by Lori Power
Her step faltered. “Whoa. What? Mitchell?” All laughter left her face and she paled. She still held the child upside down.
“What? Mama?”
Mama? What? Is that it? She’s married. No, he had checked. She’s not married. Common-law? She doesn’t have to be married to have a kid. He lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey.” Why does she always call me Mitchell? I feel like my mom should be scolding me when I hear Mitchell.
She righted the small boy, setting him on his feet. “Someone’s at the gate, Kris. You run and play a bit.”
“Is it a stranger?” His eyes were big and curious. The sturdy legs held their ground by her side. He didn’t have the look of his mother. His coloring was dark to her fair. His eyes wide where hers were round. Granted, he could look like his father.
She placed a calm hand on her son’s shoulder. “No honeybun. Not a stranger.” She bent to give him a kiss on his forehead. “But good thinking.” She patted him easily on the backside. “Just an old friend of Mama’s. You run along and play in your pool.”
Mitch lifted the latch. “Sorry to bother you,” he began, stepping just inside the perimeter of the gate, sure to maintain his distance. “I really just wanted to apologize for the other day. I should never have spooked you. I should know better. It’s just…running into you after…”
He wavered, rambling, unable to take his eyes off her lips—so full and ripe, waiting to be kissed. Why did she do that to him? Why’d he always want more when it came to Lorna? His nostrils flared and he could practically smell the sunshine off her skin. Sweat trickled down his back as he jammed his hands in his pockets, striving to control his predatory impulse of walking up to her and taking her in his arms. None of the women he’d known over the years—far too many—ever had him panting for more like Lorna.
Averting his eyes to the well-groomed grass, he ground his teeth, imagining her with another man. A man she shared a life and a son with. His fists curled in his pockets. If the man were here now, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to maintain civility.
“After all these years,” she supplied, causing him to flick his gaze back to her curious brown ones. “The other day was a shock. Yes.”
He turned and closed the gate. “I have to know,” he said, pausing, gulping a breath to control his immediate urges that always accompanied his close proximity to this woman. “How did you know me?”
Her amber eyes crinkled at the edges, matching an uncommon mischievous grin, a sight unaccustomed. He blinked to ensure the sweat running into his eyes hadn’t obscured his vision. Her head tilted to the side, watching him closely—frank curiosity exposed. “Mitchell, I’d know you anywhere.”
She seemed to catch her words, and like a fisherman, wanted to reel them back in, and he relaxed, sensing her unease.
“Strike that.” She laughed nervously, eyes rolling skyward. “I didn’t recognize you right off. Only when you gave me your license, and I-I-it—your picture,” she stammered. “Then I knew.”
“Imagine that.”
She coughed, running her hands along her cutoffs before rising to the bandana. “Well, you certainly caught me off guard. I’m a bloody mess.” Lorna peered around for her cap.
“Just back there,” he said, pointing back towards the pool.
She nodded and took the bandana in hand to rub paint from her face, and he wished she wouldn’t. With the bandana no longer holding back her hair, it fell to just below her shoulders. As light as it had always been, and shiny like corn silk falling off the cob, damp, darkened wisps framed her smeared face, giving her a playful air.
“You look great,” he said before he had time to think, and he watched her eyes go round in surprise.
Assessing at her ensemble, she grimaced. “Yeah, well, thanks,” Lorna said and turned briefly to ensure the boy was in sight. “Would you like something to drink?”
Warring between the urge to run and his continued curiosity, Mitch accepted her offer and followed her back to the deck where there was a platter laid on the table.
“Three-year-old boys snack all the time. If I didn’t keep it here at the ready, I’d never get any work done from running back and forth to the house to get food.” Her laugh was awkward, forced, and he recognized it from when they first started seeing each other—she as his tutor.
She poured lemonade into a large plastic tumbler. He reached for the glass and took a sip. “Homemade. Nice.”
“Thank you,” she said simply, pouring herself a glass, watching him over the brim as she sipped.
“I assume you were driving a rental when we crashed?”
