Swept Away

by Karen Templeton

  And yet, how to explain the occasional wall painted bright blue or tangerine or lemon-yellow, the animals snoozing or lurking everywhere she looked, the exuberantly free-form artwork smothering one entire wall of the airy, teal-green hallway leading from the living room to the kitchen? Or the row of boots lined up with almost military precision in the mudroom, except for one tiny red pair, defiantly lying on its sides…the mad collection of family photos in mismatched frames, on walls, on shelves, on end tables?

  Sam’s wife was in at least half of them, a round, pretty woman who’d been clearly in love with her husband, her children, her life. Carly’s chest tightened for the obvious hole her death must have left in this family. As generous as Sam was with his smiles, none of them even came close to the ones in these pictures.

  She carried her empty mug back into the kitchen, where one of a dozen notes tacked here and there instructed whoever—in this case, her—to either wash it out or put it in the dishwasher. Smiling, she rinsed it out and set it in on the drainboard, then decided to see what she could throw together for lunch, since she imagined the guys would be back soon. Not that Carly was inclined to either domesticity or helpfulness, but it seemed silly to make lunch for herself and not go ahead and make it for everyone else at the same time.

  A block-printed note on the refrigerator sternly reminded her to think about what she wanted before opening it, but since she didn’t know what was inside, she supposed she could be forgiven for browsing, just this once. She found many of the same staples she remembered from summers at her grandparents’: bologna and American cheese and lettuce and big, ripe, juicy tomatoes still fresh from the late summer garden, Miracle Whip and generic mustard, with loaves of IronKids and whole wheat bread in the large basket on the counter. The milk would be fresh, she knew—she’d heard the lowing of a cow or two while she’d been sitting on the porch—and nothing skim about it. And if you wanted water, there was the tap. Well water, she imagined, ice-cold.

  A humongous ginger tomcat snaking around her ankles, she started slicing tomatoes on a wooden board she found by the sink, frowning at the wipe-erase board the size of a medium-size continent hanging on the only counter-free wall, divided into columns with chores listed under each name. Even little Travis was up there, with Feed Chickens and Collect Eggs as part of his duties. Although she did notice that there was always an older child listed with the same chores, so maybe the little guy was only in training. Still, this was a method that brooked no argument. And frankly seemed at odds with what she could have sworn was a laid-back demeanor on Sam’s part. But there it was, irrefutable evidence that Sam Frazier apparently ran his home like a military institution.

  Or an orphanage, she thought with a pang.

  She heard the growl of a pickup outside; the cat tore over to the back door. A minute later, amidst sounds of laughter and a hiss from the cat as Radar burst inside, Travis trooped into the house, followed by her father, then Sam, both men wearing the unmistakable glow of satisfaction for a job well done. Or at least done. Her father, especially…when was the last time she’d heard him laugh like that, seen a smile that big on his face?

  “I made some lunch,” she announced, waving at the table. “Sandwiches, if that’s okay. Bologna or cheese, or both, if you’re feeling adventurous.”

  Her father said, “I think I need a quick shower first. If that’s okay?” he directed at Sam, who said, “Sure, go right ahead,” and then Dad vanished, leaving Sam staring at the table as though she’d set up a tray full of live snakes.

  Wordlessly he plucked off his ball cap and slapped it up onto the six-foot-long pegboard mounted near the door, the move revealing a ragged, dark splotch plastering his shirt to a chest more substantial than one might expect given his overall leanness. Several strands of hair that could have been either silver or blond fell across his forehead; he swiped at them, his gaze bouncing off hers before sweeping over the innocent sandwiches mounded on a plate in the center of the table. Travis’s grubby hand shot out to claim half a sandwich, but Sam grabbed him with a “Not before you wash your hands, pup.” Then, one arm around his youngest’s chest, he met her eyes again and said, softly, “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “No problem,” she said with a bright, idiotic grin, trying desperately to lighten the inexplicably weighted atmosphere. “Wasn’t as if I had anything else to do. What would you like to drink?”

