Your Dream and Mine (2 page)

“M
ornin’, Trace. You’re out bright and early,” Milt said, after Thomasina had left the room. “Got a cigarette?”

“Like I’d give it to you if I did!”

“It’s not bad enough I’m trembling over my grave. Now you and Tommy Rose are conspiring against me.”

“Tommy
Rose
now, is it?”

“It suits her, don’t you think? Or didn’t you notice?”

“I was busy burning my hand on your coffee.”

“Just as well,” said Milt, reaching for the cup. “Tommy isn’t the kind you can woo with your callow charm.”

“Says the guy who set me up. Tommy this, and Tommy that!” Trace grinned. “I should have known a male nurse wasn’t your style.”

“Why, thank you, Trace. You make me feel seventeen again. Which reminds me, I hear your old flame Deidre’s coming home on furlough.”

“Deidre O’Conley? I thought she was teaching school on the reservation.”

“It’s a mission school. Missionaries get furloughs now and then,” said Milt. “The church is having a Sunday night
soup-supper fund-raiser for her while she’s here. Mary’s selling tickets. Can she put you down for one?”

“Make it two,” countered Trace.

“Taking a date?”

“Nope. Just being a nice guy.”

“You’re not going?” Milt’s crafty grin faded. “Trace, my boy, you ought to let go of your grudge. Why, there’s no shame in losing to your betters. Or was it someone besides God who came between you two?”

“You’re going to have to get out more, Milt. You’re turning into a professional meddler,” groused Trace.

Milt lost his breath cackling, and reached for his oxygen. Alarmed, Trace set his coffee aside, and came to his feet. “You need some help?”

Milt shook his head and motioned him down again. “Kind of early for a social call,” he said, when he’d caught his breath. “What’s on your mind?”

Trace explained about the tree, and waiting on Will.

“I’d call Will, but the phone and the alarm clock are all the same ring to him. He’s good at ignoring both,” said Milt. “Speaking of ring-a-dings—how are you and your renter getting along?”

“Which one?” asked Trace.

“Antoinette Penn.”

Trace stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. “If I had it to do over, I’d stick to my no-kids, no-pets and mow-your-own-grass rules. But her kids needed a roof over their head, and she caught me in a weak moment.”

“Watch your weak moments, or it’ll be your
roof
over her head, the same one you’re under.”

“That’s the least of my worries,” said Trace.

“Prickly, isn’t she?” drawled Milt with a knowing grin. “Rough, losing her husband that way. Of course, she’d take your hide off if she thought you were feeling sorry for her.”

“You can save your breath. I learned my lesson,” said Trace. After Antoinette’s husband died in an icy pile-up on I-55, he’d felt sorry enough to rent the little yellow house to her. Her kids spent more time in his yard than they did in their own, which generated the usual amount of smalltown gossip.

“That-a-boy,” said Milt. “Hold out for a girl like my Mary.”

Trace nursed his coffee and chatted with Milt awhile before giving up on Will.

Once home, he showered and fell into bed and slept hard until dreams edged him toward wakefulness.

“Do you take Deidre O’Conley to be your…”

Trace awoke before the preacher in his dream got the words out. Half a lifetime ago he would have taken Deidre to be his
anything.
She was a do-gooder and spiritually needy and all he needed was her. He had told her so at the drive-in theater.

“You’ve got less plot than the movie,” Deidre had told him. “And what there is of it, God didn’t put there.”

It had seemed to Trace at the time that there ought to be some middle ground. But Deidre disagreed. So he walked the straight and narrow, sure he’d win her heart in the end.

But he lost on that count, too, to the courage of her convictions. To his betters, as Milt put it. It was a gradual loss—first she left for Bible college, then four years later, for the mission field. The letters and phone calls had stopped by then. She met someone out in Arizona. He had since died. Trace bought a sympathy card, a religious one. But he never could bring himself to send it. Partly because the words seemed hypocritical, coming from a guy who hadn’t been in church since she left town. Partly for fear she’d read something other than sympathy in the gesture.

