Mine 'Til Monday

by Ruby Laska

  Even in its makeshift transition stage, the office was lovely. Dorothy’s laptop, briefcase, and files vied for scant space on a small desk that had been hastily borrowed from a vacant office, but Dorothy hardly minded the inconvenience.

  Three walls of her ground-floor office featured tall windows that opened out onto the Finesse corporate campus. Mature trees shaded her from the sun, and a winding brick path came close enough that she could admire the colorful plantings and wave at the occasional lunch-time stroller.

  And now she was, at long last, alone. She’d looked forward to this moment, when she could truly relish being here, in the job she’d wanted for so long. Dorothy pushed her desk chair back slightly and spun around to take in the early afternoon light. It was perfect, beyond even her most optimistic hopes.

  Her new colleagues were bright, funny, and enthusiastic.

  Miranda was upbeat, on task and clearly delighted to have her. And the numbers were, to put it mildly, stellar—Finesse was poised to have yet another excellent year.

  So...why was Dorothy feeling so empty?

  For a long time she sat still, fingers resting lightly on the arms of her chair, the sun warm on the crisp linen of her skirt.

  A bird chattered its teasing song outside the window; somewhere beyond her door, laughter echoed through the corridors.

  She knew, all right. She knew it in her heart, where there are always answers for those brave enough to search.

  Mud was gone. Mud’s smile flitting through her mind as she tried to focus on a column of numbers. The ghost of his scent teasing her in an errant breeze through her open windows. And, sometimes, the memory of his hands on her skin, his lips on her throat—so powerful that she had to dig her nails fiercely into her palms to force herself back to the moment.

  He hadn’t called. Not on Monday, when Dorothy broke the news to her supportive boss at Gilford Mills and called the dozens of well-wishers who’d long supported her ambitions.

  Not on Tuesday, or Wednesday, Thursday or Friday either, as she wrapped up her work at Gilford Mills, always alert for the ringing of the phone, always disappointed.

  Not over the endless weekend as she paced restlessly in her apartment, picking up beloved objects and looking at them without seeing them. Not while she ate takeout meals halfheartedly with plastic cutlery, sitting in front of television shows that didn’t register. She turned down invitations from friends, pleading over-commitment, to stay home and wait. And hope.

  This week had been easier. There was so much to do that she could put him out of her mind, sometimes for an hour or two at a time. But now, in the temporary quiet, Dorothy saw that his power over her was not lessened. Not one bit.

  I can’t let him be gone.

  The thought gripped her, seized her senses. Dorothy had never been one to let fate make the rules. Why should she now?

  Taking a deep breath, she reached for her phone, stabbing the numbers in as fast as she could in case she lost her nerve. She moved quickly, decisively, ignoring the thump of her heart. Mastering her emotions had helped her achieve her objectives before. Perhaps it would this time, too.

  But as the phone continued to ring, once, twice, a third time, her determination faltered. It was a sign; Mud wasn’t there, the time wasn’t right. Pinpoints of relief eased her pounding heart.

  “Hello?”

  The voice, so unexpected, startled Dorothy into speechlessness.

  A woman’s voice, low, sultry, full of smoke and indulgence and long nights. Dorothy’s throat went dry.

  “Hello?” the voice came again.

  “Yes. Hello.” Dorothy cursed herself, cursed the hesitation, the tremor in her voice. She felt herself retreating into her business self, the one venue where she was comfortable. “This is Dorothy Albright calling for Mud—for Dempsey Taylor.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman purred. “He’s not exactly available at the moment.”

  “I see.” Dorothy considered placing the receiver down; hesitated. “Is there a time that might be convenient for me to call back?”

  A time, perhaps, when he might answer the phone himself, rather than this intoxicating female voice?

  She was rewarded with a short laugh, genuinely mirthful.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think he really has his mind on business at the moment. But I’ll let him know you called, I surely will.”

