by Brea Viragh
Finn retained possession of my wrist. The pad of his thumb skid across my skin once before coming to rest again. “I want you to get your tightest mini-skirt—”
I held out a hand to stop him. “Okay, no more.” Smiling at his smirk, I continued, “I refuse to pander to the lowest common denominator.”
“I might not look like much now, Ros, but I used to be like catnip to the ladies. They flocked to me.” His self-satisfied tone said everything.
“Yeah, I bet.” I had a pretty good idea. The motion of his thumb along my wrist would drive any woman wild. I struggled in unfamiliar territory.
Weston, Weston, Weston.
“It’s true! You were right about one thing. I have quite the bad-boy vibe going on.” He sucked in a deep breath, lacing his arms behind his head with forced nonchalance.
I felt the absence of his touch. “I’m sure mothers tell their daughters to stay away from you and your type.” Mine had.
“When I was on my bike, I was invincible.”
“A real Patrick Swayze.”
“Who?”
“Oh boy. Another big negative in my book. Please tell me why I’m listening to you when you have no knowledge of basic pop culture?”
“Because I have the tricks and you have the goods. Beauty and brains,” he insisted.
“You’re implying I don’t have brains…”
“Together we will be invincible. I’m gonna make you shine like a diamond.”
I frowned. “Somehow I don’t trust you.”
“Look. I know you want to maintain your dignity here and be the bright, peppy woman you are. It doesn’t seem like your way is working. Why else would you be here with me?”
“Because I have no choice.”
Finn dropped his head back with a bellow of laughter, and reached down to clasp my hand a second time. “You don’t know what you’re doing. If it wasn’t pathetic it would be kinda cute.”
“Ugh, spare me,” I groaned in response.
“Hey, it could be worse. You could be a total bowwow. Then I’d have to think twice about helping you. Although it might make it easier when I get my sponge bath. I wouldn’t be trying to picture you naked and end up with a half-chub all the time,” he said with a teasing sparkle in his eyes.
“Stop trying to tell me you spend your time fantasizing about me. I know, I know.”
“Let’s face the facts. No more bullshit. You can’t hack it on your own, I know how to manipulate people, and you don’t need to be pining away on some fantasy life with none of the tools to get there. Some say I’m a sucker for a sob story.”
“You’re a riot.” My voice was dry.
“Exactly!” Finn moistened his lips and leaned forward on the bed. A curling motion of his index finger beckoned me closer.
I obliged, my head caught in the grey area between shake and nod when the space between became cozy and intimate.
“Now, stop acting like a prim and proper lesbian and listen to what I have to say.”
It was hours later that I realized how long he’d retained possession of my hand when he’d taken it again. Days until I came to terms with the memory of his skin on mine.
Months before I knew what it all meant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I spent a leisurely hour walking through downtown, gathering my courage to talk to Weston. It was time spent chewing my nails, time spent pondering the meaning of existence, time spent wondering if cheese puffs were considered a suitable breakfast food.
The shops were ready to celebrate spring. With the season of renewal on the horizon, most of the storefronts had decorated to impress tourists. I lingered near the window design for the sweet shop, admiring artwork from local painters and potters and scrumptious-looking hand-crafted cupcakes.
What I wouldn’t give to indulge.
I sent a brief wave to the women inside before strolling forward again. Biding time before I had to shimmy into a pair of skinny jeans and work Finn’s magic on the boy in the big house. In this case, the big house of politics and bureaucracy.
A flurry of brightly colored advertisements caught my eye and I stopped to peruse them: Heartwood Real Estate—country chic at affordable prices.
I’d seen the place before and wondered at the workload they had, wondered if they were busy enough to warrant taking on another person. Wondered when I was going to gather up the nerve to walk inside and talk to the person in charge about hiring me.
Fingers crossed. So far, my full-time-job search had uncovered zilch. I was done feeling like a charity case, living with my mother and having Weston pay for everything when we went out to eat.
This was not the way a thirty–cough–ish woman should live.
Several rentals caught my eye. Ah, to be alone. On my own again after nearly seven months with the mother-unit from hell. At this rate, I’d settle for a trip to the toilet where I didn’t hear anyone through the walls.
Our tiff the other night was typical behavior for the two of us, I thought while I took in the specs on a few places close to town. Trista and I had never been good at communication. She thought I was being rebellious. Even now. I thought her tendency to micromanage was misguided. The woman was anal-retentive on the details of everyone else’s lives.
Ralph left because he couldn’t take the constant bickering, a culmination of many unhappy years where they could only tolerate instead of love. I followed him because I had agreed, and I was, case in point, a daddy’s girl. He and I had gotten along fabulously, with good conversation and an easy rhythm. Until the downslide into illness. The constant trips to the hospital. The accident.
Through the glass of the real estate office, I caught the frenzied waving of a plump fellow with a drastic receding hairline. Instead of turning away and pretending I hadn’t seen, I pushed through the door and into the building. The man was covered in sweat despite cool air blasting from a window AC unit.
“Hi, um…” I pointed behind me. “I was just browsing. Window-shopping.”
