by Grouse, Lili
Kristen was grateful she’d managed to swallow her last sip of coffee, because if she hadn’t, she would have sprayed him with it.
“Sorry. None of my business,” Ford said, holding his hands up in a gesture of backing off while remaining immobile.
“Have you?” she countered.
“Not really my style,” he shrugged.
“What? One night stands or being ashamed of them?”
“Neither.”
“Hm.” Kristen put her cup down and curled up further on the couch, hugging her legs to her chest.
“What?” Ford frowned.
“I’m just thinking about that expression. Doing the walk of shame? You think it’s mostly men or women who do that kind of thing?”
“Do I sense a discussion coming on?” Ford asked, sounding amused.
“Just making conversation,” Kristen shrugged. “And for the record… yeah, I have. In college. Does that shock you?”
“Why would it?”
“Does it feed your prejudices about California girls?”
“How do you know I have any preconceived ideas about Californian women?”
“Uh… I’ve talked to you for more than five minutes since I got here?”
Ford smiled. “Guilty as charged. But I’m not the only one with prejudices here, am I?”
“Okay. Fine. Subject dropped.”
“Ah. Interesting.” Ford smiled and shifted in his seat, facing her more fully.
“What?”
“You don’t like to talk about yourself – not when it’s something you feel insecure about.”
“I’m not insecure,” Kristen objected.
“Okay, insecure might be the wrong word. But you definitely come on less strong when you’re not a hundred percent sure of your standpoint. You don’t like to admit when you’re wrong.”
“Does anyone?”
“Good point.”
“Where’s your daughter?” Kristen asked, looking around.
“Sorry?”
“You told me you had a daughter. But I didn’t see any feminine products in the shower, nothing to make ones hair soft and shiny. I’ve never met a woman who didn’t care about her hair to at least some extent.”
“She lives with her mother.”
“I figured that. How often does she visit?”
“Every summer. Sometimes over the holidays, too.”
“But she doesn’t leave her stuff here?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t like to talk about her, do you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Family usually is.”
“Tell me about yours, then.”
“You already know about my family.”
“I know the basic facts. Not how you really feel about them.”
“What is this? Oprah? Do you get points for making me cry?”
“Does talking about your family make you cry?”
“No. Does talking about your daughter make you cry?” she fired back.
“I don’t cry.”
“So manly…” Kristen scoffed. “Man… I’m surprised you don’t choke on all the testosterone floating around here.”
“I handle myself fine,” he smiled.
“So… anything good on TV?” Kristen asked, tired of exhausting one topic after another with nothing to show for it.
“Let’s see,” Ford said and leaned over to grab the remote control off the coffee table. “You’re a fan of bad reality TV, aren’t you?”
“You’re not?”
“All this testosterone makes me veer solely towards the sports channels, I’m afraid,” he grinned. “But I can sit through an episode of The Bachelor if I must.”
“The fact that you even know that’s a reality show just gave you away,” Kristen said smugly.
“I watch commercials.”
“Right.”
“Let’s see what’s on Bravo – that’s the channel to go for bad reality TV, right?”
“You so follow those shows,” Kristen laughed.
He ignored her and flipped through channels. “Ah. Bored Housewives of Beverly Hills. Should make you feel right at home.”
“Or make me homesick,” Kristen pointed out.
“Do you miss it? California, I mean.”
“On a day like this? Yeah, I miss being warm and feeling the sun on my skin. I miss getting dressed up and going out, doing my hair and nails, getting massages…”
“Well, this isn’t exactly a spa, but I do give a great foot rub.”
“Seriously? You wanna massage my feet?” Kristen raised her eyebrows at him. “Why?”
“I might feel a tiny bit guilty for getting you all muddy,” he shrugged.
“Okay… I have to warn you, though. I only had your 2-in-1 shower gel slash shampoo to clean myself up with, so I’m not exactly smelling of roses.” Kristen put her feet up on the couch and let Ford pull them into his lap. She could feel his thigh muscles moving underneath and she tensed.
“Relax,” he said and started stroking the balls of her feet with his thumbs, “watch your show and pretend you’re in some fancy L.A. spa getting your feet pampered.”
“Yeah, like that’s…” Kristen started, and then he hit a pressure point and she liquefied, sinking into the couch and closing her eyes with pleasure. “Mmm. Don’t stop.”
Ford focused on the clinical aspect of massaging a person’s feet – finding pressure points and tense sections to alleviate pain – and blocked out the little moans of contentment coming from Kristen. Well, he did his damndest to try to, anyway.
He’d given Suzy foot rubs back when they were married, and even though it had been tied into the more sensuous part of their marriage at first, once Annabelle came along it had been a way of pain relief for Suzy’s feet and an act of appreciation on his part. Then she didn’t need him to rub her feet anymore.
He hadn’t realized until now that he’d missed this –being close to someone and taking care of them with minimum effort. Not that he was close to Kristen – or taking care of her in any way. It just felt natural to offer as she was obviously cold and a little blue. Mood wise, not color wise.
