ROOM...BUT NOT BORED

by Dawn Atkins

  "Fine," she said. "Thank you." She watched him jog off, then took a deep breath. The sea breeze held barely a hint of dead fish and the sun warmed her shoulders like a heating pad. The light had that salt-chiseled glimmer about it and there was a soft moisture in the air. The waves surged hypnotically in the distance.

  Not bad.

  Except now she had the urge to shut down her computer, turn off the phone and join Jake and his sandcastle gang, who were working away at the water's edge. Jake was scooping buckets of sand from between his legs like a dog digging a hole, and the boys were busy filling plastic molds of turrets and towers with the sand Jake tossed their way, laughing and calling out eager instructions. The woman leaned close, flirting with Jake, who seemed to be ignoring her.

  Ariel had the urge to run out there and join in. What would an hour hurt? No. She might never get back to work.

  She squinted at her computer screen—the sun's glare made it difficult to read. She turned her body away from the light—and the temptation of the beach fun—and determinedly set to work.

  Twenty minutes later, she hung up the phone, her heart light with joy. She had a real, honest-to-goodness lead. Bob Small, a man who wanted to parlay his hobby of making custom car-seat covers into a business, had been referred to her by Trudy's accountant. They'd had a great conversation and made an appointment to meet in a week. Hooray! Things were happening. She scampered inside for the reference material she needed. As soon as she'd made a few notes, she'd join Jake's beach brigade for a fun break. She'd earned it.

  A half hour later, she headed outside, ready to throw on an addition to the castle, maybe something for the serfs to live in… Except everyone was gone. They'd built a fabulous castle, with long, high walls, perfect turrets, even a moat, then abandoned it. She saw Jake and his crew down the beach tossing a Frisbee, Lucky running between them. Laughter came to her on the breeze, children and adults mingling, melodic and carefree.

  Of course they would include her in the game, but she was terrible at Frisbee. Nope, the moment was past. She sighed, transfixed by the way the sun gleamed in the sand of the castle. It looked so perfect and permanent, yet one wave and it would be gone. The group had worked like mad, then wandered off, content to have it destroyed by the tide.

  Jake was right about the sea and its metaphors. This sand castle said something about wasted effort or the fragility of beauty or the fact that if you worked too hard you missed out on the fun. A little tidbit she would not share with Jake. He'd say I told you so for sure. She hated when he was right.

  She would call her mother, though, since she had good news to report—and confirm their plans for the weekend visit. Having fun now and then would be good for both of them.

  * * *

  Ariel watched the willowy blonde in the tiger-striped bikini swipe a brush of paint across Jake's back.

  "Hey," he said, swinging around to grab the girl around the waist, stealing her brush and holding it as if to paint her.

  "No, stop," she said.

  He dabbed a dot on her nose and released her.

  Ariel wanted to throttle the woman. How much more obvious could she be, pretending to help Jake so she could flaunt her nearly nude, perfect body? And Jake seemed to enjoy every inch of bare skin, she noticed grumpily. And neither one of them was putting any of the lovely eggshell paint Ariel had so carefully selected on the walls, either.

  It had been five days and Jake was still working on the living room. He had finished the roof repair, but he'd only looked at the electrical system and the bathroom lights kept shorting out. Every time she turned around, he was off the job—helping someone with a bike or a surfboard, teaching someone to surf or sail or dive, or stopping for a beer with some buddies.

  Not to mention the fact that he sometimes forgot to answer the phone with, "Business Advantage," as she'd made him promise. He had a cell phone for personal calls, but he still got an occasional call on the land line. He'd missed giving her two important messages.

  Any luck on a place to stay? she asked each day, but he'd say almost or change the subject or make something delicious—an eggplant parmesan to die for or a tofu salad with a dressing that made her moan embarrassingly.

  The man was making her crazy. He was so there. Like a force of nature. And so attractive. Every time she tried to pop into the bathroom, he seemed to be nearby. The worst was once when they were both squeezed into the small space. She'd needed to blow her hair dry and Jake had insisted she could do it while he was shaving, barely clothed. They bumped elbows and hips angling for space and a view of the mirror. Then the power went off.

