by Francis Ray
“I don’t want it.” He handed her back the umbrella and looked behind her to the three silent, watchful boys.
Kristen tried again. “They’re dressed as you said. What would you like to do first? Go over safety or equipment? I bet I remember some of it.” She stepped around him and pointed. “That’s a lathe. It’s used to turn legs like those on Jacques’s desk.”
He jerked his gaze back to her. “You remembered.”
She laughed at his incredulous expression. “Of course I remember. Once something is in my head, it’s there forever.”
His expression grew even more troubled.
Kristen thought fast. “Have you seen the alligator again?”
“Alligator?” Pierre repeated, excitement in his voice. “There’s gators around here?”
“Was,” Rafe answered. “I saw him once about three weeks ago.”
“Did you look today?” Lee asked.
“No, but I guess we could start with the tour out back and you can see for yourself,” Rafe said slowly.
All three charged forward.
Rafe held up a hand and they stopped. “If he is there, we come back inside immediately and Kristen stays by the door.”
“Rafe—”
He simply looked at her.
“I’ll stay by the door.”
Rafe glanced at the boys and correctly called each one by their name. “When we get back and we go over the equipment and the safety rules, then I thought we’d look at a couple of projects and agree on one. Maybe something for your mother?”
“I promised my boo a box,” Pierre said.
“Since my old lady dumped me, I’m easy.” Lee shrugged.
Michael did the same. “I don’t have time for chicks, so the same goes.”
Kristen frowned. “Guys, the box Rafe made for me took a great deal of skill and time. Perhaps you should try a plaque or something simple.”
“I can learn,” Lee said, proud and belligerent.
“I’m not saying you couldn’t do it, but it would take all summer and into the fall,” Rafe told them. “You’ll only have so much time to work and there may be days when I might not be able to meet with you.”
“How many hours did it take?” Lee asked, apparently still not convinced.
Rafe’s gaze flickered to Kristen, then away. “About thirty, I guess.”
“Thirty,” Kristen squeaked. “You gave it to me four days after I went to work at St. Clair’s.”
“I don’t sleep much, and I wanted you to have it,” he explained.
“Oh, Rafe,” she said, her eyes soft. “I’ll treasure it always.”
Feeling himself being pulled into the depths of her eyes, Rafe looked away and caught the boys’ interested looks. He strode briskly to his workbench. “Come with me, and don’t touch anything until I tell you. I have an idea for a design that I think we could finish in three to five weeks. That’s another thing; always give yourself time in case problems come up.”
At the end of the long, wooden bench, he placed a large sheet of drafting paper on top. Taking a pencil from a nearby white mug, he quickly sketched the outline of a small box that appeared to be half the depth of a shoebox and twice as wide. He then shaded the inch-wide strips to indicate different types of woods, talking as he worked.
“Until you’re sure of where you’re going and maybe even before then, sketch out what you want. Seeing it in your mind is good, being able to put it down on paper better, but having the ability to bring it to fruition is what it’s all about.” He made a few more strokes, then tapped the pencil on the drawing.
The three young men and Kristen crowded around to see what he had created. In their jostling, they pushed Kristen closer to him. This time, even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t move away from her. The young men hemmed him in. He felt an inescapable yearning to lean closer to her.
Instead he shut off his mind and went over how the box was to be made. “You’ll have to join or glue scraps or rips to a consistent thickness, then put them in a clamp to set. We’ll begin construction with the glued-up panel and from that you’ll cut the top and bottom.”
Rafe went to a corner in the back of the room where there were scraps of woods, from oak to maple to walnut. He hunkered down and picked up pieces of burled oak two feet long and five inches wide. “I saw a cross section of wood that was made into a one-of-a-kind box. If we can find enough for each of you, you’ll have top quality wood and we can design a box for each of you.”
The three hunkered down.
“This piece of wood came from a damaged chest that was over a hundred years old. I’d thought about using it for inserts that could up the price on a piece a hundred dollars or more.” He picked up another length of wood. “Cherry. Not as old, about fifty years, but still valuable. It would make a beautiful shelf in a powder room.”
As he had hoped, the boys’ interests were piqued and they began picking up pieces of wood and wanting to know the type of each and what it might be used for. Rafe listened patiently and answered their questions. “You want to go outside to look for the alligator or learn the equipment so we can get started?”
“The equipment,” they said almost in unison.
Rafe nodded his approval and pushed to his feet. “Some people never learn that sometimes you have to put aside what’s fun for what’s important. Let’s go over your safety equipment, then the machinery.” He looked at Kristen. “Since you’re going to be here, you listen, too, and I want you to wear earplugs and goggles when we’re working.”
“I thought I might sit upstairs and read while you’re building things,” she said innocently.
Rafe wasn’t fooled. “No.”
“Rafe—”
“No.”
She sighed. “I’ll try.”
The boys looked in puzzlement from one to the other. “Rafe doesn’t want me doing any more decorating in his apartment,” she explained.
