Look into My Eyes

by Glenda Sanders

  Gingerly, he tilted up the rim a fraction of an inch with his left hand, his right poised to capture any critter that came scurrying out. Nothing happened. He tipped it back some more. The skink was perched on the wall of the can, near the bottom. It was a fierce-looking creature, yet strangely beautiful, a shade of blue so deep it appeared black and iridescent, larger than the lizards that inhabited the flower beds around the Victorian house where he lived.

  The skink demonstrated no inclination to move. Petrified with fear at being confronted by human beings, Craig reasoned, heaving a sigh of relief. “Piece of cake,” he said, curving his hands around the trash can and lifting it ever so gradually as he rose. “We just take this outside and—”

  A flying leap took the skink from one side of the can to the other, and then, with lightning speed, the creature was over the top and sailing to the floor. It hit the carpet running. A well-placed thack of the broom diverted it sideways. Craig darted into the skink’s new path and, lunging to the floor, attempted to trap it in his hands. It eluded him by the smallest margin and raced on.

  Again, Holly forestalled it with the broom, forcing it to detour again, surprising Craig with an acrobatic leap over his arm en route.

  “This is war!” Craig growled, scrambling after the fleeing reptile. This time, it was the wall that forced a detour. Craig continued to pursue the runaway skink, glancing at Holly to see if she was ready to head it off again. She was standing with the broom back in strike position. But when the skink scurried past her, she didn’t move. Craig redoubled his efforts to catch the lizard, rounding the corner and entering the hallway.

  Holly didn’t follow. She was too stunned. “This is war!” One of Craig’s favorite expressions. Her Craig’s. Spoken with the same inflection, the same fervor, under the same type of circumstances Craig would have said it.

  Her cheeks were burning, yet she felt hollow and cold inside. Coincidence, she told herself. It was coincidence, pure and simple—what else could it be? It was slang, jargon, in wide use by a lot of people around Craig’s age.

  How long she stood there, feeling empty, remembering Craig, missing him with a fresh sharpness of grief, she could not have said.

  “I caught him!” The voice of Craig the shelving assistant, quite different from that of the Craig to whom she’d been engaged, drew her out of her reverie. He stepped out of the bathroom with his hands clasped together and his eyes wide open in urgency. “Open the door!”

  She did as he instructed and watched him trot, arms extended, to the hedge along the sidewalk that ran beside the apartment building, where he eased his hands apart, then dusted them together as if to say, “Mission accomplished.” Grinning from ear to ear, he strolled back to her apartment. “You can let your cat out now.”

  He followed her as far as the bathroom. “I’m going to wash my hands, if you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” Holly said. “I insist!”

  She opened the bedroom door for Buttercup, then proceeded to the kitchen. They’d stopped at the supermarket deli for cold cuts on the way to her apartment, and she opened the wrappers and arranged the meats and cheeses on a platter. Buttercup circled her feet, rubbing against her ankles and meowing for handouts. Holly gave the cat a sliver of ham, then looked up as Craig approached from the hallway.

  “Can I help?” he offered.

  “There’s not that much to do. But, here—” She took plates from the cabinet and flatware from the drawer. “You can set the table in the dining room.”

  “Is the wine chilling?” he asked from the breakfast nook.

  The wine. She’d forgotten about the wine. She’d insisted on paying for the cold cuts, since they were going to dine in her home, so he’d countered by selecting a bottle of wine. “No,” she admitted, embarrassed. “I’ll stick it in the freezer. It won’t take long.”

  “Wine in the freezer?” he asked as though she’d suggested they put ketchup on prime rib. “Don’t you have an ice bucket?”

  “No. I—” Craig’s aunt and uncle had sent them an ice bucket for a wedding present. Like all the other gifts, she’d returned it when Craig died. “I usually make do with a bowl.” She rummaged in the cabinet until she found one the right size, then filled it with ice cubes.

  Craig finessed the bottle into the ice and, pressing the neck between his palm, gave it a gentle spin. Later, after pronouncing it adequately chilled, he removed the cork expertly, despite the primitiveness of the corkscrew with which Holly had supplied him.

  “What shall we toast?” Holly asked, lifting her goblet.

  “Life without skinks?” he suggested.

  Holly touched her glass to his. “To life without skinks—thanks to your help.” He nodded and they both sipped. “This wine is delicious,” Holly said.

  “It’s German. A Mosel. Mit pradikat.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Holly confessed. “You’ve probably surmised that I’m not much of a wine connoisseur.”

  “Mit pradikat is the highest grade of German wine. There’s tablewein, for everyday use, and qualitat, and qualitat mit pradikat. Sort of good, better and best.”

  Holly set her goblet down and stared at him a moment. “Is this something you’ve learned since your accident?”

  The question stunned him a moment. “No,” he said. “No. I wonder—” Without warning, he brought his fist down on the table. “Damn it!”

  “Craig,” she said softly, consolingly.

  Frustration torturing his features, he said, “Why would I remember what mit pradikat means, when I can’t recall my own name?”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “This could be a very positive sign. The fact that you know how to pick out a good wine says something about you, about your life-style.”