  Again with the weird look. Full of lots of angst and undertones and all sorts of stuff Carly really didn’t want to deal with. “I’m all sweaty,” he said, his eyes still locked with hers. Uh, boy. Thank God her father was still out of the room, was all she had to say.

  “Hey. You want to talk sweaty? Try fifty dancers in an unair-conditioned studio in July. At the end of a two-hour rehearsal. You don’t even rate.”

  That, at least, got a small smile, like a crack in the ice on a warm day, and at least some of the undertones slunk away.

  Some. Not all. Certainly not the ones that made her glad her father wasn’t around. And that she wouldn’t be around for more than a few days.

  Sam carted Travis over to the sink, holding him up to wash his hands, then dousing a paper towel with the running water to mop the kid’s face for good measure before freeing the protesting child so he could clean himself up. Leaving Carly to ponder why—how?—after all the beautiful bodies she’d seen in motion over the years, she couldn’t seem to unhook her eyeballs from this one. All he was doing was washing his hands, for crying out loud.

  Then she heard a dry chuckle and realized he was watching her, watching him, and she felt a whoosh of desire so strong she nearly lost her balance, followed by the calm, clear words, You are so not going there.

  Well, hot damn—maybe, just maybe, she was finally growing up.

  Chapter 3

  It’d been a long time since a woman had made him lunch.

  It’d been even longer since sex had tapped at the door to his thought and said, Psst…remember me? Okay, so maybe it had come a’knocking once or twice in the past three years, but for damn sure Sam hadn’t had the time, interest or energy to open the door. In any case, the problem with both of these events was that Sam didn’t need, or want, either one in his life.

  On an intellectual level, at least. Which was the only level he was going to pay any mind, since listening to the alternative—which would be something not involving a whole lot of brain cells—was too darn scary to contemplate. Because right at this very moment, if he indeed removed his brain from the equation, he didn’t mind at all having somebody make him lunch. And he really didn’t mind that pleasant ache in his groin, if for no other reason than to be reminded that, hallelujah, brother, he wasn’t dead yet. But he very much minded not minding, because…well, because what was the point?

  Although the way the gal was looking at him…

  He heard the pipes shudder, then groan, as Lane turned on the shower. Meaning it would probably be a while before they had a buffer. One big enough to count, anyway, he thought with a glance at his youngest, wrestling on the floor with Radar and growling louder than the dog. So much for the clean hands.

  “So—” The word popped out of Carly’s mouth like a blow dart, like maybe she’d been having similar thoughts. Sam realized he could see straight through that flimsy shirt she was wearing, and even though she had another shirt on underneath, the peekaboo effect was wreaking havoc on his common sense. “What’s with all the notes all over the place?”

  Not what he expected her to say. But after a quick scan of the room, he could see why she’d asked. “Huh. Guess there are a few, aren’t there?”

  “Twelve,” she said. “Not counting that.” She nodded toward the wipe-erase board.

  Sam held one of the kitchen chairs steady so Travis wouldn’t knock it over as he climbed up into his seat. Kid was still too short to really sit at the table comfortably without a booster seat, but Sam had a better shot at getting him to eat worms than use the “baby chair.”

 
“Got tired of repeating myself, basically. And this way, nobody can claim they didn’t know what they were supposed to do.”

  Carly took a seat at the table, her plate filled mostly with lettuce, it looked like. “And this doesn’t strike you as just a tad…autocratic?”

  “Only way to go when you’ve got six kids. Unless you got a better idea?”

  “Move?”

  “Don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind a time or two.” He handed Travis half a cheese sandwich. The kid gave him a wide smile, and Sam thought, with a little pang, This is the last baby-toothed grin I’ll see. “For what it’s worth,” he said, turning back to Carly, “your dad was impressed as all get-out.”

