by Jenny Jacobs
“Precisely,” Tess said in a fairly good imitation of Greta’s tone. “That’s my point, Greta. You haven’t cut loose in — wait, in all the time I’ve known you.” She grinned at Greta, but Greta knew her concern was serious. She also knew Tess would continue down this road unless Greta convinced her to stop.
“Oh, I’ve cut loose,” Greta said, a warning in her voice.
“You mean Paul?” Tess guessed, ignoring the warning.
Greta took an unsteady breath. Tess had no compunction about asking the most annoying personal questions. But something about the way she did it made you willing to answer the question. It was probably the knowledge that she’d keep asking if you didn’t, and the longer you went without answering the harder the questions started to get.
It was also because she cared, about the questions and the answers.
“Yes,” Greta said. There. That was the way to deal with Tess. Respond, but not elucidate. Eventually, she’d get tired of asking. Wouldn’t she? Greta tried to remember if Tess had ever quit in the teeth of opposition.
“So the last time you sort of … stopped being so controlled, you ended up with Paul.”
“Yes.” She bit her tongue. There. That was all she needed to admit.
“Yeah, that’d be enough to cure anyone of romantic impulses,” Tess said.
Greta frowned at her. “That’s not exactly how I would put it.” Tess waited. Greta struggled to define how she would put it, then gave up and said, “You’re right. My willingness to risk that part of myself is not the same as yours.”
“You gotta risk what you have to get something better,” Tess said.
“You sound like a get-rich-quick-in-real-estate infomercial,” Greta said disagreeably. She eyed her sister and tried to remember how she’d felt when Tess had first walked in the room. Thank heavens you’re back, she’d wanted to say. She wasn’t so sure at the moment.
“You just don’t want to admit I’m right.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re right,” Greta said. “I’m not a risk-taker. Not in my personal life anyway. I’m a lot more fragile than you are.”
“You always say that,” Tess said impatiently. “But you’re the toughest woman I know.”
Greta shook her head but didn’t respond. To respond, she would have to be more vulnerable than she wanted, to say that she was afraid she would not be able to tolerate another loss, that she was afraid another failure would make her shatter and she didn’t think she could pick up the pieces again. There had been so very many the last time and it had taken so long to gather them all together and to piece them back into a whole and to smooth the edges so no one could see where the breaks had happened. And she didn’t think the process had made her stronger, the way some people believed. It had made her aware of how fragile she truly was.
“I’ll be here,” Tess said gently. “To hold your coat while you wade in there and to pick you up when you land on your behind, and to say, ‘atta girl.’”
• • •
“But did you have to invite the lawyer to your wedding?” Ian asked, taking a sip of his root beer, keeping track of the Chiefs’ offensive drive out of the corner of his eye. He had Agnes firmly by the collar but she didn’t seem offended. In fact, her tail wagged happily and she leaned against his knee like a lovesick groupie. Probably hoping for more pad thai. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“I’ve gotta go with Ian on this one,” Tess said, from her place on the floor, looking up from the puzzle she was putting together with Belinda. Ian had known Belinda long enough to recognize the theme of the puzzle right off: Finding Nemo. He even knew the blue fish — he had no idea what species it was — was named Dory, and that Dory made Belinda laugh.
“Although you are my husband and I love, honor, cherish, and respect you — did I get it all in? — I have to support Ian’s position here,” Tess said.
“What’s wrong with Donald?” Michael asked, not looking away from the television, so completely oblivious to the nuances of the conversation that for the first time in his life, Ian thought disgustedly, Men. “Throw the ball!” Michael exclaimed. “Throw it! Why do they always run the ball?” He addressed the question to no one in particular. “Look at that. Yet another sack. Why do you care who was at the wedding?”