“Ah, yes.”
“No problems there?”
“No, none, thank God.” She peered towards the pool where the boy splashed wildly. “That’s what insurance is for, I guess.”
“Painting a fence is a big job,” Mitch said as he waved his hand to illustrate her handiwork. “You’re halfway there now.”
“It’s a chore, for sure. Kris helps.” She smiled fondly in the child’s direction. “We’re having a birthday party for him next week, and the yard needed some sprucing.”
Mitch glanced around the manicured yard with the well-tended flower garden creating a perimeter, the hanging baskets and the various trees. A person needed help to maintain this kind of yard.
“His dad be home soon?” Mitch jutted his jaw towards the boy splashing nearby. Realizing the impertinence of his question, he wanted to bite his tongue off. What the hell?
“No,” she said so softly, gazed focused on the table. He leaned in a little to hear. “He doesn’t have a dad.”
A great bubble of anxiety popped and Mitch bit his cheek to keep from smiling. Resuming his breathing, he took another drink of the lemonade to cover his relief. “Oh,” Mitch said. He really had no right to be here. No right to walk back into her life. He set his glass down and moved to step off the deck and leave. Intense, complicated, a mom. All the things I avoid.
Her relief was palpable as she followed him off the deck towards the gate. “Thanks for checking in, Mitchell.”
The stress of the last moment cumulated and burst with her mention of his name. Irritated, he stopped and turned, just as she reached to close the gate. “Why do you always call me Mitchell? I always feel like I’m in trouble.”
She stepped back at his change of tone before drawing herself up, standing tall. “It’s your name.”
“Yes, but my own mother doesn’t call me Mitchell.”
A quizzical, sardonic expression flashed across her face, and her amber eyes brightened. “What, Mitchell, would you prefer I call you?” She dragged the ‘L’ sounds of the end of his name in emphasis. “I really never went in for the whole jock thing you had going. What was it again? ‘Captain Morgan,’ after the rum commercial?”
Put in place firmly by her Mother Superior tone, he snapped back. “No, I thought after all these years you may have relaxed enough to call me Mitch, like everyone else.”
Sparks filled her eyes and her chin jutted forward, while color climbed high on her cheeks. She took an audible breath, giving away her own rising temper and she took hold of the gate, knuckles whitening. “Thanks for coming by, Mitch.” Her forced politeness emphasized his dismissal more than the deafening click of the latch behind him.
She didn’t look back. He had turned to peer over the fence and watch her walk away. This was such a mistake. Deflated, he stomped along the path down the end of her driveway. Back at his truck, he wrenched open the driver’s door, but didn’t get in. He lifted one foot up to the step—and still did not get in. He grabbed the steering wheel as he always did to hoist himself up on the seat, but still his right foot didn’t leave the cobbled stones of the driveway. He released the steering wheel, took his foot off the step, and slammed the door with a definitive bang and stood by his front bumper, hand meshed in his pockets.
“Get in,” he mumbled. He had to leave. She drives you crazy. She’s always driven you crazy. She’s got a kid. She’s comp
licated. She’s too intense. He continued to chant the mantra. It didn’t work.
Yes. But—then there was the initial smile when she first saw him. That unexpected, unrehearsed smile. Those eyes? The playfulness with the boy? There’s no man. He didn’t quite know how he knew, but his gut told him if the boy’s father wasn’t around, there was no man. I’ve never seen her like that before. I’d like to see that again.
The decision made on impulse, he walked back up the driveway, along the path to the backyard, where he opened the gate without invitation and sauntered on back, praying for calm while his blood flooded his brain making him slightly lightheaded.
Lorna stood by the table, hat in one hand, bandana back around her hair, while she held the tumbler of lemonade against her throat, cooling her. Her head was tilted back enjoying the sensation. He stopped midstride as his body stiffened with lust, watching droplets of moisture course down the side of the glass onto her throat. Mitch imagined his tongue flicking those beads of water off her skin, tasting the salt as his hand slid through the softness of her hair. He would pull her close…
“Hello Mitchell,” her son chirped from the kiddy pool, pulling him from his fantasy with guilt and causing Lorna to jump, lemonade splashing over the side, when she saw him standing at the edge of the deck.
