Practice Makes Perfect

by Sarah Title

  He pulled away for a second and looked toward the door. “Are they—”

  “They’re fine,” Helen said, and pulled him back to her. They were fine. They just didn’t like to be where Helen was not, and they hated to be where Henry was not. But guess what, she thought. Too bad.

  Henry shrugged and put his hands at her waist. He squeezed her tight to him as he kissed her again and she felt her whole body flush. She lost her balance but she barely tipped. Henry was more solid than she’d thought he would be.

  And he was still wearing a bow tie.

  She leaned back far enough to try to figure out how to de-Henry him (Hawk would never wear a bow tie). “Complicated,” she whispered, frustrated.

  “It’s not a clip-on,” Henry said, and pulled. The tie came off with a flourish, and he swung it over his head with a little dance.

  Definitely not something Hawk would do. She laughed anyway.

  Then he kissed her again, her lips and her jaw and her neck. He found that sweet spot at her pulse that made her squirm, and she squirmed. His hands roamed under the hem of her shirt, and she stopped squirming long enough to find the buttons of his shirt, and even managed to unbutton a few before Henry got frustrated and tore the thing over his head.

  Holy Hawk, Henry was kind of buff.

  Not MMA-fighter buff, but lean and long and a little hairy. He looked perfect. Helen ran her hands over his chest—touch was a sense, and she had to focus on senses. She scraped her fingernails lightly across his shoulders, then down to his abs, and she was going for Henry’s belt when he grabbed her wrists and pulled them up over her head, somehow magically bringing her shirt with them. And now it was Henry’s turn to touch, and she closed her eyes as his fingers ran gently over her collarbone and down to the clasp of her bra.

  When she heard the snap, she couldn’t keep her eyes closed. Kissing and touching was one thing, but this was getting real. Parts she wouldn’t show in public were now being shown to Henry, and he kept his fingers working over her slowly, gently, with what she could only describe as reverence.

  It was perfect. It was just how Hawk would react the first time he saw Rennie—like she was perfect and her nakedness was a gift.

  “Christ, Helen.”

  And then his lips followed his hands and Helen had to hold on to those surprisingly strong shoulders as Henry moved across her body, then back up to her mouth, where he kissed her so deep that she started to wrap her legs around him and he backed her up to the bed and she fell backward onto it with Henry on top.

  Then there was a whine and a thump from the other side of the door, and it was like a bucket of cold water on their totally platonic sex research. Henry was wild-eyed and disheveled, but to his credit, he made it to the door before she was even off the bed.

  He was greeted by two sets of sad puppy-dog eyes and a pathetic paw at his shoe. The thump was not a dog in danger, but a stack of books Helen kept meaning to take back to the library, which were now strewn across the hall.

  She took a deep breath. Don’t kill the dogs, she told herself as she got up off the bed to join Henry at the door. They don’t understand how to be good stewards of library property. Also, they don’t understand what a moment is, so how could they know not to kill it?

  “Good thing you guys are cute,” Henry muttered.

  They’re not that cute, she thought.

  Henry ran his hands through his hair, moving its style from delightfully mussed to standing straight up. She tried to resist, but she smoothed the worst of it down anyway.

  “How was that?” he asked.

  “It would be a lot better if you would stop asking how it was before the afterglow even wears off.”

  “You think that’s afterglow?” he asked, and reached for her again.

  George and Tammy had a different idea.

  Their idea involved snuffling into the bedroom and jumping on the bed, right in the warm spot Helen had just vacated.

  She sighed. They’re cute, she told herself.

  “Maybe this is a good time for a break,” Henry suggested, running his hands through his hair again. “I’ll take the dogs out, you write.”

  She wanted to protest—this was way too weird, and anyway, she wanted to keep making out. But Henry bent to pick up his shirt and the muscles in his back moved in a way that made her think about how Hawk might move, and before she could lose that image, she ran to her computer and started typing.

  * * *

  Henry took a deep breath of the humid evening air. It was too hot to be refreshing, but it gave him a moment to pull himself together.

  Helen Lee was a great kisser.

  Why hadn’t they done this before?

  They weren’t really even doing it now, he reminded himself. It was just research. That totally didn’t count, even though he had his tongue down her throat and she had her hand on his crotch.

  He was glad she’d stopped before they went any further. Henry was starting to forget that he was supposed to be acting out a sex scene in a romance novel instead of making out with his best friend. He’d never really thought about making out with her before. She was just . . . she was Helen. Henry didn’t make out with Helen.

  He stopped walking to let George and Tammy sniff the bushes. One of the hazards of walking hounds was the constant pauses for investigation. Sort of defeated the purpose of him walking off some of his lust before he made a fool of himself. Couldn’t really burn much energy standing still.

  “Henry?”

  Startled out of his thoughts, which had started to veer toward the silkiness of Helen’s hair and how good it felt sliding through his fingers, he saw Grace and Jake approaching on the sidewalk.

  “Hey, doggies.” Grace squatted down to receive slobbery kisses from George and Tammy.

  “Henry,” Jake said, giving him a man-nod in greeting.

  “Jake.” Henry man-nodded back.

