Your Dream and Mine (8 page)

“To the soup supper? I just said…you’re dripping all over!”

He caught her wrist just as she raised the towel as if to
catch the rainwater trickling down his face. “Don’t start with me, Tommy Rose. Not unless you mean it.”

Her jaw dropped. “Mean what?”

“Mean to finish it.”

Her face went still, right to her eyebrows. Her gaze quickened, but it did not waver. Evenly she replied, “That depends on what you mean by finish.”

Words were like bullets, once spoken. Clearly his had gone afoul of the mark. Her full lips took a sudden lean line with an even thinner ridge of white edging them.

“Tell you what,” she said softly, clearly thinking the worst of him. “Forget the soup. What do I owe you for helping me move?”

“Nothing.” He let go of her wrist and turned away from the hurt in her eyes. He should have stayed on the roof.
Mean to finish it.
What kind of a crazy thing was that to say?

Trace climbed the stairs and changed his clothes and went back out to help the boys. They’d flooded the carburetor, trying to start it. Boylike, they didn’t get too worked up over it. After a while, Thomasina called to them from the back porch. Ricky loped across the yard and reported back again.

“Miz Rose’s taking us to eat. You comin’?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” said Trace.

“You sure? Antoinette and the kids are coming, too. All the soup you can eat, she says.”

“You go on. I’ll see if I can get your truck running.”

Ricky’s pals went without hesitation. But Ricky turned in the door. “I’ll stay and help.”

“Better not,” said Trace. “Thomasina’s wanting you there.”

“She sore at you?”

Trace did a double take. A grin stole over Ricky’s face. “She is, ain’t she? What did you do? Track on her floor?”

“Something like that,” said Trace. He took out his wallet and gave Ricky the tickets he’d bought from Milt earlier in the week. “You go on now. Eat some soup for me, too.”

The soup supper was a success with the boys. They stuffed themselves to the gills, charmed a couple of Liberty Flat girls into giggling sprees and were attentive throughout Trace’s high school sweethearts’ slide show, which was more than Thomasina could say for herself. She wasn’t here for soup. Or even to treat Antoinette and the boys. It was curiosity over Deidre and Trace that motivated her to come. She wanted to see them together, to see the look in Trace’s eyes as he looked into Deidre’s. To know what was what before she pursued whatever it was she had thought might be worth pursuing.

But that was before Trace’s words in the laundry room. Now there was nothing to pursue. “I’d adore a man who adored me.” Her light words of a few days ago had sharp spurs. She hadn’t known until now just how truly she had spoken.

Trace didn’t adore her. He hadn’t seen past her curves. She’d gone out with a dozen like him, and not wasted a second thought. So what was wrong? How was this different?

It was hours before Thomasina untangled it all. After the supper. After Antoinette and the kids had gone home. After the boys rang her cell phone to say they’d made it home in their patched-up truck.
Search me, oh God.

God was light. By holding that moment in the laundry room up to the light that peeled away pride and false pretense and whitewash and hogwash and all the other sleight-of-hand
tricks of human nature, she got at the unvarnished truth.

“Don’t start with me,” he’d said. Trace had caught her up short, orchestrating the whole evening, her altruism a screen to suit her own ends. She winced.
Okay, God You’re right. I did.

God wasn’t done with her yet He dropped into her consciousness the bald truth that she had invited what followed, albeit thoughtlessly, by reaching with the towel to dry his face. There was a familiarity in that gesture that reached beyond the borders of their short acquaintance. She didn’t think of herself as a flirt. Nor had she set out to mislead him. But gloss or no gloss, she had touched him. Or would have, if he hadn’t caught her wrist.

Create in me a pure heart, O God
The words soothed the healing wounds of honesty. Tomorrow was another day. A fresh slate. An apology, and if he accepted, a fresh start.
Thank you, Father.

A
gnawing stomach and birds singing outside his window awakened Trace the next morning. He rolled off the sofa where he had fallen asleep, found the remote on the floor, turned on the TV and caught the weather forecast. Warm and sunny. A good tree-cutting day. He showered and shaved and was reaching for the toaster and a packet of instant oatmeal when the phone rang. It was Will calling from his folks’ farm. His sisters were flying in today for a family conference regarding the farm, so he was hoping to get the tree cutting out of the way early.

