by Susan Fox
He was supposed to be working, not chatting to residents. Ordinarily, it was good for the seniors to have social contact with people from outside Cherry Lane, but this wasn’t a high school volunteer or one of the university students from the animal-assisted therapy program. This was a petty criminal doing community service.
She groaned and headed out to intervene.
Chapter 3
As Maura approached the two men, she heard Mr. Dykstra saying, “Yessir, it was back in the late forties. She was an Indian, red and racy and—”
“Fred?” she broke in. Good God, was he talking about some youthful sexual experiences? And in downright racist language, in front of Jesse Blue, who she guessed was at least partially Native American.
Fred Dykstra beamed at her. His faded blue eyes were full of life. “I was just telling young Jesse about my bike. His Harley’s a fine specimen, but I had this old Indian Chief.”
“An Indian is a motorcycle?”
She heard a snort of laughter and glanced at Jesse.
He straightened his face, but she saw the twinkle in his eyes. Obviously he’d realized where her thoughts had been going.
She glared at him. Glaring at Jesse could easily become a habit.
“One of the finest bikes ever made,” Fred said, “in my opinion.”
“Yeah,” Jesse said. “Rode one once, a classic from back before World War Two.”
“I used to take my young lady for rides in the country, and she thought I was pretty hot stuff.” Fred’s elderly face crinkled with smile lines. “Think she married me because of that bike.” He shot Jesse a pure “guy” look. “Bet the ladies still go for a man on a bike.”
Jesse returned the look. “Been known to happen.”
Maura was sure of it. Particularly when the man on the bike was as “hot stuff” as Jesse Blue.
She had come out here to break this up. She still had a lot of concerns about Jesse mixing with the residents, yet she hadn’t seen Fred Dykstra so animated in months. She didn’t have the heart to drag him inside.
Jesse glanced at her. “You want something, or just visiting?”
“I . . . I’m not visiting, I’m supervising. Didn’t you say you were going to use straight lines for the borders? You seem to have wandered off track. Do you need more cord?” Or, she let her tone say, need to remember to use the cord you already have?
Humor lit his eyes again. “Rethought the straight lines. Figure curves are more appealing.” He shot a wink in Fred Dykstra’s direction.
The old man chuckled and replied promptly, “Some things never change.”
Was Jesse joking about her own beanpole figure? She knew the older man wouldn’t do that, but she wouldn’t put it past Jesse.
“Want the garden to be relaxing, not all disciplined,” Jesse said.
Implying that there was such a thing as too much discipline, and that she was an example of that? She was about to snap back about lack of discipline, then thought of the amount of work he’d accomplished. He might not seem like the most disciplined man in the world, but he was a hard worker.
“Jesse’s been out here all morning,” Fred said. “I bet he could use a cold drink.”
And now she felt negligent for not having thought of that herself. Working with people was so not her forté. How did people learn these skills when they didn’t come naturally?
“Been drinking out of the tap,” Jesse said, “but a cold soda sure would go down fine.”
Into her mind flashed a classic commercial she’d seen in a business school class on marketing. It had been for Diet Coke. Women working in an office dashed to the window to watch a hunky construction worker pour a cold drink down his throat. She closed her eyes briefly, the picture clear in her mind . . .
The women in the window, looking out . . .
The man, dark-haired, brown-skinned . . .
Jesse Blue. It was Jesse they were watching.
Jesse she was watching, his bronzed skin sweaty from hard work, his black T-shirt glued to his sculpted shoulders and chest. He lifted the can, muscles flexing. He tilted his head back, that gold earring glinted in the sunshine. When he gulped soda, his throat rippled as he swallowed, then he—
Said “Yo? You okay?”
Her eyes flew open and she saw two concerned male faces. “I’m fine. I just . . . got dizzy for a moment. It’s hot out here.”
It was warm, not hot, and Jesse’s brows lifted skeptically.
Fred said, “You’re sure you’re all right? You’re flushed and starting to sweat.”