“The curtains were enough,” he said, trying not to think how much he enjoyed not just the curtains, but that she had thought enough of him to take the time and make the effort to find and hang them, even if the encounter had almost given him a heart attack. “Put your hair up. I don’t want it getting caught in the machinery or getting in the way.”
Kristen shoved the strap of her bag on her shoulder, then took the heavy strands in her slim hands and began deftly plaiting them. “I’ll remember next time.”
Rafe watched in fascination as she quickly did her hair, almost hating to see the lustrous black strands bound.
Finished, she held the end. “Do you have a rubber band?”
Rafe took one from a set of rolled blueprints and handed it to her.
At that moment her bag began to slide from her shoulder. She grabbed it with one hand and with the other kept a grip on her hair. “Can you please do it for me?”
He didn’t want to touch her hair, feel the heavy weight in his hand, but it didn’t appear as if he had a choice. It was as silky and as soft as he’d feared. His rough hands lingered over the task and he wished he could let his fingers glide through the strands, take it back down, feel it on his bare skin, breathe in the scent.
He could do none of those things. Ever.
Cursing himself for even thinking such thoughts, he quickly looped the band around the end of her hair and let it drop over her shoulder. The end hung just below her breasts. He swallowed. Hard.
“Thank you.” She went to the rips and began searching through the wood.
He stared at her. “What are you doing?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I thought I’d make one, too, since I won’t be doing any decorating.”
Rafe frowned down at her, but she had already gone back to sifting through the wood. He wasn’t sure how he’d handle working with her but, as she began matching beech to walnut to Brazilian rosewood, he didn’t think he’d have much choice.
She came gracefully to her feet. “I’ve made my choice.”
“C
an we start tonight?” Lee asked.
“Yeah, that would be way cool,” Pierre said.
Rafe had to admire their enthusiasm. “I try to buy the hardware first, unless I have a good idea of how the mechanism is going to work.”
“I thought we would get started tonight,” Lee grumbled.
Rafe looked at the disappointed young man, then at the other two boys. “No one is touching a piece of equipment, not even a hammer, until I’m sure you know what you’re doing. In high school it was three weeks before my shop instructor let us start on a project.” He hurried on as they grew more sullen. “You’ll move faster because, unlike Mr. Thompson, I have three—”
“Four,” Kristen interrupted.
“Four students who want to learn,” he amended, not glancing at Kristen. “Instead of twenty-three hardheads who are there for what they thought was an easy credit toward graduation.”
“I take it they were in for a rude awakening?” Kristen asked.
“Mr. Thompson didn’t believe in easy, but he was a darn good teacher. I hope I remember what he taught me.” He glanced at the boys. “I’ll pick up the hardware tomorrow and have it for you when you come back next week.”
“What am I gonna tell my boo, man?” Pierre asked. “She’ll think I was just fronting about making her a box. I took her to see one and everythin’. This other dude is in her face, trying to hit on her.”
“What if you showed her the design?” Rafe asked. “I could make each of you a copy and put your name on it.”
Pierre’s dark head bobbed. “Yeah. That might work,” he said, considering. “Could I take a piece of the wood?”
“I don’t see why not, and when you come back, I’ll have the hardware.” Maybe by then he’d also have his own emotions under control so he could work closely with Kristen.
“Rafe, you don’t have to do that,” Kristen said, still holding her wood. “If you’ll tell me what we need, we can stop by the hardware store on the way back.”
“That would be tight.” Lee bobbed his head.
“I want one with a heart on it.” Pierre shaped the design with his hands.
“A car or a dagger.” Michael grinned, hooking his thumbs upward.
Rafe turned to Kristen, his face set. “You know how I feel about you going there this time of night.”
“They’ll be with me so I’ll be perfectly safe.”
There was a chorus of agreement from the boys. “Can the three of you fit in the back seat of her car?” Rafe asked.
Unsure of what was going on, they glanced among themselves, then nodded.
“Good. We’ll go over the safety equipment, rules, and the machinery, then we’ll all go to the store.” As if the matter were settled, Rafe walked toward the workbench, unaware of Kristen’s satisfied little smile.
eighteen
Comfortable in chaos, Angelique, in shocking-purple knit booties, sat with her back propped against the sofa in the living room and no less than a dozen textbooks scattered around her. She’d come home directly from work, fixed herself a bowl of leftover gumbo, then hit the books. She’d skated on thin ice before where deadlines were concerned, but thank goodness, had never crashed through. She was determined that come July 26, she was marching down the aisle.
She hadn’t been blowing hot air when she told Damien she’d written her thesis in two weeks. Her oldest “sister” managed a hotel in Shreveport, and Angelique had gone there to hibernate and write. A dissertation might be more difficult for others to write, but not for her. The topic was too close to her heart for her to fail.
Perhaps her disastrous affair with her professor in college had been the basis in the beginning for her wanting to expose man’s duplicity, but since then it was more to reveal the inequality in the way women were treated, the double standards from employment to health care. She couldn’t wait to expose men like Judge Randolph.
