Speak From The Heart: a small town romance

by L. B. Dunbar

  When Jess pulls back, righting himself before me, his eyes roam down the front of my shirt. The swell of my breasts sticks out a bit over the lip of the large shirt, exposing a black bra underneath the sheer white material. Then he turns his head as if what he sees disgusts him, and my eyes catch on the short stubble along his jaw. Compared to his lighter colored hair, the fine facial scruff is a bit darker, giving him more of a laborer look than the day before. And I want to labor with him.

  Stepping back with the thought, I knock the back of my knee into the spigot and bite my inner cheek from the sting.

  Damn, that hurt, but he isn’t leaving much space between us, taking up all the oxygen rushing from my lungs.

  “Her name is Katie,” he says, his voice rough like it was yesterday. “She’s five, soon to be six, and she doesn’t speak.”

  I stare at him, my brows pinching. What does he mean?

  “She can hear you just fine, but she won’t answer you. I’m almost done with the Mueller’s roof, but if you have a problem, holler.”

  With that, he steps out of my space and oxygen finally fills my lungs. He disappears around the corner of the garage, and I take a step forward to watch him retreat from the yard. He walks over to his daughter, hoists her up by her upper arms until she’s face-to-face with him, and speaks to her. Some might think the stance is aggressive, but it’s sweet in a way. It shows his strength but also his intensity. He’s bringing her to his level, and then he kisses her nose and sets her back on her feet. Sensing me watching them, he turns his head in my direction, nods once, and then slips between the bushes, which scrape just under the waistband of his jeans, along the line of his zipper and back pockets in equal measure. I’ve never been so jealous of shrubbery as my fingers twitch, eager to curl over that ass and test its firmness. I wonder about his front region before I stop and shake my head again.

  I’m so ridiculous.

  Returning to my charge, I turn up the music playing from a portable speaker in the yard and begin to sing along with the famous pop song. My backside wiggles, and my voice bellows off-key but I don’t care, and neither does my partner who sways side to side with the beat.

  “You like this song?” I question, knowing it’s a current favorite on the radio. I turn up the volume and wave my hands in the air as the song suggests, keeping my eyes on Katie to encourage her to follow along with me.

  “Come on, Katie bug. Shake your groove thing, girl.” Her body freezes at the nickname.

  “You don’t like Katie bug? It’s like ladybug. Did you know those bring good luck? You can even make a wish on one.”

  Katie continues to stare at me, and I remember what Jess said. She doesn’t speak.

  Why not? I should have asked, but the depth to his tone told me he wouldn’t explain. It’s his entire persona. Closed off. Walls up. I can’t imagine what I did yesterday to warrant this attitude toward me, but I guess today is a new day.

  Katie and I begin to dance.

  Only as she moves, so does the hose, and the next thing I know, I have a face full of water.

  “Ah, you got me.” I shriek, laughing as the refreshing coolness splashes over my face. I swipe a hand down my nose and cheeks, realizing I’m spreading more dirt on my skin. As I’m already dancing on my knees and don’t wish to frighten her, I sit back on my ankles. If she were one of my nephews, I might chase her around the yard, yelling about paybacks, but I sense a wariness in this child. She’d scare easily. Perhaps she’s been scared before.

  I hold my smile, trying to assure her I’m not upset that she sprayed me.

  “Want to see it rain?” I question. She looks up at the sky, noting the bright blue space empty of clouds. When she looks back at me, I hold out my hand and wiggle my fingers at her, suggesting she give me the hose.

  Hesitantly, she hands it over, and I playfully duck as if I think she’ll squirt me again. Once the nozzle is within reach, I cap the end of the hose with my thumb, pointing it upward, and let the water shower down over us. She isn’t wearing a bathing suit, and I didn’t consider her father might not want her to soak her dress, but as her little face lifts upward, allowing the water to cascade down on her cheeks, a hint of a smile curls those tight lips.

