While She Was Sleeping...

by Isabel Sharpe

  “Okay. No. Here.” He led her back down the steps and into a dark, abandoned corner. When his lips were half an inch from hers, her body already sparking, two teenagers came by and started examining photographs of cells, talking loudly in half-mature cracking voices.

  Sawyer actually growled.

  Another corner, this time a projection room where a few tired patrons could sit and watch a short movie. She followed him, pretty sure she’d come here on a school trip and watched it twice to rest her feet. “Hey, I remember this—Mmph.”

  Further thought fled with her physical ability to finish the sentence. She was being kissed. And how. Backed against the wall, a long denim leg inserted between hers. She welcomed it, wrapped her left leg around it and pushed rhythmically.

  “Alana.” He sounded hoarse, frustrated. She felt the same. “I want you so badly.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Today.”

  “Yes.” She forced herself to think. “Melanie’s home, but if we sneak in quietly, I’ve got clean sheets that we can—”

  “Clean sheets?” He pulled back, looked at her incredulously. “I’m ready to go right here against the wall and you want to drive home and change your sheets?”

  “I…well…” She made a silly face to hide how crestfallen she was. “I’m no fun, huh?”

  He laughed, rested his forehead against hers. “I think maybe it’s been too long since you let yourself have any.”

  She wasn’t so sure she’d ever “let herself” do anything he was thinking of, but she wasn’t going to admit that she’d been boring all her life.

  Wait.

  Not sensible? Not rational? Boring?

  Really?

  Dear God. This was turning out to be quite the day for destroying illusions about herself. Or maybe it was her turn to evolve.

  “Come on.” He kissed her quickly, then took her hand and led her out of the rainforest. “Change of plans.”

  “Please tell me you don’t want to hump in the back of your car in the parking garage.”

  “Hey, there’s a thought.” He gave a fake enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Nah, I have more class than that.”

  “Whew.”

  He gazed at her with obvious affection, then lowered his head and kissed her again, differently this time, more the way he had that evening in the hallway outside her bathroom, gently, lingeringly, the way that left her a hollow shell of herself, a brainless, boneless mess of feelings.

  One of which was fear.

  Please don’t let Melanie be right.

  “Okay.” He moved away reluctantly, smoothed back her hair. “We’ll wait. Back on schedule.”

  She tried to shake away her odd mood. “Schedule? You do schedules?”

  “I’m only Mr. Spontaneous in comparison to you.”

  She scowled in mock anger. “Evil, evil man.”

  “And to be honest. I have to be somewhere in about half an hour. Now that you’ve ruled out humping in the garage…”

  “Ah.” She tried desperately not to look disappointed.

  He held out his hand. “But let’s look around more while we can.”

  “Sounds good.” No disappointment. Today was about fun, and she was going to have as much as she could, whether she was with Sawyer or not.

  They walked through a few more exhibits, cowering playfully from the giant models of battling dinosaurs roaring thunderously through speakers, then picked out their favorite gemstones and minerals from the display case in the Earth section, and peeked into the windows of stores in the Streets of Old Wisconsin exhibit. Her good mood resurfaced from the sheer pleasure of being with him until he looked at his watch.

  “I’m sorry, Alana.”

  “Time’s up?”

  He nodded regretfully. “For now. Let’s go.”

  The parking garage seemed twice as unappealing on the way out as it had in, giant blowers roaring circulating air, low ceiling, concrete everywhere, all that was the same. But now she was leaving him, not going to meet him.

  “Where’s your car?”

  Alana pointed listlessly; they wove their way through rows of vehicles in silence until they reached her Prius. Even humping in the backseat in semipublic was preferable to separating.

  She had it bad.

  “I had a great time.” Sawyer kissed her sweetly. “We’ll hook up sometime again later on today, okay?”

  “Yes, sure.” She started feeling that horrible vulnerability Melanie lived so often. Would he call? Was she being given a signal that all wasn’t well in his feelings?

