Safe in Noah's Arms

by Mary Sullivan

  She wouldn’t hurt his feelings by acknowledging her suspicions. By the same token, she was tired of being put down.

  “I can be hurt, Noah,” she said while the birds still chirped. A mating call, maybe? It was that time of night...

  “You can call me a princess, you can tell me I live in an ivory tower, but I’m not immune. I can be hurt. I’m not brainless.”

  He looked down at her. “I don’t think you’re brainless.”

  She smiled sadly. “Maybe not tonight, not at this moment, but you have in the past, and you probably will again.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Let’s make a deal,” she said. “You stop thinking of me in those terms. Start to see me as a real woman with hopes, dreams and feelings, and I won’t think of you in two-dimensional terms.”

  “How on earth could you think me two-dimensional? I’m deep. I’m caring and giving. I have a social conscience.” His defensiveness made her want to laugh.

  “Hippie. Tree hugger. Leftie.”

  To her consternation, he grinned, light from the porch lamp highlighting his red hair. Up close, she noticed freckles on his nose. “I like being all of those things,” he said.

  Despite her frustration, she huffed out a laugh. “You are incorrigible.”

  “And proud of it.”

  They stood in silence until Noah said, “You’re right. About everything. I’m sorry. I will do better.”

  With his sober tone, the atmosphere changed. He meant it. A small victory, but a good one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Noah said, “I made drawings for you.”

  He stood on his porch, tall and handsome, red hair beautiful in the early morning sunlight.

  Monica stepped across the yard with a lighter step this morning, some of the tension between them eased by last night’s talk. Funny that she didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed by the previous evening’s breakdown.

  Noah had been great.

  His green eyes danced as he watched her walk. She was still trying to process last night’s realization that he had a crush on her.

  She didn’t know what to do with that info, so it was probably best to ignore it and behave normally for now. He didn’t seem aware that she knew, so it was all good.

  He took a sip from his cup of coffee—or whatever it was. With Noah you never knew. Maybe it was chicory. Or dandelion roots. Or some other weed. Or maybe he’d ground up yesterday’s used parchment paper and brewed it. Okay, now she was being silly, but Noah lived so far outside of the box she didn’t know what to expect of him.

  It almost looked like Noah had been waiting for her, which was odd.

  Now that she thought of it, why wasn’t he already out in the fields? Then she remembered his statement about drawings.

  “What kind of drawings?”

  “Of weeds. Come on inside.”

  She stepped into the house and stopped, yet again silently marveling that this had belonged to her mother.

  In the kitchen, Noah asked, “Do you want coffee?”

  She walked to the recycle box where the parchment paper she’d folded last night still sat. She sniffed the air. “Oh. It is coffee.”

  “What else would it be?” He stared at her as though she was an exotic animal he couldn’t figure out.

  “Nothing.” She giggled. “I’m just tired.”

  “So? Do you want a cup or not?”

  She tried not to giggle again. “Yes, I would love a coffee.”

  “You’re strange. You know that, right?” He poured her a cup, handed her natural sugar in a cracked bowl and took a quart of almond milk out of the fridge.

  Nuts in her coffee. Oh, joy.

  “Here are the drawings.” He handed her a sheaf of papers.

  “These are really good, Noah. Thank you! I’ll keep them in my pocket for reference.”

  “Can I ask you a question? It might just be my imagination but...”

  Wary, she said, “What is it?”

  “You seem really interested in my house.”

  “What do you mean interested?”

  “The first time you came inside, you asked how long I’d owned it and who had lived here before me. Then yesterday, you wandered around down here a couple of times, and I saw you looking upstairs, almost longingly. Just now, you stopped and looked at everything avidly. Why are you so curious?”

  “It seems that my mom grew up here. This was her parents’ farm.”

  “This farm belonged to your mom’s family? Really? Why have you never been in here before?”

  “My dad only just told me about the connection a few days ago. My grandparents died shortly after I was born, and I assume my dad sold the farm because the memories of my mom hurt too much. I can understand that.”

  Noah got an odd expression on his face, almost like a cartoonish lightbulb coming on. “Follow me.” He grabbed her hand and nearly dragged her up the stairs.

  When they approached a bedroom door, she balked. Where was Noah taking her?

  She didn’t have a lot of experience with men, since Billy had been her only boyfriend, and she wasn’t always sure how to read them, but she’d had men ask her out on dates since Billy’s death. Most had been honorable men. A couple hadn’t been.

  Noah was leading her into a bedroom.

  “Noah, I, um... I don’t want to go to bed with you.” Was that too direct?

  “Huh?” He stopped so abruptly she crashed into him. “What the heck are you talking about?”

  She swallowed hard and gestured toward the bed. “I’m not sleeping with you. I won’t have sex with you.”

  “You thought—” His face reddened.

  Oh, dear. She’d misjudged his intentions. Awkward.