  “Maybe the nurse was right,” he said bitterly.

  “What nurse?”

  “The one I overheard in the hospital. The one who said that with my looks, I’d probably turn out to be a gigolo.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Holly replied, but any real reason eluded her.

  “Because it would be nicer if I turned out to be an attorney or a brain surgeon?”

  “You’re not a gigolo,” Holly insisted.

  His smile was bittersweet. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Unfortunately, I seem to have a great familiarity with wine, and no particular urge to to address a jury.”

  “Maybe you’re a chef. Or a waiter. Or maybe you just like wine. A lot of people do. It’s a social asset.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” he said curtly.

  “All right,” she said, smiling as she took her hand from his arm. “What shall we talk about?”

  Studying her face intently, he grinned sensually, then said, “You.”

  “I’m a small-town librarian. What’s to talk about?”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” She piled ham, turkey and Swiss cheese on a piece of rye bread.

  “Why did you become a librarian?”

  “Well, I was going to be a supermodel and travel to exotic ports, but they make you stand in the most awkward positions when you’re doing the Sports Illustrated swimsuit spread—”

  “Seriously,” he said.

  “You saw right through the supermodel story, huh?”

  “You’re too...genuine to be a supermodel.”

  Holly grinned. “You aren’t a gigolo. You’re a diplomat.”

  “You’re evading the question,” he countered.

  “There’s nothing dramatic about it,” she said. “I’ve always loved books, I’ve always loved libraries. So I became a librarian. And I’ve always loved the ocean, so I applied for jobs in coastal cities. Cocoa had an opening for a children’s librarian, and I’ve always loved children, so...”

  “It sounds as though you’ve found the perfect job.”

  “I’ll never get rich, but yes, it’s a great job. I get to be creative, and th
ere’s a lot of satisfaction in introducing children to books in an era of compact disks and video recorders.”

  “You’re getting a little competition from high-tech these days.”

  “Not just a little. A lot. Now even the media that once relied on reading are presented via voice, with moving pictures. Like the encyclopedias on compact disk. It’s wonderful that children can look up ‘opera’ and actually see and hear a performance on a computer screen, but we can’t let future generations rely entirely on computers. They must learn to read for themselves, as well. And what better way can we get them to do that than to introduce them to the sheer pleasure and excitement of books?”

  She stopped and smiled sheepishly. “I get a little carried away sometimes.”

  “You’re passionate about your work,” he said. “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “I’m dedicated,” she said. “I don’t know about passionate.”

  “I have a feeling you’re a very passionate person,” he said, his gaze fixing on her face. “About many things.”

  Holly might have argued with him if the way he was looking at her hadn’t had such a profound effect on her senses. They finished their meal in relative silence, then cleared the table and put away the leftovers before refilling their glasses and carrying them to the living room.

  “I’ve heard the movie coming on is hysterically funny,” Holly said, as she sat down and picked up the remote control. She clicked to the proper channel, then hit the mute button until it was time for the movie to start.

  “I hope so,” Craig said. “I could use a few laughs.”

  “I kept thinking I’d go see it when it got to the bargain cinema, but I never got around—”

  “Ho-lee—” Buttercup had made a flying leap into Craig’s lap, and he was struggling to keep his glass upright.

  Holly giggled. “I should have warned you when you first sat down. Buttercup adores men. She’s probably yours for as long as you sit there, unless you want me to put her back in the bedroom.”

  Craig put his glass on the coffee table and gave the cat’s head a tentative pat. “Don’t lock her up. I don’t mind her sitting on my lap. She just surprised me.”

  Within seconds, the cat was sprawled across his thighs on her back, purring like a well-tuned engine while he rubbed her neck.

  “She’s such a hussy!” Holly said.

  “She just likes comfort,” he said, grinning at the cat’s blatant display of ecstasy. “I should have this effect on women!”

  “What makes you think you don’t?” She’d said it without thinking.

  “If I did,” he said, grinning mischievously, “would you be sitting all the way over there?”

  “If you didn’t,” Holly countered, “maybe I wouldn’t have to sit all the way over here. I could sit on the couch and watch television without getting a crick in my neck.” She was flirting. And it felt good....

  Stretching his arm to pat the cushion on the opposite end of the couch, he said, “Come on over.” His grin slid into a sensual smile. “I promise not to make you purr unless you fling yourself across my lap.”

  “I think I can resist flinging myself long enough to watch a movie,” she said, moving to the couch.

  Actually, she wasn’t all that sure—either that she could resist his allure or that she wanted to. The only thing she was sure of was that she should.

  5

  HOLLY WAS BEING RECKLESS and she liked it. The coquette in her had been dormant too long not to glory in the danger of flirting, the thrill of teasing and testing a mutual attraction. She’d been too long without a man’s attention and touch.

  She was not actually touching him, of course. Well over two feet of sofa cushion stretched between them once she sank into her end of the couch. At first, it seemed far too insignificant a space. But as the movie played on, and they laughed together and shared observations about the quirky characters and outlandish plot twists, that gap seemed to grow frustratingly wider. It became imposing. And then, magically, it began to shrink.

