by Lyn Cote
They walked up the steep steps. Without a parting word, Hallawell left Jane with Cash. She whispered a prayer of gratitude and promised never to do anything so stupid again.
Jane put the boat cushions and diaper bag in the seat of the stroller and pushed it home, while Cash, carrying the sleeping Angie, walked beside her.
Around their pocket of silence, the night was full of the summer sounds she knew so well: the laughter of young men and their dates as they walked up and down Main Street, and lonely young men in cars, revving the motors trying to catch the attention of girls who strolled in groups along the sidewalk. The sounds made her feel old and sidelined as though nothing she did would ever alter the way she felt about Cash or how he felt about her.
Now she saw the reason Hallawell had invited her out tonight. He had wanted to use her connection to Cash to lend more support to his campaign against Cash’s subdivision. She admitted to herself that she had accepted out of anger toward the gossips as well as a desire to cut the invisible bond that persisted in connecting her emotionally to Cash.
She wanted to thank him for extricating her from an uncomfortable situation, but could not think of a way to say it that wouldn’t make her sound like an idiot. And she wondered how he had known she needed to be rescued.
Who had told him? Uneasily she waited to see what Cash would say to her when they reached home.
At her back door, he watched while she maneuvered the stroller onto the back porch and unlocked her door. Then he laid the sleeping baby into her arms.
“Jane?”
“Yes?”
“Will you drive to Wausau tomorrow with me?”
“Wausau?” The crickets keened incessantly in the warm night. Jane brushed away a gray moth that had flown toward her eyes.
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to look at two Frank Lloyd Wright houses there. I thought you’d like to come along.”
“I...” She was grateful that he had not said anything to embarrass her more than she already was about this evening, but she couldn’t understand what had prompted this invitation.
“I took the liberty of asking Lucy to watch Angie for us.”
“Oh?” She still hadn’t a clue what was going on.
“See you in the morning then. Early.”
She watched him walk away in the glow from the alley’s street lamp. Saturday was the day he usually visited Angie. Why would he want to leave Angie behind? She quelled twin rushes of exhilaration and anxiety.
* * *
As Cash walked away, he pushed down the panic, still bouncing around in his stomach. Even though he had been forewarned by Rona, the shock of seeing Jane with Angie in her arms, sitting next to another man was still with him. He wouldn’t let it happen again. Years of business had taught him that taking the offense was always better than a superb defense. Tomorrow he would launch his offense.
Chapter 8
Cash helped Jane into his blue Jeep. As he glanced back to Lucy’s doorway, he watched Angie in her great-grandmother’s arms, waving bye-bye to them. At this gesture of affection, Cash was swept by a fierce tenderness. He wanted to rush back and scoop up the little pink bundle of ruffles and sweetness. But he had something important to accomplish this day, something that he had to do for Angie.
He shut Jane’s door and took in the dismal sight of the rain streaming down the Jeep’s sides, making vertical lines in its coat of mud. The elements were against him in today’s campaign.
As he slid behind the steering wheel, he realized Jane had picked up the feeling of the gloomy, wet day. Her expression was closed. She had dressed in a gray blouse, worn jeans and old sneakers. Even her lustrous curls had been covered with a drab green, hooded slicker. He, on the other hand, had dressed with care in crisp, new navy slacks and a maroon shirt. If he couldn’t lighten her mood, it would make everything harder for him.
“Think it will be any better in Wausau?” he asked hopefully. Distant rumbling punctuated his words ominously.
“I don’t think the sky will be any bluer in Wausau. And the tourists will be flocking to town, and Mel and Tish will be swamped at my shop.” She stopped and heaved a deep sigh. “But I need a day out of town.” Then she looked at him. There was uncertainty in her eyes. Was she wondering why he was taking her away for a day alone?
“I’ll second that,” he said cautiously. “I need a day away, too.”
She nodded glumly.
“At least it’s cool, instead of steaming,” he pointed out.
“Until the sun burns off the clouds.”
“Thank you for that cheery prediction.” She was in a “mood” all right. He tried to think of a way to trigger the Everett good humor he knew was waiting only a phrase away. Today he needed to put her in the right mood for his plan to work.
A strained stiffness perched between them as he drove out onto the highway. How could he launch a sustained, friendly conversation with her? In an effort to fill up the emptiness, he switched on the radio. The local station announced that rain was expected all morning, but to look forward to clearing and warmer temperatures for the afternoon.
“Should I assume he’s wrong, just because I agree with it?” she said drily.
Cash shrugged and watched her shift in her seat as though she were wearing starched underwear. The station began to play a raucous country-western tune about a cheating man. Not the mood he wanted. He snapped off the radio. “Oh, sorry,” he said instantly contrite. “Were you listening to it?”
“What was playing?”
He snorted in amusement “I guess I didn’t need to apologize.” He paused. “Jane, you’ve had your size-eight mystery, and I’ve had my troubles this summer. Can’t we try to enjoy getting away for a day?”
Slowly she gave him a half smile. “Why not?”
