Still Not Over You

by Barbara Lohr

  What were they talking about? The garage. The car. Her hair. Their marriage. The man had her all confused. When Ryder got mad, a vein pulsed in his left temple. She loved seeing that line dance under his skin. He opened his mouth twice. Phoebe chuckled when nothing came out.

  Oh, he might not love her anymore, but she still had the power to irritate him. Tonight she’d had enough of his muscled manliness. Turning, she strolled away. The Harley roared to life. Her ears strained until the sound faded.

  Phoebe’s shoulders slumped. Oh, why did he have to come over? They could have done this over the phone. It was easier to stay mad if she didn’t have to see him. Her throat swelled, the way it did when she had a bad cold. Wandering back into the yard, she took a sip of her tea but the ice had melted. She poured the drink onto the grass. Seeing Ryder had shaken her. She avoided places her ex haunted, like the Rusty Nail. That was why she’d mailed her request about the cottage.

  Request? Probably more of a demand. But she’d been quiet long enough. Had avoided places and people more than she cared to admit, just so she wouldn’t run into him.

  And with good reason. Their conversation felt like ripping off a bandage. She thought things had healed. But Ryder’s scent still lingered, and their past history washed over her. Ryder Branson was one hard man to forget. Her body had a long memory, so she probably wouldn’t sleep well tonight. That big galoot had been the love of her life, the only guy she ever wanted.

  Until Trixie.

  Tears prickled in her eyes. Of all women, Trixie. Darkness crept from under the trees onto the patio. Dampness settled, the kind you get when you live near a lake. Grabbing her glass, Phoebe scampered inside to trade her cut-offs for jeans. Wasn't until she was making popcorn for her dinner that she found the check tucked under the toaster. Big man. Big check. Boy, it was tempting. But Ryder had made her mad. She ripped the check once, twice and then again, until it flowed like rice through her fingers and into the trash.

  “Change of plans, big boy.” She wasn’t accepting anything from him.

  ~.~

  Although he knew it wasn't safe, Ryder rode like a bat out of hell all the way up Red Arrow Highway. Every shop and restaurant along the way blurred in his side vision. Bending his head into the wind, he felt the powerful machine vibrating under him. Those black panties were imprinted on his brain. He remembered the times he’d slid them off. Opening up the throttle, he broke the speed limits of the small towns as he tore through. When no squad came wailing after him, he felt almost disappointed. Ryder was always spoiling for a fight. At least, that’s the way it had been for the past year.

  He didn't ease up until he reached the green sign that said Branson Motors. Taking his Hawg around the back, he pulled into the garage. The smell of grease and oil soothed him. He stood a moment in the cool night air and breathed it in.

  This place had been his dad’s, and Stanley still managed the business for him. Ryder had him driving to other small towns to check out locations for expansion. Right now his dad was talking to Mick in the glass enclosed office. Dad liked to chew the fat with the guys when they worked late. Unsnapping his helmet, Ryder pulled his Harley into the spot marked Boss Man. Usually that yellow paint made him smile with satisfaction. Not tonight.

  Ripping off the helmet, he jammed it on the back and unzipped his jacket. Heat rolled off him in angry waves, along with rivulets of sweat. Licking his lips, he could taste it. He needed a shower, but he didn’t want the one in his crummy apartment upstairs. No, he wanted the sweet-smelling soap and the sweet-smelling woman in a messy bathroom.

  Ryder was screwed. After swinging himself off the Harley, he staggered with his first step, like someone had punched him in the gut. For a second he hung onto the leather seat, remembering Phoebe’s soft skin under his hands. Just seeing her had torn him apart. What a fool he’d been a year or so ago. Thirty years old and so full of himself back then. Disgust tasted sour in his mouth. Wasn’t a day that he didn't regret his stupid mistake.

  Tonight she’d looked so soft and sweet. That game she was playing with her legs? Phoebe knew damn well what she was doing. Bring it on. Make me suffer. His arms ached to hold her. But that brief clutch at the back door would have to do. And it wasn’t nearly enough. His throbbing body told him that much.

  Whatever it took, he was getting Phoebe back.

  Not that it would be easy. Phoebe Hunicutt had never been easy.

