by Thea Devine
“Put ’em together with spit and duct tape,” she said, shrugging.
“You’re not going to be able to use the shower.”
“So I’ll bathe in the lake.”
“Too cold yet,” he said, eyeing her.
“You know every damn thing.”
“I know that plumbing has to be redone, Carrie.”
“I can’t afford it,” she said brusquely.
“How long are you staying?”
She lifted her head and met his dark lancing gaze directly. “Through the summer. I’ll manage.”
“You won’t. Something else in the bathroom will go, or in the kitchen.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Or you won’t? The house isn’t worth it, Carrie? Are you going away for fifteen more years?”
Oh, the house was worth it. It was a sturdy old house on a big lake in a picturesque Maine town, and it was her only asset right now. Truck didn’t have to know that, she thought, and glanced over at him. She didn’t like the way he was studying her.
“I can’t afford it, Truck,” she said quietly this time.
“Okay. I’ll do it as side work. Afternoons, evenings, weekends. It won’t cost you as much. And it’ll add ten thousand to the price of the house.”
“I wasn’t planning to sell.”
“Then you’re going to stay?”
He’d painted her right into the corner, and he was watching her like the spider with a fly. She wasn’t about to tell him she was out of a job, and that there was very little money. Not yet anyway. “You have an installment plan?” she asked lightly.
“It has to be done, Carrie.”
She was beginning to think coming back to Paradise was a very bad idea.
“I can patch up the shower so you can use it today.”
“I’ve already had a shower, thank you. Just make sure I can use it tomorrow.”
“I’m doing the pipes, Carrie.”
“Fine. Who am I to argue with you?” She unwrapped herself from the chair and eased to her feet. “I’ll take your cup.” She held out her hand. Truck touched her with his long strong fingers and his glimmering gaze, and she felt the shock clear through her body. Not possible. How could that kind of reaction be possible after all these years? She wasn’t going to let it be possible.
“I have work to do,” Carrie said abruptly, still conscious of her damp shirt and bare legs, and the magnetic pull of his dark knowing eyes lingering on her breasts... just there.
“I’ll get the shutters down.”
That was the last thing she expected him to say. She didn’t want his help, his charity.
“Truck...” It was futile to even protest. He had a ladder up to the side of the house before she even said the words. So she went back inside and began mopping up the wet floor in the hallway and bathroom.
Truck finished removing the shutters and began stacking the wood he’d brought to one side of the porch. When she’d gotten the floor as dry as she could, she tackled the kitchen counters while he brought in the suitcases, boxes and art supplies that were still in her van. Next she stripped the beds and vacuumed the bedrooms, as Truck unpacked her computer and set it up in the den. They did all this in a calm companionable silence that simmered just below the surface with a kinetic tension.
It felt scary.
Carrie was scared to death seeing him moving around in her bedroom. Then suddenly he was standing on the threshold, as if he was waiting for her. Instantly the air became charged with heat, awareness, desire. She stood rooted to the spot for one long minute, caught by the brooding look in his eyes. This was insanity. She wasn’t seventeen, even if she was experiencing some of those old emotions. It was just that Truck was too potent, and she was too vulnerable. She moved first, stepping backward. He followed, matching her step for step.
“Everything works, Carrie.”
She couldn’t resist looking him up and down as she veered pointedly toward the front door. “I can tell.”
“I’ll start work tomorrow.”
“I think you’ve started already,” she said tartly.
“I never start anything I can’t finish. A hard lesson I learned in my youth.”
Carrie didn’t move an inch. She ignored all the bells going off in her head. She ignored everything except the pulsating heat of him inches away from her. She could melt under all that heat “You must have a job somewhere to go to.”
“I appreciate your concern, but plumbers make real good money, even in Paradise.”
“Must be heaven,” she murmured, opening the door wider.
Truck looked at her consideringly for a long moment, as if he was waiting for something, wanting something. Something she was not going to give him.
“Maybe,” he said, “just maybe we make our own heaven.” Then he moved away from her and out to his van, and without a backward look he left her.
IT WAS NO LONGER a house of horrors.
After her visit with Jeannie, Carrie had driven back to town for cleaning supplies, trash bags, the longest pair of barbecue tongs she could find, sheets, pillows, vacuum-cleaner bags, and a radio. Then she had forced herself to take the tongs and systematically pick up all the ugly icky things. The shapeless shredded things. The things she didn’t want to know what they were. She filled two trash bags and lugged them up to the battered garbage cans by the road, feeling as if she had won the war. Only after that had she been able to sleep, curled on the couch in the aired-out comforter, lulled by a soothing voice on the radio and the twittery night sounds of the country.
If there had been no shower disaster this morning, she would have felt perfectly content sitting on the porch and having her second cup of coffee as she read the local newspaper. There had been a shower disaster, though, and Truck had shown up like some knight errant. Of course, he had been looking after the place since her mother had died, and knew the state the plumbing was in. It didn’t take psychic powers to figure out what was likely to happen when she tried out the shower. So Truck had come to help out. So what? So why was she so surprised...and unsettled by his appearance?
