Cypress Nights (7 page)

Roche was emerging from the carport, slapping dirt from his hands.

He looked up at her, smiled, and Bleu panicked.

“Thank you,” she said, as loudly as she could. “See you later. Bye.”

Standing inside the closed door, listening for the sound of Roche's engine, Bleu hated what she had become.

S
tay or leave? Roche took about sixty seconds to make up his mind.

He walked toward the steps and let out one of his best, piercing whistles. When he and Max had been kids, they'd worked hard on their whistles and the result was impressive.

“Bleu!” He shouted her name full force, which was also impressive. “The door blew shut!”

Frozen a few feet from the window where she could see Roche below, his thumbs in his pockets, Bleu couldn't believe what he was doing. Despite feeling a bit like a butterfly pinned to a board, she shivered with excitement at his audacity.

This man wasn't like any other she'd known. Her husband had ruled her with threats, pain and humiliation. He had used fear. Roche wanted his own way. He pushed ahead with wicked charm, when most people would back off. But she didn't want him to quit.

Suddenly he threw his arms wide and yelled,
“Stellaaa!” and then looked around like a kid who just broke someone's window.

Bleu slapped a hand over her mouth. Either she was making the best decision she'd ever made, or she was about to do something she would forever regret.

She opened the door again.

“Hey, thanks,” he said, and climbed steps toward her. “First, I need to wash my hands, then I'm going to proposition you.” He grinned.

She had to smile back. And she relaxed. He was no threat.

She stood aside and he blew past into the hall where heat had already built up.

As soon as he was inside, he said, “You don't have air-conditioning?”

“Oh, yes, but it's not on unless I'm here.”

He walked ahead toward the kitchen, turned on the faucets and lathered his hands. “You're here now. You shouldn't have to come into an overheated house when you're tired. I don't just mean now. Any day when you've finished work, heat like this will only stress you out.”

She saw him as the man he was—privileged, or at least unfamiliar with the need to watch how much you spent. “I'm sure you're right,” she said. “But it's wasteful to cool an empty house for hours. When I can get a dog, I'll have to use it then.”

He held his hands out in front of him and looked around. A towel hung over the oven handle but apparently he didn't see it. He was used to other people anticipating his needs. Bleu had known another, if very different man, who expected the same service. She wouldn't go there again.

“Sorry,” he said. “It's probably right in front of me, but could you tell me where the towel is?”

“It's over here,” she told him, feeling small-minded.

He saw where she was heading and beat her to the oven. “Wow, that feels good,” he said, chafing at his hands and arms. “It's probably more expensive to keep turning the air on and off than keeping it steady.”

She felt as if Roche filled the kitchen, just as he seemed to fill every space where they encountered one another. Rather than look any closer at him, standing in sunlight through the window, she scooted to put the air-conditioning on. Fortunately, it responded quickly.

Roche felt cold air blast from a vent over his head and turned his face up to enjoy it. He was smooth, but not so smooth that Bleu wouldn't know he was going to pressure her to spend some time with him. Unsettling her was not fun, but this woman had issues and if he let her, she would slide into her cocoon again and any further attempts to reach her would only get more difficult. He intended to reach all of her.

“It cools down fast,” she said, coming back to him. “I'm sorry it was uncomfortable.”

“Why are you sorry?” he said automatically.

“Because you were uncomfortable.” Her hands came together as they did so often and she laced her fingers hard enough to turn the knuckles white.

“You didn't want me in your home. I barged in. The only person who's comfort matters around here is yours.”

He knew he should go, but he didn't want to.

Suddenly, she smiled. “You're welcome here.” Her face brightened and her green eyes flashed. She tossed her hair back.

“That's a killer smile, Bleu.” A catch in his throat surprised him.

“Is that a compliment?” she asked.

“I guess so. It means that your smile slays me, it's so beautiful. You look sad too often. You were meant to laugh a lot.”

“Hah.” She lifted her hair off her neck and pointed her chin at the cool air still pouring into the room. “I like the way you think. No one ever said that to me before.”

“They should have.” Watching her, the lines of her profile and neck, the tender underside of her uplifted arm—such a slender arm—turned his skin cold, set his brain on fire. He'd like to see her dance, naked, without her knowing he was near. He could watch her endlessly.

What he really wanted was to have his hands on her, and his body. Painting her skin with something warm and wet, smoothing her breasts and belly, sweeping down between her legs, molding her with his fingers…. She would flush while he aroused her, and soon she'd be urging herself against him, asking for more.

He must go. Now.

“It's a beautiful day,” she said, dropping her arms and putting her hands on her hips. She swayed a little, setting the hem of her dress flipping about her pretty legs.

No pat answer came to mind. The battle with his sex drive was on. He couldn't lose this time, or ever again.

“Thank you for staying with me this morning,” she said. “I try to be tough, but I need people as much as anyone does. The least you deserve for putting up with me is some fresh coffee. You couldn't have had enough, of anything, not with all the interruptions at All Tarted Up. Sit at the table.”

He sat where she said, at a round, light-wood table with matching chairs. It would be classified as 1950s retro. She must polish the table regularly. The furniture he could see was all older, but well-kept and from the same era. There
was a large lime-green phone with a dial on the counter, and she had a corner booth that was classic Coca Cola diner. He made a guess at its purpose and decided she must use it as some sort of conversation nook.

Bleu couldn't have much money to play with. He'd never thought about that before, but on the kind of salary she would draw from a little parish like St. Cecil's, she would have to spend carefully—unless she had another source of income. He doubted she did.

