The other girls giggled and poked each other while Marylou turned the color of the cherries in Sky’s cone. “Oh…oh, yeah? Like you’d really know what boys want, you little weirdo! Or like you’ll ever learn, collecting bugs and watching G.I. Jane forty-seven times in a row!”
“Come on,” Sky whispered, terrified that Kat would offer to fight, and then what would he do? His mom had given him an awesome lecture after the fight with the boys. No way would she stand for it if he punched a girl.
Kat shrugged and turned on her heel. “I’d rather watch ol’ Demi Moore kick butt a thousand times, than watch you and Pete Sikorsky getting all mushy on the couch, with your goopy to-ongues!” she called over her shoulder. “Yuck!”
“She doesn’t have one dress in her closet!” Marylou announced to the world. “And a bra? Forget about a bra. What would she need that for?”
Kat stopped dead in her tracks and Sky grabbed her arm. “No! Don’t! Come on.”
Backs turned to the gazebo, they sat on the stepping stone, bare feet dangling in the cold water. Kat’s face was pink and her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. Sky heaved a sigh. “I’d rather fight with guys any ol’ day.” Punches hurt less than words sharp as knives.
“Me, too.” Kat wiped her nose. “I hate this stupid place! There’s nobody nice here except—” She glanced at him.
That made him feel better. He looked at her sideways and fought down a smile. He supposed Kat did look funny, with her black eye and drawn-on eyebrows, though he’d gotten so used to her, he hardly noticed. “You really stood up to ol’ Marylou. That was brave.”
“Soon as your mom and my dad marry, I’m out of here,” Kat swore. “I’m joining the SEALs.”
“W-what?” The chill in Sky’s feet climbed straight to his heart. “What did you—? Why do you think—? Not my mom!”
“Why not?” Kat lifted her feet out of the water and clasped them as she cocked her head at him. “Somebody’s got to take care of him when I go.”
“Because— Because— She and my dad…” Belong together. Was he the only one who saw that? Was the whole world crazy?
“Are divorced,” Kat said matter-of-factly. “You’re not on vacation.”
“So what!” Divorces could be undone. All they had to do was go home and forget about it. Start loving each other again. It wasn’t hard.
“It’s over. And anyway, she really likes my dad. Did you see her kissing him?”
“Shut up! Forget it!” Sky shot to his feet, snatched up his shoes and fled up the path.
THAT EVENING Abby crouched on the back stoop, drawing. Beyond the screen door she could hear Sky setting the table for supper. She jumped as he slammed a plate down, turned and started to object, then changed her mind. She sighed and got to her feet, caressing the grass with her bare toes. Dew was starting to fall, the colors fading toward violets and grays. Despite Skyler’s silent rage, what a beautiful time of day.
If she wasn’t going to draw, she should pick some flowers for the table. Lilacs to match the purple mood indoors.
“Hey, neighbor.” Jack came sauntering around the side of the house.
Her heart gave an odd little bobble, then steadied again. “Evening. You’re home late.”
“Mmm.” He halted beside her, so close their arms almost brushed. “Complications. I have a client—divorce case—whose ex won’t let go. He was bothering her again. I had to drive out to her father’s house, persuade him not to go ballistic. Then chat with the cops.” He shook himself like a big dog stepping out of the water and smiled down at her. “Whatcha drawin’? Can I see?”
Steve had never asked to look at her work. A shy, small blossom of pleasure unfurled in her heart. “I suppose.” She leafed back a page. “I’m trying to recapture—well, improve on—the moment when Chang chased DC up the tree.”
Jack laughed out loud. “Hey, that’s terrific!”
“He wasn’t quite snapping at his heels this way, but—”
“This is much more dramatic.” Jack looked up from the drawing. “You’re really something, you know? Talented. Maybe you can—”
She nodded excitedly. “I think maybe I can do it! I needed an idea for my first book and here it is. ‘DC, Lost and Found.’ It’s very simple, but then children’s books have to be, since they’re short.”
“And it has a happy ending.” His hand seemed to rise through the twilight of its own accord; one fingertip touched the corner of her smile.
