His and Hers (8 page)

With a tug of jealousy, Misty imagined what sharing one of those homes with a husband of her own would be like. Little ones tucked into their beds. Was that happily ever after? How could she ever find her own, if she hid in the house and never risked anything again? The phenomenal disappointment that Todd had become couldn’t shadow her forever. Perhaps now was the time to get out again. To risk something again. To…

“Good morning, Misty.” Grandma’s lyrical voice called from the den. “Come in, before you catch cold.”

Misty plodded inside, securing the swirls of cool morning fog at the door. “I’ll get you coffee.”

“Thank you.” Grandma kissed her cheek as Misty reached into the china cupboard.

“For what?” Misty poured cream into the little pitcher and set out bone china cups and saucers.

“Typing out my note, of course! I sent it off into the ether.” Grandma settled herself into a chair, pulling her pale blue robe closed. Her hair drifted, a silver cloud upon her shoulders. “Isn’t the internet marvelous!”

“Into the…you sent it?” Misty gaped and sank into the chair across, dropping hard into the seat. “Did you read it first?”

“Couldn’t find my glasses, but I saw you typed it out, so I just pressed that send button. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the idea of mailing a letter without a stamp.” Grandma screwed her lips. “You think I’m painfully naive, don’t you?”

“No. It’s not that, it’s just…” Misty shrugged. “I kind of…elaborated.”

“Come again?” Grandma leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“You know. I went off script. Your words were so lovely. Just kind of like that painting in class. I just, sort of, kept going.” Misty followed the monitor’s bright haze into the den. “Maybe I can recall it.”

Too late. The answer waited, unopened, at the top of the in-box.

“Really, Misty.” Grandma’s hand set warmly on her shoulder. “I’m sure whatever you added was lovely. You have my flair for the dramatic, after all.”

“Read it yourself and see.” Misty glumly printed out what she had written. Over a page of rhapsody, a soul laid bare and naked for the world to read. Or, more to the point, for Mr. Giacomo.

Grandma adjusted her reading glasses. After a moment of scanning and nodding, she peeked her focus up over the clear plastic frames. “Goodness, Misty.” She took a deep breath, pressed her fingertips to her chest, and kept reading.

She printed out Mr. Giacomo’s response, not wanting to read it. Not wanting any part of this. Misty knew she’d made a mess of things for Grandma. She’d gone and gotten herself in the middle of a romance that had nothing to do with her, all while daydreaming about Cain. Whom she’d only flirted with once or twice, and flirted poorly, at that. Woefully out of practice. Her head drooped into her hands.

Grandma appeared at her side.

“I’m so sorry.” Misty’s voice choked in a sob.

“No need, dear. But we do have some work to do to make this right.”

Misty nodded, focusing on a pen she’d retrieved from town. Anything but what Grandma wanted her to see.

Hank’s Hardware, for all your home and garden needs.

Grandma slid Mr. Giacomo’s letter under her nose. Silence deafened.

After just a few hasty lines, she braced herself for the inevitable let down. She read then reread the letter, and looked up sharply, scrutinizing Grandma’s face. “He’s coming? Here?”

“He has family close by, of all things. Looks like you did something right after all.” Grandma cracked a smile. “I thought I’d never meet him in person. I would have never had the gumption to ask such a thing. Now, Mr. Giacomo is planning a trip out to meet us. From what he writes, he wants to escort me to the film festival. Thanks to you.”

“Oh…” Misty’s throat closed. Their hands clasped.

“So.” Grandma glanced at the house, her shoulders loose in a sigh.

Misty could tell the veil of memory had fallen, revealing peeling paint, tattered curtains, a rusted porch swing of the here and now. “So, what do we do now?”

“You’ve been wanting to make some changes around here.” Grandma turned with a smile. “Paint, and curtains, and some such thing? I guess it’s time to loosen the purse strings for you.”

Misty gaped, knowing what acquiescing really meant—at last, Nona found herself ready to let go of the past, and start anew. “Are you sure?”

Grandma’s lovely smile lit the room. “Let’s get ready for some company.”

Chapter Thirteen

“We’ll shock the whole neighborhood, that’s what I think.” Misty splashed on another foot-wide section of sunshine yellow to the exterior of the house. “What about the robin’s egg blue? I think it’s—more appropriate.”

“I like yellow.” Nona stared Misty down, garbed in a blue gingham work shirt and jeans, briefly appearing a woman half her age. “It reminds me of sunflowers, and my own grandmother was always a fan of sunflower yellow.”

“But for the whole house? Are you sure?” Misty flicked her gaze to the sample buckets yet untouched. Pale blues, pale greens, and even a nice, safe tan. The yellow had been an impulse purchase at the last minute, meant to make Grandma laugh.

“Yellow all but shouts happiness. I want to make a statement.” Grandma’s eyes sparkled as she turned, rolling up her sleeves. “I’m not only happy, I think I’m in love. With a man I’ve never even met.”

Misty knew that look well. Nona Darling would never change her mind. “Just so we understand each other—the porch, trim, and rails need to remain white. Otherwise they’ll disappear, altogether.” She wagged her paintbrush in emphasis.

