Man at Work

by Elaine Fox

  “Marcy?” he called softly in the dark.

  For a fleeting moment she imagined him coming toward her in the dark of an English cottage garden for all those romantic reasons Trish was so afraid of. He would call to her just like that, his voice soft and urgent on the autumn air. She envisioned it all like a stolen moment in a Victorian woman’s diary…forbidden love.

  Her stomach flipped once.

  She straightened out of the car. “Yeah.” Her coarse American voice burst the bubble of her reverie. She punched the button on her key to lock the car and slammed her door shut.

  “I was watching for you,” he said as she rounded the front of her car. “I thought you might be nervous, you know, in this neighborhood.”

  She held the skirt of her gown up slightly with one hand as she stepped over the curb and, natural as could be, he reached for her other hand to assist her. She paused, startled, and looked at her hand in his. A pretty courtly gesture for a construction worker, she thought, moving forward again.

  “Let’s go in.” He led her up the walk a few paces, letting go of her hand as they neared the entrance to the building. As she started to move ahead of him, he, seeming to think twice, preceded her through the door.

  They entered his apartment and the first thing she noticed was that the hole in the couch had been mended. Not in any attractive way—a sheet folded around the cushion and secured with duct tape to contain the foam—but still, it helped the look of the room considerably.

  Marcy clutched her wrap around her shoulders and stopped just inside the door. The rest of the place was cleaner, too. No dirty dishes, no shoes on the floor, the TV was off and pushed into a corner. Not that the place had looked that bad last time. Just typical guy mess. But what had struck her, later, as she’d been thinking about it, was the lack of anything of a personal nature. No pictures, no knick-knacks of any kind, no radio, no magazines or newspapers, not even any tools. It was as if he’d landed there with just the clothes on his back.

  “Come on in,” he said, edging around her into the living room.

  In the light she could see that he wore an unwrinkled shirt and his hair was brushed. He didn’t look at her, so she had an ample moment to realize anew that she’d lied outright to Trish. This guy was handsome, haircut and shave be damned.

  He glanced up at her as she stepped further into the room and she looked away. Which is when she noticed there was no sign of the dog. Marcy felt a sudden fear. Had she run away? Had he gotten rid of her? If he’d taken her to the pound without telling her she’d kill him.

  She glared at him. “Where’s Folly?”

  He motioned toward the back of the apartment. “She’s in the bedroom. I knew you’d be all dressed up and her manners ar—ain’t what they should be yet, so I put her away.”

  “I’d like to see her,” Marcy insisted, awash with worry that he no longer had the pup and was afraid to tell her.

  Truman’s gaze dipped slowly to her dress, then jerked back up. “You sure?”

  “Of course.” She looked around for the bedroom door. She hadn’t even realized there was a bedroom. Since the kitchen was the only other visible room she’d assumed the place was an efficiency.

  “Okay. Be right back.” He headed back through the kitchen.

  She watched him go, noting the way his hair fell into thick burnished layers in back. He’d once had a decent cut, it looked like.

  A second later the frantic scratching of nails on the floor sounded before Folly apparently gained her footing and came charging into the room.

  Marcy bent down and caught the puppy as she bounded toward her, smiling and petting and scratching the dog as she wound around her, tail flapping against her dress, the wall, the furniture.

  “Well, at least the fur’s black,” Truman said. “It’ll match your dress.”

  “She’s grown so much!” Marcy held her chin up as Folly tried to lick her on the mouth. The pup was so exuberant she had to laugh. “What a handful! I’d say some obedience classes are in your future, missy.” She scratched vigorously behind the dog’s ears. Folly appeared to grin.

  After a minute, Marcy looked up to see Truman watching her, on his lips a slight smile.

  Marcy rose and Folly leaned up against her, begging for more. “So, where shall we do this? Have you got a kitchen table?”

  “I thought we could do it out here.” He gestured toward the couch. “It’s more, uh, comfortable, believe it or not. I’ve got a pad and pencil, if you need it.”

  “Great, thanks.” Marcy gathered up her skirt and pulled her wrap up her arms from where it had slid down her shoulders.

  “Do you want me to take that? Your shawl?”

  She imagined letting him take it, imagined sitting there on the sofa naked from the cleavage up. “That’s all right. I’ll hang on to it. I’m a little chilly.”

  He frowned. “I’d turn up the heat but, you know, it’s…I don’t have any control. I’m usually hot here, myself, but I guess I usually wear more than…” His gaze dropped to the low bodice of the dress and his hand went palm up. “…that.”

  Marcy pulled the shawl closer around her. She should have changed before she came, she thought. What an idiot. It wouldn’t have been that hard, she could have stuffed some jeans and a T-shirt into a bag and changed at the hotel. But noooo. She had to see that enticed look on Truman’s face again and now she was paying for it. She felt like a tease.

  She cleared her throat. “You said you had paper?”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” He turned and headed back to the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I don’t have much.”

  She heard a refrigerator door open.

  “Just water would be good,” she called. If he tried to offer her wine she’d turn it down. She didn’t want him getting any kind of wrong idea.

  “No problem. That’s about all I’ve got anyway. Unless you like Budweiser.”

