The Wall

by Amanda Carpenter

  Sara thought for a moment. “I think I’ll just stay here with Beowulf.” She dropped her hand over the side of the bed and patted the dog’s head affectionately, and he thumped the floor in response. Greg looked at the two of them wryly.

  “Why do I get the impression that I’ve lost my dog for ever?” He touched her face gently. “I’m going to leave, then. Make yourself at home. I should be back in about three hours.”

  He was gone, and silence settled over the house like a mantle. All Sara could hear was the sound of her own breathing, the tick of the bedside clock, and an occasional sigh from the dog on the floor. Sunlight flooded through her window. It was deceptively bright, tempting her to throw open the window and bask in the warmth, but she knew that if she were to open it, all she would get would be a chilly blast in the face, so she opted for a shower instead.

  She thoughtfully soaped her back and shoulders as she considered the affectionate side of Greg that she had recently seen so much of. Granted, she had been in need of some human understanding and support lately, but she was still a little taken aback at how Greg had responded so positively, with such affirmation. It was another apparent contradiction in the man. He definitely puzzled her. First of all he seemed to make a sweeping rejection of all strangers, and then he had accepted her—no, even more than that. He had actually invited her to come back to his land, and then into his house. An act of hospitality from an apparently hostile man. Then, too, his compassion and understanding friendship were at odds with the wall that she had sensed in him, the repelling of all observances, his self-imposed isolation. She sensed loyalty and integrity in the man, and an inborn instinct of caring for others. He was like a mathematical sum that didn’t quite add up, no matter how she manipulated the numbers. He was a puzzle with missing jigsaw pieces. Why did he seem to accept her, of all people, a total stranger? She felt the need to find out.

  She was too afraid to find out.

  She dressed in a skirt with a low hem for a change, instinctively cloaking herself in her own femininity as she did every time she was unsure of herself. It was a deep red cotton skirt with a flounce at the bottom, and she wore a pretty white blouse with ruffles at the neck and wrists. Then she carefully applied eye make-up, enhancing her strong, arched brows, and deepening the hollow under her brow-bone to make her eyes appear huge. Then with a quick glance around her room at the mild chaos, she soon had the bed tidied and her clothes put away. She dusted too, as an afterthought.

  Deciding to skip breakfast, she went for a tour of the house, restless, anxious for something to keep her hands busy. Finding some cleaning materials in the downstairs closet, she looked wryly down at her red skirt, mentally shrugged her shoulders, and lightly dusted through the downstairs, whirling swiftly through the rooms. She straightened the den, washed the few dishes in the sink, and eventually found herself drawn to the closed door that opened to Greg’s office.

  She peeped in, as hesitant as she would have been if he were really there, and nearly turned around to leave again. It was as if she were violating the man himself by coming into his room like this, but she couldn’t help herself. It was a comfortable room, with a big antique wooden desk and padded chair, and a dark brown motif carried throughout the furniture and carpeting. Two walls were lined with bookshelves that were filled with books. She smiled at the collection of Ian Flemings on one shelf, absently noting that they weren’t in alphabetical order. She idly pulled one out to look at it, and put it back in the correct alphabetical order. Soon she was pulling out all the books and slipping them into order, and the shelf looked better to her eyes. It matched her sense of regulation and organisation.

  Sara was a very neat person. She put her shoes in order, lined up pair by pair in the closet, and she never left her room out of place. She was the type of person that would reach out and straighten a painting in someone else’s house if it were crooked. To some people, this characteristic would drive them crazy, but she could never understand this. She just liked to have things neat, and to put them where they belonged. She also liked to have something to work on. When her hands were busy, she could be content to think. It was her favourite form of relaxation.

  Some time later she was earnestly working on the bottom shelf on one wall, her legs curled up beneath her and skirt tucked neatly in at the ends, when a noise made her look to the doorway. Greg was there, casually leaning against the doorframe with his jacket slung over one shoulder and his white shirt partially unbuttoned. He watched her with a sardonic eyebrow cocked, mouth level.

