Driven To Distraction

by Judith Duncan

  His reference to the brand of paint she was using made her laugh in spite of herself. “Very cute, but I don’t think so. She probably made her husband do all the painting.”

  Disconcerted by the way he was watching her and aware that Kelly was taking this all in with a speculative look, Maggie picked up a solvent-soaked rag from the top of a paint can, wiping the worst of the paint from her hands. “As for the car, you have to work that out with my daughter. She inherited that hunk of metal from her grandfather.”

  “Astute man, her grandfather.”

  She shot him a pithy glance, then wiped a blob of paint from between her fingers. “That, Mr. Parnelli, depends on your point of view.”

  He was still standing with his arms folded and his shoulder resting against the archway, but he’d angled his head to one side, as if he was studying her. “Tony. The name is Tony, Maggie.”

  Experiencing a funny rush of heat to her face, Maggie folded the rag to expose a clean area, then wiped it across her cheek. Before she got in a second swipe, he grabbed her wrist and snatched the cloth out of her hand. “Hey! Don’t use that on your face. You shouldn’t be using something that dangerous so close to your eyes. I have some special cleaner over in the shop.”

  Still holding Maggie’s wrist, Tony looked at Kelly. “It’s in a gray-and-black pump container by the sink in the first bay. How about getting it for your mother?”

  Kelly, who was nobody’s fool, licked her lips in pure greed. “Can I check out the Boss after?”

  A small smile lifted one corner of Tony’s mouth. “Yeah, you can check out the Boss after. And,” he added, glancing at Maggie, “I’ll even take you for a ride later if it’s okay with your mom.”

  Kelly’s eyes lit up and she was out the door so fast Maggie didn’t even have time to take a breath.

  She glanced back at Tony, about to make a comment about her daughter’s obsession with cars, but the words lodged in her throat. He was watching her with an odd, assessing look, as if he was seeing something no one else could see. Maggie swallowed and dropped her gaze, a funny flutter of awareness unfolding in her chest. Withdrawing her wrist from his grasp, she pulled the scarf from her hair and began wiping the remaining paint from her hands.

  Determined not to fall victim to such silliness, she glanced up at him, forcing a smile. “That container you sent for isn’t Super Glue, is it?”

  He was still watching her, and he smiled, but it was an odd, distracted smile, as if his thoughts were focused on something else. Faltering under his intense scrutiny, Maggie tossed the rag on the stack of paint cans and said the first thing that came into her head. “I think I need a coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  The huskiness in his response sent a shiver down the full length of her spine. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Shaken by her response, Maggie couldn’t get into the kitchen quickly enough.

  By the time Kelly came back with the cleaner then dashed off for a look at the car, Maggie had given herself a get-a-grip lecture, erected a barrier of basic common sense, made a fresh pot of coffee and defrosted some homemade cinnamon buns, the whole time kicking herself for blurting out the invitation. The last thing she needed was Tony Parnelli in her kitchen.

  But by the time she’d cleaned her face, had the cinnamon buns on the table and coffee poured, the knot in her belly had relaxed, and she was able to act normal. Partly because her new neighbor had the ability to make people feel very much at ease with him, and because he also had the sneaky, underhanded ability to make her laugh.

  In fact, it was almost scary how natural it felt to have him at her kitchen table, scarfing down a startling number of cinnamon buns and drinking his way through a whole pot of coffee. Mindful that her paint roller was drying into a hard lump, Maggie told him about her dad’s old car. Then Tony told her about buying the shop.

  “So,” he said, licking a blob of cream-cheese icing off his thumb, “after I handed in my notice with the force, my brother and I decided to get into the car business. Nick used to drive the NASCAR circuit, but he was in a bad crash a couple of years ago and wrecked one leg. We’d always talked about going into business building high-performance engines for the track, so we decided to go for it.” His head bent, he folded his arms on the table, revealing the well-defined muscles in his shoulders.