Trace kicked back the sheets, thinking of subsequent relationships
and how they died on the vine with mild regret and none of the pain of Deidre. He had her to thank for that. She’d taught him to put his armor on and keep his heart well guarded.

Trace showered and shaved and ate cold leftovers, then started the needed painting. After a year and a half, cosmetic improvements were all that remained of turning the dilapidated eyesore he’d picked up for a song into a grand old lady of a house. He lived in one half. The other half he hoped to rent just as he had the other fixer-uppers he’d acquired over the past fourteen years.

Between good wages and rental properties, he was building a tidy nest egg while he waited for the place of his dreams to come on the market. A place with a fishing hole and woodland trails and a nice creek for canoeing. When he found it, he planned to build vacation cabins. He would call it Wildwood. It would be his ticket out of the car plant and off the treadmill of predictability.

Beyond that, the dream got hazy. But even as a kid with building blocks, Trace never quite knew how to enjoy himself playing with what he’d built. It didn’t worry him. There was a lot of hard work between here and there. It was the work he relished. Building something from scratch, driving every nail. A world away from attaching identical pieces of trim, identical wires, on identical cars at sixty-second intervals.

It was hot in Thomasina’s third-floor apartment. She slept poorly and awoke with circles under her eyes. A cool shower helped some. So did liquid foundation, though a sheen of perspiration made wet work of it.

Thomasina tilted her damp face to the fan and coiled her long dark hair in one hand as she waited for her makeup to dry. Using a butterfly clip to secure her gathered tresses
at the back of her head, she applied eye makeup, then blush, then peach-colored lipstick before reaching for the lash curler. It was old and sticky with the heat and wouldn’t let go. Thomasina winced and batted a watering eye. A tissue did more harm than good, smudging shadow and mascara and removing smearing blush from her left cheek all in one swipe. Out of patience, she flung the whole works into her cosmetic bag and picked up the classified ads, doubts mounting.

She was a city girl. Why had she ever agreed to look at rent property in Liberty Flats? It was a one-school, onechurch town with a post office and a grocery store. Quaint and charming, granted. But it was fifteen miles from all the amenities to which she was accustomed.

Regretting yesterday’s impulse that had led to today’s appointment with the landlord of the property, a man whose name now escaped her, Thomasina scanned the ad again. No name, just a number. Thomasina donned a shortsleeved, trim-fitting uniform and dialed the number. She would just have to tell the guy she’d changed her mind about seeing the Rush Street property. But there was no answer. It seemed rude to be a no-show. Thomasina sighed and relented. Peeking at the place didn’t obligate her. She was passing through anyway on her way to Milt and Mary’s.

Trace’s two-story house sat at a right angle to the street on a shady double lot. The foyer beyond the main entrance took a bite out of the corner of the house. The veranda, which gave access to the entrance, wrapped the corner. The west side of the porch was Trace’s. The south side went with the tenant apartment.

Trace tucked his burgundy shirt into his dark gray work trousers. He crouched on the entrance threshold, leaned past
the step and stretched down a hand to see if the porch floor had dried. His finger came away forest green. The paint was as wet as when he’d put it down.

He retraced his steps to the back utility room where he’d stored the paint can. Twenty-four hours to dry. Now how had he overlooked that earlier? He had, with his slick efficiency, painted himself in and his prospective renter out.

Leaving his door standing open, Trace climbed out a window, backed his truck up to the porch and let the tailgate down. He was looking for a board in the carriage house when he heard a car pull up out front. Hastily he grabbed a long two-by-four and crossed beneath the widespread blue ash. He spanned the wet porch with the two-by-four, one end supported by the tailgate, the other thrust through the front door into the parquet floor of the foyer.

Hearing footsteps on the brick walk, he turned, an apology ready.

“The porch floor is wet If you can…” The rest of the explanation faded away, so unnerved was he at finding himself looking into the deep-set darkly fringed eyes of Milt’s nurse.