  Chapter 2

  The next afternoon Phoebe took a break between clients. “Hey Jen, you're in charge!” she called out to the woman who’d been her right-hand girl since she opened Phoebe’s Place. “I’ve got to run an errand.”

  Jen smiled with a wave of her styling comb. “Good luck with the paint.”

  Stepping into the sunlight, Phoebe got in her Mini Cooper. Jen had already told Phoebe she was crazy for taking this project on. Maybe she was right. Ryder had goaded her into it. Seeing him again stirred up a lot of memories. Last night she’d had crazy dreams about Ryder, and the two of them weren’t painting. She woke up hot, sweaty and mad as heck.

  He just didn’t understand. It was hard to explain how she felt about that cottage. Or her ex-husband.

  In five minutes she was pulling into the lot next to the huge red sign that said Hill’s Paint and Paper. That sign was probably older than she was. Melvin Hill and his darling wife Louella had operated this place a long time. The good thing about shopping here was that Phoebe had a private account, something Melvin only did for favorite customers. He was such a sweetie. The sign had seen better days and so had Melvin, who was busy at the counter when she got there.

  “Be with you in a minute, Phoebe,” he said when she walked in. Not one to use “newfangled contraptions,” as he called them, he was adding up the stack of supplies with a calculator. The customer didn’t look fazed and was checking out brushes. Everyone in Gull Harbor knew how Melvin and Louella worked.

  “No problem. I’ll just look around.” With a wave, Phoebe headed for the paint samples, her lime green slides slapping the soles of her feet. The place smelled like paint and turpentine, great for getting her into a project mood. Off to one side, Louella was painting a child’s rocking chair. Melvin's wife was always making something for their grandkids. Repainting old furniture was her hobby. Phoebe wouldn’t mind taking one of her classes, but they were always on Saturdays, the busiest day at her salon.

  Standing in front of the display, Phoebe turned her attention to the tiered paint samples. She ran her fingers over the crisp cards, each holding five shades of a color. Today pink caught her eye. Did she really want a white house? Half the people in Gull Harbor had white houses with green or black shutters. Of course, some creative folks opted for yellow or blue. But not many. She fluffed her mauve hairdo. Running with the crowd had never been her thing.

  Heck with Ryder and his talk of girly choices. Snatching up a card with a range of fabulous pinks, she whisked it to the window. Number 6584 was a dead ringer for cotton candy. Licking her lips, Phoebe could almost feel the sweet wisps sticky on her teeth.

  When she was a kid growing up in Escanaba, Michigan, a carnival came to town every summer. As calliope music cast its spell over the town, she’d wait for the night her parents took her to the fair. Colorful lights sparkled in the sky, and the air was filled with the rattle and whirl of rides while kids screamed. Was anything as exciting as the summer fair? Dragging on her father’s hand, she pulled her parents through the crowd until she found what she’d dreamed about all year. Wearing a white chef’s cap, the cotton candy man whisked a paper tube along the inside of a huge cauldron. The sugary bouquet grew plump while she drank in the sweet air. When the man finally held out the wonder of pink cotton candy, her father would pull out his wallet. The wispy confection felt so light, so perfect she almost hated to eat it.

  But she did. That mass of cotton candy helped her endure the long winters in the Upper Peninsula. So today? She snapped a finger against the card. Pink. Why hadn’t she thou
ght of pink earlier?

  “You doing okay over there, Phoebe?” Louella called out.

  “Oh, I am doing fine.” The edges of the sample card bit into her palm. Louella went back to work while Phoebe considered colors for the trim.

  Almost dizzy with excitement, Phoebe slid her eyes down the display until one color practically waved hello. Turquoise. Oh my. Like the pink, turquoise was such a happy color. Phoebe could savor morning coffee on the porch, sunlight falling through the screening framed with slats of turquoise. Feeling as if she held the winning Powerball ticket, Phoebe strolled toward the counter, the cards clutched tight in her hand.

  She was going to have a slam-bang wonderful summer. Sure, her friend Diana was getting married, and Carolyn was jetting off to Santa Fe to spend the summer with Brody, her new honey. Whatever. Phoebe would have her own thing going. This would be a summer worth remembering.

