Old Enough

by Charmaine Pauls

  This time, he doesn’t stop when I enter the garden. He merely acknowledges me with a nod, as if he’s giving me permission to enter my own domain. He’s wearing protective goggles, and his arms flex as he angles the machine over the grass edges. Not sparing him a second glance, I go back inside, lock the door, and head to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I’ve caught my breath, I put the ingredients for my Saturday breakfast on the counter. Cooking is, after running, my best cure. I cook when I’m sad, stressed, tired, or happy. It’s an outlet I find soothing, a passion in which I can pour my emotions until I find calm. Switching on the central sound system on the wall, I choose a lively compilation and set to work.

  An hour later, a spread of peri-peri chicken livers, fried tomatoes, crispy bacon strips, pork sausages, mushrooms sautéed with garlic, and scrambled eggs are set out on the hot tray. I’m squeezing the oranges, waiting for the rye bread basted with olive oil and pesto to toast under the grill, when I look up and see him through the window. He’s turning the earth, pulling out weeds under the rose bushes. He steps on the spade and stretches his back. In the harsh glare of the mid-morning sun, his skin shines with perspiration. Leaving the spade buried in the soil, he walks to the garden tap and cups his hand to drink. When he straightens and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, he leaves a streak of dirt.

  A twinge of compassion sparks in my chest. Standing there watching him, I make a rash, unwise decision.

  2

  Brian

  The princess pushes the sliding door open with her hip and comes outside, carrying a loaded tray that she deposits on the garden table. The food smells divine, and I’m starving. I lock my jaw before I salivate on her fancy paved garden path, but the drool has more to do with the way her T-shirt clings to her tits than the breakfast. Her breasts are on the smaller side, exactly how I prefer, not that I’m fussy about features when a woman does it for me. And she definitely does it.

  She sits down and, meeting my eyes, pulls up a chair with her foot. It’s the last thing I expected, but I’m glad she’s not chasing me off her property, or worse, pushing a bill in my hand. Treating me like a servant, ignoring that I’m a person and disregarding whatever feelings I may have, is what most people of her status would do. She inclines her head, her brow climbing a fraction as she waits for me to decide. My hesitation only lasts a second.

  Dropping the shears to the ground, I wash up under the tap and pull on my T-shirt before accepting the silent invitation.

  She puts an empty plate in front of me. “Help yourself.”

  I look into her eyes with a directness that’ll have most girls blush or look away, but she holds my stare with a steady gaze.

  “Would you like me to dish up for you?” she asks with a quirk of her lips.

  My staring amuses her. Not exactly the reaction I’m after, but she’s paying me attention, and I’ll settle for any attention she’s willing to give.

  “Hello?” she says, reminding me she’s still waiting for an answer.

  “I’m good.”

  I pick up her plate and reach for the chicken livers. “A bit of everything?” The plate is warm, a surprising luxury I appreciate, as I loathe eating my food cold.

  She doesn’t object that I’m taking over. “Please.”

  With great care, I arrange the food on her plate and serve her a glass of juice. She watches me silently until I’ve done the same for myself. Only when I’ve taken the first gulp of juice–fuck, this tastes good–does she speak.

  Her voice is a husky and feminine mixture, decadently sexy and sweet at the same time. “You didn’t have to.” She motions at the garden. “A verbal excuse would’ve been sufficient, but your apology is accepted.”

  I wave at the food. “You didn’t have to. A verbal thank you would’ve been enough, but the breakfast is welcome, none the less.”

  She breaks her toast into tiny pieces, scoops a bite of liver onto one, and pops it in her mouth. When she’s finished swallowing, she asks, “Why did you do it?”

  My gaze is glued to her mouth. She makes eating look gracious. My aversion to eating noises–the slurps, chews, and swallows–makes me seldom eat with anyone other than Sam or my mother.

  Tearing my stare away from her mouth, I say, “We were just cooling down. I didn’t want to scare you, but with the state of the garden I thought the house was unoccupied.”

  “My husband took the garden tools when he recently moved out,” she says, “and I can’t afford a service.”

  Her honesty catches me by surprise. I like that she doesn’t try to make excuses.

  “Is that why the electric fence doesn’t work?” Worry ripples over me. It’s too damn easy to get inside.

  “How did you know it wasn’t working?”

  “We didn’t. I threw the floor mat from the truck over the barbwire.”

  “Mm.” She eats a few more bites, regarding me with a contemplating look. “Where do you live?”

  It’s my turn not to make excuses. “Harryville.”

  “I see.”

  Meaning she’s put two and two together. People from my neighborhood don’t have pools. She’s still looking at me, but not with judgment or pity. What I see in her face is closer to puzzlement, like she’s trying to figure out what I was doing in Groenkloof at two o’clock on a Friday morning.

  Stalking you.

  With the heat warming my groin at the thought, I glance away before she catches my intent and sends me on my way, because her food is fucking amazing and I love being near her, hearing her voice, and seeing her from so close-up I can discern the flecks of gray in her blue eyes. I can smell her deodorant mixed with the faint perfume of feminine sweat, and it turns me on beyond anything. I better think of ice baths in Siberia, lest my dick gives away the effect she has on me. My gaze falls on dismantled exercise equipment lying in a corner of the deck.