  “I suppose it would be a waste of time for me to ask you just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his tone dry and unemotional.

  She started guiltily, a book in each hand and dust on her nose. Her eyes were huge and startled, and she looked like a child about to receive a scolding. “I’m—just straightening up a little,” she said, and looked down at her hands as if they were about to do something completely unpredictable. She missed the fleeting look of amusement that passed over his features in an uncontrolled quiver, and they were soon impassive and unreadable.

  The books that had resided on the bottom shelf were stacked up around her and penning her into a tiny corral. She was peeping over a stack that just reached her chin level. Greg sauntered leisurely over and looked at the reorganisation of the other shelves without saying anything. Sara’s face grew longer and longer, her mouth drooping ever so slightly, her eyelids sliding down to hide her expression.

  “I’ll never be able to find anything in here again,” he sighed mildly, and draped his suit coat over the back of one chair.

  She felt miserable. It truly hadn’t occurred to her that he might have enjoyed things the way they were. It wasn’t in her nature to be content when she thought that something needed organising. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice. “I thought you’d like it.”

  He was rolling up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, perusing the other bookshelf on the opposite wall. “How much more do you have to do?”

  Her head snapped around and her eyes widened. It looked as if he had every intention of digging in and helping her! “Er…I’m about done with this bookshelf.”

  He pulled over a chair and stood on it. “Then I’d better pull down these books from the top shelf, or the next thing I know, I’ll be driving you to the hospital because you’ve broken your leg.” This time Sara caught the definite amusement in his voice, but she didn’t take offence. She was too busy feeling relieved.

  She started to smile a ridiculous, foolish, delighted smile, and mentally shook herself. Rearranging her features as best she could, she answered mildly, “I’d appreciate it if you would.”

  They spent the rest of the morning in this fashion. Sara gave a satisfied sigh as she took one more swipe at the bottom of the second bookshelf, dusting the rearranged books in a busy manner. Greg was leaning against his desk, attentively. “Feel better now?”

  Bustling about had eased her feeling of self-consciousness after he had entered and found her thus, and she grinned saucily up at him from a kneeling position, eyes sparkling and dark hair tousled. “Much! Now it’s time to start something else, though.”

  But at that he was shaking his head emphatically. “I don’t know about you, lady, but I’m about ready to start gnawing at the woodwork, I’m so hungry! You do what you want, but I’m having lunch.”

  Sara sat back and began to notice the emptiness in her midriff. “You know, I’m rather famished myself. What is there to eat?”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” A cursory inspection of the refrigerator revealed plenty of sandwich material, a leftover salad already prepared, and Greg produced several different cans of soup ready for her inspection and approval. “Not exactly haute cuisine, I’m afraid.”

  She raised an eyebrow, picked up a chicken soup can from his hands, and deftly whizzed it through the can opener. “So what? I happen to like chicken noodle soup from a can. Not very well bred of me, I suppose, but I also happen to like h
ot dogs and hamburgers.”

  “…and making sand castles, wading barefoot on the beach in October, sleeping with a pillow hugged to your stomach—” he murmured, laughing.

  Her face went red at this last statement, and she stammered, “How did you know that?” He calmly took the open can from her unresisting fingers and pulled out a saucepan from below the oven.

  “I woke you up this morning, remember?” he taunted gently, dark eyes snapping merrily at her expression. “And I’ve looked in on you before—just to make sure that you were all right, of course.”

  Her face changed and she said sarcastically, “Of course! How remiss of me to forget. I—”

  “And,” he went on smoothly, appearing to concentrate on the amount of water he added to the pan, “a very sweet sight it was, too. You all curled up in the middle of the bed, hair all mussed up and cheeks all flushed and a little tiny smile just hovering around the corners of your cherry red li—”

  She saw his own lips twitching then, at her even redder complexion, and said hastily, “Yes, well, all right, that’s enough of that. What are you going to do with the rest of your day?”

