Blueprints

by Barbara Delinsky

  Jamie might have been embarrassed discussing male body function with Chip Kobic, except that she found herself breathing, truly breathing, deeply breathing for the first time in forever. She had gotten more solid information in the last fifteen minutes than in all of the last five days. Amazed, she looked up at him. “Who’da thought Checker Chip would have answers like this?”

  “Who’da thought Just-So-Jamie would deign to ask?” he shot back.

  Well, she deserved that. Chip Kobik had been two years ahead of her in school. They had never been friends, had never spoken to each other, but nicknames transcended social circles when it came to standouts. En route to the pros, Chip had played hockey on local and state squads and was widely considered an ace at checking, hence Checker Chip. King of the jock crowd, he had an ego to match. Jamie had no ego, at least not at school. Nor, actually, did she have a crowd. Just-So-Jamie, fastidious to a T, had been too focused on tennis to care.

  Seeming to regret the sharpness, he said more gently, “It’s Charlie. And I have a list of babysitters at home. What’s your e-mail address?” Taking a phone from his pocket, he keyed it in. “They probably aren’t a permanent solution, but they’ll help for now.”

  “I’ll take any help I can get.” She was without pride. “I am up the proverbial creek without a you know what.”

  “Speaking of which,” he called over his shoulder as he guided his son toward the gate, “there’s Toddler Swim at the town pool Tuesdays and Thursdays. He’d probably like that. And story hour at the library. The days vary, but there are always other kids. It’s good for socializing.”

  * * *

  Checker Chip a parenting resource? Who knew. Jamie was amused enough, curious enough, needy enough for a frivolous break to explore the surprise. After putting cheese tortellini on for dinner, she settled Tad in the crook of her left elbow with her iPad streaming a Handy Manny video, opened her laptop on her right, and Googled Charlie Kobik.

  He taught PE at Emory Elementary.

  Not what she would have expected, though seeing him on the playground with the boys, it made sense. Still, it was a turnaround from the wild behavior reported in earlier articles. He had gone to Harvard to play hockey, then dropped out and signed with the Montreal Canadiens, the Buffalo Sabres, and the Pittsburgh Penguins in quick succession until his three-year contract expired and the NHL summarily let him go. After an undocumented period spent, she assumed, getting his act together, he had enrolled at UMass, earned a degree in education, and been appointed to the Williston School Department. Summers, he ran a hockey camp at an indoor ice rink. According to the Williston News, it was hugely successful.

  There was nothing about a wife and son, but given how he sat by himself at the park hiding under shades and a hat, she figured he was making a statement. What he did on his own time was his own business.

  And yet, there came his e-mail, as promised, containing the names of half a dozen babysitters. You are a godsend, she typed back. Thank you SO much.

  With the phone at her ear while she drained the tortellini, she secured a babysitter for Saturday night, then called Brad in triumph.

  “Great,” he said but sounded tired.

  “Will you stay over?”

  “Of course.”

  “Want to come tonight?”

  “Nah. I’ll be here working a while.”

  “You could come later. Or how about tomorrow morning? I’m taking Tad bed shopping. Want to meet us at the store?”

  “Isn’t he too young for a bed?”

  “Not according to the reading I’ve done.” No point mentioning Chip. “We can get a bed that’s low and has bars, and the floor is carpeted, so it’s not like he would hurt himself if he fell out. Come with us, Brad? It’d be really neat if he associated you with his new big-boy bed.”

  But Brad had other plans. “I just got into a foursome.” Golf. “I need the break. It’s been a nightmare week.”

  Jamie stifled the miffed little voice in her head that wanted to point out that it had been a nightmare week for her, too, and that he was part of a family now. Only he wasn’t part of the family that was her and Tad. He didn’t seem to want to be.

  They had to talk.

  fourteen

  When a sharp knock on the door woke Caroline from a deep sleep early Saturday, her first thought was Jamie. No surprise there. Thoughts of Jamie had kept her awake into the wee hours more times than she could count, and last night was bad.

