by Donna Fasano
Massaging one biceps and shoulder, then the other, she wrinkled her nose at the oily odor of metal polish that seemed to permeate her fingers and palms. This contraption had more brass on it than she'd realized.
After a couple of days standing around watching Greg work, she'd had to laugh when he'd pointed out her idleness.
"The job would go quicker," he'd told her, "if you picked up a cloth and started scrubbing."
Because she hadn't clarified her plans to sell off the animals piecemeal, Greg was cleaning the entire carnival ride—the roof, the animals, the platform. The whole shebang. She hadn't said a word to stop him.
When he'd suggested she shine up the brass railings and posts, she hadn't complained. The poles that secured the animals to the frame would go with each tiger, giraffe and horse she eventually sold, so she wasn't wasting her time there. Then the idea had come to her that some salvaging company might be interested in purchasing the railings, and shiny brass might sell for a higher price than if it was dull with tarnish.
"You're making great progress," Greg said, entering the barn. The brown bag he carried made a crisp, crinkling sound as he switched it from one arm to the next. "Sorry I'm late. I stopped to buy some paint and brushes."
He set the supplies on the workbench and slipped out of his jacket. While working on the merry-go-round each evening, they moved Greg's space heater into the main area of the barn. The small heater was no match for the vast space, but it did a fine job of taking the chill out of the air. As long as they wore sweaters or flannel shirts, they were warm enough.
"What colors did you buy?" For some odd reason, the idea of holding a paint brush in her hand made her suddenly giddy.
"Just red. For the roof," he told her.
Disappointment must have registered on her face because he quickly added, "I have to start at the top and work my way down."
Lauren nodded. "Of course." What she'd love, though, was to see one of those prancing Arabian horses come to life with a bright, fresh coat of glossy paint. The animals actually didn't look bad at all, now that all those years of dust and grime had been washed away.
He reached into the bag and pulled out several rolls of tape, two one-gallon buckets of paint and a packet of brushes. Then he handed her the receipt which she promptly stuffed into the rear pocket of her jeans without looking at it.
"Quit eyeing those animals," he told her. "I won't be painting those."
"What do you mean? Why not?"
One corner of Greg's mouth turned up. "You wouldn't let me paint your car with a brush, would you? I can paint a house. I can paint a fence or a piece of furniture. But I can't paint those." He indicated the merry-go-round menagerie with a small jerk of his head. "They need an airbrush and a talented hand."
Automatically, her gaze lowered to his hands, and she went still. It seemed that every molecule of air in the barn disappeared. Heat spread through her body as she remembered a time when he'd touched her with those talented hands, had slid them over her body until she'd. . . Her breath caught and held, and she battled the sudden, steamy thought by inhaling slowly, deeply.
She hooked her thumbs into her back pockets. "Well—"
"Don't worry. I've got it covered. I know a guy."
"I'll bet you do," she said softly. Lauren doubted there was a single soul in Sterling he didn't know.
"Don't worry," he repeated, grinning. "He owes me."
Half the people in town owed Greg money. And a lot of them weren't able to afford, or had never intended, to pay up. That's why he'd lost the hardware store. That's why their marriage had crumbled. Well, that was one reason, anyway.
Greg sighed. "A favor, Lauren. He owes me a favor."
There had been a time when his bartering skills had impressed and fascinated her. He once installed a countertop at Rapunzel's, the local beauty salon, and in exchange for the job he'd brought home a year's supply of coupons for hair cuts and manicures for her. He'd once brought home a bicycle for their neighbor's son that he'd swapped for a small home repair. Several summers running, he'd traded his work for a season of grass cutting and landscaping services.
Those who participated in bartering had developed a complicated third and fourth party system where work or products or services might be provided to someone the supplier had never even met in order to pay back a debt owed to another. As long as everyone kept up their end of the deals, the system worked. But over the years she'd seen that Greg's soft-hearted nature all too often left him holding the short end of the bargaining stick. Lauren preferred a 'you bill me, I'll bill you' business system which ensured that everyone involved was fairly compensated—with cold, hard currency.
"Okay," she told him. "No insult intended, Greg."
"None taken." He stripped the cardboard protectors off the paint brushes. "He won't airbrush all those animals for free. The job's too big. But he'll give you a good discount, I'm sure."
She reached out and picked up a colorful piece of cardboard. "I wouldn't feel comfortable with you using one of your favors for this job. I don't mind paying full price. I've taken on some new clients. Business is pretty good."
He paused for the briefest second, the look in his dark eyes impenetrable. "I'd like to do this for you. If you'll let me, that is."
The very air took on a heaviness that couldn't be ignored, and Lauren realized this could be a pivotal moment. He was making a kind offer, and her acceptance or refusal would have a momentous affect on their relationship.
She'd been angry with Greg for a long time. Too long, her father believed. Although the motives behind the emotion were strong—the lies he'd held firm to until it was too late, the poor business decisions he'd made, the damage he'd done to their financial security—Lauren was slowly coming to understand that she was the only one suffering from all her snarling and teeth gnashing.
