by Louisa Trent
“Sorry. I missed you sing Carmen that night. Myself, I can't tolerate all that operatic screeching. So I don't know what the general consensus was about the school.”
“Too bad you weren't in attendance. My vocal performance had never been better and the school received some wonderful scholarship funding as a result of my public relations schmoozing. And, the hors d'ouevres were really quite good, too.”
“Yeah, well, I make it a habit never to eat things I can't spell.”
“My goodness, how extraordinarily limiting for you.”
She smiled.
He smirked.
Sex. This was all about sex. This one-upsmanship wasn't about the school at all. This was verbal foreplay. Despite herself, she was physically attracted to Tomas Ruiz, and if the difficulty he had keeping his eyes focussed on her face, not on her breasts, was any indication, her landlord was physically attracted to her as well.
She didn't take it any too personally. According to local legend, Tomas Ruiz was attracted to anything with a GYN and a heartbeat. And she was...well...she was the cliché of the lonely and sexually frustrated widow.
Regardless of the reasons for the attraction, at the very least, they could drop the tedious, quasi-flirtatious bantering and be honest about what was beneath their sparring. There was an undeniable electrical undercurrent buzzing back and forth between them, which they could either ignore or act upon. As consenting adults, it was up to them what they decided to do.
The first step was to apologize for her sarcasm, which was sexual displacement at its very worst.
She was about to do just that when she was beaten to the punch.
“Mrs. Norris-about the operatic screeching crack-I'm sorry. Just to let you know, I heard you singing when I left the house yesterday and you sounded like an angel,” Tomas offered in a low and tractable voice.
She was equally subdued. “Apology accepted. And about the hors d'ouevres comment—I also apologize. I can't spell the darn word either. For years, I mispronounced it as ‘horse doovers'.
They laughed. It felt good, almost like the beginning of a friendship.
An impossibility, of course, since they were on different sides in the school debate and, apart from that, friends don't generally throw friends out onto the street, leaving them homeless and virtually unemployed. And there was that pesky sexual awareness thing happening between them too. Something like that could ruin the chance of a friendship developing between a man and a woman, any man and woman.
She had to face it, her mind wasn't on doing lunch; her mind was on sweaty sheets and lusty sighs and musky smells, things she knew nothing about. A pity they were involved in an adversarial tug-of-war, because, from a purely practical point of view, she was quite sure that a little meaningless sex with Tomas Ruiz would do her lingering depression a world of good. In fact, mindless copulation would probably be just what the doctor ordered.
Taking a deep breath, Seraphina tried to bring her wayward thoughts back on track. “Tomas, I really would like to know what people think about the school. You must hear things. People talk-”
“I'm not exactly anybody's sounding board in town. Frankly, I'm usually on the receiving end of gossip.”
“How difficult for you,” she said softly, sympathetically...and entirely misdirected, considering to whom she was speaking. After all, she had planned on doing a media blitz that would make him the scourge of Fenton. Now, the idea left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. How petty and vindictive too, to think two wrongs ever made a right...
“I can't say I haven't heard about your reputation, Tomas. But I want you to know, I don't give gossip much credence.”
In reply, Tomas Ruiz shrugged, the lift of his shoulders telling her nothing.
Seraphina didn't want the stories to be true! She wanted him to deny the gossip, for if the stories about him were true, then the situation was hopeless; Tomas Ruiz was known, not only as Fenton's most notorious womanizer, but also as a man who cared about nothing but the almighty dollar. According to the circulating gossip, her landlord was an opportunist who let nothing and no one stand in the way of what he wanted-
Yet, he had also spoken with such passion, such conviction, about job opportunities, apprenticeship programs, a way for the young people of the Southside to make an honest living. His approach had sounded so practical.
In that respect, they were very similar. She too was a practical person; pragmatism was her religion, realism her faith. So, one would think they could make some sort of deal, reach some sort of compromise, arrive at an arrangement that would benefit both of them-
Unless, Tomas Ruiz's speech about the needs of Southside children was just another one of his lines-
Her pride was a short nylon thread with a small, slippery knot at the end. But it was all that she had. She held onto that knot in a death grip, lest she break down in tears in front of this man, who was, despite the sexual attraction, really no more than a complete stranger, whose thoughts she didn't know, whose motives were suspect.
Seraphina was certain of only this: she must not allow Tomas Ruiz, or anyone else, to weaken her resolve to stay in the mansion. This house was a symbol to her; her last stand against the despair that lurked inside her head, the line drawn in the sand against the depression that threatened to smother what remained of her spirits. She would do whatever she must do to stay in the Monroe mansion, for there was no place else for her to go but deeper into sadness.
Clasping her hands together as if in prayer—though she'd lost the ability to pray months before-she dug the fingernails of her right hand into the fleshy palm of her left hand, a test done to make sure she was totally numb. “You've accomplished what you came here to do and now you may leave. You have houses to build. Don't let me detain a busy man like yourself.”
In a dismissive manner, she started for the kitchen door.