The more he worked her feet, stroking a few inches up her legs, the more he became aware of the fact that she smelled like his shower, and that she was wearing his clothes… and that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath his clothes.
That last part had him drop her feet like hot potatoes straight off the grill. “All done.”
She looked as if she was about to object, maybe even pout, but nothing came out. Instead, she thanked him and curled back up in her corner of the couch.
They spent a couple of excruciating hours on the couch before the laundry was done and dried and she could change back into her own clothes.
“I feel like I should offer you dinner or something,” he blurted as they walked to his car. “I mean, for keeping you locked up over here without so much as a Pop-Tart to offer in way of sustenance.”
“You’ve gone well and beyond the call of duty, Ford,” she said and climbed into the truck. “I think I’d better just head to bed before I get in any more trouble.”
“Probably wise,” he nodded and closed the door behind her. Yeah, she was the wise one out of the two of them, he told himself as he walked over to the driver’s side.
The next month practically flew by, and before Kristen knew it, it was Thanksgiving weekend. She was just packing up her stuff in the office trailer when Ford walked in.
“Hey, you on your way out?” he asked, taking off his hard hat and running his hand over his head.
“Um… yeah.”
“Are you flying home for the weekend?”
“Uh… no. I thought about it, but… I should probably hang around here. You know, in case something happens on the site.”
“And let’s say a storm blows through and rips off a piece of cardboard – what are you going to do about it?” he frowned, clearly not believing her.
“I cou
ld… call for help.”
“Yes, you could. So could anyone else who happens to pass by. Come on, Kristen, go see your parents.”
“It’s fine.” She shook her head and fumbled with her bag. She needed to get out of here before he started asking any more questions.
“Kristen,” he said, almost sternly, in a voice that demanded she look at him. Exactly what she didn’t want to do. “Kristen, look at me.”
With a deep sigh, she obliged.
“Why aren’t you going to California?”
“It’s a long flight to make just for a few days, and…”
“The actual reason, please,” he cut her off.
“I was getting to it,” she snapped. “And… my parents won’t be around anyway.”
“Where are they?”
“Mom’s on a cruise or something with her husband. Dad’s got a business dinner and his new wife is playing hostess for the first time. I’m not allowed to upstage her in her debut.”
“So what are you going to do this weekend?”
“Well, Mrs. Breezer is going to her grandchildren’s house or something, so I’m in charge of feeding the cats. I might dress them up like little turkeys. Or, even worse in Mrs. Breezer’s eyes – try feeding them turkey. It should be a blast.”
“You hate cats.”
“I tolerate them fine.”
“You think they’re plotting to kill you.”
“Ah, but see, if I’m the only one in the house, I control the food. No living Kristen – no food for the kitties.”
“Unless they decide people meat is tastier than liver in a can,” Ford deadpanned.
Kristen felt the color drain from her face. “Damn. Didn’t think of that. Thanks a lot!” she slapped his chest, which was sprinkled with dust and just a little… rock hard. The color quickly returned to her cheeks. Healthy exercise slapping someone’s chest – gets the adrenaline and blood pumping. She should recommend that as a cardio workout back home.
“Listen, I’ve been invited over to the Crenshaws’ for Thanksgiving dinner. Why don’t you come along? There’s plenty of food to go around.”
“I’m not crashing your friends’ party,” Kristen rolled her eyes and flung her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.” Then, before he could say another word, she was out of the trailer and half-jogging towards the town center.
She could have gotten herself a car for the duration of her stay, but with the severe absence of gyms in Greenport, walking most places had become her favorite workout. It also allowed her time and space to think.
It was during these walks – and jogs – that she’d come to realize keeping her distance from Ford was in everyone’s best interest. That, and that she should always carry around an extra set of underwear and change of clothes for when she had a clumsy moment.
Spending Thanksgiving with Ford was a definite no-no. No, she was better off with Breezer’s cats, trying to get some work done on her laptop. Maybe she could Skype with her friends if they were around. Probably not, as most of her friends had families of their own to spend time with over holidays and such.
Still, she could just hang out and read a book or two. She wasn’t a big book reader, but Mrs. Breezer was sure to have a couple of novels she could dig into. Cat in the Hat, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Catching Fire… Okay, maybe not. But she’d be fine on her own. Really.
Ford glanced at the clock on the wall in the Crenshaws’ dining room for the third time since they’d sat down to dinner. It didn’t seem right that he should be here, surrounded by people, a fire roaring in the fireplace, and a table overflowing with food fit for kings, while Kristen was sitting alone in a darkened house fearing the cats would claw her eyes out if she moved an inch outside her room.
Okay, so maybe he was being a little overdramatic in his thoughts, but he still had the unsettling feeling that he needed to check on her to make sure she was all right.
“Ford? More sweet potato pie?” Mary offered, jolting him out of his reveries.
“Thanks, I’m full,” he said and passed the dish along.
“Are you thinking about Annabelle?” Mary asked, sounding all sympathetic. “We all wish she could be here, too, you know.”
“Thanks, Mary. Yeah, I’m looking forward to seeing her next month. The house feels pretty empty in between her visits.”