  Stroking the side of the earthenware mug with his thumb, he shrugged and looked up at her, his gaze serious. “We’re set up in another location for that, but we’d had a lot of inquires about blueprinting engines for street use. We figured it was worth a crack, so we bought this shop, and I moved into the apartment upstairs.” He gave her a lopsided grin, a slightly sheepish glint in his eyes. “And scared the hell out of the neighbors in the process.”

  Knowing she owed him some kind of an explanation, Maggie wadded up her napkin and tossed it on the plate in front of her, a rueful smile appearing. “The neighbors saw four Harleys parked in front and immediately got a little paranoid.”

  He held her gaze, the glimmer in his dark brown eyes intensifying. “Paranoid, huh? So what do the neighbors think now, Maggie Burrows?”

  Not wanting to acknowledge the sudden tightness in her midriff, Maggie indicated the cinnamon-bun crumbs on his plate. “I think you’ve been away from a doughnut shop too long, Officer Parnelli.”

  He grinned and touched the back of her hand with one finger. “You’re pretty cute, Ms. Burrows.”

  Wishing he’d quit using that husky, familiar tone of voiceas if they were old friends and they’d done this a thousand times before—she quickly shoved both hands in her lap. Needing to define her situation for her own benefit as much as for his, she gave him a wry smile. “Don’t try to charm me, Parnelli. I have two grown children and one nearly ready to launch. And I know cute when I see it. The next time I make cinnamon buns, I’ll make an extra dozen for you.”

  His expression suddenly unreadable, Tony Parnelli continued to stare at her, and for an instant, she thought she saw a flash of annoyance in his eyes. His arms still folded on the table, he didn’t say anything for a minute; then he leaned back. After a moment, one corner of his mouth lifted and he pushed his chair back and stood up, still watching her. “You do that, Maggie,” he said, and Maggie could have sworn there was a subtle challenge in his voice. Picking up the container of cleaner, he gave her a casual salute and turned toward the door. “Thanks for the treat. See you around.”

  Experiencing a nasty little clutch in her stomach, Maggie remained in her chair. She heard the back door slam behind him; then she watched as he cut across her back yard and effortlessly vaulted over her four-foot-high fence and disappeared from view. Shifting her gaze, she rubbed a film of dried paint off her index finger with her thumb, her insides unaccountably heavy, as if she’d done something wrong. She sat there for a moment, then sighed and collected the empty mugs. Now she had to go back and deal with the dried mess on the damned paint roller.

  It was not a good weekend. The paint for the hallway and living room turned out to be the wrong color, which meant she had to get cleaned up and return it to the paint store. Kelly cut the garden hose in half when she was mowing the backyard, and the smell of paint had given Maggie a persistent headache. And that awful feeling in her middle would not go away.

  Maggie didn’t kid herself. She knew what that feeling in her middle was all about. It was about Tony Parnelli, which was absolute foolishness on her part. First of all, he had to be ten years younger than she was. Second, even after a twentyminute coffee break, it was pretty obvious their life-styles were light-years apart. And thirdly, it was her hormones that were running amok. Besides, she did not want to be attracted to him. Not in a million years. Any woman with half a brain could see he had trouble written all over him.

  But in spite of her long, tedious and brutally frank selflectures, disturbing feelings kept sneaking in—and equally disturbing dreams. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if she could have sent her daughter to live with her father. B
ut Kelly had found a hero, and every conversation was peppered with Tony this and Tony that. Tony and his car. Tony and his cool bike. After two days of stories about Tony Parnelli, it was obvious to Maggie that this man thrived on living life on the very edge—fast cars, faster bikes, skydiving, snowboarding—anything with an element of danger and speed kickstarted his engine. And Kelly, darn her, thought all this was the best thing that had happened to her since her braces had come off. Maggie wanted to strangle her.

  Then, as if all this wasn’t enough, Bruce made an unexpected visit to Calgary. He said he was there because he had some business transactions with a big law firm; Maggie was sure he’d come with the sole purpose of delivering a lecture in person.

