by Christa Wick
Rhea stiffened, pushed her lips around her face until they finally shaped a smile then nodded in my direction. "Good afternoon, Mr. Wylie."
"Miss Butler," I drawled in return, then nodded at my unexpected accomplice. "Miss Weathers. Would either of you ladies like some sweet tea or anything else?"
"Just bring the pitcher in, honey," Mae directed with a wave of her hand before her voice went stern again. "And if either of you call me Miss Weathers again today, I'm taking the flat of one of these books to your behind."
"Sorry, Mae," I laughed, my gaze bouncing between the two women as Rhea remained silent.
Mae was all sly smiles and a knowing gaze. Rhea had her thousand yard stare in place and kept it focused strictly on the books she had to sort through. Burying a sigh, I turned toward the living room and the kitchen beyond to fetch the tea I had prepared earlier.
I returned with the pitcher and glasses on a tray and a small bowl of freshly cut orange wedges, exactly like my mother would have served her guests. They already had one bin carefully packed, were started on a second and one of the low boxes had two books in it.
Putting the pitcher down on my father's desk, I looked at the books consigned to the box. The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll and Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka.
"I guess these are on the banned list," I said.
Their omission would be regrettable. The small library already in place at Harbor House was half-filled with books the kids had no interest in reading. If the teens were anything like me at their age, they would have inhaled those two solitary books.
"Sort of," Rhea explained, speaking for the first time since her short greeting unless she'd done any whispering at Mae. "More than half of our funding comes from local churches. They've all noticed the new bookshelves you installed and you can bet they'll be looking at every new title come Monday."
I jiggled the box after Mae added three more books. "So these?"
"That's the 'under Rhea's bed' annex to the library," Rhea answered. "The kids who like to read know where it's at and that my door stays unlocked until lights out."
She shot me a hostile glance that I took as clear notice that, unlike the teens, I didn't have an open invitation to enter her room at the shelter.
Mae distracted me from Miss Stabby Eyes with a question. "How long did your mama and daddy live in this house?"
"Long before I was born." Putting a lid on the first filled bin, I did a rough estimate. "About 15 years before, whole subdivision had just gone up."
"You were a late baby?" Mae asked.
"Yeah, you could say that," I laughed. There was a story to the making of Thomas Samuel Wiley. It had an ending for my parents that was both happy and bitter sweet, and with more heart break in the middle than anyone deserved to go through.
"Sounds like there was more to it than just a late baby." Mae gave me one of her looks then slowly shifted her gaze to Rhea, whose pace had slowed considerably.
Her disinterest was a pretense. Good to know, but with Mae hanging around, I wasn't sure how I could capitalize on the revelation.
I shrugged, my silence forcing Rhea to look at me, and then I gave an answer that closed the topic down, at least for the time being.
"There is," I agreed, picking up the filled bin and pivoting toward the French doors. "But my mother told it best."
I carried the bin out to the van I had rented for the day. My mind wrestled with potential strategies I could try while Mae was around. No casual contact—maybe with Mae gone and Rhea softened up a little, but absolutely out of the question with an audience. Three weeks of studying Rhea as intently as I could without being obvious told me I was walking a tight rope before she hardened against me entirely.
Returning to the house, I almost ran smack into Mae. She was pacing near my entry room. Seeing me, she threw another wink, one just like when she had told me she hoped I had better lines saved up.
She snapped the phone shut, talking loudly as she returned to the library.
"I told that damn fool not to have his mama's pulled pork last night." She reached for the tent-sized purse she had brought with her, provoking a sharp intake of air from Rhea that she ignored as she shouldered the bag. "Then I begged him to take a pill for the indigestion I knew he was gonna get...now he thinks he's having a heart attack!"
"You're leaving?" Rhea squeaked. She scanned the room for her own bag, but Mae gently planted a hand on her arm.
"It can't be helped," Mae continued. "I know he's wrong but there'll be no end to him going on about that time he had a heart attack and I wouldn't come home."
She swept her arm around the room. "Those kids will skin all three of us alive if you don't show up with a van full of books."
Rhea's mouth opened in a soft "O" of impending protest, but Mae cut her off.
"Those babies get so little that's good, Rhea." Her voice dropped with what felt like a message that was just between the two women. "You know what it's like, baby girl."
I thought I saw tears begin to well in Rhea's gaze when she nodded.
Mae jabbed a finger in my direction. "You promise you won't let her walk in the rain to a bus stop or get in a cab with some strange driver. She needs to ride back with you. If I can calm that damn fool down while there are still books to be packed and loaded, I'll text. But that's in God's hands."
"I can promise, but unless I'm authorized to toss her over my shoulder—"
Mae turned to Rhea. "Baby girl, tell me I'm not going to have to worry about you getting back to the shelter."
"I'll ride with Wylie," Rhea agreed, her gaze on the floor like she was one of the kids at Harbor House. "Go take care of Lloyd."
Mae passed me, her nostrils flared as she fought a smile only I could see.
Then it was just me and Rhea.
