by Donna Fasano
She circled the block, flipping open her cell and punching in Norma Jean's number to tell her she was going to be late. Lauren tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and headed out of town the way she'd come.
Greg's pick-up sat in the drive. She parked behind it. Drywall and crown molding filled the truck bed.
"Dad?" she called as she entered the foyer. "Greg?" Her heels clicked on the hardwood of the hallway as she checked the rooms in the front of the house. The kitchen was empty, too. She looked out the window and scanned the backyard, making a mental note to rake the leaves that littered the lawn.
Water was running somewhere and she climbed the stairs, tracking the sound to the main bathroom. The door was open a crack and the shower was running.
Lauren found it odd that her dad would decide to take a shower while he had a visitor. And where was Greg, anyway? Before the question had fully registered in her mind, the shower cut off.
"Dad?" She waited, and when she didn't get an answer, she knocked.
Just as it dawned on her that her father might not be the person taking the shower, she took a small backward step and the door was pulled open wide.
Hazy steam billowed into the hallway, and there stood Greg, his slick, wet body wrapped in a towel from the waist down. "Lew's not here."
"What are you doing?" Her tone reflected her utter astonishment.
He opened his mouth, but he didn't reply. A fat droplet hovered on his chin. His dark lashes were stuck together, and water ran in rivulets down his neck, shoulders and chest.
"Getting ready to shave?" He looked guilty, as if he'd been caught with, not one, but both hands in the cookie jar.
"This isn't Jeopardy, Greg. You don't have to pose your answers in the form of a question."
Then it registered—the warm, clean scent of him. Blood whooshed through her ears, and she had to fight the urge to close her eyes and inhale deeply. Suddenly, she felt as if she were standing in a pool of bright sunlight, heat permeating every inch of her.
She blinked and swallowed and took another backward step all at the same time. "Get dressed and come down stairs. We need to talk." She headed down the hall.
"But, hold on. Wait. I can't."
Lauren stopped, curious to know what he meant; however, she came face to face with her dad who was trudging up the steps.
"Where were you? And why is he in your shower?" She pointed to her ex with a jerk of her thumb.
She looked from one man to the other.
"If you must know," her dad blustered, "I was in the basement putting in a load of laundry."
"But I took care of your laundry yesterday, Dad. If you're doing a small load, you set the water level on low, didn't you?" She looked at Greg. She rested her closed fist on her hip. "Why are you still standing there? Put on your pants and come downstairs."
Greg's dark eyes shifted from her to her dad and then back again. His expression fell as he softly admitted, "I don't have any pants up here, Lauren."
The steam in the bathroom had dissipated completely. He stood half in, half out of the doorway. The smattering of dark curls on his chest was damp, so were the curls on the flat of his belly just above the terry towel loosely tucked around his hips. A small puddle had formed around each foot, one on the hardwood hallway floor, one on the bathroom tile.
She went completely still and heat rushed through her entire body. Then she turned to her father. "You're doing his laundry." It wasn't a question.
Something weird was going on inside her. Greg's state of undress incited a dark neediness low in her gut, but it was all tangled up with the annoyance she felt when she'd finally figured out what was going on here. She was hot. In more ways than one. The only way to handle willful lust was to pay it no heed and refocus, so she grabbed hold of the aggravation with both hands and used it as a shield.
Her ex was taking a shower in her bathroom, using her towels and the hot water she paid for, and her father was washing Greg's clothes in her washing machine.
Looking at Greg was too dangerous, so she focused on her father.
"I can't even get you to do you own laundry," she said. "What would compel you to do his?"
"I can do my own wash, thank you very much" he told her. "It's just that you won't give me a chance. Stay out of my room, out of my hamper, and I'll do for myself when the need arises."
"That's a deal." She walked back down the hallway toward Greg, keeping her gaze directed at the floor as she passed by him. She pushed open her bedroom door hard enough to make it thud into the door stop, snatched up her robe from the arm of the chair, then turned around and headed back out the door.
"Put this on." She dropped the robe across Greg's outstretched arm, keeping her eyes trained on the baseboard, where the wall met the floor. "I'll see you in the kitchen."
Her dad had come up the stairs and now stood in the hall. She brushed past him and said, "You, too, Dad."
She heard the bathroom door close on her way downstairs. Letting her hand trail along the railing, she closed her eyes, breathed deep and tried to cool the chaotic heat agitating in her. Anger, resentment, irritation, those were the things she needed to concentrate on. The other stuff, she quickly decided, didn't even exist as long as she chose to ignore it. And ignore it, she would.
In the kitchen, she dropped her keys on the counter and snatched up an orange from the wooden bowl. Not because she was hungry but because she needed something to occupy her hands so she couldn't strangle someone. She passed the orange from one palm to the other.
"This is my fault, Lauren," her dad said when he came into the kitchen. "I didn't actually tell him you knew he was coming. I didn't say this was okay with you, but, well—" the crown of his head tilted from left to right and his silver hair did a little flop "—I may have given him that impression."
"Dad, what were you thinking?" Before he could answer, she said, "Why would this ever be okay with me? Greg and I are divorced. He doesn't live here anymore. We're living completely separate lives. We have been for over a year."