  She’d had such a headache by the time he left Sunday afternoon that she wanted to decapitate herself. But in spite of everything, she had two accomplishments under her belt. One was that she had gotten the living room and hallway painted. The second was that she had gotten even with Bruce for inflicting another lecture on her.

  Lifting the roast chicken out of the oven for their Sunday dinner, Maggie smiled to herself in spite of her blinding headache. It wasn’t often that she scored on her ex-husband, but she had scored this time.

  There had been a lottery ticket stuck on her fridge with a magnet, and he had demanded to know if she was in the habit of wasting money on that sort of nonsense. Fed up and tired, with her shoulders and neck still feeling as if someone had driven over her with a tank, and a headache that was trying to suck her eyes out of her head, she had retorted that it was not nonsense, it was her long-range financial plan. Her tart response had sent him into acute throes of vein-bulging apoplexy, and his reaction had done more for her headache than any painkiller. It had almost made up for the aggravation he’d inflicted on her.

  “Do you want me to do anything?”

  Maggie set the chicken onto a platter, then glanced over her shoulder at her daughter. “No, I don’t think so. There’s a salad in the fridge you could put on the table. And you’ll need to get yourself a glass of milk.”

  Some of Kelly’s silky hair had pulled loose from her braid, subtly accentuating her high cheekbones and wide eyes. Her cheeks showed signs of a sunburn, and there was a new crop of freckles on her nose. She smelled of sunshine and soap, with a faint hint of chlorine still lingering from her morning swim. Her woman child. God, to be that young, that fit, that full of energy. The thought made Maggie’s throat close up a little.

  Retrieving the salad and a container of milk from the fridge, Kelly pushed the door shut with her elbow. “Please, please, please tell me you made mashed potatoes.”

  In spite of the funny little clog in her throat, Maggie had to smile to herself as she added flour to the roaster for gravy. Mashed potatoes and gravy, her daughter would live on them, given a choice—one of the advantages of swimming God-onlyknew how many lengths and burning up thousands of calories in a week. “Yes, I made mashed potatoes.”

  “Can I carve the chicken? I’m starved.”

  Maggie added the potato water to the gravy mix, then bent down to check the flame as she adjusted the setting on the gas burner. “The good knife is in the sink. But be careful. I just sharpened it.”

  Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her mother at the counter, Kelly turned the platter to give her better access, then carved a slice off the breast. “Scott and I saw Tony at the corner store this afternoon. He said he has some pit passes for next season’s races for us, if it was okay with you.” She stopped carving and looked at her mother, her expression anxious. “You’ll let us go, won’t you, Mom? He said he’d come with us, so you wouldn’t need to worry.”

  Tamping down a peculiar flutter in her middle at the mention of Tony Parnelli’s name, Maggie added salt to the gravy, keeping her expression even. She may as well get used to the fact that her daughter had found a real live hero. She just wished this hero didn’t live right next door. Replacing the salt container on the back of the stove, she stirred in the seasoning, deliberately stalling. Going to the track would be such a thrill for Kelly. Restraining a sigh, she answered, “You’ll have to check it out with Scott’s parents, Kell. I don’t want him sneaking off without their approval.”

  Kelly gave a little squeal. “Then I can go?”

  “Yes,” Maggie answered, trying to keep the resignation out of her voice. “You can go.”

  “Right on!”

  Repressing the urge to give her daughter a little lecture about not shortchanging any of her responsibilities, like homework and the swim team, Maggie opened the cupboard door and got down a bowl for the gravy. She was definitely feeling her age.

  “He’s so neat, Mom,” Kelly exclaimed. “He showed us around the shop, and he told us about some of the engines they’re working on. And how they rebuild them.” Encouraged by her mother’s silence, she babbled on. “He’s got a weight room where the Millers used to store the extra tiressome really great equipment. We told him about our training program with the swim club, and he said we could use his stuff whenever we want, as long as there’s someone there to spot for us.” Kelly broke off a drumstick and placed it on the platter, then gave an excited little shiver. “Scott asked him all about the police force, and Tony told him exactly what he’d have to do if he wants to join up when he graduates. Tony joined when he was twenty-one, and he was in thirteen years. He didn’t say why he got out, though.”