  I wonder again what would cause her not to speak. Was she born that way? Did something happen to her? It’s none of my business, yet I’m curious. Even more intriguing is the weight of that grin on her face which slowly grows. I imagine it’s difficult to get a smile from her. She didn’t smile at me yesterday when I waved. She didn’t smile when I introduced myself. But right now, little Katie Carter is smiling under a fake rain shower, and it’s magical just to watch her.

  Rule 2

  Hastily said words are a waste of words

  [Jess]

  “Katie,” I snap out my daughter’s name harder than intended but I’m struck numb by what I witness. It was hard enough watching my daughter fall nearly catatonic when this woman entered our repair shop yesterday. Then she’s in this yard of all yards when I’m working at the Mueller’s, and now, my baby girl is dancing under droplets of water.

  I’m both amazed and stung.

  My baby hasn’t spoken in two years. Two! No sound. No laughter, no cries, no whines.

  Katie hardly smiles at me, her old man, and then here she is, a beautiful wide grin on her lips like she’s ready to burst. Like a noise is just itching to pop out of her, or explode, or something toward a total stranger.

  I’d take a squeak, a peep, a snort.

  But nothing.

  Damn Debbie. Damn her all to hell and back. Whatever she did, she ruined our precious child.

  “Katie,” I repeat, softening my tone, but I already have both females’ attention after my first gruff snarl.

  That woman.

  Emily Post of Chicago.

  She keeps introducing herself as though the city is a part of her name. Who cares where you’re from? But I know the city struck a chord with both myself and Katie.

  Chicago. The place where her mother ran off.

  Considering my daughter hears just fine—and she could be speaking as well—she’s heard a lot of things a child shouldn’t at her tender age.

  I stare back at both girls, one of them all woman. She’s a hot mess in a good way. A dangerous way. She’s sexy as fuck, only I’m not interested. She has big city, not staying, just passing through town written all over her, and I don’t need that. Neither does my daughter, who seems to be drawn to this woman for some reason.

  Why her?

  My mind drifts to the previous day when I met her at the shop. She’d had a haughty attitude toward Tom and me, like we were country bumpkins who wouldn’t be able to fix her grandmother’s radio despite our title as an electronics repair shop. Her eyes had roamed my body as though I was dirt beneath her perfectly pedicured, sandal-wearing toes. Her attire alone had said I’m not from here and I won’t be staying.

  The shower she just made has soaked her already thin, sheer shirt, causing the material to cling to the swell of two ripe, beautiful breasts. The weight of the wet material over the black bra underneath leaves nothing to the imagination, and I don’t want to be imagining her. I shouldn’t be thinking about her, but last night, when I couldn’t sleep after hours of tossing and turning, imagine her I did, resulting in a sticky mess.

  I’m not a teenager. I’m a thirty-six-year-old single father, and I have to keep it together, not lose myself in a pretty face, a sweet body, and those eyes—innocent and bright blue.

  I watched her dancing over here, waving her arms in the air and singing off-key. Noise travels to the top of a roofline, especially once the incessant hammering stops. And even though I had a ringing in my ears, I heard her voice. I couldn’t look away from her swaying hips or her shimmying ass.

  She’s like a teenager in the body of a grown woman.

  I don’t know what she was thinking when she asked Katie to come into her yard nor what Katie was thinking following every movement of this w
oman like a lost puppy. Like a forgotten child.

  That’s what happened to her.

  Damn Debbie. Again.

  Debbie Swan was curvier, heftier, and all dark hair with blue eyes that shone like the devil lived in them. She wanted out of this town, and I offered an escape to her without thought. I should have been thinking better.

  “Time to go,” I bark out, and Emily drops the hose, the water making a puddle in the grass. She stands, her knees covered in wet grass blades. Her hands have lost some of the dirt from earlier, but now it seems to be on her face. She’s a wreck, and I want to roll in the mud with her.

  Jesus.

  I lower my head for a second, willing away the thoughts of her in that wet T-shirt and those water-stained shorts. It’s been twenty-four hours and I can’t get her out of my head.

  Go home, I mentally shout at her, knowing this isn’t her house.