  But no. Not Jamie at the door now. Jamie wouldn’t knock. She had a key.

  Nor would Jamie drive over in Dean’s truck, which was what Caroline saw when, bleary-eyed, she scrambled over cats to squint out at the street.

  Dean, who had said I could prove you wrong about sex, whose hand on hers during the funeral had brought comfort, whose palm at her back following the confrontation with Claire suggested he was more than just a colleague, and whose sensitivity and gentleness yesterday in his truck brought tears to her eyes now—all of which was bizarre.

  Unnerved, she climbed back into bed, but only until he knocked louder. Then, resentful of being woken after the night that had been, she threw back the sheet and trounced barefoot down the stairs. She was wearing an ancient MacAfee T-shirt, once red but now faded from a gazillion washes. It was big enough to cover her sleep shorts and any body parts that were also faded from a gazillion washes, and if that didn’t turn him off more, the mess of her hair would.

  Jaw tight, she pulled open the door.

  His eyes widened. Recovering quickly, he grinned. “Hey, Sunshine.”

  “Sunshine?” She cleared her throat. “Not. Quite.”

  The amusement in his eyes didn’t waver. “Got up on the wrong side, did we?”

  “We didn’t.”

  “Through no fault of mine,” he said with such innocence that once upon a time she would have laughed.

  Now, confused and feeling unfit to deal, she simply pleaded, “Why are you here so early? It’s the weekend. You sleep late.” She narrowed a glance back at the grandfather clock. “What time is it even?”

  “Eight,” he said, “and I brought breakfast makings.” He pushed past her—close, tall body brushing, deliberate, and not entirely unpleasant—as he strode into the house and down the hall.

  She considered making a statement by going back to bed. There were two reasons she didn’t. First, she would never fall asleep with him in her kitchen, and second—worse—he might follow.

  That said, she was not changing her clothes. She didn’t care that he was newly showered, hair still damp, T-shirt and jeans fresh. This was her house, her Saturday morning, her routine. “And don’t ask if I called Jamie,” she shouted after him, “because since you last asked, nothing has changed.” Padding down the hall, she found him unloading bags in her itty-bitty little space.

  “Bacon, eggs, cheese,” he listed. “And bread.”

  “I have all those things.”

  “Bacon? Really?”

  “No. Not bacon. Bacon’s bad for you.”

  “Not for me. And I doubt you have this bread, which is thick-sliced organic whole grain, fresh-baked this morning in town.” He arched a questioning brow.

  “No,” she admitted. A quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice stood in a signature glass bottle from the same bakery. Taking out two glasses, she filled them. Dean was frowning at the lower cabinets by then, clearly not knowing what was where. She nudged him aside. “I’ll cook.”

  “That wasn’t my plan.”

  “Maybe not, but my kitchen is too small for both of us, and I know what’s where. And if you’re going to tell me it’s too warm in here, you can go wait on the porch.” She removed a skillet from a low cabinet, put it on the stove, and lit the gas. While it heated, she separated bacon slices and laid them in one by one. The sizzle accompanied the whooshhh of the Keurig.

  “Want some?” he asked. The fridge opened; he added cream to his coffee.

  “Tea, please. K-Cups are—”

  �
��Got ’em.” He removed one, studied the label, removed a second and did the same.

  “Either is fine. Surprise me.” While he brewed it, she cracked four eggs in a bowl, whipped them with a fork, flipped the bacon slices. Messy curls slid forward as she worked, blocking her vision so that she was startled to find him close when she turned to the fridge.

  Whipping her hair out of the way, she stepped back and cleared her throat, but he didn’t move. Instead, he set her tea down near the skillet and asked, “How’s your hand?”

  Thinking a diversion was good, she showed him her bright red scar. “The stitches came out yesterday. It’s fine.” Proving it, she used that hand to push him aside. “Please. Take the orange juice and these”—she plunked napkins and forks on the counter—“to the porch.” After giving the skillet a shuffle, she stood waiting, watching as the bacon shriveled and curled.