Ian pretended not to hear the question, leaning closer to the television as the chains were moved on the field. What on earth was he doing? Just because he was interested in Greta, he didn’t have to reveal that fact to the entire universe. What was wrong with him? He’d brought it on himself, he knew, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking the question. Because if Donald hadn’t been at the wedding, then Greta wouldn’t be going out with him and ergo — what? She’d be going out with Ian? Even he could see the gaping error in logic there. Yet somehow his frustration was not susceptible to logic.
“Greta’s been on a couple dates with Donald,” Tess said slyly, giving Ian a challenging look under her lashes.
“Yeah,” Michael said, oblivious to Tess’s subtext. An ad came on and he leaned back and looked at Tess. Then he smiled, because he always smiled when he looked at Tess. It was enough to make a man gag. “He called and asked for her number.”
“And you gave it?” Ian demanded. “Do you give her number out to every bozo who asks for it?”
“Donald is not a bozo.” Ian noted he had Michael’s full attention now. Michael had stopped looking at Tess, and he had also stopped grinning. “What’s biting you?” he asked, as if Ian were capable of explaining.
Ian leaned forward again, concentrating intensely on the ad for a nearby car dealership. He was provided with a luxury sedan as part of his employment contract — a man did not spend twenty years in the Army without developing a sense of how to negotiate for what you wanted — but maybe he needed a truck. This was a part of the country where men drove trucks.
“Ian?” Oh, now Michael was acting like a concerned friend. After Ian had already determined he was an idiot for bringing up the subject of the lawyer in the first place and wished everyone would let it drop.
“Never mind,” he muttered.
Fortunately, the game resumed then and Michael turned his attention back to the television. They watched in companionable silence for a few minutes. Tess looked at Michael, then Ian, then back to Michael again.
“You can’t just drop it!” she exclaimed. “He’s got to spill.”
“I said it was nothing,” Ian said. “I just don’t like him and I don’t think he’s good for Greta.” There. That sounded pompous but detached, didn’t it? No one would guess, would they?
Tess gave him a skeptical look but then Tess was skeptical about everything. For such a romantic soul, she was very cynical.
“She’ll hound you until you spill,” Michael said. Not as if it were a character flaw, just as if it were a fact Ian should be aware of.
“I’ve stood tougher questioning,” Ian said confidently. Which might have been why it took him all of ten minutes to surrender. He weakened at half-time, and by the start of the third quarter, he had revealed the terrible truth.
“I knew it,” Tess crowed. “But I have to say, so far you have not impressed me with your style.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” Ian muttered.
“You have a thing for Greta?” Michael demanded, his attention drawn away from the game.
“Try to follow along.”
Tess got to her feet and kissed Michael on the cheek, then said, “Don’t mind him. He’s just upset because he can’t get anywhere with Greta, and yet she goes out with Donald.”
“Greta?” Michael said again.
“What? You don’t think I’m good enough for her?” Ian knew he sounded belligerent and defensive. He also knew he couldn’t help himself because that was exactly how he felt.
“Th
at’s not it,” Michael said hastily. “You’re great for her. You’re great for anyone. Just … Greta?”
“What’s wrong with Greta?” Tess demanded, glaring at her newly wedded husband. Thankful to have the heat on his friend, not himself, Ian grinned and said, “Yeah, what’s wrong with Greta?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Greta. You just don’t seem her type,” Michael said, wincing as Tess elbowed him in the ribs. Belinda looked up from her puzzle, glancing from Michael to Tess. Then she smiled and said, “Stay on Greta’s good side.”
Tess smiled back at her daughter and said, “You bet.” She glanced at Ian and explained, “We made that rule when Greta hurt her knee and we didn’t want to accidentally bump it.”
“Then we realized getting on Greta’s good side was a great rule even when she’s not injured,” Michael said, and Tess elbowed him in the ribs again, before turning to Ian and saying, “I think you’d be terrific together.” Then her face turned serious and she said, “Look, Ian. Greta’s got her reasons for shying off. So you have to — well, you have to let her be in control, okay? Let her initiate things.”
