by Lindsey Hart
“I see the first kitten,” Joe whispered excitedly. He leaned forward another inch, shoulders bunching under the loose cotton fabric of his grey t-shirt. He had on a pair of stained, faded jeans. They only accentuated the powerful, muscular legs underneath.
“Are you serious?” Charity nearly gasped and averted her eyes. She didn’t want to notice him like that. What they’d gone through hadn’t been about that. She was embarrassed that she should feel it at all, and so soon, the powerful attraction she’d felt from the first.
It’s just me admiring a handsome man. I have eyes and he is so… masculine. He was beautiful in a raw, hard way.
She swallowed hard, pushing down the heat settling in her stomach. It rose into her chest and flooded her limbs. She felt light and airy, heavy and weighed down all at once.
Coffee. That’s what they needed. She’d bought a kettle, one for the stovetop, the day before. The grounds were instant, but that was better than nothing in her books.
She stepped silently over to the stove and turned on a burner with a silent hiss of gas. Thankfully she’d had the foresight to fill the kettle with water out of the wretched hand pump the day before when she’d cleaned the kitchen. She’d had to put all her weight into getting the monstrosity working, but it was much easier once it was started.
She slid the black kettle onto the blue orange flame of the burner. She’d scoured the kitchen the day before, locating dishes, mugs, plates, utensils. She thought briefly about making something for breakfast but dismissed the idea. There was time for that later. The mini fridge was stuffed with groceries, the generator humming much more quietly than she thought it would, in the background behind the house.
The poor cat’s plaintive meows had drowned out the hum, sharp and stark and urgent in comparison to the steady, almost comforting hum.
“There’s a second.”
“Oh my god, I can’t look.” Charity pulled off the kettle before it was truly boiled. The water was crisp and fresh, the well likely one of those impossibly deep, sweet ones. It didn’t need to make a whistling racket. She poured the hot water into the two mugs and stirred until the grounds disappeared.
She liked her coffee black and since she hadn’t had the foresight to purchase sugar and wasn’t sure Joe liked cream, she left his that way too.
She waited, hands gripping the scarred butcher block top where the mugs rested. She glanced out the window, at the sun which was by then riding higher in the sky. The blazing yellow ball glowed brilliantly, illuminating the kitchen in its golden glow.
The streams from the window reached Joe. He was still bent over, a good distance from the box, but close enough to watch. She realized then, that he intended to help should anything go wrong. Even though he’d said he didn’t know what he was doing. He was willing to try. He didn’t want to leave the little mamma alone.
Charity’s heart melted. She picked up her mug and sipped at the coffee, leaning heavily against the counter, unable to tear her eyes away from the man before her.
Yes, he’s so damn beautiful. Not the way most people are. Not that way at all. She had to take a deep breath to calm her racing heart.
“There’s a third, and a fourth.” A few minutes passed. “There’s another one coming.” Joe waited, bent over while Charity held her breath, coffee forgotten. Finally, he backed away and straightened. “She’s cleaning them. Seems to be relaxed now. I think that’s probably it. I don’t know about what else to do…”
“I think she’ll take care of it. I don’t think we should disturb her. Animals are amazing. They know what to do all on their own.”
“Yes.” Joe smiled wistfully, sadly.
Charity’s heart ached for him. Ached at the confession torn from the bottom of his heart the afternoon before, about Ginny, about his child. He blinked, banishing the sadness. His eyes weren’t hard, but the softness left.
“I made coffee.” She indicated the mug. Joe glanced down at his bandaged hands. “Here. I’ll help you. It’s not that hot. You can probably just rest the top of your hand against the bottom.”
She handed over the mug, which wasn’t nearly close to full. It was lukewarm at best. She guided the mug over to where Joe could somewhat brace it on his hand. He raised it to his lips and sighed slowly as he sipped the dark liquid.
“That’s the shittiest coffee I’ve ever tasted,” he admitted. “But right now, it’s heavenly.”