He smiled broadly in return, relieved he’d chosen the right words. Outside, the rain slowed to a sprinkle. They rode in comfortable quiet until they came upon a lakeside restaurant within view of the highway. “I didn’t have time to eat. How about breakfast?” he invited.
At her nod, he pulled into the parking lot. Inside the rustic log cabin restaurant, they sat on a screened-in porch, overlooking a small lake. They ate lumberjack-sized pancakes with warm boysenberry and maple syrups.
“I like to watch the circles rain makes hitting the water,” he said, spearing another sausage link with his fork. The temperature still hovered in the low seventies. The fresh-rain scent was clean and refreshing.
“I know. I like the sound, too. Kind of a restful plunk-plunk. Great breakfast.”
He nodded. “We’ll have to remember this place.”
All night Jane had tossed and turned, trying to figure out why Cash had invited her today. Now she felt her initial apprehensions dissolving. It might be possible for Cash and her to have a pleasant day together without any negative repercussions. She would have to careful, however, to draw the invisible line between her infatuation with Cash and reality. She took a swallow of coffee.
By the time Jane got back into the Jeep, the constraint between them had almost vanished.
Cash asked, “How much do you know about Frank Lloyd Wright?”
“Why don’t you ask me how much I want to know about Frank Lloyd Wright?”
“Oh, she’s in a sassy mood. I shouldn’t have fed her breakfast.” Grinning, he slammed her door and went around to his side. “Did you know, Miss Everett, that Frank Lloyd Wright was born in southwestern Wisconsin? Near Madison there’s an organization for architects interested in Wright, called the Taliesin Center.”
“I didn’t realize Wisconsin was so into architecture.”
“It is. Do you enjoy touring old homes?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I live in one, remember?”
“You live in a comfortable 1930’s vintage bungalow. I’m talking old, older than yours by about seventy-five to over a hundred years.”
“In that case, I must say yes.”
The pause in the rainstorm ended.
Sheets of water enveloped the Jeep. The windshield wiper dashed the rain back and forth frantically.
Jane watched tensely as the storm devoured all Cash’s attention. He drove sitting forward, trying to see the road ahead clearly. The water pounded on the Jeep’s fiberglass roof.
“Do you think it would be better if we pulled off?” Her voice was muffled by the din overhead.
“I’m afraid if I pull off just anywhere, I’ll make us a target for someone else just pulling off,” he raised his voice to be heard. “I can still see the center line—barely.” As suddenly as the downpour began, it ended. Cash whistled in relief.
Jane relaxed in her seat “You can say that again. I thought we were going to end up swimming all the way to Wausau. So how did you get interested in Wright?”
“Your grandfather was the one who got me started—”
“My grandfather? When?”
“I got the mumps when I was twelve, and he visited me with a thick scrapbook of photos he’d taken of homes all over the Midwest. The ones I liked the best were Wrights.”
“I had forgotten Grandpa’s scrapbooks. Why were Wright’s the most interesting to you?”
Jane, now at ease, let Cash ramble on about his favorite subject. They sped over the remaining miles. The rain still spotted the front glass, but was no real hindrance.
They stopped at the Marathon County Historical Museum near downtown Wausau to get more information. When Cash led the way back down the steps of the museum, the rain was only lightly falling, but the lady at his side still needed protection. He popped open the large red-and-white-striped golf umbrella he had brought along.
Holding the umbrella over them with one hand, he read aloud from the walking-tour brochure in the other. “The most notable architect working here between 1906-1920 was George Washington Maher—”
“Not Wright?”
He glanced at her and watched her push back her hood and shake her head, making her golden-red curls bounce. The vibrancy of the color made the gray sky look grayer. He had to force his eyes away from her brightness.
“No, we’ll see his two houses later, okay?”
She grinned at him. “Okay.”
He read on, “Of the Chicago-based Prairie School, Maher expounded the ‘motif-rhythm theory,’ the combination of natural and geometric elements to unify a particular design.” He lowered the brochure. “Up for it?”
“Lead on.” They were in the heart of the old city. Traffic was light but steady on the one-way, maple-lined street.
Under the dome of the shared umbrella, he took her arm and led her to the corner. “Look across the street. The A. P. Woodson house, 1914, Maher,” he read from the guide. “What do you think?”
With obvious deliberation, she studied the two-story, ivy-covered brick house. “The chimney...”
“Yes, quite unique. Three connected, diamond-shaped stacks.”
As casually as he could, he draped his free arm around her shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cheeks warm to a pleasant pink. He could make her react to him. He felt a surge of power.
* * *
Afraid of reading more into his closeness than he intended, Jane averted her face. Did he consider an arm around her as merely a friendly gesture, unlike a kiss? How should she react?
“Come on.” Under the umbrella, he tugged her along. “This is the Underwood-Hagge house, 1894, neoclassical revival. Look at the symmetrical peaks of the roof.”
Jane liked the stately home with a full porch across its front. Three peaks dominated the house, like a castle. “It looks like a perfect place to dream away a rainy afternoon. Can we go in?” She imagined an alcove high up in the house and a little girl like Angie, only several years older, reading quietly there.