“She’s not going to initiate anything with me,” Ian said glumly. He was a man; he could face the truth. He might not like it, but he could handle it.
“Oh, I have faith in you,” Tess said, leaning forward like she was going to pat his hand or something, good grief, but she stopped herself in time. “I haven’t seen her this bent out of shape in, well, ever.” She gave him an encouraging smile, like Greta’s being bent out of shape was a good thing. He failed to see how that could be true.
“She won’t even talk to me.” He was feeling morose now, not to mention enormously embarrassed to be talking to Michael’s wife like this. Next he would be sharing his emotions. And how do you feel about that, Ian? Well, let me tell you how I feel. If he hadn’t already retired from the Army, they’d have to kick him out for conduct unbecoming.
“Listen,” Tess said. “You just plant the idea and let her make the move. Let her know you’re interested, but don’t be aggressive. Easy, gentle. You can manage that.”
“I can?”
“You can.”
“But how do I get to the point where she’ll listen to me planting the idea?”
“I’ll work on that.”
“You will?”
“I’m just returning a favor,” Tess said, and Ian suspected if Greta saw Tess’s smile, she would not like it one bit.
Chapter Ten
“Greta?”
Greta sighed, wishing she’d checked the caller i.d. screen before answering. Didn’t she know better by now? Tess was out of the office, so she couldn’t hand the phone over to her. What could Ian possibly want now? Hadn’t she given him everything he wanted? Hadn’t she explained that Michael and Tess would finish putting his house together for him? What, then, required him to call her and ruffle her up?
“Yes?” she responded in her most patient tone.
“There’s a paperhanger here.”
“I’m sure there is,” Greta said, although just because she’d arranged it didn’t mean the paperhanger would show up when he promised. Working with contractors in the field had made her distrustful of promises.
“But which paper goes where?”
“It’s clearly indicated — ”
She heard Ian fumble with the phone. Now an unfamiliar voice came on the line.
“Miz Ferguson? I’ve got three patterns here, not quite sure what goes where.”
Hadn’t Tess written a list and given it to him? Of course she had. “Hold on a minute.” She knew he would charge her — or actually Ian — for the time he sat waiting, even though he had been given clear instructions. She found her copy of the neatly written list. “All right. The asparagus fern wallpaper goes into the bedroom. The master bedroom.”
“Which one is the asparagus fern?”
“The one that says ‘asparagus fern’ on the label,” Greta said, not bothering to keep the bite of sarcasm out of her voice.
“None of them have labels.”
They would have had labels when Tess had handed them over. He’d probably opened them and thrown away the wrappings before verifying what he was supposed to do. Or else Tess had. But why would she do a thing like that?
Find a new paperhanger. Greta made the note in her planner. She could describe the wallpaper over the phone but that didn’t guarantee it wouldn’t end up in the hallway instead of the master bedroom. Long experience in the field had also taught her not to overestimate any contractor’s competence.
“Put Mr. Blake on the phone,” she said. A moment later she heard his voice. “I don’t understand how my clear instructions could be misunderstood, but I’ll be over in a few minutes to make certain that everything is done correctly.”
“I’d sure appreciate it, ma’am. I’m afraid, left to our own devices, we would make a mess of your excellent plan.”
“Don’t overdo it, Ian,” she said. “Or I’ll order red velvet flocked wallpaper for your dining room and make you live with it.”
He laughed. “Thanks, Greta,” he said in a more natural way. His thanks made her feel obscurely better, like he really appreciated her, and since no one else seemed to, she was vulnerable. She relented a little and said, “The flowers you sent are lovely.” She hadn’t, despite her vow, thrown them away. “You needn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“No trouble,” Ian said. “You remind me of tiger lilies.”
