by Pamela Morsi
To Scott’s surprise, however, the circulation desk was being manned by a homely eight-year-old who had her nose in a book.
“Hi, you must be Ashley.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed warily. “What do you want?” she asked.
Scott wasn’t sure he was ready to state that. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. At that moment, D.J. appeared from within the stacks.
“Hi,” she said. He noticed the blush in her cheeks. He wanted to grab her and kiss all that shyness away.
“I came to see if I could help,” he told her instead. “Is everything still a go?”
As if on cue, somewhere deep in the shelving a book slammed shut abruptly.
“I think we’re on track,” she answered, more loudly than was strictly necessary. “James has added some improvements to the plan. It’s such a help to have someone onboard with such a thorough knowledge of the collection.”
Scott knew that her words weren’t meant for him, but he was happy to play her foil. Or whatever role she might want to give him.
“I’m here and I’m yours,” he told her. “Tell me what I can do.”
“Serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, what I’m doing is assigning a number to every range, every shelf and to every set of books on each shelf. So that we can get them from where they are, to where they need to be in two moves.”
Scott, who was accustomed to strict organization in his own place of work, quickly caught on to what she had in mind and, using the plan that she’d laid out, helped get the numbers where they needed to be. It was more busy than mind-boggling as the two of them worked together. He watched her relax into it as she had at the harvest. D.J. clearly enjoyed what she did and was excited about what she hoped could be accomplished.
The tasks he was given did not require collaboration, but he managed to make every possible excuse to pose a question, discuss a problem or simply pass by her in the aisle. It was fun working together. He knew he was seeing her at her best. And he was grateful that she could see him on a turf that was unthreatening.
And he was glad he was there to help. James might be tacitly onboard with the change, but he was not lifting a finger to effect it. He was slamming books on a relatively frequent basis and scurrying out of sight whenever Scott came around the corner.
Ashley, on the other hand, was apparently having a glorious time at the circulation desk, charged with checking out books and answering the telephone. Since no one came in and the phone didn’t ring, she was able to devote herself completely to reading, and to do it in the most comfortable chair in the building.
When Scott’s stomach began to growl, he remembered that he’d not bothered with lunch. But he ignored the fact, unwilling to give up the pleasure of being in D.J.’s company even for a few minutes. He worked on, attaching the numbers to the front of the left-most volume on each shelf.
The time passed very quickly, and it wasn’t until Ashley announced that she was leaving that either of them realized how late it had gotten.
“You must be getting very tired of this,” she said to him.
“I think, if I just keep at it another few minutes, I can get this part done,” he answered.
He knew he’d said the right thing. The two of them worked on until nearly dark. By the time the last tag was in place, it seemed as if even James had given up and gone home.
“I can’t believe we got all this done,” D.J. said. “I planned on at least two days for this part of it.”
“I think we have been working on this for at least two days,” Scott answered, teasing. “I’m hungry enough that it may have been a week.”
“I’m hungry, too,” she answered. “But mostly I just want to go home and soak in the bath.”
Scott was tempted to ask if he could help with that, too. Wisely, he refrained from flirty repartee.
“I’ve got an idea,” he told her instead. “Why don’t you go have your nice, long soak and I will cook supper for you.”
“I couldn’t let you do that.”
“I want to.”
“But you’ve already volunteered way too many hours.”
“And I’m hungry. I’m going to eat anyway, so why shouldn’t I feed us both?” he said. “Besides, somebody has got to cook all that food that my mother is collecting.
She tried again to refuse, but fortunately she was too tired to put up much of a fight. She locked up and he followed her back to the house.
He got caught by the train at the railroad crossing and spent his waiting moments second-guessing himself. He shouldn’t push too hard. She probably really needed some time away from him. He remembered how Stephanie needed space, needed to be alone. But D.J. wasn’t Stephanie. And with Stephanie, he’d found their apart time to be welcome. There was nothing welcoming about not being with D.J.
He was sure the farm gods were smiling down on him when he arrived at his mother’s house to see the combines working off in the distance.
Scott went in the back door. His mother was in the sitting area watching TV, the little black dog in her lap.
“I’m fixing dinner for D.J.,” he announced, fully expecting to be forced to play twenty questions.
“That’s a lovely idea,” she said.
He began pulling the produce from his own garden out of the refrigerator before adding, “We’re going to eat upstairs on the deck.”
“It’s a perfect night for it,” she replied. “Perfect.”
Thirty-Nine
662.5 Explosives, Fuels Technology
D.J. loved her bath. She loved a long soak in the tub. It was her oasis from everything in the world outside. She discovered that upon this occasion, however, even in gloriously hot water, she was simply too skittery to sit still.
