Your Dream and Mine (6 page)

“H
ere, let’s trade, Miz Rose. I can get both first and second floor, if I pick it up just right.” Ricky stopped her before she could lift the upstairs floor of her dollhouse out of the car trunk. He gave her the iron skillet and plunked her straw hat on his head and lifted both levels of the dollhouse at once.

“Are you sure you can handle it all? It’s heavy and it’s unwieldy,” warned Thomasina.

“What do you take me for, a wimp?” Ricky said with a snort. “Oops!”

“Careful!” Thomasina’s hands flew to her head as he tripped and almost fell.

Ricky’s face split in a wide grin. “Just kidding. Purty thing, ain’t it?”

“Yes, you are.” Thomasina laughed.

Her laughter stopped when she heard gravel whisper under tires. It was Trace, pulling into the carriage house drive.

“Who’s that?” asked Ricky.

“My landlord. Wait a second while I make a path.” Thomasina climbed the steps, dropped the skillet and
pushed aside the boxes they had already unloaded. “Do you need help up the stairs?”

Ricky rolled his green eyes. “You been workin’ with old folks too long, Miz Rose.”

“I meant, can you see over the top? All I can see of you is sneakers and eyeballs!”

“I can see just fine, if you’d get out of the way,” countered Ricky. “I ain’t goin’ to break your toy, if that’s what’s worryin’ you.”

“I’m not worried. Careful!” Thomasina winced as he narrowly missed careening into the porch swing.

“Chill, would you? What’s it made of anyway—gold?”

“No. Just memories.”

Ricky wagged his head. “You’re a strange bird, Miz Rose.”

Thomasina flushed and laughed and feigned flapping wings.

Their laughter drifted across the yard to Trace as he was climbing out of the truck. He’d seen them cutting up as he turned in the drive. Couldn’t see much of the guy, though. Except that he was tall and thin. Looked like a goofball in Thomasina’s hat, staggering under the weight of whatever it was he was carrying.

Trace put his tools in the shed. He mostly used the back entry when his clothes were dirty. The laundry room doubled as a mudroom. But curiosity drew him to the front of the house.

Thomasina was starting down the porch steps as he came across the grass. Color swept up her cheeks. Or maybe it was her boyfriend putting roses in her cheeks.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

In one glance, Trace took in her fitted sleeveless white blouse, cherry-colored shorts and legs, firm and nicely
shaped all the way to her white sneakers. Her lashes swept over her chocolate-brown eyes as she passed him on the steps, going down as he went up. He sank down on the top step to unlace his boots, determined not to look again.

But as she came up the walk a minute later carrying a laundry basket full of clothes, his head come up of its own volition. She stopped midway up the steps and looked down at him. Feeling at a disadvantage, he stood up.

“I’ll get these boxes out of the way as soon as we make room inside for more,” she said. “Normally I put things away as I go. But until I can get the furniture moved, that’s kind of hard to do.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it I’ve moved a time or two myself.”

“I appreciate your understanding,” she said, then shifted one foot. “I was thinking about the grass. You mentioned a lawn mower I could use?”

“If you don’t want to mow it, it’s no problem,” he informed her.

“If you don’t mind, I thought Ricky could mow it.”

“Ricky?”

“He’s helping me move.”

“The mower’s in the carriage house,” Trace told her.

“I hate to ask. But could you show me how to start it for him?”

“
For
him?”

“I’m not sure he knows how, and I wouldn’t want him to tinker with something he shouldn’t,” she said with a note of apology.

“In that case, he can use the push mower. I’ll check the fuel and give it a crank.”

“If you’ll just show me how, I’ll do it.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, and shoved his feet back into his
boots. “Won’t take more’n a minute if you want to send him out.”

She nodded, and went inside.

Wears ladies’ hats and purple shoes and can’t start lawn mowers. This I have to see.
Trace flicked on the light in the shop. He added oil and was pouring gasoline into the tank when Thomasina’s guy friend came scuffing in. A grown man dragging his feet over a little mowing job hit a nerve.

“Got your safety glasses? Wouldn’t want you to hit a stone, and put out your eye,” Trace said without looking up.

The footsteps stopped. Trace put the cap on the gas tank and looked up to see Ricky retreating without a word. “Don’t forget your straw hat,” he muttered.