“I remind you of tiger lilies?” Should she be flattered or outraged? Whatever happened to comparing a woman to a summer’s day — or at least a red, red rose? But tiger lilies? What did that mean? “Never mind, I don’t want to know. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Before she left the house, Greta found the curtains that Tess had finished and brought them to the car. She might as well make the trip do double duty so that she wouldn’t have to go back again. Or at least not soon. Or at least not without a fight. Tess was supposed to be running interference. She had promised it as a condition of taking on Ian as a client. But where was she? Was she answering the phone, jumping when he said so, serving at his beck and call? No. She was probably getting kissed by her carpenter.
Some women have all the luck, Greta thought.
It took only a few minutes to drive to Ian’s house. She parked at the curb, the driveway having been taken up by the paperhanger’s truck. The driveway was large enough for both his truck and her car but he had parked smack in the middle in the charming, clueless way of contractors everywhere. But she had already made the note to find a new paperhanger so she wasn’t going to bother bringing it up to him.
She gathered up the curtains and hardware and carted them up the walk. She tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for Ian to come to the front door. Shouldn’t he be expecting her? How was I’ll see you in a bit confusing?
“Hello, Greta,” he said, opening the door and stepping back to let her in. He had a smile for her, and approving gray eyes, and the fight went right out of her, which was the most irritating thing. He was fully dressed and freshly shaved, and appeared considerably more alert than he’d been the last time she’d seen him in the morning. A pity. She wouldn’t have minded tormenting him a little. “The paperhanger’s in the kitchen drinking my coffee. What’s that?”
“Curtains for the home theater room. Tess finished them yesterday, since you are a priority client. I may as well put them up as long as I have to be here.” His smile broadened as she spoke, which meant he thought she was being overbearing, so she turned it up a notch. “Can I trust you to bring these upstairs and place them gently on the recliner, without wrinkling them, while I talk to the paperhanger?”
“I believe I am just the man for that mission,” he said, divesting her of the curtains and rods and trotting up the stairs with them.
“No wrinkles!” she called up after him, but he either didn’t hear her or ignored her. She could guess which it was. For some reason, that made her smile.
Shaking her head, she walked into the kitchen and talked to the paperhanger. Tess didn’t normally make simple mistakes like failing to tell a contractor what to do, but newlyweds weren’t the most reliable creatures on the planet. Neither, though, were paperhangers. Greta supposed she shouldn’t jump to conclusions about who was at fault.
“And I know how you feel about getting things wrong,” the paperhanger said, wrapping up his defense. “So I didn’t dare — I mean, I didn’t want to mix them up and then end up having to do everything all over again.”
When she was through and the paperhanger had gone out to his truck to collect his tools, she walked upstairs to the home theater room to put up the curtains. She had tried out various handymen for their curtain-hanging ability but none were as good at it as she was, because she cared about little things, like getting the curtain rod level. So she hung them herself whenever it was practical, and disclaimed all responsibility when it wasn’t.
Ian had draped the curtains carefully over the back of the recliner, fabric meticulously smoothed, hems perfectly aligned. Ah. The Army influence. Or else his really annoying sense of humor. Well, good for him. Now he wouldn’t have wrinkled curtains hanging from the rod. Not that he would notice one way or the other; it wasn’t the kind of thing most men could see even when it was pointed out to them.
“Do you have a stepladder or a stepstool?” she asked him. “And would you mind getting the tool box from my car? I didn’t have enough hands to bring it in.” Also she disliked carrying it around because no matter how careful she was, just handling it always managed to make her pantsuit dirty.
“What do you need? A drill and a screwdriver? I have those here.”
“Yes. And a pencil for marking the placement. Oh, and don’t forget the level.”
“Coming right up,” Ian said, leaving the room and returning a few minutes later with the requested items. They were all suspiciously shiny, even the stepladder, like he had just bought them but hadn’t had the opportunity to use them yet. Which was probably exactly true. She imagined he’d lived in bachelor quarters his entire military life, with someone else responsible for repairs and update. She very much doubted he had ever hung curtains in his life.
