Still, his mother had taught him better.
"Here, I'll take those," he said curtly as he reached to take the chairs from her arms. Not below the chin, he reminded himself.
Too late.
"I have them." She smiled mechanically, making a point of not looking at him.
"Fine. Suit yourself." Matt could almost hear his mother's reprimand. He sighed. "I'll get the door."
"Fine." She headed toward the farmhouse awkwardly, the chairs being too tall for her to comfortably carry under her arms, but not for one minute inclined to admit it.
"Thank you," she said without turning around.
"You're welcome," he called to her back as she walked away.
Not below the chin didn't count if he couldn't see her chin, he rationalized, and for one long, sweet moment, he watched those killer legs carry the rest of her across the farmyard.
He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to think of what to do next. He had thought perhaps he'd try to talk her into leaving, but recognized the sheer futility of that. She wasn't going anyplace. There was no point in even discussing that. He'd seen the look on her face. Hell, he'd seen the look on Ally's face. He may not like it, but he wasn't stupid enough to think he could actually do something about it.
Okay, fine. She was staying. He'd just have to find things to do while he was here that would keep him out of her way.
Like… like… he looked around, searching for possibilities.
Like painting the old henhouse.
He went into the barn in search of a ladder and some sort of implement that would scrape off the old paint.
"Matthew Bishop, what the hell are you doing?" Laura demanded from eight feet below the ladder he was standing on.
"I'm scraping old paint off the henhouse," he replied calmly.
"Why?"
"Why?" He looked down and frowned. "Because I can't paint it until I scrape off the old, loose paint."
"I meant, why are you painting the henhouse? We haven't had chickens in there since Aunt Hope died."
"Well, now's the best time to paint it. While there are no chickens living in there."
Laura shook her head as if to clear it. "We're getting ready to leave, so come down from there and say good-bye to Ally. And try to be pleasant to Georgia, please. I don't want you to upset Ally."
"Why would my being less than pleasant upset Ally?" he asked, even though he knew the answer. Worse, he knew that Laura knew that he knew.
"Matt…" Laura sounded exasperated.
"Okay." Conceding defeat, he climbed down the ladder and stuck the scraper in his back pocket.
"Uncle Matt, will you come to my birthday party?"
Matt knelt down so that Ally could jump onto his back. "Now, when have I ever missed a birthday party?"
"Never. You never have." She hugged his neck.
"And I never will." He twirled around so that her head dropped back and her hair, now out of its ponytail, spun around, and she laughed heartily. His niece had never failed to touch his heart. One day, he knew, she would break it by falling in love with someone her own age, but not yet, he reminded himself. Not yet.
"You promise?"
"Of course, I promise." He lifted her over his head once more before setting her feet on the ground. "How could it be time for your birthday again?"
She giggled and nodded. "It is. In two weeks."
"Two weeks? That's not possible." He frowned. "Didn't you just have a birthday?"
"Last year, silly." She hopped into the car.
"Well, then, I guess I'll see you in two weeks at the inn." He closed the car door, reaching through the window to tweak her nose. "Anything special you might want this year?"
"Ballerina Barbie," she answered, nodding enthusiastically. "But my party won't be at the inn. It's here, at Pumpkin Hill. All my friends are coming!" She leaned halfway out the window so that he could kiss her cheek. "And we're all going to dance!"
Matt heard laughter, like the tinkling of fairy bells, behind him. He didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
"And Aunt Georgia said that next Saturday, Jamie and Carly can come dance with us, too!"
Laura looked across the hood of the car. "Georgia, you can still change your mind. It's good enough that you're willing to take a few of her friends from Bishop's Cove. You don't have to add kids from O'Hearn, too…"
"It will be fun. I'm really enjoying it." Georgia dismissed her concerns.
"I'll talk to you later." Laura waved and drove off, three little girls in the backseat calling "Thank you!" as she drove away.
The car left the drive, leaving both Matt and Georgia painfully aware that they were alone.
"Well, I guess I'll go back to scraping paint," he said awkwardly.
"You do that," she told him and walked off toward the garden.
He couldn't help but notice that she had changed into jeans and a shirt. He liked the pink thing better.
It was almost dark when he decided it was safe to come down from the ladder. He'd just go right on up to his apartment, take a shower, then run out and grab some dinner.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.
Maybe he'd run out for dinner first.
As he lowered the ladder, it occurred to him that if his arms were covered with paint chips, his face probably was, too. And he probably had lots of it in his hair, too. He'd have to shower or settle for some fast food. He hated fast food.
He put the ladder away, then whistled for Artie. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Laughter drifted from the open windows in the kitchen of the farmhouse, and he'd bet anything that that was where his traitorous dog was. He went to the back door and listened.
"Artie, you are so cute," he heard Georgia say. "Now, sit, and I'll give you another carrot. Good boy."
Matt's stomach growled again.
He knocked on the screen door, which was open. He could see her as she walked toward him, looking more graceful, more elegant in jeans than most women did in designer gowns.
"I was looking for my dog," he explained.
