“You won’t find anything like it at this price,” Mrs. Goldman said. “With a little work and a fresh coat of paint, it can be turned into a showplace.”
Casey looked dubiously at Danny, read his eyes. “My wife and I will talk it over,” he told Helen Goldman. “We’ll call you tomorrow.” But Casey knew he’d already made up his mind.
On the ride back to her father’s house, he was already talking about what he could do with the place. “Sweetheart,” she said gently, “I hate to be a wet blanket, but do you realize how much work is involved? The place is a disaster.”
“I’m not afraid of work.”
“That wasn’t what I meant. It can take a long time to restore an old house. You may get very tired of it before it’s finished.”
“I need something to do with my hands. And Jesse’s offered to help.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Then you’re planning to do the work yourself?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
“I think, my love, that it’s a very ambitious undertaking for a guy who doesn’t know an allen wrench from a monkey wrench.”
“Hey, Jess, do you think she’s casting aspersions on my city upbringing?”
Jesse signaled for a left turn. “It sure does sound like it,” he said.
“That’s hitting below the belt, lady. I spent two years in the Army—”
“Where you learned everything you always wanted to know about plumbing, but were afraid to ask.”
“What I learned,” he said, “is that I’ve already been to hell. And after hell, anything else is a piece of cake.”
Six weeks later, they closed on the property and began the gargantuan task of making the house livable. Once the exterminator had done his thing, they started cleaning. The floors, the woodwork, the kitchen counters, the bathroom fixtures, all had to be disinfected, and Casey scrubbed until her knuckles bled. The pipes were old and rusty, and until they could be replaced, she and Danny carried their drinking water from her father’s place. They had insulation blown in, replaced both toilets, discovered in the upstairs bath a handsome antique claw-foot tub that some enterprising soul had boxed in with plywood.
Life that summer fell into a routine, slow and easy and comfortable. Mornings, as the sun peered over the horizon, she ran her six miles to the tune of birdsong. By the time she got back, Danny was up and Jesse had arrived and the two men were already at work, hammering and sawing, tearing at the plumbing, rerouting ancient wiring and installing new fixtures. With the help of her nephew Mikey and a couple of his prepubescent friends, Casey sanded and refinished hardwood floors, replastered walls, painted woodwork and ceilings, hung wallpaper. To Danny’s everlasting horror, when they got to the roof, she climbed the ladder and straddled the ridgepole and nailed shingles with unerring accuracy. And then she and Mikey spent two backbreaking weeks scraping the clapboards in preparation for painting.
She grew strong and wiry and tanned, amazed by her self-efficacy, proud of the new skills she’d learned. And one rainy afternoon, when Danny had gone with Jess to Farmington to pick up some gadget that Mason’s Hardware didn’t carry, she drove into town, to Shelley’s Cut ‘n Curl, and had Shelley Mainwaring cut off the hair she’d worn hanging to her waist since seventh grade. Shelley shortened it to just above the collar, layered in the back, rounding to a modified ducktail, with wispy bangs in front. The cut gave her a waiflike look, emphasizing her cheekbones and magnifying the size of her eyes. Casey stared in stunned amazement at the total stranger who stared back at her from Shelley’s mirror. She would probably have to pick Danny up off the floor and revive him, but the deed was done, and she felt twenty pounds lighter.
Danny’s mouth fell open when he saw her, and he turned slightly green. Even Jesse looked stunned, but both men knew better than to say anything negative. She knew that for some inexplicable reason, men had a tendency to build erotic fantasies around long hair. But it was her body, her decision, and she was comfortable with it. Danny would have to live with it.
And he did. She knew he wasn’t happy about it, but he respected her decision. They were different people than they’d been before, their relationship in transition. They were feeling their way now, step by torturous step. Slowly, painfully, she was learning that her own needs were as important as his. And slowly, painfully, he was learning that he couldn’t always think of himself first. They were refining themselves, smoothing rough edges, making adjustments and improvements to the solid core already inside each of them. The result was a contentment that would have been perfect if not for the inescapable, gnawing feeling inside her that something was missing from her life.