“Tommy Rose!” he blurted. “What are you doing here?”

T
he disheveled man Thomasina had met at Milt and Mary’s early that morning was no longer so disheveled. Just surprised. And discomfited at having blurted out Milt’s pet name for her.

Thomasina buried her own discomfort in a smile. “Hello again, Mr. Austin. I’m here to see the apartment.”

“It was you I talked to on the phone? I didn’t take down a name.”

Thomasina nodded.

“I’ll be.” Trace shifted his feet.

“Small world, huh?”

The house, with its fresh coat of white paint, white carpenter’s lace and green porch begged to be seen.

Thomasina smiled and moved out of the sun, asking. “How did you get along with your tree cutting?”

“It went about like the rest of my day.” Trace gestured toward the board spanning the porch. “The paint’s wet. The only way in is over that board. Or have you lost interest?”

“I was having second thoughts. But,” she admitted. “I’m here. I may as well look.”

When she phrased it that way, Trace wanted to tell her not to put herself out, that he’d have no trouble renting the place. With the city limits near by, Liberty Flats had become a bedroom community. It was a seller’s market, and renters were even easier to find than buyers. But he didn’t want her mistaking his words for pressure. He said instead, “I’ll get a wider board.”

“This’ll do.”

“You’re sure?”

“Why not? If Nadia can trip the light fantastic on a balance beam, I can inch across a two-by-four.” Thomasina tossed her purse into the back of his truck. She slipped out of her shoes and set them on the tailgate beside her purse.

“Nadia?”

“You know. The gymnast?”

“Oh, her. Sure!” Trace grinned and vaulted onto the tailgate to offer her a hand up. “You’re dating yourself, though. That was a few Olympics ago.”

“Twenty-seven and holding,” she said with a puckish grin. “The cat’s out of the bag, now. How about you?”

“Thirty-four,” he said, surprised she would ask.

“I’ll go first, make sure it’ll hold.” He strode across the two-by-four, then turned to see her tip her face and start after him with no sign of hesitancy.

“And she nails the landing!” Thomasina quipped as she stepped into the entryway beside him.

Trace answered her with a grin and ushered her inside.

The living room was long and a little narrow. But the high ceiling and a bay window gave it a spacious feel. Thomasina circled the room and stopped to visualize filmy sheer curtains at the windows. The walls were freshly painted a warm eggshell shade, a nice backdrop for her floral sofa with its splash of Victorian colors. “This is lovely.”

Pleased, Trace led her toward the kitchen where plush carpet gave way to recently installed linoleum. High, old-fashioned built-in cupboards lined one wall. There was a recessed nook for dining, with a table and benches built in. A stove and refrigerator were in place.

“Appliances included, as long as they hold out. They were here when I bought the house. Or do you have your own?”

“No.” Thomasina saw that the wooden countertop matched the table. “Maple, isn’t it?”

Trace nodded as her hands trailed over the countertop. They were sensible hands—nails clipped short, lightly tinted. Slender and smooth and graceful to the eye. “Cut on Will’s sawmill. The finish is supposed to protect the wood against water. We’ll see if it lives up to expectations.”

“I like it,” said Thomasina, impressed with the craftsmanship.

He gave a modest shrug. “Thought I’d try something different. The laundry room is through here, with a back entry off the porch.”

“My own laundry room?”

“Shared, actually,” he said, and unlocked a second door.

Thomasina realized that the laundry room with its washer, dryer and utility sink connected the two apartments at the rear of the house. Another door lead out to a screened-in porch. Her eye was drawn to the porch by bright-colored hanging plants that swayed in the breeze coming through the screened walls. A wicker love seat and an old-fashioned swing like the one on the front veranda just begged to be tried out. She pushed the door open.

“Careful,” Trace warned, and stretched an arm across the door, preventing her from stepping out on the porch. “The paint’s still wet.”

“Here, too?”

“I didn’t read the drying time until after the fact.” He turned back the way they had come. “The stairs are off the kitchen.”