  The customer left, laden with heavy cans. Melvin pushed aside his calculator, his gray moustache opening into a smile. “What you got there, Phoebe?”

  “My most precious dream.” Laughing, she folded the cards back to the shades she’d chosen and held them out.

  “Well, that looks right pretty. Like something Lou would pick.” Melvin waved both cards at his wife. “Looky here, Louella.”

  Setting down her brush and wiping her hands on her paint-stained smock, Louella sidled over. Her eyes lit up when she saw the colors. “Fixing to do a table, are you?”

  “Don’t I wish I had your talent? No, my house!” The words exploded with delicious excitement. The three of them smiled at each other, kindred spirits.

  “You’ll have the prettiest place in town, that’s what,” Louella assured her. “They’ll be begging you to be on the Gull Harbor house walk next year.”

  Heads together, they talked about how much paint she’d need. Phoebe was sure glad she had an account here. Mercy, paint was expensive. She decided to start with six gallons. “Eggshell finish, gloss or matte?” Melvin was already reaching for the cans.

  “I have no idea. Whatever people use outside.” While Phoebe watched the machine jiggle her paint, she knew her most precious dream would drive her ex-husband bananas. That is, if he even got to see it, which she doubted. But Ryder might get curious when she didn’t cash that check. She’d worry about that later. All the way back to the salon, she belted out “Fun, Fun, Fun,” her favorite summer song. She would have fun. These cans of paint guaranteed it.

  After her final client had left, she asked Jen to lock up and dashed home. Dressed in her old jeans and a T-shirt, with her hair tucked safely under an orange bandana, she got ready to paint. Evenings were long in the summer, thank goodness. She might need all the daylight she could get. Spreading old newspapers on the ground, she painted a sample patch on the siding outside the kitchen. “ Bright and beautiful.” She turned to Fernando. “Hey, this paint almost looks like you.” Happily humming, she made the patch bigger, just to get the effect. She could hardly wait for the weekend.

  ~.~

  Memorial Day weekend arrived. Phoebe’s schedule was packed until three o'clock that Saturday. Women with weekend plans had booked cut, style and color appointments to start their summer off right. She knew just how that felt. Like her, Jen and Carly had arranged their schedules so they’d be out by three. While they finished with their last clients, Phoebe made sure the shampoo bowls were spotless, and the break room refrigerator was stocked with pop for Tuesday. She might be messy at home but here? Phoebe wanted to set a good example. When Merilee Curtis pulled away in her classic Mustang, Phoebe locked the front door and flipped the sign to Closed. All three exited through the employee side door, and Phoebe set the alarm.

  “You two girls have a great time now,” she told them. Phoebe could hardly wait to get painting.

  “Don’t work too hard, Phoebe,” Jen called out, sliding into her Bronco.

  “With any luck, I’ll have that sucker done by Tuesday,” Phoebe called from her open window, starting the Mini Cooper. The trim could wait, but she was going to knock off the siding over the next two days.

  When she got home, she quickly changed clothes. Then she opened one of the cans of pink paint and began near the back door. Around seven, she made a turkey sandwich and then it was back to work. Mosquitoes bit her neck and arms. But the fireflies also came out. How she loved their tiny lights blinking as they flitted around the yard. Made the time go faster while she worked.

  And she loved to imagine how amazed Ryder would be, if he ever saw it. After a hot shower, she fell asleep, muscles sore but content.

  Rain on Memorial Day weekend was practically a tradition in Michigan. But Phoebe had been hoping this year would be different. No such luck. On Sunday she was awakened by the staccato beat of rain on the roof. Outside her window, lightning split a dark sky. A sky that should have been sunny. “Oh, no.” Scrambling around, she slipped on jeans, T-shirt and flip-flops. As she scurried through the cottage, the whole place smelled like the paint she’d rinsed off her brushes the night before. Maybe next time she’d use the hose outside instead of the kitchen sink.

  Pulling aside the white curtain over the back door, she watched rain pour from the eaves. The newspapers spread out where she’d stopped painting were soaked. Then she checked the side porch. The french doors were almost swollen shut and needed a good push. When she finally got them open, damp air bathed her face. Rain pinged into the aluminum bowls set up around the porch under all the leaks. There’d be no painting today.

