Enright Family Collection (125 page)

Matt couldn’t help himself. Without wanting to, he gazed beyond her to the stove, the source of the
wonderful smell of curry, one of his favorites spices. His nose betrayed him by sniffing.

“That smells like—”

“Curry.” She nodded, and turned to the stove to lift the lid off one of two saucepans. “I’m making curried vegetables with rice.”

“It smells great.” He had to call ’em as he saw ’em.

“Would you like some?” she asked without turning around.

“Ah, no, that’s all right,” he backed away from her, wishing he could look away from her trim little self leaning against the stove. “I have to get cleaned up and get back to Shawsburg.”

When she turned around, he was still standing there. There were little flecks of paint in his hair, and a trace of tiny white speckles across the bridge of his nose like albino freckles. It was all she could do to keep her fingers from brushing them away.

“Was there something else?” she asked.

“Ah, no. Well, actually, yes. I was wondering if I could just go down to the basement and grab a jar of plum jam.”

“Sure.” She unlocked the basement door and turned on the light. “Of course. It’s your basement, your jam ...”

He tried to avert his eyes on his way downstairs, but that faint scent of spring flowers mixed with curry teased him as he passed her, and he couldn’t help himself. His eyes lingered on her face. It was a hard face for a man to turn away from, and it held him for what seemed like a very long moment.

“I’ll just ... go on—” he heard himself mumble
when he realized how long he’d been staring—“downstairs ...” His feet made brief thumping sounds as he ran down the steps.

When he came back up, he was empty-handed.

“Did you change your mind?” she asked. “About the jam?”

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Plum?”

He nodded.

“I know there’s some there. I saw several jars last week.” She dried her hands on a towel and motioned for him to follow her back down the steps.

He followed.

She turned the small light on in the corner of the basement and opened the cupboard doors. She knelt down and began moving jars around on the second shelf.

“Here,” she said, handing up two large jars of peaches, “hold these so I can look around in here. You moved things a bit.”

“I might have.” He stepped up close behind her, taking the large glass jars from her hands.

“Ah, here they are. You must have pushed them toward the back.” She swiveled around a bit and started to rise, not realizing how close he was. When she stood up, she found herself just below his chin, her hands and the jars skimming his chest.

She looked up at him, struck by the depth of his dark brown eyes, the long lashes like so much thick fringe. The proximity of his face startled her. She tried to move back, but the cupboard was behind her, and she was trapped between it and his body. There was a very male presence about him, and her reaction
to it caught her breath in her throat. For the first time in a very long time, Georgia was speechless.

Matt looked down into her face, and fought back the bad angel who had come from nowhere to perch upon his shoulder and whisper in his ear.
Kiss her. Kiss her now.

“Ah ... I’ll take ...” Matt reached for the jars of jam she held, only to realize that he was still holding the larger jars.

“Oh. Right. Here. I’ll take the peaches ...” She seemed to be fumbling as much as he was, and they made an awkward exchange of the jars in a tight space.

It hadn’t occurred to Matt that he could have just backed up.

It hadn’t occurred to Georgia to ask him to.

“Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “I guess we’re done down here.”

“Right.” She turned her back and bent down to replace the jars of peaches on the shelf.

When she stood back up, he still hadn’t moved. “Matt? Was there something else you wanted?”

“What?” The bad angel, who had been at that moment comparing the sight of her butt in jeans to that of her butt in her leotard, encouraged Matt to respond in a manner guaranteed to win him a smack across the face.

“Oh, no. No. This is fine.” Matt slapped a hand over the bad angel’s mouth and opted for the high road. “Thanks.”

Georgia closed the cupboard door and turned out the light. For a moment, she was lost in the darkness. With his free hand, Matt reached out, seeking her
face, just to make certain that she had not, somehow, disappeared before his eyes. The fingers of his right hand found bone, and they lightly traced the line of her cheek before pulling back.

“You’re welcome.”

The sound of her voice broke the spell, and somewhat nonplused, Matt stood aside, motioning for her to go ahead of him to the steps.

