by Francis Ray
Rafe saw the fear in her huge eyes and cursed his stupidity. “You’re safe, Kristen.”
“Me?” She stared up at him. “I’m worried about you. I saw a documentary once. They’re vicious, silent, and fast. You’re out here by yourself. If you were to get hurt, there’d be no one to help you.”
He didn’t know what to say. His mother, grandmother, then Lilly, were the only ones who had ever cared about him.
“Don’t they have alligator repellent or something? You should call the zoo tomorrow and ask.”
Thinking only to calm her fears, he rested his large hands on her shoulders. “I’m safe. I left him alone and he left me alone.”
She glanced uneasily toward the trees. “He could have just eaten.”
Rafe caught back a laugh. “The creek is almost dry, so I’m safe.”
Her worried gaze came back to him. “Really?”
“Really.” He didn’t even think as his hand slid down her arm to reassure her. They started back inside. “That’s it.”
“Not quite. You haven’t shown me where you stay.” She spotted the curved wooden stairs in the back of the elongated room leading to the second floor and started toward them. “Where did you find this? It’s exquisite.”
Rafe watched her hand with rapt attention as it ran reverently over the gleaming mahogany balustrade. He tried not to think of her doing the same thing to him. He cleared his throat. “A house being demolished. I couldn’t bring myself to cut it up. The newel posts are new.”
She continued up the stairs. With a sinking heart, Rafe followed. He was finding a headstrong streak in Kristen that he hadn’t expected.
Kristen opened a half-leaded glass door and stepped into a sparsely furnished room. The area was spotless and lifeless, the furniture at a bare minimum. Sofa, chair, table, two bookshelves crammed full of books. The small kitchen was the same. Two crudely made chairs bracketed a table.
“My first efforts,” he said from behind her. “I keep them to remind me to stay humble. You might as well see the rest.”
Kristen followed him. He opened a door and stepped back. She stepped around him and into his bedroom. She felt an unexpected tingle of something and resolutely shook it off. This was too important for her to let her emotions mess it up. Rafe was sharing, and she wanted to weep for him.
The walls and four windows were bare, the room as lifeless as the others. But at least the dark cherry, king-sized headboard and double dresser were of good quality. A single chair sat in the corner near a portable TV on an unfinished wooden table. Rafe had a place to live, but he hadn’t bothered to create a home.
Somehow she’d see that that changed. She faced him. “Thanks for the tour. Now, I need to ask one more thing.”
His eyebrows bunched. “What?”
She grinned despite the caution in his face. “Please, let’s go out to eat. I’m starving.”
* * *
Kristen arrived at work thirty minutes early Monday morning. Opening the door to the gallery, she went directly to Jacques’s Rolodex and began to write down the names of the people at his party who’d wanted Rafe’s card. Her nose wrinkled. Rafe admittedly had purchased the cheapest cards he could find. They were plain and ordinary. His work wasn’t.
His finished products were spectacular, worthy of being in the finest homes in the country. She planned on helping that to happen.
The gallery door opened. She got up from Jacques’s desk and walked around the partition to see who had entered. “Morning, Jacques.”
“Morning, Kristen. I see you’re at it already.”
“Yes.” She returned to the desk and picked up the Rolodex. “Thanks for letting me use this. I’ll have it back in a jiffy.”
“Take your time and get all the names you need.” He took a seat behind his desk. “I like Rafe and his work.”
“You should see some of his bigger pieces,” Kristen said with enthusiasm. “I went to his shop yesterday. I was tempted to ask him to let me purchase a writing desk he had just finished and make another for his customer.”
Jacques leaned back in his chair with an indulgent smile. “Looks like you’re about to add another area to your sales list.”
She couldn’t deny it. “A talent like Rafe’s deserves to be seen.”
“If he has you on his side, it will be.”
Her eyes widened in pleasure. “Thank you.”
“It’s no more than the truth.” He opened his locked desk and drew out a receipt book. “This speaks for itself. You’re an asset to St. Clair’s.”
“Then would it be all right if I kept a few of Rafe’s business cards on my desk? After I’ve had them remade, of course,” she said. “I promise not to mention his business unless asked.”
Leaning forward, Jacques propped his elbows on his desk. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait,” Jacques called when she turned to leave. “You say you’ve been to his shop? Is it in the city?”
“Yes. It’s in a huge, old warehouse. He lives upstairs.” She frowned. Like the cobbler whose children needed shoes, Rafe needed furniture. The place was spartan, with only the bare essentials. He said he’d been shopping once, but had been put off by the high prices and poor quality. “He needs curtains.”
Jacques wrinkled his nose and Kristen was sure he was trying to keep from laughing. Angelique had laughed last night when she told her the same thing. She was a good enough friend that she hadn’t mentioned their toast. Kristen was definitely leaning toward a fight mode.
“I’m a mentor with an at-risk program for a high school. School is out, but I’ve kept in touch with three of the young men who I think have real potential, if I can get them to finish high school and keep up their grades.” His fingers drummed on the desk. “It’s a well-known fact that students involved not with just sports, but cultural programs like art, excel academically. I agree, but the boys thinks art is for girls and wimps.”
