Tall, Dark And Difficult

by Patricia Coughlin

  She might not have a gift for romance, the way some people she knew claimed to, but she knew enough to get by. For instance, she knew…she knew… She heaved a disgruntled sigh. She knew she had never before felt what she felt whenever she thought about Griff. She knew that for certain. She just didn’t know what it meant, or what the hell she was going to do about it.

  And that was the good news.

  The bad news was that it might well be irrelevant. When she thought of Griff and the way he made her feel, she could only compare the erratic, racing sensation inside her to a runaway train.

  And it had to stop, she decided, giving the ribbon securing the roses a final tug. Where was her spunk? Her determination? Her confidence that she could conquer anything if she tried hard enough? She was the woman who had surprised everyone by walking away from her marriage, her home and her job, and starting a whole new life from scratch. Certainly she could overcome this silly, adolescent response to a kiss.

  She would start by facing it head-on. That meant admitting to herself that it had been more than a kiss. And more than a little groping on a hot summer night. A lot more, actually, in a way that went beyond how long Griff’s kisses had lasted or who had touched whom, where. What had happened there on the porch had been intimacy, she realized, her heart skittering at the memory of the way their mouths had mated, their breath becoming one, their bodies molding to each other so easily…so perfectly.

  They had connected in a way she didn’t understand…. meant to be…

  It had been unplanned and unsought, on both sides, but it had happened. Sort of like spontaneous combustion. And it had been more intimacy than she had permitted in five years.

  Five years was a long time, Rose mused. She supposed, if forced to put a name to what she was feeling, she would have to call it lust. She went still in the middle of brushing bits of ribbon and tissue from her worktable into the trash, and stood, turning the word over in her mind.

  Lust. Of course. That’s what this was…that’s all it was. How foolish of her to get tied up in knots about something so simple. So natural. So insignificant on the grand scale of life. She laughed out loud, drawing a few curious looks from customers.

  What she had was a case of good, old-fashioned lust. Period. Surely that would account for her bizarre behavior since last Saturday night, her mood swings and her tendency to drift off in the middle of totaling a sale, and the embarrassing amount of time she spent gazing out her kitchen window each evening, hoping for a glimpse of Griff.

  Lust. Pure and simple. The explanation was strangely comforting. Maybe because the solution was also simple and straightforward.

  At least, it could be. If she would only let it.

  She glanced at the clock. Nearly five, and it was all she could do not to hustle the sole remaining browser out the door. She was always eager to hang the Closed sign on auction night, but there was an added sense of urgency tonight. One that had nothing to do with arriving in time for the opening bid, and everything to do with a man who, in an absurdly short time, had gone from seeming to be everything she did not want or need in her life, to being the only thing she did.

  At one minute before five on Wednesday evening, Rose went to lock up and found Griff sitting on the bench in front of the shop. Something very close to a thrill shot through her. He’d shaved and combed his hair, and there were perfect creases in the sleeves of the white cotton shirt neatly tucked into his faded jeans.

  He looked good enough to frame, she thought, wryly recalling the extra time she’d spent getting ready that morning. Since she never knew what she might have to push, lift or crawl under to inspect on auction night, it usually called for her oldest clothes and a no-nonsense ponytail—not her favorite sundress of soft ivory and faded sprigs of roses or upswept hair that required a half-dozen silver butterfly clips to secure.

  “Hi. Have you been waiting long?” she asked.

  He smiled at the sight of her and shook his head. “I didn’t want to rush you.”

  “Oh.” She caught herself staring at his mouth and hurriedly lifted her gaze, only to discover that he was staring at hers. They both looked away and then back—and the next thing Rose knew they were in the truck and, thankfully, driving in the right direction for the auction.

  “You want to fill me in on this lead you came up with?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you much, because I don’t know much,” she explained. “Not yet, anyway. A friend of mine, who will be here tonight, has Internet contacts in the area of porcelain collectibles and she’s ninety-nine percent certain she’s located one of the pieces you’re looking for.”

  “And it’s going to be auctioned off tonight? Good thing I brought my checkbook.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not actually here. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”

  “Then where, actually, is it?”

  “London.”

  “That’s the lead?” he countered, clearly mystified. “That there’s a bird I need in London?”

  “Right.”

  “In that case, at the risk of appearing even more inept at this entire business than I am, why the hell are you dragging me to an auction in a VFW hall in the backwoods of Rhode Island?”

  “Because…” She hesitated.

  She could hardly say Because I wanted a reason to see you and this is the best I could come up with. “Because I wanted you to hear the information firsthand. And because there is always a chance one of the birds could turn up at tonight’s auction. One just might be sitting in a box lot with a bunch of worthless old knickknacks—”

  “And the odds of that would be?”

  “Slim,” she conceded. “Very, very slim. All right, I confess, you’re here because I wanted to log a few hours and run up the bill.”

  “I see.” He turned slightly in his seat, and Rose could almost feel his gaze on her. It was like velvet being dragged across every nerve ending in her body. Slowly.

  “Tell me,” he said eventually, “will you be billing me for your time the other night?”