  Elizabeth Parrish is an esteemed member of this community and an accomplished icon. Rumor has it she hasn’t had family here in over five years. Of course, I wasn’t here five years ago either, but I’m back now.

  This is my home. I didn’t think I’d ever live here again once I’d left, but now that I’m back, I know I’m in the right place for me.

  A woman like Emily, though? This town would never fit her, and yes, that makes me someone who judges a book by its cover, but I can read. She has it written all over her—temporary.

  I watch Katie slowly walk to the edge of the bushes lining the back of Mrs. Parrish’s lot. They’re scraggly and dangerous, and I hold my breath as my child crawls under them like some rodent in the night. She’s drawn to this woman for some reason, and I see it even now. Moving so slowly toward me, it’s like she’s magnetically connected to the beautiful stranger behind her. She can’t seem to break the force.

  Speaking of force, what the hell was that when I helped her with the spigot? I realize by quietly sneaking up on her I startled her, and she spun too fast, catching herself on my chest, but holy hell. When her hands slid down my body and landed near the waist of my jeans, I nearly detonated. The circuit rippling through my body was like a live wire, dangling after a storm. The rush intense. The result dangerous. I had to get away from her before she could see what she’d done to me.

  Then I saw her watching me speak to Katie as I warned my daughter to use her manners, be respectful, and do as Miss Emily Post of Chicago said.

  I don’t know anything about this woman so it’s even more shocking I left my child with her, but something told me Katie was safe. Emily is Elizabeth’s granddaughter, and I like to think that speaks for something.

  Maybe not common sense, given she danced around her yard like a pole act.

  Maybe not cleanliness, given she has more dirt and grass on her than this lot.

  But still, I vaguely remember hearing about her in the past. A writer or something.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ve given up all concern for what a woman does or wants.

  The only girl for me is my daughter.

  + + +

  Of course, hours later after I’ve been invited to dinner by the Muellers as a thank you for the roof job, there Emily is again. Only this time, she’s all cleaned up.

  A summer dress. Strappy sandals. Hair long and loose and wavy. I want to run my fingers through that silk and then fist it at the nape and kiss the crap out of those soft pink lips.

  Whoa. Where did that come from?

  It’s been a month since I’ve been with Sami Knight, my go-to friends-with-benefits, but she’s been wanting more than the friends portion of those three words, and I’m not feeling it. She’s another one who’s temporary, but for some reason, I don’t mind. I need to get myself off somehow, and a fist in the shower only tides a man over for so long. She calls. I hop. It sucks to be a hungry man sometimes.

  As I’d lived in this town most of my life and then recently returned, it’s safe to say there aren’t many eligible women who aren’t relatives or who don’t know me from my past. Anyone new is already taken. Not that I’m looking to be taken because I don’t have time for a woman in my life.

  Katie is a handful.

  Her silence is rough.

  If only I had answers. So many questions, but nothing to explain what happened.

  One day she spoke. The next she didn’t. Although I’m pretty certain her mother was the catalyst, I just don’t know for certain.

  “Sue, can I speak to you for a moment?” Emily’s voice finds my ears, and I can’t help but listen. I’m standing on the raised deck of the Mueller’s home while Emily shuffles Sue Carpenter to the side, just below my elbow. Sue Carpenter is at least ten years older than my mother with short, still-dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She’s also Elizabeth Parrish’s neighbor.

  “Sue, what is going on? I can’t believe how confused Nana is.” The concern in Emily’s voice does funny things to my chest. I want to retort by saying maybe she should have been present more often, been around her grandmother, but it’s not really my business. I just think family should take care of family, and it’s apparent Mrs. Parrish’s family has not been caring for her.

  “That’s why I called you. All this business about John.” There’s a pause from Sue, and I rack my brain to decipher who John is.

  “He’s been dead for over a decade, but she acts like he’s living in the house.” Emily’s response isn’t only exasperated. She’s frightened. “She made cookies this afternoon, saying they were John’s favorite. Only she never set the timer, and I didn’t know she’d done it until I heard the smoke detector going off.”

