by Nancy Warren
When she carried the wedding gown out to her car, she hung it carefully from the hook in the backseat. As she drove home, she glanced at it occasionally in the rearview mirror and the white confection filled her with pleasure. It took her two trips to bring up the suitcase that she always took to weddings, which constituted her emergency supply cupboard, sewing kit and drug store all combined. It was amazing how predictably somebody in the wedding party would need a painkiller, a fresh pair of nylons, a tampon, a torn bit of lace stitched up, or a dab of spot remover. In the case, she also had a full makeup kit, hairspray, and a few things for the guys. Then there was her own bridesmaid dress and shoes to haul up. She left the wedding dress until last.
She brought it into the apartment, carrying the dress across the threshold as though it were a bride, and stood looking around her. Tasmine was California through and through. She believed in self-help books and seminars, yoga, that you are what you eat, and she fervently believed in the law of attraction. She was convinced that what she believed in and focused on happened. She felt she had enjoyed some career success using these techniques, and she didn't see why they wouldn't work with her love life.
It wasn't that she was in a huge hurry to get married, but she was already twenty-six, and she knew she wanted kids before she turned thirty. She also wanted to get married first, and have the kid after, no matter what the fashion was in L.A. So, instead of hanging that gorgeous dress up in the back of her closet somewhere, or taking it to a premier vintage store to try and get a few bucks, she thought that a wedding gown designed Evangeline was definitely the kind of item that could attract the right kind of energy. Hopefully, the right kind of partner.
She was reasonably good with simple handyman tools, since she worked selling high-end furniture, so it didn't take her long to figure out a way to hang the dress from her bedroom wall. She hung it on the wall opposite her bed, so it would be the first thing she looked at when she woke up in the morning, and the last thing she’d see when she went to bed.
She didn't have a lot of control over the Feng Shui of her apartment’s location, but she did her best within the rooms and she liked to think that she’d set the dress up in her romance area. The shoes were entirely the wrong size so she added them to her emergency supply case knowing that one day a bride would snap a heel on her wedding day and Tasmine, the perfect bridesmaid, would once again fix the problem.
Just looking at that dress made her feel optimistic and somehow happy.
She enjoyed her long, hot shower, changed into her pajamas, and then crawled into bed. Instead of watching a movie, as she’d planned, she pulled out her journal. Law of attraction stated that you should always be very clear in your goal, and visualize it in rich detail. So, she opened her journal to a new page, and began to describe to herself her perfect wedding and her perfect man. She wrote with her favorite pen. It tracked purple ink in a smooth, flowing line as the image of her and this man grew substantial in her imagination. When she finished, she was surprised to find that an hour had passed. She read over what she'd written. The wedding was pretty romantic, but when she read the description of the bridegroom she'd visualized, she dropped her head in her hands. "Oh, no," she moaned aloud.
There were a ton of single men in California in her preferred age range. Why, of all of them, had she described perfectly Eric Van Hoffendam? A man who had not only been jilted that very day, but who was so far from grown-up that it might be years before he was mature enough to consider marriage. Besides, there was the other problem that he'd never looked at her as anything but a kind of buddy.
She was going to have to tear out these pages and visualize a completely new bridegroom. But tonight, she was simply too tired. She set the journal aside, enjoyed a last glance at the dress that hung on her wall like a promise. And then she flipped off her light and settled herself to sleep.
Eric liked pools. He tried to think of all the fun things he'd done in swimming pools. He'd learned to swim. He’d floated around on inner tubes and air mattresses, he’d dived into the cool blue deep, he’d played water polo, he’d had sex a time or two. And never, in all the time he'd spent floating atop, swimming through, or diving under the water had he thought that one day he might find himself scrubbing the surface of an empty pool on his hands and knees.
There were moments, when the sun beat down and he was convinced that the judge and Mrs. Bailey owned the largest swimming pool on the planet, that he really thought he'd rather be in jail. It wasn't only that every muscle in his body ached and squealed, it was the way they looked at him, like he was a criminal. The judge treated him with absolute contempt, while Mrs. Bailey always made sure he had plenty of water to drink, and did he have something to eat? The first day, it had never occurred to him that workers had to bring their own lunch, but he was too proud to say anything. By the end of the day he was so hungry he could have eaten off his own arm.
When he got home he blew off some friends who wanted to party, showered off the dirt and sweat and crashed into bed. The next morning, their cook found him yawning in the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she cried as he stood at the counter inexpertly slicing bread at an hour when he was usually either asleep or just getting home.
“Making a sandwich.” Since there were no secrets from Millie, he said, “Working men pack their own lunches.”
“Not when they’re Van Hoffendams, they don’t,” she said, elbowing him aside. She didn’t even ask him what he wanted. She’d been with the family for years and knew his tastes as well as he did.
His second day on the job was pretty much a duplicate of the first. Except for two things that happened. First, he was scrubbing at a stubborn patch of algae, when a shadow fell over him. He turned his head and glanced up. Under the brim of his ball cap, he saw the judge staring down at him like the wrath of God. The old man didn't say anything and after a second Eric went back to work. A couple of hours later, he had his second visitor of the day. A female voice called down to him, "Hey, you missed a spot." He squinted up and Tasmine stood at the edge of the pool. Her hair hung in blonde curls over her shoulders and the way the sun hit, it sparkled like gold.