  In the charged seconds while they grabbed for the door handle, they'd ended up in each other's arms. Jake seemed quite willing to hold on. She came away with a deliciously Jake-smelling blob of shaving cream on her nose and the memory of his arms around her—almost as vivid as that kiss in the ocean.

  After that she'd vowed to stay clear of the bathroom when he was in it—and demanded he make the electrical problem a priority fix.

  Now she watched him play around with the chickie instead of paint the living room, which she'd insisted he do right away, too, so her office would be clear of mess. It was a damn good thing Trudy wasn't paying him by the hour with Trixie—or was it Bambi? The girls and their bimbo names blurred—distracting him so effectively from his work.

  Watching, Ariel felt an odd heat—and the urge to shove the girl off the ladder she'd obviously climbed to give Jake a shot of her legs and derriere.

  "You missed a spot … to the left and up," Ariel called to Trixie-Bambi, who turned her way.

  "Huh?"

  Ariel pointed.

  Trixie swiped at the place and missed it completely.

  "I'll get it," Jake said and joined her on the ladder.

  Ariel released a disgusted sigh. The sound drew Jake's gaze. "Room for one more," he said, patting the step.

  "I have work to do," she said. Unlike some people.

  "Your loss," Jake said and winked.

  She turned away and studied her notes on a Request For Proposal she was working on. Why did Jake have so much fun all the time? Trixie or Bambi or Candi yelped at whatever Jake was doing to her waist.

  "Could we lower the volume?" Ariel asked.

  "Somebody took her grumpy pill this morning," Jake said.

  "I just hope most of that paint makes it onto the walls," she said, hating that she sounded like a spoilsport.

  After a while, Trixie got bored with painting and toddled off on her spiky sandals.

  Jake climbed down and pulled up a chair, turned backward, close to Ariel. "You pissed?"

  "How much are you paying your little helper? I hope not union scale."

  "Hmm. Sounds like you're jealous."

  "Jealous? How could I be jealous of a girl named Tiffany who pretends to paint so she can waggle her attributes for you?" Of course, I'm jealous. A little. She was only human.

  "Now, now. Trixie is a painter. An oil painter. From Laguna."

  "I'm impressed. Beautiful and talented." Now she truly was jealous.

  "So are you. Beautiful and talented."

  She ignored the kiss-up compliment. "One of your little chickies left her false eyelashes in the bathroom. I thought it was a spider and smashed it. Maybe mention it to her. If she's even noticed it's missing."

  He shrugged. "You could play, too, you know. You make life too hard."

  "And you make it too easy."

  "If you'd lighten up a little, your work would go better."

  She sighed. He did have a point. She remembered the sand castle she'd missed out on. The truth was she was more jealous of Jake than his girls—jealous of the way he'd arranged things so he got by without working very hard—and always on his terms. She wouldn't change her life, but something about the way he lived tugged at her.

  "Have you seen my keys, by the way?" he said, standing.

  "They're where they belong. On the key hook."

  "The key hook?
"

  She pointed at the brass prongs she'd screwed into the wall beside the kitchen door where she put her own keys, the spare garage door opener that Jake kept mislaying, and Jake's keys when she found them under the couch, in the kitchen or on the bathroom sink.

  "A key hook … what's next?" Jake muttered, going to the rack. "How about the receipt for the bike parts I bought? You got a hook for that?"

  "Close." She handed him the folder she'd made for him. "I found the receipt crumpled into the sack."

  "That's where I meant it to be," Jake said, looking through the folder.

  "That's odd, since you threw the sack away."

  "Oh, well… What's this?" He held up the calendar she'd customized for him.

  "So you can record your classes. I heard you rescheduling some because of the overlap."

  "Oh." He looked over what she'd done and seemed impressed. "I guess I could use this."

  "And you could put receipts and such in the folder."

  "Maybe. But from now on, I'll handle my receipts, sacks and keys, all right?"

  "I was just helping. Organization is one of my skills."

  "You mean obsessions." He was grinning, so she couldn't quite take offense. He started out the door.