She climbed them softly, and he followed closely, the bad angel filling his mind with randy thoughts as they ascended to the kitchen.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay?” she asked.

“I ... um ... really have to get back,” he muttered. “To Shawsburg.”

If he didn’t leave, he’d be drooling as pathetically as Artie was. And not necessarily just from the curry.

“Oh. Okay.” She lifted the lid again and tossed in a handful of raisins, then a handful of green onions.

“So, thanks.” He opened the door and walked through it as quickly as he could.

“For what?”

“For ... for feeding my dog.” He slapped the side of his leg and Artie caught up with him.

From the doorway, Georgia watched Matt cross the yard to the barn, where he went up the outside stairs to his apartment. She was still watching as the lights appeared in the rooms she knew to be his kitchen, his bedroom, his bath.

Unconsciously, her fingers followed the path his had taken along the side of her face.

She had instinctively known that there was no good reason why he had to rush back to Shawsburg.
In spite of the spark that had passed between them—his hand to her face—it was obvious that he wanted to avoid being anywhere near her. She had known that he didn’t like her, didn’t want to get to know her, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it had.

It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.

chapter twelve

The sun had not quite risen the next morning when Georgia was awakened by the muffled sound of leaves rustling somewhere beneath her window. She crept from her bed and stealthily pulled the curtain aside to take a look. There, there in the shadows near the garden, something lurked. Was it crouched near the gate, perhaps trying to undo the string she had tied there?

She tiptoed back into the bedroom, where she quietly lifted the telephone and dialed the number—which she now knew by heart—for the police department.

“This is Georgia Enright at the old Evans farm. The person who’s been vandalizing the gardens out here is back, he’s out there now and I would like someone to come out and arrest him.” She whispered into the phone, as if the intruder could hear her from her room on the second floor.

Assured that someone would be right there, Georgia threw off her nightgown and jumped into her
jeans and a sweatshirt, and tied on her old sneakers. She wanted to be there to confront him, whoever he was, and give him a piece of her mind. As the lights from the patrol car eased slowly up the drive, she ran down the steps and unlocked the front door.

“He’s right out back,” she told the young police officer as he pulled over onto the grassy spot near the house. “Inside the fence ...”

“You stay here, Miss, in case he’s armed,” the officer told her protectively.

“Okay.” She nodded vigorously, following him to the corner of the house, where she could watch. She wanted to see the perpetrator apprehended. And once he was in custody, Georgia would have a few choice words for her midnight vandal.

“Come out with your hands up,” the officer announced from the corner of the house.

There was no response from the garden.

“I know you’re in there. Just walk on out through the gate with your hands over your head,” the officer called.

There was a faint, indistinguishable noise from the other side of the fence. The officer crept forward to investigate, his gun drawn and his eyes keenly focused on the garden gate.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” the officer exclaimed.

“What is it?” Georgia whispered loudly, venturing a brave step from the safety of the shadow of the house.

“I think you should come take a look.”

Georgia joined the policeman at the fence.

“There’s your intruder.” He pointed into the far corner, where a small figure crouched.

The figure was grunting.

“What is it?” She peered more closely over the fence, just as the dark figure sprang forward.

“That’s a pig. A Vietnamese potbellied pig.”

“A pig?” She frowned and looked down at the animal that was vainly attempting to poke its too-wide snout through the narrow space between the fence posts.

“We see them abandoned from time to time,” the officer explained as he leaned over to scratch the area between the pig’s eyes. “They used to be real popular as pets about ten years ago. People get tired of ’em, though, just like they sometimes get tired of a dog or a cat, and they turn them loose to fend for themselves.”

He continued to scratch the pig’s head. The pig closed its eyes and drifted off to heaven.

“It looks tame,” Georgia observed.

“Oh, yes. This breed of pig used to be so popular, they used to call ’em Yuppie puppies. They used to sell for big money. A thousand dollars and up, some of them. Lots of big celebrities had ’em. I saw a picture one time of Julia Roberts walking a pig just like that one. Had it on a leash.”