  That was not disappointment she felt, she told herself. Besides, if he’d actually bought wine it probably would have come in a box. Which, she admonished herself, would only further illuminate the vast differences in their chosen paths.

  “No thanks,” she said firmly.

  “I’ll just put Folly back in the bedroom, too,” he said from the kitchen. “I’ll be right in. Come on, Folly.” He whistled a short, distinctive signal.

  Folly leapt up from Marcy’s side and trotted into the kitchen.

  Marcy started to protest, but stopped. They’d get more done if she wasn’t distracted by the puppy. And she had a sudden sense she should try to get this done quickly.

  After a second Marcy noticed in the corner of the room, beside where the TV had been stowed, a short corner shelf upon which three books lay. They were leather bound and incongruously handsome in the dimly lit apartment. She was about to get up and investigate when Truman reappeared with a glass of water, a yellow legal pad, and a Bic pen.

  They got down to business quickly, Marcy taking copious notes on all that he’d come up with. Initially, she’d been dismayed to discover his list had been written on a napkin, but as it turned out that didn’t cheapen his information. If anything, it was more than she’d hoped for.

  Dozens of OSHA violations, a safety supervisor who worked a crew of men rather than supervising the site, the possibility (rumor had it, according to Truman) that someone had fallen from the first floor for the exact same reason the month before, and—the pièce de résistance—Truman seemed fairly certain the subcontractor who employed Burton had specifically asked for railings on that third floor and had met with a hostile attitude—from Lang, of course.

  Marcy’s heart skipped with glee at the strength the case was gaining. She asked Truman question after question, her mind racing with all the Planners-damaging points she was accruing, when she thought she saw Truman hiding a yawn.

  “I’m sorry.” She put the pen down on the coffee table and pulled the yellow sheets on which she’d written back over the top of the pad. “I’ve kept y
ou way too long. What time is it, anyway?”

  He pushed his arm out as if to reveal a watch under his sleeve but there was nothing there.

  He grinned sheepishly. “Must have left it by the bed. Let me check.”

  He got up and went back toward the kitchen. Marcy rose too, her limbs stiff from sitting so long, and let the shawl drop to the couch. He was right, it was warm in here. She grabbed her empty water glass and headed for the kitchen, more curious about the rest of the apartment than she was thirsty.

  Even though she heard the rustle of her silk dress as she moved through the dingy apartment she had an odd sense of déjà vu, and it wasn’t comfortable. She’d grown up in an apartment like this one, only it had been crammed full of the detritus of five people. But the peeling paint, the scratched, creaking floors, the crookedly hung doors, and the smell of other families’ dinners were all dreadfully familiar.

  Truman’s kitchen was tiny, but very clean. She moved to the faucet, sensing there would be no bottled water in the fridge, and filled the glass, looking around herself as the water ran.

  A box of corn flakes stood next to a small bag of sugar on the counter. A roll of white paper towels, no holder, lay next to the sink. A bar of soap and some generic dish detergent were next to the faucet. There, on the sill of a dirt-shrouded window, stood a paper cup rooting an offshoot from a spider plant.

  She felt drawn to this last, and walked over to the plant to touch its tender green leaves. The cup was full of water and a few roots had emerged from the cutting.

  So there were two touches of humanity in the place, she thought. The books in the living room and this tiny nurturing attempt at plant life. For some reason it touched her.

  Truman emerged from the bedroom. He looked startled to see her in the kitchen but recovered quickly and leaned one hip against the counter. She took a sip of water.

  “So you think you got what you need?” he asked.

  She looked up into his eyes and saw again that look of admiration that had so gratified her earlier in the evening. She looked down into her glass, remembered she’d left her wrap in the living room and felt all too aware of the short space between them, not to mention the fact that she could not leave the small kitchen without him moving to let her by.

  “Yes, it’s excellent information. Thank you so much.” She met his gaze again. “On behalf of Mr. Burton, thank you. This will help him immeasurably.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. “I wasn’t particularly trying to help Burton.”

  She swallowed. “Well, for whatever reason, you did the right thing. You’ll help stop Planners from continuing any unsafe practices.”

  He smiled Oh, I doubt that.”

  She warmed under that smile, noting the way it crinkled his clear gray eyes and caused those deep dimples to appear. She found herself smiling back. Too late, she realized the moment had lengthened as he held her gaze, and she wasn’t sure what to do. She felt as if he’d gotten hold of her glance and would not let it go. She cast about for something to say but there was not one thought in her head.

  He shifted. She thought he was going to leave the kitchen and end this uncomfortable moment, but instead he moved toward her. One hand reached out and touched her arm.

  Marcy felt as if she were underwater. As if any move she made would be slow and ineffectual, so she held still, in a state of suspended animation until whatever he would do next.

  His fingers closed around her arm and he gently pulled her toward him. She moved slightly, enthralled as much with what he was doing as her body’s electrified response to it.

  His right hand took her other arm and the heat from his skin on hers made her flush. She parted her lips, suddenly in need of more air.