  She feigned concern. “Hmm, I’ll have to give it some thought. Did we discuss business at all?”

  “If we did, I don’t remember. But then, I was a little…distracted.”

  His deep voice wrapped around her, evoking an urge to pull to the side of the road, kill the engine and give him her undivided attention for as long as it took to rid this madness from her system.

  “One thing’s for sure,” he continued. “If you are going to bill for that sort of activity, this project could get mighty expensive before we’re through.”

  She shifted her gaze from the road long enough to flash him a playful smile. “Perhaps. Just keep telling yourself that it’s all for a very good cause.”

  He gave her an odd look.

  “Fulfilling Devora’s wishes,” she prompted. “That is what this is all about, remember.”

  “Right,” he said.

  Straightening, he turned his attention to the scenery on his side of the road. Rose didn’t need to see his expression to read his abrupt shift in mood. It was the same vague uneasiness that surfaced whenever the subject arose of this hunt he had undertaken on his aunt’s behalf. And another little piece of her melted.

  That didn’t mean she was in love with the man, she hastened to assure herself. But if she had been in love with him, it was moments like this—random flashes of tenderness and vulnerability—that would make her love him even more.

  She spotted the dark blue Willow Haven passenger van parked in the front row as soon as she pulled into the VFW’s crowded parking lot. After driving up and down each aisle, she finally lucked out and found an empty spot in the corner farthest from the door.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Griff, as they approached the entrance and he observed that it appeared to be standing room only inside. “My friends will have seats saved for us. They’re always the first to arrive. Ben jokes that he ought to give them the key and let them open up for him.”

 
; “What’s their rush?”

  “It’s the highlight of the day for a lot of them. They like to get here in time to look everything over and stake their claim to the first couple of rows of seats.”

  He glanced at her, brows raised. “Just how many friends do you expect to be here?”

  “Oh, a dozen, give or take a few,” she countered, and pointed at the van.

  His dark brows lifted another notch. “Willow Haven Retirement Community? First Devora and now a dozen of them? Level me with Rose, you’re not some kind of medical marvel, are you? A very well-preserved octogenarian?”

  She shook her head, laughing. “No, though there are days when I feel it…and not the well-preserved part, either.”

  “Then why not find friends your own age?”

  “I have friends my own age,” she retorted. “You’ve met Maryann, and there are plenty of others—some even younger than I am, believe it or not. But friendship isn’t always based on age. I like hanging with people who are interested in the same things I am.”

  “Then, I guess it makes perfect sense that you would hang out at the seniors center,” he teased, leaving her no choice but to jab her elbow into his ribs.

  “I don’t hang out at Willow Haven,” she protested, then shrugged and added, “except on Saturday nights.”

  He stopped in his tracks and spun her to face him. “What did you say?”

  “I said I don’t hang out at Willow Haven except on Saturday nights.”

  “That’s what I thought you said,” countered Griff, holding on to her arm to keep her there. “Does that mean that Mr. Saturday Night lives in a retirement home?”

  She looked at him in confusion. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your regular Saturday night date. Ring a bell?”

  “No. Probably because I never said I had a regular Saturday night date.”

  “You said—”

  She cut him off. “Commitment. I believe what I said was that I have a regular Saturday night commitment. Which I do.”

  “You said a serious commitment,” he shot back.

  “It is serious,” insisted Rose. She quickly explained about the Saturday Night Collectors, concluding with “I never skip a meeting.”

  “You also never used the word meeting. Naturally, I assumed you were talking about a date.”

  She fluttered her lashes at him. “You did?”

  “You know damn right well, I did,” he growled, grinning at the same time. “And I didn’t much like the idea. And I have a feeling you know that, too.”

  She fluttered again.

  In a heartbeat, his grin changed, becoming heated and seductive. “You tricked me, and now you’re going to have to make it up to me,” he told her, drawing her closer with each word.

  “How could I possibly do that?”

  “Like this—” he whispered, his mouth so close that his breath warmed her cheek and sent her thoughts scattering.

  “Yoo-hoo. Rose. Over here.”

  They both froze.

  Griff muttered under his breath. “What the hell…?”

  Responding with a small, rueful smile, Rose detached herself from his embrace and glanced toward the hall. Immediately, the slender woman holding the main door open smiled and waved. “I saw you drive in and I just wanted to let you know he’s about to get started,” she called.

  “Thanks, Clare. I’ll be right there.” She glanced at Griff. “Come on, we better go in.”

  “If you say so. Just remember,” he added as he trailed her inside. “You still owe me.”

  She simply laughed over her shoulder at him as she led the way to the front row, and, just as she had predicted, two empty folding chairs in the midst of a gathering of bald and silver heads. The seats had been reserved in what seemed to be the accepted fashion, with yellow Post-it notes stuck to the back. On one note someone had printed Rose, and on the other, Rose’s Friend.

  Rose’s friend. Griff considered that with a degree of wryness. Is that what he was? If so, he wasn’t alone. At least, not judging by the number of people who greeted her, giving him a wary once-over at the same time. He had the feeling Rose didn’t ordinarily bring along a friend, and that pleased him almost as much as had finding out that Mr. Saturday Night was a figment of his imagination. Inspired by her, of course—and he was looking forward to settling that score later.