  "What about the living room?" she asked.

  "I've gotta pick up a few things. I'll get back to it. Check out those wallpaper border pattern books."

  "I can't afford wallpaper border."

  "Just look at the pages I marked," he said and he was gone.

  She sighed in frustration, but on her next break she flipped through the books and liked exactly the ones he'd marked.

  * * *

  "I'm looking for Ariel Adams?"

  Jake looked down from the ladder where he was painting the cottage eaves at the short man standing on the porch. "She's not here right now," he said. She'd left without saying where, but he thought she'd had a client meeting this afternoon.

  "We have an appointment at two," the man said, frowning. He was middle-aged and wore a faded T-shirt and a gimme cap, and had a cigarette pack sticking out of his T-shirt pocket.

  "An appointment, huh?" Jake wiped the paint from his hands, descended the ladder, and opened the door for the guy. It wasn't like Ariel to be late, and he thought she planned to meet people at their offices until the cottage looked "decent."

  "She must have gotten caught in traffic," he said. If he'd known she was meeting a client, he'd have cleaned up a little. He led the guy inside, then quickly turned down the music he had at max volume so he could hear it from the porch. "How 'bout I get you a beer while you wait?"

  "Sounds fine," the man said, following him into the kitchen.

  Jake introduced himself to the guy—Bob Small was his name—and asked him about his business so he wouldn't get pissed at Ariel for being late. The guy made custom car-seat covers, it turned out, and had some quandaries. Jake just let him ponder for a while. They started on a second beer. Where the hell was Ariel?

  To be helpful, Jake told the story of his buddy with the custom surfboard shop. The money stuff took the fun out of it and the guy just gave up making boards. He figured that would help Ariel, because that way Bob would see the need for a business expert like her. Bob soaked up the story like a sponge.

  To be sure the guy wouldn't leave, Jake made guacamole, broke out the chips and handed Bob beer number three.

  Finally, Jake heard the garage door grind below them. "That's Ariel," he said. "Must have been some traffic jam. She's scrupulous about her schedule."

  Bob Small just belched and asked him how much he paid for a twelve-pack of Tecate.

  Ariel bustled into the house, caught sight of the guest and stood stock-still.

  "This is Bob Small," Jake said, standing up. "I told him you must have been stuck in traffic."

  "Bob! We had an appointment at your shop. It was locked…"

  "I thought we were meeting here," Bob said, a goofy grin on his face. Jake slid the third beer out of the guy's reach.

  "I guess I misunderstood," Ariel said. She flushed bright red and Jake felt bad for her. "I'm sorry you've had to wait so long. Come into my office—such as it is—and we'll get to work on your business plan."

  "Actually, Jake here's helped me out," Bob said, looking a little sheepish.

  "He has?" she said, her flush fading to pale.

  "I just listened," Jake said, getting a bad feeling.

  "Don't be so modest," Bob said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Your buddy's situation is just what I don't want." He turned to Ariel. "I think I had the cart before the horse here on this growth idea. I'm plenty busy with word-of-mouth customers. Slaving all day to meet overhead is not what I want. I think I'll stand pat for now."

  Ariel's face went even paler, except for two bright spots of red high on her cheeks. Uh-oh. "That may be true, but we could go over the possibilities in more depth than I'm sure Jake did." She shot him a glare, sharp and cold as an ice dagger.

  "Thanks all the same," Bob said. He patted his pockets, looking for something, then pulled out a checkbook. "How about I pay you for the time?" Then he grinned. "Or maybe I should pay your assistant here." He jabbed Jake in the gut with an elbow.

  "Just a little talk," Jake said, feeling like a heel.

  "There's no charge, Bob," Ariel said softly. "I missed our appointment, and you appear not to need my services right now." She flashed Jake a pointed look. "Keep me in mind, though, if you decide to move ahead… And if any of your friends need assistance, please give them my card." She pulled several from her purse and thrust them at him.

  "You bet," he said, stuffing the cards into his front jeans pocket, where they'd undoubtedly get washed into mush. "Thanks again, Jake." He gave Jake's hand a hearty shake, looking at him like they'd just become poker pals.