“Deal.” With that, Grandma tromped off into the house to go through another closet, trash bag in hand. Already, she’d cleaned out the guest room, den, and was hard at work cleaning out the master bedroom.

Misty would review the contents later, but thus far approved at the decisions she was making. Pictures went into the tubs for scrap-booking. Old scripts were in a pile on the dining table, waiting for review, many scrawled with writing in her grandmother’s careful, curling scrawl. Some could be sold at auction, or given to a museum, they had time to decide. After all, Nona Darling was a Hollywood starlet with the likes of Paula Prentiss, Rock Hudson, and James Garner. Even more amazing that once upon a time, she’d left the whole thing for love of a small-town lawyer.

“Sunflower yellow it is,” Misty breathed, hammering the paint lids back on the tester cans. She stacked them in a neat pile and hoofed it back up the front porch stairs, attention focused on the porch swing. Del had been right. It was a mess of rusted chains, peeling white paint, obscured by a couple of sad looking faded cushions. Not a place to go courting, she thought, lips rising to a smile. What will the weekly group think of all these changes when they came next Tuesday?

No time like the present, Misty hauled over a sturdy crate and set about unhinging the swing. Rusted rings held it up to the eye screws in the wood beam. Grunting and reaching, she managed to get one unclipped. The swing teetered at an isosceles-angle as she dragged the box over to do the other one. More stubborn than the last, Misty focused her energy and her reach to the other. It refused to budge under her grappling fingers.

“You need WD-40?” The voice at her back startled her to stumbling. Cain’s sturdy arms steadied her fall.

“I didn’t hear you drive up…” She glanced to the empty driveway and back down to him.

“I walked. Saw you two up here bustling about. Hank—at the hardware store—he mentioned you bought him out of paintbrushes and supplies. I thought maybe you could use a hand.”

She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her wrist and took in the sight of him. He stood, hands in pockets, tucking up the sides of his Almond Valley College faded gray t-shirt. His well-broken-in jeans held up by a paint-splattered leather belt. A sensible pair of caterpillar work boots completed the handyman-look.

She couldn’t help but admire how his jeans had faded in all the right places. The curl of his smile suggested her persistent blush gave away her thoughts.

Confident. Flirtatious and fun. Remember? As she met his bemused stare, her internal dialog directed the scene. For once, Misty didn’t turn from his direct gaze. She tilted up her chin, finding her voice. “Man of many talents?”

“Some say. Jack of all trades, master of some. I’m pretty handy with a screwdriver.” He stepped closer and filled the space in between them. “And with a paint brush. At least, in the broad stroke sense. I loved the painting you were working on, by the way. Did I mention that?”

“Thanks.” Misty cleared her throat and took a solid step back, wanting desperately to change the subject. “The swing’s stuck. I can’t get it down.”

“Let me see what I can do.” He set foot on the crate and reached up easily, then screwed his lips at the sealed-tight ring. “Stuck tight.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

His gaze ripened with amusement as he unclipped it with ease. She viewed his subtle strength, the tightening sinews of his hands, the working biceps that stretched at the sleeves of his worn shirt. The way he was able to lower the swing without having it crash to the ground. “There.”

“So—if you’re looking for work—we could use you on the exterior,” she stammered, as he dusted off his palms. “Of the house. Prep and paint, trim work. That sort of thing. How much do you charge? For your services.” She eyed a big, black spider bothered by their work, and shooed it easily into the bushes beyond the porch rail. “What do you say?”

Cain did a quick shoulder-shimmy. He dusted both palms across his jeans.

She followed his line of sight to the many spider webs on the old front porch. A barely masked look of horror swept over his face. “Looking for something?”

“No. Just making sure the spider’s gone.” He scrubbed his neck with quick fingers.

“It’s gone. See?” She pointed to where the eight-legged creature now vanished into the hedge. “I don’t suppose you work for free.” She crossed her arms.

“Meals would be nice. A beer after a hard day’s work, maybe? And of course. A turn on your swing once you de-spider the porch.”

“Once I de-spider…? That’s right…” Misty bubbled with laughter at the look on Cain’s face. “Not a bug fan, huh?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Cain closed his eyes briefly and shot a sheepish grin. “All right. Add that to my tab. Any spiders I run across, you can squish for me. Okay?”

“Deal.” She reached out a greasy, dusty hand, and he shook it without hesitation.

“Now you’re stuck with me.” He picked up the sander. “Better get started before you change your mind.”

The sound thrummed at her heart. Made her want to find other ways to amuse him so she could hear it again.

Later, Misty watched through the lace-curtained window as he repainted the sanded porch railing. His lyrical voice matched key with the familiar, classic Bon Jovi tune playing on the boom box. The tone of Cain’s song over-laid Bon Jovi’s, note for note, then went off on his own rendition of the chorus. His melody was unique. Distinctive.

He’s probably been singing that one since high school, she imagined, briefly entertaining thoughts of a young Cain in the hallowed halls of Long Valley High School. He could have been captain of the football team. Or basketball. Or wrestling. Definitely something athletic, with a build like his. She tilted her head, observing while he wiped his brow with the corner of his t-shirt, revealing a six-pack of well-formed abs showing just above the beltline of his jeans.