  Dorothy muttered a numb thanks and hung up. She glanced outside. The bird was still there; the tulips still nodded their heads sleepily. But even though she kept herself still, so very still, two fat tears squeezed past her lashes and splashed down her cheeks.

  “Who was it?” Mud called. Sheila appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “Dorothy Albright,” the newswoman said. “I told her you’d call when you had a moment free.”

  Mud froze, then slowly lowered the sheaf of papers he’d been examining. Damn it all. He’d known this moment was coming. Known one of them would break down eventually. The tangle between them pulled too tightly to let go easily. And now he deserved to suffer, to suffer like hell, because he hadn’t been enough of a man to call her first.

  Oh, he nearly had, a dozen times. Gone so far as to try to write her a letter, crumpling several drafts before finally giving up.

  He didn’t even know what was wrong with him. He wanted to see her, wanted to more than anything, so bad it scared him.

  “Thanks for screening my calls,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice even, almost jocular. “Whaddya think, Tony, maybe we should hire her.”

  At his side, Tony barely looked up from the keyboard. “Man, you could use the help. You sure made a mess of this file.”

  “Glad I can make myself useful,” Sheila said, sliding into a chair across from Mud and resting her chin on her folded hands. Under the table, her knees brushed against his, and she didn’t move away.

  “I didn’t think you needed any distractions. But I must say I didn’t realize when you invited me over that it was going to be all work and no play.”

  Mud glanced over at her, taking in the tight knit top she wore, the expensive strands of diamond-flecked gold around her neck, the flawlessly applied makeup that enhanced her beautiful amber eyes. Funny how he hadn’t noticed that all earlier, when she first arrived.

  The pressure against his knees increased. A stockinged foot slid across his instep.

  Mud pushed his chair back from the table. “Hey, Tony, I’m going to take a minute here, okay?”

  “Sure, Pops.”

  Sheila flashed him a wicked grin as she allowed him steer her out of earshot into the living room.

  “That’s just a kid in there, Sheila,” Mud murmured. “Better watch those womanly wiles of yours.”

  “Tony’s a big boy,” she said. “Besides, he only has eyes for that computer. Now, this Dorothy Albright, on the other hand, seems to have taken an unhealthy interest in you. Who is she?”

  “A friend.”

  “My competition?”

  Mud winced. Competition. The two woman were so different, it was almost impossible to compare them. Sheila was shiny, alluring, her wide, made-up eyes full of dizzying promise. And he had no doubt she’d deliver on that promise.

  But Dorothy...

  Dorothy wasn’t so obvious in her beauty. She was like the cool that comes after a humid summer storm. Or the first crocus blooming against the snow in early March. Unexpected, yet so magnificent that, once you noticed her, she practically took your breath away.

  Mud clenched his jaw. Dorothy was all that and more, but she was out of his life now. He’d made sure of that, breaking things off in a jagged, cowardly mess.

  He squared his shoulders and dragged in a deep breath.

  “Come on, Sheila, we need to wrap up the flyer for the tournament. I promised it to the printer tomorrow and I still haven’t got all the participants finalized. I was hoping you could add a few more of your famous friends to the list.”

  Sheila’s e
yelids slid a little further down over her luminous eyes, and her pout deepened.

  “You have me,” she yawned, examining a chip in her long vermilion nails. “I’m your big draw, remember?”

  “Yeah.” Mud grinned despite himself. The woman did not lack for self-confidence. “I wonder if, however, we might give these other folks just an itty-bitty mention since they’re taking the time out of their day to come bask in your glory.”

  “Oh, right. I saw you had Roy LeMonde on the list. He’s the competition, you know.”

  “Aw, come on. I had to throw Channel Six a bone. Besides, he’s just the weather guy. Not even in your league.”

  “Mmmmn, you know it, darling,” Sheila murmured, leaning in so close that her lips brushed his ear and her hot breath warmed his neck. “Not many in my league at all, as a matter of fact. Which I’ve been offering to prove to you, if you recall.”

