Renovating the Richardsons

by Virginia Smith

  “It’s my back that’s hurt, not the rest of me.” He put on his most obstinate expression.

  “Fine.” She waved a hand in the air. “Leave your pants on, but the shirt comes off. Lie face-down on the table and cover up with that sheet. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  Alone in the room, Thomas stood where he was and considered his options. Should he leave now and put an end to this awkward situation? The sharp pain in his back indicated some sort of damage, probably a tweaked muscle. If he were back home in Paducah he would phone his doctor. Here, he’d be forced to choose someone out of the phone book or go to a walk-in clinic. Certainly there were none of those here in Goose Creek, which meant he’d have to make the forty-minute drive to Lexington. At the idea of sitting in a car for even a few minutes, the pain intensified.

  Since he was already here…

  Moving cautiously, he unbuttoned and removed his shirt and then climbed up on the table. The faint odor of honeysuckle filled the air when he unfolded the sheet and awkwardly draped it over his body. A round cushion with a hole in the center provided support for his head while allowing him to breathe. When he achieved a prone position, the muscles all over his back convulsed as they adjusted to the new arrangement. He lay still, breath caught in his lungs, and waited for the pain to subside.

  “Are you ready?” Tuesday’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  “I suppose.”

  The door opened and closed, though his range of vision was limited to a two-foot radius directly beneath his face. Her feet—still bare and bearing signs of her yard work—appeared. A hand touched the middle of his back, warm and gentle.

  “Relax, Thomas. You’re so tight I’m surprised you can move at all.” Her fingers slid across his back to his shoulder blade and began to rub in a circular motion.

  “The pain is lower.”

  “I know, but first I’m going to work the surrounding area. Working the sore place won’t do any good if the rest of your back is rigid. It’ll only put pressure on the injured muscle.” She tapped his shoulder. “Really, try to relax. You’re all tensed up.”

  His shoulders were tense. Until she mentioned it, he hadn’t realized how stiffly he held himself. With an effort, he forced his muscles to loosen.

  “That’s better. Ooh, here’s a bad one.” The pressure increased, and a muscle inside his shoulder blade jumped as her fingers pushed across it. “You must have a really stressful job. What do you do?”

  “I’m the vice president of investments at a bank in Paducah.”

  “I figured it was something important like that. You don’t get muscles this tight flipping burgers.” She changed positions and her hands found another knot, which she began to massage.

  Though there were stresses aplenty at the bank, his biggest cause for tension lately was a motorcycle-riding handyman with designs on his daughter. But he wasn’t about to discuss his private business.

  She fell silent, which suited him fine. This situation was awkward enough without the burden of conversing with someone with whom he had nothing in common. He closed his eyes, listening to the combination of soft music and the gentle trickle of water. Remarkably relaxing, actually. Maybe he should consider getting a water feature for his house when he moved here.

  Interesting how his muscles truly did relax as she massaged them. Already his shoulders felt less tense, and the pain in his lower back had diminished. That might be attributed to lying prone and not moving, but without a doubt Tuesday was a skilled masseuse. Not that he had any prior experiences with which to compare.

  As her ministrations crept lower on his back, he set his teeth in anticipation of the moment when she would reach the painful area. Her touch became feather-soft as she probed. Within seconds she honed in on the injured muscle.

  “Is this the place?”

  “Yes. Be careful, please.”

  She kneaded with increasing pressure, and though definitely painful, her actions were surprisingly gentle. And effective. He almost felt the rigid muscle unlock and could not suppress a soft, “Ahhh.”

  “Feels good, huh?”

  “Not good.” He wasn’t ready to go that far. “But beneficial.”

  “Told you so.” Her giggle blended with the relaxing music, not nearly as irritating as before.

  Several comebacks came to mind, but he held his tongue and continued to enjoy the relaxing effect of the massage.

  By the time she finished with his back, the stabbing pain had been reduced to a dull ache. She removed her hands, and a surprising wave of regret flooded him. Was his massage over already? He felt the sheet being lifted from his feet.