It struck her at odd times, this sensation of unmet need, and she puzzled over what could be lacking. There was an empty spot inside her that was clamoring to be filled, only she had no idea how to fill it. She toyed with the idea of going back to school. Adopting a baby. Taking up ceramics, or carpentry. Getting a job. But none of these came near to quelling the restlessness that had taken hold of her.
When she and Mikey finished scraping the house, she took him to Boston for a week as payment for his hours of hard work. They saw the sea lion show at the Aquarium, climbed Bunker Hill, gazed out at the world from the top of the Pru. Spent an entire day at the Museum of Science. Ate dim sum in Chinatown, attended a Red Sox game, saw a Bryan Adams concert at the Garden.
She pampered and spoiled him, sparing no expense, and with typical twelve-year-old fervor, he wore her out. She’d always adored her nephew, and she loved every exhausting minute. But the high point of her week was the afternoon she spent in Mary MacKenzie’s back yard, drinking iced tea with Mary and Rose and looking at faded family photos while Mikey roller-skated out front with Rose’s boy, Luke, who was also twelve, and a holy terror.
She returned to a house that was barely recognizable. While she’d been away, Danny and Jess had begun painting the old Gothic Revival the warm cream color that she had picked out. The shutters, freshly painted Wedgwood blue, leaned against the side of the barn. Danny meandered over to the car, shirtless, paint-spattered and deeply tanned, and leaned in the open window to kiss her. “So, Mrs. Fiore,” he said, “what do you think?”
She toyed with a strand of his hair. “I think, Mr. Fiore, that you look good enough to eat.”
He hunkered down beside the car so they were at eye level. His eyes were still the bluest she’d ever seen. Wryly, he said, “I was talking about the house.”
“Oh.” And she smiled. “The house.” She looked past him to where Jesse was standing atop an aluminum extension ladder at one peaked gable. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I can’t believe how far it’s come.”
“If you saw the back side, you wouldn’t say that. But it’s coming along nicely.”
She adjusted her sunglasses. “What happened to my rosebushes?”
“We had to cut them. Don’t worry. Jesse promised me that they’ll be back next year.”
“They’d better, or you’ll both die a slow and painful death.”
There were further surprises inside. They’d found time to install the new countertop, and the shiny new stainless steel sink was up and running. And brim-full of dirty dishes. Some things never changed. Casey went upstairs to unpack, then came back down and tackled the pile of dirty dishes that awaited her.
The view from her kitchen window was spectacular. It faced north, down along the valley toward Dad’s, overlooking pine groves and pastures and in the distance the broad, shimmering river. She was halfway through the sinkful of dishes when a bright red compact car labored up the steep driveway and stopped beside her BMW. The driver’s door opened, and Rob MacKenzie unfolded his lanky body from behind the steering wheel.
And something cool and fluid went zing at the base of her spine.
A woman got out of the passenger door, tall and blond and athletic, dressed in L.L. Bean chic: loose khaki hiking shorts, a plaid shirt, and work boots that had never seen work. Rob grinned as Danny approached
the car, and the two of them began talking animatedly. Casey could hear the rise and fall of voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Danny held out a hand to the woman, realized it was covered with paint, and shrugged apologetically. The woman shook his hand anyway, and then the three of them stood looking at the house while Danny talked and gestured and pointed.
Normally, she would have rushed outside to greet Rob with a hug. This time, some inexplicable something held her back. She returned to her sinkful of dishes as the trio on the lawn moved out of sight around the corner of the house. Outside her open window, a fat bumblebee buzzed, and in back where the black-eyed Susans grew, Mikey and a friend shouted back and forth. Inside the cool quiet of the house, the kitchen clock ticked, and then the door to the shed opened and footsteps approached the kitchen, footsteps she would have recognized anywhere. They stopped in the doorway. “Holy mother of God, woman,” he said. “You’ve been scalped.”
