Hands On

by Christina Crooks

  “Never mind.” She gathered up Little Jeffrey. She needed more materials from her own basement. She needed supplies from the store.

  No, she needed answers.

  She put down the puppet.

  “Never mind the never mind. Harry, I don’t want to pry, but whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. You’re a wonderful, generous, attractive man in your prime. With great taste in tenants.” The joke fell flat. “Breakups can mess with your mind,” she said, speaking from experience. “I’m a good listener, if you want to open up about it. Go ahead. It’s safe.”

  Harry continued to stare at her.

  Finally he spoke. His controlled voice, so different from the carefree one of just a few moments before, gave her a chill. “I appreciate your good intentions. But don’t tell me what to do.”

  She felt slapped.

  “I don’t share, I don’t open up, I don’t have the slightest need to add up the same old problems to see if I can get a different solution. It’s done. It’s simple—I was a chump. Now I’m a cold son of a bitch, and I’m not ever going to change.”

  “He’s impossible,” Ginnie finished after giving Lara an abbreviated version of things the next day.

  She spoke as she filled in the endless insurance forms and declarations that covered Lara’s desk. “We were having such a good time with the puppets, and then, boom. He leaves.”

  Lara’s curly, dark auburn hair gleamed even under the deadening fluorescent lights as she twirled first one lock then another around her purple-frosted nail. Darlene still hadn’t returned from her “business meeting”. She also wasn’t returning any of the property management company calls. Lara didn’t expect her to come back, she’d confided. Word was she’d been fired by someone at the highest level.

  Lara nodded. “So Harry just up and marched away from you? Definite hot button topic.”

  “He’s not the only one with a past,” Ginnie said. The more she thought about it, the more determined she felt. Just because someone once treated you badly, that didn’t mean you had to swear off relationships forever. Just look at her. If anyone was entitled to become a bitter old misanthrope, it was her.

  But she was actually considering another relationship. Something more than a one-night stand.

  Which of course reminded her of how non-celibate they’d been. An aftershock of lust slammed through her, lingering pleasantly, butterflies in her belly. “He’s unbearably sexy, isn’t he,” Ginnie murmured.

  “Work!” Lara commanded, shooing at Ginnie’s idle writing fingers. “And, sure, I suppose. If you like the buttoned-up, aloof, brooding type. I prefer a more fun-loving guy.”

  “Harry can be fun,” Ginnie protested. “Lots and lots and lots…”

  “I get it.” But Lara stopped smiling. “Ginnie. You have to protect yourself. I mean, he’s said he doesn’t want a relationship. He flat out, no-compromise declared he’s never going to change. I hate to break it to you. You know what I’m going to say, don’t you? Jeez, it’s not fair. You’ve had a couple of years’ worth of drama packed into a week, and here’s Mr. Wonderful telling you he doesn’t want a relationship. It sucks, but…you have to believe it. You can’t change people, however much it’d be in their best interest.” Her dark eyes were warm and sincere and sad.

  Ginnie stared in amazement. “You’re only, what? Eighteen? Nineteen? Too young to sound so experienced. And so smart.”

  “Twenty-two, and thanks.” Lara preened, her eyes full of laughter once more. “I likes me my fun-lovin’ guys,” she admitted. “It’s gotten so that I can read between their lines pretty easily now. But ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ always means just that. They’re not available, no matter what other signals they send up. Like inviting you to sleep over. There’s a big mixed message there. Move in to my place.”

  “Huh?” Ginnie’s thoughts had to scurry to catch up after hearing ‘sleep over’. She and Harry hadn’t done much actual sleeping together. “Move in with you?”

  “Sure. I have a two-bedroom apartment, and only my cat uses the other room. When you get the deposit and settlement check—” She tapped the paperwork, “—you can get your own place. Or you can stay. We seem to get along pretty well.”

  Ginnie smiled at her new friend. Lara was a wonderful person. And maybe getting away from Harry would clarify matters. He probably preferred she go, anyway.

  The man didn’t want a relationship.