“I saw you looking at our available listings.” With a permanently plastered-on smile, the man rose from behind a desk and outstretched a hand. “Garth Underlane, nice to meet you.”
He was one of those perpetually jolly sorts, I could tell instantly. From the rosiness in his cheeks to the trousers coming up above his belly button.
“Yeah, River Shayne, hi.” I tugged the strap of my purse higher on my shoulder. “Like I said, I was window-shopping. Sorry for the inconvenience. I don’t have the money to afford my own place.”
Garth’s frown was an exact replica of his smile, flipped upside down. “Too bad. I love to help pretty ladies into their dream homes. No matter your style, I could find you the perfect place to plant your feet. Guaranteed.”
“Sounds wonderful,” I answered. More than wonderful. The need to be on my own again was a mosquito itch beneath the skin. I felt it travel along veins and through cells until I dreamed of freedom when I closed my eyes.
I sighed. “But now is not a good time for me to delve into the housing market.” I started to the door, shifting from foot to foot, then remembered why I’d come. Or rather, what drew me in this direction. “Are you the only one working?”
“Yup. Had a lady quit on me the other week. Twenty years in this office and she up and decided she wanted to spend more time with her grandkids.” Garth shrugged and his entire upper half moved along with him. “I don’t know. Right now, we’re in a slump with the seasons, so I can handle the office alone.”
“My cousin, Nell Quade, said I should come in here and talk to you. I admit, I’ve been too nervous. You wouldn’t be in the market to hire temporary help…would you?”
I fought against the anxiety, unsure I should be asking. When opportunity knocked at the door, and finding Garth alone in the office was a big knock in my book, then you answered.
“I would absolutely be happy to accept applications,” Garth responded.
My heart lifted.
“As long as you
have your real estate license.”
There went the heart, dropping faster than an anchor thrown from a ship in the middle of the deep blue sea. I wondered how my mood would have been if I hadn’t eaten half a bag of cheese puffs for breakfast. I’d probably still feel like shit, but it was something to think about.
“How long does it take, exactly, to get your license?”
Now I sounded like an idiot. How could I forget about the license? It sucked. My memory, not the license.
Garth scratched his head. “If you’re serious about it? A little over a month and a half. That’s putting in the time to study nonstop.” His eyes took on a gleam. “Interested?”
I jerked my head and ordered my thoughts to slow, nodding. “I might be.”
“Young lady, send me a resume, and I’ll keep you in mind. I am not in the market to turn away willing workers.”
And I wasn’t in the market to turn away good opportunities.
***
An hour later, having wasted enough time and going against every feminist bone in my body, I was dressed in a snug pair of blue jean leggings—jeggings, to the uninformed—and high heels that made my rear bob with each step. I adjusted the set of my sweater and wished that flannel pajamas could be classified as “casual sexy.”
There were basically two sets of outfits I owned: the business look and sleepwear. The kind of sleepwear you wouldn’t wear out to the store in a pinch because there were holes and stains and all manner of things only a significant other should see.
This outfit fell in the gray area outside the two extremes. Like one of those articles of clothing you see in the store and know you have to have. You also have no fricken’ clue where you’ll ever wear it.
I hadn’t had the energy to conjure something less inappropriate.
Men are visual creatures. I’d changed my look from inaccessible, in Finn’s words, to something with a little more pizazz.
“They’re guys!” Finn had exclaimed hours earlier. “You have the raw materials but you need to use them. Men respond to visuals. You have to be the sex kitten and the former CPA. Be smart but sassy. Teasing but knowledgeable. Be in control. And for God’s sake, get yourself a new bra.”
Weston’s office was located on the second floor of the courthouse, with a view overlooking the town center. It was a crisp spring day in Heartwood, the sky a perfect fifth-grader-painting blue with wisps of clouds dotting the horizon. People meandered down the street. Birds trilled their tunes from tree branches. Town elders resided on their habitual benches, ruminating on the state of the world.
I passed them all in my haste to reach the second floor. I’d turned from Park Avenue Princess to pole-dancing strumpet. No need to put on a show for the rest of the world.
It pained me to admit there were certain areas of my bank of knowledge that could use some filling in, necessitating the employment of Finn’s despicable advice.
I’d been through my fair share of breakups, with those I’d been sad to see go and others I’d helped out the door. It takes all kinds, as they say. I had a penchant for attracting whoever was most capable of breaking my heart. Needless to say, my expertise was narrowed to a particular category of men, and for all the rest, I was clueless. Weston had to be the first guy the general populace could all agree was good.
Finn was squarely in the non-romance square of my life, which meant taking his advice was easier to swallow. It was tolerable if not gratifying. Although he was right about one thing: I needed help getting out there. It was like taking a long walk off a short pier.
Well, if this was Finn’s plan, I would take the plunge.
At least I’d grown a pair, even if it meant going home later to cry. If the situation nosedived and burst into flames, then I could prove Finn wrong and rub it in his face. Yup, win–win. Right?
Right.
I stared down the hallway and mentally lashed at my hesitation. There was no need to feel like an egghead.
