He remembered his car, his pride and joy, at the mercy of Cecil’s clan, and stumbled.
He stifled the urge to toss off the entire day and go rescue his car immediately. One lap down, twenty-five to go.
Besides, what could they really do to his car?
Two laps later, he’d thought of a half-dozen things they could do to the exterior alone. That hard, red finish would be a prime target for anything from graffiti to Tic-Tac-Toe. They could slash the tires, the rag top...
He was being ridiculous. Of course they wouldn’t do any of those things. They might be brats, but they weren’t delinquents.
Five laps. He concentrated on the people in the weight rooms flanking the track, his eyes trained on the males as he ran one side and the females as he completed the circle. Overhead, speakers amplified a bland male voice as it encouraged those on the machines, “Ready, begin.” Sixty seconds and three-quarters of a lap later, “You’re halfway through.” And then, “Finished. Move to the next machine.” And like sweating automatons, the club’s patrons, male and female alike, abandoned one gleaming instrument of torture and moved on to the next. A completed circuit was supposed to work every muscle in the body.
Jeff swiped the sweat out of his eyes. Not for him such lunacy. Of course, he was nobody to talk. He’d paid through the nose for a health club that boasted saunas, a lap pool, three weight rooms and an aerobic area—all of which he ignored to run two miles, three times a week, like a mindless rat on a treadmill. White Rock Lake would be closer, cheaper, more scenic. He grabbed his side and forced the air into his lungs. In, out. In, out. One foot in front of the other.
But who gave a damn about scenic when it was raining or, worse, sleeting? Who needed fresh air? He didn’t. Besides, he thought, rounding the north end of the track for the twelfth time. Here he knew exactly where two miles ended. Not one step too many, not one step too few. From the first day he’d forced himself to finish the entire run, and again on the second, when his aching muscles had made it even worse. Two years, and he hadn’t missed a run or shortchanged a lap.
Thirteen down, thirteen to go.
Two years, and his lung capacity had increased, his waist had slimmed, and his color had improved.
Six hundred twenty-four miles later, he still wasn’t sure it was worth it.
The slender woman in front of him wore red shorts. He didn’t usually notice things like that by this point in his run, but it was the exact shade of red as his car. His baby. His pride and joy.
He forced his fists to relax. Only ten more laps. He tried to unclench his jaw. But instead of red nylon, he was seeing the immaculate red finish of his car. Scratched by a bicycle, or perhaps a dog’s claws. His windshield shattered by a stray baseball.
A quarter way through the fourteenth lap, he did an abrupt U-turn and headed for the stairs, swerving around the scowling runners now headed straight toward him.
Four minutes later, damp from his shower, he tugged on his jeans. As he zipped up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His stomach was definitely flatter, even without sit-ups. But why was he noticing such a thing at this late date?
He tugged a knit shirt over his head and slipped on a poplin jacket, shoving his sweaty running gear into his duffel bag, ready to make a mad dash for Cecil’s and his car.
Another glance in the mirror revealed his hair, still wet, pressed against his head. He snatched a towel out of his bag and rubbed it halfway dry. After all, he couldn’t afford to catch some damned virus. He had taxes to figure, forms to fill. Again he grabbed his bag and headed for the door.
He stopped to comb his hair, and tried to convince himself it was the general public he was trying to impress.
Certainly not Cecilia Evans.
Never in a million years.
~o0o~
Humming along with the radio, Cecilia grabbed a wicker basket of magazines from the floor beside the easy chair and unceremoniously dumped them onto the coffee table. Methodically she gathered the baseball cards, Hot Wheels and army men into the basket, stifling a curse when her bare foot landed on a plastic bayonet.
The basket was almost full but the carpet still littered, when she noticed Peter in the doorway. “You really told that jerk off, didn’t you?”
“I’d rather not discuss it,” she muttered, spying Yu Darvish’s grinning image under the sofa. She dropped to her knees to retrieve the card.
“I thought you were sick.”
“I am.” She thrust the basket into his hands. “Dump this mess in Brad’s toy box, and come back for more.” Then, after a second thought, she lifted Yu from the top of the pile. “He deserves better,” she explained, slipping the picture of the cute pitcher’s grinning face into her back pocket.
When Peter returned, she tossed two more handfuls of boyish collectibles into the basket. “You finish the floor while I get the vacuum.”
“If you’re sick, why don’t you go to bed?” Peter demanded.
“Mothers don’t go to bed. They just keep on truckin’.”
“Mom!”
Something in the tone of his voice stopped her in midstride. She pivoted, resting one hand on the door frame.
“Why are you wearing makeup?”
She flushed. “I just felt like it.”
Peter snorted his disbelief, but began snatching the toys from the floor. Cecilia retrieved the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet.
Peter met her in the doorway. The floor was clean. Even the magazines were back in their basket. “Thanks,” she said, planting a kiss on his forehead.
“Do you want me to vacuum?”
“No, no... you run on and play.” She stooped to plug in the Hoover.
“I’m going to ride my bike, unless you want me to stay and keep the kids out of your hair.”