“Safety glasses?” said Thomasina, when Ricky reported back to her. “Was he serious?”

Ricky shrugged. “He said it sarcastic-like.” He hitched his baggy shorts. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“How can he not like you? He doesn’t know you.”

“Some folks don’t need a reason,” said Ricky, dropping his gaze.

Thomasina had tasted enough rejection in her early years to know that look inside out.
What had Trace said to him, anyway?
Leaving her unpacking, she went outside with Ricky. The mower was running, but there was no sign of Trace.

Ricky confirmed her suspicion that he had never mowed before. But other than trees, the yard was empty of obstacles. Thomasina gave him all the customary safety precautions, including being on guard for the neighbor children. She watched until he flung her a glance as if to say “What’re you still doing here?” Overcoming her protective
instincts, she went back inside and cut shelf paper for the kitchen cupboards.

Trace sat down in the kitchen with the newspaper he’d begun that morning. The mower droned past his window. He let it pass several times, then took a soda from the icebox and went on the back porch just as Ricky swept by with the lawn mower.

Right away he saw his mistake. The boy couldn’t be more than sixteen. Trace remembered sixteen—silliness and foot scuffing.
Pick up your feet and walk like you’re getting somewhere,
his father would say.

Ricky made another pass without lifting his head. He was hitting the whole stretch of yard with each sweep. Doing a decent job of it, too. Trace watched long enough to notice that the boy was deliberately avoiding eye contact. He went inside for another soda, stood in the yard and held it out as Ricky made another pass.

Ricky shot him a guarded glance. “No thanks.”

“Go on, take it. You look hot,” Trace said.

Ricky eyed him warily as he reached for the soda.

“Thomasina must not have mentioned you don’t have to do the whole thing.”

“I don’t?”

“No. Just her half.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you want to,” Trace amended.

Ricky wiped his face on his T-shirt as he thought it over.

“It’ll take you a couple of hours to do it all,” warned Trace. “What’s she paying you?”

“Ten.”

“I’ll match her ten if you want to do my part, too.”

“Twenty bucks?” said Ricky, eyes brightening. “For one yard? That’s a tank of gas.”

“Or a new straw hat.”

Ricky’s cheeks turned pink. “That was Miz Rose’s.”

“Miss Rose? I thought maybe you two were related.”

“No. Neighbors, is all.” Ricky took a long pull on the soda. “Thanks,” he said as Trace took the empty can.

“Anytime. I’m Trace Austin. And you’re…”

“Ricky Spignalo.” Ricky started toward the mower, then turned back. “Guess I should probably tell you her ten was for helping move, too. Not just mowing.”

“It’s a big yard. Twenty’s fair,” Trace replied. “You need to throttle it up, though. See here? It wiggles down.”

“Vibrations?”

“It’s old,” said Trace. “Sometimes I put a clamp on it.”

Trace fetched a clamp for him, then went inside to shower. He looked out from the upstairs window and saw Ricky plowing across the yard on a go-getter stride. His head was up and his mouth was moving. Singing? Or talking to himself? Seemed like a nice kid.

Half an hour later, Trace was dressed and ready to go. When he turned off the radio he heard music pouring from the other side of the house, and Thomasina singing full pitch. He lingered a moment to listen. Her voice had an alto-pitched sultry quality that was easy on the ears. He went out on the porch. Most of the boxes were gone. All that remained of Ricky’s mowing job was a narrow strip of grass out front on the far side of the sidewalk.

Wanting to pay the boy before he left, Trace sat down in the swing just as Thomasina stepped out on the veranda. The veranda wrapped both the west and south corners of the house. The front entrance was built into the corner where the porches met. The swing was tucked at the rear of the west porch. Trace realized she hadn’t noticed him as she propped open the door. Her apartment door leading off
the foyer must have been open, as well, for he could hear music playing in the background.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,” she sang, as she stooped to lift one of the remaining boxes.

Trace turned his gaze toward the street just as Will Chambers swung over to the curb in his late-model sports car.

“Hey! Kid!” Will hollered as he climbed out of the car. “I just had my car washed. Don’t throw grass on it, all right?”

Abruptly the singing stopped. Thomasina shaded her eyes, and looked toward the street and muttered, “Men!”