  Tempting. Mud squeezed his eyes shut. It would be so easy to just throw himself into something new—someone new—and they didn’t come much more appealing than Sheila Ruiz.

  But his heart didn’t want someone new.

  “Not now,” he said gently, leaning out of range of her touch. “I really owe you one, for helping me get this thing setup. But I’ve got a heck of a lot left to do.”

  Sheila sighed. “A girl might start thinking you care more about this stupid golf tournament than you do about her.”

  Mud shot her a look; there must have been an unconscious warning in it, because she backed up slightly and held up her hands, accepting defeat.

  “The Vietnam memorial is important to me,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry, Mud,” she murmured, offering him a smile that was more genuine than come-hither. “I’m just a bad girl, trying to steal you away from a good cause.”

  She collected her purse and car keys from the hall table, stood on her toes to place a quick kiss on his cheek.

  “Mud, you know I really do admire you,” she said, a little wistfully. “It’s high time this town gets that memorial.”

  “Thanks, Sheila,” Mud said, rising to walk her to the door.

  At the threshold they stood a little awkwardly. “You know, you’ve really been a good friend,” he added.

  “That sounds like a kiss-off,” she said lightly. “But you know I’m not going far, Mud. I’m just going to assume that you’re too busy to concentrate on your love life at the moment. But when that tournament’s over—watch out, mister.”

  “I will,” Mud promised. He watched her walk down the stairs, her trademark energy animating her step. Without looking back she let herself out.

  Mud briefly considered going to the window to watch her get into her car and drive away.

  But he’d had enough of good-byes for the moment.

  He walked back into the kitchen.

  “So what’s the story?” he demanded, sitting down next to Tony, who sat kicked back with his feet on the table, keyboard resting in his lap. Mud helped himself to a handful of the bright orange chips the kid liked.

  “Have you ever, like, heard of the tab key?” Tony asked.

  “What’s that?”

  Tony shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know what made you ever think you could get this thing formatted by yourself.”

  “That’s why I have you,” Mud said easily. He felt a little better. Watching Tony work felt good, seeing his mind work so quickly, his intelligence matched only by his determination.

  The boy had come a long way. “Cheap labor, you know. I’d have to pay a real assistant a heck of a lot more than I pay you.”

  Tony snorted. “No doubt. Okay, so how about this font. Got a little more style. And lose this here. This too. Dilutes your message. Nobody cares about the details, man.”

  “Okay,” Mud said, shrugging. “Whatever you say. Make it look good, that’s all I ask.”

  They sat in contented silence. Mud considered telling the boy to get his enormous sneakers off the table, then thought better of it. That’s the kind of thing a father would say, and Mud never planned on being anyone’s father. Instead, he tilted his own chair back and put his own feet on the table. He experimented with tossing chips in the air, catching them in his teeth.

  Half the time he had no idea what he was doing with this kid. Or any of the others who’d put in their time at the golf shop.

  At moments like now, Mud barely felt like an adult, much less like someone who could provide answers, ease the burdens these guys carried long before they ever reached adulthood.

  But the rest of the time he didn’t bother with self-examination. The kids were there. So was he. They didn’t owe him anything. And it wasn’t like he was going to adopt them or marry their mothers. Eventually they all drifted away, on to college or other jobs.

  And that was okay with Mud. Better, really. Because when he found himself getting a little too close, caring a little too much, it was better for everyone if they just moved on.

  Mud lacked staying power. He supposed he could thank his mother for that. She couldn’t stay with him even until his fifth birthday. He’d learned the lesson well, and if it ever started to fade, his father was there to reinforce it.

  Don’t count on anyone to stay, his father had taught him. Because they don’t. The minute you get to caring too much, to loving too much, you lose them. Better to keep moving. Be the first to let go. Let it be a surprise if it has to; that way you’re never the one left holding the bag.

  His father had taught him the basics, but Mud had refined the code into a science. The first time a woman left behind a blouse on his bedroom floor, a bottle of low-calorie dressing in his refrigerator, he knew it was time.