  “He would be.” With a loud groan, Radar collapsed on the floor in front of the sink, clearly untroubled by his status as wuss dog of the family. “Although,” Carly was saying, “Dad never resorted to notes or lists. He tended to rely more on the bellow and glare method.” Then her mouth quirked up. “With good reason.”

  Yeah, Lane had shared a few stories about his daughter. Stories he doubted Carly would appreciate being bandied about, Sam mused with a smile as Henry, an ancient, chewed-up-looking tomcat whose few waking hours these days were mostly devoted to tormenting the dogs, paused in his travels to sniff Radar’s butt. The startled dog leaped to his feet, only to immediately cower against the cabinet door, ears tucked against his skull, eyes wide with terror. Satisfied, Henry flicked his tail and stalked off. Travis giggled; Carly gave the little boy a smile softer than Sam would have thought possible, given the sharpness of her features.

  “Yeah,” he said, unable to take his eyes off that smile, “Lane definitely gave me the impression that you were a bit of a handful.”

  She smirked. “Are you kidding? I made his life a living…” She glanced at Travis, then back at Sam, her eyes glittering, defiant, like her makeup, which, while anything but subtle, ventured no where near tacky. This was simply a woman who had no qualms about making herself look good. “Let’s just say I took the concept of challenging authority to a whole new level. Which begs the question…” She swept one arm out, indicating the notes. “Does this work?”

  “Mostly. Once everybody realized I meant business.”

  “And how old’s your daughter?”

  A cold, clammy chill tramped up his back. “Almost fifteen.”

  All she did was smile. And change the subject, her smug expression clearly indicating her belief that she’d won that round. “So. You get that fence fixed?”

  “You’re still doing it, aren’t you?” Sam said.

  A bite of salad halfway to her mouth, her eyes shot to his. “Doing what?”

  “Challenging authority.”

  She shrugged, the gesture setting the dangliest of the earrings to shimmering. Her hair, a rebellious tangle of not-quite curls swarming around her neck and shoulders, strained against the single bright blue clip jammed impatiently at one temple. “Can’t say as I’ve ever been real big on following the rules, no. So. The fence?”

  Sam found it curious that, for someone so intent on being a badass, she sure didn’t seem interested in discussing it. But no matter, especially as it was none of his concern, anyway. “All done,” he said, loading up his own plate with several sandwich halves before turning back to the refrigerator. Carly’d already poured Travis a glass of milk, but Sam wanted iced tea. Preferably dumped over his head. “Thanks to your father. Can’t remember the last time I saw anybody get such a kick out of replacing fence posts.”

  “Yep, that’s Dad.” Sam noticed how cautiously she was eyeing the four-year-old, giving him the feeling she didn’t spend a lot of time around little kids. Then she picked up a napkin and wiped a dribble of milk off Trav’s chin, which earned her a shy smile. She smiled back, sort of, then forked in a bite of lettuce and said, “So I guess that means the two of you didn’t spend the whole time discussing my errant ways.”

  “Not the whole time, no. Just on the ride there. And back. And whenever we got close enough to hear each other.”

  She reached out to move Trav’s cup of milk back from the edge of the table. “I wouldn’t’ve thought there was that much to discuss.”

  “And here I was thinking it sounded like he’d barely scratched the surface.”

  That got another moment’s stare before she said, “Anyway…I think Dad’s missed working with his hands.” Sam checked out hers—long fingers, smothered in all those rings, but no nail polish. “Mom was convinced he’d bought an old house on purpose so there’d always be something to fix. And believe me, there was. The kitchen alone took the better part of a year.” She smiled. “I swear, all the clerks at Home Depot knew him by name.”

  “Sounds like a man after my own heart,” Sam said, and she rolled her eyes, making him chuckle. But her smile dimmed as she stabbed at a hunk of lettuce.