Thomasina lingered a moment in the open door. She looked past the porch to freshly mown grass and ancient oak trees. “It’s a huge yard.”

“It looks even bigger when you’re mowing it, and the acorns are a real pain when they fall.” Trace flung words over his shoulder. “I’ll provide the mower, plus knock some off the rent if you want to mow the grass yourself.”

“Fair enough. Does your other tenant mow?” she asked.

“I live in the other half.”

For the second time that day, Thomasina’s gaze strayed to his ringless left hand. “With your family?”

“Just me,” he said, and turned away again.

Thomasina tracked with her glance a droplet of water dripping from a springy brown curl. It disappeared over the curve of his ear. It was a well-shaped ear, a little pink on the ridge where the skin had burned and peeled.

“Utilities are included in the rent.”

Thomasina followed as he moved toward the enclosed staircase leading to the second story. She tracked the water droplet as it fell from his earlobe and slid down his neck. He paused on the bottom step and turned.

“The hot-water heater needs some adjusting. Comes out of the spigot hot enough to make coffee.”

“Convenient,” she said.

“Unless you forget and scald your hide stepping in the shower.”

“Duly noted.” As was the small scar at the cleft of his chin and the straight nose anchoring his hazy blue eyes. His cheekbones were prominent and freckled beneath a
deep tan. She noticed the insignia on his work shirt. “You work at the car plant in Bloomington?”

“Second shift.” He started up the stairs.

“No wonder you asked about kids and dogs. You sleep days.”

“Yes.”

“Me, too, since I started caring for Milt.”

“Are you out there every night?”

“I work for Picket Fence Private Nurses. It’s pretty much their call.”

Trace stopped on the landing. “The bathroom’s through the bedroom there. The other door is a walk-in closet.”

Thomasina sailed past him and flung her arms wide. “Bed here, dresser there, bookcases flanking the window. I wonder if I have enough furniture.”

A smile tugged at his mouth at her unbridled enthusiasm. He could have predicted that the dormer window would draw her.

“What a pretty view!” She turned as she spoke. “Are those train tracks I see cutting across open country?”

Trace nodded. The countryside as seen from the upstairs was old hat to him. She, on the other hand, was a fresh look. A cloud of dark bangs spilled over a wide forehead and ended at delicately arched brows. Her heart-shaped face ended with a dimpled chin. Her eyes were so dark, he had mistaken them for black. They weren’t. Bittersweet chocolate came closer. Her hair, loosely held at the back of her head with a butterfly clip, was equally dark and rich. One escaped wisp clung damply to her temple.

“Take your time.” Trace shoved a hand in his pocket and went downstairs to wait while Thomasina checked out the bathroom.

The walls were tiled in white. A modern shower had been installed inside a refurbished claw-foot tub. A window
overlooked the town if you cared to peer out while you bathed. The closet was deep and spacious. Delighted with everything about the place, she decided to give small-town life a whirl.

Trace was waiting for her in the laundry room. She looked past the porch and over the green lawn. “You have central air, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“July. That’s a little late for planting flowers, I suppose.”

“Then you’re taking it?”

“I believe I will. Do you need references?”

“Milt and Mary speak well of you. That’s good enough for me.”

“Is it all right if I move in right away? The air-conditioning has been broken in my third-floor flat for a week and a half,” she added. “I’d pitch a tent under a tree for some cool air.”

“It’s ready to go. No reason you shouldn’t move in.”

“Where do I sign?”

“The lease? There isn’t one.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. I don’t want a piece of paper keeping someone longer than they want to stay.”

Or vice versa,
thought Thomasina. She’d wager by the set of that long upper lip, that he knew how to put an out-of-favor tenant on the road without much trouble, too.

“One key going to be enough?” he asked.

“Unless I lock myself out.”

Trace saw her safely over the plank and to her car at the curb, wondering idly if she had a significant other. She wrote the first month’s rent, then tallied the balance while he took a final appraisal from a landlord’s point of view. Just a nice honest down-to-earth working girl.