  * * *

  CRIPES, HE HADN’T brought her up here for that, but couldn’t help his body’s visceral reaction when Monica used the word sex, because he remembered all of those hot dreams he’d had of her in high school. He hadn’t been planning to seduce her here, today, now, but he couldn’t muster the indignation he knew he should feel, not when it had always been his secret dream.

  The memory of last night’s embrace, though, bedeviled him. She’d let him hold her for long moments that had gone on forever and had ended too soon.

  Long into the night, tossing and turning in his bed, he’d been haunted by how good she’d felt. He’d slept in the T-shirt he’d worn all day, that he’d been wearing while he held her, because her singular and rare perfume lingered on it.

  She wore yet another perfume today, light and lemony, like lemon balm but not as earthy, still with the floral of bergamot. Delicious. Heavenly.

  “Is there a difference in your perfume today? If so, it’s subtle.”

  “Here,” she said. “Tell me what you think.” She held her wrist near his face. He bent to sniff. His lips accidentally touched her warm skin where her pulse beat.

  He jerked away. Just standing this close to her was hard enough, especially in his bedroom, but his lips actually touching her? Even a spot as innocent as her wrist, with her blood beating warmly just beneath the surface?

  “What change did I make today?”

  Wary, because his own lust threatened to undo him, but also curious, he leaned close again, damn careful not to make contact.

  “Spice. Incredibly subtle.” He sniffed again. “Cinnamon. No, cloves.”

  Her brilliant smile enhanced his longing. “How do you do that? You’re right, it’s cloves. Just a touch because its scent can overpower everything else.”

  She dropped her arm and he missed her nearness immediately, even though he still stood right beside her. How incredible must it feel to lie beside her? To lie on top of her? To be inside of her?

 
“Why do you smell like mothballs?” she asked.

  He laughed because his hubris just kept catching up to him. He was having horny thoughts while she was telling him he stunk.

  The irony didn’t escape him. She smelled divine while he smelled not-so-good.

  He pulled himself together and responded, “I don’t use mothballs myself. I hate naphthalene. It’s toxic and classified as possibly carcinogenic.” He stepped away from her, distancing himself subtly, because he liked being close to her too, too much. “But some of the stock I buy for the shop has been stored in mothballs and I wear clothes from the store. I wash them a lot before wearing them to get out the chemicals, but it takes a ton of washes to rid the clothes of that scent.”

  Her brow furrowed into delicate lines. “Can’t you make sure your stock hasn’t been stored that way?”

  “I try to vet my products before I buy them, but it isn’t always possible. A lot of what I purchase is pure wool and distributors are trying to protect their investment. Less and less is stored that way, though. In time, people will learn to stop using mothballs.”

  “But who wants holes in their sweaters?”

  “No one, but there are alternatives, like camphor.”

  Monica was silent for a while and then said, “You know about a lot of odd things.”

  Noah stiffened.

  She noticed and said calmly, “I’m not criticizing, Noah. I find the weird stuff you know interesting.”

  “It isn’t weird to me.” He scratched his left wrist, working his fingers up inside of his cast as far as they would go. “You’ll get used to me spouting off.”

  A grudging smile played around the edges of her well-defined lips.

  With a sideways glance, he studied Monica. He’d always thought her cool as a cuke, that nothing much fazed her, but it was warm up here and a fine sheen of sweat coated her cheeks and her upper lip. Heat radiated from her and he smelled the barest whiff of sweat, and the fashionable, waxed and primped goddess became human. Too bad for him. She was easier to resist as a wax dummy. As a real woman, she devastated his peace of mind.

  God, he was a sap where Monica was concerned, but no, he hadn’t brought her to his room for sex.

  “We’re not here to climb into bed, Monica,” he said, returning to their earlier topic. More’s the pity. As soon as she had mentioned her grandparents, he’d remembered all of the stuff up in the attic that he’d never taken the time to deal with. “There are a bunch of boxes in the attic the former owners, who bought this place after your grandparents died, said were left here when they moved in. They never dealt with them, and I’ve never looked at the contents, either.”

  He pointed toward the corner of the bedroom. “Want to find out if they belonged to your grandparents?”

  “Yes!” She dragged him forward. “How do we get up there?”

  “Through that door in the ceiling.”

  She stared at his rumpled bed. “Wow, Noah, you really are messy. Do you know that people who start the day by making their beds tend to get more done in a day?”

  “Monica,” he said while he pulled down a door in the ceiling, a ladder riding down and opening up with the action, “if I got any more done in a day than I already do, I’d be a machine.”

  She smiled. “True. You do work a lot.”

  “Come on.” He carefully stepped onto the ladder and reached back for her hand with his good arm.

  She batted it away. “I was a cheerleader in high school. Remember the pyramid, with me on top? If I can scramble up a bunch of girls, I can climb a ladder.”

  He stepped back off the ladder to allow her to go up first. Oh, yeah, he remembered her as a cheerleader, all right. All the boys in school remembered the pyramid. Her perfume wafted around him and, as she climbed higher, it became stronger. Was it on her legs?

  Where else had she put it besides her wrist? Ankles? Knees? He gulped. Thighs?