8
Wylie
Approaching to within a foot of Rhea, I pointed at the shelf in front of her. "It'll go faster if you scan the shelf and pull out the annex books, leaving me to put the rest of the shelf in the bin. When you get too far ahead of me packing and loading the van, you can pack some bins until I catch up."
She nodded, her stony mask crumbling a little at the edges. "That's a good idea."
It was a great idea, one I hadn't wanted to voice because it would limit the time I had with her. But I also wanted her thinking we were working together, and that little bit of softening in her face was worth the hours I would lose drawing out the process.
Circling the table, I came up on her other side. She had already finished the shelf I had pointed at and was on to the next one. She was going to get way ahead of me in short order, not only because she had the easier job, but because it was too damn hard not to get lost staring at her and soaking in her presence with all the other senses I could deploy.
I could smell the faint honey and vanilla she used on her hair and body, hear her gentle breathing and feel the subtle warmth from how close our bodies were at that moment. The only way I couldn't sense her was with my mouth. I couldn't taste her skin or her lips. That was left to my imagination.
A cough whipped through me as my chest tightened. She looked over, her gaze soft and questioning.
"Still a lot of dust," I said, adding a silent prayer that she didn't look down the length of my body and notice her effect on me.
I didn't hold her gaze when I answered, not because of the lie. The Army had trained me to deliver them flawlessly. But I was certain I wouldn't be able to keep my feelings from leaking out in my expression.
Three weeks of watching Rhea Butler at the shelter had left me pretty sure I was in love—which was a weird thing to feel for a woman who treated me like I was invisible as often as she could. I mean, the woman would barely talk to me, keeping everything formal and business like. But I saw the genuine affection she showered on the kids and some of the staff, Mae most particularly.
I rolled my lips, a very personal question trying to sneak past them.
"What?" she asked, still look
ing at my face.
"Mae said something about the kids getting so little that's good..."
Rhea nodded.
"Her voice changed when she said that you know what it's like."
Whatever chipping away I had done at Rhea's mask was only temporary. It slammed back into place. Her attention returned to the books, her head tilted to read the titles on the lower shelf as she finally answered me.
"I lived at Harbor House when I was a teen."
She didn't look up, couldn't see me nodding. I wanted to touch her—as the friend she wouldn't yet let me be—but I knew the gesture would be unwelcome.
At that second, I felt like I was fighting another unwinnable war.
"It's no big deal." Straightening, she placed three more books in the annex box then dropped onto her knees to read the bottom shelves. "There's an NFL player who lived at the shelter for a few months and a member of the state house of representatives. Of course, those kind of graduates are probably far outnumbered by the 'exotic' dancers, line cooks and currently homeless adults who have passed through Harbor House."
When I still couldn't get my mouth to work, she looked up and shrugged. "Really, Wylie. It's no big deal. It's just something Mae uses to twist my arm now and then."
Caught up in the fact that Rhea had been homeless as a teen, I had forgotten Mae's even longer association with the shelter.
"So she was there when you were a resident?"
Rhea nodded. "She's the last of the staff who was. Some are still on an advisory board and come around about twice a year, but most staff eventually get so depressed by the job that they only last a few years."
Finished with the bottom shelves, she regained her feet, this time only placing one book in the annex box. "You're right, this will go a lot faster."
Smiling faintly, she pointed at the bin I had stopped filling as soon as she admitted to having been homeless. "Provided you hold up your end."
"Right." My laugh was nervous, but I didn't think she could tell. Gathering up the first of the six shelves she'd already plowed through, I tried to focus on getting the bins filled.
She had opened up, even talked to me like I wasn't some antagonist she had to stay on guard around. I needed to process that, and process how her doing so had instantly made me feel weak and vulnerable. It took just the slightest softening of her eyes or mouth for my benefit and I turned to putty.
I was supposed to be steel, "Army Strong" and all that. Not silly putty.
Leaving the shelves for a few seconds, Rhea poured a glass of tea and scanned the desk until she found a coaster to put it on. Fumbling with the books, I watched her squeeze two of the orange wedges into the tea then take a long sip.
Dainty nose, lush lips, dark sweeping eyelashes...
"Wylie?" She put the glass down and looked at me, an amused glimmer of reprimand in her muddy blue eyes.
Checking the bin, I grabbed the last few books needed to finish loading it, placed them inside then popped a lid on. "I'm catching up. We'll be done long before Mae talks Lloyd down and texts you."
She rolled her eyes at that. "Mae forgets that I've got more than seven years of watching her fib to people. I'm betting they didn't even have dinner at his mom's house last night."
Lifting the bin, I chuckled. "I guess she's glad for the books but not the work or dust involved."
"Something like that."
I turned my head, not wanting to meet Rhea's gaze or have her see the smile spreading across my face. Her reply told me she knew as well as I did that Mae had been playing matchmaker. But what Rhea failed to realize was she was uncharacteristically grateful for Mae's deception.
At least I hoped she was.
9
Wylie
Ninety minutes later, we were two-thirds through all the books in my father's library. Mostly we worked in companionable silence, the exceptions centering around a particular title one of us came across or talk of the teens at Harbor House.