"Oh. Come on in. He's having a snack. I hope you don't mind."
"I usually don't let him eat between meals. It's not good for him," Matt said, pretending not to see the Liar, liar, pants on fire look on Artie's big slobbery dogface.
"Oh. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
Artie's look changed from accusatory to displeasure. Matt continued to ignore him. Just as he was trying to ignore the aromas that wafted around him, teasing his nose and tantalizing his stomach.
Matt couldn't help himself. Without wanting to, he gazed beyond her to the stove, the source of the wonderful smell of curry, one of his favorites spices. His nose betrayed him by sniffing.
"That smells like—"
"Curry." She nodded, and turned to the stove to lift the lid off one of two saucepans. "I'm making curried vegetables with rice."
"It smells great." He had to call 'em as he saw 'em.
"Would you like some?" she asked without turning around.
"Ah, no, that's all right," he backed away from her, wishing he could look away from her trim little self leaning against the stove. "I have to get cleaned up and get back to Shawsburg."
When she turned around, he was still standing there. There were little flecks of paint in his hair, and a trace of tiny white speckles across the bridge of his nose like albino freckles. It was all she could do to keep her fingers from brushing them away.
"Was there something else?" she asked.
"Ah, no. Well, actually, yes. I was wondering if I could just go down to the basement and grab a jar of plum jam."
"Sure." She unlocked the basement door and turned on the light. "Of course. It's your basement, your jam…"
He tried to avert his eyes on his way downstairs, but that faint scent of spring flowers mixed with curry teased him as he passed her, and he couldn't help himself. His eyes lingered on her face. It was a hard face for a man to
turn away from, and it held him for what seemed like a very long moment.
"I'll just… go on—" he heard himself mumble when he realized how long he'd been staring— "downstairs…" His feet made brief thumping sounds as he ran down the steps.
When he came back up, he was empty-handed.
"Did you change your mind?" she asked. "About the jam?"
"I couldn't find it."
"Plum?"
He nodded.
"I know there's some there. I saw several jars last week." She dried her hands on a towel and motioned for him to follow her back down the steps.
He followed.
She turned the small light on in the corner of the basement and opened the cupboard doors. She knelt down and began moving jars around on the second shelf.
"Here," she said, handing up two large jars of peaches, "hold these so I can look around in here. You moved things a bit."
"I might have." He stepped up close behind her, taking the large glass jars from her hands.
"Ah, here they are. You must have pushed them toward the back." She swiveled around a bit and started to rise, not realizing how close he was. When she stood up, she found herself just below his chin, her hands and the jars skimming his chest.
She looked up at him, struck by the depth of his dark brown eyes, the long lashes like so much thick fringe. The proximity of his face startled her. She tried to move back, but the cupboard was behind her, and she was trapped between it and his body. There was a very male presence about him, and her reaction to it caught her breath in her throat For the first time in a very long time, Georgia was speechless.
Matt looked down into her face, and fought back the bad angel who had come from nowhere to perch upon his shoulder and whisper in his ear. Kiss her. Kiss her now.
"Ah… I'll take…" Matt reached for the jars of jam she held, only to realize that he was still holding the larger jars.
"Oh. Right. Here. I'll take the peaches…" She seemed to be fumbling as much as he was, and they made an awkward exchange of the jars in a tight space.
It hadn't occurred to Matt that he could have just backed up.
It hadn't occurred to Georgia to ask him to.
"Well, then." He cleared his throat. "I guess we're done down here."
"Right." She turned her back and bent down to replace the jars of peaches on the shelf.
When she stood back up, he still hadn't moved. "Matt? Was there something else you wanted?"
"What?" The bad angel, who had been at that moment comparing the sight of her butt in jeans to that of her butt in her leotard, encouraged Matt to respond in a manner guaranteed to win him a smack across the face.
"Oh, no. No. This is fine." Matt slapped a hand over the bad angel's mouth and opted for the high road. "Thanks."
Georgia closed the cupboard door and turned out the light. For a moment, she was lost in the darkness. With his free hand, Matt reached out, seeking her face, just to make certain that she had not, somehow, disappeared before his eyes. The fingers of his right hand found bone, and they lightly traced the line of her cheek before pulling back.
"You're welcome."
The sound of her voice broke the spell, and somewhat nonplused, Matt stood aside, motioning for her to go ahead of him to the steps.
She climbed them softly, and he followed closely, the bad angel filling his mind with randy thoughts as they ascended to the kitchen.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay?" she asked.
"I… um… really have to get back," he muttered. "To Shawsburg."
If he didn't leave, he'd be drooling as pathetically as Artie was. And not necessarily just from the curry.
"Oh. Okay." She lifted the lid again and tossed in a handful of raisins, then a handful of green onions.
"So, thanks." He opened the door and walked through it as quickly as he could.
"For what?"
"For… for feeding my dog." He slapped the side of his leg and Artie caught up with him.
From the doorway, Georgia watched Matt cross the yard to the barn, where he went up the outside stairs to his apartment. She was still watching as the lights appeared in the rooms she knew to be his kitchen, his bedroom, his bath.