  “Thomas! You’re still wearing your shoes,” she scolded.

  “My feet are fine.” He lifted his head from the cushioned headrest, preparatory to climbing off the table.

  “You may think so, but I studied reflexology in massage school. Certain areas of your feet are linked to other parts of your body. A foot massage can release endorphins that help with pain.”

  She tugged his shoe off. Normally he would have resisted, but just then he felt so relaxed he wasn’t eager to end the massage. His sock was peeled off as well.

  “Would you look at that?”

  “What?” He lifted his head and craned his neck to look over his shoulder.

  “I thought you held all your stress in your shoulders, but I was wrong.” She giggled again. “Your toes are curled up tighter than a scared roly-poly bug.”

  Indignant, he said, “They are not,” as he willed his toes to unclench.

  “Yeah? Lookie here.” She came around to the head of the table and thrust a sock into view. She’d inserted her hand, and pink skin showed through a worn place in the tip. “I’ll bet you go through a lot of socks.”

  He would have argued, but the truth was he did have a tendency to wear holes in his socks, a fact that he had never actively realized and found somehow embarrassing.

  “Don’t worry.” His other shoe and sock were removed. “Just lie back and let me do my work.” She sat on the stool, rolled it to the end of the table, and grasped one foot with a firm grip.

  At first the endorphin story sounded to Thomas like zen-ified mumbo-jumbo, something for which he had zero patience. But after a few moments he decided there may have been something to the theory. Such an intense relaxation seized him while Tuesday worked on his feet that he found himself dozing off. Even his back stopped throbbing for the duration of the massage.

  When she finished, she helped him sit up and placed his shoes and socks beside him, then stood back as he put them on. “You need to drink plenty of water today to flush all the toxins I’ve worked out of your muscles. And put ice on that back. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off.”

  “Yes, doctor.” The good-natured response surprised him even as he uttered it. His mood was much lighter. Endorphins, perhaps? He looked her directly in the eye and poured sincerity into his voice. “Thank you. I feel much better.”

  “You won’t be thanking me tomorrow. The way I worked you over, you’re gonna feel like somebody walloped you.”

  “How much do I owe you?” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

  “Not a cent. The first time’s on the house.” She grinned and fluttered her eyelashes. “Actually, my door’s open any time you want to come back.”

  At the blatantly flirtatious gesture, his previous discomfort returned. Though the woman obviously possessed a measure of skill in her chosen profession, he had no desire to encourage her personal attentions.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Contrary to the words, his tone left no doubt that he would not return. He slid his wallet back into his pocket. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the animal clinic.”

  One thing was certain. He would not pursue his idea of putting up the new gate. Leave the manual labor to Hinkle, who was accustomed to toiling and sweating in the hot sun.

  Chapter Seven

  Susan leaned against the fenc
e and watched the sun glisten on the exposed strip of skin on the back of Justin’s neck while he worked.

  “He was acting really odd.”

  Using both hands, he cranked a wrench and the rusty bolt turned with a screech. “In what way?”

  “I don’t know.” She hooked a finger through the chain link and searched for words to describe Daddy’s behavior. “When he first got here, he was obstinate. Insisted that I cancel our plans tonight and go over the clinic’s weekly financial activity.”

  “Well, there you go.” The last bolt removed, he grasped the gate with hands encased in thick work gloves and lifted it out of the frame. “You broke the cardinal rule. You chose me over him.”

  Though he turned one of his charming grins on her, the truth of the words still stung. Why couldn’t the two most important people in her life get along?

  “Does there have to be a choice?” A pout crept into her voice. “Surely he doesn’t expect me to spend every minute with him for the rest of my life.”

  He carried the crooked gate a few steps away and tossed it in the grass. “That’s exactly what he expects. He’s quitting his job and moving here to make sure you do.” Extracting a razor knife from his tool belt, he knelt on the grass and sliced into the box to free the replacement.