  “That yours?”

  “It was a birthday gift, but my husband–” She catches herself. “We didn’t get around to setting it up before my ex-husband left.”

  Going over there, I crouch down to examine the squat rack and pull up bar. “You lift?”

  “It’s just for strength training.”

  I scan the bags of nuts and bolts. “I can set it up, if you like.”

  “You’ve done enough, but thank you.”

  Straightening, I turn to face her. She’s propped her feet on the seat I’ve left, her delicate ankles showing where the elastic of her leggings has moved up. I can picture myself in that seat with her feet in my lap. It’s irrational, but it feels more right than anything in my life.

  “It’s a small job. It won’t take more than an hour.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I wouldn’t have offered if I weren’t.”

  “All right, then. Thank you, I guess.”

  “If you give me your number I can call when I’m free.”

  When I walk back to my seat, she moves her feet away. A ping of regret catches in my chest. A hip-hop song filters through the open door. There’s the music, the meal, and her, and I can easily imagine this being paradise–my woman, and a perfect spring morning. Except, she’s not my woman, and the world is not a perfect place. She’s at ease with me, but she’s still not interested. Not in that way. She’s just a kind woman offering a hungry guy food.

  “More?” She nudges the mushrooms my way.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Maybe. It depends on the question.”

  “Why this song?”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t think it would be something you’d listen to.”

  Her smile is charming. “You mean something older people would listen to.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You strike me as a classical girl.”

  “I have a daughter.”

  “Ah. Teenager?”

  “Early teens. That was your personal question?”

  “No. I was going to ask why you don
’t move if you can’t afford the security or a garden service.”

  A deep sigh escapes her lush lips. She looks over her shoulder at the house. “This is my daughter’s home. This is where she grew up.” She pauses, chewing her lip as she seems to think. “No.” She gives me a guilty smile. “That’s half the truth. The real reason is this is my dream, my ideal home. It’s where I feel safe. I suppose it makes me feel good that I’ve accomplished at least one dream without buggering it up.” Her smile turns weak. “The truthful answer to your question is that living here reminds me that I’m not a complete failure.”

  She’s complicated, this perfect woman, and she’s suffered some pain, including her divorce. Maybe she still loves her ex-husband. I want to ask who gave up first and why, but that’s too personal for a second encounter. I don’t want to scare her with the intensity of my interest. Whatever the case, her husband is a fool. If she were mine, I’d never let her go.

  “A house doesn’t define you,” I say. “Neither do a few mistakes or disappointments in life. Wherever you live, whatever the roof over your head is made of, you’ll be the same person you are right now.” I wink. “I’m sure you’re not that bad.”

  She puts on a happy face, but it’s the kind that’s just for show. “You don’t know me.”

  “I don’t have to know you to know you’re too hard on yourself.”

  “Wow.” She utters an embarrassed laugh. “How did we go from breakfast to psychoanalysis?”

  “Life is too short for idle conversations. You’ve got to say what you mean and mean what you say.”

  “Very philosophical.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  She blinks at my chastising tone. “Do what?”

  “Pretend it doesn’t matter. Agree or disagree with a validating argument, but don’t make light of the subject just because you’re uncomfortable discussing yourself.”

  Instead of taking offense, she considers my words with a sense of polished calm. “You’re right,” she says after a while, surprising me yet again with her admittance. “I am uncomfortable talking about myself, and I wholeheartedly agree with your sentiment of not wasting time with words.”

  The fact that she’s not only treating me as a human being, but also as an adult with a worthy opinion forces my respect. She could’ve told me to fuck off.

  Gathering our plates, I stack them with the dishes on the hot tray. “Do you always cook like this for yourself?”

  “I find cooking therapeutic.”

  She lays a hand on my arm when I get to my feet. “I can do that.”

  Her fingers are warm on my skin, the diameter of her reach small.

  “Yes, you can, but since I’m here I’ll carry this for you.”

  Without waiting for her consent, I carry the heavy tray into the house. She skitters around a dining room table, showing me through a door. The house is as stunning inside as outside. The mixture of slate and stone mirrors the exterior. The wooden floors are a whitewashed gray, matching the slate and what looks like volcanic rock. Ethnic rugs and artifacts add a degree of warmth to the otherwise stark lines of the modern structure. The lounge and dining room that exit onto the deck is one, large room, divided by a central fireplace. A black chimney hangs over the open fire pit and fluffy cushions are scattered on the built-in benches circling the pit. Suspended from the ceiling by four chains, a wooden platform serves as a kind of swing or daybed. The bolts will allow movement. A padded cushion covers the whole expanse of the wood like a thin mattress. The ornaments are scarce, but the colorful vases and giant glass sculpture of a water lily look priceless. No wonder she’s reluctant to leave here. I’m not refined in interior decorating, but it’s obvious she poured her heart into it.