  Jesus.

  “She could have burned the house down.” Emily’s voice wavers, and my brows pinch. I shouldn’t be hearing this. I should be walking away, but suddenly, I feel like my daughter. I can’t seem to break away from the distress in Emily’s voice.

  “That’s what worries Joe.” Joe Carpenter is the fire chief for Elk Lake City and Sue’s husband. I imagine he is concerned. Elizabeth shouldn’t be touching a stove. “We had to take her keys just so she wouldn’t drive,” Sue adds.

  Oh God, Mrs. Parrish on the road would be equally dangerous.

  “What am I going to do, Sue?” The terror in Emily’s voice, as though she truly doesn’t have an answer, riddles me.

  Stay, whispers through my head, and I shake the singular thought. That’s ridiculous.

  “I’m no expert, but I’d say it’s time for alternative placement.”

  “A home?” Emily whisper-shrieks. “I can’t do that to her. She’ll never leave this place.” My head turns in the direction of the Parrish house. It’s original to the area, passing from one generation to another as only a few places have. The house of my best friend, Gavin Scott, was like that. The cherry farm should have gone to him, only he’d set his sights bigger than Elk Lake City. So many of us did, and now we’re trickling back.

  “Maybe I could take her home with me?” Emily suggests hesitantly. I’m sure her grandmother would fit in real nicely with a city slicker’s lifestyle. Not.

  “Whatever you decide, Joe and I are here to support you.”

  For a moment, there’s no response, and then I hear the thickness in Emily’s throat. “Thank you, Sue. I appreciate that.”

  Dammit. It sounds like she really does care about her nana. Out of the corner of my eye, Sue Carpenter returns to the backyard barbecue. As I glance back over the railing and down at Emily, her head leans back, softly thudding against the side of the deck and her face tips toward the sky until I come into her vision.

  “Eavesdropping much?” she snarks. Huh, sassy much?

  “None of my business,” I state. I can’t seem to stop myself. “But I can’t understand how anyone could leave family behind.” It’s more of a personal statement than an attack on her, but she spins her fine body, bettering her angle to look up at me.

  “I’m not leaving Nana behind,” she snaps. She exhales, and her breasts heave. From this angle, I can see the swell of cleavage inside
her dress. All cleaned up, she’s just as breathtaking as when she’s got dirt on her cheek. Before I was thinking of rolling in the mud with her, but now I’m wondering about taking her against this deck.

  “Oh, so you’re staying in town?” Still, I don’t know why I’m speaking, why I’m egging her on, other than her natural beauty flames to gorgeous as she gets worked up.

  “Well, I didn’t say that,” she argues.

  “Probably got a big city job with some rich boyfriend and a fancy condo back home. How’s an elderly woman going to fit there?”

  Her mouth falls open, those sweet pink lips forming a perfect circle, and a part of me jumps to life. I’m certain I’ve hit the nail on the head, as we say in the fixing business.

  “I’ll have you know I’m a journalist. I do not have a boyfriend, but I do have a very nice condo back in Chicago.” She stammers near the end, realizing she’s just fed me more than she wanted me to know. “And who are you, anyway? The family police? Who made you judge and jury of family relations?”

  Ah, she hasn’t heard about me then. Well, that’s something. In a small town, people know your business before you do, which is a reason I shouldn’t be passing judgment on her. It’s not my concern what she does with her grandmother, other than I hate to see a sweet old lady left behind. As for the job, condo, and no boyfriend? Interesting.

  “I might be small town, Emily Post of Chicago, but it seems you’re the one with a lot to learn.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, around here, we take care of our own, and no one’s going to let you just walk away and leave Elizabeth.”

  “No one’s said anything about leaving Elizabeth . . . er, Nana.”

  “So again, you’re staying?”

  “Of course not. I have a life.” The words strike. She means a life away from here, away from a place that is backwoods and in-your-business. Only she doesn’t know I know all about that kind of life—and that’s why I’m back.