  His face straightened immediately into sobriety, but she detected a devil lurking in the depths of his eyes. It made her wary. She wasn’t sure how to treat this new side of Greg’s personality. She didn’t know what to expect.

  “I have some work to do in the basement,” he told her innocently enough. “I carried a lot of firewood downstairs yesterday. That ought to take care of my afternoon, more or less, together with taking out the tree stumps from the two trees I felled. What do you think you’ll do?”

  She was setting the kitchen table with two soup bowls, plates, and cutlery, arranging things precisely. Greg noted the neatness with a swift uncontrolled grin. “I don’t know,” she answered indecisively, sighing. “I’m not very used to having time on my hands like this.” Her eyes travelled restlessly around the kitchen. “Is there any housework that needs to be done?”

  “Well,” he considered her question with an overtly serious face. “I have some clothes that need washing, if you have any you’d like to do, too. And, if all else fails, you can always reorganise my kitchen cupboards.”

  Her eyes rested thoughtfully on the closed rectangles of wood drawer. “That’s an idea. Maybe I’ll do that.”

  “Why don’t you?” His voice sounded slightly strangled, and she looked up at him sharply.

  He coughed a little. “Are you all right?” she asked, and he nodded. The soup was ready and he poured it with an unsteady hand. She said, “Maybe you’re coming down with a cold?”

  His eyes twinkled at her. “I think I am.”

  After lunch, Greg hurried up the stairs to change, and Sara rummaged around the place for an apron to put over her skirt. Failing to find one, she took a towel and tucked it in her waistband. Then she looked over his cupboards with an assessing eye. Her senses felt violated at the way his heavy pans were stacked carelessly in the bottom cupboards, and she was shoulder-deep inside, rummaging around, when he reentered the kitchen on the way to the basement. He saw a neatly curved bottom and an enticingly slim waist protruding from below the counter, and couldn’t resist the impulse that came over him.

  Sara started up so violently that she hit her head on the top of the cupboard shelf. The slap on her rear had been sharp and totally unexpected. She backed out of the cubicle and rounded on Greg, her cheeks flushed and her hair awry. “Why did you do that?” she demanded snappily.

  He took her hands and yanked her up to a standing position, catching her against his chest when she swayed momentarily, caught off balance. “You have a very cute bottom, madam,” he told her, nose to nose, “and it was sticking out all by itself. What self-respecting male could resist such an invitation?”

  “It wasn’t an invitation and you know it!” was her only retort, as she looked into deep brown eyes and found herself quite distracted. She had calmed down amazingly. “And besides, you’re pretty darned lucky I didn’t take off your head by slapping it so hard it wouldn’t land until it hit the Mississippi River!” Her words were getting softer and softer in spite of the biting content, because his lips were approaching nearer and nearer. Her eyes fluttered closed and she put her face up for the kiss. It came, and then another and another flitted by as he brushed her lips gently, teasingly, as light as a butterfly alighting. It was delicious, tantalising, and unsatisfying. Sara’s eyes flew open as she felt his lips withdraw and his arms loosen. Then she squealed in outrage when a playful heavy hand descended on her bottom again.

  “Get back to work, woman!” Greg growled softly, mock-threateningly, laughing at the expression in her indignant hazel eyes. He looked so incredibly good laughing that she had to blink.

  He was at the door before she could react, however, and she muttered disgustedly, “Hell, I’m beginning to feel married!” She was looking at him, but her words weren’t meant to be heard and were spoken quietly to herself.

  His hearing must have been very, very sharp, because he did hear what she said, and he turned slowly to look at her, one heavy eyebrow cocked. The look in his eyes, the frankly sexual appraisal, made her go warm all over, and a slow, burning tingle suffused her from head to foot. “Oh, no, you aren’t,” he told her softly. “Not by a long shot, you aren’t.”

  He was gone, and she was staring at the empty doorway without seeing it for a long time afterwards.

