Weeping Angel (10 page)

“I don't sleep in on Sundays and Mondays. I'm closed for business.”

“Oh.” She lifted her brows but refused to be taken in by the easy smile on his nice lips. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Brody?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “But from the crooked rows in your lawn, it looks like you need me to do something for you.” He lounged next to her linden tree with his arms crossed over his chest. “Did you do the front yard by yourself?”

“I did,” she challenged. She'd thought she'd done a darn good job of the lawn, this being her first time behind the Acme. So she'd run over the flower head of her cobalt hydrangea, fleeced the tops of her forget-me-nots, and nicked the thick base of her pecan tree. And maybe the perimeter of the yard still had green fringe six inches tall in a two-inch width where the right wheel of the mower prevented her from cutting a clean edge. She'd clip the rest with her grass shears when she got a chance.

“You should have one of the boys in town do this for you.”

“I did. Titus and Altana's son was cutting it for me, but—” She stopped herself short. She couldn't tell Frank Brody she'd run out of money. Neither could she think of a good excuse why she'd let the boy go. “But . . . never mind, is all. The reasons are my own reasons.”

“Their boy's the one named after that amusement park in New York?”

“Yes, he is. Coney Island.”

“Yeah, that's him. Coney Island. He owns Hamlet.”

“Unfortunately,” she countered, thinking of the
black Hampshire boar with a white belt, who periodically came through her fence and rooted up her petunias for a shady place to sleep.

“I kind of like Hamlet. He comes around the saloon every once in a while sniffing for slop.”

“He should be kept in a pen, just like any other pig,” she replied. “Now I'm sure you didn't come to discuss Hamlet or my lawn, Mr. Brody. What
did
you come for?” She eyed him with subtle curiosity.

He stretched out his arm and she refrained from taking a step back. “You left your glove behind in the Moon Rock a couple of days ago.”

Looking at the scrap of delicate white in his large hand, she took the glove from him and stuffed it into the band of her yard apron. “Thank you. It wasn't necessary for you to come over.”

“I wasn't sure when I'd see you next.” Frank slid his hand into his trouser pocket and came out with a tissue-wrapped fancy candy. “You want a lemon drop?”

“No, thank you.”

He removed the paper and slipped the hard candy into his mouth. Rolling it around his tongue while he sucked on it, he said, “You haven't come back to the saloon to take out your busts, and frankly, I'm concerned.”

She knew he was teasing her. He had to be. No man would make mention of such a thing if he weren't trying to get her goat. She wouldn't let him see he was unraveling her. She'd simply ignore him.

But she couldn't stop staring at his lips . . . the way he licked them . . . the way he made a faint suction sound with his tongue around that blasted piece of candy. The smell of sugary lemons lingered in the air, and she felt the pinch of steel from her corset cut into her ribs.

“Are you sure you don't want a lemon drop, Miss Marshall?” he drawled.

“No,” she shot back, gripping the mower's maroon handle more resolutely. “I don't want a lemon drop. I want my piano.”

There, she'd said it.

The gist of the situation hit her as if she'd been smacked on the top of her head with a walnut. The only reason he unnerved her was because of the upright. Because he had it and she didn't. That's why she put so much stock into watching him . . . having sordid thoughts about him. It was only natural she think about him when she was really thinking about the New American.

“I figure you do,” was all he offered.

Amelia didn't want to dawdle with Frank anymore. He'd gotten her upset when she told herself she wouldn't let him upset her further. She'd mapped out the next few months, resigned to giving lessons in his drinking parlor. She hadn't penned in time for arguments with the saloon's owner.

“If you'll excuse me, Mr. Brody, I need to get back to work. Again, thank you for bringing my glove by.” She wouldn't be rude to him, despite the temper he put her in. “Good day.”

Holding tight to the handle, she shoved off. The
whir
of the blades thankfully snuffed out the wild pounding of her heart. There was something about Frank Brody that put her into a tizzy every time she was near him.

Amelia had barely gotten a few feet when he stepped beside her and plucked her hands off the bar. “Slide over, sweetheart. This is a man's job.”