Unconsciously, her fingers followed the path his had taken along the side of her face.
She had instinctively known that there was no good reason why he had to rush back to Shawsburg.
In spite of the spark that had passed between them— his hand to her face—it was obvious that he wanted to avoid being anywhere near her. She had known that he didn't like her, didn't want to get to know her, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise, but it had.
It shouldn't have hurt, but it did.
twelve
The sun had not quite risen the next morning when Georgia was awakened by the muffled sound of leaves rustling somewhere beneath her window. She crept from her bed and stealthily pulled the curtain aside to take a look. There, there in the shadows near the garden, something lurked. Was it crouched near the gate, perhaps trying to undo the string she had tied there?
She tiptoed back into the bedroom, where she quietly lifted the telephone and dialed the number— which she now knew by heart—for the police department.
"This is Georgia Enright at the old Evans farm. The person who's been vandalizing the gardens out here is back, he's out there now and I would like someone to come out and arrest him." She whispered into the phone, as if the intruder could hear her from her room on the second floor.
Assured that someone would be right there, Georgia threw off her nightgown and jumped into her jeans and a sweatshirt, and tied on her old sneakers. She wanted to be there to confront him, whoever he was, and give him a piece of her mind. As the lights from the patrol car eased slowly up the drive, she ran down the steps and unlocked the front door.
"He's right out back," she told the young police officer as he pulled over onto the grassy spot near the house. "Inside the fence…"
"You stay here, Miss, in case he's armed," the officer told her protectively.
"Okay." She nodded vigorously, following him to the corner of the house, where she could watch. She wanted to see the perpetrator apprehended. And once he was in custody, Georgia would have a few choice words for her midnight vandal.
"Come out with your hands up," the officer announced from the corner of the house.
There was no response from the garden.
"I know you're in there. Just walk on out through the gate with your hands over your head," the officer called.
There was a faint, indistinguishable noise from the other side of the fence. The officer crept forward to investigate, his gun drawn and his eyes keenly focused on the garden gate.
"Oh, for crying out loud," the officer exclaimed.
"What is it?" Georgia whispered loudly, venturing a brave step from the safety of the shadow of the house.
"I think you should come take a look."
Georgia joined the policeman at the fence.
"There's your intruder." He pointed into the far corner, where a small figure crouched.
The figure was grunting.
"What is it?" She peered more closely over the fence, just as the dark figure sprang forward.
"That's a pig. A Vietnamese potbellied pig."
"A pig?" She frowned and looked down at the animal that was vainly attempting to poke its too-wide snout through the narrow space between the fence posts.
"We see them abandoned from time to time," the officer explained as he leaned over to scratch the area between the pig's eyes. "They used to be real popular as pets about ten years ago. People get tired of 'em, though, just like they sometimes get tired of a dog or a cat, and they turn them loose to fend for themselves."
He continued to scratch the pig's head. The pig closed its eyes and drifted off to heaven.
"It looks tame," Georgia observed.
"Oh, yes. This breed of pig used to be so popular, they used to call 'em Yuppie puppies. They used to sell
for big money. A thousand dollars and up, some of them. Lots of big celebrities had 'em. I saw a picture one time of Julia Roberts walking a pig just like that one. Had it on a leash."
Georgia knelt down near the fence to get a better look. The pig stood up as if looking her over at the same time. It was small and black, swaybacked, so that its stomach was near to the ground. It poked its wide, dark nose through the wooden slats and grunted softly.
"I guess if it's been abandoned, it's been coming to the garden to look for food."
"That would explain why the plants were up rooted." The officer knelt down next to Georgia. "I guess you're hungry, aren't you, Spam?"
Georgia laughed at the name. The pig grunted with slightly more vigor.
"Well, I'll take it to the SPCA over in Salisbury." He stood up. "If they're still taking these pigs."
"What will happen to it?" Georgia reached tentative fingers through the fence to touch the snout. The pig's skin was cold and tough, and it nuzzled its face against her hand.
"Well, they'll try to find a home for it. There are some rescue organizations that take in abandoned potbellied pigs, though I've heard that lately, they're turning away more animals than they can take, leaving the local SPCAs to… dispose of them however they can."
"Oh, poor Spam," Georgia whispered, and as if to plead its case, the pig made an effort to climb up the side of the fence, causing Georgia to laugh. "Oh, I don't think you're built for climbing. Your legs are far too short and far too much of your weight is too close to the ground."
She stood up and reached over to open the gate.
"Come on, Spam," she called, and the pig trotted out.
As if assessing its chances of survival, the pig looked over both the officer and Georgia, then rolled the dice and flung itself toward Georgia and nudged her knees.
"It likes me!" Georgia exclaimed.
"They say they're real social animals. Lots of folks even had them as house pets."
"You're kidding?" Georgia laughed. "I can't imagine keeping a pig in my house." She scratched the sides of the pig's head, and the pig appeared to swoon. "How long do you think the SPCA will keep it before they… do whatever it is they'll do?"
Moon Dance Page 17