One soapy hand went to her hair. She stepped away from the sink, wondering what he thought, hoping he’d like it, wondering why it mattered. He was looking at her as though she’d just landed from another planet, and she tried to read past the disbelief in those familiar green eyes to whatever else was there. “Turn around,” he said softly. “Let’s see.”
Like an obedient child, she made a slow, 360-degree turn. “This is scary,” he said, “but I think I could pass you on the street and not recognize you.”
“You hate it,” she said.
“No! No, really, I love it. It does something to your face. It’s like—” He paused, still looking stunned. “Remember those paintings of the puppies and the kittens with the great big eyes?”
“So what you’re saying, MacKenzie, is that I look like an animal.”
“Come on, Fiore, you know damn well you could put on war paint and a football helmet and you’d still be gorgeous. You just look so different. I—wow.”
“So where’s my hug?”
He opened his arms and she embraced him fiercely. He felt lean and wiry, his heartbeat strong and steady against her chest. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much,” she said. He placed a hand on the back of her neck, just beneath what was left of her hair. His skin was warm against hers. Outside the window, Danny was telling the blonde about the claw-footed bathtub upstairs. “You smell so good,” Casey whispered.
“Me?” he said in mock astonishment.
“Yes,” she said, wondering why it was that she felt so right when she was with him. “You.”
“Geez, Fiore, it must be the sexy new cologne I’m wearing.”
“You’re not wearing cologne.” Confused by the jumble of emotions she was feeling, she realized it was time to disengage. She took a step backward and he released her immediately. “So,” she said briskly, “who’s your lady friend?”
“Her name’s Christine. She’s a lawyer with the L. A. County D.A.’s office.”
She raised both eyebrows. “I’m impressed, MacKenzie. You’ve moved up to the big leagues.”
He shrugged. “She’s a good kid,” he said dismissively.
“So what are you doing in this neck of the woods?”
“She has a cousin who’s getting married in Camden the day after tomorrow. I figured since we were coming to Maine anyway....” He ran out of words, stood there staring at her. “Jesus,” he said, “I still can’t believe how different you look.”
She held out a hand. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
She gave him the deluxe tour, cellar to attic. “The place is a disaster right now,” she said as they ascended the stairs to the second floor. “Even worse than usual, because I just got home from a week in Boston.”
He reached out a finger and wiped plaster dust from the banister. “I know,” he said absently. “Mom said you stopped by.”
“Your mother’s a sweetheart,” she said.
“That’s what she says about you.” He looked around the upstairs hall. “So you and the Italian stallion did all this?”
“With a little help from our friends. I sanded and refinished all the hardwood floors.” She grimaced. “What a job that was. And I painted the ceilings and the woodwork and the doors. Come see the bedroom. You’ll love the paper.”
***
After dinner, while Danny and Christine Hamilton matched wits against each other with a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit, Casey and Rob wandered off to the living room with a bottle of wine and two jelly glasses. The hours flew by as they caught each other up on the last few months of their lives. The house grew dark and quiet, and they still hadn’t run out of things to say when Danny finally came downstairs to drag his wife off to bed.
“Casey?”
They both looked up in surprise at the sound of his voice. He was standing in semi-darkness at the foot of the stairs, wearing nothing but his Calvins. “Hello, darling,” Casey said, and smothered a yawn.
“It’s almost one-thirty.” Danny rubbed a hand across his bare chest. “Aren’t you coming to bed tonight?”
Casey looked at the mantel clock. “So it is,” she said. “I had no idea it was so late.”
“It’s my fault,” Rob said. “We were shooting the bull and we lost track of time.”
“I’ll be right up. Just let me get things taken care of down here—”
“Go,” Rob said. “I’ll clean up and turn out the lights.”
When she reached the foot of the stairs, Danny wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “See you in the morning,” he said to Rob.
Rob saluted with his glass. “G’night,” he said, and watched them climb the stairs together.