  Travis asked for another sandwich half. Carly beat Sam to it. “Doing nothing makes him crazy. After he retired from the Army, he started his own security business. Except when Mom got sick, he sold it so he could spend as much time as possible with her. Then after she died, he got rid of the house right away and moved into an apartment. I understand why he did what he did, but he’s been at loose ends ever since.”

  Sam waited out the twinge of sadness, faded more than he would have ever believed possible three years ago, but not entirely gone. For a moment, he almost envied the other man, being able to cherish what he had, to say goodbye. Losing Jeannie so suddenly had been like being shoved off a cliff into an ice-cold waterhole—there was no time to get your breath before you had all you could handle just to keep from drowning. But as hard as Jeannie’s unexpected death had been on him and the kids, at least she hadn’t suffered. Watching somebody you loved dwindle away…he could only imagine how hard that must have been. “Too many memories in the house?” he finally said, as his own echoed softly from every nook and cranny of the one they were sitting in.

  “That’s what I figured, but he never really said.”

  “I’m done,” Trav piped up. “C’n I be ’scused?”

  Sam said, “Sure,” and the kid slid down from his seat, his feet hitting the floor with a thump before pounding out the back door, Radar—having recovered from the cat’s brutal attack—hot on his heels. The screen door whined shut, leaving him and Carly alone. Together. With the water still humming through the pipes and Sam well aware that voicing Lane’s probable motivation for selling his house could possibly let Carly more into his own head than he might like, especially since a few of those memories now whistled through his brain like wind through a canyon. With some difficulty, Sam swallowed the bite in his mouth and said, “Your dad must be bored out of his mind. In an apartment, I mean.”

  She gave him one of those looks that women do when they’re trying to translate what you just said into their own language, then nodded.

  “You have no idea,” she was saying, taking another bite of lettuce, her posture bringing to mind the deceptive strength of a sapling.

  “So you decided what he needed was a road trip to jump-start him again.”

  “Both of us, actually. Although when I brought it up, Dad definitely pounced on the idea.”

  “How long’ve you been on the road?”

  “About a month.”

  “Since you lost your job?”

  “That happened about three months ago, actually. Which is when the sports doctor told me I could have surgery, with no guarantee I’d ever dance again anyway, or quit dancing altogether and the problem might clear up on its own.”

  “Some choice.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  Her bravado wasn’t doing a particularly hot job of masking her disappointment. “And how long until you go back home?”

  “We hadn’t decided that. One of the perks of being in limbo,” she said with a grand wave of her fork. “I’ve got a half offer from an old dance school friend who’s married with munchkins and the minivan and the whole nine
yards in a Chicago suburb, she wants to open a dance school and wondered if I’d be interested in teaching.”

  “Are you?”

  That bite of lettuce finally found its way into her mouth. After several seconds of chewing, she shrugged. “It’s an option.”

  The pipes groaned again, this time from the water being turned off. “But…not one you’re very excited about.”

  “Hey. I’m thirty-seven. Even without my knee sabotaging me, I only had maybe five good years left, anyway. Eight if I didn’t mind pity applause,” she said with a short, dry laugh. “Still. Somehow, even though most dancers turn to teaching after they retire, I somehow never saw myself doing the Dolly Dinkle Dance School routine. Teaching a class full of everybody’s precious darlings in pink leotards and tutus… I can’t see it, frankly. I’m not really into kids.”

  Sam thought of her wiping Travis’s chin and smiled to himself. “Yeah. I can tell.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like them,” she added quickly. “Exactly. I just never quite know what to say to them. How to relate to them. I mean, my biological clock’s merrily ticking away and I’m like, ‘Fine, whatever.’ Shoot, it’s all I can do to take care of myself.”

  Chuckling, Sam polished off his last sandwich, then chased it with the rest of his iced tea. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair. “You always this up-front with people?”

  She shrugged. “Pretty much. Does it bother you?”

  “It’s a mite unnerving, but no. Not particularly. Actually it’s kinda nice to be around someone who has no trouble saying whatever’s on her mind.”