Trace tucked the tail of his light blue T-shirt into his jeans, pulled on his boots and skipped breakfast in the interest of time. Emmaline had fresh goodies in the bakery case if you got there early enough on Mondays. That and a couple of cartons of milk would do him. He had to stop for gas, anyway.

Trace grabbed work gloves and a denim cap on his way out the back door. He put a can of blended fuel for the chain saws in the truck along with his saws, ropes and
climbing spurs, then drove the truck out of the carriage house.

Thomasina stepped off the front porch as he bailed out of the truck to slide the door shut.
Was she coming with him?
Trace flung her a guarded glance. Open loose-fitting blue shirt, red knit T-shirt beneath it, neatly pressed jeans. No clues there as to her intentions. A red bandanna made a bright splash at the tail of her French braid. Her handtooled leather purse matched her belt and lace-up boots. It swung from a long shoulder strap, brushing a slim hip as she strode down the walk, oblivious of him.
Or pretending to be.

He started to call out to her, then got stubborn and didn’t.
Was she or wasn’t she?
Body language said no, she had other fish to fry. Trace watched her park sunglasses on her nose, unlock the car door and climb in. One poorly turned phrase, and the flaws cropped up right and left.
Moody. Didn’t keep her word.
It wasn’t that he needed her help—Milt would look after Mary. It was that he’d wanted…

Trace snapped the lock on the carriage house door and the thought, as well. He climbed in his truck and headed to Newt’s. Thomasina had beat him there. She was standing out front with a bakery sack in her hand, chatting with Emmie’s uncle Earl and his checker buddy, Charlie.

Trace’s gas needle was on empty. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of thinking he’d stopped because she was there. If worse came to worst, he had the gas can full of fuel for the chain saw.

Worst came, two miles out of town. Trace’s truck sucked up the last of the fumes, bucked a few times and rolled to a stop.
E
wasn’t negotiable.
What was wrong with him?
He got out, took a gas can from the back of the truck and was unscrewing the cap when a car came up behind him. Thomasina.
She hit the brakes, put the car in reverse and stopped even with him. The power window whined down.

“Run out of gas?”

Trace looked at her with all the docility of a bull and a red flag.

“Need some help?”

He clamped his jaw tight and glowered, even as he tipped the gas can a notch higher.

“I’ve got doughnuts.”

“Good for you,” he said without inflection.

Her brown gaze swept over him. Her hand went to the gearshift, her foot to the pedal. Trace spilled gas down his pant leg, watching her pull away.

He jerked his attention back to the task at hand, shook out the last drops, then looked to see her stop up the road. His hackles rose as she threw the-car in reverse a second time.
What now?
She stopped, slid across the seat and passed the bakery sack through the open window.

Trace’s reflexes kicked in a stride ahead of his pride. He took the sack, then felt compromised, standing there holding the bag. The splotch of red bandanna shrank as she accelerated. He was on the verge of flinging the doughnuts after her when lipstick script on the outside of the bag caught his eye. “I’m sorry,” she’d written. Just that, nothing more.

He scratched his head and sagged against the truck as her car disappeared down the road.
God, she’s good.

God had nothing audible to say in reply. But for the first time in a while, Trace felt a sense of His presence. Not in a cloud of smoke or pillar of fire. But in two peach-colored words on a bakery sack.

Milt was in his favorite chair by the bedroom window. His face wrinkled into a broad grin as Thomasina sailed
into his room bearing empty cups and a coffee carafe. “Tommy Rose! Wasn’t expecting you today. What’s that you’re wearing—lumberjack boots?”

“These old things?” Thomasina arched her foot, displaying her work boots with all the grace of a ballerina in combat boots. “They’re hiking boots.”

“Fetching,” said Milt, running a hand over his bald head. “You know Will, don’t you?”

“Sure. Hi, Will.” Thomasina winged Will a smile as he rose from the chair facing his father.

“’Morning, Thomasina. Let me help you with that,” he said, making space for the coffee on the nearby dresser. “Take my chair. I’ll go see how Mom’s coming with your breakfast, Dad.”

“The boys are going to take down the tree out front. Somebody’s got to be boss,” Milt said when Will had gone.

“Are you auditioning for the part or shall I?”