“Hello Kris,” he replied, turning to face the boy and cover his own surprise. The images of what he wanted to do to Lorna continued to swim before his eyes. To avoid panting, he smiled in what he hoped offered an apology. Covering his carnal vision, he lifted his arm in illustration. “It looks like you could use some help with the fence.”
Taking the time to set the tumbler down on the table, she screwed her cap back in place, eyes never wavering from his. He watched a series of expressions cross the planes of her face as she weighed out her best course of action. With exaggerated patience, she said on a huff of air. “Listen, Mitchell, Mitch, Officer, whatever you call yourself these days. I am sure I appear a fright—single mother struggling with yard work and all—but I can assure you we are all fine here and in no need of assistance. We were fine yesterday, and we will be fine tomorrow. I appreciate your offer, but really, we don’t need the help.” She ended with her hand on her hip and her leg jutted out in her all-confidence stance.
“Hey Mama, not true.” Kris rolled over the ballooned edge of the pool to scramble to the deck and onto a chair in front of his snacks, water dripping from his toes. Between bites of banana, he pointed at his mother. “You said just before how nice it would be to have another set of arms.”
Innocent eyes were large in his face as he parroted back his mother’s words, swinging his legs back and forth, plucking some grapes from the bowl. Happy green eyes twinkled and he brushed his damp hair from his forehead. “You said, sometimes mamas can’t do it all.”
When her face fell in helpless recognition of her own words spouted at just the wrong moment, Mitch couldn’t help it: he laughed outright. “My God, it’s true—out of the mouths of babes.”
Casting a stern glare at her son before turning a cold stare on Mitch, she said with a forced smile. “Out of the mouths of babes or not, we’re fine and do not require your help.”
Mirroring her pose, he hopped up the last step and shot back. “Look, I can put my hands on my hips too.” The situation would create hilarity if he wasn’t trying so hard to make an impression. “But I’d rather roll up my sleeves and get the job done. Then maybe you can offer me dinner. After all, we are old buds from school.”
He relished her speechless expression as she opened and closed her mouth like a gaping fish groping for words likely inappropriate in front of her son. He was inordinately pleased to create such reactions in her.
“It’s lawnya tonight,” Kris chimed in, casting a merry glance between his mother and Mitch. “Nana made noodles for me.”
“Nana?” Mitch rolled up the sleeves of his cotton shirt and scooped the brush Kris had abandoned some time ago up off the grass close to his feet. Not waiting for further responses from Lorna, he picked off the larger pieces of grass before dipping it back in the paint can close to the fence.
Her voice came up behind him. “Mariam is my mother—umm, Kris’s grandmother. We live together.”
With nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement and an “mmm-hum,” he set to work.
Before long, her stiff countenance gave way to the rhythm of the job at hand. The contented jabbering from Kris once again frolicking in the pool and the kids music playing on the computer under the shade of an umbrella on the deck gave Mitch a real sense of peace he hadn’t realized he’d been missing not only in these last months away, but in his life in general. In her presence, in this cozy backyard, he felt at home, comfortable. Uncanny
Laying her brush along the top of the can, Lorna checked her watch and told Kris it was cabana time, whereby the child happily wrapped himself in an over-large, brightly colored beach towel and went to settle in on the covered lounge chair. Mitch felt a pull deep within the cavity of his chest, watching Lorna mount the three stairs to the deck to make sure Kris was tucked and cozy. Before she could turn back and see him watching, Mitch lowered his eyes. He coughed to cover his spying after seeing her gently kiss the child’s forehead in so natural a gesture.
“Wow, he’s a good kid,” Mitch remarked when she came back to the fence.
“He has his moments.” But her lips widened with a smile, and he felt a familiar ease in her company. The same ease from all those years ago when she tutored him. Since their first meeting, she never made him feel stupid or inadequate. She simply went about the process of filling in the gaps of his understanding—or better put, misunderstanding—of what the profs taught and he missed, likely daydreaming about rugby or girls—not necessarily in that order.