She rose slowly and turned, digging her fingers into the small of her back. But her mind wasn’t on her backache. Instead she stared at her eldest son in surprise. The kids? Didn’t he consider himself one of them? Sadly she noticed the solemn expression in his gray eyes. Of all of them, the divorce had seemed to affect him the least, and had, of course, affected him the most.
“No, Peter,” she answered slowly. “I’ll be all right. You go off and play with your friends. I’ll keep Brad and Anne-Elizabeth here with me. Don’t you have soccer practice this afternoon?”
Peter shrugged. “Coach called and said to be there at one, but with that jerks’s car blocking ours, I figured I’d have to miss.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be there. Now go on and play, okay?”
His shoulders relaxed. “Okay.”
“Peter.” She chucked him under the chin. “You’re a good kid. A pain in the neck sometimes, but a good kid.”
“Oh, yeah? I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.” He couldn’t hide his grin as he dashed through the front door and down the steps.
She steeled herself for the coming encounter with Jefferson Smith. Just let him collect his car and check out of her life. That was all she asked, just a simple ending to a very complicated thirty-six hours.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. She counted to ten, walked calmly down the hall and fluffed the curls around her face before opening the door.
“Hello.” She smiled, her tone cool and polite, just as she’d practiced. “Would you like to come in?”
Jeff shifted his toolbox impatiently from one hand to the other. “No, thanks. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll see what I can do to my alternator and get my car out of your way.” His voice matched hers.
He bounced down the steps, and she watched the way his hips moved as he crossed the yard; watched the easy way his shoulders strained as he dropped his large toolbox in the grass, then ran a hand lovingly down the length of the car. She caught herself watching and slammed the door.
For the next hour Cecilia paced through the house, squinting through various front windows to check on Jeff’s progress. For ten minutes, she sat on the edge of Peter’s immaculate desk
, propping her elbow on the computer she’d never tried to figure out, and gazed down on the top of Jeff’s glossy brown head. She wasn’t the only one drawn to watch his activities. Jeff was surrounded by curious neighborhood boys who had stopped by to examine his classic ’57 Thunderbird throughout the day.
She noticed the studious effort it took for him to avoid talking to his audience. Instead he trained all his attention on his car. As the arrangement of screws, tools and parts grew in a very carefully laid-out sweep beside the car, Cecilia fretted that he would never be able to reassemble the jigsaw puzzle.
Enough of this nonsense, Cecilia, she ordered herself. She flipped on the vacuum cleaner and zigzagged it over the carpet.
She was shuffling through the jungle of military and sports paraphernalia that served as furnishings for Brad’s bedroom, fighting the urge to peek through the camouflage curtains at Jeff’s wide shoulders straining beneath his damp T-shirt, when the phone rang.
Her cell phone went to voice mail before she could scramble across the littered floor then down the hall to her own bedroom, dig through two discarded purses and one pair of jeans to find it. She hit redial.
“Hey, Toots, that you?”
She would have sighed if she’d had any breath left. “Hi, Stan.”
“You didn’t forget about tonight, did you?”
“How could I forget cash from your sweaty hand to mine?”
“Why couldn’t I have found a songbird who sang for love?”
“Why couldn’t I have found a band that paid decent wages?” she countered, chuckling in spite of herself. “Okay, Stan. I’ll be there, but I may be running a little late.”
“Sure thing, toots. We’ll be instrumental background for the first set, anyway. See ya then.”
She winced as she hung up the phone. Her back ached, her neck felt as though it had been carrying a double yoke for at least four furlongs, and spending another Saturday night providing wallpaper music for a well-fed assembly of celebrating executives and their wives held no appeal.
When the doorbell chimed, she was relieved to be spared her own self-pity, even if it was only to confront Jefferson Smith one more time. One last time, she reminded herself firmly, and tried to feel good about it.
She opened the door and, sure enough, Jeff was waiting for her, his hair ruffled, a black smudge on a high cheekbone and a general expression of relief on his even features. “I just wanted you to know I’m finished.” His hands were smeared with grease halfway up his forearms. “I hate to bother you again, but...”
“You need to wash up.” Cecilia hesitated two beats longer than seemed polite. She swung the door open wide and stepped out of his way. “The bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” she instructed, then flushed. “You remember.”
He flashed a smile, his dimples bracketing his mouth with rakish charm. “I remember.” Holding his hands aloft like a surgeon awaiting gloves, he lifted his eyebrows. “I think you’d better go with me, unless you want grease all over everything.”
“No, I certainly don’t want grease all over everything,” she agreed, thinking of the time she’d already spent scrubbing the bathroom that very morning.
She flipped on the bathroom light, reached across him and turned on the faucet. “You may as well stand there a minute.” She sighed. “These cranky pipes give hot water when they’re good and ready.”
She stood awkwardly as Jeff’s gaze scanned the spacious L-shaped bathroom, skimming the ancient tile, the original pedestal sink, a chaise lounge beneath the narrow stained glass window.
His eyes stopped at the tub around the corner. Gleaming red, the antique-style tub stood on gnarled brass claw feet and sprouted brass handles and faucets.
“Nice touch,” he said, grinning.