Get going, girl.
The hallways looked like those nightmares where the carpet stretches on to infinity, and no matter how many steps you take, the walk will never end. I almost expected a pair of creepy twins to turn the corner and ask me to play.
The three male voices reached me before I wrenched the knob. All raised in agitation. I was chagrined to realize I’d taken a step back instead of forward. When had I become such a wuss?
Before I thought better of it, I knocked and peeked around the corner. Voice bright, eyes brighter, I trilled out, “Hello? Anybody home?”
Weston glanced up from his desk, with two towering gents on either side of him.
“River. I’m sorry, I’m working.”
“Yes, I can see. I was wondering if I’d left my sunglasses in here.” I pointed to his desk, my unaffected tone sweet and twice as deadly as artificial sugar.
Weston pinched the bridge of his nose. The other two spared a glance at each other and said nothing. “No, I haven’t seen your glasses,” Weston answered evenly.
“Are you sure?” I pushed the door closed behind me and ignored the stares urging me out, out, out. The only thing out, out, out was my cleavage, and the girls were doing a bang-up job. “I could have sworn I dropped them the other day when we…” I trailed off on a disgusting chirping giggle.
I could have strangled Finn for his advice. Although who was worse: him for offering it, or me for listening to it?
“You didn’t return my call earlier,” Weston said, refusing to look up from his paperwork. “I had to leave a message with that girl. The one behind the counter.”
“You called? I never got the message, sorry, honey. And oh! Hello. I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance.” Keeping my movements slow and narrow, I sidled over to the nearest of the duo, holding out a hand for a light shake. “I’m River.”
The man had been studying a file folder on the desk, his long, thin frame resembling a sapling clothed in an expensively tailored two-piece. I liked the look of his eyes. Serious, a counterpart in depth and color to the rigid cut of his gray mustache and close-cropped hair.
“James,” he said. “This is my associate, Mark.”
“How pleased I am to meet you. I’ve heard Weston speak highly of you.”
James was surprised, sharing a second look with his younger secondary. “Has he?”
“Sweetheart?” Weston interrupted, his voice as pinched as his nose. “We’re in the middle of drafting a document for a construction project on the park. This isn’t the time or place for mingling.”
I let out another peal of honeyed laughter. Fake laughter, better than no laughter at all. Whether the humor was there or not was irrelevant. Hands clasped together at my waist, the girls bouncing. After this, they’d deserve a raise. “How fun! What kind of project?”
Mark, an average sort of brown-haired, brown-eyed man in a tan suit, blending almost too well with the wallpaper, answered despite Weston’s glower. “The community gardening guild does not want a new swing set to be erected on top of their rose bushes. The county engineer hasn’t designated any other sites as acceptable.”
“We don’t want to ditch the project entirely. We’ve already invested a great deal of money on the improvement, and the garden club is being unreasonable,” James continued.
“You wouldn’t understand, my sweet,” Weston finished.
Ignoring my need to strangle my boyfriend for his condescension, I sat gingerly on the corner of his desk, turning my best and most eager expression toward the other two. Legs crossed and hip cocked.
“Did the garden club give any reason for not wanting to move their rose bushes?” I asked.
“None,” James barked. He strode to the window and stared down at the ground, apparently willing his anger into the plants below. “Some garbage about sunlight and soil acidity. Established roots and whatnot.”
“And the permits don’t allow for moving the swing set?” I crossed my fingers behind my back and hoped none of the others knew I was winging thi
s.
“There are wetlands and streams nearby and we aren’t permitted to build within so many feet of them. The new layout of the park would make a better flow for families, give us more room for outdoor concerts. However, we can’t afford to alienate the garden club with their contributions to community programs. They donate a substantial amount of money each year, yet they simply don’t understand.” James paused to stretch the edge of his mustache. “We’re stuck between a large group with their support and the Army Corps of Engineers.”
“There has to be a way to compromise,” I offered.
“River, this isn’t a game,” Weston put in. He tapped his foot on the floor. Uncapped and re-capped his pen.
“I know it isn’t, sweetie-pie. I wouldn’t know the first thing about whatever it is you’re doing.” I grasped my chin. “Although I do remember seeing something when I went to the real estate office…”
“What did you see?” James asked. He and Mark shared a look. They found my interference amusing. Not because I was Weston’s girlfriend. Because I was a woman. Maybe a combination of both.
If I hadn’t been convinced before, I was now. I’d do whatever it took to prove their patronizing glances had no place. There was a distinct boy’s-club air in the room and I was choking on it.
I’d prove to Weston that I wasn’t an embarrassment, the one he couldn’t take to parties for fear of breaking something. Or setting the drapes on fire.
“I saw the flyer when I went in to ask about a job. You may be able to make a deal with the seller to lease the plot next door. The woman who owned the house there had about two acres of land.”
I crossed my legs from one side to the other. Keeping the dazzling smile in place was exhausting. I’d need at least a week of recovery. “From what I understand, it’s an estate deal. The family may be willing to grant the town access to the land. Or sell it to you outright if you can agree on the price.”