Hurriedly, she dabbed her brow. Darn it, he was right, and it wasn’t from the weak spring sun. “Honestly, I’m fine.” To Jesse, she said, “What kind of soda?”
“Whatever you got. Just so long as it’s cold and wet.”
She stalked away. How could he make simple words like “cold” and “wet” sound sexy? And why couldn’t she control her blushing around him?
In the kitchen, she studied the assortment of cold drinks. Why hadn’t Jesse named a brand and made this easy for her? She wasn’t a soda pop drinker, so she didn’t know what these drinks tasted like. Only club soda, which she loved, especially when served with a slice of lime or a splash of cranberry juice. Somehow she didn’t think Jesse Blue was a club soda guy.
She could give him a Diet Coke like in the commercial, but that struck her as silly. Silliness is for little children, as she’d learned at the age of six.
At random, she pulled a can from the fridge, remembering the discussion in business school. Most of the female students had argued that the commercial wasn’t effective marketing because no woman was looking at the drink can, just at the man. She had to agree. She’d never have remembered the product but for the analysis in class.
The beverage she now poured into a tall glass was clear, fizzy, and smelled citrusy. It should be refreshing.
Cold and wet.
She stuck the glass under the ice machine and topped it up. Should she pour another for Fred? No, she didn’t want to encourage him to linger.
The glass was so cold she had to switch hands as she walked back to the courtyard. When she handed it to Jesse, being careful not to touch his filthy hand, the glass was sweating. A drop trickled down the outside, wending a slow, curvy path.
Her palm was wet. She didn’t want to brush it on her pants and leave a damp patch, so she rubbed it against her other hand.
Jesse lifted the glass, threw back his head, and made the commercial come true. She watched mesmerized as he drank deeply, then drank again. In his neck, muscles moved, his Adam’s apple shifted.
Adam’s apple. Why had she never wondered about that term? Adam and the apple, the Garden of Eden. Temptation.
A bead of sweat ran down his throat, just as the drop of condensation had trickled down the glass. It moved with painstaking slowness and she held her breath until it touched the neckband of his T-shirt and disappeared.
The Sprite hit the spot, Jesse thought, though a beer would’ve been better. He finished the drink in a few long swallows, then held the cold glass against one cheek. Ms. Mahoney had gone into another of her trances. The tip of her tongue peeked out between her lips. It ran slowly across her top lip, then the bottom one, almost like she’d been the one to take a drink and now she was catching every last drop.
This gal in her prim-and-proper clothes was one bundle of sexy moves. He was pretty sure they weren’t intentional—or at least, she didn’t intend to aim them in his direction. If she knew how much she turned him on, would she be shocked? Horrified?
Or, maybe, aroused?
He shifted the glass to his other cheek, then handed it to her. “Thanks. That went down fine.” The melting ice cubes clinked together as she took the glass. Her hand was shaking. Because she hated being around him, or was she fighting attraction?
Attraction was a weird thing. Like with his friend Consuela, always being attracted to the wrong kind of guy. Jesse had no business being attracted to Ms. Mahoney, bu
t he was. Okay, that was a fact of life, and he’d deal with it. He might not be much sharper than the pathetic edger and mattock, but at least he knew to keep that crazy attraction under control.
As for his boss, maybe she felt a physical pull, but she’d never give into it. Not with how she looked down her aristocratic nose at him.
“What year’s your Harley?” the old guy asked. “She’s got a classic look.”
Jesse turned to him gratefully. “Nineteen ninety-seven. Called a Heritage Softail Classic.” Soft tail. Oh, Lord.
Fortunately, Ms. Mahoney took her own sexy tail back inside.
Jesse hefted the mattock, using it to pry up strips of turf as he listened to Mr. Dykstra talk about his bike and his adventures. From time to time Jesse contributed a word or two, or answered a question about his Harley. After a while, the man—he said to call him Fred—went in.
A nice old guy. It’d been good listening to his memories and seeing how he enjoyed revisiting them.