  The lounge gives access to the kitchen, which is an explosion of dirty bowls and cooking utensils. The floors are the same hardwood as in the lounge and dining area, and the cupboards are painted a solid gray to compliment the color scheme. White ceilings and skirtings add a measure of dimension. The mason in me has to stop to admire the engraved borders around each cupboard door. The handles are chunky crystal knobs, exposing the copper screws that fix them to the doors.

  “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” she asks, catching me snooping.

  I find an empty spot next to the sink to deposit the tray. “How long did it take?”

  “Two years for the building, and another year for the interior detail.”

  The area is one of the more established ones in the upper-class suburbs of Pretoria. There are no new plots for building. They would’ve had to knock down whatever house was here before. I can’t help the awe from sounding in my voice. “Who’s the architect?”

  Her lips curve into a graceful smile. “My husband. Sorry, make that ex-husband.”

  Irrational jealousy beats in my heart. Not only is he white-collar, but he’s also got talent, and she still reserves smiles for him, even in his absence, which makes it worse. If you show affection in someone’s absence, it’s got to be real.

  She moves to the sink and starts rinsing the plates, her hip a mere inch from mine. It allows me time to study her. Wisps of hair feather over her temple. Her skin is white, the pores almost invisible, like smooth porcelain. The only color on her cheeks is a faint post-exercise blush, which is a gentle pink rather than a blotchy red. Even in this, she’s perfect. Inhuman.

  “Here.” She hands me a plate dripping with water and uses her foot to open the dishwasher.

  For the next few minutes, she rinses while I pack the dishwasher with only the sounds of our labor filling the space. I want to stay like this for eternity, trapped in the illusion of a joyful domestic act on a perfect spring morning when she’s got baggage, and I’ve got a business card with nothing but an email address.

  “Thank you,” she says when we’re done, handing me a kitchen towel with dainty embroidery to dry my hands.

  She leans against the counter, watching me with crossed arms. “Do you work or study?”

  Her interest warms me, a pathetic glow detonating inside my ribs. “Both.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes spark with platonic curiosity. “What do you do, if I may ask?”

  “You may.”

  I hand the towel back, standing so close she has to arch her neck to meet my eyes. If the inappropriate proximity of my stance registers in her mind, she doesn’t show it.

  Resisting an urge to wipe those wisps of hair behind her ear, I say, “I’m a bricklayer, and I do some carpentry on the side.”

  “To pay for your studies?”

  The money barely covers it, but it keeps a roof over our heads and food on the table. Instead of an answer, I give her something between a nod and a smile.

  “What are you studying?” she asks.

  “Communication.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “Advertising.”

  “Get out of here.” She swats my arm with the towel. “That’s what I do. Which university?”

  “TUKS.”

  “Me, too! I graduated with Peterson. Is he still there?”

  “Retired last year. Which agency?”

  “Orion.”

  I whistle through my teeth. They’re the most sought-after in the country. “What position?”

  “Senior executive.”

  She must be earning a packet. Even so, it still won’t be enough for the upkeep of this place. She’d need to be the CEO to afford the maintenance of the house alone.

  “Which accounts?” I ask, my interest piqued.

  “Bakers, Monroe, and Protea, mainly.”

  Those are some of the biggest companies, especially Monroe. “How did you end up there?”

  “One of the partners is a family friend.”

  That figures. You don’t get in without knowing someone.

  She checks her watch, setting my heart beating. I’m not ready to leave her, but I’ve got no claim on staying.

  “I have a lunch date, so I better get ready.”

  At the wo
rd date my insides start to simmer. If I have no right on her time, I have even less of a say in whom she sees, but the possessive male inside me disagrees. I’m hovering over her, reluctant to set her free. She tries to move forward and almost bumps into my chest. Flashing me a questioning look, she’s all innocence, like she doesn’t realize that soon I’m going to rip off her clothes and take her with all the filthy intentions floating around in my imagination. Hands, lips, teeth, and cock, I’m going to lay into her with everything I’ve got. I’m going to make her mine. I’ll leave the marks to prove it, too. There’s little I don’t get if I put my mind to it.

  “Come on,” she says. “I’ll walk you out.”

  She sails around me, smooth like a boat, and I don’t have a choice but to follow. By the time I’ve gathered my phone and tools, she’s leaning on the open gate, obviously eager to see me go, but her polite manners dictate that she walks me to my truck.

  When I’ve chucked everything on the back, she says, “No more trespassing, okay?” It’s an order, not a request.

  Fishing my phone from my pocket, I hold it out to her. “In that case, I’ll need your number so I don’t have to jump the gate.”

  Her look immediately turns suspicious.

  “For when I’ll be back to install the gym equipment,” I say in a placating tone.

  After a moment’s silent battle that wages in her eyes, she takes my phone and punches in her number. I read what she’s typed when she hands it back to me. Jane Logan. I’m not blind to the fact that she’s not asking for my name or number in return, but I offer it anyway.

  “Brian Michaels,” I say, extending a hand. “I’ll text you my number.”

  She accepts with a firm shake.

  I can’t resist giving her fingers a gentle squeeze before I let go. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jane.”

  I’m in the truck and winding down the window, and she’s still standing barefoot on the pavement.