  Clumsily, he took the ladder, thrown off balance. In her quaint conservatism, she wasn’t sexy and yet she was...whatever the heck that meant.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, Noah made it into the attic just behind Monica and turned on the overhead light.

  “Here.” He dragged a large plastic container directly under the light and pried off the lid.

  Inside there were quilts and linens. Noah turned to Monica with a smug smile as a scent wafted out and around them. “Smell that?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “Camphor. Whoever packed this didn’t use naphthalene.”

  “It sure smells a lot better than mothballs.” Monica touched one of the quilts. “This is handmade.” In her voice, he heard reverence.

  “It looks like everything is.”

  “Oh, wow,” she said with a breathy exhalation as she lifted up a couple of odd garments.

  “What are they?” he asked.

  “Homemade camisoles,” she breathed, awe in her tone. “These are silk. Look at this fabulous crochet and cut-out work decorating them.” She picked up another garment. “This is a bedsitting jacket. Women used to wear them if they had to go to the hospital, way back in the forties and fifties. My grandmother probably wore this after giving birth to my mom. Can you imagine that?”

  She’d whispered the last with wonder.

  “Thank you for this gift, Noah.”

  She made him feel ten feet tall. Disturbed by too much unwelcome emotion, he asked, “How do you know about old clothing like this?”

  “You’re not the only one who knows strange things.” Her smile glowed in the dim attic, her turn to be smug. “I have a passion for all garments, for fashion throughout history, for fine craftsmanship. Whoever made these was incredible. Look at these stitches. I’ve never seen work so fine.”

  Noah watched her study more clothing and emit oohs and aahs, breathy exclamations that, frankly, turned him on. He’d thought her cold, but that was slowly changing. Look what she had done for Kayla Keil, and she’d taught the children how to cook because of her passion for food and, apparently, for children. He’d hesitated in asking her to help out with the kids, but he’d needed her physical presence to do a lot of stuff he couldn’t do with a broken arm.

  And she’d treated them well—better than well. They’d reacted to her respect for them by returning it.

  Also, her grief over Billy when she’d cried in Noah’s arms had been heart-wrenching. He guessed that was why giving her this gift, this connection to her family, felt good.

  There were ways in which he’d been wrong about Monica.

  A hank of sweaty hair stuck to her cheek. The goddess had disappeared and the woman was back. Noah fell onto an old wooden chair to sit on his hands so he wouldn’t reach for that hank of hair, to pull it away from her glossy cheek and lick the sweat from her skin.

  * * *

  MONICA RACED THROUGH her chores because she needed to see her father before going in to work. Thank goodness they’d gotten to the point that she could weed standing up using a hoe. The plants were becoming hardy enough that she wouldn’t disturb their spreading roots when digging into the soil.

  Once she finished her chores, she loaded a bunch of the smaller embroidered items from the attic into her car.

  Back in town, Monica stopped by her dad’s house, barely able to contain her excitement. She carried a few of the bedsitting jackets with her and some exquisite, hand-embroidered handkerchiefs.

  When she saw him, she frowned. He hadn’t shaved and his hair stood out around his head. He used to be meticulous in his appearance, even when just at home. “You don’t look so hot this morning. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Dad, please. I know when something’s up. Talk to me.”

  He sipped black coffee without answering. Even from across the room, the coffee sm
elled bitter.

  “Are you having money problems?”

  He perked up a bit. “Yeah, that’s it. I lost a bit with faulty investments.”

  That made him perk up?

  She got the impression that wasn’t it, that she should have been more insistent that he answer her on his own instead of offering him a ready-made explanation.

  “Are you sure that’s all of it?”

  “Yep. Positive.”

  She waited, but he continued drinking coffee and avoiding her gaze.

  “How’s the work at the farm going?” he asked, clearly attempting to divert her. “You’re looking tanned.”

  “It’s good. It’s strange, but I’m starting to really like it. I’m still screwing up, but helping people feels incredible.

  “And something amazing happened this morning actually.” She spread the garments on the table. “I found these in the attic of Noah’s house. They belonged to my grandparents. He said I can keep anything I find that belonged to Mom’s parents.”

  “That’s great, honey.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “You finally have a connection to your mother.”

  Monica’s eyes watered with sadness, but with joy, too. “Yes. It’s too good to be true.”

  A thought occurred to her. “This was my heritage. Why didn’t you ever retrieve it for me, for when I got older and could appreciate it?”

  “I never thought to look in the attic before I sold the place. I cleared out the house, but forgot about the attic. I’m sorry.”

  Monica nodded, thoughtful, trying to remember things she’d heard, rumors about her dad drinking too much after her mom’s death. Maybe it had just been an honest mistake. He’d lost his wife and then was responsible for clearing out and selling her parents’ house soon after her death. Plus, he had an infant at home. He was probably overwhelmed.

  She knew he wasn’t the strongest man around when times got tough.

  Monica sighed. She just wished she knew how to help him these days. Was it about money? Unless Dad had remortgaged the house for some reason, that shouldn’t be a concern. She knew he would survive.