“No, he’s definitely a good kid. I count my blessings.” She picked up her brush and walked back to the fence before casting him a sidelong glance and adding, as though it were afterthought, “Thank you for your help.”
“Do you need a Band-Aid?”
“What? I’m sorry, what?” Lorna’s eyes rounded, her brows shot up, confused. “A Band-Aid?”
“Yeah, for your wounded pride.”
“Ever the smart-ass.” Lorna flung paint droplets in his direction, laughing.
Oh, I could get used to that sound. “I’d get you back, but I can’t. You’re already covered in paint. There’d be no telling the difference.” He chuckled like he hadn’t laughed in months. “Did you actually get any paint on the fence?”
“Oh, ha, ha.”
Finished with the last few pickets, he helped her clear the paint and tools away. “No, really.” He stopped outside the shed, sizing her up. “What did you do, bathe in the paint? You’re completely covered.”
Bending to store the paint under the bench, Lorna regarded him head to toe. “Unlike some, I like to immerse myself in my work.”
“I see. Here let me.” He took the cleaned tray and tools and stowed them up above the work area in the neat shed. “Bit of a neat freak, are you? I’m not surprised.”
“I like everything to have its place,” she replied, a note of weariness in her voice.
He couldn’t help baiting her. “So, you’re well aware it’s a problem then. Seeking help, are you?”
Lorna guffawed, and Mitch thought he had died and gone to heaven. “Been through a few therapists, but they dropped me when I catalogued their book displays,” she answered, biting her quivering bottom lip.
“Oh, you’re quick. I should have remembered.” He turned to leave the shed, satisfied everything was put away.
Lorna giggled. “It’s been a while and you’re getting older. The memory is the first to go.”
Is she flirting with me?
“Better than the alternative, I suppose.”
“The alternative?” She caught his eye as she slid the shed doors closed. Holding up a hand, palm faced forward, she laughed again, deep in her throat, and he ached to cover her lips wit
h his. “Don’t tell me—I don’t want to know.”
“Oh, and that was the one thing I did want to tell you.”
Drawn to her, he stepped closer with a single-minded desire to act on his urge to take her in his arms to kiss those full lips. To rekindle that passionate flame from the spark he recognized in her eyes.
“Mitchell—”
“Lorna.” He cut in, his face inches from hers, his fingers fanning in contemplation. “Listen, I know you were born with a bit of a stick up your ass. I get it. You can’t help it. But we’re old school chums. Can you at least call me Mitch, so I don’t feel like I have to stand in the corner or something?”
“Listen, Mitchell,” she began again, taking a step back from him, and he knew she emphasized his name just to irritate him. “I happen to like your full name. Mitchell. And it is your name.”
He was taken aback by her frankness. “Oh, well, given you like it.” He leaned towards her, narrowing the gap. “I always assumed you said it that way to make fun of me. Make yourself sound like a teacher or something.”
“What? No, of course not.”
Her hands were fidgeting. She had returned to the nervous, awkward girl he’d first met, and he longed to make her easy with him—like she had been just moments before. He wanted to bathe in her laughter, surround himself with her scent, immerse in her warmth.
“That’s good.” He stepped purposefully in her direction, taking back the distance she created.
Mitch watched with some amusement as she took a deep breath and put a hand to her forehead in an exasperated gesture. “Mitchell, Mitch, listen. My, ah, Mariam will be home shortly. It will be a bit of a shock to her to see company for dinner when you weren’t expected. As much as I appreciate your help today, really, I’m sure you know how older women can be when you throw them off their schedules, so I would…”
“Hello dear, I’m home,” Mariam said in greeting, coming through the patio doors at first, not noticing Mitch as she moved straight for Kris. “Oh, isn’t he the cutest thing all curled up there.” She lifted her face towards Lorna when she noticed Mitch standing to her side. “Oh, hello there.”