by Tamara Leigh
I drop my forehead to our joined hands. “I argue with myself all the time—tell myself it’s too early to reveal something so personal, but that Clive should know so neither of us wastes the other’s time … that the more time he has to get to know me, the more likely he’ll choose me over biological children, but knowing there’ll be consequences for not telling him … that I won’t have to suffer his pity if it doesn’t work out, but that he’s taken a chance by revealing his painful past to me.”
“That’s right, he did.”
I lift my head. “Grudgingly. And with regard to the fire, that was all his mother-in-law.”
She sighs. “I’m not going to side with you—not when it sounds like this is something more than a onesie-twosie date. Regardless of how you came by Clive’s past, if you’re going to continue seeing him, you have to let him in.”
If I see him again.
“You have to be a friend first, Kate.”
As she was to Beau. But how do you do that if you’ve already progressed to the kissing stage?
Belle moves her hand to her belly, taking mine with it. “I think you should call him.”
I want to. I really do. And maybe I will. It is, after all, just a phone call. Nothing at all to tempt either of us. Yeah.
Cell phone—no answer.
Hospital work phone—not expected in today.
In-laws’ phone—miracle of miracles, they were listed, and Jack whipped off the directions to the Fairfax property in no time flat.
I know this isn’t what Belle meant for me to do when she said I should call Clive, but here I am giving my brains a good shake as I negotiate a crumbling old asphalt driveway stretching toward a Victorian-style home that appears charming until I draw near. Definitely in need of repair.
As for the vehicle parked out front, it’s not Clive’s car. Though I suspect the dark green truck I pull alongside belongs to him, I glance at the cute little canister of pepper spray that swings from my car keys.
Hmm. Relatively remote … may not be Clive’s truck … “truck man” may not be alone … no one to hear me scream.…
I pull the keys from the ignition, unsnap the flap on the pepper spray, and twist to disengage the safety tab. Finger on the button, I step from the car and approach the house.
“Clive?” I call, though I doubt he’s outside as he would have heard the shudder and jolt of my car over that savage driveway.
I mount the porch and call again when I see that the front door is open, but no answer. And no doorbell despite the cracked yellow button I repeatedly jab.
Rubbing the button on the pepper spray, I step inside a shabby foyer and call again.
No answer.
Okay, doesn’t hear me—or perhaps “truck man” does and is lurking.
Rub, rub, rub!
Forcing my trigger finger to relax, I turn into a living room that’s not much better than the foyer. Nor is the dark-paneled office to the right. The kitchen, however, shows definite signs of renovation. In fact, with the exception of unfinished drywall, it appears to be near completion—a gorgeous open room with a central island and plate glass windows that offer an unobstructed view of rolling hills and Mount Tamalpais in the distance.
“Wow.” I peer across the valley and pick out fewer than a dozen residences that share the view. Not a single one within shouting distance. And suddenly I realize how much I miss this kind of privacy. Having become accustomed to the squeeze of a crowded city, I’ve almost forgotten what wide open spaces look—and feel—like. I could get used to it again.
As I turn away, I catch a faint shloop shloop sound. Leaving the kitchen by a second exit on the other side of the room, I step into a dim corridor and halt before a flight of stairs down which the shloop shloop travels.
Pepper spray or not, maybe this isn’t such a good idea …
I cross to the bottom step and look up the stairs—creepy, shadow-shrouded stairs that turn halfway up. “Clive? Is that you?”
Shloop shloop. Shloop shloop.
I glance at the pepper spray from which my keys swing and rub the button.
“Clive?” Louder this time.
Shloop shloop.
Surely if I can hear him, he can hear me. “Clive?”
Shloop shloop. Shloop shloop. Shloop shloop.
An instant later, I place the sound—at least, I think I do. Sounds like sanding. However, it isn’t a sound over which a person can’t hear a shout. Unless he’s deaf. Or pretending not to hear—
The shiver that’s been building at the base of my spine shoots like an arrow straight up my vertebrae, and I whip around—pepper spray at the ready.