His hazel eyes went dark. "I know that, Lauren. The man is a little down on his luck at the moment. I was just trying to help him out. I was only trying to do something nice. You remember what that is, don't you?"
"Give me a break." She dug her thumbnail into the orange and began peeling the skin from the flesh.
Greg came into the room looking downright silly in her russet satin robe. The hem hit him mid thigh and the knot he'd tied in the sash rested several inches above his waist.
Memories flooded her mind. Two years ago, Greg had donned her robe and served her breakfast in bed. French toast with butter and maple syrup, sliced strawberries dusted with powered sugar, coffee and juice. He'd placed a long-stemmed rose across the plate. She'd been dreading her birthday, dreading the idea of getting older. He'd shimmied around the room in that too-small robe while she ate, acting ridiculous to lift her spirits and make her laugh. And laugh is exactly what she had done.
However, Lauren was too exasperated to even smile right now let alone laugh. And frustration had come along to fuel the fire. How could she be angry with Greg now that she knew he thought she was aware of what was going on? And what was going on, anyway?
She set the half-peeled orange aside and went to the sink to rinse her fingers. Picking up the tea towel, she slowly and methodically dried her hands. "Greg, why are you showering in my house? Doing your laundry in my laundry room?"
Having your laundry done for you, she wanted to correct, but didn't.
Then her father's words reverberated in her mind.
The man is a little down on his luck.
She groaned. "Oh, please tell me you're having plumbing problems at your apartment. Tell me a plumber's there right now. Tell me that the water company is flushing the lines and you can't use your shower today."
Greg just stood there looking at her.
Lauren sighed. "You were evicted, weren't you? When will you learn that you have to pay your bills
on time? When you don't pay your rent, you get tossed out on your butt." Again she shook her head, this time with a little more fervor. "Well, you cannot stay here."
He continued to stare, not saying a word and looking as if he'd rather be anywhere in world but standing there wearing that robe.
"Would you give the man a little credit," her father grumbled. "He didn't forget to pay his bills. His water wasn't shut off, and he wasn't evicted."
Her dad crossed the kitchen. "How 'bout a cup of coffee, Greg? It's fresh." He picked up the carafe and filled his mug.
"Thanks, Lew." Greg kept his eyes leveled on Lauren. "But I think I should go gather up my things and go."
Lauren stared at him for a second or two, then she let go of the tension she was holding in her shoulders. Hadn't she told herself she wasn't going to let this man affect her any longer?
"You may as well sit down and have some coffee," she told him. She picked up the orange and began tugging at the peel again. "There's no possible way you're going to make a dignified exit looking like that."
He hesitated only a moment before nodding a response and reaching up to comb his fingers through his damp hair. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.
Her father took a clean cup from the dish drainer, poured coffee into it and set it on the table in front of Greg.
"Thanks, Lew."
"Welcome." Her dad filled his cup and sat down, too.
Both men seemed content to sit and sip coffee in companionable silence.
"Well, is someone going to explain what's going on?" she blustered. "If you paid your bills on time, if your water hasn't been cut off, why—"
"I gave up the apartment back in the summer."
"I don't understand." The scent of orange essence hung in the air. "You gave it up?"
He nodded and then lifted the ceramic mug to his mouth.
"But why would you do something like that?" Then a large piece of orange skin hit the kitchen floor. "You're living in that barn."
Greg studied his coffee mug, refusing to meet her gaze.
"You can't live out there. That place is filthy." Once again, she set the orange on the counter. "It's a barn, Greg. It was not meant for human habitation."
That little colloquy sounded too much like concern for her comfort.
"Besides that," she quickly added, "it's my barn."
"Well, crap," her father muttered. "Here we go."
"What?" She eyed her dad. "It is my barn."
"No one is disputing that, Lauren." Greg's tone was mollifying.
But she didn't want to be mollified. "You lied to me again. I caught you in that barn and you never said you were living there. You never said that."
His chin tipped up a fraction. "I said I was working late. Which I was. I said I fell asleep there. Which I did. I spoke nothing but the truth."
"It was a half-truth," she pointed out. "Half-truths, omissions, evasions. That's all I ever get from you, Greg." Her father's disapproving expression was like sandpaper on rash-ridden skin. "And what are you looking at? You're no better. Inviting people in to my home without telling me—"
"He'd been showering at my place. And this is my place now, too, right?"
A small gasp escaped from her throat. "He's been using my hot water since you moved in?"
"You wouldn't even know about it if you'd leave for work on time."
"Please, please, stop," Greg said. "I feel bad enough already. I don't want the two of you fighting because of me."
She clamped her mouth shut. As much as she hated to admit it, Greg was right. She shouldn't fight with her father. Arguing with him would do no good. It never had. He was going to do what he wanted. Befriend whom he wanted. Invite over whomever he wanted. Offer laundry services to the whole neighborhood. Her opinion didn't matter a wit.
Lauren went to the table, pulled out a chair and sat. "Is business that bad, Greg?" A silent groan rose up inside her at her next thought. She tried for the span of several heartbeats to hold her tongue, to keep her curiosity at bay, but in the end she just let it rip. "Do you need some money?"