Running ten shelves ahead of my bin packing, Rhea stood and stretched. The act lacked any self-conscious awareness and was excruciatingly sexy to a man that had started lusting after her a full month before.
I returned my attention to the bin I was working on before she caught me staring, my lower body safely hidden from view so she had no chance of seeing the effect that innocent stretch had produced.
"Where's the restroom?"
Still finding my voice, I pointed at the French doors. "Sharp right for the hallway then first door on the left."
"Thank you," she murmured, threading her arms behind her as she left the room, shoulders rolling.
Wishing I had gotten a view from the front side, I finished filling up my half-empty bin, snapped the cover on and headed out to the van. I surveyed what we had already packed and the remaining space in the van and figured we'd just manage to squeeze it all in.
That was both good and bad—bad because leftover books would have been an excuse to get her back out to my home.
Returning to the house, I found Rhea frozen in the hallway, her body at the threshold of one of the two spare bedrooms, the one filled with my father's mineral collection. Knowing how she kept everything so well-organized at the shelter, I could just imagine her inner OCD-freak having a conniption at the state of that room, the display cases having suffered some kind of wood rot that caused them to collapse under the weight of the rocks.
"I've been telling myself all month that I've got to at least get them off the floor," I said, sheepishly approaching her. "Damned wood worms or something caused it to all give out. Came home from my mother's funeral to find it like that."
Her head turned, eyes widening at the revelation that I had returned home from burying my mother to find the mess waiting for me.
"I've got no idea what's what," I confessed, stepping closer to her and flicking on the room's light switch. "Dad had them all indexed. I guess I could get a guide or look online or..."
She moved into the room, another one of those faint smiles playing across her plump lips. "How much time do we have left?"
I checked my watch. I didn't have to return the van until a minute before the store opened the next morning. The shelter imposed lights out at eleven but closed the common room at ten.
"Figure if we leave by six, we're at Harbor House by seven, van unloaded by the kids and the books shelved by them, as well, they'll have a full two hours to figure out what they want to read before the library shuts down for the night. It's one now."
"Go get me one of the smaller bins," she ordered, the smile growing stronger.
I double-timed it into the library and back before the smile had time to fade.
Taking the bin, she motioned at the heap she knelt in front of. "Do you mind if I just..."
She made a scooping motion, her cheeks flushing pink. That meticulous part of her didn't like treating the samples so roughly, but they were already in a neglected state.
"By all means, whatever gets the job done. I'm surprised my father hasn't started haunting this room to get my butt in gear."
She collected the cards on top and placed them to one side, then scooped the samples until the bin was half full. I slid in as she stood so she didn't have an opportunity to lift the heavy bin from the floor. I picked it up and looked at her for direction.
"You now have a library with a lot of empty shelves," she suggested.
I nodded and kept subdued the foolish grin that wanted to explode across my face. The day kept getting more and more domestic and she kept letting her guard down bit by bit.
I put the samples on the library table. "Now what?"
Rhea handed me half of the cards. "Alphabetize these."
She did the same with the half she kept, her mind more nimble at the task than mine proved to be. Placing her cards on the table, she scanned the top of the rock pile and removed three samples, placing them and the cards she pulled from her pile on different bookshelves, spreading them apart as if she already had a plan on how she was
going to organize the whole mess.
Done alphabetizing, I put the cards down and turned expectantly to her.
She laughed and pointed at the six shelves of books I was still behind on packing.
"Yes, ma'am," I responded with a lazy salute.
"Don't pout, Captain."
Don't get my hopes up, beautiful.
"Did your dad get these from field hunting?" She kept working as she talked, the empty shelves quickly filling up with rocks matched to their cards.
"Do yard sales and flea markets count?"
"No, but most collectors don't get them field hunting. I just thought he might have been one of the few exceptions."
Unlike Rhea, I couldn't talk and work at the same time—at least not when I was talking to her. I wanted to see her face animated, the subtle enjoyment shaping her eyes and mouth. My hands went still and I stared.
She was completely absorbed by the task, looked every bit like a kid on Christmas morning, even though she was putting the new toys on someone else's shelves and had no plan of taking any home.
I stood amazed. Among my father's treasures, between the books and minerals, she had forgotten I was her adversary. All I had to do was not commit some dumb act that reminded her of our first meeting.
"How do you know so much?" I asked, forcing myself to go back to pulling and packing the books.
"My grandfather worked mines all around the southwest," she answered. "A few in Brazil, too. Copper mines, mostly, but that just pays for the men and machines. The company profits off the other minerals that come out of the ground, and sometimes exceptional samples."
She lifted one I knew from the box, a small geode with amethyst crystals yawning toward its center.
"My grandfather claimed to have pulled one like this out of a mine, only it was as big as two footballs, one on top of the other. Of course, it was company property, but they gave him a good bonus."
Growing quiet, she rooted around and matched up a few more samples.
I could see darkness beginning to descend on Rhea. Knowing she had once been homeless—not just out on the street with a relative but entirely on her own like the other kids at Harbor House—I imagined that she tried to avoid things that recalled her family and childhood.