She quickly scrubbed the workday from her skin. But when she leaned back to relax, the events of the last few days crowded into her thoughts. Scott. Everything seemed to be about Scott. She so appreciated his help in the library. James was coming around, but he would never be a great right hand. Scott took on whatever mundane task she needed with almost as much enthusiasm for the end result as she had herself.
She liked his company. He was funny and cheerful. He’d been the friend she’d needed amid the anonymity of the wheat hideout when she’d blurted out her family secrets. He’d been the helping hand so welcome today at the library. And yesterday... yesterday he had been the lover that she remembered from her night of insanity in South Padre. She closed her eyes and groaned aloud at that. She wasn’t sure if she was complaining about almost having a repeat or about having it interrupted.
What must he think of her?
He probably didn’t think anything. He was probably used to women losing self-control in his arms. That wasn’t what he said, of course. He talked as if he were the one channeling his inner skank persona.
He could really kiss. He could really, really do... everything. With sad but faithful recall, she compared the fumbling, embarrassing, unsatisfying sex she’d had with guys who might have otherwise been reasonable partners for her. Scott knew what he was doing, and, despite her better judgment, she wanted him doing her.
“Why not?” she asked herself. “Why not?”
She didn’t verbalize her answers, but she didn’t need to. This was not some forgettable night in a place where no one knew her. This was the farming hamlet that she wanted to claim as her hometown. Scott was not a nameless stranger with a big penis, a great technique and a wealth of sensually practical experience. He was a member of her community and she was going to have to interact and converse with him for maybe twenty years. All the reasons that she didn’t want him to remember their beach adventure paled in comparison to what it would be like for them to try to sneak an affair under the noses of the entire Verdant population. Not to mention the man’s mother was her landlady, on her library board and lived downstairs!
“Impossible,” she declared adamantly. “Not going to happen.”
Yet she found
that she could not stay lolling in the tub when she needed time to dress and do her hair and put on makeup.
She still hadn’t sorted through all the clothes in boxes and she completely blamed that for the reason that she chose to wear a spaghetti-strapped cami and flirty summer skirt with a flared hem. She slipped on a pair of dangerously high-heeled sandals and checked her image in the mirror. She was momentarily pleased, before remembering why she’d never worn the outfit. She’d bought it enthusiastically during a shopping trip. But once back home she’d realized that it made her look young and pretty and... well, vulnerable.
She never risked even the appearance of weakness. But Scott had already seen that side of her. She’d confessed her fears, her helplessness. He hadn’t used that exposure to undermine her. He hadn’t sought any advantage at all. He’d simply stayed beside her until she could be strong again.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She couldn’t stand here pretending he was something he wasn’t. He was a player, intent upon playing her. She knew that about him, from the evidence she’d seen with her own eyes and the experience she’d felt from his own arms. Still, she trusted him. That was crazy. But sometimes crazy just felt right.
By the time she heard the tapping on the back door, her makeup was perfect and her hair sleekly groomed and she was wearing her contact lenses. One word demonstrated the complete worth of the effort.
“Wow!” he said.
D.J. resisted the temptation to simply fall into his embrace.
“I thought we’d eat out here on your deck, so we can watch the combines.”
“Combines?”
He nodded. “They’re cutting the fields behind the house.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s pretty neat to watch.”
Scott had covered the little table with a good tablecloth and set out a lovely dinner revealed in candlelight.
“It’s not exactly a gourmet meal,” he warned her. “The chicken was leftover from my mom. But the veggies I picked yesterday from my own garden. Personally, I’m hungry enough to eat a dirt sandwich, and I thought you might feel the same.”
“Famished,” she agreed.
And although she would have thought she was too nervous to eat much. She found herself enthusiastically consuming both the food offered and the chilled white wine that he poured into her glass. They ate together casually, congenially. There was a surprising lack of the nervous energy that she’d felt getting ready. D.J. tried to rationalize its sudden disappearance, but there was no explanation for it, beyond the fact that sitting across from Scott felt as comfortable as the anticipation had been exciting.
“Your dog is downstairs, of course,” he said. “He and Mom are watching TV. She said to tell you that she’s invited him for a sleepover.”
D.J. laughed. “Those two have really become a team. It’s strange that I’ve gotten so used to Dew being with her.”
Scott nodded. “We may have to find her a pet of her own before she takes complete custody of yours.”
D.J. had never liked men who presumed a relationship by using the word we, but somehow it felt appropriate tonight. It felt appropriate with Scott. She held up her glass and he filled it for her.
Out in the distance, far enough away that the sound was muted, she could see the lights from the combines, the tractors, the trucks moving slowly through the field.
“Have you noticed how often we seem to be gazing across empty space?” she asked him.
“It’s a Kansas thing,” he answered. “With grain in every direction, it’s important to keep your eye on the horizon.”
“Hey, I’ve already been lost with you in a wheat field,” she said. “You seemed to find your way out easy enough, even after dark.”