Her dad was right. She was going to have to let go of the anger and negativity. And a good first step in that direction would be to graciously accept Greg's offer.
Tossing the thick paper wrapper onto the workbench, she smiled. "Okay."
His expression remained serious as he murmured, "Thanks."
Two tiny words. That's all they were. One from her. One from him. Yet in that short exchange they had expressed more to each other than they had in over than a year.
"I should get back to polishing," she said, breaking the silence that was quickly turning awkward. "I only stopped to give my arms a break."
"And that roof's not going to paint itself." The cellophane wrapper on one roll of tape popped under the pressure of his thumb.
Lauren picked up the can of brass polish and the jersey rag she'd left on the wooden platform. Greg set up an aluminum step ladder just a few feet away from her. She tipped the can of polish over her rag just as he climbed the rungs. She gave his firm, jean-clad butt a darting glance and immediately felt a dollop of the thick polish hit the top of her canvas sneaker with a plop.
"Well, shoot," she muttered, bending to swipe at the mess.
"You say something?"
"No, it's nothing."
Surely her shoe was ruined. The polish left behind a greasy looking stain.
What was wrong with her?
Every night this week, she'd come to the barn to work. Even though she'd told herself she wouldn't. And every night this week, she'd noticed some physical attribute of Greg's—the curve of his jaw, his taut shoulders, his brawny arms, his muscular thighs, and, tonight, his firm rump. The man didn't have an ounce of fat on his body. Taking another covert glance, she saw that he'd balanced his weight on his right leg, his left work boot perched on the next higher rung. The stance forced his right thigh muscle to tense. Lauren took her bottom lip between her teeth.
She'd left here each evening all hot and bothered, and she'd spent hours trying to block out the nagging ache that he caused to pulse down low in her torso.
If Greg were the only man flipping her 'on' switch, she'd have been scared to death. But, thank Go
d, he wasn't. It wasn't all that long ago that she'd nearly drowned in the deep sea of Scott Shaw's eyes and she remembered paying particular attention to the way his suit fit his body.
Every women's magazine in the country had run at least one story touting the fact that females reached the height of their sexual desire in their late thirties. And wasn't it just Lauren's luck to be hitting her peak only to find herself divorced and too distrusting of relationships at the moment to even think about dating?
"You okay down there?" Greg asked.
"Yes, mm-hmm. I'm good." She straightened, frowning at the mess she'd made with all the wiping and smearing. Rather than clean up her shoe, all she'd done was spread the stain even more. He was peering down at her. She told him, "I had a little mishap, is all."
He grinned, and she felt a small prickling sensation near her diaphragm. The lips he was using to smile at her had at one time driven her out of her mind with pleasure.
She directed her glassy-eyed gaze at a section of dulled brass railing and scrubbed at it with the cloth. "I've tried to get Dad involved in the renovations," she said, desperate to get the lustful images out of her head, "but I can't get him interested in anything but that computer."
Greg laughed. "Oh, he's interested in something else, I think."
"Yeah." She nodded as she rubbed the metal, the tarnish turning the white jersey black. "Surfing the net for names of medical conditions to fit symptoms he thinks he has." She turned the rag over and buffed the railing until it glistened.
"There might be a reason for that."
"Oh, yeah," she repeated. "He's stubbornly trying to prove that Doc Amos doesn't know what he's talking about."
Greg said no more, so she expounded. "Dad told me the other day that he was sure he had diabetes because his feet were tingling."
Having finished taping off a section of the roof facing, Greg climbed down off the ladder.
"I remembered that he'd asked me to buy him new laces for his shoes." She leaned on the railing. "I went into his closet and saw that his shoes were laced so tight they were cutting the circulation off in his feet."
She looked at him, expecting him to comment. But he only stood next to the ladder, his gaze steady on hers.
Finally, he gave her a small smile, and her traitorous heart thunked.
"It's a good thing you thought to check his shoes. I don't like the idea of Lew in pain."
He was a handsome man. There was no getting around it. She'd fallen in love with those dark good looks, hadn't she? But after all she'd been through over the past eighteen months or so, she'd thought she was over being affected by his smile, his eyes and the warmth in his voice.
"He's a royal pain." The instant the quip left her mouth, she regretted it. She sounded petty and mean, and she fought the urge to squirm under Greg's silent disapproval.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's just. . ." She lifted her shoulders. "He complains so much. When he's healthy as a horse. It doesn't make sense." She shrugged again. "And besides that, it's not easy getting used to having someone in the house again."
Her excuses sounded lame. Greg knew her father, knew full well that even on a good day he tended to be one big ball of pessimism. Yet Greg had never in his life said a negative word about the man.
She sighed. "I'll be nice. I promise."
Greg's smile shifted her heart into high gear, and she was actually relieved when he turned away from her and headed toward the work bench. Of course, that put his tight bottom into full view.
"When I said Lew was interested in something," he said, "I meant someone."
"What?" The idea was so ludicrous she laughed, but the gleam in Greg's jet black eyes when he glanced over his shoulder at her quickly snuffed out her amusement. "Who?"
"Norma Jean."
She moved to the workbench next to him. "You're joking, right?"