Milt cackled, encouraging her glib tongue.

She talked too loud, too fast, and too much. But couldn’t seem to stop herself, for to stop was to let thought catch up, and she couldn’t, not with Trace’s
drop dead
look stuck in her head.

“The girls are coming today,” said Milt. “Flying in. One from the West Coast, the other from the East”

“How nice,” said Thomasina, wondering who had empowered him to smite her with a single look.

“We’re having a pow-wow on the farm,” Milt confided. He pleated the folds of his lap robe between his fingers and asked, “Get all your stuff moved, did you?”

“Thanks to a lot of good help—Antoinette, some friends from my old neighborhood. Trace, too,” Thomasina threw his name in with a studied ease.

“Antoinette?”

“Yes. She mopped my kitchen floor while I put things away.”

“You might want to steer clear of that gal, Tommy Rose,” advised Milt, as Mary came in. “She’s got a hot temper and isn’t afraid to use it.”

“Milt Chambers, you don’t even know the girl,” scolded Mary.

“I’ve got my sources,” claimed Milt. He winked at Thomasina and whispered behind his hand, “They call her the merry widow down at the store. ’Course what they mean is…”

“Never mind what they mean. Their wagging tongues speak for themselves,” inserted Mary. She patted Thomasina’s hand. “I’m glad you’re taking notice of Antoinette. She could use a friend like you.”

“Bosh! She’ll eat poor Tommy alive. She hasn’t had a decent word for anybody since her husband died running off with another woman.”

Thomasina darted Mary a questioning glance. “I thought he died in an traffic accident.”

“He did,” said Mary.

“And the gal with him was another fella’s wife. She died, too. Didn’t leave Antoinette anyone to take vengeance on, so she’s taking it on the world at large,” said Milt. He shook his head. “I feel sorry for those kids of hers. Why, they don’t stand a chance growing up under that sharp of a tongue.”

“God doesn’t leave his lambs to chance.”

“Mary’s right,” chimed Thomasina.

“Bring in the soap boxes, we’ll have a derby once you girls are done sermonizing.” Milt grinned as Will came through the door with his breakfast tray. “About time! They were ganging up on me, son.”

“I wonder why,” said Will mildly.

Mary tucked a napkin under Milt’s chin. She took his hand to offer a blessing. Milt echoed her “Amen.” Watching them together gave Thomasina a lonesome twinge for Nathan and Flo. Hopefully, she’d have a house phone before the day was out and could share in detail her aspirations for Milt and Mary’s farm. Or was that premature? Despite Milt’s high spirits over his daughters coming to visit, Thomasina sensed she wasn’t the only one in the room with unsettled nerves.

“Did you make it to the soup supper last night, Thomasina?” Mary asked.

“Yes. We had a nice time.”

“I sold your landlord a couple of tickets. Did he show up?” asked Milt.

“No,” Thomasina said. “The boys who helped me move had some trouble with their truck. He fixed it for them instead of going to the supper.”

“Snow job.” Milt sighed. “What’s Trace mean, letting a little half-pint like Deidre scare him off?”

“He didn’t look all that scared Saturday night,” said Will. “I stopped by just as he was leaving to pick her up for their dinner date.”

“Dinner date?” echoed Milt. “Really? That’s more like it! Deidre’ll know our boy’s worth this time, or I’ll eat my hat.”

“You better keep your hat on your head where it belongs, and your nose out of other folks’ business,” Mary warned.

“Anybody home?”

“Back bedroom, Trace,” Will hollered back. Mary narrowed her eye at Milt in silent warning. “Bring a chair, Trace.”

Thomasina heard his footsteps returning. Her nerves tweaked as she measured the steady, deliberate movement
that gobbled up the safety zone. He set his chair down beside her, greeted the others by name and at Mary’s invitation, crossed to the dresser for a cup of coffee.
Scuffed boots, faded jeans, short-clipped hair curling ever so slightly,
she took stock with a covert glance.

“Hi again,” he said, catching her at it

Thomasina acknowledged the greeting with an upsweep of lashes. For a moment, it was as if they were alone in the room. Her heart stirred at the grace in his eyes and the contrite tilt to that long upper lip. His chair creaked as he folded himself into it, stretched his legs out in front of him and cradled his coffee cup in his lap. As easy as breathing, he shifted his attention to Will. “Thought we were cutting a tree down today.”