  She felt his warmth at her ear seconds before she heard, “Mmmm. There is nothing like that smell.” Though he meant bacon, she was thinking coffee, which was on his breath as he nuzzled her hair. “And this. Is it shampoo or you?”

  She swallowed. “Shampoo.”

  His voice moved off a bit. “It smells like you.”

  “Because I always use it.” She had torn off a handful of paper towels and was in the process of forking up the bacon to drain when she felt a hand slide up her spine. Fork in hand, she whirled around. “What are you doing?”

  He took a step back, actually seeming guilty. “Just wondering what’s on under this.”

  She refused to look away. “Nothing, Dean. Nothing. I just woke up.”

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  She wanted to yell, scream, kick him out. Only he seemed to mean it, and—traitorous, vain self—a little part of her ate up the words.

  Embarrassed, wishing she had put on clothes or washed her face or at the very least used mouthwash, she turned back to the stove. After draining bacon grease from the skillet, she poured in the beaten eggs and shook on a layer of shredded cheddar.

  “More,” he urged from her temple.

  She added more, and when his warmth stayed behind her in as clear a message as could be, she set down the bag of cheese and, sighing in resignation, sagged back against him for a single weary minute.

  Actually, it wasn’t a single minute. It was probably a quarter of that, and it wasn’t weary so much as bewildered. There was warmth and strength here, and a commanding height. There was a sense of being enveloped that felt better than it should. There was familiarity, and trust, and something else that she hadn’t felt in many long years. Why now why now why now?

  Confused, she came forward, taking her own weight again. “Oh, Dean,” she murmured, stirring the eggs as they cooked.

  Not moving far, he turned to lean against the sink, where he could see her face. “What does that mean?”

  “It means this is strange.” She focused on the eggs. “I don’t understand what you’re doing or what I’m feeling. Why is this happening all of a sudden?”

  His hazel eyes darkened. His voice was quiet. “There’s nothing sudden about it on my end. I’ve always been attracted to you.”

  That startled her. “Even when you were married?”

  He looked uncomfortable, finally shrugged. “I wouldn’t have acted on it then. And after my divorce, our relationship was comfortable. I needed your friendship more than I needed sex.”

  She studied him, her fifty-six-year-old self wondering if he was reading More. But he was serious. “And what’s changed?”

  He considered, seeming puzzled, then just gave another shrug.

  Caroline was just as puzzled. “I’m not soft or sexy or feminine.”

  “Is that what Roy said?”

  “He didn’t have to. I’m not blind. I look in the mirror every morning. I see myself through the eyes of dozens of men every week. Besides, I’m older than you.”

  “Which is what Roy said.”

  She scrubbed the air. “Forget Roy. Roy is dead.”

  Dean stood straight, eyes suddenly clear and intense. “That’s it, Caro. Dead at fifty-two. And what is the lesson from that? I’m fifty-three. Will I be gone next year or the year after that? Maybe fall off a roof or crash the Harley? I don’t know, I really don’t, but suddenly I’m thinking of the things I’d regret in those last few minutes before death. You’d be one.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “So I’m on your bucket list.”

  “Actually”—he didn’t blink—“you are my bucket list.”

  Caroline swallowed, trying to digest that. “I’m a carpenter, Dean. I do man’s work. I have calluses and scars. And I’ll be sixty in four years.”

  “You’re sexy.”

  “Sixty in four years.”

  “You’re fixated on age because of Roy and Claire—”

  “Just stating facts.”

  “Like they matter once you’re past, what, forty? Come on, Caro. That’s just dumb. I don’t care how old you are. I think you’re hot.”

  Hot. Well, there was a potent word.

  Caroline searched his face. When she saw nothing but earnestness, she felt a tightness inside. Roy could sling the bull, sling it often and long. Not Dean. Dean was all down-to-earth, tell-it-like-it-is practicality. He wasn’t driven by ego. His expression right now—vulnerable—attested to that, giving new meaning to I could prove you wrong.