  “Where’s Helen?” Grace asked, extricating herself from the puppy pit.

  “Uh . . . she’s back at the house. Doing some work. I’m walking her dogs.”

  “I see that,” Grace said. Henry ignored her raised eyebrow.

  “Well, I’m just walking my fiancé,” Grace filled in when no more information was forthcoming.

  Jake responded by pinching her side, which made Grace squeal and set the dogs to howling.

  “God, I haven’t seen Helen in forever,” Grace said after she pulled herself together. “I’m a terrible friend.”

  “You’ve been distracted,” Jake said, throwing an arm around her shoulder.

  “You still think something is bothering her?” Grace asked.

  “Oh, uh . . .” Nothing that taking off their shirts couldn’t fix.

  “Lindsey agreed with you, you know.”

  “Huh?”

  “That there is something going on with Helen.”

  “Lindsey thinks there’s something wrong with everybody,” Jake said. “The more wrong with someone, the more Lindsey likes ’em. What else could she possibly see in Walker?”

  “Ha ha,” Grace said. Jake wasn’t wrong, though. Lindsey was sweet, but a busybody. She was just so nice you hardly noticed she was completely butting into your business. None of that had anything to do with her reclusive artist boyfriend, who was good friends with Jake, despite what Jake said about him. Guys being guys. Henry didn’t get it. He wore bow ties.

  “It’s probably something at work,” Henry suggested, hoping to throw Grace off the trail of him and Helen with their shirts off.

  “Work? I knew I shouldn’t have skipped out on Sunday.” She punched Jake in the arm. He did not look sorry.

  “I bet she could use a disruption. Come on.” Grace pulled her fiancé behind her and headed toward Helen’s house.

  “Wait, no!”

  Grace and Jake stopped in their tracks. George and Tammy looked up at him expectantly.

  Henry had to think on his feet, which was not his specialty, especially since it involved lying, which he
couldn’t do to save his life. He hoped he could do it to save Helen the potential embarrassment of having her friends walk in while she was typing. Topless.

  “She, uh, she’s not home!” Perfect! They wouldn’t want to visit her if she wasn’t there.

  “Where is she?” Grace asked, thwarting all of Henry’s plans for a smooth exit.

  “I don’t know,” he said smoothly.

  “You don’t know where she is? But you’re walking her dogs?”

  “I love these dogs!” That wasn’t a lie, at least.

  “Babe,” Jake said, and Grace turned to him. “I think Helen might not want company.”

  “But we’re not company,” Grace insisted. “Henry’s not company.”

  Jake looked intently at his fiancée. Henry looked anywhere else. The trees were lovely tonight. Pity the sky was so cloudy.

  As Henry looked for stars to count, he heard Jake sigh. “I’ll tell you later,” he said to Grace. “G’night, Henry.”

  “Good night,” Henry said, and watched them walk away, arguing quietly.

  Guys being guys. He wanted to give Jake a fist bump. But he also wanted to get the dogs home before anyone else accosted him with well-meaning curiosity. He also hoped Helen hadn’t put her shirt on yet.

  Chapter 8

  Helen heard the click of the door counter as she entered the Pembroke archive, but other than that, it was totally silent. As usual.

  Very few people used the archives. For one, most of what it contained was either related to Pembroke, or to the town. And most of what the archives contained that related to Willow Springs was just a duplicate of what was stored over in Town Hall and enthusiastically maintained by the all-volunteer Willow Springs Historical Society, which was also kind of a mess, but a little less of a mess than the archives. To add to the confusion, the archive also contained some Kentucky history and the few federal government documents the college collected.

  Basically, it was a repository for anything that didn’t fit in the regular library.

  It made Helen nuts.

  Not the materials—those she found endlessly fascinating. But the small space they lived in was not adequate to house everything properly, and the system of shelving was just thrown together as needed, so it only made sense to people who worked there, and sometimes not even then. It was definitely the provenance of the archivist, Lou, who some said had been at Pembroke since before it was Pembroke. (This would make her 121 years old, which was unlikely. This did not detract from the rumors.) Lou didn’t like other people touching “her stuff” when she wasn’t there, which was fine, since no one else could find anything. The only time Lou was happy, it seemed, was when someone came in looking for information, and she could guide them to the right box or file or crumbling manuscript to get them what they were looking for. She always gave them a speech about how the archives were not magic, that no matter how organized information is, research is still work, and if it was easy, any idiot would be able to do it.

  Henry understood that.

  Lou loved Henry.

  Of course she did.

  It was only recently that Helen had started working a shift at the public desk in here, and only because the dean of the libraries realized that Lou was way past eligible for retirement and if she ever did decide to leave (unlikely, but possible), someone else had better know how things worked in here. All of the librarians had a weekly shift, which Lou hated, but since it was either that or a rotating crew of undergraduate workers, Lou got on board. She seemed to be thawing a little, trusting that professionally trained librarians actually could handle the non-traffic in the archives without accidentally setting anything on fire.