Charity laughed softly. “Yes, well, instant never was very good.”
“I have a coffee maker somewhere. I think so…” he glanced around the kitchen. “God, I have no idea where it is. Maybe I smashed it. I can’t even remember. I seem to recall coming in here and wiping the counter clean with a sweep of my arm, sending everything flying.”
She didn’t tear her eyes away from his face. She sensed he needed this, this purging of all the pain he had built up in his soul. “Instant it is then. I can get another.”
“No, I can. I’ll buy a damn power bar so I can plug it into the extension cord that runs from the generator.”
“Actually, I have a better idea. I could buy good coffee and a coffee press. I’ve been meaning to get one for a while.”
Joe nodded slowly. He finished off the coffee in a few long pulls. He surprised her when he glanced in the direction of the backyard. “I was going to try and put the background on a few canvases today. Just in that room we were in yesterday. I thought that maybe… we could try painting outside again tomorrow.”
Charity watched Joe’s throat bob with a hard swallow. “Oh,” she breathed. “Alright. I have the day free then?”
“I suppose that you do.”
“I’ll clean up more of the backyard then if that’s where you want to paint. Maybe we can drag some piece of furniture out there so I don’t die in the hot sun, standing there for hours.”
His soft smile warmed her. “That would be nice.” A glimmer of fear entered his sky blue eyes. “I can’t make any promises…”
“It’s alright, Joe. I get it. I’ll work on the yard and clear a part where it’s not all ugly weeds. Just that much. I’ll come in and make lunch.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes. Lunch. People eat like three or four times a day. Usually.”
He raised a hand to his hair in distraction, before he remembered it was bandaged. “My hands,” he glanced down at the one he lowered. “They feel much better this morning. Hardly any pain at all.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I’ll check on the cat, while you’re outside.”
“What are you going to do with the kittens? Find them homes.”
Some deep, undefined emotion flared to life in Joe’s eyes. “I might just keep them. Could use a few cats to keep the mice down around here. It’s a little out of control. She came here. She could have gone anywhere, but she came here.” He flushed then, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about just the cat.
He turned abruptly and left Charity standing in the kitchen, her half cup of coffee, long cold, wavering in her trembling hand.
CHAPTER 12
Joe
He was almost afraid to step out into the backyard after what had happened. His hands, still bandaged, ached at the memory. His heart felt even worse.
It was nothing short of a miracle, the second one in two days, that Charity had actually made headway with the yard. She’d done what she’d said, cleared a small section. There was no green grass. The ground was dry and dusty. He could imagine it though. In truth, he had already painted the background. He’d included trees and there were none in sight either.
He helped charity move out the green sofa from the sitting room. It was solid and heavy and took all their strength to wrangle it out the front door. They had to drag it over the wrap around porch, the job made doubly difficult by the fact the damn thing was so rotten. The couch and the porch. Once it was out there, sitting as noble and proud as a ruined piece of hundred-year-old furniture could amidst dusty ground and heaps of dying gr
een brown weeds, he figured he’d just leave the damn thing to rot under the elements rather than drag it back inside.
“So.” Charity turned, wiping sweat from her brow.
She’d pumped herself a bath the night before, after all the yard work. He’d made himself scarce, locking himself in his room for the night. He’d tried hard not to think of Charity’s beautiful pale skin, her glorious curves and womanly body soaking wet in that tin tub. She glanced at him askance and Joe carefully studied the dirt at his foot. His work boots were covered with a fine brown layer from the ground and his jeans were smeared with grey dust from moving the couch.
“So?” He couldn’t look at her, afraid she’d read his thoughts. Thoughts that had no business popping into his head. Whatever had happened between them, opened the closed door of his heart. Or at least his eyes. He reacted viscerally to her beauty, as any normal man would.
“What do you want me to wear? I have this dress… it’s black. I got it from doing this runway show. One of the only other good jobs I’ve had. The pay was terrible but I got to keep it and it’s pretty- what do they call that stuff? Haute couture?”