  Slamming a mug into her coffee machine, she waited for the water to heat. Turning on the morning news didn’t help. The weather map showed a front of rain moving across Lake Michigan from Chicago. The coconut almond mocha coffee didn’t even lift her spirits while she watched TV. Finally she clicked it off.

  After she moved the paint under the eaves along with her brushes and rags, she sat down to have breakfast. Okay, so she’d regroup. Time for one of her comfy cottage days, as she called them. Those were days when she curled up with a book. She had a great romance to finish before their Wednesday book group meeting, a standing monthly appointment. Not too long ago, Sarah, one of the members, had lost her husband Jamie, a Marine deployed to Afghanistan. The book group quickly became a support group for their friend.

  Instead of sitting there watching the rain, Phoebe decided to drive to Mandy Klavis' bakery for some raspberry kolaches. Only three left when she got there and she took them all after chatting with Mandy. After all, she had to plan for Monday too. The calories would go straight to her thighs. She could practically feel them bulge with every sweet bite. Phoebe would've driven into The Full Cup. Sarah always had a comforting ear. But this weekend? Phoebe was rushed. Mandy's bakery was way closer. Content with her book and a kolache, she curled up on the porch until the chilly air drove her inside. The rain continued into Monday. She got soaking wet dashing out to the driveway for the paper. After finishing the newspaper and her book, she had nothing to do. Her good friend Diana was getting ready for her wedding, and Carolyn was preparing for her return to Santa Fe.

  On days like this she hated being twenty-two and single. Last summer she’d driven out to Sturgis for the motorcycle rally with her cousin Rosie from Escanaba. Rosie was a motorcycle nut and they’d had a good time. Of course guys had checked them out. But in the middle of the crowd, Phoebe felt alone and out of place. The rally reminded her of Ryder, and she’d come home feeling bad.

  Self-pity never fixed anything.

  While the rain poured down in gray sheets, she made herself a cup of peach tea and roamed the small house. Standing in the doorway of her bedroom, she studied the daisy wallpaper. Ryder had always hated it. But they’d been too busy during their short marriage to change the walls of a room they used, well, quite a bit. Taking a mouthful of the fragrant tea, she swirled it in her mouth and swallowed. Maybe it was time to get rid of painful memories. Why not paint the bedroom pink?

  Pleased with her decision, she gulped the rest of the
tea and set to work. Why hadn't she tackled this a long time ago? This bedroom held memories. The kind that could bring tears, if she let it. No more. She’d show Ryder she was moving on, not that he'd ever see this room.

  Phoebe set to work. At least she could use a roller for most of the job. Outside, the uneven wood demanded a brush. Putting on an old pair of jeans and T-shirt, she tied the bandana over her hair and set out her supplies on newspaper. Just as a precaution, she draped an old spread over her bed. She sure didn’t want to leave paint splashes on her quilt. Stripping the wallpaper would take too much time so she’d just paint right over it.

  The first swath of paint was a strike for independence. She’d free herself from a painful past. But by the second swish of her roller, her traitorous mind had recalled a certain Fourth of July. They’d told people they were going to the parade in town. But they never made it. Boy, they sure took a lot of teasing for that one. Lost in dreams of what they actually had done that day, she stopped painting. A heated daze made her body swell and throb.

  Oh, Ryder. Oh, honey. The splat of paint onto the old spread brought Phoebe to her senses. Horrified, she flexed the hand that now wore pink ribbons of paint. We’ll have none of that, Phoebe Hunicutt. No lusting for the ex who broke your heart. That is not allowed.

  Back to work. Swish, swish. She delighted in the sucky sound as she buried her past under the bright paint. Things were going well until she got to her bed and the curly metal frame. No way could she move this sucker. The box spring squeaked when she climbed up after setting the paint tray on her nightstand. Trying to balance, she widened her stance as she painted. Maybe it was the rhythm that got to her. When the bed kept squeaking, she accidentally fell into a Christmas reverie so powerful, she had to grip the frame to stay steady.

  Oh, Ryder. Their first Christmas Eve had been so special. How they’d laughed while they got creative. And then really creative. Shocked, she stared at the pink heart she’d traced on the wall with the tip of her roller.