  A subtle slide of a knee, a casual drop of the hand, an almost imperceptible shift of position. Holly wasn’t aware that she’d moved any more than she was that he had, but, suddenly, feet had dwindled to mere inches. She could feel the warmth emanating from him, smell the familiar after-shave he wore, hear Buttercup’s soft purr and occasional sigh as she slept. Reflexively, Holly reached out to massage the cat’s ears, accidentally brushing the side of her hand against Craig’s. Their gazes met as sexual awareness shot between them like an electrical spark.

  The moment should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. They simply acknowledged what had happened, then exchanged knowing smiles before returning their attention to the movie.

  How could she be so comfortable with him? she wondered. How could they be so comfortable with each other? They were like lovers who’d been together a long time, tuned in to the nuances of each other’s mood.

  The movie ended, and neither of them moved until the copyright notice trailed the last credits across the screen. “Wacky movie,” Craig said.

  “Yes,” Holly agreed. “It was just the way everyone described it, kind of—”

  “Hard to describe.”

  “Yes. Zany and a little off-the-wall.” Holly picked up the remote control and hit the mute button as the promos for coming presentations blared through the television speakers. “I don’t think I’d care to see a boxing match. How about you?”

  Craig shook his head. Holly knew the wise thing to do would be to thank him again for capturing the skink and deliver him to his door, but she was loath for the evening to end, loath to give up the companionship he offered. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed a Saturday night?

  “I could take you home,” she said, “but it’s still early. I have a video of Arsenic and Old Lace. It’s my favorite movie of all time. I watch it a couple of times a year. If you’d like to stay...”

  “I’d love to stay,” he said, unable to hide his delight.

  “Good,” Holly said, pretending she hadn’t known he would accept the invitation. She moved forward on the couch, ready to stand. “I’ll stick some popcorn in the microwave.”

  A few minutes later, she was pouring the freshly popped corn into a bowl, when Buttercup let out a guttural shriek of aggression. Grinning, Holly shook her head. Craig and Buttercup were at it again. They always—

  A shiver crept up her spine. Craig was the only person who’d ever made Buttercup growl that way. Not the Craig sitting on her sofa, but the Craig she’d planned to marry. Abandoning the popcorn, she dashed to the living room. Then, feeling like a fool, she watched Craig Ford fencing with her cat, forefinger to front paws. Buttercup growled ferociously and parried with her paw. “Why are you playing with her like that?” Holly asked sharply.

  Surprised, Craig looked up. “She rolled on her back and I was rubbing her chest and suddenly she started swatting at my hand. She seems to enjoy it. I figured you played with her like this all the time.”

  “No,” Holly said, forcing herself to sound calm. “It’s...she only plays that game with men.”

  Craig chuckled as Buttercup released another deep-throated growl. “Ferocious beast! She doesn’t even have her claws out.” He paused for a moment, then said, “That popcorn smells good.”

  “It’s ready. I’ll get it,” Holly said. She returned to the kitchen and reached for the bowl, then dropped her hands on the cabinet on either side of it. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. For a few glorious seconds, she’d forgotten that her Craig was dead; then, when she’d seen Craig Ford playing with Buttercup the way only her Craig ever had, when she’d heard Buttercup’s growls...

  It was the little things, the tiny, insignificant little things you never really paid any attention to, that caught you at the most unexpected moment and turned you inside out. Holly released a ragged sigh, squared her shoulders, picked up the bowl of popcorn and forged onward to the living room,
grabbing the bottle of wine along the way.

  “I’ve never had wine with popcorn,” she said after putting the video into the VCR and sinking onto the sofa beside him. “I think I’m going to like it.”

  “What’s this movie about, anyway?” Craig asked as the copyright-infringement warning flashed on the screen.

  “Murder and insanity,” Holly answered, scooping up a handful of popcorn. “It’s hysterical.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “Murder and insanity are always amusing.”

  “Just wait,” she said. “You’ll be rolling on the floor.”

  Craig thought that he wouldn’t mind rolling around on the floor a bit if Holly was rolling around with him. “One can always hope,” he muttered.

  “It’s starting,” Holly said, rolling her shoulders against the back cushions of the couch as she settled in. “Watch carefully. Everything builds as the story goes along.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said absently. The leading man, Mortimer Brewster, author of The Bachelor’s Bible, had dragged the leading lady out of the marriage-license line and was explaining that he couldn’t marry her. The leading lady was holding up well, meeting the news with stoic acceptance and a look that would have melted even the most cynical heart.

  “He’s a goner. She’s giving him the treatment,” he said.

  “She’s just looking at him,” Holly said innocently.

  Craig sniffed disdainfully. “No woman ever ‘just looks’ at a man. See that quiver in her chin. Look at her eyes. He’s going to kiss her any second now. See! Told you he was a goner.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Holly said. “You can tell he’s suffering.”

  “He’s on his way back to the marriage-license line,” he observed.

  “All because of a look.”

  “Never underestimate the power of a look.”

  He waited until she dipped her hand into the popcorn bowl and dipped his hand in, too. The moment their fingers touched, she turned to face him with that wide-eyed expression of surprise that always formed on her features when the most innocent contact sparked an electric reaction between them.