Georgia knelt down near the fence to get a better look. The pig stood up as if looking her over at the same time. It was small and black, swaybacked, so that its stomach was near to the ground. It poked its wide, dark nose through the wooden slats and grunted softly.

“I guess if it’s been abandoned, it’s been coming to the garden to look for food.”

“That would explain why the plants were uprooted.”
The officer knelt down next to Georgia. “I guess you’re hungry, aren’t you, Spam?”

Georgia laughed at the name. The pig grunted with slightly more vigor.

“Well, I’ll take it to the SPCA over in Salisbury.” He stood up. “If they’re still taking these pigs.”

“What will happen to it?” Georgia reached tentative fingers through the fence to touch the snout. The pig’s skin was cold and tough, and it nuzzled its face against her hand.

“Well, they’ll try to find a home for it. There are some rescue organizations that take in abandoned potbellied pigs, though I’ve heard that lately, they’re turning away more animals than they can take, leaving the local SPCAs to ... dispose of them however they can.”

“Oh, poor Spam,” Georgia whispered, and as if to plead its case, the pig made an effort to climb up the side of the fence, causing Georgia to laugh. “Oh, I don’t think you’re built for climbing. Your legs are far too short and far too much of your weight is too close to the ground.”

She stood up and reached over to open the gate.

“Come on, Spam,” she called, and the pig trotted out.

As if assessing its chances of survival, the pig looked over both the officer and Georgia, then rolled the dice and flung itself toward Georgia and nudged her knees.

“It likes me!” Georgia exclaimed.

“They say they’re real social animals. Lots of folks even had them as house pets.”

“You’re kidding?” Georgia laughed. “I can’t imagine keeping a pig in my house.”

She scratched the sides of the pig’s head, and the pig appeared to swoon. “How long do you think the SPCA will keep it before they ... do whatever it is they’ll do?”

“A few days, if that. I don’t think there’s much call for these critters anymore.”

“That’s so sad, to just turn an animal out like that.”

“Especially when most of them this young are probably the product of several generations of domestic breeding. They don’t have the survival skills of the wild pigs.” He leaned over and, with his flashlight, illumined the pig’s left flank, where deep scars gave evidence of some sort of attack. “Looks like something’s had at it.”

“What do you suppose did that?” Georgia leaned forward to investigate, and the pig lowered itself to the ground and rolled over like a dog wanting its tummy rubbed.

“Dog, maybe. May be a few wild ones out in the woods, there.” He pointed out beyond the barn, then stood up. “Come on, Spam, it’s time to go. I’ll just get some rope out of the car, and we’ll be on our way.”

The pig rolled close to Georgia’s feet, and she leaned forward to scratch its stomach. The pig turned its head toward her and grunted contentedly.

“You’re pretty cute,” Georgia told it, “for a pig.”

“It is, isn’t it, in its own peculiar way,” the officer chuckled as he came back with the rope. “Let’s try this around the neck, like a leash.”

The pig rolled over onto its back and pulled itself up from the ground, clearly aware that something
was about to happen. As the rope was tied about its neck, it began to squeal faintly, as if appealing for mercy.

“What if I kept it here for a few days?” Georgia heard herself ask. “Maybe it wasn’t abandoned. Maybe it’s lost. Maybe its owner is looking for it.”

“Not likely.” The officer shook his head.

“Well, how ’bout if I were to put up a few signs, like at Tanner’s?”

“That might work. If it’s a lost pig, and if it’s from around O’Hearn, the owner might see the sign. Sure. I don’t see any harm in you keeping the pig. Just as long as you understand that it isn’t likely that it’s going to be claimed.”

“That would be okay. He can stay in the barn.” Georgia slipped the rope from around the pig’s head, and the pig nudged at the calf of her right leg.

“Actually, I think it’s a ‘she,’” the officer said.

“Oh. Well, then, she can stay in the barn till her owner shows up.”

“If her owner shows up.”

Georgia bent down and petted the top of the pig’s head.

“I think I’ll get her some breakfast. What do you suppose I should feed her?” Georgia looked up. “You don’t suppose they make pig chow, do you?”