  She turned firmly, opened her door and got into the car, hearing his footsteps hurrying away. This was ridiculous; she was not going to let this man turn her as crazy as her sister. No way. She slammed the door shut, shoved her key in, turned, and noticed an envelope under her windshield wiper. What the—

  She glanced around, surprised when the envelope didn’t appear to be on any other windshield. Was it the same type that had fallen out of her paper that morning?

  She jumped out of the car, grabbed it and ripped it open. Inside was a piece of paper and what looked like a special key.

  Feel like a romantic lunch at Coquette Café? I have a reservation at noon. Take this key and open locker B-7 in the museum before you go. See you there. Sawyer

  Alana’s cranky forehead smoothed; her lips relaxed, then curved into a smile; warmth bloomed through her.

  Ohhhhh, wow.

  She let herself fall back against the car like a lovesick fool, clutching the paper to her chest, grinning foolishly at the ugly concrete ceiling. He must have watched for her arrival and slipped the note on her car before he went into the museum to meet her.

  He was sooo good.

  Except—she glanced frantically at her watch—she’d need to rush home and change. Coquette Café wasn’t stuffy, but it was fancy enough that she’d feel uncomfortable in casual shorts. Only, damn, she hadn’t brought anything nice to Milwaukee. Hardly any of Melanie’s tiny-boobed, thin-hipped funky stuff would fit her—literally or figuratively. As soon as she retrieved the treasure the key promised, she’d have to run by the Grand Avenue Mall on her way to the restaurant and pray she found something appropriate in ten minutes or less.

  She locked the car and hurried back into the museum, got directions to the lockers at the information desk. A small alcove off the main entrance hall…found it…B-7…B-7…there. The key went in, turned. The door opened.

  A shopping bag from Boston Store. She pulled it down, hardly daring to breathe, and looked inside. Tissue paper. And a note.

  Melanie helped with this. She said you wouldn’t be comfortable dressed casually at Coquette Café. She also said you wouldn’t be caught dead in any of her clothes. Hope you like it. Sawyer

  Alana pawed through the tissue paper, then gasped. He bought her a dress?

  Yes. Royal blue with a subtle floral pattern, simple lines, scoop-neck, no sleeves. Not too fancy for the casual sandals she was wearing, but dressy enough for the restaurant.

  Wow. In most cases she would not have been comfortable with a man she barely knew buying her clothes, but Sawyer—and Melanie—had saved her a mad dash through stores, or worse, feeling frumpy and self-conscious at the white-tablecloth bistro in shorts. She leaned against the lockers, dress held up to her shoulders, shaking her head helplessly. He was one in a million. Why did she have to meet him as soon as she was about to move away?

  Because life was often like that—random, unfair, frustrating. She should have accepted that by now. There was plenty of bright side. Namely that the day wasn’t even half over, a handsome escort waited for her at one of her favorite Milwaukee restaurants, and she’d rekindled her passion for photography, a joy that would last the rest of her life now that she understood better what it meant to her. So. No whining.

  In the museum bathroom she stepped eagerly out of her shorts and threw off her top, pulled on the dress whose woven material felt soft and forgiving on her body. Hoping she wasn’t guilty
of pantylines, she exited the stall and tiptoed anxiously toward the mirror over the sink.

  No worries. The neckline suited her; the jewel color flattered her skin even under horrid fluorescent lighting; her favorite silver twist earrings complemented the style; excitement brightened her eyes and flushed her cheeks.

  She smiled at her reflection until a woman came into the bathroom with her young daughter, which made Alana bolt back to the stall, pack up her shorts and top in the shopping bag and his camera in her purse, and leave. Not a great idea to stand grinning foolishly at yourself in a public bathroom.

  Out to her car in the parking garage which had reverted to being inoffensive, out into the sunshine of what had been and would now continue to be a blissful day, heading toward the Third Ward. On St. Paul Avenue, her cell rang. Melanie. Alana pulled over immediately opposite the Amtrak station and answered with shaking hands, guilty for not thinking about Gran and Grandad every second of the morning. “Did you hear from them?”