  Ginnie felt a pang of regret. “Okay. Later this afternoon? I’m packing pretty light these days.”

  Lara laughed. “Of course. I’ll help anyway. It’ll be fun to get another look at that fabulous house of his. That living room was like crawling inside a TV into Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I’ve been in real estate for a few years now, and I’ve never seen a home as gorgeous as his, not outside of the historical register.”

  Ginnie had to agree, it was a stunning home. Her mother would be drooling over it and, if she could, picking Ginnie up and throwing her at Harry. She wouldn’t care that Harry said he didn’t want a relationship. She’d only care that he was single and rich. Her biggest concern would be that Ginnie would screw it up.

  Suddenly Ginnie was seventeen again, standing in the small bathroom she shared with her mother. She was getting ready for a date, brushing her hair, when her mother walked in. Her mom was dating, herself, in the aftermath of Ginnie’s father’s abandonment, and the woman was gazing in the mirror and smoothing a low-cut silky black cocktail dress.

  “What do you think, Mom?” Ginnie posed in her new jeans and a figure-hugging peach cashmere sweater. “Good enough?”

  Her mother stared. Finally she said, “No. You’ll never be a man-magnet. But if you’re shrewd and don’t do anything stupid like fall in love, you might do okay.”

  Her mother’s words were a curse, piercing Ginnie through the heart. She wanted to cry. She wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere dark and stay there forever.

  She’d gone on the date, but felt clumsy and ugly and painfully self-conscious the whole time. Added to the guilt she felt over her dad’s abandonment, it hammered her self-esteem into the ground. Where it more or less stayed.

  She hadn’t felt fully appreciated, or truly seen and cherished, until that night with Harry.

  “Ginnie?” Lara leaned across her desk. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just realizing you’re right. I can’t change Harry. He doesn’t want me, not in any way that counts, so I shouldn’t do anything stupid like fall in love with him.”

  Lara scraped off a fleck of purple nail polish, thoughtful. She placed it carefully into the trash next to her desk. “He is an idiot,” she pronounced, with the gravity of a doctor declaring a time of death.

  “You’re right, we will get along fine,” Ginnie said, and they both laughed.

  The laughter eased her hurt. As for Harry, the man didn’t want her around. He’d made himself very clear.

  She had to respect that, and respect herself enough to let him go.

  Chapter Five

  Ginnie opened Lara’s door and stared. At Harry.

  Harry stood on Lara’s porch.

  Only one week had gone by, and he looked exactly the same—pulled-together and delicious. Her heart gave a lurch. He was really here, just as she’d dreamed.

  She wished she weren’t wearing her ratty old flannel pajamas at one o’clock in the afternoon, and that her hair wasn’t flattened from being slept on. Most of all, she wished he wasn’t seeing her blotchy face, reddened eyes and cheeks wet with tears.

  “What are you doing here?” She wiped her face with her sleeve.

  His face was almost comical with guilt. At another time, she might have been amused. Or gratified.

  At the moment, all she felt was miserable.

  “Um. Are you okay?” Harry fidgeted. It was funny to see such a solidly built, in-charge man fidget. Clearly he thought he’d mortally wounded her.

  “I’ve been better. This…” She indicated her face, �
��…has nothing to do with you.” Best to get that fact across quickly. No sense in his thinking for a second she was moping over him. Even if she’d missed him worlds more than she’d thought she would. “What brings you across town?”

  “Your stuff. The trunk on my porch is gone. And one of the neighbors across the street saw a man putting it into a sport wagon. He didn’t know if the man was a friend of yours. Are you okay?” he repeated, with more concern.

  “I’m not sure yet. Give me a sec.” Ginnie held on to the doorway, taking deep breaths. “When it rains, it pours,” she finally muttered. “And then your house crashes down, and then… Okay. Where’s the hidden camera?”

  Harry looked pained. His expression was half-angry, half-guilty. “I should have put that trunk in the house.”

  “I’m the one who told you to leave it on the porch.” She remembered her cavalier words, her trust that it wouldn’t be stolen, her certainty she’d be right back to pick it up, and could kick herself. Somebody else had picked it up. Somebody who had a sport wagon to put it in. “I can’t believe he did that.”