She was halfway there, when her no-nonsense, conservatively straight skirt caught on one of the many exposed nails along the wall. She did all the usual things to free herself: tugging, pulling, saying a few select bad words under her breath. But no matter what she did, she couldn't get the darn nail to loosen its hold on her. This was just so typical!
She was about to haul off and rip the foolish nail head through the material when Tomas dropped to a graceful kneel at her feet and reached for the skirt's hem.
“Here, allow me,” he said.
She could've told him not to bother. Swatted his hands away. She could've done any number of things to keep him from touching her. Instead, her eyes dropped to the dark crown of Tomas Ruiz's head and she imagined what else he might do for her there on his knees at the center of her body.
I'm so bad! She thought.
“Steady,” Tomas said, low and sexy. “Just hold still. Let me do all the work.”
How many times, and in how many different bedrooms, had the man kneeling at her feet uttered those very same words to a woman? How many bare female legs had he walked his hand up?
Hundreds, more than likely. Thousands, according to the gossip.
In the course of untangling her from the nail, brown fingers ran over the crease in her knee. In an effort to get her mind off her rising body temperature, she said, “Do you know anything about the care of erotic-I mean, exotic plants? I was considering planting some this summer. One gets so bored with the same old marigolds.”
“Look around you. No flowers will grow here, Mrs. Norris. Any seeds that come up wither and die. Only weeds survive. Maybe in a few years things will improve, not right now.”
She couldn't wait a few years. For the sake of her sanity, she needed to involve herself in the school. Right now. Today. She had much too much time on her hands. That's why she was fantasizing about Tomas Ruiz, thinking prurient thoughts about what she wanted him to do to her...
“This is taking forever,” she said breathlessly. “Are you freeing me from the wall or nailing me to it?”
Dark eyes twinkling, he gazed up at her. “If
I was nailing you, trust me, you'd know it.”
It took her a second of backtracking to understand the gaffe she'd made.
What a complete idiot! She was making a fool of herself. Misspeaking left and right.
“I didn't mean that the way it came out.” Her sluggish brain rephrased the question. “That is, you've been working on me a long time-is there a problem?”
“If I was working on you, ruca, you'd be too damned busy to ask all these damn questions.”
Her hands went to her hips. “I meant working on my hem!” she sputtered.
“I know what you meant. I'm just teasing you.”
“I'd wish you'd stop!”
He gave her hem a tug. “All done,” he said, and her skirt dropped back down below her knees.
But his large, capable hand loitered on her bare leg at the level of her calf. Her bare calf.
Fearful of getting a run in her brand-new pantyhose-she was on a strict budget-she'd removed her stockings to work around the house. Now she was paying the price for her economy.
Oh, but there was such strength in the brown fingers touching her leg! Such confidence. The man exuded masculine power from every sinew and muscle.
Why did some men have everything, while other men have nothing, not even the promise of a tomorrow? Why did good men die too young?
Her husband was only fifty, just middle-aged, when he'd died of the cholera epidemic that had swept through their small missionary school in India, taking him, and more than half the village population. The Southside music school was her new home. Her new beginning. Her new purpose in life. Without it, how would she force herself to go on? How would she convince herself to drag her body out of bed in the morning?
If she'd only had a child...
She'd desperately wanted a baby. But there was no little boy or girl.
Perhaps her childlessness was just as well. Many children had died in the cholera outbreak. She could not have borne the loss of a child. Why hadn't she died too?
She'd wanted to die. When she'd sickened, she'd prayed to be taken. She'd made bargains with a God she no longer believed in to be substituted for a sick child, her life for theirs. After all, there was nothing in her future but emptiness, for she knew if she recovered, she'd have to return home to the States. What kind of a missionary has no faith? What kind of missionary is a closet atheist?
It wasn't stoicism that prevented Seraphina from giving into self-pity; it wasn't courage that kept the tears from forming behind her lids. She wished she could say she was wrung out from crying. That her tears had left her feeling as rubbery as spaghetti cooked way past al dente. But it wasn't like that at all. What she felt was so much worse than the purging sadness of normal grief.
Oh, for the healing balm of tears! There was nothing she wanted more than the exhaustion and merciful sleep that come after a floodgate of emotion is released.
But there were no tears, only a pervasive sense of dullness...and the knowledge that she had no other choice but to go on...without her husband, without the mission school in India. All by herself.
Through a hole in the porch roof, there above the thickly swarming mosquitoes, was a scattering of stars. She'd only noticed them when she lifted her eyes to avoid coveting Tomas with her hungry gaze.
“My, it's a beautiful evening,” she sighed, as his large palm continued to rub the back of her leg.
“Make a wish,” Tomas Ruiz said, when one of those stars streaked across the sky.
She blinked at his romanticism. Then thought, why not? One person's wish was another person's prayer. One person's superstition was another person's religion.
“I will if you will,” she replied.
“Sure.”
Seraphina closed her eyes and wished like she had never wished for anything before. But even as she concentrated, she couldn't help but wonder what a virile man like Tomas Ruiz, a man in his prime, a man who had women falling all over him, a man who had everything, could possibly have to wish for.