He’d have bet his bottom dollar she wouldn’t give him a moment’s trouble.

It was too early to go to Milt and Mary’s and too late to drive back to Bloomington. Thomasina killed a little time driving around Liberty Flats. It was an eclectic collection of homes with everything from refurbished Victorians to modest bungalows to ranch-style homes with a few upperscale dwellings sprinkled in.

Trees canopied the streets leading to a square in the center of town. There was a park with a baseball diamond, an old-fashioned bandstand, a few picnic tables and some playground equipment. A couple of old-timers sat on a bench in front of the post office watching her brake for a dog. They raised their hands, so she waved, too, then made a second pass through town just in case she’d missed something.

She hadn’t. There was no fast food, not even a mom-and-pop café. Wishing she’d picked up a sandwich before leaving Bloomington, Thomasina stopped at the only light in town, then followed Main Street to the country.

There was a roadside vegetable stand on the way to Milt and Mary’s. The proprietor was having a yard sale. She chatted amicably while Thomasina stocked up on fresh vegetables, picked through the paperback books, then deliberated over window coverings.

The middle-aged lady got up from the card table and came over to shake the wrinkles out of the curtains. “I can knock a couple of dollars off, if you’re interested.”

“I like them, but I’m not sure they’ll fit,” Thomasina admitted. “I’m moving, and I haven’t had a chance to measure the windows.”

“Hereabouts?”

“Liberty Flats. I’m renting from Trace Austin.” Thomasina
spread the curtains out on the table. They were good-quality drapery and in excellent condition. But she had no idea if they’d fit the windows.

Watching Thomasina fold and return the drapes to the table, the woman said, “If you’re interested, I’ll see if I can catch Trace at home and have him measure the windows for you.”

“Oh, no! Don’t bother him,” said Thomasina.

“Pooh! He won’t mind for a worthy cause,” said the woman. She hurried inside and was back in less than five minutes with the measurements and a measuring tape.

“Just right! See there! And Trace couldn’t have been nicer about it once he heard the proceeds from the sale are going to Deidre’s mission. Which reminds me, would you like to buy a ticket to the soup supper? It’ll be at the church Sunday night.”

“Sure, I’ll take a couple,” agreed Thomasina. “Where is it again?”

“Liberty Flat’s church. On Church Street,” the lady added, and chuckled as she gave her the tickets. She tallied her purchases and counted back her change. “Enjoy your new home.”

Thomasina thanked her and drove on out to Milt and Mary’s. Fixing supper wasn’t part of her job. But both Mary and Milt had been to the doctor that day, and Mary was worn-out. She perked up a bit when Thomasina told her about her forthcoming move to Liberty Flats.

“What a happy coincidence!” exclaimed Mary. “You’ll like Trace.”

“Take it easy on him, rose lips,” said Milt.

“Oh, Milt! Don’t start that foolishness,” scolded Mary.

“All I said was—”

“You couldn’t want a more responsible landlord than Trace.” Mary talked right over him.

“All I said—”

“Respectable, too.”

“All I—”

“Not one word!”

Milt gave a rusty laugh. “Simmer down, Mary, and leave the matchmakin’ to me. Right, Tommy Rose?”

“So long as you leave me out of it,” said Thomasina. She smiled at Mary and whispered loudly, “Why don’t you see if you can get his meddling under control while I do the dishes?”

Mary stood by as Thomasina helped Milt to the battery-powered scooter the family had purchased when he became too weak to get from one end of the house to the other without stopping to rest. Once to the living room, Milt settled on the sofa beside Mary. He turned on the television, but soon had it on mute.

Bits of conversation drifted in from the living room as Thomasina cleared the dining room table. She saw Milt patting Mary’s knee, and Mary wiping her eyes. The words
living will
tugged at her heartstrings. She retreated to the kitchen, closed the door and winged silent petitions on their behalf to the One who had filled them with so many good years.