Handyman Special

by Pamela Browning

  Bemused, he helped Sage with the ladder and, realizing that it was almost time for dinner, suggested that he and Joy go get take-out dinners somewhere.

  "That's a good idea," Sage told him, glad he'd thought of it. She watched through the window as Adam, looking more at home in her pickup than she would have thought, drove slowly away down the street with Joy in her car seat behind.

  When the truck was out of sight, Sage climbed the ladder. With her sharp knife she cut carefully around the edges of one of the water-damaged ceiling tiles, making herself concentrate on business. Savagely she tore out several of the old tiles, and somehow the sheer physical act of pulling them down and chucking them aside assuaged some of her hidden anger with Gary. For her, work had always been a good way of dealing with stress. She tore out some more, wishing she were tearing Gary limb from limb.

  She heard Adam return, heard Joy's high laughter, and smelled the smoky odor of the charcoal fire that Adam started in the old grill downstairs. He hadn't bought the take-out dinners after all, apparently. He must have decided to cook something. Well, that was okay. Adam knew how to manage under any circumstances; he'd serve up something good for dinner, she knew.

  Sage finished ripping out the old tiles and sat down on the floor to cut the tongue edges off the new tiles preparatory to gluing them in place.

  "I bought fresh fish at the pier," announced Adam, popping his head around the door frame. "It'll be ready in about ten minutes. The man said it would be good charcoal-broiled. I picked up vegetables for a salad at the little market down the road." He paused, glancing at the ceiling. "Hey, you're moving right along."

  "I'll finish this job after dinner," she said. To Adam she still seemed, well, contained. He didn't know what to make of it.

  "Good," he replied, deciding not to make anything of it. "That should get us back to Willoree around eleven tonight."

  "Mm-hmm," Sage agreed, seemingly engrossed in her work.

  "A-dam," Joy's little voice called up the stairs as Sage concentrated on applying adhesive to the back of a replacement tile.

  "I'd better see what Joy wants." Adam grinned. "I left her tearing up lettuce for a salad." He went downstairs again, whistling as he went.

  Sage climbed the ladder and prepared to insert the new tile into the opening. She placed it carefully, then pushed with both hands to bring it level with the adjacent tiles.

  Just then she heard another peal of Joy's delighted laughter rippling up the stairs, and she removed her hands from the ceiling, sitting quietly on top of the ladder for a moment and listening to her daughter laugh. Joy's laugh was like oriental wind chimes, perfectly pitched and joyful. Joyful.

  She teetered on top of the ladder for a second, then lowered herself a few rungs and stood clinging to the side rails, her heart thumping beneath the coveralls. Gary wanted to see Joy. Once he spent time with Joy, he would love her. It was impossible not to love her. Joy won hearts, completely unaware that she was doing it. The extra chromosome, the one that Dr. Hargraves said made her abnormal—Sage had often thought of that extra chromosome as love. A hopelessly sentimental thought, but nevertheless Joy had something other children didn't always have—a singular way of bringing out the happiness in other people. An innocent way of relating that called forth only good feelings.

  And if Gary loved Joy, he would want her.

  Sage began to tremble so violently that she knew she had to get down from the ladder. She crept down, rung by rung, the ladder shaking beneath her. She was cold, suddenly so cold, cold as ice.

  Gary had said she would hear from him.

  She'd passed over that statement in her anger and in the hurry of getting herself and her child away from him, but now it seemed like the only significant thing that had been said.

  She would hear from him. And why would she hear from him? Because he wanted Joy.

  There was a bed in the room, but it was covered by a drop cloth and she had set her can of adhesive on it. She was shaking so hard that she didn't trust her knees to hold her up. Wrapping her arms around herself, she slid down in a corner, wedging her body into the angle of the wall so that it supported her. It was dusk now, the short November twilight darkening rapidly into night. The room was getting dark, and she was shivering. She heard Joy laugh again, and instead of making her happy as Joy's laughter usually did, for once it only plunged her into deep depression.