  “They’re fine! No worries. Cynthia is moving quickly, they’re in the shelter, safe and sound. They haven’t even lost power. Gran said people are incredibly organized and patient and there’s a great feeling of community while they weather the storm. Grandad has a chess game going and Gran figures she’ll finish another sweater today.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Alana’s spirits lifted even higher. “That’s wonderful.”

  “So don’t worry and enjoy your date. Sawyer is a serious sweetheart. And a hottie.” She snorted. “A sweet-hottie. I really can’t believe I let you get him.”

  “He’s a good guy.” Alana laughed at the understatement. “Oh, and thanks for the dress, Mel.”

  “I wanted to get you something slit to there and tight, tight, tight, but he said no and picked that one out for you.”

  “Really?” Her glow intensified, mixing with happiness that her grandparents were safe. That was the main thing. And hey, if, when they got out of the shelter, they discovered their condo was ruined, maybe they’d come back home to Milwaukee and she could stay here with Sawyer and—

  She said goodbye to her sister, hung up and drove on toward Milwaukee Street. No way could she wish that on them. They’d chosen their new life in Orlando, they loved it down there, and Alana would, too.

  Lunch was perfect, from the chilled roasted tomato soup to the delicious lamb sandwich served with thin, crisp, perfectly salted French fries, to the excellent wine, service and mmm, yes, company. Sawyer’s eyes had lighted up at the sight of her in the dress; they talked easily throughout the meal then lingered over cups of strong coffee to combat wine-induced sleepiness.

  “Come on.” He paid the bill and escorted her to the exit. “I want to show you something.”

  “Okay.” She said a silent “yes” of satisfaction that he hadn’t finished with her yet and trailed his shiny red Lancer up Lakeshore Drive to the tony suburb of Whitefish Bay.

  On Summit Avenue he parked in front of an enormous brick Tudor. She hurried from her Prius to meet him at the base of the driveway, feeling as if they were blissfully reuniting when they’d been apart for all of ten minutes. She could get used—she was getting used to this. If Gran and Grandad were all right, maybe she could put off leaving another day…

  What for? To prolong the agony?

  When Melanie was seven, she’d managed to cut her finger deeply with a paper cutter. Alana had been stuck nursing her because their mother passed out every time she got a look at the injury—though Mom had come through in other ways, cuddling Melanie and reading to her in bed with Alana snuggled up next to them both, wishing with all her heart that could be a nightly ritual, even knowing it wasn’t possible.

  But while Alana had been in charge of changing her sister’s dressings, she’d told Melanie over and over: it hurts less if you pull bandages off quickly, get the pain over with in one quick second rather than drawing it out.

  That was how she’d deal with Sawyer. Pull him off her and get the worst of the pain over with in one quick second.

  “Welcome to my home.” He put his arm around her and the two of them stood gazing at the impressive structure, shaded by a towering maple that seemed to embrace the house. “I was the only brother who wanted it when my parents moved out, so I inherited.”

  “Are all your brothers local?”

  “Finn is, he’s an investment banker, lives in Fox Point. Tom is a plastic surgeon in Chicago. Mark is VP of an engineering company, currently working in Germany.”

  “Pretty high-powered family.”

  “Dad wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smiled wryly. “My grandfather didn’t cut Dad any rich-boy slack, and Dad refused to do it for us, either.”

  “You don’t respect that?”

  “I do. Deeply. But Dad took it a little too far. None of us were allowed even to consider a career that wasn’t a guaranteed top earner. We all buckled. Finn was a talented musician, Mark loved cartooning. Tom…well, Tom is who he should be. And I became a lawyer.”

  Alana winced. “And nearly paid with your health.”

  “Yeah, but I’m fine now, and have emerged from the Cult of Dad.” He moved her to the front door. “We all have some dysfunction in our past. Otherwise we wouldn’t be human.”

  “True.” She understood better than he knew. She could hear all the pain behind the brief summary of his life, feel the loneliness and frustration of thwarted hopes. She wanted to go back in time and fix it all for him, but no one got that chance. You took what the world dealt and played the hand as best you could going forward.