Kristen took the seat in front of his desk. “I was involved in a mentoring program my junior year at Stanford. We had the same problem. If I can help in any way, you only have to ask.”
“As a matter of fact, you can.”
“Just name it.”
“Get Rafe to let them come out to his shop.”
* * *
Her and her big mouth, Kristen thought later that evening as she drove to Rafe’s place. How was she going to get Rafe to work with the three teenagers she’d met shortly after lunch? They’d been loud and defiant, but they had responded to Jacques’s stern tone immediately. They wore the official costumes of teenagers these days—baggy pants, long-sleeved shirts, and do-rags. At least they had the right shoes. Steel-toed brogans.
Parking, she reached into the back seat for the two packages. She was nervous enough about how Rafe would react to the curtains without also asking him to mentor. Men tended to be territorial about their spaces. Lilly had thought it was a wonderful idea. Kristen hadn’t asked Angelique her opinion.
This time she didn’t bother ringing the bell, just opened the door and went inside. She certainly hoped Rafe didn’t leave his door open all the time. Entering his shop, she saw him sanding the legs he’d cut the day before. He glanced up and her heart did a little flutter.
“Hi. You’re working on the highboy?”
Laying the wood aside, he came around the front of the workbench. “Yes.”
She almost sighed. The wariness was still there. “Just go ahead. I bought you a present.”
“A present?” He stared at the packages in her hand.
“Actually, it’s for your windows. Curtains. The rods are already up so this won’t take long. Don’t come up until I call.”
She rushed toward the steps leading to the second floor before he could stop her. Once again, she marveled at the curved mahogany stairwell. In his apartment, she went straight to his bedroom, the largest of the three rooms. Although he hadn’t expected her, it was as neat as it had been th
e day before. And just as before, the sterile room tore at her heart.
Opening the package, she unfolded the lightweight, gauzy blue material, then pulled over a chair to stand on. Slipping off her heels, she climbed on top. The tips of her fingers almost reached the round rod. If she could just stretch a little bit more …
She lost her balance and pitched forward. A scream tore from her before she could stop it. Automatically, her arms windmilled as she tried to fling herself backwards away from the window. She succeeded, but she overcompensated and the chair tipped. She was still screaming when she felt herself falling.
She heard a grunt. It took a fraction of a second to register that the sound had come from the solid body beneath her. Rafe. Sprawled across his wide chest, she pushed her hair out of her face, then wished she hadn’t. He was furious.
“I ought to shake you until your teeth rattle!” He sat up with her in his arms. “You could have been killed!”
Although the same thought had flashed through her mind, she tried to reassure him. “Now, Rafe, it—”
“Just shut up.”
Kristen shut up. She realized she wasn’t the only one trembling. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
His hands flexed around her arms. “I heard you drag something across the floor and guessed what you were going to try and do.” A muscle leaped in his jaw. “The window is thirty feet up.”
“I thought about that when I started to fall. That’s why I tried to throw myself backward.” Pure terror flashed in his eyes. Pushing aside her lingering fear, she palmed his face. “I’m all right. The next time, I’ll be more careful.”
“There’ll be no next time.” He came to his feet, bringing her with him as if she weighed nothing. His calloused hands manacled her upper arms as he set her on her feet. “If I need curtains, I’ll buy and hang them. Got it?”
“But—”
He gave her a shake that reminded her of his earlier threat. “No buts!”
Fear never crossed her mind and backing down wasn’t an option. Rafe needed soft, pretty things around him and she was going to see that he had them. “I accepted the writing box from you.”
“I didn’t have to endanger myself to give it to you.” He swallowed. “If you had fallen through that glass … your beautiful face…” He swallowed again.
“You think I’m beautiful?” she asked, her voice filled with undeniable pleasure.
He snatched his hands away and glared at her. “I’ll help you put the curtains back in the package so you can return them.”
“They were on clearance. I can’t take them back.” She picked up one of the panels. She’d mull over Rafe thinking she was beautiful later. “They’ll look wonderful on the window. They’re light enough for the sun to shine through and at the same time give the room a little lift. Lilly thought it was a great idea.”
His brows bunched. “When did you talk to Lilly?”
“During my lunch break, when I was looking for these.” She set the chair upright and walked back to the window. “She said you liked blue.”
“When did you get so pigheaded?”
She shrugged. “I’m a Wakefield.”
Rafe stalked over and took down the straight rods from the four windows. “I’m only helping you do this because I know I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Kristen wisely said nothing, just threaded the curtains when he handed her the rods. Twenty minutes later they were finished. Hands on her hips, Kristen stepped back to admire their handiwork.
“I knew it, Rafe. Don’t they look wonderful?”
To Rafe, what looked wonderful was Kristen. She shone like a star out of reach. He could admire the brilliance, but never hope to touch it. It had been crazy to let her keep coming back into his life. She made him want things he couldn’t have.
Kristen walked over and straightened the curtains for the second, then the third time. “A decorative rod would be even better.”
“No way,” he said, vehemently shaking his head.
“What were you doing when I arrived?” Ignoring him, she picked up the packing paper and the sacks.
He frowned. “Sanding the legs.”