He chuckled lightly. “You know, I’m thinking that inviting you to stare off into the distance as an entertainment does come off as kind of weird,” he said.
“No...it really is beautiful,” she admitted. “When you think about it, much of the great art in the world is landscape painting. Seeing beauty in the form of countryside scenery must be something very elemental to the human heart.”
He was looking at her so intently, as if he could see past all her posing, all her defenses. He smiled that wonderful woman-melting smile before lightly clicking her glass.
“You are definitely a fabulous addition to our hometown.”
D.J. felt herself blushing. It was a silly, little half compliment but somehow it pleased her way too much. Deliberately she changed the subject to the vehicles working overtime in the distance.
“I never really knew that harvesting went on even after dark,” she said.
Scott nodded. “They’ll keep it up to midnight or beyond,” he said. “The combines are so sophisticated, they have onboard moisture detection that will let them know as soon as the grain gets too damp for optimal cutting.”
“I love how, except for an occasional shadow on the horizon, or the flash of one vehicle upon another, you don’t really see the big machines, just the lights on the path in front of them cutting the wheat.”
“That’s probably a great metaphor for the people in Verdant,” he said. “It’s easy to see what we do every day. What we manage to get done. But when it comes to who we actually are and what kind of loads we’re lugging around, that’s not so visible.”
D.J. smiled at him. “You sound like a philosopher.”
He chuckled. “Probably the wine talking,” he said. “Although, after a man has spent a long workday slapping sticky-notes to library shelves, he can get a bit philosophical.”
“I hope I’ve remembered to say thank you.”
“Yes, I believe you did,” he told her. “Although I am kind of hoping I might get another reward later. Maybe another one of those kisses we tried out yesterday.”
She felt a flutter of anticipation quiver across her skin.
“Yes, well, we could probably manage it,” she answered.
Within the circle of candlelight, she watched that slow smile broaden across his face.
“Then that’s something to look forward to,” he said.
D.J. thought so, too.
They took time finishing their meal. He didn’t appear to be in any hurry. And she tried deliberately not to be.
Finally he refilled their glasses and suggested that they carry them to the glider.
D.J. was happy to comply. Although once in the closer confines, the nerves were back. A little shiver crept up her spine.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
That was not too likely in the hottest part of a Kansas summer, but D.J. voiced no reluctance when he scooted next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“I could get a blanket,” he suggested.
“No, this is fine.”
And it was. The warmth of his nearness calmed the butterflies in her stomach. Intellectually she knew that sitting together like this could be dangerous. But instead of wariness, his proximity made her feel surprisingly safe. She felt herself relaxing against him, strangely unwilling to listen to the wiser voices shouting warnings in her head.
They watched the flicker of lights out in the field. “We seem to be gazing out at a distance again,” she said.
“Kansas landscape,” he replied. “It lures you in. If you live in the middle of the city, you wouldn’t spend your evening gazing at the building across the street.”
“Only if you’re a gumshoe P.I. on a stakeout.”
He turned his head to grin at her. “The new librarian must be reading too many fiction potboilers.”
She laughed. “Likely,” she agreed. “I’m probably reading too much and you’re spending too much time staring at wheat.”
“Could be,” he admitted. “But the truth is, all I really want to look at is you.”
His words made the fluttering inside her commence once more.
His face was so close she could feel his breath on her skin. Surely, he would kiss her. Now was the
time to kiss her. But he hesitated. And she did, too.
Determinedly she focused her attention on the lights in the field.
“So, in the long-ago days when you worked in the harvest, did you ever do the night shift?”
“Of course,” he said, moving away from her slightly. “The day simply turns into night and you keep working as long as the work goes on.”
“So it feels the same.”
“No, it’s actually very different,” he told her. “There’s an aloneness about being out there. Well, I’m sure you felt it when we went out into the wheat the other night. Even with all the other workers nearby and the noise of the equipment, there is some kind of deep solitude about night in the fields. It’s very elemental.”
D.J. nodded. “I can see that,” she said.
“Sometimes I think about the families who settled here, my great-grandparents and their parents. Before there were cars and phones and people you could call on in emergencies a half hour away. Most of these farms were a man and a woman alone in the middle of nowhere. With only as many kids as they could raise to help them. They didn’t see another person for weeks at a time.”
“I bet it was hell on earth if they didn’t get along,” D.J. said.
Scott nodded. “I guess so. But I think it also forced people to resolve their differences. To make the best of what might not be the perfect situation.”
“Some situations simply have no ‘best’ to them.”
“You’re right about that,” he said. “That’s what I didn’t realize when I got married.”
D.J. felt her defenses piling up into place. She didn’t want to hear his excuses for adultery. Cheaters could always come up with rationalizations, but she wasn’t interested in listening to them.
“Family secret,” he said, grinning again. “My parents had to get married.”
“Huh?” D.J. was surprised at his direction.