  She was still holding herself, her fingertips digging into her upper arms, but she let her hands slide slowly to the floor, where her fingers encountered carpet and clutched desperately at the loose tufts. She closed her eyes, but all she saw there was Gary's face, its meaty contours sagging into jowliness, and written on his face was his unwholesome curiosity about Joy. A vegetable, he had said. That's what he'd thought Joy would be.

  Sage's head fell loosely upon her upraised knees and she drew a deep breath against the dizziness that overwhelmed her, and she was still shaking, trembling, unable to stop. She took another panicky deep breath, and another, hyperventilating and unable to stop it.

  Oh, don't let him take my baby, my Joy. She's mine. You don't deserve her—you left her, dammit! And she was breathing convulsively now, her body wracked by sobs that were not sobs, and there were no tears, just mind-shattering panic making her think, he's going to take Joy, he's going to take Joy, and then, I can't let him take Joy, I can't let him take Joy, over and over again until it became a kind of litany.

  Sage huddled even deeper into the corner, her body tortured by deep, shuddering breaths. She was immobilized by her terror of losing the one thing in the world that she absolutely could not lose, her daughter.

  Adam found her there. He had called from downstairs, but she hadn't answered. Puzzled, he looked up the flight of stairs from the living room and saw no lights on. It was too dark for Sage to be working with no lights. So he installed Joy in a chair, cautioned her to stay there, and gave her a slice of raw carrot to eat. Then he'd rushed up the stairs two and three at a time and stopped at the door to the room where Sage was. He saw the ladder, the drop cloth on the bed—and from the corner came the sounds of someone inhaling great gulps of air, dry sobs.

  He flicked the light on. She didn't even raise her head.

  He was on the floor beside her in an instant. "Sage! Sage? Oh, my darling," His arms went around her, though he didn't even think she felt them.

  He knew he couldn't leave Joy unattended downstairs for long.

  "Sage," he said desperately, and she lifted her head and looked at him, dazed.

  He sensed immediately that this had something to do with her seeing that S.O.B. ex-husband of hers. He couldn't leave Sage crouching in the corner like that, huddled like a frightened animal, and he couldn't let Joy see her in this condition. So he swung her into his arms and carried her quickly across the hall to the master bedroom and laid her on the bed, and her arms went around him and clung to him as though she would never let him go. A tiny whimper escaped her lips as he gently pulled away.

  "Will you talk to me?" he asked soothingly.

  She looked at him, and he read the panic in her eyes. This wasn't the Sage he knew, the competent, self-sufficient woman he loved. This was a different Sage, one totally at the mercy of... what? Her ex-husband? She evidently thought that the guy was going to do something to her, to Joy.

  "I can't let him take Joy," she whispered urgently. "I can't let him take Joy."

  "He won't. He can't." He held her in his arms. Her heart was pounding wildly, like that of a scared rabbit. My God, what he would do to that guy if he had him in this room right now. The creep had scared Sage out of her wits. He had destroyed her marvelous self-confidence and reduced her to jelly.

  "I can't let him take Joy," she said again, and he wondered if she had heard him when he spoke.

  She was shivering so hard that he went to the closet, found a blanket and spread it over her. She immediately rolled up into a little ball, in a fetal position.

  "Can you eat dinner, Sage?" he
asked gently.

  At least she heard that. "No," she whispered miserably. "No." So he knew that she had not lost her grip on reality. She was lucid if not calm.

  He sat on the side of the bed and touched her shoulder. She was still shivering. "I'm going downstairs to feed Joy. And then I'm coming back up here and we're going to talk." He made his voice as forceful as he could. He hated to leave her now. But he knew that for Sage, Joy's welfare came before her own needs. He would have to see to Joy first.

  "Thank you, Adam," she said, her voice drifting away to nothingness. She knew he would take care of Joy. He would manage things, she knew it. For a while, she'd let him. He was so good at it. So good. She didn't hear him when he left. She was so exhausted that she fell into a sort of never-never land between sleep and wakefulness. She was aware of sounds downstairs, of Joy's high voice and Adam's deep one, and of her own safety. Adam was in charge. In her present state that was all she needed to know.