  Chapter Six

  The afternoon fled quickly for Sara, busy as she was with arranging the kitchen to her idea of orderly neatness. She stood back finally, though, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, and surveyed the inside of the cupboards, now meticulously arranged. It was not that Greg was unclean by any means, she had found. It was just that now there was a method to the grouping of spices on the top shelf, and the glasses were within easy reach instead of being so hard to get at.

  She took a glance at the clock in the stove and began to fix coffee. Greg had been outside for some time now, working on the tree stumps, and after sticking her head out to call to him a question and feeling the nippy air, Sara thought a cup of the warm brew would do him good. She carried it to him when it was made, and he cupped it gratefully with both hands.

  “Ahh!” was his only comment after taking a drink, but it was a very satisfied sound. Then he said, “That was just what I needed, sweetheart. How’s the reorganisation of the kitchen coming?”

  “Just fine,” she told him, “I’ve got everything done now. You should see the spice shelf! Everything is in—”

  “Let me guess, alphabetical order, right?” he interrupted, grinning. His hair was tousled and his breathing a bit laboured from the strain of chopping at a deep exposed root. His chest rose and fell deeply, and she could see a fine film of dust on the part that was exposed to the air. There were bits of dirt stuck to the side of his corded neck, and she absently took off her apron when she saw it, wiping his neck with the corner of the towel. He submitted meekly to her ministrations.

  “You’re going to get a chill in this cold wind if you stop for very long,” she told him, grimacing at the soil on the towel and shivering a little herself. “How long will it be before you’re inside?”

  Greg surveyed the stubborn tree root thoughtfully. “Another half an hour should see it out. I want to lay down some sod from the forest, though, and that will take me a little while longer.”

  She looked curiously around. “I thought that you said there were two tree stumps you wanted to take out?”

  Greg turned her around and pointed over her shoulder to an area about twenty feet away. “See the disturbed ground over there? If you go and look, there’s a bit of grass that’s about seven feet in diameter that I just laid down over the filled-in hole. That’s how I want this patch to look when I’m done with it. That way, in the summer there won’t be any scars in the area, only an extension of the grass, without having to plant seeds.”

  Light dawned. “Oh, I see. You know, I’ve lived most
of my life in the city, and I’d never heard of that before. It’s ingenious!”

  He finished his drink and handed her the mug back. “Thank you. You’d better run inside before you get chilled.” With that, he bent and picked up his axe again, shaking his head to get the hair out of his face. Sara laughed at him and reached over to smooth it back out of his eyes, running her fingers through the unruly front lock.

  “There you go. What do you want for supper? I’ll fix it.”

  He surveyed her doubtfully. “Can you cook?” He sounded as if he wondered if she could even pick up a pan, and she shook a finger under his nose in retaliation.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it!” she warned. “You’ve made me mad. You’ll be lucky if you get a boiled egg—just see!”

  He was instant humble contrition. “I was only teasing a little, honest. Please don’t feed me a boiled egg, Sara. I don’t like ’em.”

  She considered his humble stance loftily. “We’ll just have to wait and see. I don’t know whether I’m still mad at you or not. I’ll decide later.”

  She was totally unprepared for his swoop down on her, and she shrieked with delight as he scooped her up in his arms and twirled her around and around. “You’ll decide now, madam,” was his grim warning, “or you won’t set foot in that kitchen again without my supervision and intervention!”

  “Oh, yes,” she cried, clapping her hands like a child. “Let’s have Supervision and Intervention instead of boiled eggs! I won’t boil you an egg for supper—Greg, stop twirling me around, I’m getting sick! You goon, I’ll throw up all over your shoulder, I swear it!”

  He stopped suddenly and the whirling world soon settled into proper perspective for her, but not before she watched it go round a few times without her. She kicked her legs experimentally, but Greg refused to put her down. He looked deep into her eyes. They were so close their cheeks nearly touched. “You really aren’t mad any more?” he asked, sounding disappointed.

  She backed her head up to look at him better, puzzled. “I was never mad to begin with and you know it! What are you getting at?”