“I can imagine,” Mary nodded, then surveyed the table. “Everyone done with dinner? Ford, will you help me clear the table, please? We need to make room for dessert.”
A couple of groans followed by popped jeans buttons could be heard amidst the little crowd gathered around the Crenshaws’ dining room table and Ford smiled as he rose from his seat to help Mary clean up.
He should have seen the ruse for what it was – an ambush to get him alone to grill him about his impatience. As soon as the kitchen door swung shut behind them, Mary launched her mild-tempered assault.
“So what’s really going on, Ford?”
“Sorry?”
“Oh, don’t give me that innocent boy look, Ford Hamm,” she chided him and snatched the plates from his hands. “I know you weren’t thinking about Annabelle. At least not just about her. What gives?”
“Were you always this perceptive?” Ford asked, frowning at her.
“Spill.”
“It’s the woman I’m working with…”
“Oh…?” Mary’s eyebrows almost reached her hairline.
“Not like that,” he said with a sigh. “She’s not from around here, and her family doesn’t want to spend the holidays with her, and I know she’s sitting at the Breeze Inn all alone tonight, probably eating cereal or something…”
A slap upside the head cut him off. “What the hell was that for?” he demanded as he looked down at Mary Crenshaw’s pinched face and sturdy arms planted firmly on her matronly hips.
“Why didn’t you invite that poor girl over here? There’s plenty of food – we could have fed ten strays and still have leftovers.”
“I did invite her,” he pointed out, rubbing the back of his head gingerly. “She declined.”
“Well, of course she declined! She doesn’t know us, and if I know you, you probably made it sound like she could tag along, not as if we actually wanted to get to know her.”
“I didn’t want to push.”
“Oh, Ford,” Mary sighed. “You may be close to 40, but sometimes I think you’re still stuck as an awkward teenager.”
“Sorry?”
“You like this girl, don’t you?”
“That’s not… We work together, that’s all.”
“Right. And you’re staring at the clock thinking about how to get over to see her before she goes to bed and maybe bring her some leftovers because she’s just another co-worker.”
“You’re the hospitable one, Mary. You think it’s so wrong of me to care whether she eats or not?”
“I didn’t say that. But you’re in denial, Ford. You’ve spent how many years moping around because your wife left you? And you’ve turned down how many women because you didn’t want to risk getting your heart broken again?”
“I haven’t been celibate since Suzy left, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ford muttered. “But I don’t want Annabelle to suffer more than she does already.”
“You think Annabelle is happy that you’re wasting the best years of your life on being grumpy and denying yourself another chance at happiness?”
“Okay, how did we get from me worrying about a friend spending Thanksgiving alone to me needing to start a relationship with someone?”
“Oh, so now she’s a friend, not just a co-worker?” Mary raised her eyebrows knowingly.
“I spend the most of my time working, so yeah, I usually consider my co-workers my friends.”
“No, you don’t, Ford. You forget I’ve known you since you were a boy. I know who your friends are, and you don’t work with any of them. You certainly don’t spend your time worrying about co-workers or employees unless the
y’re on the job.”
“Did you have a point somewhere in there?” Ford asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Yes. Go bring your friend some leftover dinner and dessert before she locks up that dreary old house and falls asleep. Old lady Breezer should be out of town all weekend long, so no point in hurrying back here tonight.”
“Mary Crenshaw!” Ford said, feigning outrage. “I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”
“If the thought entered your head just now, you have your answer right there,” she said smugly and took out a couple of plastic containers from her cupboard. As she filled them with generous servings of turkey, sweet potato pie, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, she hummed some romantic little ditty to herself and Ford wondered how he was going to explain all this to Kristen.
NINE
Kristen was drying her hair after a much-needed shower – she’d splashed herself with cat food when she was trying to feed Frank Sinatra and Charlie Chaplin. They’d both been so eager to stick their slithery pink little tongues and sharp pointy teeth into the bowl that she’d pretty much turned the cans upside down and splattered the kitchen floor and herself with unidentified meat juice. She dreaded the point in time when she’d be forced to clean it up, but figured she’d let the feline population of Casa Breezer do most of the job before she broke out the cleaning supplies.
She’d just pulled on a pair of sweats – she owned way too many pairs at this point – and some wool socks to keep the cold out, when the doorbell rang. She heard hissing and screeching – Frank Sinatra was getting ready to serenade, it seemed – and hurried down the stairs, not even bothering to close the door to her room.
The house was cold – she had failed to figure out how to work the furnace and the only heater that worked properly was in Mrs. Breezer’s room, where Frank and Charlie napped – and probably Humphrey as well, even though she’d yet to see him. Maybe he was dead and old lady Breezer had him stuffed and mounted on her bedroom wall to keep her company during those long, lonely nights…
Kristen shuddered from both her twisted thoughts and the actual chill in the house. At least her room was semi-comfortable, as she’d invested in a fan heater last month, but it wouldn’t last that way for long if she didn’t get back up there to close the door again. She flung open the front door, prepared to tell whoever it was to either get lost or start a fire for her, but the words got stuck in her throat.