of your business, but it's not the fireman. It's that you and I don't belong
together. Something is off about us, always has been. Too much tension. We always end up fighting.
Please, before we ruin a friendship, I want us to change direction." While we'd been talking I'd
loaded up the tray with the remains of our lunch, now I started to the house with it, "Getting too
cold out here for me."

He didn't offer to take it from me. "I'll say. So, maybe you're right." He opened the door
when we came to it. "I can back off. I know how to do that. But, hey, I've got go into Portland for a
meeting with my publisher, working on another book. Did you even read the one I gave you yet?
Probably not, too busy with 'other things'".

I didn't like the sarcasm. "And here I was thinking we were going to talk about quilting
math."

"Yeah. Sounds exciting." He did one of his snide smiles. "But it'll have to be another time."
He looked around. "Don't think I've left anything. I'll see you at the show, for sure. Oh, I was going to
tell you what else I'm going to have in the show, but you'll just have to wait and see. Let me know if
you need anything, quilt-wise, now that we've established that's what we are, quilting buds."

I walked him to the door, hoping, I guess, for a goodbye kiss, though for God's sake, I don't
know why. He jerked the door open. "Call me if you need help with your quilt."

"Sure. Thanks for the lunch." If he heard me he didn't answer.

Boy, was I glad to see him get in the T-Bird and drive away. Although my delayed dinner
date with Dan was hours away, at five o'clock, I didn't want them to bump into each other. My
thoughts bounced from Dan back to Len. I wondered about what I'd said to him, about us being not
right. My body registered regret that I'd sent him away, but my mind was at ease. I'd got rid of
something icky, a chameleon that wouldn't stop crawling over me. Pretty, but I suspected he wasn't
showing his true colors.

Once I was back to my sewing room I forgot about Len, forgot even, for quite a while, about
Dan. I was just working to get the quilt to look like I wanted it to. When I had to re-do some of the
sewing to make it just right, I laughed at myself. Perhaps I do have a real bug about the perfection
part of quilting. A quiltzilla? I don't think so, but I remembered the Quilter's Standard re: Mistakes:
"If you stand back five feet from it and can't see it, then leave it."

I didn't follow that rule. If it bugged me, I fixed it. I had just got the top all together, just
needing the binding, when the doorbell rang again. Seemed to me like that's all it was doing today.
On the way to the door I saw the clock, big hand on five, little hand on twelve. Dan. Right on the
minute.

As I opened the door to him I said, "Sorry, I'm not ready yet," but my mind registered wet
comb marks in his hair, like when a kid's hair is especially neat for a special occasion. Awww.
"Come on in."

He handed me a handpicked bouquet of yellow mums, and I laughed with recognition.
"These look to be from my front yard."

"Huh," he said, "not only beautiful but perceptive."

"I have the perfect vase," I took them from him and, easy as anything, tilted my mouth to
his. Our kiss was a lovely beginning to an excellent evening.

I thought we made a fetching couple, he in his brown slacks and striped shirt with a red tie,
me in a straight black skirt and just-a-little-cleavage-showing red blouse. Matching without
planning. We went to an Italian restaurant in Portland, where we both had spaghetti. During dinner
I explained about my original reluctance to quilting and my new fascination with it. He listened
attentively as I told of meeting Magda, the whole debacle at the quilt cabin, and the cleansing. "Did
you ever wonder if Magda did it?"

"No. I never doubted that she really didn't know why he was so late in coming home. And
when it all came out she was honestly horrified."

"It does seem that she might have called the authorities to report him missing."

"Honestly, I think that the longer he was gone the happier she was."

"Boy, that's a rotten way for a marriage to end up, don't you think?"

I agreed, gave him a short history of my marriage. "We didn't have any of that ugliness. But
that's the past. I want to know about you. Did you grow up here? Where is your family?"

"Hmm. You know I'm divorced and am living with my mother. You'll have to meet her. I
think you two will get along. You both like cats."

"That's a good start."

"Yes, I grew up in the house Mom still lives in, by the river. Dad worked construction. He
died about four years ago. He was a good man." His brown eyes darkened and he took a bite of
spaghetti while I commiserated about the death of his father.

"Spent my boyhood with my sister swimming in the Clackamas, graduated from our local
high school. Marines. Desert Storm. When I got back from that I went to Oregon State, started in
journalism, finished up with a degree in geology. Pretty much a home boy. Always wanted to be a
fireman like lots of kids do, but I got lucky and am living my dream. Except for being alone. Don't
like that so much. I'm a pretty simple guy when you get right down to it."

A soldier. College educated. Solid childhood. Rocks and fire. Reads. I questioned his
"simplicity" but kept it to myself. Not time yet for deep probing.

When we came back home I showed him Sophie's quilt and we had a good mug of
chamomile tea. He didn't push our mutual attraction. We'd also talked at dinner about not wanting
to go too fast at this, about how much we were enjoying getting to know each other. Our parting
embrace was lingering and warming. He pulled away from the growing intensity of our kiss before
the heat became too intense. "I'll call you, tomorrow." His fingers squeezed mine before he left.