  “You make him sound like a tyrant or something.”

  “Not at all. He’s a father who’s having a hard time of letting go, that’s all. And you’re having a hard time pulling away.”

  The words, though undoubtedly innocently spoken, fell on Susan like blows. “Is that what you think? That I’m overly dependent?”

  Justin’s face jerked toward her, and his expression softened. He rose, tossed the box cutter on the ground, and came to where she stood. Taking her gently by the shoulders, he pulled her into a hug. “That’s not what I meant. I think your relationship with your dad is beautiful. I wish my father had been less dedicated to his job and more committed to me and my kid brother.”

  Inhaling the combination of scents that were uniquely Justin’s—grass, the earthy aroma of rich soil, the lingering hint of soap, even a musky touch of sweat—Susan allowed herself to release some of the pent-up emotion that had grown all afternoon since Daddy disappeared from the clinic. “I must have really upset him. He left without even saying goodbye.”

  “Suz, listen to me.” Justin pulled back to look her in the eye. “Sooner or later we’re going to have to face a hard truth. Your father doesn’t like me.”

  “When he gets to know you he will.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve tried, and I’ll keep on trying, but the fact is he thinks I’m not good enough for his little girl.” A dimple carved the tanned skin beside his mouth, and her stomach flip-flopped. “Actually, he’s right about that.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “He may never thaw enough to like me. If we keep going with this relationship, he’ll blame me for taking his daughter away from him. He’ll probably end up hating me.”

  Though she would like to disagree, a dismal truth rang in his words. A lump formed in her throat around which her breath felt ragged.

  “My biggest fear,” he whispered, holding her eyes in a gaze that let her peek into his soul, “is that his disapproval will end up damaging your feelings for me down the road.”

  Fighting tears, she shook her head. “That won’t happen.”

  He placed a finger on her lips. “Never say never, Suz. He’s your dad. You need to decide if you can handle living with a conflict that may never end.”

  Leaning forward, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead and then returned to his work.

  Any answer she might have made lodged behind the lump in her throat.

  Jerry pitched his voice to carry across the pasture where the softball players milled, waiting for the second practice to begin. “All right, everyone gather around home plate.”

  The number of onlookers had increased. At least two dozen folding chairs lined the fencerow, several blankets spread out picnic-style between them. That could mean the townsfolk had decided to rally around the team, or it might be that word of their incompetency had spread and everyone wanted a good laugh on a Saturday evening. Chiding himself for the dire thought, Jerry forced a pleasant expression as his team assembled.

  Little Norm stomped on the scuffed-up polyurethane square. “Where’d we get real bases and stuff?”

  “Justin borrowed them from the high school over in Frankfort.” Jerry nodded his thanks at Justin.

  “Better’n chalk,” observed Junior. “We’re startin’ to look like a real ball team.”

  While he wouldn’t go that far, Jerry didn’t correct the man. He glanced around for Al. “Do you have my chart?”

  Holding a shiny metal clipboard with the price sticker still stuck to the back, Al retrieved the chart from a thin stack of papers and handed it over. The team gathered behind Jerry to see.

  “I’ve worked up our positions. In left field we’ll have Sharon, Paul will take center, and Dr. Susan will cover right field.”

  The veterinarian looked faintly sick, but when Justin awarded her an encouraging smile, she managed a nod.

  “In the infield we’ll have Little Norm on the pitcher’s mound and Fred as catcher. Junior will play shortstop, as agreed.”

  The man stuck his thumbs beneath the straps of his overalls and puffed his bare chest.

  “Alice will cover third and Chuck second. And I’ll be on first, at least until I can recruit someone else.” He folded the chart and handed it back to Al, who secured it on his clipboard. “If you know someone who wants to play, encourage them to join us.”