But no one’s there. Regardless, I’m tempted to track down Clive from the safety of my sealed and bolted car. But I do have a weapon. And it probably is Clive up there. Maybe he’s plugged in to music. Headphones would certainly account for his lack of response.
I almost laugh at my silly fear, but the shiver that coursed my spine has yet to dissipate.
Glancing up into the unknown, I grip the little canister tighter and set foot to the first step. “Dear Lord, protect me.”
Twice more I call to Clive as I ascend the stairs, but the shloop shloop continues.
I turn at the first landing and keep my eye on the second floor above me, which opens into what appears to be a sitting room. And it is, I confirm as I step up to it.
Shloop shloop goes the sandpaper.
“Clive!” goes Kate.
Shloop shloop. Shloop shloop.
It’s coming from behind the closed door at the far end of the hallway—the really dark end.
Surely it’s Clive. Or maybe not. He’s a surgeon, not a sandpaper guy.
I continue past two rooms and rub the button on the pepper spray. I will use this if necessary.
Halting before the door, I reach to the handle. “Clive!”
Shloop shloop. Then silence.
Okay, he heard me. I curl my fingers around the doorknob only to stumble forward when it’s ripped out of my hand. And there, against an eerie mist, is a monster—a white, chalky monster with a round muzzle and piercing, flesh-ringed eyes. And are those wires connecting its head to its neck? Impossible, and yet my throat opens and lets out an eardrum-breaking scream. And my hand shoots upward, wielding the pepper spray.
The monster’s eyes above its expressionless muzzle widen; then it barks or growls or something LOUD and lurches toward me.
At about the level of its chest, I jab the button.
There’s a shout, and as I raise the canister to nail the thing between its ghastly eyes, it knocks my hand up and back. But I continue to press the button, determined that nothing will keep me from defending myself. Nothing—except the pepper spray that rains down. On me.
“Oh, my!” Heat pours into my eyes. “Ow!” As if from a distance, I hear my keys clatter to the floor. “Oh!” Then I’m lurching back … desperately rubbing at my flaming eyes … dropping to my knees … coughing.…
“Kate—no!”
The pain intensifies. “It hurts!”
My hands are yanked from my eyes and a voice commands, “Don’t rub! It’ll only make it worse.”
I flail, slip a wrist free, and reach to my eyes. I barely get in a good rub, which makes me cry out louder, when my wrist is recaptured.
“No, Kate!” A hoarse cough. “Don’t rub!”
Is that Clive? With a moan that ends on a cough of my own, I shake my head and realize I’m flat on my back. I gasp. “I’m—”
“Stop it!”
“—being burned alive.”
In spite of the excruciating pain, I sense hesitation from the one who has me down on the floor … who’s refusing me the comfort of rubbing my eyes … who sounds a lot like Clive.…
“Listen, Kate—” another cough—“I’ve got to get you to the—”
“It burns!” I splay my hands. “Lord, help me!”
“I’ll help you,” Clive growls. “If you’ll let me!”
It’s Clive. Clive. Clive.
“Okay.” Deep breath. “Okay.” Deep, deep breath. “Help me.”
He drags me to my feet and releases my wrists to slide an arm around me.
I reach again to my eyes.
“Don’t rub!”
I clench my hands at my sides and chant, “Don’t rub, don’t rub, don’t rub,” as he guides me through the hallway.
“We’re going down the stairs now, Kate. Hang tight to me.”
I cling, allowing him to bear much of my weight down the treacherous steps. In between my admonishments of “don’t rub” and his throat clearing, I whimper and cough and become aware that it’s not just my eyes that burn, but my entire face.
Off the stairs, we turn one way, then the other, walk a straight course, turn again, and halt. Then I hear the squeak of a faucet and feel a mist.
“We’re getting into the shower now.”