For just the tiniest moment she longed to turn toward his finger, take it between her lips, explore its shape with her teeth and tongue.
A wave of heat and embarrassment washed through her, and she tossed her head, turned aside. What is this? This wasn’t the right time in her life, nor the right man even if it had been, but still… Her eyes were watering with the blush; her breasts rising and coming alive. “Yeah…” she managed to say, gazing off toward the bus. “Happy endings are…nice.”
And sometimes hard to find. Feeling Jack looming close behind, she changed the subject abruptly. “Whitey called a while ago. His friend brought the transmission back from Flagstaff. So that’s the last missing part.” Soon we can go.
Jack said nothing.
Funny how one moment conversation could flow, then the next moment flounder. “Kat should be taking her muffins out of the oven about now. You’re having black bean soup and corn bread and a salad tonight. I hope you’re not feeling deprived with this vegetarian menu. I thought since Kat’s a—” She started as the weight of his hand settled on her shoulder.
“It’s fine. I’m eating better than I have in years.” His fingers tightened and relaxed in a slow, seductive rhythm. “That’s why I stopped by, actually. Why don’t you guys come over and eat with us tonight? Kat seems sort of blue. Could use some cheering up.”
“Yes, I know.” Abby turned back around, swinging out from under his hand. She brought the sketchbook to her breast, a flimsy shield but all she had. “She and Sky aren’t talking. So I guess we’d better not. Come over, I mean.”
“Not talking? I thought they were best friends.”
She made a wry face. “Well, that was this morning and this is tonight. I tried—tactfully—to inquire, but they’re not talking about why they’re not talking.”
“That’s ridiculous! Well, whatever it is, I’ll sort this out in two minutes.”
She caught his sleeve. “Oh, no, Jack, I wish you wouldn’t. I think it’s better if we let them handle it themselves. They’re both lonesome, so eventually…” And maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to you. No more than that? I’m desperately lonely and here you are?
But no other man had affected her this way, these past few aching months. He wasn’t just a man, any man; he was…Jack. A little bit bigger, a little bit brighter, comforting as a six-foot teddy bear on a scary night. And he could always make her smile. Maybe you’re meant to be my best friend. That’s what I’m feeling.
Friendship might even be better than love. Uncomplicated. Unhurtful. Undemanding.
“Dammit.” He swiped a big hand through his wind-ruffled hair. “I wanted to—” He blew out a breath. “Yeah… I suppose you’re right. Okay. We mind our own business.” He tapped his forefinger against her sketchbook, roughly over her heart. “But only for a day or two. If this nonsense continues into the weekend…”
“Then we’ll figure something out,” she promised. Sky needed Kat as much as Kat needed Sky.
As for herself, a weekend without a sane and intelligent adult—this adult—to talk to… She smiled and shook her head in wonder. How had it come to this? I’d miss you.
FRIDAY MORNING, Abby attacked the kitchen. She’d driven into Durango a few days before to choose the paint, and had returned with a pale color between ochre and butter. Desert color at sunrise, subtle but warm and cheerful. A good background for her Western-theme stencils.
Since Skyler was moping around the house, she drafted him to edge the walls and trim while she wielded the roller. He’d
painted enough rooms with her these past few years to know the drill. But his mood was so savage and resentful, she changed her mind. Bad karma stirred into the paint, who needed that? She sent him to walk the cat, who was confined to a leash outdoors and therefore as cranky as his owner. Maybe they’d connect with Kat, who was sanding boards behind her cottage.
She’d finished the ceiling—in white to give it an illusion of height—when Kat poked her head in the back door.
“Stinks in here!”
“Paint fumes,” Abby agreed, eyes on her roller. “What’s up?”
“Can I go to the library? Check out some books?”
Take Sky along, she begged silently. “Of course. Call me if you’re longer than two hours, all right?”
“Yup.” The door banged shut.
Abby was completing her second wall when Sky trudged inside, DC draped over his shoulder. He glared at her handiwork. “Lousy color.”