  He scanned the spectators, ready to call out anyone who looked the slightest bit competent. At the end of the line nearest home plate, Franklin Thacker reclined in a lawn chair making notes on a pad of paper. Catching Jerry’s glance, he waved a pen in the air. Apparently their talk this morning hadn’t been completely successful. Well, at least he wasn’t tapping on his tablet. If he stayed on the sidelines and kept his mouth shut, maybe nobody would notice.

  He turned back to his team. “Okay, everyone take your positions. Justin is going to hit some balls for us.”

  They dispersed. Jerry fought a wave of irritation at Junior’s sauntering gait toward the baseline between second and third. A puff of dust kicked up when he turned on his boot heel and planted his feet.

  Wait. Boot heel?

  Yes, the Goose Creek shortstop had chosen to wear heavy work boots to practice. Biting back a groan, Jerry made a mental note to discuss proper footwear before he dismissed the team this evening.

  Al set a bucket of softballs near home plate, and Justin stepped into the batter’s box. “First we’re going to practice fielding the ball just as we’d do in a real game. I’m the batter. Everyone ready?”

  “No! Wait!”

  The shout came from behind Jerry. He turned to see the veterinarian running toward the infield.

  “I forgot to get a glove,” she said as she ran past him.

  Another groan arose in his throat, which he did not suppress since no one could hear him. Justin helped her select a glove from the plastic tote and awarded her an encouraging smile.

  When she had returned to right field, she waved and shouted, “I’m ready.”

  On the other side of the fence, Jerry’s wife had selected a place near first base from which to watch the practice. As he turned, he caught her eye. With a crowd of his constituents watching he didn’t dare scowl or do anything else to reflect his gloomy attitude, but Cindie knew him well. She folded her hands as if in prayer and then gave an encouraging thumbs-up.

  “All right,” Justin shouted. “Get ready. Here comes the first batter.”

  He began with a line drive straight to Little Norm, who caught it with no problem. The next ball went to Alice, who snagged it out of the air. Jerry caught the next and made a show of stomping on the base. The next went over Chuck’s head and though he backed up, the ball bounced a few yards beh
ind him. Paul ran forward from centerfield to scoop it up and cocked his arm back to throw it to second. But second base stood empty. Where was their shortstop? Junior stood on the baseline, feet planted as if rooted in place. Did Junior even know what a shortstop was supposed to do? Instead Paul lobbed it to Chuck, who whirled and made a show of tagging an invisible runner.

  “Good fieldwork,” Justin called. “Uh, Junior? Next time Chuck has to leave his base, you run over there and cover second for him, okay?”

  The man pounded a fist into his glove and nodded. “Sure thing.” He turned toward Chuck. “Gotcha covered, buddy.”

  “Okay, let’s try some long ones.” Justin lifted his head and projected his voice. “Get ready, Suz. This one’s coming to you.”

  The bat hit the softball with a solid whack. Impressed with Justin’s aim, Jerry watched the ball arc through the air above him and descend toward Dr. Susan’s position. Raising her glove in the air, a look of sheer panic erupted on the girl’s face. As the ball dropped toward her, she hunched down and planted her glove on her head like a hat. The ball bounced two feet to her right. The onlookers released a collective sigh.

  “It’s okay,” Justin shouted. “We’ll work on that.”

  Jerry sought his wife’s gaze, but she had her eyes scrunched shut in a wince. The beginnings of a headache twinged, and he pinched the skin between his eyebrows to relieve the pressure. Only seven practices left before the game.

  Chapter Eight

  Do you have a minute, Mrs. Richardson?”

  Millie tore her attention from the men destroying her beautiful parlor to look at Justin. He’d come through the back door and stood in the magnificent entry hall, dark hair full of sawdust. At the sight of his cautious expression and tight fists, a frightful uneasiness overtook her. What now?

  “Of course. I’m not doing anything helpful here.” She cringed as one of the demolition crew hefted a sledgehammer and struck through the wall. He could exhibit a little less enthusiasm, as far as she was concerned. “I hope there’s nothing wrong.”