“Okay…” He knew what that meant. He’d been raised in New York in a wealthy household. He’d seen his fair share of runway shows on TV.
“It’s pretty- risqué though. I only brought it because it seemed like something that if I was ever to wear again, this would be the only application. That or photographs for another shoot.”
“You couldn’t sell it?”
“That’s against the agency’s policy. I probably could try, once I’m not working for them any longer.”
“You’d risk it getting dirty on that couch? I’m going to assume that it’s not the cheapest dress in the world.”
“No. It’s worth three thousand, I think.” She smiled widely, and her face lit up. “I’m not afraid to get it dirty.”
“Alright.” A heavy, liquid heat built up in the pit of his stomach. Already the anticipation of seeing her in that damn dress was too much to bear. And not just because he couldn’t wait to see what it looked like on canvas. He shook his head, clearing the thoughts. “I’ll get everything ready.”
“Maybe we should use the front door. Stay out of the kitchen. Give Prissy some time to rest.”
“You’re right.” They’d used the front door with the couch to avoid going through the kitchen, which would have been far easier. Prissy, as Charity named the cat who wasn’t at all a priss, was happily nursing her kittens, or at least she had been when they checked on her that morning.
“Okay. I’ll be down shortly then. How do you want my hair?”
He didn’t even have to think about that. “Loose. Wear it down.”
“Should I wear something under the dress? A camisole or leggings?”
“No. Wear it how it was intended to be worn.” He stared down at his dusty boots, that damn heat like an explosion in his stomach, crawling up his throat. He was astounded and more than a little taken aback. He’d never expected to feel anything like it again in his lifetime.
“Alright,” Charity whispered shyly. She dodged around him quickly. She disappeared through the yard and soon her footsteps sounded on the wooden planks of the porch.
He gave her a minute before he returned to the house and gathered his supplies. He opted for a fresh canvas, the creamy white beckoning him to create. Beneath the bandages, his hands itched. He had planned on using one of the backgrounds he’d painted the day before, but instead decided just to wait. To wait and see Charity and that dress, already promised to be something spectacular.
No amount of forewarning could have prepared him for the vision that floated by him minutes later. Her scent, clean and fresh even without perfume, her hair glistening, gleaming like fiery gold in the sunlight, trailed thick and glorious down her back. The dress- god, that dress… It was something out of a damn fantasy novel. It was indeed something meant for the runway. It was all black lace-up top, barely obscuring the womanly swells of Charity’s breasts and the rosy-hued nipples. The skirt was full, all gauze and tulle. How she’d managed to bring that and hang it or air it out so it wasn’t rumpled, was beyond him.
She was barefoot, the hem of the dress lifted around her creamy calves to keep it from dragging in the dust.
Joe realized he was gaping. He quickly shut his mouth and stared down at his trembling hands. Stop gawking at her and start painting. Instruct her. That’s what she’s waiting for.
He finally forced his eyes up again and he nearly groaned at the sheer beauty in front of him. Charity had transformed into something that was akin to a goddess. She was completely unnatural, surreal, totally and utterly alive in his world of gothic decay.
“Please, sit. However, you wish. Drape the dress over your legs. I want it to spill around you. It looks like a sea.” A sea of black. Next to Charity’s pale skin, grey eyes and fiery hair, it was astounding how the black stood out. It was vivid in the same way a striking, bright color would have been.
Of course, she chose the most perfect, alluring pose. Without even meaning to. Joe carefully studied the canvas while she was settled. When he looked back up he found her on her side, her curves outlined by the dress, the lace straining against her full breasts, looser across her flat stomach, the tulle cloaking her curves, the long, graceful legs. Her toes stuck out at the end, rested against the arm of the couch. The back had three swells, the wood carved and intricate. It was really only the fabric that was ruined and whatever padding lay below.