"Very funny. What are you doing here?"
She tossed something at him and he grabbed at it reflexively. It was a pair of work gloves. If she hadn't already identified herself as Tasmine, he would have thought that an angel of mercy had divined the blisters on his hands and come down to earth to spare him. "It's what all the hot working guys wear.”
"Thanks."
He straightened and tried not to squeal like a girl from the pain in his back. He walked over to the silver ladder and climbed up and out of the pool. Tasmine looked cool and beautiful, like something out of a magazine. She wore a black and white skirt that showed off great legs, snappy black heels, and a crisp white shirt. There was something so tidy about her. She always seemed capable and put together, like a woman who not only had all the answers, but arranged them alphabetically. He waved the gloves. "How did you know?"
She had a little dimple when she smiled. Just one, on the left side of her face. "I have my ways."
"The judge?" He couldn't imagine Judge Bailey had bothered to arrange to get him some work gloves, but the judge was the only person he'd seen since he got here this morning.
She tilted her head to one side. "Don't get any ideas. I think the judge is a man who keeps all his tools in good working order. And if you end up with massive blisters, you won't be able to do the job."
"Point taken."
"Do you have plenty of water?”
"I do. I brought a gallon from home, and there's a garden hose on the property."
"Good." She glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist. "It's almost lunchtime, do you have something to eat?"
"I do." He remembered how she used to run around after him when they were little kids. She didn't resemble too much the chubby little girl she'd been, but she still had a scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose and up high on her
cheeks. "I can't believe you took time out of your busy day to come and check on me."
She shrugged. "It's the middle of the day. I usually take a break around now anyway."
"Why don't you have lunch with me?" He gestured to where he'd left a small hiking backpack under the shade of a tree. "Millie, our housekeeper, insisted on packing the lunch. There's enough food in there to feed an army. You'd be doing me a favor if you shared it."
"I don't know." But she seemed as though she wasn't opposed to the idea.
"Think of it as part of your parole officer duties. You can ask penetrating questions about my childhood, my criminal influences, my plans to stay straight."
He thought her laugh was one of the most charming things about her. It wasn't a high-pitched giggle like some girls, but sort of musical, and the notes lightened his mood. "And do you plan to stay straight?"
"If I have a good woman to help me."
She glanced around. "I can't sit on the grass.”
Since the pool had been drained, somebody had piled all the pool furniture in a shed behind the pool house. "Got it covered." He picked up a small, wrought-iron table that reminded him of patios in the south of France, and two matching chairs. He set them up under the shade of the tree. Then he grabbed a sweatshirt out of his pack and used it to polish any possible dust off her chair.
"Thank you," she said, and sat down.
“Let me go wash my hands.” He did, at the outdoor faucet, and then returned.
He dug out the enormous sack of lunch that Millie had packed him. "We've got ham on rye," he said, peering at one pack of sandwiches, "egg salad on brown, and either tuna salad or chicken salad on some kind of multigrain."
"You really weren't kidding. That is enough food for an army. Is it okay if I have the egg salad?”
He handed her the package of sandwiches along with a linen napkin. There was soda packed in ice to keep it cold, a slab of lemon cake, which Millie knew was his favorite, and two apples. He made Tasmine laugh while they ate, reciting his conversations with José, the head gardener. "He doesn't want me here. José has a plan to get rid of me."
She laughed her musical, tinkling laugh. "I think you're getting sunstroke. Why would the head gardener want to get rid of you? If you don't scrub out that pool, he's going to have to do it."
"I’m telling you, he’s got it in for me. When I talk to him he pretends he doesn't understand. He only ever speaks to me in Spanish. Fast Spanish, so I can't even catch a few words."
"Well, maybe he only speaks Spanish. Lots of people in California do."
"I heard him talking to Mrs. Bailey. He speaks English to her."
Her lips twitched. "Okay, that is suspicious."
As he realized that he could still make a pretty girl laugh, he began to think that maybe he did have a future after all. Maybe he would get out of this jail of his own making. But, of course he didn't tell her any of that. Instead, he passed her a slice of cake, and used his pocketknife to cut her apple into slices.
She only stayed maybe half an hour, but it was the highlight of his day. Not that that was saying much.
He’d had a lot of time to think as hour after hour passed and inch-by-inch he scraped and scrubbed. As they crunched on apples, he said, "I've been wondering why you spoke up that day. What made you think that the judge would go for the slave labor option instead of sending me to jail?”
Her brow wrinkled slightly as though she were puzzling about it herself. Finally, she said, "I think when you first told me the story, when we were sitting in Ashley's bedroom after she left, that it seemed to me he had wanted to go easy on you. I mean, he's a judge. He’s used to sentencing criminals. It was obviously his first impulse, especially in the shock of what had happened and seeing his wife cry. But, after he calmed down, it seems like maybe your mom and dad gave him a way out by suggesting that you marrying Ashley Carnarvon was going to somehow rehabilitate you."