“Okay,” I say, only to startle when I realize that he really does mean “we’re”—that he’s getting in with me.
“Your pepper spray got me, too.” He reads me right. “Not to the extent it did you, as I was wearing a mask and safety glasses, but I need to rinse off.”
Mask? Safety glasses? At the moment, my eyes hurt too much to figure that one out. However, propriety is an entirely different matter.
“Isn’t there—oh, it burns!” I grit my teeth as he urges me forward. “Isn’t there another shower you can use?”
“This is the only one that works. Besides, you’re in no state to be left alone.”
I groan—three-quarters pain, one-quarter humiliation. “And once again you’re stuck doctoring me.”
“Once again.” He shifts me around, and the shower spray hits me in the chest—my clothed chest. I am showering in my clothes. My nice going-to-church clothes. My dry-clean only clothes. My soon-to-be-ruined clothes. Well, at least the loss will be a memorable one.
“Lift your face into the spray, Kate.”
Oh sweet, blessed relief—at least until he orders me to open my eyes and irrigate them. “Ee-ow! Ow! Ow!” I jump back into him, lift my hands to rub at the burn, and am once more thwarted when he pins my arms to my sides.
“Give it a minute,” he speaks into my ear, “then we’ll try again.”
Unsure which is stronger—the burn in my eyes or the tingling in my ears—I nod and he moves us forward. Considering the amount of water that rushes down my neck, I guess he’s put his face into the spray. And the shake of his head a moment later provides further evidence.
Clive draws us back, and once more I’m the recipient of the downpour. It feels good, but what feels better is my back against his chest. Who would have thought that two people standing in a shower, fully clothed, could be so—
I catch my breath. Funny things are happening to my insides … Not good.
“Clive, I really think we should—”
“Try again, Kate.”
“What?”
He grips my chin and lifts my face to the spray. “Open your eyes.”
I force my lids up, and though the water increases the pain, it’s not as bad as the first time. Or is it?
“I’m blind!” I squeeze my lids closed. “I can’t see a—”
“A temporary condition.”
I turn my head toward him. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I turn my face back into the spray. “Okay.”
“Kate, you’re wearing contacts, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“We need to remove them.” He turns me to face him. I was wet before, but this makes it complete as the spray douses my backside and causes my clothing to cling to every inch of my body. So glad I can’t see the inevitable bump and bulge. Unfortunately, Clive can.
“I … uh … think I can take it from here.”
“Tilt your head back.”
“But—”
He eases my head back, pries open the right lid, and slides the contact off.
I hold my breath. Though our bodies are no longer touching, I feel him. In fact, impossible though it is in the darkness behind my lids, I know the beat of his heart. And, at his hesitation, I’m certain he knows mine.
Oh, my! Is he looking at me? At my pitifully wet, sopping figure with all its imperfections? Does he see my tummy roll? Not that it’s that big, but it certainly runneth over. And my thighs! Which I never did have the fat sucked out of. Encased in the clinging black material of my slacks, they must appear positively bulbous.
I hear him draw a rough breath. “One more,” he says, and removes the second contact.
I squeeze the lid closed and realize that though my eyes sting horribly, the pain is no longer excruciating. Thank God.
Oh, and Clive! Clive who—
Whose mouth brushes the tip of my nose, down which water trickles.
Surely he’s not going to kiss me. That would be …
Dangerous!
I strain back. “My contacts! Where did you put them?”
His breath stirs across my face as if suddenly released; then he’s turning me back around. “Down the drain.”
“Down the drain!” I open my eyes wide only to find that I’m still on the blind side—and it hurts!
“You won’t want to wear them again. In fact …” He lowers his voice and, with apology, says, “You need to get out of these clothes.”
“What?”
“Not only will they have to be laundered to remove the oil residue, but you’re soaked.”
“But—”
“One more irrigation.” He urges me forward. “Open your eyes.”