  “Let’s see if you get to meet the nephew horde.” He opened the front door with his key, stuck his head in. “Maria?” No answer.

  “Hmm, guess what?” He pulled Alana in and shut the door behind her, took her hands. “We’re alone.”

  “Oh?” She blinked innocently.

  He locked her hands behind his back, put his on her waist. “In a house.”

  “Mmm?”

  “With bedrooms.” He moved his pelvis against hers. “That have beds in them.”

  “Ohhh.” Her innocent act fled, replaced by hunger. Don’t think, live in the moment and do.

  He kissed her, once, twice; passion began to ignite…then they both heard it: the roar of the garage door going up. The sound of an engine, young voices shouting over it out open car windows.

  “Oh, for—” Sawyer smacked his hand on the wall above Alana’s head, looking at her in baleful exasperation, which made her giggle.

  “This way.” He took her by the hand and led her through to the basement, closing and locking the door behind him. “We’ll hide down here.”

  “From the barbarian invasion?”

  “They’re great kids, all of them.” He turned her toward him, tall and broad in the low-ceilinged, dimly lit room. “But I’m not in a babysitting mood.”

  “Mmm, me, neither.” She gazed up at him, grinning, until the emotion became unbearably strong and she had to look away, nervous and unsettled, as if they’d just met. “This must be your workshop. And that’s the table you’re making?”

  “None other.”

  Alana walked over to examine it, disturbed by how rattled she was, but impressed by the woodworking. She’d done plenty of fix-it carpentry, but never tried making any furniture from scratch. The piece was solidly and skillfully built, spare but graceful with long tapered legs and a single drawer, classic Shaker style. “This is beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” He ran his hands over the smooth, flawless wood, and she impulsively yanked his camera out of her purse and snapped a picture, then another when he looked up, startled, and a third when he smiled.

  “You’ll e-mail me these pictures in Florida?”

  His smile faltered. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I’ll print them out and send you hard copies if you want.”

  “Okay.” He was looking at her thoughtfully, as if he wanted to say something, tapping his fingers on top of the unfinished table.

  “Yes?”<
br />
  “What?” He roused himself and moved toward her, that prowling swagger that made her turn shaky with nerves and longing.

  “You wanted something?”

  He gave her a look that told her exactly what he wanted. “Yes, I definitely do.”

  “Me, too,” she whispered. She was still unsettled, but her body was telling her to go ahead more strongly than her brain objected.

  “You’re sure?”

  She put her hands to his chest. “What would you say if I changed my mind and said no?”

  “Too late.”

  His lips were familiar by now, but no less exciting. The kisses turned fiery immediately; Alana arched into him, aware of his arousal, wishing they weren’t in a basement among tools and planks of wood, but in her bedroom with clean sheets and candles and smooth jazz on the radio.

  Did that make her boring? She didn’t know. But when his tongue explored her mouth, thrusting in a way that turned her central heating up to high, she lost track of the thought and dragged his shirt up, explored his smooth muscled skin. They had to stop sometime, they couldn’t make love here among all this dusty stuff and with kids upstairs, but she wasn’t sure she knew when she’d get the strength to—

  “Mo-o-om, Jake hit me with a truck.”

  Alana started, then closed her eyes again when his tongue lightly stroked her neck, and his lips followed. She tipped her head to give him access, moaning her pleasure. “I wish we were in my bedroom.”

  “No kids?”

  “And a bed.”

  “Ah, yes, the clean sheets.” He pulled her dress up to her waist. “I think we can manage here just fine.”

  “With…no bed?”

  He stopped in the act of pulling her dress off. “You’ve never had sex out of bed?”

  She froze in horror. Oh my God. Why had she said that? He’d think she was a complete unsexy, unadventurous idiot.

  “I’m sorry.” He pulled her dress back down, took her in his arms. “I didn’t mean to shock you.”

  No, no, this was worse. Now he thought she was horrified at the idea instead of at her own inexperience. Fix it, Alana. She was leaving in the morning, she wanted to make up for the time she’d wasted and have him as many times as they could manage it, no matter where or how. If she fell for him, so be it.