  Ariel walked her ex-client to the door, then turned on Jake. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

  "I had to keep the guy busy until you got here," Jake said, feeling sheepish. "I mentioned the surfboard shop just so he'd know he needed you. But he's not ready. You'd have figured that out eventually. I just saved you time."

  "Right. You saved me time."

  "I was afraid the guy would skate on you."

  "He did, thank you very much." She blew out a breath. "It's just … unfortunate"

  "Let me get you some tea." He headed for the kitchen, hoping to cheer her up, pleased when she followed him. He took the pitcher from the refrigerator and poured her a glass. "Gingko biloba—you look depleted."

  "Depleted? I'm devastated," she said, taking the glass from him with shaking fingers.

  "Come on, it's not the end of the world."

  "It is for me," she said. Was that the shine of tears?

  "There will be plenty of other clients," Jake said, hoping there would be. She looked so sad. He motioned for her to drink.

  She did. "There has to be," she said, looking up at him, her green eyes cloudy with misery. "I have two months' savings and that's it. Once that's gone, I'll have to get a job somewhere—rolling burritos at the Del Taco, for all I know."

  "You've made tons of calls. Something will come through."

  "Nothing so far. Lots of maybes and in a year or twos and we'll keep you in minds, but no clients. Bob Small was it."

  "Well, hell, I can get you a client." Brice was always bragging about expanding. He'd talk Brice into hiring her. He had to do something. Ariel looked so deflated … all her energy just phhht, like a bright balloon abruptly freed of air.

  "Right. What? One of your surfboard buddies?" She looked at him with raw doubt.

  "Exactly," he said.

  She seemed to be fighting some retort, but gave up in despair. Where was that upthrust chin and locked jaw he knew so well? He hated seeing her like this and he'd helped make her that way.

  She snatched her pillowy lip between her teeth and began the usual gnawfest. "I'll be all right. Losing Bob Small was a blow, that's all. I'm meeting with someone from a communi
ty college about teaching an evening class. And I have a networking luncheon tomorrow."

  He thought about her admonition to herself—Don't let fear rule. Keep on keeping on. He was about to repeat it to her when he realized she'd be embarrassed that he knew her secret mantra. She seemed to gather herself, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  His heart swelled with relief and he vowed he'd get her a client if it killed him—or, rather, Brice, who was a notorious cheapskate.

  * * *

  Jake pushed open the door to Water Gear, clanging the bell. He breathed deep the great rubber, plastic, saltwater, mildew scent of the place and felt at home all over again. But today he had no time to shoot the breeze or check out new equipment. He was on a mission.

  "What happened to you?" Brice said, reading his expression. "One of your honeys turn up pregnant?"

  "God, no," he said. "I need to talk to you."

  "I got no spare cash," he said, "and you know I don't loan money to friends."

  "Hell, you don't loan money to anybody." The guy was so tight he reused paper cups until they dissolved. It had taken Jake years to get Brice to pay him close to what he was worth for the lessons and charter gigs Brice hired him for. Even now, the scheduling got to be a pain. Not to mention the lapses in income. "You want to expand this place, right?"

  "Expand? I got my hands full with one shop. And my numb-nuts weekend guy over-ordered replacement shorty suits."

  "But you said yourself what a great concept this is. You could take it to San Diego, even Mexico, remember? That's what you told us the other night."

  "Before or after the second pitcher of margs?"

  "Come on. En vino veritas."

  "Now with the Latin? I know I'm in trouble when you start showin' off your college ed-ju-cashun."

  "The point is that I know just the person you need to talk to. My landlord."

  "The brunette with the pointy name?"

  "Ariel, right. She's a business consultant. She's good—got great ideas—and she's just getting started, so I'm sure you can score a great rate. She's big on planning—short-range, long-range, strategic, you name it, she plans it."

  "Hold it. I've got to sit down for this." Brice lowered himself to the rickety stool by the cash register, pretending he'd become faint. "I don't believe it." He shook his head in exaggerated wonder. "Jake Renner, ape-shit over a woman."