This community service thing wasn’t turning out to be half as fucked-up as he’d feared. At least if his boss stayed out of the way. She was too distracting, in too many ways.
Jesse finished digging the border and stretched the aches out of his back. He sloshed cold water on his face, took a nice long drink out of the hose. Was there a john somewhere around this joint? He’d take a piss under a cherry tree, but he figured Ms. Mahoney would frown on that.
He rinsed his hands under the tap, then went inside.
A tiny, white-haired woman pushing a walker at a snail’s pace stopped and turned a sharp-eyed gaze on him. “You’re the boy who’s been working in the garden.”
Boy? It was a long time since he’d felt like a boy. “Yes, ma’am. Jesse Blue.”
“I’m Virginia Canfield. I saw you out my window.” She offered him a trembling, blue-veined hand.
How about that? Ms. Mahoney might not be willing to touch him, but this old lady had no qualms and it made him feel good. Still, he held up his own hand and warned, “I’m kinda dirty.”
“Garden dirt never hurt anyone.” She gestured with her hand.
Liking her already, he put his hand in hers as gently as he could, knowing his normal handshake would crush her. “Wonder if you could help me out, Ms. Canfield. Looking for the men’s room.”
“Down the hall to your left.” She pointed.
He nodded his thanks. When he returned she was still there, propped up on her walker.
“It’s Mrs. Canfield. I’m old-fashioned. I was married to Elmer for fifty-two years and I was Mrs. Canfield all that time.”
“Okay, Mrs. Canfield.”
“But please call me Virginia.”
“Thanks.”
“Will you show me what you’re planning for the garden?”
“Sure.” He doubted this was part of the job description, but he wasn’t going to blow off a white-haired lady who was nice to him. He held the door for her and walked beside her, keeping an eye out as she shuffled the walker across the uneven turf to the bed he’d been digging.
Turned out she’d done a lot of gardening, and she gave him a couple of good ideas.
“I wish I could get down and grub around in the soil with you,” she said. “There’s nothing so healing as planting things and watching them grow.”
“This landscape gardener I knew once, he said it was Zen.”
“That’s it, exactly.” She beamed at him.
At that point, Ms. Mahoney showed up again. Either she didn’t trust him with the seniors, or she didn’t want him goofing off to chat. Or, probably, both.
“Oh, Maura dear,” Virginia Canfield said, “Jesse and I have been having the most interesting discussion. You’ve certainly hired us a knowledgeable young man.”
Hired. His gaze met Ms. Mahoney’s. He shrugged. Her call whether to tell Virginia about his community service. While she decided, he’d think about the name he’d just learned. Maura. For some reason, his mind conjured an image of the ocean. Cool Maura, ocean-eyed Maura. Maura with the soft, warm-honey last name.
“Actually, it was Louise’s decision,” Maura Mahoney muttered. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. Now, don’t you think we should let him get on with his work?”
“I suppose so. Besides, my legs are getting tired.” The elderly face, which had been all perky when they were talking about the garden, drooped. Then she brightened again. “Maura, I was going to bring you this.” She reached into the basket on her walker and pulled out a huge hardcover book, struggling with its weight.
The younger woman reached out to take it. “Have you finished? Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much. Thank you so much for loaning it to me. Perhaps we might discuss it one day?”
Maura Mahoney smiled gently, her face soft and caring.
Oh, man, and he’d thought she was gorgeous before.
“Perhaps over tea tomorrow afternoon?” Her voice, too, for the first time, softened around the edges.
If she gave that look, that voice, to a guy . . . Jesse sucked in a breath, battling arousal.
“My dear,” the old lady was saying, “that would be delightful. And now I must head in and put my feet up.” She held out her hand again, to him. “Such a pleasure meeting you, Jesse.”
He clasped her hand, treating it like a delicate flower. “My pleasure, too, Virginia.”
She frowned down at his hand. “My boy, you need gloves.”
Jesse and Maura walked with her to the door. Once she was safely inside, his boss turned to him. “You called her Virginia.” Her voice was crisp again.