“I'm perfectly capable of—”

“—going into the house and getting me a glass of something cold to drink.”

Her mouth slacked open as her mind fumbled for a fitting retort. She watched him retreat, his long legs making fast work of the row she'd started. He made the job look so effortless, it pained her to think of the
aches her joints would have tonight when she soaked in her tub.

Words to make him halt were on the tip of her tongue. She'd tell him to stop and let her do the rest. But when she took a deep breath and saw the expanse of the yard left to mow—over a half acre with a colorful border of flowers, vines, shrubs, and shade trees—and all she'd done was a twenty-yard loop . . . well, pride sort of simmered away to steam.

Just this once.

“All right, Mr. Brody,” she called after him over the grind of well-oiled gears. “You may cut my lawn, but remember”—she raised her forefinger—“I started it for you.”

With that, she turned and headed for the whitewashed steps leading to her kitchen to make him a strawberry shrub.

An hour later, Amelia stood with her hand on the outdoor pump while Frank stuck the revolving Crown lawn sprinkler into the ground. “Okay, prime it.”

She pumped the handle vigorously, and water immediately shot through the hose and sprayed a wide stream of water. “Uh oh . . .” she murmured. She forgot she'd already primed the pump when she watered the front lawn.

Frank jumped back and ran, but too late. His shirt received a strong dousing, so did his pants.

“I'm terribly sorry,” she offered. “I had the hose out in front before.”

“I gathered that.” Frank shook off his hands. The fabric of his light blue striped shirt had turned transparent, and she could see the mold of his chest; the way his flesh sculpted the strong bones and sinewy muscles that made him a man. “Damn good thing it's a hot day and I could use a cooling off.” He plucked the gusseted row of buttons away from his skin.

Amelia fought the urge to stand over the sprinkler and cool herself off. She noted the way droplets clung
to the ends of his hair and glistened along his jaw. He removed his hat and slapped the band on his thigh. Then he used his bare forearm to wipe his brow, the movement prompting her into action.

“Let me get you a towel.”

“Don't bother.” He put a light hand on her wrist. “I'd rather drip dry.”

She looked down where he touched her, mesmerized by the warm summer-hued color of his skin. She recalled watching him through the mesh of her screen door while he'd stopped his mowing to roll up his sleeves in a casual manner. Nothing about him spelled formality, but it was his lack thereof that had her entranced.

Amelia withdrew her hand. She felt a moment's awkwardness while looking up into his face. She couldn't think of a thing to say to him. He'd done a fine job on the yard—better than she ever hoped to do—and she didn't have any spare money to pay him for his trouble.

Frank didn't seem in a hurry to leave. He splayed his fingers, combed them through his wet hair, and put his hat back on. “Do you have any more of that red stuff to drink?”

“Strawberry shrub.” Her voice was shakier than she would have liked.

“Yeah, that stuff. How come it's named after a plant?”

Amelia thought a moment, then lifted her brows. “I don't really know. I never questioned my aunt Clara or my mother why. They always called it a strawberry shrub. Or a raspberry shrub or currant shrub.”

“Whatever's in it tastes almost as good as a sling.”

“A what?”

“If I told you the ingredients of a sling, it'd ruin this conversation.”

She croaked, “No doubt liquor.”

“No doubt.”

Frank headed in the direction of the veranda, and Amelia was helpless but to follow. She wasn't sure if she wanted him on her porch or not. Her nearest neighbors, the Applegates, lived two vacant lots over, and Altana sometimes called on Amelia when she sought gardening advice. How would Amelia explain Frank to her?

On one hand, it was Amelia's Christian duty to be neighborly in return for his charitable act; but on the other hand, he held her New American parlor piano hostage in his whoop-it-up joint.

In order to keep up with his full stride, she had to be quick on her feet; her tiny steps kicked the flounced hem of her petticoats as she narrowed the margin between them. She had every intention of bringing to the surface the strife between them with a staunch reminder of his position in their battle.