  Still more people called to Rose and waved from across the room, even after they had reached their seats. Men, women, young and old. Griff looked on with amusement, thinking this must be something akin to arriving at the Oscar ceremony with a rising starlet on your arm. Except, he thought, he’d be willing to bet that starlets didn’t share their Saturday evenings with a group of lonely old folks and make it sound like they were doing her a favor.

  The discovery that Rose did so, and with obvious pleasure, brought together the jumble of impressions and insights he’d been accumulating since their very first meeting, when she had offered to throw a party to welcome him—a complete stranger—to town. He’d surmised all along that there was something to her beyond the impulsiveness and completely screwed-up sense of taste that would prompt her to buy a secondhand flamingo. But he couldn’t have put a name to that something if he tried.

  Until now. It was goodness. He nearly cringed, it sounded so corny, but it was true. That’s what set Rose apart. It seemed to him at that moment that Rose Davenport ought to be the pinup girl for everything that was good and right and worth fighting for in life. Rose was up there alongside the flag and apple pie, guaranteed to send a man off to battle with a smile on his face.

  So what the hell was she doing with him?

  Helping him, he reminded himself disgustedly. Helping him fulfill the terms of Devora’s will so that—unbeknownst to her—he could sell that creaking headache of a house and get on with his life.

  Such as it was.

  How the hell could all that have completely slipped his mind?

  The chairs had been crammed closely together, and as Rose reached down to retrieve her purse, her bare shoulder pressed against his forearm and the sweet, familiar scent of her filled his head. It was all the answer he needed.

  “Do you want chowder?” she asked him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Griff countered.

  “Chowder. It’s either that or a hot dog. The menu is limited, but the food is good. Dessert is homemade apple pie, with or without ice cream.”

  “You intend to eat dinner here?” He glanced around and noticed some people doing exactly that.

  “Sure. There’s a little break coming up. We kick in five bucks each, and Bob does the honors.”

  She nodded toward the elderly gentleman wearing saddle shoes and holding a coffee can, who was working his way along the row in their direction. When he reached Rose, she dropped a five-dollar bill in the can and made a check mark on the small notepad he provided.

  Glancing at Griff, she asked, “Have you decided?”

  “Just make it two of whatever you’re having.” As he pulled a bill from his wallet, she made another mark beside the first.

  “You won’t be sorry,” she told him. “The chowder here is the best.”

  Griff rested his arm across the back of her chair, wondering if it would be out of line for him to touch her shoulder. Yes, it would be, he decided as he happened to glance to his right. Most definitely. The Yoo-Hoo Lady—Clare, he seemed to recall Rose calling her—was giving him the same look Devora used to give him whenever she so much as suspected he had been gulping directly from the water bottle in the refrigerator.

  Privately, he used to think of it as the Evil Eye, and the message was as clear to him at forty as it had been at fourteen. I know what you’re up to the look said.

  Bloody hell, he thought, expecting his palms to start sweating any second. It was like being a kid again, and on a first date with a girl who brought her parents along…the entire, eagle-eyed dozen of them.

  The feeling of being
under a microscope persisted through the dinner break. The chowder was as good as Rose had promised, and the apple pie even better. But hungry as he was, he had to keep reminding himself to take small bites, timing them around the questions that came at him from all directions. By the time he managed to escape, by volunteering to collect the trash and carry it outside, he’d decided he was wrong. It was a lot less like a first date than an appearance before a Grand Jury.

  “Sorry,” Rose said, smiling ruefully at him as he rejoined her. He’d stalled outside until the action resumed. “They mean well, but they can be a little overprotective.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  She laughed at his dry tone and disgruntled expression.

  “So? Did I pass inspection?” he asked, surprised that he cared.

  “With flying colors.” Before his head had time to swell, she added, “Except…”

  He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Except what?”

  “Some of them are a little concerned that you’re…unemployed.”

  “I am not unemployed,” he retorted, teeth clenched. “I’m retired. Surely that’s a concept this group can understand.”

  “Oh, they understand it. It just doesn’t…I think ‘doesn’t sit right’ is the phrase I heard most often. It doesn’t sit right for a young man like yourself to be idle all day. What can I tell you?” she said, shrugging as he shook his head in disgust. “Some people are just hung up on age.”

  Griff could swear she was biting the inside of her cheek as she shifted her attention to the pine armoire going up for bid and said, “Surely you can understand that concept.”

  He soon learned that things picked up speed toward the end of the night. Rose explained that the most highly sought items are always put up early, when the crowd is at its peak and pockets are still full. The best bargains, however, come later, when the auctioneer is eager to unload things rather than have to move them and store them another month.

  Griff had started the evening with every intention of remaining a silent, detached and slightly bemused observer of the entire spectacle, but it didn’t quite work out that way. An auction—at least this auction—swallowed you whole, he discovered. Before he knew it, he was discussing toy trains with an old guy two seats away, and he actually coached another who was bidding on a box full of old bottles.