I think you will be depending on me, Carrie. Maybe there’ll be something you can think of this weekend...
Still, he was too damn cocky for his own good. It didn’t matter. Carrie was not going to let him trade on the past. Anyway, they had no past, and she was going to make very sure they had no present.
Carrie knew what she had to do. She had to send out a thousand résumés, and network like crazy, on-line and by fax, phone every contact, follow up every lead, and answer every ad until she found a job.
One focus. No distractions.
If Truck wanted to provide the hot and cold running water, fine. It didn’t entitle him to hot and cold running commentary as well.
“So?” Bob looked inquiringly at him across the counter.
“What?”
“How bad was it?”
“How bad was what?”
“Take your pick. The house or Carrie’s temper.”
“Right out of a Stephen King novel. Lots of creepycrawly things. And bad pipes. Does that satisfy your evil curiosity? You got Old Man’s paper?”
Bob handed it across the counter. “So, are you gonna do some work on the house?”
“Might.”
“You’re pretty closemouthed, pal.”
“Nothing to tell, Bob, I spent the day in Portland.”
“Didja?”
“Yup.”
“Carrie went to Portland.”
“Did she?” Truck said in a disinterested tone as he scanned the paper. He knew that; he’d seen her zoom by. “How do you know that?”
“She came through town on the bike about a half hour ago. So it figures she brought the van back. Only place is Portland. Maybe you saw her there?”
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.” He tosssed a dollar on the counter. “See you.”
It seemed that he couldn’t avoid talking about Carrie. When he got home, even O
ld Man, ensconced in his wheelchair by the picture window in the living room, put in his two cents, the minute Truck came through the door.
“So how is she?” his father asked.
“Strong. Prickly.”
“Hasn’t changed a bit,” Old Man said.
His memory was sharp as a tack, nothing escaped him.
“The house was a disaster area.”
“How bad?”
“About what you’d think after being vacant for a year and a half.”
“So you’ll do what needs to be done,” Old Man said.
“Guess I will,” Truck said. Neighbor helping neighbor. It was the only way.
“Get Danny down to Portland, if you have to.”
Truck had already decided the young man had proved his merit, but he only nodded as he washed up at the kitchen sink. “How you doing today?”
“Tolerable,” Old Man said. “Jolley came and cleaned today. Mail’s on the table.”
The housekeeper always came twice a week, and on those days the house felt most like a real home, or at least how Truck imagined a home to be. The dinner was always in the oven, the table nicely set and Old Man was waiting for him, to hear how his day went and tell Truck how his day had gone. This ritual was comforting to both of them.
His father always had something to do. Truck had moved company operations to the house and built an office onto the back where Old Man worked the computer, estimating jobs, making appointments and preparing the bills.
It gave Old Man’s life manageable parameters and a sense of purpose after the terrible tragedy of the trucking accident that had left him paralyzed from the waist down.
He was still part of the company even though he had handed it over to Truck, and every night over dinner, Truck made sure they discussed the business of the day. Each evening at exactly eight o’clock he helped Old Man to bed, and if he were going out, he alerted the emergency service to monitor the house. Old Man never asked questions. And Truck didn’t always go out. Some nights it wasn’t worth it.
Especially since Carrie had come back, and he was dog-tired from spending the night tossing and turning, tormented by his vivid dreams about Carrie Spencer. Carrie and those legs. Carrie and that T-shirt. He could almost taste the texture of her skin. Could almost feel her body moving under his hands.
She’d given all that up to go out and conquer the world. Now she was back, she had issued a challenge no man could resist, and he swore this time he was going to conquer her.
And tomorrow wasn’t too soon to begin.
3
“SO, TRUCK’S GOING to do the plumbing,” Jeannie murmured as she sat across from Carrie that evening and watched her shuffle papers. She had come over to check up on Carrie, and to make sure that she’d done something about the pipes. And she’d come for company, though she didn’t want to admit it.
“Guess so. He was pretty insistent about it”
“That’s my Trucker,” Jeannie said fondly. “So now what?”
“What do you mean, now what?”
“I mean...” Jeannie’s eyes gleamed. “What about Truck?”
“He’s lethal, and you know our history. How can you ask that?”
“Just...wondering.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Carrie said. “You have a look in your eye I distinctly don’t like. Which reminds me of why I don’t like small towns. Everybody knows your business. And everybody meddles.”
“But there’s nothing to meddle in,” Jeannie said “Or is there?”
“If you think you’re going to set something up, Jeannie, forget it I’m here to rest, regroup and look for a job. When I find one, I’m out of here.”
“Ummm,” Jeannie murmured, staring at her coffee. “Still have that aversion to marriage and mommyhood.”
“Motherhood does not appeal to me. I am not going to be trapped. Look at my mom. She’s the sole reason I never got into trouble...”
“Whereas you probably got into plenty of trouble once you got to New York.”
“That’s my business, Jeannie,” Carrie said, lightly but firmly. She had absolutely no desire to talk about those years of futile, dead-end relationships built on the shifting sands of office politics and cute meets in the local hangouts. Yes, she’d thought she’d been in love, more than once, but those connections had all petered out because she’d been so focused on building her career. You couldn’t sustain anything when you were that consumed with being a success; you burned out before you even could think about building a life.