  His palms ran up her arms and rested on her shoulders. His left hand fingered the strap of her gown, then let it go. Somewhere in her mind she thought she should stop this, but it was so late, and so dark, and this night and this apartment and this man seemed so far away from her present life that she had the odd sense that it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Then his hand moved to cup her cheek, and suddenly he was kissing her.

  She felt the shock of his lips on hers and her body reacted of its own accord. Her lips opened, inviting him in, and his arm snaked around her back. She put her hands up to maintain her balance and they found his chest. Her fingers curled involuntarily into the flannel material of his shirt.

  His tongue invaded her mouth. She bent her head back, which pressed her body up against his, and his hand pushed into her hair, loosening the chignon.

  Marcy’s heart galloped and every nerve ending reached out, grasping at the contact, longing to be touched. His right hand slid up her back as their mouths fused and melded, his fingers touched the bare skin between her shoulder blades, and she shuddered with pleasure.

  Then the shriek of a car alarm pierced the night.

  Marcy pushed back so fast Truman’s hand got caught in her hair and pulled the chignon netting loose, spilling her hair onto her shoulders.

  He pulled his hand back, the net caught on a finger.

  “We can’t do this,” she gasped, pressing her palms down her sides as if to straighten the jumbled mess of nerves beneath her skin.

  “Why not?” His eyes were probing, his voice low.

  She couldn’t look at him, could not believe what she’d just allowed to happen.

  She swallowed. Her heart raced and her skin tingled with such desire even her shock could not squelch it. If she were drunk or anonymous, she thought, she’d throw herself right back into his arms. She’d never felt anything so powerful as the draw to be touched by him.

  “You’re a witness.” The final word hissed out between her mortified lips.

  “I haven’t agreed to that.” He was still so close she could hear him breathing after the low-spoken words.

  “Well, I haven’t agreed to this.” She looked up then, to find him gazing down on her, his eyes shimmering with desire.

  What was she doing?

  “I think you have,” he said then.

  His hand moved as if to touch her again and she took a quick step back. He held out the net that had secured her hair. She snatched it back and folded both hands around it.

  “I can subpoena you.” She forced herself to hold his gaze. “After everything you’ve told me tonight, I can force you to testify.”

  He looked at her and the expression in his eyes was oddly kind. “But you won’t.”

  “How do you know? Why won’t I?”

  “Because your case doesn’t need a hostile fact witness.”

  She swallowed hard. He was right. Apparently they both knew that if she did subpoena him he could go in there and do what every other hostile witness would do who didn’t mind perjuring himself. He’d just say he didn’t know anything.

  Then something occurred to her. “Wait a minute. How do you even know what a hostile fact witness is?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “I watch a lot of TV. You know, The Practice.”

  He reached his hand out again, let his fingers touch the skin of her arm.

  She took a deep breath. “Please don’t do this. I can’t do this.”

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  She looked up at him and knew her expression was surprised. “No. But…I have a boyfriend.”

  He gave her a skeptical look.

  She threw her hands out to the side. “All right, I don’t have a boyfriend, but I cannot get involved with you. I need you for this case, for one thing. You know I won’t compel you to testify but you’ve helped me so far. Surely you intended to continue by testifying.”

  He studied her intently for a moment, his jaw working as if he were trying to come to a decision. “If you can’t find anyone else and you decide your case really needs my testimony, then I’ll do it. But only if you do all you can to do without it first.”

  She nodded. “Sure, yeah, okay.” They looked at each other for a l
ong moment and, God help her, she wanted nothing more than to kiss him again. “Will you let me go now?”

  His brows drew together. “I never stopped you.” His voice was gentle and she knew, as she’d known all along, that he wouldn’t and hadn’t stopped her from leaving.

  She looked pointedly at the narrow space between his body and the door anyway.

  He followed her gaze, then took a quick step back, gesturing for her to leave the kitchen, if that’s what she wanted.

  She took a deep breath and moved quickly past him, into the living room.

  Here the sound of the car alarm was much louder and the obvious finally struck her.

  She spun around to look at him coming from the kitchen behind her. “That’s my car alarm.”

  6

  Monday, October 14

  WORD-A-DAY!

  PERENDINATE: v., to defer day by day; the way one might put off, say, deciding about a man until the next time one sees him, or perhaps the time after that…

  “Hello, you have reached the Paglinowski residence. I can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Thank you.”

  Beep.

  “Uh, Marcy, hi. It’s Tru. Fleming. Listen, I want to apologize for Friday night. I’m really sorry about what happened. It was completely my fault. Not the window. The, uh, you know, [throat clearing] the kiss. Though I’m sorry about your car window, too. I just want you to know that it won’t happen again, believe me, I know that. It can’t happen again, so don’t worry about that. The kiss, that is. Hell, anything could happen to your car. [uncomfortable laugh] Um, so, I guess that’s all I wanted to say. To apologize. I just want you to know I really mean it. Oh, and I hope you got your window fixed. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. Okay then, ah…Bye.”

  “So, you’re the new guy?” A short, bulky man with curly brown hair and an Irish look to his features strode over to Truman. Around them the simultaneous sounds of a jackhammer, a crane, and a nail gun cluttered the air.

  “Tru Fleming.” Truman held out his hand and the shorter man took it in a stout, thick-fingered grip.