She leaned forward and he got a glimpse of that one winking dimple. "I mean, no offense, but Ashley's not exactly a star debutante. And if he knows the Carnarvons as well as I think he does, he was fully aware of that. So, once Ashley was no longer a viable excuse, I gave him another option."
"And you couldn't think of anything better than six months of hard labor?"
"My father always said that there was nothing like hard work and a good night’s sleep to keep the devil at bay."
Eric thought about how exhausted he was at night and how he didn't have any energy or interest in raising hell anymore. "He might be onto something, at that."
She dusted her hands off on the red linen napkin and rose. "Thanks again for lunch. And please thank Millie."
"You're welcome. And thank you for the gloves, and the company."
Their gazes connected for a fleeting moment and he thought that if circumstances were different, he'd be very interested in going after this girl. But circumstances weren’t different. She’d as good as told him he was an overgrown kid. He had a sneaking feeling she might be right.
When she stepped into the sunlight, he noticed that her nose and cheeks were sun-reddened. He stepped forward. "You got a little bit of a sunburn.”
She put a hand to her cheek. "Oh, no. I was outside more than I thought I'd be today. I'll have to stop and buy some sunscreen, I left mine at home.”
"I've got some." Once more, he had Millie to thank. He rummaged in the pack and found a tube of sunscreen. Even though he’d given his hands a thorough wash before lunch, he wiped them once more on his napkin. Then he squeezed a dab of the rich cream onto the tip of his middle finger. He stepped forward and lightly spread the cream across the top of her cheekbone. He couldn't believe how soft her skin was, and how delicate. He was careful, restraining himself to the lightest touch. He traced the bridge of her nose and back down the other side to do her other cheek. As he gazed down at her, he caught the fresh scent of her, a blend of citrus and her own scent. Her eyes were blue-green and she had a mouth that looked perfect for kissing.
Ever since she'd become a bridesmaid for his wedding, he'd been used to her organizing things, issuing instructions, and making suggestions—usually sensible ones—to everyone involved. He thought of her as a nice woman, someone he’d immediately turned to when he had a question about what kind of gift he should give to his groomsmen, and whether he was supposed to give Ashley a wedding present.
There were so many things about getting married that he didn't know, it had been nice to have someone to turn to. But now, in the dappled shade of the tree, as he smoothed the cream into her soft, soft skin, he didn't think about how well organized she was, or how capable she was. He became obsessed with the idea of kissing her.
As though she felt his sudden desire through the tips of his fingers, her gaze suddenly rose and connected with his. For one perfect second he thought maybe she was feeling it too, and then she blinked. And stepped back out of his reach.
"Thank you. I don’t want to get a sunburn, I hate it when my nose peels.” She shook her head as though that wasn't what she’d meant to say, and it made him happy to see that this well-organized, always cool woman was suddenly flustered.
Tasmine headed back to her car, feeling that she was in danger of a lot worse than sunburn if she didn't watch herself around Eric. She felt flustered and far too aware of how appealing he could be. She'd adored him in formalwear but there was something about a guy who's been working hard physically that was pretty hot. He was probably acting interested because he was bored and she was on the premises, she reminded herself. She was also cynical enough to wonder if he'd hoped to get on her good side as she was his parole officer in the judge's eyes. She skirted the house and was walking down the path to where she’d parked when the judge called to her. She suspected he'd been watching for her.
"Miss Ford?"
"Tasmine, please," she answered automatically.
"May I speak to you for a moment?"
"Of course."
"You saw the perp?"
<
br /> It was such an odd term from a formal man, like something you'd hear on a TV cop drama that she was surprised. "Yes. I gave him the gloves."
"I'll reimburse you. José, our gardener, was supposed to give him some but he claims there aren't any spare gloves on the entire property. Of course, he thinks Eric is a lazy gringo."
Because she had no idea how to answer, she didn't. Merely smiled.
"She came here, you know."
"Who did?"
"The young woman he was meant to marry. Ashley Carnarvon. She came with a young screenwriter friend who wanted some background from me on a screenplay he's writing."
"Really?" The sly old fox. "When was this?"
He appeared to be trying to remember when she suspected he knew to the minute when Ashley had been in his house. "It was a Sunday. Week before last, I think. They stayed for lunch."
"And did you happen to tell her about Eric and the painting?" She kept her tone neutral, but she wondered if he'd somehow arranged to get Ashley here for revenge.
"To be honest, I thought she knew. It was such a coincidence. Why would she, of all people, come to our house at such a time? Anyway, I thought she and the screenwriter were playing some kind of game. Foolish of me. My profession makes me see the worst in people. So, I was the one who told her about the vandalism. I showed her all the footage."
"Do you think it was the right thing to do?"
"I think she deserved to know what kind of man she was marrying, and if he was going to marry her then he should have told her himself. It's what an honorable man would do."
"I'm not sure either of you acted honorably," she said, with more honesty than tact.
He sighed. "That's my wife's opinion, too."
Chapter 5