“But my Mom was stuck here,” she added, “and I swore I would never be at the mercy of my hormones or any man.”
“Maybe I’m too romantic for my own good,” Jeannie said, “but I do believe you’re going to tumble someday and get caught in an avalanche.”
“Oh, nonsense.”
“You protest too much. There are some really neat guys who’ve settled in town. The chamber of commerce made a concerted effort to draw young professionals from Portland. Advertised the quality of life an hour away, that sort of thing. I wasn’t kidding about the golden boys.” Jeannie watched Carrie’s face, “Okay, Truck’s lived here all his life, but Peter Stoddard, Dr. Tom Kelsey, Dan Durand, they’re all new in town and as eligible as anyone you’ll find at a singles’ bar in New York.”
Carrie wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Please...”
“You are coming to the dance on Saturday night?”
“Oh, the dance,” Carrie said faintly. She had almost forgotten about the dance.
“At the Grange Hall,” Jeannie prompted. “With all those guys I’ve been telling you about”
“You sure are determined to thrust me into the social whirl, and way before I’m ready,” Carrie said. “Fine. I’m coming.”
“Of course you are,” Jeannie said. “So now we come to the real reason I came over tonight. We can choose something for you to wear.”
Jeannie followed Carrie to her old bedroom. A mountain of clothes was piled on the bed and crowded into the armoire, and accessories to match were scattered haphazardly on the dresser and the floor.
“Oh my God,” Jeannie breathed, stroking a suede skirt that felt like butter. “Oh my. This is just luscious. Oh, Carrie...”
“Rummage to your heart’s content,” Carrie urged. “Do you get very dressed up for these events?”
“We don’t wear evening gowns,” Jeannie said, holding a long lean black dress up in front of her. “Size—what?—did you say?”
“Ten. And I was thinking more along these lines.” Carrie pulled out a denim jumper that she usually wore on the weekends.
Jeannie shook her head. “Nobody’ll ever see your lines in that.”
“I’m looking to draw some lines, Jeannie. I don’t need attention.”
“Everyone needs attention,” Jeannie said, her tone sharper than she had intended. She held up her hand. “Forget I said that.” Jeanne then began to go through the piles on the bed and selected a dress. “Here, wear this.”
It was an outfit Carrie had often worn to the office, one-piece cut to look like a tunic and skirt in a soft shade of blue.
“I will. That’s one of my favorite dresses, by the way.”
“It’s beautiful.” There was no envy in Jeannie’s voice, just an undercurrent of longing to be able to afford something like that.
Jeannie had never had the drive and determination to go any farther than Paradise. She’d been content to marry Eddie after two years of dates and breakups and reconciliations, and she’d been working in the local bank since. She’d graduated from high school. If it weren’t for those stinging little remarks Jeannie kept making, Carrie would have thought her friend had no regrets at all.
“Well, all right,” Jeannie said as she prepared to leave. “That’s settled. Are you going to drive or do you need a lift?”
“I’ll drive. I think I can find the Grange Hall. I don’t want to pick up any fast rides home. I know these country boys.”
“Oh, I’m
not sure you do,” Jeannie said. “I’m not sure I do. The dance starts at eight.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Make sure. Bob’s passed the word by now. There might even be an announcement in the paper.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Hey—Pat Boucker, who lives over the other side of the town road—she writes the Paradise local news column for the Segers paper. It’ll be in there. In fact, if Truck does your plumbing, she’ll probably report it.”
“Jeannie,” Carrie said warningly.
“Honest. Everything’s fair game.” Jeannie scooted out the door. “Wait till you see.”
“I don’t want to see,” Carrie said.
“Oh, come on, you’re just not used to people caring about you.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Yeah,” Jeannie said softly. “That’s what I call it. It’s a damn sight nicer than being completely anonymous and...alone. I don’t know how anyone can live that way. That’s why I’m here and you went there.”
“Well, I’m here now, I guess I’ll get used to it,” Carrie said philosophically. But she wasn’t sure she ever would, she thought as she closed the door behind Jeannie. She hadn’t been home one day, and she was already beginning to feel trapped.
THE NEXT MORNING Carrie felt frenzied. It always happened when she was in Paradise, and Jeannie’s visit last night had not helped.
It had just reminded her again of what she didn’t like about small-town life, like having to travel more than three minutes to get anywhere. And she didn’t like the silence of the woods or how time stretched out in a way that made it seem interminable. And most of all, she didn’t like Truck McKelvey invading her space. He was coming. This afternoon he was coming, and she was feeling frenzied about that, too.
She had spent the morning on a job search. The living-room table was scattered with papers, résumés, envelopes and stamps. The light poured in the front window. She had a rock station playing low on the radio, a cup of coffee by her hand, and she felt clean, comfortable, cozy and safe.
Safe now. But she didn’t like how much time she’d spent debating what she would wear today before she settled on black jeans and a cream silk shirt.