“Caught you looking.” Grandma’s words startled from the kitchen doorway.

Misty paused pushing the fabric through the sewing machine and reached for her seam-ripper. “I was listening. Nice voice. For an olive oil salesman.”

“Sings, plays guitar, and sells olive oil.” Grandma’s brows rose in humor. “Sounds like you know quite a bit about our new handyman.”

Misty shrugged. “He’s scared of spiders.” She finished releasing the errant seam and ran it through the machine again. “What kind of a man is scared of spiders? Or admits that to a woman?”

“The kind of man who wants a glass of something cold?” Cain startled both ladies, smiling through the open window.

“Lemonade work for you?” Grandma didn’t wait for an answer and turned to the kitchen cabinets for three mason glasses.

They both listened to her picking up his rocking tune—singing on about the two young lovers living on a prayer. Stifling a giggle, she turned the new cushion cover inside out, and pulled at the corners.

“Your grandma’s a kick.” Cain chuckled, and leaned on the windowsill, screen in between. “I heard your machine stop. What’cha making?”

Misty pushed back from the table and took her creation outside. “Here. I’ll show you.”

She stripped the old, shredded cushion of its cover. The aged fabric disintegrated in her hand. For the new one, she’d chosen a dark blue and white checked pattern interspersed with sunflowers. It was the perfect blend for the house, especially for the front porch swing. She pushed and pulled the foam into place until she was satisfied, and returned inside to gather up the matching bolster pillows.

Cain wiped down the chain with an oiled cloth and stepped up to re-hang the refurbished swing.

Misty held up the bench while he adjusted the clips then stepped back as he frowned and fiddled with hanging it.

“Pillows.” He reached out like a doctor asking for a scalpel.

Misty obliged, watching Cain toss them onto the bench. She frowned, and stepped up to fluff and arranged the final touches until she was satisfied. “Better.”

“Let’s see how she does.” He eased himself down, setting the swing to rocking, a pat to the empty seat alongside.

They sat, swing moving lazily beneath them, frosty jars of lemonade in hand, and un-chaperoned as Grandma begged off their invitation in favor of a catnap.

Back and forth, like a scene out of Andy Griffith, a subtle creak of the bench, the well-oiled chains kept silent as they rocked. They drained their glasses and watched the final descent of the sun over Long Valley. No sound but bird song and breeze interrupted as they discussed the plans for the revamp.

“This place is a local landmark you realize. They’ll probably send up Bob Vandroff from the paper to take pictures.”

“We’re not doing this for publicity.” Misty frowned.

“Something you’re not likely to avoid, though. Your grandma’s a local legend.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of. Who’s escorting you two lovely ladies to the film festival?”

Misty slid her glance his direction, and his rugged face crinkled into a grin. They were both sweaty, dirty, and she was sure any hint of her perfume had long since worn off. Still, sitting with him this way made her thoughts zip and knock around in her head like fireflies in a jar. She took a last sip of lemonade, mumbling her response into the melted ice in her glass.

Cain tilted his head. “What was that?”

Misty shrugged. She wanted to tell him about Grandma’s admirer. About the man they’d both romanced, unwittingly, into flying across an ocean to be here, but hesitated. What would Cain think of such a crazy stunt? “Just each other, I guess. My folks’ll probably come out. My sister said she’d try.”

“Is your family close, then?” From the look on his face, she gathered he was truly interested.

“We are. Were. My sister and I’ve suffered some differences of opinion on my being here. She thinks I’m hiding.”

“Are you?”

“Sometimes.” Her voice came as a whisper. “Didn’t you ever want to hide from anything?”

Cain pursed his lips. “Didn’t have to. I just never went anywhere.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, and then stretched, one arm casually draped across hers. “So, we’re just a couple of cowards, hiding out in a slice of heaven. Could be worse.”

“Yeah?” She smirked at his smooth move then tilted her face to take in the warmth he sent in her direction. “How’s that?”

“We could’ve never met.” He looked off at the horizon.

His gaze elsewhere, she observed the hard line of his jaw, the dusting of stubble at his cheeks, and swallowed down her racing heart.

“That would have been tragic.” She jogged her shoulders at the weight of his stare, the heat behind his gaze, pouting in an attempt to keep it light. “Then who would I have conned into painting my grandma’s house?”

He closed the gap between them. His generous mouth paused for her to meet him in a tentative kiss.

Heat from his lips, his breath, she closed the distance, and gasped at the electric shock of his lips brushing hers. The tips of her fingers reached to trace, explore the hollow of his throat.

His hand found the back of her neck. He dragged her closer, mouths, lips, gently exploring one another, tongues slow dancing in perfect step.

Just the tips of their toes held on to the porch. Her thoughts swirled in a twister of wonder. When was the last time she’d sat like this? If ever? How could he know to be so cautious?

All remaining doubt evaporated in the setting sun. The porch swing rocked gently as he dragged his hands through her tangle of hair, and kissed her senseless.