“No, sorry. All these homes are privately owned except for the museum.” He turned and looked directly into her eyes. She had forgotten how devastating the blue “windows of his soul” could be. She suppressed the urge to touch his curly eyelashes but she could not turn from his penetrating gaze.
She felt his fingers ruffle through her hair. Wondering why he had touched her, she looked up at him.
Without warning, he brushed his lips over hers in the gentlest of kisses.
In a rush, she relived the first kiss he had given her. Once again, he enticed her with his tentativeness. The web his lips spun around her made it impossible to call a halt to his tender encroachment.
Before she could respond in any way, he straightened and nudged her toward the next house on the self-guided tour.
He proceeded to show her the Estelle B. Bird, 1910 Tudor revival; the Ely Wright house, an 1881 Italianate; and the Michael Hurly house, 1899 Queen Anne. The umbrella shielded them from the cars, whooshing by on the wet street. She accompanied him slightly dazed, wondering what had triggered his kissing her today. She couldn’t believe it was her ridiculous date with Hallawell, but what had changed him? The pause in front of each house was an opportunity for another touch, another kiss. Jane found her blood pulsing at an unusual cadence.
She tried to study each house. The houses truly were beautiful, but his magnetism and her inner confusion robbed her of concentration. Her emotions ran rampant. She asked herself why had he begun kissing her, and why was she letting him, without asking his reasons? Could it be possible that after all these years, he had finally noticed her as a woman? Was his heart beginning to thaw? Sweet Lord, have my long ago prayers been answered at last?
“There are more,” he said in a husky voice, “but maybe you’d like to see the Wright houses now?”
The red-and-white umbrella over them, the street sounds of cars whizzing by in the distance; closer cars rattling over low manholes and the old brick street; the puddle under their feet—all the calls back to reality—summoned her. “You’re the tour guide,” she managed to say lightly.
They walked back to the Jeep. He opened the door for her, and when she stepped in front of him, he came closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind. Her head fit just under his chin, and she could feel his breath against her cheek.
“Are all your tours this stimulating?” she asked, drawing on her humor to remind him of their purpose.
By way of a reply he nudged her up onto the seat and closed the door with a playful thump.
In silence they drove slowly past the two homes designed by Wright. But since both houses were in quiet residential areas and privately occupied, they didn’t stop or get out. She waited in vain for him to tell her what he was thinking and why he had kissed her.
* * *
Though Jane’s response to him was all that he had hoped for, Cash refused to identify the sensations he was experiencing. In any negotiations, he had learned he must keep a clear head. Staring straight ahead, he asked, “How would you like to do something unexpected?”
“I think we already have,” she replied softly.
He looked at her, then, and smiled. He loved it when she showed her resemblance to her grandmother, especially with her openness and wit. He knew she would be delighted with this side trip because he knew Lucy would have liked it, and Jane was so much like Lucy.
He drove them west of Wausau, out among the hay and cornfields. The rain had stopped, but the clouds hadn’t broken yet. Before he’d left home this morning, Cash had tried to plan ahead how to say what he wanted to Jane.
The first kiss he had given her had been a trial. He’d hoped she would react to him. But concentrating on what her response to him might have been had left him completely unprepared for his own new desire for Jane. It burst over and through him. Kissing Jane was sweet, unbelievably sweet.
“The hay is an interesting shade of green,” she murmured.
He nodded. “The color would look good on you.” He was gratified to see her cheeks become rosy at his compliment.
“The Wright houses were hard to see clearly.” She looked out the window away from him.
“That fits his idea that the structure should blend with its lo
cation and its purpose. Therefore, a house shouldn’t stand out from its settings.”
“I see.”
He made a broad turn off the state highway onto a county road, and she looked at him questioningly.
He grinned. Her warm, golden-red beauty lit up the dim interior of the Jeep. “Our next destination is out of the way.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Out in the cornfields?”
He nodded. The Jeep followed the route of the county road that twisted around and rolled up and down the gentle hills left by prehistoric glaciers. At last he turned off the road into a small, mowed and fenced square of lawn. A small marker stood in the middle.
Rolling down her window, Jane read aloud:
“GEOLOGICAL MARKER This spot in section fourteen, in the town of Rietbrock, Marathon County, is the exact center of the northern half of the Western Hemisphere. It is here that the ninetieth meridian of longitude bisects the forty-fifth parallel of latitude, meaning it is exactly half the way around the earth from Greenwich, England. Marathon County Park Commission.”
She turned to him with an amused expression.
“It’s not every day,” he observed laconically, “that one can be at the absolute center of things.”
“Shall we put our feet on the exact spot?” Her brows rose with sudden high spirits.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
They scrambled out into the mist. As they hurried to the marker, the saturated sod squished underfoot. They both put a foot on the small metal circle that marked the spot, denoting the exact center of the Northwestern World.
Jane grinned at him, showing her lightened mood. He had been right about her reaction to this. Again he felt that everything he wanted from today would go well. He whipped out his phone and snapped a photo of Jane’s pose.
Two fat raindrops plopped onto his forehead. Then the onslaught of rain came down as though a faucet had been turned on. Cash lifted Jane up and ran, carrying her to the Jeep. He lunged inside, slamming the door behind them.