Cecilia leaned against the wall, wondering why she should feel so pleased at his approval. “You really like it? Robert almost killed me for buying it. I blew the whole bathroom budget on that one fixture.” She pointed at the running faucet. “Hence the faulty plumbing.”
“I can picture it in the winter, hot and steamy, maybe a little bubble bath, perfect for soaking.”
She shrugged. “Robert would have preferred a whirlpool. Roomier, and massage included.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He propped his hip against the sink, his brown eyes twinkling. “I can think of more intriguing ways to stir up the water than jet sprays.”
“I’ll bet.” Turning her back to him, she grabbed a bar of heavy-duty soap and an old washcloth from the cabinet above the toilet. A quick adjustment and the water was hot enough to melt grease without scalding his skin, and she moved halfway out the door. “If you need anything else just holler.” She hid her smirk from him. “And don’t forget to clean up after yourself.”
When Jeff finally emerged, his hair was damp around his freshly scrubbed face, his T-shirt had several wet splotches on it and his hands still bore a fine greasy residue under the nails. It seemed as if he were peeling off years every time she saw him, and it was all she could do not to send him back to the bathroom to wash off the smudge he’d missed near his left ear. His gaze lowered to her car keys.
“Sorry I had you blocked all day. The kids said you had someplace to go.”
At that moment Peter came whizzing into the driveway on his ten-speed. He managed to get it onto the porch, lock it to the brick post and push past his mother’s visitor without looking once in Jeff’s direction.
“Come on, Mom, we’re going to be late.” Peter retrieved a soccer ball from under an azalea bush and herded his siblings toward the minivan with ungentle pushes.
Cecilia locked the door and made as if to follow, but Jeff stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. He splayed two fingers and touched the shadows beneath her eyes. “You ought to be in bed.”
Her breath lodged in her throat. She stepped back, breaking the contact, but still he hovered above her.
“Have you gotten any rest at all today?”
“Yes, of course.” And she wasn’t really lying, not exactly. She had lain on the floor listening to her full Streisand playlist, calling it research, when actually it had been a desperate attempt to shore up her energies before plunging back into the housework. But that was the way her life was these days. Every moment had to be justified. Every activity had to have a purpose, or else she was eaten alive by the guilt of knowing how much remained to be done.
She stared up into Jeff’s sable-fringed, gold-flecked eyes. He was so much more accessible now that he was clothed in faded jeans and a T-shirt rather than custom-tailored silk. The accountant may not have totally transformed into a mechanic, but the blend was strangely comfortable. It was difficult to remember why she had been so angry with him; was it only this morning?
The horn honked. “I’ve got to go,” she muttered, and he allowed her to pass in front of him. All the way to the car she was conscious of his easy strides following her. She slid into the driver’s seat of the minivan, and Jeff was there to shut the door.
“Take care,” he said, then walked back toward his own car.
“Everybody buckled in?” Cecilia checked the kids in the back seat, and ended up watching Jeff swing his lean body into the low sports car. Not shabby, she thought with a twinge of regret. Not shabby at all. She sighed and snapped her own belt closed, then pumped the pedal and turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, and pumped harder on the accelerator. Still nothing. “Don’t tell me...” She rubbed the back of her neck. One more time…and one more nothing. Not a grind, not a groan, certainly not a purr like the one coming from Jeff’s jewel of a car.
And then he was beside her again, bending over her. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she answered in clipped tones.
“Maybe you’d better let me have a look at it.”
“No, no. You have things to do. I’ll take care of it.” He really must think she was incompetent, or in dire need of a keeper. She
certainly didn’t want to owe him anything else.
Jeff looked intently at the dashboard. “Open the door,” he commanded.
Cecilia opened it without enthusiasm and watched in dismay as he reached in and punched the headlight control; it clicked off.
“You must have left them on after you drove home in the rain yesterday.”
Cecilia looked from his amused face to Peter’s crushed expression. Following her gaze, Jeff sighed. “Where’s he supposed to be?”
“At soccer practice,” Brad piped up from the back seat. “And he’s gonna be late.”
Jeff expelled a deep breath. “Okay, kiddo, hop in my car. I’ll take you.” Peter started to argue, but Jeff had already headed back to his car.
“Go ahead, Peter. It’s okay,” Cecilia urged, attempting to conceal her frustration.
“I don’t want to.” His young jaw was set with a determination reminiscent of her own.
“Look, Peter, you’re already late, so don’t argue with me. You can catch a ride home with the coach after practice, but you have to get there first. So, vamoose!”
He hesitated, then loped self-consciously toward Jeff’s car. Brad leaped from the minivan and tossed him the soccer ball. “You almost forgot it, dummy!”
“Mom!” Peter protested.
“Don’t call your brother a dummy, dummy.” She ruffled Brad’s carrot top and waved as the sports car pulled out of the driveway.
“Lucky dog,” Brad muttered as they drove away.
~o0o~
“You know what your problem is, Cecilia?” Carol sat on the corner of Cecilia’s unmade bed. “You have a mental block.”
Cecilia paused, makeup brush poised over the ridge of a cheekbone, and swiveled away from the vanity. “A mental block regarding what?”
Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy Page 5