He chuckled and shook his head. Picking up the silver can opener, he began prying open one of the paint cans. "He's been talking about her an awful lot."
"What does that mean exactly, 'an awful lot'?"
The metal lid clattered against the workbench when Greg dropped it. "Two or three times over the past week he's brought up her name." He picked up a wooden paint stick and slapped it against his palm. "I've known Lew for a lot of years and this is the first time he's ever mentioned a woman."
"Well, naturally he'd talk about her. She made dinner for us a few nights. She even stopped by to eat with us once." Lauren shook out her polishing cloth and set it next to the paint can. "But she did it for me. She knows I've been stressed." She frowned. "I hope Dad doesn't make more out of this than there is. I don't want him to get his feelings hurt." She went quiet a moment, then tilted her head. "You really think he could be interested in her?"
"He's not dead, Lauren."
It seemed an impossible notion to imagine. Her dad and Norma Jean. Her dad and anyone.
"Maybe I should talk to him." She couldn't imagine starting a discussion with her father where the topic was his love life, so she quickly amended, "Maybe the one I should talk to is Norma."
Greg left the stick in the paint and started rolling up his sleeves. "Maybe you should let things be. Let them work it out."
She watched the way muscle and sinew played beneath the skin of his forearms as she murmured, "Yeah, you're probably right."
Why was it so easy to imagine his hands and lips on her? He used to do this amazing thing where he ran his fingers lightly along the indentation of her spine all the way up to her neck. Then he'd slowly make his way back down. . .
Hormones zipped through her like mini rockets and her mouth went dry.
"Listen, Greg—" she took a backward step to put some distance between them "—I think I'm going to take off. I'm. . .I'm kind of tired."
She wondered if the words sounded as breathy to him as they did to her.
"I'm only going to work for an hour or so," he said, clearly oblivious. "Then I'll be hitting the hay."
Visions of rolling around naked with him in a pile of sweet-smelling hay had her tossing her polishing rag onto the work bench and reaching for her purse and keys. "I'll see you later."
"Don't tell Lew I told you he talked about Norma Jean," he called after her. "He probably wouldn't like it."
"My lips are sealed."
As she drove toward town, she did her best to focus only on what Greg had suggested about her dad. He was seventy years old. Could he really be thinking of hooking up with Norma Jean?
There was no way possible that the feisty Norma would be attracted to her father. Of course, Norma saw him exactly for what he was—a sedentary and boring oldster. Lauren loved her dad and didn't want to see him hurt. She really should try to find some way to talk to him about this.
Try as she might, she couldn't ignore the dull achiness that pulsed in the deepest, most womanly part of her, and a powerful mental image of Greg's hands on her bare flesh assaulted her. She pressed her palm to her hot cheek. She could almost feel his touch, smell his skin, taste his kiss. "Stop," she whispered aloud and leaned forward to study the road.
She snapped on the air conditioner full blast and pointed the vents directly at her face and chest.
She couldn't even contemplate approaching her father or Norma about what might or might not be happening between them. How could she when her own wayward desires were so out of control?
* * *
"If you'll sign these letters, I'll mail them off today." Norma bustled into Lauren's office with several letters in her hand. "The Shaws certainly didn't look happy."
She lined up three documents in front of Lauren and held out an ink pen.
The office had been hopping for the past few days, the increased clientele they'd taken on forcing them to increase their office hours. Lauren didn't mind. The longer work days meant business was good. Better than good, actually. It also meant she was too tired to drive out to the barn to work on the merry-go-round with Greg in the evenings.
Norma scooped up the documents and taped them smartly on the desktop. "I thought you hired Greg for that job?"
"I did," Lauren said, straightening the small pile of correspondence in her in box so she wouldn't have to make eye contact.
"It's not working out?"
"Oh, no," she told Norma. "It's working out fine. Greg's making good progress."
She'd rather die than admit she didn't trust herself to be alone with her ex husband for fear she might jump his bones.
"But there's plenty of work out there," she said, and hoped that would be sufficient explanation. She chuckled then. "Scott accepted my offer but then told me he couldn't start until next week because he had a paper due on Monday. I thought his father was going to pop a cork."
Norma rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I swear, teens are God's punishment for enjoying sex. I was so glad when mine finally grew all the way up."
Lauren wouldn't know a thing about raising children. She'd spent her late teens earning her undergrad degree, a good portion of her twenties going to law school, and her thirties had been focused on building her reputation and her business. She and Greg had talked about kids once or twice, but that perfect 'some day' had never seemed to arrive.
Seeing the way their marriage had fallen apart, she couldn't help but feel relieved there had been no children's lives to be ruined by their mistakes.
"I happened to overhear Mr. Shaw ask you out for dinner tonight."
Lauren nodded.
"I also heard you turn him down." Norma Jean's mouth flattened with disapproval.
She lifted a shoulder. "I don't like the idea of dating one of my clients."
"He's not a client," Norma pointed out.
"Not technically maybe, but. . .it's just. . .well. . .."
Norma Jean narrowed her eyes and waved the letters at her. "Okay, there's more to this story. I can tell. What gives?"
