After Darke

by Heather MacAllister

  “Keegan?”

  Jaron nodded. “So it’s better if I stay here and get a reputation as a recluse.”

  “Trust me. It’s not.” Bonnie snagged his denim jacket from the nail he’d hung it on and tugged on his arm. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Where?” He’d taken his jacket, but hadn’t put it on.

  “My place. I’ve got to get it ready for the next renters.”

  “And you want me to help you scrub toilets?”

  “That would be ‘toilet’ singular. I wouldn’t say no, but my main goal is for us to be seen together. You can take your laptop.”

  He looked as if he needed more convincing. They must have done a number on him in town. “You can get on the Internet.”

  Jaron shrugged into his jacket. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  * * *

  IN TRUTH, Jaron was finding his own company very trying. He’d worked his way through the computer books and had written some very simple programs. Then he’d tackled the electronic books and had learned how to solder. He didn’t know if anything he’d built actually worked because he was afraid to risk blowing out the tenuous source of electricity. And once the electricity was gone, Jaron would have to move back to the main house. And moving back to the main house meant moving back to the attic and Bonnie and her sheep pajamas and her curves and her lower lip.

  He followed her to her truck. They were almost dressed alike. Both wore denim jackets—there hadn’t been a lot of choice in the store—jeans and plaid shirts. She looked like Paul Bunyan’s little sister.

  Paul Bunyan’s cute little sister. That was fine with him. She could be cute if she wanted; he didn’t care.

  The leaves were starting to turn color, but it wasn’t the peak season yet. Each day he’d stared out the window, he’d seen more and more oranges, yellows and reds on the Berkshire hills. It reminded him of the passing time and the fact that his life was on hold because of a hotheaded Irish mobster and a chintz-loving interior decorator who couldn’t keep his pants zipped.

  Jaron had been using the Twin Oaks phone to get on the Internet late at night when the guests had gone to bed, and sleeping in during the day. Maureen got very nervous when her phone line wasn’t free. In her position, he would, too.

  They’d heard absolutely nothing from Frank Quigg. Sonny hadn’t been found. How could somebody with hair that color just disappear?

  After a two-minute drive past the village green and its statue of a Revolutionary War soldier, Bonnie stopped in front of one of a semicircle of cottages. He remembered what she’d said about them being planned as part of a hotel.

  “This is it.” Bonnie got out of the truck and slammed the door, then dug in the back for her equipment.

  Bonnie’s cottage looked like the rest, except that she’d painted her door red. “Were you in your feng shui period?”

  She glanced at him and unlocked the door. “Yes. But that’s as far as I got.” She stepped into what was one of two rooms. “As you can see, there isn’t a whole lot of feng to shui.”

  One side of the room had chairs and a television, the other held a small table and chairs and the kitchen. Kitchenette, more accurately, though he hated English words that ended in “ette.” By turning his head, Jaron could see her bedroom reflected in the bathroom mirror, so he had a view of her entire home from about three feet inside the front door.

  Her furniture looked like flea-market finds. Nothing matched, so she’d pulled it all together by painting the wood dark and upholstering all the chairs in a heavy white material. Even the cushions on the wooden kitchen chairs were covered in the same material. “Is this white denim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very nice.” He liked it—not for himself, mind, but he could appreciate a well-decorated home.

  “Thanks.” Except that a frowning Bonnie stood by one of the chairs. Sighing, she reached for a can of foaming upholstery cleaner from the bucket of supplies she’d brought in. “It looks like they ate pizza while they watched television.”

  “Maybe white wasn’t the best choice for a rental.”

  “I expected some damage, but still. On the bright side, there’s plenty more fabric where that came from. I bought several rolls of it at a salvage sale. The ends got stained in rusty water, but the rest is perfectly fine once you cut off the edges.” She squirted the cleaner on the orangy-red smears. “There’s a phone jack in the kitchen.”

  Jaron looked at the wall phone. He’d have to drag a chair over by the small refrigerator and set his computer on his lap. Gee, maybe that’s why they called them laptops. “Is that the only jack?”

  “No.” Bonnie was examining the other cushions. “But the second one is in my bedroom. I’d rather you used the one out here.”

  They looked at each other, then away. “Right.”

  “Oh, and every so often, go outside and bring something in from the truck. I want to make sure everybody sees you.” Bonnie went back to her bedroom.

  By leaning to one side, Jaron could see her stripping the bed. He could also see the crammed bookshelf against the wall just outside her room. Jaron subscribed to the theory that one could learn a lot about a person by reading the titles on her bookshelf. By the time he stood in front of the shelf, he remembered that he didn’t want to learn anything about Bonnie.

  Colorful paperbacks lined the bottom shelf. They were the usual fiction bestsellers and beach books. The next shelf contained her college textbooks. Didn’t she sell them back in the time-honored tradition of poor students? The rest were a mix of books he’d have to say were technical, and dozens that contained photographs of the architectural features of old buildings. He pulled out one, noting the sticky notes she’d used to mark pages. Turning to one, he saw pictures of pull-chain toilets. Bonnie had made notes in the margins about fittings and part numbers and where she’d found parts for the models.