CHAPTER SIX
“I wish I had me one of those jazzy Hawaiian shirts,” Tomas said the following day as he removed his tool belt in front of the trailer's miniscule closet. “A real splashy one with loud yellow and red exotic flowers all over it, front and back.”
Myra finished filing her nails. “What the hell are you rambling on about now?”
“Haven't you ever noticed that male birds have more colorful plumage than female birds?”
“Nope, can't say that I have.”
“I've finally figured out that there's a reason for all those bright feathers: A guy's gotta get a lady's attention somehow. I think a Hawaiian shirt might do that for me, especially if the lady has a thing for exotic flowers. What do you think?”
“Rare birds? Exotic flowers? I think you're hanging out too much over at The Pink Flamingo.”
“That's right, Myra. Make fun of the simple wishes of a simple man.”
“You're simple, all right, if you think you need a hula-hula shirt to attract female attention!”
But he only wanted one woman's attention, and he was getting nowhere with her.
And even if he could get somewhere with her, hooking up with her wasn't right, her being a nice lady and all...
Myra's nail file got thrown back in the desk drawer, and out of the blue, she hit him with her penetrating gaze. “How bad do you really want the Riverfront Project, Tomas?”
“There's nothing I want more.”
“What are you willing to do to get it?”
“Anything,” he promptly replied, no deep concentration needed.
Myra started tapping her fingers on her desk blotter. “Your public relations stink.”
“Tell me something I don't already know.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. “How's this? Seraphina Norris is picking up a lot of goodwill in this town, and you might catch some of that goodwill too if you hung onto her feel-good coattails.”
“The lady thinks I'm a real dud.”
“You are a real stud, hon. All the ladies say so. Work it to your advantage.”
“Dud! Not stud.”
Myra removed her hearing aid and shook it. “The damn battery is gone dead again. Okay. Shut-up and let me do the talking. I'm not listening to you anyway.”
“What else is new?” he muttered under his breath.
“I heard that, you fresh thing!”
“Sorry,” he grumbled.
“Okay, the scuttlebutt says that Fred Connor is urging the planning board to go against your bid for the downtown Riverfront Project. He doesn't like the bad-boy image you project. You gotta clean up that image pronto if you want in on the Riverfront Project deal. Connor holds a lot of weight with the City Council.”
“What are you suggesting I do, Myra?”
His administrative assistant hefted her feet up on the waste paper receptacle-he was gonna have to see about sneaking her in a hassock one of these days-
“I'm suggesting you reconsider evicting Seraphina Norris, at least until a decision is made on the Riverfront Project.”
“What does she have to do with any of this?”
“So happens, Connor is one of Seraphina Norris’ biggest supporters. He wants her to have that school, and he wants her to have it at the old Monroe place.” Myra paused to take a wheezing breath. “You might want to think about teaming up with that woman, boss. I like her. She's got guts. Determination. I knew it the minute I set eyes on her over at the Chamber of Commerce. Probably comes from her being a former missionary and all.”
“Seraphina Norris, a missionary? As in the position?”
Myra rolled her eyes. “As in church missionary! She worked with her minister folks. When they passed on, she married, then worked with her minister husband in some of the worst slums in India. I just found out today over at the diner that her husband died of cholera. She nursed him, and then stayed on to nurse the sick kids in her school. She nearly died of cholera too, and she still wouldn't leave, not until her church sent
out a replacement. She was a sick a long time. She's only now getting back on her feet.”
“She told me she was a widow. But India?”
“Calcutta,” Myra supplied. “And stop asking me to repeat everything I say or I'll be lending you one of my hearing aids.”
“I took her for one of these do-gooder types.”
“She's a do-gooder all right,” said Myra. “But she happens to be the real thing.”
* * * *
The university administrator stood up at his desk when Seraphina entered his office.
“I'm Dean Slater,” he said and motioned to a chair. “Please have a seat, Mrs. Norris.”
Smiling cordially, Seraphina took the chair indicated, placing the briefcase containing the inch-thick folder of employment applications on her lap.
She only hoped she brought enough!
Wasting no time, she got right to the point. “How many teaching candidates do you have for me, Dean Slater?”
“One.”
Seraphina blinked. “One?”
“Very few of our graduating seniors are willing to work in a high-crime area for the salary you quoted over the phone.”
“But that's all I can afford to pay.” She bit her lip. “I suppose I could come up with a bit more-”
Dean Slater shook his head. “Even if you doubled the salary, you'd still get very few applicants. The Southside doesn't have the best reputation, my dear.”
“I see.” Seraphina studied her hands while she recovered from the blow just dealt her. When her disappointment was under control, she looked straight into Dean Slater's eyes. “Can you tell me something about the applicant?”
A resume was pushed across the shiny mahogany desk.
“Calia Vasquez is one of our brightest, most talented students. I have to be honest with you, it was for that reason that I tried to discourage this young lady from applying.” The administrator shook his gray head; his disapproval was obvious. “But as soon as Miss Vasquez heard about the school, she insisted you interview her, despite my objections.”
“What instrument does she play?”