  “Got any Dew?”

  “Huh?” Jerked out of his reverie by Tony’s voice, Mud lowered his chair to the floor.

  “Mountain Dew. You know. Caffeine buzz.”

  “I can make some coffee if you want.”

  Tony grimaced. “No way, man. Coffee’s for old guys.”

  “Okay.” Mud got to his feet. “Two Dews, coming up. What the heck, maybe it’ll help me out too.”

  “Ain’t nothing going to help you out.”

  Mud grinned to himself as he moved around the kitchen. The caustic words were music to his ears. Forbidden music, it was true, but he could enjoy having Tony around for the few months remaining before he set out for his real life, trading in the golf shop for community college or a job with a future.

  For now, maybe, just a little bit, Tony needed him. Mud didn’t know why. He wasn’t much of an example, an ex-third-rate athlete on his second mediocre career.

  Still, the boy seemed to do okay around him, and as long as that was true, Mud planned to stand by him. He’d do whatever it took to help him, to get him what he needed to make his life a little better.

  Besides, maybe, just maybe, if he did a good enough job helping Tony, he’d be able to forget about the empty place that had been aching in his gut ever since he’d walked away from Dorothy.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “You of all people should know I don’t have time for this,” Dorothy objected. She let the colorful flyer drift down onto the desk, then pouted at Miranda in mock aggravation. “And now that you know the truth about my golf abilities, it seems cruel of you to force me to play.”

  “Oh, heavens, I would never force you to do anything,” Miranda scolded, crossing her ankles primly and lifting her tea cup to her lips. “I do try to motivate my employees, not coerce them. And I must say I thought I was providing ample motivation. You’re partnered with Matt Wellington, after all, the most successful trial lawyer in town. And quite hunky, I understand.”

  Dorothy sighed in defeat, giving her own tea an idle stir. The daily tea service was becoming an afternoon ritual, with business strategy decisions often resulting from the welcome break. “I can only imagine what you’ve done with the poor soul who rightfully should be Wellington’s tournament partner. And don’t try to look so innocent. I know the real reason you’re making m
e do this.”

  She knew, but she couldn’t bear to say his name out loud. After all these weeks, Mud was still the first thing she thought about each day, and it seemed like each day the pain was as fresh as ever. She was making progress, though. She’d reconnected with a few girlfriends, made plans for an evening in the city. Tried out a new hair stylist.

  Skipped meals and lost six pounds. Chewed off most of her fingernails.

  And now this. Miranda was as transparent as glass. Sure, Mud’s name wasn’t on the flyer, but everyone knew he was behind the whole thing. The event, and the Vietnam memorial, had brought out supporters in record numbers, and Dorothy knew it had sold out weeks ago. She had no idea how Miranda had even managed to come up with a ticket, much less the plum of golfing with Matt Wellington.

  Of course Matt was just a diversion. Ever since Dorothy had come to work for Finesse, Miranda had been looking at her, or more aptly through her, like she knew everything that had gone on between her and Mud. Well...perhaps not everything, Dorothy corrected herself, flushing. But enough, evidently, to have sparked a keen interest in their relationship. And now Miranda seemed to fancy herself a sort of modern-day fairy godmother.

  How could Dorothy make Miranda understand that not even glass slippers and a pumpkin coach could bring Mud back? Mud had made it clear that there was no room for a woman like Dorothy in his life. Her throat caught as she remembered how easily he’d found his way back to the welcoming arms of one of his lovely women, women with longer lashes and curvier curves and throatier murmurs than she’d ever possess.

  But Miranda would never understand. She was, first and foremost, a romantic. And, Dorothy reflected, people like that never realized that romance was just an illusion.

  “Okay,” she sighed wearily. “You win. I’ll do the tournament, even if it means embarrassing myself and Finesse in front of thousands.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, don’t be so self-effacing. You’re a natural athlete, dear.”