Men might be considered the dominant one of their species, but women were more cunning and resourceful. They had to be if they were to survive, but that survival was sometimes not without a very high price tag.
A man could be intimate with a hundred, a thousand, women and receive a pat on the back from his chums, be revered and called macho or a stud. If a woman did the same, at best she’d be called promiscuous, at worst a slut.
The reason for a woman’s behavior never entered into it. No one stopped to think that she might have hungry children to feed or self-hatred of herself and men because of being sexually abused as a child, or that perhaps she hadn’t been taught to honor her body, or that she was brainwashed by a no-good man, or if she just happened to enjoy sex the same way men did. Only her actions were seen, and each time she was condemned while the man was praised.
Angelique’s dissertation wouldn’t change the way people thought, but she hoped it would give people a thing or two to think about. She already had a couple of radio interviews lined up. She also planned to submit it to several magazines. No, she wasn’t about to fail.
Just as she was dragging a four-inch-thick textbook into her lap, the doorbell rang. Figuring it would be easier to answer and get rid of the caller than to let it keep ringing, she put the book aside and rose to her feet. Going to the door, she pulled her worn, oversized sweatshirt down over her cut-off-clad hips.
Pulling open the door, her heart jolted. “Damien.”
He looked absolutely mouth-watering. The man knew how to wear a suit, and she’d just love to rip it off him.
“Good evening, Angelique,” he said, his gaze roaming over her face and down the long length of her bare, shapely legs with unmistakable approval. “I was in the neighborhood and had a sudden craving for something sweet.”
She smiled in understanding. “Mama Howard’s fudge is addictive.” Opening the door wider, she stepped back, then closed it after him. “Come on in. I’ll get you some to take home.”
“I wish that were possible.”
Her breath caught at the hot desire in his eyes. “D-Damien.”
He pulled her into his arms. His mouth took hers in a hot, erotic kiss that curled her toes and had her straining to get closer. His hand swept under the sweatshirt to her bare skin. He sighed and she groaned when his hand closed over her unbound breast. It swelled. Her nipple peaked.
Reluctantly, he pulled the sweatshirt down, then drew her to him. They both trembled. “Your mother’s fudge has nothing on your mouth.”
“Nor on yours,” she said breathlessly.
He stepped away. “Perhaps I should pick you up Saturday for breakfast.”
She smiled up at him playfully. “You don’t think you’ll get tired of feeding me?”
“Not if we had each other.”
“D-Damien,” her voice and body shook.
“One it is, then.” He brushed a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “How is the dissertation going tonight?
She started to tell him about the slant of her dissertation, then changed her mind. Damien was one of those men who, while he admired courage in anyone, believed a woman should always act like a lady. Often that wasn’t possible. “Great. So get out of here and stop distracting me.”
“I like distracting you, but I’ll go. Good night, chère.”
The endearment caused her smile to wobble. “Good night, Damien.” Angelique closed the door behind him and leaned her back against it.
She picked up speed going down that hill every time she saw Damien. She could only hope and pray there wasn’t a cliff waiting for her.
* * *
Shopping with three teenage boys was an experience Kristen wasn’t sure she’d want to repeat anytime in the near future. She should have known when they came out of the car with their shirttails hanging out and pants bagging. Rafe had taken care of that by telling them they either fixed their clothes or they were going back to the shop. With what she thought was only grumbling to save face, they’d tucked, pulled up, and belted.
Foolishly, she’d thought that was the end of it until she’d s
een their skip-slid walk, and the way they turned in a complete circle when a young girl passed. Since the boys were good-looking kids, the girls giggled or gave come-hither looks Kristen wasn’t sure she could duplicate. That time a hard glare from Rafe had done the trick.
Once they stood in front of the twelve-foot-long shelf of hardware, all playfulness left. Rafe explained again about the construction of the box, the hinges and lock needed. Big and flashy was their first pick, until Rafe pointed out that the screws needed would split the wood and distract from the simple beauty. He made suggestions; they considered, then they made suggestions of their own. No one wanted his outside lock to look like the others.
Kristen marveled at Rafe’s patience. He didn’t appear to mind all the questions or asking for advice when they usually ignored it. Finally, they all decided on their faceplate and key. All of them were grinning.
“This is going to be phat.”
Rafe assumed that was good, and looked at Kristen, who had waited patiently for them to finish. “You decide?”
She held up her choice, an old-fashioned, elongated brass key and faceplate.
“Good choice. It’s getting late.” He took her by the arm. “Come on, let’s go to the check-out.”
At the cash register, he reached for Kristen’s hardware. She held it away from him. “I’m paying.”
Positive there wasn’t any use in arguing, he turned to the boys and found they were just as stubborn. “We got it, man.”
Rafe understood pride. It was what caused him his greatest agony and what kept him going when he wasn’t sure he could make it. Yet, unsure if they had looked at price during their selection, he said, “If you’re a little short I’ll make up the difference and you can pay me next week.”
Once again, they glanced at each other before agreeing. “Aight.”
He handed them his discount card. “My grandmother taught me never to pay the full price unless you had to.”