Directly above his head, he could hear their footsteps, Casey’s light, Danny’s heavier, as they got ready for bed. He poured himself another glass of Chablis. The footsteps stilled, and Rob took a long, slow swallow. The house was old, the walls thin. He sat one floor below them, jelly glass in hand and a hollow, empty feeling in his gut, and listened to the unmistakable sound of them making love.
He knew he should get up, leave the room, go outdoors if that was what it took, but he was rooted to the spot, nailed in place by some masochistic need to torture himself. They were being quiet, but he could still hear every soft, breathy cry, every hushed moan. He pictured her face, transformed into blurred softness by passion, and something knotted up in his belly. Above his head, the bedsprings began to creak with a steady, unmistakable rhythm. His fingers tightened on the jelly glass as the sounds coming from upstairs grew louder, seeming to go on forever before they finally reached a crescendo, and the creaking of the bedsprings slowed. Silenced. Rob drained the rest of his Chablis in a single gulp.
He put away the bottle of wine, left the jelly glasses, hers and his, in the sink. Turned off the lights and shut the guest room door, stripped off his clothes and crawled into bed with Chris. He pressed himself up against her backside, kissed her awake, and without speaking, rolled her onto her back.
It didn’t take long. Chris fell asleep again almost immediately, but he lay awake, still unsatisfied, the world’s biggest hypocrite. Stay away from her, he told himself. She’s Danny’s wife. Get the hell out and don’t come back. There was only one sensible thing to do: pack his belongings the first thing tomorrow morning and head directly to Camden and Chris’s cousin’s house, putting as many miles as possible between himself and both of the Fiores.
But in the morning, he was sitting on the back steps, lacing up his Nikes, when Casey came out for her morning run. “Good morning!” she said. “What are you doing up so early?”
He gave her that little-boy grin, the one that always seemed to melt women right where they stood. “Waiting for you,” he said.
She rocked from one foot to the other, wearing a beatific smile and that pixie haircut that made her look about twelve years old. “Up for a long run this morning?” she said.
“Are you kidding, Fiore? I can outdistance you any day.”
“Oh, really? We’ll see about that.”
It was a spec
tacular morning, ripe with birdsong and deep shadows, dew weighing heavy on the grass. He matched his pace and his breathing to hers. Sublimation. Running was hard, sweaty, physical activity that made the lungs ache and the heart hammer and left the body in a state of satiation. Running was something they shared with each other and nobody else. It didn’t take a Freudian scholar to figure out the connection.
He couldn’t remember when he’d seen her looking this good. Strong and tanned and muscular. Exotic, her entire face changed with the new haircut. The same woman, only different. Healthier. Stronger. Better. Casey Fiore had always been a pretty woman. Now, in her thirties, she’d matured beyond pretty into a full-blown ripeness that had never been there before, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
They took a route that was unfamiliar to him, winding among hills and valleys and pastures, across brooks and bridges and past a primeval bog with blackened tree stumps poking out of murky water. Past cattle that stared at them with vacant brown eyes, past a covey of wild ducks who arose as one from their watery nest, wings thrashing as they honked a protest at the disturbance. He was used to running on flat land, and even at a moderate pace, he had to push himself to keep up with her in these western Maine hills.
She threw him a knowing glance. “Ready to quit?” she said.
He grinned. “Are you?”
They’d always pushed each other this way, prodded each other to excel. “Let’s take a break,” she said, and dropped onto the grassy shoulder of the road. He flopped down beside her, flat on his back, staring up into the cloudless blue heavens. “Woman,” he said, arching his back and stretching like a cat, “you’re a killer.”
She broke off a long blade of grass and ran the tip of it playfully across the two inches of bare belly his stretching had revealed. “Don’t,” he said. “It tickles.”
“That’s the idea.”
“You’re asking for trouble,” he said lazily.
“Are you kidding, Flash? I make trouble happen.”
Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series) Page 31