“She told me to.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I like you spending so much time socializing with the residents.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Want me to tell them to get lost?”
She made an exasperated sound low in her throat. He’d heard it before. It sounded like a growl, and was damned sexy.
“Don’t be rude to them,” she said, “but don’t encourage them.”
“They like having someone new to talk to,” he pointed out. Didn’t she realize that?
“I know that!” Then she sighed. “Yes, they do. Especially Virginia Canfield.” Her voice went all warm and husky again, almost like she saw him as a real person, not a garden pest.
It made him bold enough to ask, “Tea tomorrow?”
She smiled, that same soft, sweet smile. “A lot of residents have visitors on Sundays, or go out to family or friends. She has no one. Her husband’s dead, her children and grandchildren live in different cities. We often have tea together on Sundays.”
“That’s nice of you.” Did Maura work Sundays, or come in specially to get together with Virginia? For the first time, he was seeing a side of this woman—beyond the snotty boss and his lingerie fantasy—that he might actually like. Which probably wasn’t a good idea.
“I’m not doing it to be nice. I enjoy it as much as she does. She’s intelligent, well-educated, well-read. Our conversations are stimulating.”
He gestured to the huge book she held. The thing intimidated the hell out of him. “Might try a smaller book next time.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s too heavy for her.”
Those stunning eyes widened. “You’re right. I never thought of that. I’d just read it and thought she’d enjoy it, but I should have bought it in paperback for her.”
How about that? She’d said he was right about something. He glanced again at the massive book, which must have hundreds of pages and millions of words. “You’re a big reader?”
“Oh, yes.” Her face glowed. “I just love books.” She shot him a dubious glance. “How about you?”
Books were his definition of hell. He wasn’t going to confess to Maura Mahoney that he had trouble making his way through a comic book. “I’m more of a movie man myself. Movies or TV.” Never needing much sleep, he spent lots of middle-of-the-night time in front of the TV. There were a few classics he’d seen half a dozen times or m
ore. “Guess that’s not your style?”
Nope. Obviously that stuff was way beneath her, because she reacted like he’d made a rude suggestion. Her cheeks flooded with color and one hand flew to her throat. “No! Not at all.”
That blush was sexy, too, even if it did hide her freckles.
He wondered what she looked like when she was aroused. Would the heat creep through her body gradually, or would her cheeks and her breasts flush at the same time? He glanced down at the sexy rise and fall of female curves under silky gray fabric.
She crossed her arms across her chest, cradling the book in them, shielding her breasts from his scrutiny. Damn, had she caught him looking?
He glanced away. “Okay if I go across the street and get some food?”
“Is it lunchtime?” She pulled back her sleeve, baring a slender wrist as she checked her watch. “Oh, my, it’s almost two o’clock. I hadn’t realized. Sorry. Yes, of course. There’s a sandwich shop, hamburger place, pizza, fried chicken, Thai, sushi.”
She sounded almost like a waitress reciting a menu, and he was tempted to say, “BLT on toasted multi-grain, extra mayo,” but figured she wouldn’t get the joke. He’d be willing to bet she’d never waitressed, not even to pay her way through college.
“Oh, by the way . . .” She flushed again. “There’s a men’s room inside, if you want to, uh, wash up.”
“Thanks. Virginia showed me.”
“Is there anything else you need?” She glanced at his hands, hanging at his sides. “Virginia mentioned gloves.”
He shrugged. “I’m okay.”
“Let me see,” she ordered.
It took him back to a couple of the foster homes he’d lived in, where they’d inspected the kids’ hands before they could sit down at the table. He’d mostly always been sent back for a second wash.
Trying not to scowl, he held out his hands. Despite the calluses he’d built up over the years, he had a few blisters.
She winced. “You should have said something. I didn’t think . . .” A frown creased her forehead and he guessed she wasn’t used to supervising the garden help. “I’ll give you money for gloves.” She kept staring at his hands.