“Could anyone do it?” She put the paper into a dented brass trashcan.
“The paper is too rough for your soft hands.”
Her face softened, and his stomach dipped as if he were on a roller coaster.
“I didn’t mean me.” She sighed and took a deep breath. “Look, I’m not good at subterfuge so I’ll just ask. Jacques is mentoring three students and he wants you to let them come out and visit your shop. I think it’s an excellent idea.”
“No, and I mean it,” he told her flatly.
He turned and went back down the stairs. Kristen was on his heels.
“I met them today. They’re loud and boisterous, but they responded to Jacques. They respect male authority,” she said, crossing to him. “I want them to see the talent and patience it takes to design, then create furniture. To see the pride you have in your work.”
He sat down behind his workbench. “You and Jacques must know a lot of artists.”
“These kids have no talent or interest in paintings.”
He paused on reaching for the sandpaper. “They have any in carpentry?”
“No, but they could if they saw you at work.” She took his calloused hands and ignored the leap in her pulse, the jerk of his hand. “Not many people can do what you’ve done. You’ve made a success of your life with these hands and grit and intelligence. They need to see that it can be done.”
He pulled his hands free and picked up the sandpaper, but his strokes against the wood were slow and deliberate as if he were thinking. “I’d like to help, but I’m not very good with people. I’m not patient.”
“Now who’s selling himself short? Jacques and Angelique like you. People responded to you at the party. You can do this.” She pointed to the furniture piece in his hand. “How much patience does it take to complete a piece of furniture?”
His hand paused, then continued the long, even strokes. “I can’t. Don’t ask me.”
“Are you at a place where you can stop?”
His head came up abruptly. She didn’t usually jump from one subject to the other. Maybe she’d hurt herself in the fall. Before the thought had clearly formed, he came to his feet, studying her upturned face closely. “You sure you feel all right? Maybe we should go to the hospital and have you checked.”
“If anyone should be checked, it’s you. You were on the floor. I was on top. Remember?”
He remembered too well. So did his traitorous body. He’d been caught between wanting to keep holding her and needing to chastise her for endangering herself. “You landed pretty hard.”
She waved his words aside. “There’s nothing wrong with me that food won’t cure. Let’s go grab a bite to eat and you can tell me all about the customer for the highboy.”
Surely, if she were hurt, she wouldn’t be hungry. Besides, if they went out to eat he could keep an eye on her a little longer. “Let me wash up and I’ll get my keys.” He laid the wood on the bench.
Pulling her keys out of the pockets of her slacks, she jingled them in her hand. “I’ll drive. Unless you’re one of those men who doesn’t like to be in the car with a woman driver?”
He almost smiled. “I never thought about it very much.”
“Well?”
“I’ll chance it.”
eleven
The Catfish Shack was aptly named. The restaurant’s roof was tin, the walls weathered a dull gray. The four entrees were printed neatly on a small child’s writing slate. Plastic marine life attached to a fisherman’s net stretched around the room, serving as the decoration.
“You sure you want to eat here?” Rafe asked, once the waitress had taken their order.
Kristen picked up her large, red plastic glass of unsweetened tea. “Angelique introduced me to some great little places. The true way to judge if a restaurant is good is to see i
f the parking lot is full.”
“That wouldn’t be hard for this place.” Unimpressed thus far, he glanced around. There were two booths and four tables besides their own.
“Give it a chance. The linoleum floor is clean and the odor of fish didn’t slap me in the face when I walked in.” She propped her elbow on the scarred wooden table. “Now tell me about the highboy.”
Instead of doing as she requested, he leaned back in his chair and looked at her. As usual, she looked as if she’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Her long black hair was pulled away from her arresting face in a ponytail. She wore a tangerine-colored blouse that tied in a knot at her tiny waist with matching cropped pants. Gold hoop earrings twisted in her ears each time her head moved. Several gold bracelets jingled on her left wrist. On the other was an expensive watch that cost more than any car in the graveled parking lot.
“What?”
She should seem totally out of place in the cramped little restaurant, but somehow she didn’t. “I just never thought you’d be comfortable in a place like this.”
She lifted a delicate brow. “You mean because of my background?”
He tried to back pedal. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You haven’t, and you’re right. Before Angelique and I became friends, I wouldn’t have come in here.” she told him. “I’d like to think it wouldn’t have been because of snobbishness, but because I just never thought to. This is near your place—why haven’t you been in here?”
“I keep busy and seldom eat out. I have a helper to do minor work, the rest I do myself. The furniture takes weeks to construct.”
“Here you are,” said the waitress as she set their plates down. “If I can get you anything else just holler.”
“A doggie bag,” Kristen joked, looking at the four-inch-high pile of golden fried catfish and French fries on her plate.
The robust waitress gave a deep belly laugh. “I bet he can eat it ’iffin you don’t. Carolyn’s bringin’ th’ rest.”
“Rest?” Kristen parroted.
A bubbly teenager with a spotless, white, oversized apron over a black tee shirt and blue jeans approached. She had five tiny gold hoops in her right ear. Her henna hair was spiked five inches over her head. “Corn on the cob, slaw, red beans and rice. Enjoy.”