  What she had initially thought was pure swagger was not. This wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t a game for him. And that was the sweetest, most frightening realization of all.

  “You look terrified,” he said.

  “I am. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I want to.”

  He shifted again, this time caging her with both elbows as he took the skillet from the stove. Then his hands closed on her forearms. Dark against her skin, his fingers were long and scarred, with a pinkie that didn’t fully straighten but took nothing from the strength of the others. His voice was low and surprisingly intimate. “You think I’m not nervous? You think I don’t worry I’m not good enough? You think I don’t know the risk? Think again. But Roy was younger than me, and he died. That’s a reality check. Put things off and they may never happen. Ever. At some point in life, you have to go for what you want.”

  “Fine for you to say,” she mused. “Apparently, you knew you wanted this. I’ve been in the dark.”

  “You’re not in the dark now. You either feel it or you don’t.”

  “Those are words, Dean, just words. So is this a philosophical challenge?”

  He paused. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “I can just tell.”

  “How?”

  “Because,” she blurted, “you’re standing against me, and we’re talking about it, and if it was really a sexual thing, I should feel, well, feel you, but I don’t—” She stopped short when he brought his lower body against hers, proving her well and truly wrong.

  * * *

  Dean had barely headed off in his truck when Caroline speed-dialed Annie Ahl. “Where are you?”

  “Sitting in weeds at the Blaine site.” The home in question, a current MacAfee job, was more an external facelift than an internal redo, which meant that Annie, Jamie, and Dean were more familiar with it than Caroline was, but she certainly knew the address.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She dressed in two, fed the cats in two, and drove in six, which was truly too fast, but there was an urgency here. Dean’s erection had stolen her breath. She should have been angry or embarrassed, should have been turned off, for Pete’s sake, not intrigued. That erection had been impressive. Add to it earnestness and vulnerability, both of which she had seen in Dean during their discussion, and she was about to OD on confusion.

  Annie was her closest friend. Having met on a job fifteen years before, they had bonded over girl things, like mani-pedi afternoons, breast biopsies, brown spots, and menopause. Caroline hadn’t
told Annie about Gut It! yet. She hoped she wouldn’t have to. Annie was even closer to sixty than she was; if the hosting switch held, she would fear for her own job.

  Besides, Gut It! definitely took a backseat to an impressive erection.

  Pulling up behind Annie’s van, she spotted the silver-haired pixie in the garden, trotted over, and sat. “We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Sex.”

  “My favorite topic,” Annie sang in her high voice as she pulled up a clump of weeds.

  “Is it overrated?” Caroline asked. When Annie shot her a where did this come from frown, she said, “You’ve been married to Byron for thirty years. Your sons are in college, and you’re not having more kids. Is sex still important?”

  Annie was oddly wary. “Why do you ask?”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think about it a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “As much as you used to?”

  Annie started to blink and stopped, seeming not to breathe. “More.”

  That surprised Caroline. Puzzled, she asked, “Because of those books?” Annie made no bones about having read them multiple times.

  “No.” Annie tugged up another handful of weeds. “Because I’m not ready to have it end.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s fun. It’s exciting. It’s a way to feel alive. And young. And feminine.”

  Dean had certainly made Caroline feel feminine. He had also made her feel protected—a totally bizarre thought, since she could take care of herself.

  Seeming halfway between cross and sad, Annie sat back on her heels. “I don’t want to dry up. Use it or lose it.”

  “Then things are better with Byron?” Caroline asked. Annie had once confided that her husband was losing interest in sex. When it hadn’t come up again, she had assumed an improvement. But her friend wasn’t answering now. “Annie?” Silence. “Oh, whoa. What is going on?”

  Barely above a whisper, Annie’s words came in a rush. “Don’t worry, it’s not like that, I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just, I think about it.” She leaned closer. “There’s this guy—”