  Amazing. He wondered if his mother knew she’d fixed him up with a woman who collected pictures of toilets.

  Jaron took out another book and another, becoming lost in the mostly black-and-white photographs of features of New York City buildings he thought he knew, but had never really seen before.

  Bonnie emerged with an armload of dirty sheets and towels. “I thought you were going to log on to the Internet.”

  “I was.” Jaron indicated the book he held. “You’ve got a thing for old buildings.”

  She dumped the laundry by the door. “I’ve got a thing for preserving old buildings—or at least their bathrooms.”

  Interesting woman. He didn’t want her to be interesting. She had no right to be interesting in a town like this. On her way back to the bathroom, she stopped next to him. He could smell the cleanser she held.

  “A lot of people are into architectural salvage. They find an old fireplace mantel, windows, doors and moldings for their house. Then they fill it with antiques—but then spoil it all by putting in a glaringly modern bathroom.”

  Jaron liked glaringly modern bathrooms. He felt any progress in that area should be encouraged. It wasn’t so long ago that houses didn’t have bathrooms at all.

  “I show them how they can remain true to the rest of their house.”

  “Why don’t you just build an outhouse and be done with it?”

  “You have no soul.” She marched into the bathroom—

  not a long march. A marchette.

  Jaron marched after her. “I do, too, have a soul. I think what you’re doing is great—up to a point. But give me modern conveniences anytime.”

  He’d reached the door of her bathroom and stopped. There wasn’t a lot of room, and the reason there wasn’t a lot of room was that an ornate claw-footed tub took up most of it. The tub was surrounded by gauzy drapes, impractical dark wood and a jungle of plants.

  Instantly, Jaron had
an image of Bonnie, her hair piled on top of her head, soaking in a bubble bath as she extended one lush leg and soaped it with a sponge.

  And she was not wearing her sheep pajamas.

  Just when the bubbles in his image reached a dangerously interesting level across her chest, reality intruded.

  Bonnie, wearing bright blue rubber gloves, began scrubbing out the toilet.

  Jaron waved his arm in the general direction of the tub. “This is...nice.”

  “Thanks.” She didn’t look up from the toilet.

  That tub was big enough for two, if they sat just so. And Jaron was willing to sit just so. A little too willing.

  Even Bonnie scrubbing the toilet didn’t stop him from imagining himself running his hands over her soap-slickened skin.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll take the laundry out to the truck.”

  “Walk real slow!” she called after him.

  After that, he did log on to the Internet, but couldn’t stand watching Bonnie do all the work, so he washed the dirty dishes and wiped down the kitchen.

  There was a knock on the door and Phyllis Cooper stuck her head in. “Bonnie? I saw your truck.” She noticed him in the kitchen and, in Jaron’s opinion, didn’t look surprised.

  She beamed at him, her whole demeanor different than it had been on Saturday. “Hello, Jay!”

  Being caught washing the dishes was a good thing, he surmised.

  “We haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  “I’ve been working and staying out of Bonnie’s way.”

  “I thought you were here on vacation.”

  “Mom!” Bonnie called from the bathroom. “Leave the man alone. He’s on vacation, but I know you’ve heard he’s working on a book. That takes time. Do you think they write themselves?”

  “And how’s that coming?”

  “Fine,” Jaron answered, determined to keep it short and simple.

  “Well, I just wanted to pop over and see how you two were doing. When you finish, do you want to come by the store for lunch?”

  Bonnie emerged from the bathroom and snagged a roll of paper towels. She met his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to twelve.”

  “Sorry, Mom. I’ve got to be somewhere at one and I’m not nearly finished here. Maybe next time.”

  “Okay. But if you finish early and want to drop by for a sandwich, come on.” She waggled her fingers and closed the door.

  As Jaron dried a frying pan—which had taken him quite a while to clean because it looked as though someone had fried rubber in it—he wandered to the bathroom door. Bonnie was wiping the mirror and all the shiny surfaces.

  “Where do you have to be at one?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “But that’s what you told your mother.”

  “I didn’t want to torture you.”

  “It wouldn’t have been torture,” he said automatically. Yes, it would.

  “Yes, it would.” Bonnie echoed his thoughts. “I understand how all the questions would get on your nerves.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No biggie.”

  Their eyes caught again. He wished they’d stop connecting like that. When he fantasized about a woman while she was scrubbing a toilet, he knew he was in trouble.

  * * *

  BONNIE WAS BREATHLESS from racing to clean her house. She wanted the job done as quickly as possible. Bringing Jaron here had been a mistake, even though it had accomplished exactly what she’d hoped it would. And there he was, washing the dishes while she cleaned up for the next rental. That should stop the talk.

  It was just that the minute he’d stepped into her home, it had become small. It was small, but a cozy small. With Jaron in it, the house felt cramped small.

  He took up too much room, and she couldn’t keep enough distance between them, even when she was in the back and he was washing dishes at her sink.

  Talk about a surprise. She’d nearly fallen over when he’d offered to help. Maybe he wanted out of the house, too.