Deciding that the matter of my clothing removal—and what, exactly, I’m supposed to wear!—will have to wait, I force my lids up.
Ooh! I see shapes, indistinct but shapes. I blink into the water for as long as I can stand it, then step back—back into Clive’s arms again.
“I think my vision is clearing.”
“Good.” After a pause I feel straight through my back, Clive says, “Kate?”
Why the feeling he’s going to ask something better left for when I’m dry and decently attired? I squeeze my eyes closed for the relief found behind my lids. “Yes?”
“I’m assuming it was Jack or Gloria who gave you directions.”
“Jack.”
So strange conversing with my back to him. More strange conversing in a shower!
“I gave up on you calling hours ago.”
“But I did call—your cell phone—though I suppose after you gave up.”
“Must have been. I left the phone downstairs when I decided to tackle the drywall.”
I frown. “You do drywall?”
“It’s how I put myself through college.”
“Oh.” Then no rich parents footing the bill.
“Why did you drive out here, Kate?”
Why be coy? “I wanted to see your property. And you.”
After a breath-holding moment, he says, “So you came bearing pepper spray?”
I almost laugh. “I wasn’t sure it was your truck outside. And when I heard the noise upstairs and called to you and you didn’t respond …”
“I was listening to music, didn’t hear you until you were at the door.”
Remembering the “thing” that ripped the knob out of my hand, I say, “I thought you were a monster.”
His chuckle warms the back of my head. “Never been called that.”
“You were all white and chalky and had this muzzle, and your eyes were wild, and there were wires connecting your head to your neck …” So strange carrying on a conversation like this!
“I was sanding the joints of the drywall, which is why I was dusted. As for the mask, it keeps me from inhaling dust, and the safety goggles keep it out of my eyes.”
“And the wires were earphones,” I finish, determined to nip “stupid” in the bud.
“That’s right.”
The awkwardness of our conversation is almost enough to make me
scream. “I’m sorry about the pepper spray. Good thing you didn’t take off the mask and goggles before opening the door.”
“Yeah.”
“I did get you in the chest, though.”
“You did.”
I can stand it no longer! I swing around, lift my lids, and try to focus on him, where he stands back. The first thing that “crisps up”—at least, as far as it can without contacts—is his wet long-sleeved shirt, the chest of which I hit with pepper spray. And which is molded to his torso.
“You … uh … should get that shirt off.”
I sense, more than see, him stiffen and only then realize how that sounded—about how it sounded when he told me I’d have to remove my own clothes. Oh, dear.
I jerk my gaze to his face, which around the hairline bears evidence of white dust. As does his hair. “I mean, not in here, but out there. It will have to be laundered as well.”
He reaches to the tall glass door. “I think you can handle it from here. Take your time.”
He closes the shower door behind him, and through the pane I watch him retrieve a towel, cross to the doorway, and pull the door closed as he steps into the room beyond.
I don’t take my time. Though I have no idea how to solve my clothing dilemma, I rinse another minute, then reach to the faucet; however, remembering the dust Clive will want to wash away, I leave the water running so he can step in after me.
Dripping great puddles, I sink my toes into the thick rug on which Clive’s mask, safety glasses, MP3 player, and headphones lie. I don’t remember him removing them. But then, I was a bit preoccupied.
I grab a towel, wrap it around my sopping clothes, and open the door into … a bedroom.
Averting my gaze from the full-size bed, I land on Clive, who appears unaware of my presence where he stands before a dresser with his bare back to me. Even so, I’m very aware of him—especially what he reveals that he wouldn’t want to reveal. There’s no mistaking the scars above the waistband of the clean jeans he’s pulled on—scars that witness his attempt to rescue his wife and son.
What a painful reminder …
know the instant Clive becomes aware he’s no longer alone. It’s in his tensing shoulders, the slight turn of his head, the breathless moment he listens to confirm what slipped past him while his thoughts were elsewhere.