  “You know who it was?”

  “My ex. Rick must’ve tracked me down. Gold-colored sport wagon with big, shiny chrome wheels? Raiders bumper stickers?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t notice the bumper stickers. Ginnie, it’ll be okay. We’ll find him and we’ll get everything back.”

  Harry’s kind voice almost made her lose it. And he’d said “we”, as if they were a couple. When she started sniffling, he moved in and enclosed her in a strong, Harry-scented hug. She was grateful for it. “That jerk. When I left him, he’d said he was glad to see the back of me. Then my mom gave him my new address, and he drives up here to stomp all over my roof, and now he’s back to steal from me? He must’ve driven around and seen my car parked in front of your place. Why didn’t I pick up the trunk sooner? Why did my mom give him my new address? Why do either of them think I’ll go back to being a doormat and do what they say?” Her voice was muffled against his shirt, but she didn’t move. It felt way too nice.

  “First things first.” Harry stroked her back soothingly. “I’ve already called the theft in to a police officer friend of mine, and also to a few unofficial sources of information. We’ll get results soon, I promise. Second, you were upset before I arrived. Why?”

  She remembered why she’d been too distracted to pick up the trunk. “I lost my job at Helping Hands.” There, she’d said it. The last remaining symbol of her new beginning had exploded in her face. She was meant to be nothing, unwanted by everyone. “It was unanimous by the mucketies in charge. With the shrunken funding, one of the managers had to go, and they voted for it to be me. They said—for my own good, they told me—I should work on my faults of being overly pushy, too controlling and not a team player. My career is over.”

  She felt a tidal wave of sadness and self-pity welling up in her and would have soaked Harry’s shirt even more, but Harry suddenly vibrated.

  It threw off her emotions enough to hiccup instead of bawl. “What…?”

  Harry pulled the vibrating cell phone from the shirt pocket on the opposite pec, flipped it open. “Yes?” She stepped back as she felt him tense. “I see. I’ll be right there.”

  She pulled herself together, then looked the question at him.

  He answered, grim. “Your stuff. It’s been found.”

  At the tone of his voice, a little chill went through her. “I’ll get dressed.”

  He stared at her. “You know, your career is not over. Just that one position, which wasn’t a great fit for you anyway. You’re talented, beautiful and strong.” His vehemence was like a warm shot of adrenaline to her battered soul.

  “Thank you,” she breathed, plucking at her nightwear. “I’m not usually such a basket case.”

  “You’re a beautiful basket case.”

  Ginnie thrilled to the look in his eyes. She backed up. “I’ll get dressed,” she repeated. Her heart was definitely not safe around him.

  A few minutes later, they sped toward the reported location. Harry shifted gears, appreciating the power that surged at the slightest touch of his foot to the Aston’s pedal.

  “I think your car cost more than my little old rental house.” Ginnie ran a hand over the shiny walnut dash and poked at the crowded console.

  “Slightly less.” He shooed her hand away.

  “I can even control the temperature just on my side,” she said with awe. “This is great.”

  “There’s a seat warmer too,” he pointed out, glad she liked his car. Jaye Rae had found his Aston Martin “desperately ostentatious” and refused to ride in anything but his silver BMW. Or the limo. Which was, in his opinion, even more ostentatious. Who knew how that woman’s mind really worked? Or any woman’s.

  Ginnie was playing with the controls again. “You must be a very successful landlord.”

  “You’ll be successful, Ginnie. I have faith in you.” He shooed her hand away again.

  “You’re the only one who—oh no.”

  Harry only glanced at where she looked. He already knew what she would see. He slowed, spotting his friend, a client of his, waving from the corner. When the man saw Harry had spotted the debris, he folded his arms. Around his feet were some of Ginnie’s marionettes. Police sirens sounded in the distance.

  Ginnie seemed to shrink down in her seat. She looked horrified. “It’ll be okay,” he said. He hoped it would be.