She tried to make the offer sound gracious, but she missed the mark by a very wide margin. In reality, voicing the question about killed her. Giving Greg any more of her hard-earned cash was the last thing she wanted to do. But she wouldn't have been able to live with the guilt of not asking. Why was it her responsibility to take care of everyone? Solve everyone's problems?
Her ex-husband reached out and covered her hand with his. "I'm okay, Lauren. You don't need to worry about me."
She pulled her arm back as if his touch burned. "I'm not worried." She stood then, and retreated to her spot near the counter.
Her father expressed his disbelief with a small tick of his tongue; Lauren turned a deaf ear. She rested the small of her back against the edge of the counter and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Look, Lauren," Greg said. "I'm looking for another place, okay? If you'll just let me stay out there for a—"
"No, Greg."
"Lau-ren." Disgust and disappointment weighed down the two syllables when her father spoke them. "The man isn't asking for the world."
"It's a barn, Dad," she reminded him.
Greg smiled. "Actually, it's not all that bad. I slapped up some dry wall in the back room, and I have a space heater. And there's a well. I've been carrying water in from the hand pump out back."
The primitiveness of it sent a shiver up her spine. "But there's no, you know. . .plumbing."
Her dad must have sensed that she was softening to the idea of Greg staying at the barn because he chuckled. "Haven't you heard, Lauren? Real men pee in the woods."
Lauren just closed her eyes.
With his I'm okay line, Greg intimated that he was earning an adequate living. But who knew how much or how little truth his veiled intimations held? He'd lied to her before. Man, oh, man, had he ever. And she couldn't fathom any other reason for him to live in that dusty, drafty old building out on swampy Skeeter Neck Road unless he had no money.
The idea that Greg needed some income forced her thoughts to make a sharp turn.
The whimsical treasure housed in that barn would be worth a small fortune, but it wasn't worth squat in its current condition. Greg was an expert carpenter; he could build just about anything. Her father once commented that Greg had 'hands.' The meaning behind the observation had become clear any time Greg had taken on a project in the house during their marriage. He could fix almost anything and he had, too, from a hole in the wall, to leaky plumbing, to a short in the electrical system. He was a true and talented Jack-of-all-trades.
And he would be the perfect person to restore those carrousel animals for her.
She looked at her ex. "You need a job?"
His dark eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction before he shook his head. "I've got plenty of work."
Lauren couldn't tell if he was being honest or if his male pride was talking.
"Okay," she said, "let me rephrase that. Would you like a job?"
"I don't know. What do you have in mind?" His question and his expression reeked of suspicion.
She reached for the orange and began removing the last bit of skin. "I'd like the merry-go-round cleaned up."
"Wow." The tension on his face relaxed and he sat back, genuinely astonished. "I have to admit, I'm surprised. I thought you'd take one look at her, have her dismantled and carted to the land fill."
"I'll pay you an hourly wage," she offered. Then she shrugged. "And if you're staying at the barn, you can work off the rent."
"Rent?" He laughed outright at the idea. "You said the place isn't fit for human habitation, and now you want to charge me rent?"
She set the orange down. "You said you fixed it up. That it was nice."
"I said it wasn't bad."
That was what he said. And the man did have to relieve himself in the woods. Thinking about his living conditions made her want to cringe all over again.
"All rig
ht. All right. No rent." She picked her keys up from where she'd tossed them on the counter. "So you'll get those animals cleaned up and painted?"
Greg nodded. "It'll take some time, though. And I'm still surprised you want it done."
She shrugged and offered him a smile. "I can be surprising." Uncomfortable with the way he was looking at her, she turned away from him and walked out of the kitchen. "I have to go to the office. I've got clients coming."
"Just so you know," her father called after her, "I'm letting him shower here."
"Whatever, Dad. As long as he's not here when I'm here."
"And he can do his laundry."
Unwilling to concede the last word, she shouted, "There better be hot water left for me at the end of the day!"
The situation was completely absurd. And to think she'd been certain that divorcing Greg would calm the wild roller coaster life she'd been living. Lauren just shook her head. Well, she was divorced all right. But now she had her father under her roof as well as under her skin, and her ex was still in her hair, too close for comfort.
Those two men seemed bent on keeping her frazzled.
She closed the front door and reached to smooth her hair. The scent of citrus wafted from her fingertips, forcing a frustrated sigh to issue from between her lips.
They were keeping her so frazzled that she couldn't remember something as simple as an orange.
Chapter 7
Sex is like air,
it's not important unless you're not getting any.
~Unknown
Lauren's arms ached. She stepped back and lowered them to her sides, stretching her neck muscles to the left and then to the right. This kind of strenuous labor wasn't something she was used to. Her job entailed the flexing of her brain, not her biceps, triceps and deltoids.
She hadn't intended to get this involved in the project. In fact, after hiring Greg to do the dirty work two weeks ago, she'd intended to stay away from the barn altogether. But every evening after she locked the office doors, something pulled at her and she found herself driving to the swampy side of town.