“That’s why I chose it. I said to myself, what’s a really revolting, putrid color to paint a kitchen and when I saw this shade, I just knew—”
“You’re all pink, you know?”
“Well, it’s pretty hot.” She was feeling mildly woozy. “Would you prop open the door for me?”
“Arrr.” But he did so, then stood in the middle of the floor, kicking the table legs.
“Why don’t you go study your math books?” she suggested, just to be evil. His grades had nose-dived during the divorce, so she’d purchased copies of all his fifth-grade textbooks. Theoretically they were supposed to be reviewing a few pages every night. So far the resolution had been honored in the breach.
“Yuck! It’s so hot. I’m gonna go down to the park.”
Which was only yards from Kat’s destination. “Good idea,” she said gravely. “And while you’re at it, would you check out a book or two for me at the library? Card’s in my wallet. Anything you and Mrs. Wimbly can find on wall stenciling and on Christmas cookies, okay?”
“Ah-hh, Mo-om!”
“Or you could start making the salad for supper, if you prefer. Tonight’s menu is—” She grinned to herself as he vanished into the living room, then stomped up the stairs. When he clattered down a few minutes later she yelled, “Call in every two hours, okay?”
The front door slammed, hard enough to shake the house.
But, ah, the peace of it all! Just her and these walls turning the color of sunshine. A Friday hue of hope and expectation, blond and fizzy as champagne. “Oxygen break!” she muttered, and went to sit on the stoop for a minute. But she was on a roll. Rolling. Once the base color was dry, she could really start to have fun.
WHILE THE PAINT DRIED Abby remembered that she’d meant to do a load of laundry. Whitey, bless his practical, Rube Goldberg soul, had noticed her washing machine in the back of the bus. Rightly guessing that she’d be desperate for clean clothes—the closest Laundromat was down in Durango—he’d rigged the garden hose for a cold-water supply, then attached another hose to empty the machine into a garbage can back of the toolshed, where the gray water could evaporate. An extension cord ran from the house to the bus. He’d strung a clothesline using an old lariat from his truck, and voilà—she was in business.
She packed the washer with a load of sheets and towels, turned it on, then wandered back to the house to admire her paint job. Her phone rang as Kat checked in; then not three minutes later, Sky called. Both of them declared their intention of staying out another two hours. Wonder if they were both using Hansen’s phone, she mused, picturing them licking their ice-cream cones with frigid dignity as they ignored each other. Give them a few more hours of proximity and Jack wouldn’t need to rub their noses together.
Standing in the kitchen, she couldn’t smell the fumes. Either they were dispersing, or she’d grown used to the odor. Another idea for a stencil sprang into her mind—columbines and bumblebees! Quickly she sketched it out on the pad.
But a distant thumping sent her rushing into the yard. “Hey, stop that!” The washer had whirled its load out of balance, with a sound like an elephant bashing its way out of the bus. She scrambled up through the vehicle’s back door to switch it off. “Beast.”
Rearranging the load—maybe she’d overestimated the poor thing’s capacity, but it was too late now—Abby shut the lid and switched it on. The machine hummed contentedly, clothes spinning faster and faster, then—
Whump! Whumpa-whumpa-clatter-whump-whump-whump!
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, the weekend opening in front of him in all its glory, a cactus flower unfurling after the rains. And not just any weekend, Jack reminded himself as he turned into his driveway. He’d made himself a promise that this weekend—somehow, some way—he’d lay lips again on Ms. Abby Lake.
Distracted by the coming delights, he’d been useless at his office. Finally he’d set the contract he was vetting aside and called it an early day. Let the games begin!
Inside his house, Kat failed to answer Jack’s call. On a hot beautiful day like this, he hoped she was out playing—and playing with Sky. The sooner those two mended their quarrel, the better. The last thing he wanted this weekend was a glum and bored daughter underfoot, Jack thought, as he slipped into a T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans.