But as she neared the fragrant trumpet vines climbing through the slates of her porch, she caught sight of a patch of navy fabric. Frank had removed his silk vest halfway through cutting the grass and slung it over the railing. The garment was still there, a vestige of raw masculinity amongst the backdrop of her potted pink begonias and the apple green rattan porch furniture she kept arranged in a semicircle.

For some reason, her resentment waned, and she felt a warm glow radiate from deep inside her. There was a certain amount of intimacy about a man's article of clothing draped over a woman's honeysuckle.

Frank seated himself in her scroll-backed receiving chair; the cane made a protesting squeak under the pressure. He looked too heavy for the petite reed furnishing, and she hoped the legs wouldn't give out while she mixed another glass of shrub.

“I'll be right back.” Did her voice sound breathless, or was she imagining it? Amelia shook off the thought,
grabbed hold of the screen door handle, and let herself into her kitchen.

The room was large and meticulously organized. She didn't tolerate anything less than neat as a pin. Her pantry closet was in order at all times. Kettles, stew and sauce pans were of quality tinned ware, and her galvanized sink ample. Her Sunshine range came with a hot-water apparatus, and her floor was covered with a good oilcloth.

Amelia took a clean water glass from her shelf and went to her icebox. She opened one of the upper doors and picked up the ice scraper. She ran it over the block of ice, all the while casting furtive glances out the door. All she could see at this angle was Frank's left leg. As soon as she'd shaved enough ice, she closed the door and set the glass on the counter. She'd just poured the syrup and water over the ice when the screen door opened.

Turning with a start, she said nothing as Frank entered her kitchen. No man had ever seen this part of the house. Not even Reverend Thorpe. The farthest a person of the opposite sex had ever gotten was her dining room and front parlor. But never her kitchen.

“Which way is the bathroom?” Frank asked as calmly as if he were inquiring for the time.

The teaspoon fell from her grasp and clattered to the counter. “I . . . that is . . . my . . .” What she really wanted to say was,
“Are you sure?”
but didn't. If a man had never been in her kitchen, there may as well have been a moat around her bathroom, for that space had
never
been occupied by
any
caller. “Thr-Through,” she cleared her throat, “through the doorway and to your left. Down the hall and up . . . up the stairs. The first room on the right.”

“Thanks.”

Frank strode under the doorway casement, his athletic build filling up the narrow opening. All
Amelia could do was stare after him, her mind whirling in the tense silence. She heard his footfalls over the floorboards, then the muffled clomp of his boots over her tapestry carpet in the hallway. The house seemed to creak in protest when he ascended the staircase. And finally the bathroom door latched into place.

Amelia let out her breath and remained rooted to the spot. The ensuing quiet was deafening. She absently picked up the spoon and stirred the strawberry shrub, lifting her gaze to watch the ceiling. He was up there. Not ten feet from her bedroom. Using her water closet to . . . to do whatever.

Suddenly, a warning voice whispered inside her head as she remembered what she had hanging in plain view on her adjustable clothes bar.

Snatching up the glass, she took off for the parlor. Once at the base of the stairs, she clutched the oak banister in her free hand and started climbing the risers. When her foot hit the fifth tread, the wooden joints beneath her shoe moaned, and she froze. Her eyes darted to the landing, and she gasped softly, “Mr. Brody. You're out.” Her heart beat faster than a bird's, and she made a quick recovery by extending her arm. “I have your strawberry shrub ready.” The cold glass in her hand was sweating, and the surface began to feel slippery.

Frank sauntered down the stairs to meet her, his fingers brushing the balustrade. “Did you want me to drink it in the bathroom, Miss Marshall?”

“Heavens no!” she cried. “I was just . . . just.” She was floundering like a fish. “I just . . .”

“Just wanted to make sure I hadn't seen anything I wasn't supposed to,” he supplied, and she felt her face flame. “Don't worry, sweetheart. Nothing inside your bathroom shocked me. I've seen it all before. You women have a lot of doodads.” He took the glass from her. A good thing, too. She was on the verge of letting
it slip through her fingers with humiliation. “I'm glad I don't have to use all that stuff.”