The swing creaked as Trace came to his feet. “Let me get that for you,” he offered hastily.

“I’ve got it,” she said, and ducked into the entryway as Will came bounding up the porch steps.

“Trace! You’re cleaned up! Got a date?” asked Will.

“Something like that” Trace picked up one of Thomasina’s boxes.

“Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Deidre.”

“Deidre O’Conley?” Will chortled and slapped him on the back. “Old sparks still burning, eh? If you weren’t my best buddy, I’d be jealous. Or did you think you were the only one who ever had a crush on sweet Dee?”

“You want to help here?” Arms full, Trace indicated with his foot the remaining boxes on the porch.

“I heard you had a new tenant,” said Will just as Thomasina returned for another box. “Hello again, Thomasina. Need some help?”

“Sure. Thanks, Will.” She smiled at him, and reached for the box in Trace’s arms.

Will picked up a folded lawn chair and an ironing board
as Trace followed with a box full of dishes with paperback novels wedged in.

“So where are you and Deidre going?” Will asked.

“Dinner and a movie.”

“The drive-in?”

“Are you here for a reason?” he growled.

“Yes, and wait’ll you hear! Where do you want this stuff, Thomasina?” Will asked.

“Anywhere’s fine.”

Will propped the ironing board and folded chair against the wall. Trace continued to the kitchen.

“I just came from the farm,” said Will, at his heels. “You think you know somebody, and wham! Right in the old bread basket!”

Trace paused in looking for a patch of open countertop. “What’re you talking about?”

“Mom and Dad are selling out. They’re going to move to town,” Will told him.

“Selling out?” Trace set the box down so hard, the dishes rattled. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I wouldn’t have believed it myself if the appraiser hadn’t been there,” said Will. “Dad’s pretty determined. He asked my advice on a good auctioneer.”

“He’s auctioning the place?”

“That’s what he says. Unless one of us kids wants it”

“
Do
you?” asked Trace.

“I’d like to keep it in the family, of course,” admitted Will. “But I’m no farmer. I never was. And let’s face it, I can’t shake loose with that kind of money just for sentiment.” Will stopped midstride as the beeper on his belt went off. “It’s the lumberyard. Can I use your phone, Thomasina?”

“It isn’t hooked up yet,” she replied.

“You can use mine,” Trace offered.

“That’s all right, I’ve got one in the car.” Will turned to go. “What time is your date?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll get out of your way, then.” Will clapped him on the shoulder, and trekked back through the house and out.

Selling out?
Numb, Trace stood at the kitchen window, his eyes losing focus in the general direction of Milt and Mary’s farm. He turned to look at Thomasina. She crossed her arms and looked back at him, her mouth turned down.

“Did you know about Milt selling out?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t sound like him. He isn’t dying, is he?”

“We’re all dying, Mr. Austin.”

Mr. Austin?
It settled over him slowly. What had he done to put her chin in the air? Trace waded through her chaos of boxes and clothes and moving clutter and stopped at the front door. Hearing her behind him, he turned and asked, “What gives?”

“What do you mean, what gives?” she countered, her dark gaze unflinching.

Trace rubbed the back of his neck, struggling to separate apples from oranges. He focused on the puzzle he could safely voice and said, “That farm is Milt’s whole life.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is!”

“If you feel so strongly about it, perhaps you should talk to him,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, it sounds as if Ricky has finished. I need to drive him home.”

“Where’s he live?” Trace asked.

“Bloomington.”

“I’ll take him.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t impose,” she said stiffly.

“It isn’t an imposition. I’m going that way.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m responsible for him.”
Thomasina moved past him, into the foyer and out onto the porch.

Trace followed as far as the porch, then tracked her with his gaze across the yard. He took a ten from his wallet and watched as she patted Ricky on the back, then waved to Will as he sped away from the curb. Everyone seemed to be in her “amazing graces” but him.

Ricky knocked loose grass off the silent mower, talking all the while to Thomasina. They both looked his way. Trace held up the ten-dollar bill. Ricky grinned and loped across the grass toward him. Thomasina ducked her head, grabbed the lawn mower and started for the carriage house. Trace thanked Ricky for doing a good job, and caught up with Thomasina at the carriage house door.