  Maggie’s brain computed the figures before she could stop herself, and a heavy feeling slid through her stomach. She was losing it—really losing it. Attracted to a man who was nine years younger than she was. It must be some sort of aberration. Maybe Frank was right—maybe she was going through a midlife crisis and didn’t even know it. Kind of like a case of emotional shingles. Maybe what she needed was a damned hobby.

  By Tuesday, Maggie had the house put back together and the windows washed. She had even cleaned the oven. With everything caught up inside, she decided to start on the yard. She never put her bedding plants out until the long weekend in May, but she had other things she wanted to do. Like move some perennials in the backyard. And plant her dahlias. But the yard wasn’t work for Maggie. It was pure relaxation. After her mother’s death, the yard had been let go, and it had become a thistle-infested disaster when she and the kids had moved back with her father. She took smug pride in the fact that she had the prettiest yard on the block.

  Going to the garage, she got her plastic tool caddie filled with garden implements, then unwound the hose and settled down for a few hours of digging in the dirt. Humming to herself, she knelt by the bed along the garage, the one she always planted sweet peas in, and began working the soil, relishing the feel of warm sun on her back. After a weekend of paint fumes, she needed this.

  She was halfway down the flower bed when she caught a flash of black out of the corner of her eye, and she looked up just in time to see Captain Hook dart under the back step. Sitting back on her haunches, she was thinking she should put some food out for the neighborhood stray cat when she saw traces of fresh blood on the sidewalk. Alarmed, she dropped her trowel, got up and crossed the yard. The step itself was cement, but her father had built a two-tier deck around it. There was, however, a hole under the step, where the ground had caved in a little. Getting down on her hands and knees, she peered under. “Hey, Captain,” she said softly. “What happened? Did that big German shepherd get you again?”

  The cat responded with a hostile hiss, and Maggie sat back, considering what she should do. The Captain had been hanging around the neighborhood for nearly five years. Haley had named him Captain Hook because his tail was broken and had a permanent crook in it. He was an independent renegade of the first order and, in spite of numerous attempts, had refused to be adopted by anybody. A few conscientious neighbors had made repeated attempts to catch him and take him to the SPCA. They’d even succeeded a couple of times, but within days, Captain Hook had, without fail, reappeared in the alley. It was as if this alley was his, and nothing or nob
ody was going to change that.

  Staring across the yard, Maggie chewed her bottom lip. She and Stevie, the blond bombshell who lived directly across the alley, had more or less taken joint custody of the big, black, battle-scarred cat. But right now Stevie was at her fitness spa, no doubt busy sculpting dumpy, high-cholesterol businessmen into fit, sleek gods. Maggie grinned to herself. She wished she could have found it in her heart to really hate the woman, but La Goddess was as sweet and friendly and funny as she was perfect and gorgeous.

  Expelling a long breath, Maggie braced her arms on her bare thighs, staring at the streaks of blood on her sidewalk. She just couldn’t leave him like that. And besides, she was the only one on the whole block who could get within ten feet of the cat. She had no choice—the rescue operation was up to her.

  Getting to her feet, she went into the house.

  Five minutes later, she was back with a can of sardines, a ball of twine, a broom handle, an old blanket and some heavy leather gloves. Getting an empty garbage can from behind the garage, she put the blanket in the garbage can. Then, tugging down the back of her shorts, she knelt on the sidewalk, putting together her strategy.

  She opened the can of sardines, tied a long length of twine around it and pulled on the gloves. Stretching out on her stomach on the sidewalk, she shoved the sardines under the step with the broom handle until it was about a foot from the cat, then settled in for a long haul. Catching Captain Hook would take some doing. It would likely take her an hour to coax him out.

  Using her best here-kitty-kitty voice, she started talking to the cat. “Come on, sweetie. Come on. You like sardines. I got them especially for you.” She pushed the can a little closer, then withdrew the broom handle and threw it on the grass behind her. “Come on, Captain. Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Come on. I know you like them.”