Charity lay there like she didn’t care. Her eyes were closed in the perfect picture of serenity. He carefully kept his eyes trained on her face, not the revealing way the lace shifted over her breasts, nor the juncture between her thighs. She had on, underneath, only a pair of black panties. The black skirt did a good job of hiding them, but he knew they were there.
He was an artist. An artist, damn it. He shouldn’t be staring at her the way he was, taking in all her wondrous beauty, the womanhood that made her who she was. He shouldn’t be at all moved by it in any way that went beyond the act of painting itself.
And yet… he was. Of course, he was.
It was like, after a very long time of having them screwed tightly shut, his eyes were wide open. His eyes raked over the outline of her thigh and up, over the gentle slope of her hip once more. That damn tulle was so sheer… His gaze flew to her face, to those lovely, coral lips.
Charity opened her eyes. She smiled slowly, gently, as though giving him permission to look. There was an answering heat in those grey depths he was afraid to see. Afraid to answer. Even though his body cramped hard, painfully, in ways it hadn’t in years, he pushed the feeling back, the realization that he was still indeed a man and that he was very much alive as well.
His hand closed over the brush, hard, painfully. His palms stung, resisting as he picked up the brush. He liked the prickle of pain. It kept his mind where it should be and away from where it should not.
She continued to look at him, eyes shining. He saw no conceit there. She was merely curious. Joyful. Happy to be alive. Any heat in those depths, he realized, was for him.
Does she really not realize how beautiful she is? Could she truly not understand what she’s doing to me right now?
No. One chance glance up at her and he could tell that she had no idea. She wasn’t taunting or tempting. She was just sitting for him. Any joy she derived from the act was for him alone.
He dipped his brush and began. He was fast. Years of practice left him adept at creating. His long absence from brush and canvas hadn’t dampened his skill at all.
He’d dreamt the night before. Not like usual. The dream wasn’t harsh or frightening or painfully sad. He’d dreamt of Ginny, in the garden, but Charity was there as well. They were there together, laughing, like they would have been friends in real life, had they been given the chance to know each other. Ginny turned and extended a hand. The love in her eyes was overwhelming. She didn’t just reach for him though.
She held out her other hand and Charity moved, taking it, still laughing.
He woke shortly after, hot tears on his cheeks. It was so real, as his dreams always were. It was different though. The air surrounding the bed as he came back to reality was strange. There was no guilt. Just love. Just love and happiness. The happiness he was sure, for the first time since she’d died, that Ginny would have wanted him to feel.
It was like that day in the garden was a fresh start. He’d opened himself up and the horrible sorrow, guilt, all the dark blackness that haunted him and kept him from moving forward, spilled out, leaving behind a blank slate. A blank canvas that was his to paint life back onto once more.
“Joe?”
Charity’s voice brought his attention back to the painting. He realized he was just sitting there, unmoving. His eyes slowly met hers and those grey orbs were so filled with kindness it nearly shattered him. Her lips slowly curled into a tender smile and he found his, amazingly enough, answering.
His hands began to move again, flowing over the canvas, capturing, as best anyone could, the ethereal beauty before him. The woman who had so effortlessly swept into his life, captivated him, healed him, like she’d been sent there, an angel when he needed her most of all.
He saw as the colors flowed onto the canvas, Ginny taking Charity’s hand. He didn’t believe in that. Dreams. Signs. Angels. Not really. He was a natural skeptic, but he couldn’t help but be moved.
Whatever Charity was, she was there. With him. The fight had gone out of him. He was ready. Finally. If not to move on, then just to be. Be thankful. Be alive. To cherish the days instead of dreading them.
Hours later, when he was done, he set down his brush and stretched. His back ached, his hands burned and cramped. Charity looked like she needed to get up and move about as badly as he did.
“Are you done?” She raised a brow in expectation, eyes shining.
“Yes.”
“Can I see?”
He grinned, shocked at how easy it was to display happiness. Shocked at how readily he felt it. “Not until its dry. I might still change a few things here and there. It’s not perfect yet.”