  The bulk of her puppets lay strewn in the road, some recognizable as what they were, others shattered into bits of wood and cloth and string. Not only puppets, but theater sets, drapery, lights, clothing, wigs, DVDs and stuff he didn’t recognize all littering the street and gutters. Some marionettes dangled from the low branches of trees. “How could he?” Ginnie breathed.

  Before he could stop her, she’d opened his car door while the car was still rolling and bolted out. She raced across the path of oncoming traffic, ignoring the car horns to scoop up everything that lay in the road.

  With a curse, he yanked his steering wheel hard to the right, a crooked parking job, then darted after her, salvaging the few pieces she missed, helping her pile everything safely on the strip of grass at the side of the road.

  It began to rain.

  “How could he?” She sank to her knees, examining a broken marionette’s face. Her face was a mask of agony.

  Harry shook with fury. He averted his gaze from Ginnie, which was when he spotted the trunk. He shook his head with disbelief. This charming ex-fiancé of hers, this Rick, had emptied, then levered, Ginnie’s gleaming trunk into a large Dumpster.

  “Oh!”

  She’d spotted it. Harry shut his eyes.

  “How could he do this?” At least now she sounded more angry than devastated. “Into the trash!”

  Harry spoke with the client who’d waved him over, a well-to-do private investigator, while Ginnie circled the Dumpster. “Did anyone see the guy who did it?”

  The man shook his head and spoke with deferential softness. “Sorry, Mr. Sharpe. My buddies have two cars out looking for the gold sport wagon the neighbor described. And I’ve put the word out about your generous reward for information. Now, I’ve got to go meet a client in the Southeast. Sounds like the police are on the way. Unless you need help with anything else?”

  Cold drizzle iced Harry’s face as he shook his head. “No, thanks. I appreciate your assistance. I can handle it from here.” He hoped he could. His impulse was to fix what was wrong, but Ginnie’s emotions were beyond his ability to fix. Women’s emotions were strange and confusing territory for him. Until now, he hadn’t wanted to understand them.

  At least there were a few things he could fix.

  He made another call.

  He reached for her as she passed him. “Hey.” He missed, brushing her arm with his fingertips, then leaned farther and encircled her forearm as she went by wringing her hands and looking both pissed and desperately upset. “Ginnie. Hey. Hold up.”


  “What.” She stopped, at least. With one hand, she violently wiped damp curls off her face. “I have to get the trunk out of the trash. I have to get everything together. I have to—”

  “You have to hush. And let me help. You have more important things to think about. Like your career.”

  He could have bitten his tongue when she turned a stricken expression on him. “I’d forgotten about that. Oh, man, how could I have forgotten I was fired? That’s huge. My career is over. For good. I’m a total failure at everything.”

  “You’re not a failure.”

  “Am too. I’ve been rejected by everyone. My dad, who abandoned me and my mom. Then there’s my mom. I’m pretty sure she’s always blamed me for Dad’s taking off. Rick, who never wanted me until I was leaving and who now hates me enough to do this.” She flicked a hand toward the pile of puppetry stuff. “And Helping Hands. And you. You only wanted me for one night. I’m not good enough for more.”

  She should just stick a knife in his heart. It would hurt less. “Ginnie, that was different.”

  “Why? I’m seeing a pattern here. Nothing against you. It’s not you, it’s me.” She laughed. Harry didn’t like the sound of it.

  He was tempted to grab her and shake some sense into her, but managed to restrain himself. She’d had a shock. “It’s actually not you. Not with me, and not with the people in charge at Helping Hands. Just because they didn’t like your management style, and just because you’re the newest and easiest to let go, that doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for the business of puppetry. I’ve seen you with marionettes. You have a gift. Now you just need to figure out how to turn that gift into a career.”

  “How?”

  He thought desperately. What would he do, if he were her? “Start somewhere small and secure, maybe. Set achievable goals, working with an eye toward the kind of job that offers financial security. Earn a paycheck at a crafts store, or a nine-to-five temporary position or somewhere like that, and get some volunteer experience with established artists? I don’t know the career path for a marionette artist, but I know what I saw last week. You have talent.”