  Helen didn’t mind the change of scenery. She liked the quiet—a nice change from the bustle of the main library—and as long as she didn’t look too hard at the piles of stuff to be cataloged, it was relaxing. It required several deep breaths, but she was able to look past it, to sometimes flip through some of the stuff scattered around. And besides, it was so quiet on the desk that she had time to get other work done.

  Today, she would continue her valiant fight with the desk schedule.

  She hoped there was something interesting she could distract herself with.

  “Helen. Good, you’re here.” Lou bustled out from behind the desk, purse slung over her shoulder, glasses on her head. If Helen didn’t like Lou so well, she’d be annoyed that she was such a stereotypical librarian. At least her glasses weren’t on a string around her neck. For now.

  “Hey, Lou,” Helen said, edging around Lou to the chair behind the desk.

  “I have this stupid doctor’s appointment, but I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Take your time. I can be here all afternoon.”

  “Just in case I’m gone—”

  “Lou,” Helen interrupted. “It’s fine. I won’t burn the place down.”

  “You’re the only one I trust not to do that, you know.”

  Helen looked at her a little skeptically. “Really?”

  “Well, at least I trust you not to mess things up too badly.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Lou, apparently immune to sarcasm, waved and was gone.

  * * *

  Helen tapped her pencil on her calendar. The view into the stacks hadn’t changed in the last forty-five minutes, no matter how hard she stared. If only someone would come in. But there were no appointments on the calendar—no way Lou would have left Helen in charge with a scholar coming in—and Helen was tired of working on her own desk schedule.

  She should be sitting up straight, ready to welcome the potential hordes.

  She was bored.

  She looked around. Yup, the view of the shelves behind the desk was still the same. The entrance to the right was still vacant. The stacks to the left were still a mess.

  When Helen got bored, she organized. She hated that it fit that stereotype about librarians, that they were all glasses-wearing, sexless, organizing fiends. She didn’t wear glasses, dammit.

  And she was not sexless.

  Not anymore.

  She didn’t want to think about Henry. She especially didn’t want to think about how horrified she’d been when Henry had told her that he’d run into Grace and Jake last night. But she had nothing to be horrified about; she and Henry weren’t hiding anything. Well, they were hiding something, but only because she was hiding her writing in general, not because she was embarrassed about making out with Henry. Making out with Henry and liking it.

  But if she didn’t like it, it wouldn’t much help with her writing.

  Better not to think about it. It was giving her a headache. Good thing she’d promised Henry no more secrets. She wasn’t cut out for this subterfuge.

  She headed for the stacks to the left. Lou might kill her if Helen somehow messed up whatever inexplicable order things were in. But surely Helen knew enough about the principles of library science to be able to at least make the piles neater.

  She reached for the bulging file folder on the nearest shelf. Bulging file folders weren’t exactly sound archival preservation, but this looked like it contained photocopies. She recognized property tax records— thanks, Henry—and started to straighten the papers to reduce the folder’s bulge.

  And then she dropped it.

  “Crap,” she muttered and knelt down on the linoleum, gathering the papers together. “What is it, windy in here?” she muttered, stretching to reach the copies that had slid across the floor and up to the wall. “Are you kidding me?” She hoped Lou really hadn’t put these pages in any order because if she had, they were not in that order now. “File cabinets, Lou.”

  Helen had her shoulder against the wall, reaching for an errant page, but it wouldn’t budge. “What the—” It looked as if it was wedged behind the shelf.

  She pulled on the page and it started to tear. Lou would definitely kill her if she ripped any documents. And now that she looked at it, she saw that this page looked a little different from the rest
of the folder—yellower, and kind of beat-up. And attached to other pages. She squished her face against the wall and saw that it was a book, the spine flattened against the wall (like her face). That poor book binding. This poor, dumb archive. The book gave a little when she pulled, but it was stuck fast. She put her shoulder to the case and leaned into it.

  Would she die under the weight of the fallen bookcase?

  Just as she was mentally preparing her obituary, the book came free.

  “Book” was maybe too generous. The pages were between browning cardboard covers, tied together with leather string. She opened it carefully. The neat, swirly script inside read Never You Mind, which appeared to be the title, and it was signed “R. Butcher.”

  R. Butcher? Helen racked her brain for why that name sounded familiar. Butcher was a pretty common name in some parts of Kentucky. Maybe this was something squirreled away from the historical society; there was an unspoken territorial war when it came to genealogical materials. There were no library markings on the book—no call number, no cataloging information, definitely no bar code. Lou probably didn’t even know how long it had been back there. The shelf had been there as long as Helen had, and the archives were located in the room that had been the original library.

  She flipped through a few pages of Never You Mind. For all Helen knew, it was one of Lou’s niece’s fake-Victorian poetry chapbooks; there were, remarkably, more than one. It didn’t look like poetry, though. It looked like a diary with dates and barely legible writing on some pages, and columns of names and numbers on others. She should look it up. Also, she should not be sitting on the dusty floor in black pants.

  She hopped up and brought the book over to the computer. She didn’t hold out much hope, but she started searching the catalog anyway.

  Before she could scroll through the Boolean nightmare that was Never You Mind, she heard people. People! In the archives! Who ever heard of such a thing!