“We are, just as soon as Dad finishes his breakfast,” said Will. “He wants to watch.”

Milt put his nose in the air. “I smell gasoline.”

“I ran out of gas,” said Trace. “Didn’t Thomasina tell you?”

Thomasina ducked her head and sipped the last of her coffee. “Used the chain saw gas, and had to go back to town for more,” Trace finished.

“Careless of you. ’Course sometimes a guy gets distracted, and doesn’t notice he’s sitting on Empty,” added Milt with a cagey grin. “Hear you missed the soup supper.”

“Yep, and my belly’s been complaining ever since.”

“Get you a wife, and your belly can find something new to complain about.” Milt ignored Mary’s censoring glance, cackled and defied it, saying, “What’s this I hear about you and little Deidre O’Conley?”

“Avery,” Will supplied Deidre’s married name.

“There’s oatmeal on the stove and more fruit in the refrigerator
if you’re hungry, Trace.” Mary talked over both of them.

“No thanks, Mary. I would take some sugar for my coffee, though.”

“I’ll get it,” said Thomasina. She jumped up and away.

Trace waited a moment, then patted his stomach. “On second thought, that oatmeal sounds pretty good. No, no. Stay where you are, Mary. I can wait on myself.”

He whistled his way down the hall, through the living room and into the kitchen. Thomasina turned from Mary’s hutch with the sugar bowl in hand. The cereal dishes were in the hutch, too. Trace caught the door before she could close it and reached for a dish. “Where’s Mary keep her spoons?”

Thomasina’s brown velour gaze rose as high as his chin as she pointed out the drawer. He crossed to the stove, and spooned cereal from the pan on the stove, then lifted his eyes to hers with slow deliberation. “Glad you could make it.”

His voice was so low, Thomasina wasn’t sure she heard him right. She lifted her face and saw that she had not misunderstood. “A deal’s a deal.”

“In that case, let’s make another deal. Want to? You keep being sweet and I’ll quit being cantankerous.”

“You’re cantankerous?”

He shot her a sheepish grin, and reached to take the sugar bowl, miscalculating just how fast she’d let go when his hand brushed hers. He fumbled, scattering sugar over Mary’s counter.

“Careful!” she cried, hands tangling with his.

They caught the sugar bowl. She sweetened his morning with a smile that matched the shade of the note on the doughnut sack. He wondered if that pearly lipstick and the
lips beneath were as moist and peaches and creamy as they looked.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she slipped past him, opened the refrigerator door and turned, a bowl of fruit in hand. “You want it on your cereal, or in a separate dish?”

“None for me, thanks.” Trace set his cereal aside.

Thomasina frowned over the top of the yawning refrigerator door. “That’s not much of a breakfast.”

“Close the door. You’re letting all the cold air out.” He crossed the kitchen.

The kitchen seemed to shrink with the closing of the refrigerator door until Thomasina couldn’t move without touching him. His eyes held hers as he traced the line of her jaw with his finger.

A touch so exquisite.
Why so difficult to bear?
Skin tingling beneath the impression of his palm as his hand spread to cup her chin, Thomasina closed her fingers around his wrist, torn between wrenching it away and cleaving tighter. She felt his racing pulse beneath her fingertips, and the answering surge in her veins.

Trace canted his head. Thomasina’s heart tipped as his mouth drew near. So near she felt the slight draft of his indrawn breath. The silence amplified a dripping faucet, a ticking clock and the whispered warning to shrink back, take cover. Instead, she tilted her mouth to meet his. In slow motion, a hairbreadth between them. Trading glances. Half a hair. Seeking. Eyes closing on slow-motion discovery as his lips touched hers and set off a trail of sparks like bottle rockets shooting for the heavens.

Thomasina leapt away from him at the sound of the ringing phone and approaching footsteps.

“Jumpy,” he said with a soft laugh.

“Answer that. Would you, Trace?” said Mary, bringing Milt’s empty breakfast tray into the kitchen.

Thomasina grabbed a dishcloth from the sink to wipe up their sugar spill and caught Trace drawing
x
s and
o
s in the sugar sprinkles as he answered the phone. Catching her eye, he grinned and added a heart to his doodles.