  She didn’t know why she was bothered about him being in her home—she’d rented it to strangers during the past several seasons, and anything of personal or sentimental value was stored over at her parents’ for the time being. The only thing other than the furniture that revealed anything about her personality was her books, and that was exactly where Jaron had gone.

  She’d left her collection of architectural books on the shelves this season because she figured that the type of person interested in photographs of old buildings wasn’t the type of person who would damage books.

  Besides, she’d run out of room in the area her parents had allocated to her.

  When Jaron had appeared at the door to her bathroom, she’d become flustered, and now the toilet was so clean it could be used as a soup tureen.

  She’d seen him looking at her tub. It was the first vintage piece she’d owned and the main selling point the agent used for renting her property. It was also her place to daydream and relax, and now she’d always see Jaron standing in the doorway looking at the tub with an expression that told her he definitely saw the possibilities.

  She didn’t want to think about possibilities with Jaron.

  But how could she not think about possibilities with a man who’d wash her dishes—dishes he hadn’t eaten from?

  Throwing down the rag and the can of furniture polish, she hauled her chairs around so she could vacuum beneath them.

  Jaron had finished the dishes and was sitting at the computer. He wore jeans today. Usually he wore baggy khaki pants, which made him look like most of the other men in town did when they wanted to make an effort with their appearance. But he looked better than most of the other men in town in those jeans. They were new, and hadn’t shrunk to fit his body, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  Bonnie jerked an ottoman over the area rug so hard it left tracks. It was a good thing the rug was there, or she would have scratched the wooden floor. But the physical activity wasn’t helping her to stop thinking about Jaron. He was there. In her house. Taking up space and occupying her thoughts.

  Bothering her.

  But apparently not bothered by her.

  * * *

  SHE WAS BOTHERING HIM. Bothering him, and she wasn’t even here. But she didn’t need to be. Ever since Jaron had seen her bathtub yesterday, images of Bonnie in it had bothered him.

  After cleaning her house, they’d driven into New Ashford for ice cream, then decided that they should stick close to home. He’d presented himself for afternoon tea and grilling, and then had come back to his cottage. It was really a glorified shed, but that sounded so pathetic he’d decided to call it a cottage. There, he’d written not one, not two, but three columns, taking out his frustration with the inquisitive village folk by skewering them. And no one knew how to skewer like Jaron.

  He might even send them to his editor when this thing was over. If all went according to plan, no one here would ever know he was Jaron Darke.

  This morning, he’d restrained himself from gluttony at the breakfast buffet and had begun a fourth column. Conditions were perfect. He was on a roll.

  Except, of course, that Bonnie was bothering him.

  He gave up and went to find Maureen to demand that she call Frank Quigg and tell him that he had one more week before Jaron was out of there. Maybe less.

  He found her vacuuming the gathering room. “Maureen! Have you heard anything from Quigg?”

  At the sound of her name, she raised her eyebrows and turned off the vacuum cleaner in time for “Quigg” to resonate throughout the large room.

  “Shh!” She looked all around and Jaron felt like a heel for startling her.

  He lowered his voice. “I want to talk to Quigg.”

  “Wh
y?”

  “Why? Because I want to know what the holdup is. How can one large redheaded man just disappear and they can’t strong-arm anybody into squealing his whereabouts? What about his family?”

  “Keep your voice down!” Her face stern, Maureen grasped his arm above the elbow and escorted him to the far end of the room. If she’d whipped out handcuffs from behind her, he wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised. At this moment, Jaron had no doubt whatsoever that the pretty innkeeper had once been a police detective. “They’re watching his home, and so far, it’s business as usual. His wife and daughter aren’t talking—not surprising because it wouldn’t be healthy for them to do so. She’s hired another decorator—”

  “I don’t care about his decorating problems.” Jaron stared at Maureen. She may have once been a cop, but she wasn’t any longer, and he didn’t appreciate being manhandled.

  “Oh, and Officer DeMario has volunteered to be on your mother’s committee for the Winter Nutcracker Ball.”

  This wasn’t the news Jaron wanted to hear. “Who is Officer DeMario?”

  “She’s assigned to watch your mom. Apparently this ball raises money that pays for schoolkids to see the Nutcracker at Christmastime, and DeMario’s little girl has been taking ballet and—”

  “Very touching. The next time you talk to Quigg, tell him he has one week before I walk out of here.”

  “You’ll be a dead man.”

  Jaron thought of Bonnie and the tiny piece of real estate to which he’d been confined. “I’ll be a dead man if I stay here.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JARON STARED AT MAUREEN long enough for her to know he’d meant every word, then went up to the attic to tell Bonnie. He didn’t know why he wanted to tell Bonnie, or what he wanted her reaction to be, but she was bothering him and he thought he’d return the favor.

  He opened the door to the sound of wood striking wood, and saw Seth manhandling a sheet of four-by-eight plywood.

  Bonnie looked like she was kneeling in a wooden cage. The framing cut into the once-single room of the attic. Jaron could tell that’s where the bathroom was going to be. There was more framing on the other side, probably a closet or a panel to hide pipes or wires or something.