  Despite his worry about Sage, Adam tried not to rush Joy through eating her dinner. "Where's Mommy?" Joy asked only once.

  "Upstairs resting," he told her.

  "Oh, she's taking her nap," Joy said wisely. "I take a nap."

  And so dinner proceeded, Adam checking on Sage occasionally and seeing that she lay peacefully on her side, her knees drawn up, but not manifesting any more symptoms of anxiety run rampant, the way she had when he'd found her in that corner.

  How she had frightened him! It was clear to him now that she'd been experiencing a delayed reaction to Gary's threat. She had been so calm when they first returned to the house, almost eerily so. He'd thought she was handling it well, but in truth it had taken a while for the reality of Gary's claim on Joy to sink in.

  After dinner, cued by Joy's wide yawns, Adam washed her off as best he could, which probably wasn't very well, considering that his experience in bathing small children was nil. Then he installed her in the downstairs bedroom beside old Watson, the bear, and sat next to her until she fell asleep.

  It was then and only then that he went to Sage. As he carefully and quietly opened the bedroom door, light from the hall lamp fell on Sage's bright hair, and she rested on her side, facing him, with her cheek pillowed on her hands. The blanket he had spread over her was pulled up around her shoulders, and she looked tranquil in repose. He went to her and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Sage opened her eyes with a start. He had not meant to startle her. He caressed her head with his hand to steady her.

  She lifted her head slightly and saw that it was Adam. "Oh, Adam," she breathed, and she rolled over on her back and reached her arms up to slide them around his neck.

  He bent over her, sheltering her. He made a shield of his body between her and the world.

  "I'm so afraid," she said into his ear. "Afraid he's going to take Joy. People kidnap their own children. It happens all the time."

  "It won't happen to you," he said. "He'll forget all about it."

  "How could he?" she said in anguish. "He's seen her. He's seen how beautiful she is!"

  "He forgot about her for three and a half years, didn't he?" said Adam, looking down at her.

  "Yes," she conceded at last. "But that was when he thought she was—he said he thought she'd be like a vegetable." She began to sob softly, and the feeling of her crying in his arms wrenched at his heart.

  "Shh," he comforted. "I know something about fathers who abandon their children, remember? I don't think you'll hear from Gary again." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tenderly dabbed at her tearstained face.

  "Where is Joy?" she asked at last when her tears were spent against Adam's broad chest and she was able to speak.

  "Asleep in the bedroom where she took her nap. She ate a good dinner. Are you hungry? Would you like something?"

  "No, I'm not hungry," she said. "And what I would like is for you to lie down beside me and hold me quietly for a while. Will you?"

  He leaned over her again and kissed her soothingly on the forehead. She edged over on the bed until there was room for him, and he got beneath the blanket and adjusted it so that it covered both of them. Through the open window a moon rose over the ocean and bathed them in its pale light. He put his arms around her and pulled her head down so that it rested on his shoulder, and their breathing soon synchronized.

  After a while he began to stroke the side of her face, but she made no response, just passively accepted it. And then, because he couldn't help himself, he began to stroke her arm, barely tipping the pale hairs with his fingertips. Tentatively she slid her hands beneath his sweater, wanting to feel warm skin contact. His back felt strong and real and comfortable. She pressed herself closer, half in a trance, drugged by his steady rhythmic stroking of her arm. She liked the solid length of him beside her, and when her eyes sought his, she found them intense in their need. Need? Why, it was she who needed him. She needed his reassurance, his comfort, his caring. She loved him. And then a little tremor ran through her, because she knew she couldn't let him know.

  He felt the slight vibration in her, but he thought it was part of what had happened before. A sort of aftershock. In response he turned her over on her back again. She gazed up at him, her eyes soft.

  His fingers moved to the zipper of her coveralls. They lingered there for a moment.

  "I won't if you don't want me to," he said.

  "Oh, yes," she said, the words hardly more than a whisper. "I want to feel your skin next to mine."