“Orange juice?” she said, taking a jug from the refrigerator.

“Please,” he said. Making sure she never had to worry about money again would bring him a lot of pleasure.

She put a glass in front of him and stood to drink from her own. With her head tilted back, her throat moved visibly. He wanted to touch her there so badly.

Go home, Roche, before you blow it.

Bleu finished her juice. She put the back of her hand to her mouth, then giggled at herself. “Sorry, I'm so used to being alone I forget my manners sometimes. The coffee won't be long. Do you take anything in it?”

His throat constricted. “Just black, thanks.”

Mugs clattered on a tiled counter. She moved rapidly, no longer looking tired. In fact, she appeared luminous.

Deliberately, Roche looked away from her. He wasn't dealing with the two of them being alone together without experiencing physical reactions of the dangerous kind. Thank God she couldn't see inside his head, or rest her fingertips on his nerves.

His nerves must have the power to electrocute her.

“I don't have much furniture,” she said. “But I like living here. It's kind of nice not to be dragging too much baggage around.”

“Did you ever carry a lot more baggage around?” He kept the question light, but still wished he hadn't asked it.

“You might say that, I guess. Time passes, things change, and you learn what matters most to you.”

Roche glanced at the Rolex watch he couldn't care less about. But could he say what mattered to him, really mattered—apart from his work?

Carrying two coffee mugs, Bleu approached. She set them down, returned to the kitchen and came back with a plate of pastries and a basket of apples and pears. She slid the food onto the table and whipped two plates from underneath at the same time. Napkins and silverware stuck out of the fruit basket.

“If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd been a waitress,” he said.

“I have been. Several times.” She sat opposite him.

She offered the pastries, and he took one.

“How could you be a waitress?” he said. “You're a teacher and you've got whatever qualifications you need to be a fund-raiser and planner.”

“I worked to put myself through school. No big deal.”

He knew it could be a big deal for some students, holding down a couple of jobs and trying to do well in school at the same time. “You said you were a waitress several times.” He grinned and she narrowed her eyes. “Did you keep getting fired for puncturing the fruit with the silverware?”

“Nope. Never got fired—not as a waitress.”

“So, why so many jobs? And what else were you fired from?”

“You're nosey, maybe even rude. In fact, yes, you are rude. One day I may answer all your inappropriate questions,” she said.

She had a point. “You're right. It's an occupational
hazard. I spend so much time asking personal questions, I sometimes forget it's not always appropriate.”

“You're forgiven,” she told him.

“I got fired from a job as a beach photographer,” he said. “I chopped off heads, or feet. Couldn't manage to get the whole enchilada in at one time. It was the camera's fault. See—I'm not afraid to share my failures.”

“Humility is always touching,” she said. “Now eat.”

He did, and he drank some of the best coffee he'd had in a long time—and said so. Waving a cheesecake-filled pastry, he indicated the Coca Cola tribute. “That's really something,” he said. What were you supposed say about a set that belonged in an old diner?

Her smile was filled with pleasure. “Thank you! I'm into forties and fifties funk and retro. It makes me feel free. I'm on my own, and now I can have whatever I like around me. I'll gradually collect a few more pieces.”

In other words, Bleu was newly independent, probably from a bad marriage.

“I like old jukeboxes,” he said. “I've got a couple Max and Annie are storing for me. There isn't room at Rosebank.” He told people he stayed at Rosebank because he hadn't settled on whether to buy an old house and renovate, or build a new one. What he should say was that he was too comfortable to move.

Bleu's silence stopped him from talking. He considered her wide-open eyes and parted lips. He shouldn't do that too often. “Did I say anything offensive?” he said.

“Oh.” Bleu took a big swallow of her coffee. “No. It's just that one of my ambitions is to own a jukebox eventually. I collect pictures of them from auction offerings. I'll show them to you sometime…. Sorry, I'm sure you're not interested in pictures of old jukeboxes.”

“Are you kidding me? I collect pictures myself, and I'm always on the hunt for a mint machine. Have you seen the one at Pappy's?” He blew out. “Wow, if you haven't we should take a close look. A Wurlitzer 1015. It's the real thing, not a copy.”

“I haven't seen it,” Bleu said. “I'll have to get over there again.”

Roche couldn't believe she was actually interested. And she was. This was no act.

“I'll definitely show you what I've got at Max and Annie's. We'll have dinner with them sometime. If I volunteer to barbeque, they'll have us over anytime.”

She still looked fresh, but the lightness and enthusiasm of a few moments ago had faded.

“Thank you,” she said. “That would be fun. If you like, I'll have them back over here for—spaghetti, maybe? A simple Italian dinner.”

She looked at her hands in her lap. Money was an issue for her, he was sure of it. Now she was ashamed of not being able to put on a big, fancy meal for Max and Annie.

“Italian will be great. And I've got another idea. Do you like to dance?” Damn, he was thinking about her dancing again.

“I really love it. Before I was married I used—” She closed her mouth.

“Good,” he said quickly. Now he was certain she'd been married. Apparently she wasn't anymore. No ring and no signs of a man around the house. “Let's get up a party and go to Pappy's for an evening. We could dance and eat until we can't move. And we could ogle that Wurlitzer. How about that?”

The smile in her eyes was soft. “We'll see.”

“Did something I say upset you?”

“No, no, Roche. Good heavens, no. I can't get Jim Zachary out of my head, is all. I keep seeing him there. So helpless and vulnerable. How can someone do that to another human being?”