Stopping by the fridge, he collected a couple of bottles of cold Negra Modelo beer. Friday deserved a proper welcome, and who better to help him toast it than…
But Abby wasn’t at home. He stood in her kitchen, disappointed to an absurd degree, surveying the freshly painted walls. “Abby?” Wandering into the living room, he called up the stairs, but nobody answered.
Small wonder. In spite of the propped-open back door, the paint fumes were horrific. A few whiffs and his head was spinning. She’d been wise to flee for fresh air.
But where? He paused on the stoop and held a cold bottle to his cheek. Hot enough to swim. They should take a picnic—and a blanket!—to his favorite swimming hole along the Ribbon River. His mind served up an image of Abby in a soaked swimsuit, stretched full-length by his side. Suddenly his jeans were too tight.
This was getting ridiculous—seriously ridiculous. He liked women fine, enjoyed sex as much as any man. But for the past decade it had slipped down his list of priorities. Gone from prime preoccupation to pleasant, occasional pastime. Between his work and Kat, he’d had no inclination for more.
Yet now, with Abby next door—and the only cure for this obsession… His brows pulled together. That distant hum, where was that coming from?
From Abby’s crimson bus.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AS JACK APPROACHED, the hum grew louder, rhythmic, hauntingly familiar. What the devil? He picked his way warily up the front steps of the bus and paused, peering back through its dusky interior, past the piles of boxes and goods toward the sound.
He sucked in a startled breath.
At the back of the bus, facing away from him, Abby sat on a milk crate. Crouched before a jiggling, rumbling washing machine, she seemed, at first glance, a humble worshiper at the altar of the great god Laundry. Light flooding through the bus’s open rear door backlit her prayerfully downbent head, lending its wild wisps and tangles a halo of shimmering silver.
He’d always suspected women had mysteries men were better off not knowing. A wiser man would have backed out then and there and left her to it.
The racket of the machine drowned out his advance.
She was bent over some task that absorbed her utterly. From this angle all he could see was Abby’s slender back, the sweep and jab of her right elbow, the top of her tousled head, bobbing slightly as if in self-encouragement.
A step closer and he made out the edge of the sketch pad that was balanced on her knees. Ah. Unwilling to intrude, too captivated to go, he stopped, smiling to himself.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and he rubbed one of the icy bottles he held along his cheek. Never let it be said that Abby didn’t suffer for her art! With the late-afternoon sun bouncing off its steel roof and the washin
g machine sloshing away, the bus’s interior was steamy. Sultry.
The machine vibrated and hummed. Abby sat. Jack edged nearer. Below her ragged cutoffs, her long bare legs were spread, graceful as a ballerina’s at rest. One bare foot flexed, pointed and flexed to some inner tempo, a slow counterpoint to the machine’s revolutions.
Whatcha drawing, Abby?
As if she’d heard his question, she straightened, turned slightly to her right to stare out a window, her wild, wistful profile edged in sunshine.
As he drank in the sight, her lips parted…curved to receive a phantom kiss… The hand that held a pencil rose slowly to her mouth. She brushed her wrist back and forth across her lips—and he felt himself jolt, then harden. Her mouth opened against her skin and the light caught a sheen of moisture. She made a tiny, desolate sound.
And kissed the back of her hand.
He wasn’t dreaming; she was thinking about making love! But was she fantasizing—or remembering? Regretting her lost marriage?
And who was the imaginary man—lucky son of a gun? The man she was drawing. Suddenly he had to know.
The machine whirled and thumped. Abby turned to look at it, then bent to her sketch pad again.
Three more steps and he could peer over her shoulder. Whatever, whoever her subject was, this wouldn’t be a painstaking portrait, judging by the way her arm was moving. More likely a whirling storm of pencil strokes. Jack’s foot came down with tigerish stealth… He drew his other leg forward—and his knee brushed a stack of boxes.
Damn! Juggling the beer bottles, he made a frantic grab for the top one as it fell.
The carton landed on its edge—and a cascade of books burst forth. Abby shrieked and shot to her feet. Spinning to face him, clutching her pad to her chest, she backpedaled, stepped on something in the cluttered aisle—and toppled over a laundry basket.
Kelton's Rules (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 14