  He unzipped the rough denim and parted it, and she sat up and shrugged her shoulders in a way that he found unbelievably titillating, and the fabric fell away to expose her breasts contained in a wisp of net. She unclasped her bra and set it carefully on the pillow before she lay back again, fully conscious of his gaze upon her and wanting him to be pleased with what he saw.

  For several moments he looked at her, wonderingly silent. Then he swayed down toward her, his fingertips finding her nipple at the same time his tongue found her lips. She fell away inside, going liquid, melting, at the touch of his tongue on her eager lips and the teasing of his fingers as they skillfully coaxed sensations that went far into her, beyond mouths and tongues and fingers and breasts. Deep inside her she felt an avid anticipation, and from somewhere came the words, oh, yes, although she didn't think she said them out loud.

  It was all Adam could do to hold back, but hold back he did. Sage didn't need quickie solutions, instant nirvana, to blot the ugliness of her encounter with Gary McKenna from her mind. Because tomorrow she wouldn't have to look at Gary McKenna in the morning, but she would have to look at him. Adam didn't want her to feel taken advantage of in her needy state. He wanted this to be honest and meaningful and true. And loving.

  She helped him pull his sweater over his head, and he tugged at the coveralls until she kicked them away beneath the blanket, and then she worked at the clasp of his pants until she knew she couldn't unfasten it, and he helped her with that and unzipped the zipper. They both wore nothing but underpants, but neither made a move to take them off. Instead he caught her to him in a long and passionate kiss.

  They clung to each other, tasting, wanting, tasting, and Sage thought that she would always remember the taste of him in her mouth, his cinnamon and cloves. He became drunk with the sensations of mouths blending and giving and drowning in each other, until he could not remember where they were or how they got there. But he did know who it was—it was Sage, his darling, his love. And tonight, tonight, tonight, it throbbed in his veins—tonight he was going to know all of her. All.

  He didn't know how it happened or when, because time ran away with them, but soon he was hard against her and there was no fabric between them. And yet it went on, the kissing, the touching—so sensitive, so gentle and so tender, so long. Adam had never known his lovemaking with a woman to be so reciprocal, to be so appreciated, to be given back with such extraordinary grace and delight.

  Sage could not believe that he could hold back so long, because there was n
o doubt whatever in her mind about the intensity of his desire. He took time to find out what she needed, where she needed, and he gave it unstintingly: his mouth—oh, his mouth—all over her, his mustache trailing across her belly, over her thighs while she caught her breath and dissolved in his sweetness, letting everything go, sinking into it, submerging herself into Adam.

  And then, finally, as the moon reached its heights in the sky outside their window, masterfully he possessed her, finding his way into her as though he knew the path, had always known the path, and they joined in a damp and breathless coupling that released them both and afterward gentled them downward into a deep and restful peace.

  Chapter 10

  They didn't leave the beach house until very late that night. Adam drove the truck back to Willoree, and Sage sat close to him on the wide seat, a sleeping Joy snuggled in her car seat in the back. That was Friday.

  On Saturday morning Sage fired Stanley Garth.

  This time there was no help for it. He showed up drunk at her house at eight o'clock in the morning, insulted Poppy, and began to bellow a bawdy little ditty over the Down Home Gospel Singers' Hour on Irma's radio.

  Sage heard the commotion from her room and raced downstairs to confront Stanley. Irma, her eyes flashing at the unseemly affront of Stanley's obscene singing, shot Sage a look of unbridled indignation and dashed from the room. Poppy, with barely a shrug, got up from the stool where he sat and ambled away.

  Sage heaved a giant sigh. It had been coming for a long time, and she might as well deal with it and get it over with. She motioned Stanley out on the back porch. She was tired from her late night and her highly charged emotions of the day before, and she was in no mood to put up with more of Stanley's monkey business.

  "Look, Stanley, I can't have this sort of thing going on. It was bad enough when you called in sick and got drunk at the Dewdrop Inn, and I took a dim view of your solution to patching Olene Peterson's wallpaper. And when you fell asleep in my truck when you were supposed to be putting up Mrs. Gray's storm windows, I gave you another chance. I will not, however, allow you to appear roaring drunk at my house, insult members of my family, or work for me when you can barely stand up."