Danger, Sweetheart (25 page)

“Pretty much.”

“That would explain their increasingly alarming antics.”

He said it so dryly Natalie had to laugh.
Okay. Progress. At least he's talking to me. He's not even being as mean as he could, and we both know I deserve it.
“Well. Yeah. Mostly it's Gary; Larry and Harry are ramblers by nature. They're not from here; they go where the work is. They don't mind moving on; they just hate moving on because the bank tells them to. My bank.”

“Which is why they didn't let on to your real job. If you're out here working, everything else—including foreclosure paperwork—slows down. It was in their best interest to have you out here as long as they could.”

“Yeah. Gary, though. Gary wants out.”

Gary had accidentally driven the tractor through the back wall of the garage, then forgotten to mention it to Blake for fourteen hours. (It was a measure of Blake's exhaustion that he hadn't noticed in the first place.) Then Gary had fertilized the tomato plants with weed killer, turned the sprinkler system on to water the driveway (as opposed to the kitchen garden), and added fabric softener to Blake's laundry, if “softener” was another word for “bleach.” Again, it had taken Blake a bit of time to notice his gray clothes were now whitish gray. Gary had suggested on more than one occasion that Blake should just fire him already.

“You talked about
Peanuts,
remember? Okay, remember Pig-Pen? The dust that kid kicks up?” That earned her another smile; Blake knew what she was thinking. Gary had decided to host, and be the only guest for, his one-man kegger party last week. He'd walked around all day with a cloud of beer fumes preceding him. Annoying enough, but Gary had decided the next day that the paralyzing hangover wasn't worth it. Instead he unplugged the fridge to defrost it and never got around to actually cleaning the thing out.

“I could summon no pity for the man, though he suffered what appeared to be a devastating hangover.”

“And you made him teach you to drive the tractor that morning!” The memory made her positively gleeful. The tractor sounded like a dozen chain saws thrown into a pile of railroad ties. “Diabolical!” In fact, it had earned him some grudging respect from Harry and Larry, who were stuck picking up the slack for the third of their trio.

“It's unfortunate Gary doesn't know I don't have the authority to fire him. Nothing short of arson would result in termination, and perhaps not even that.”

“Yeah.” Natalie snickered. “Too bad for him.”

“Me as well,” was the cold reply. Then: “I disapprove of him endangering lives to collect unemployment.” Blake paused. “Is that something Heartbreak even offers? Or are you all independent contractors?”

“Depends on the individual.… Listen, my point is, you're working hard and almost all of us appreciate it.”

“It's kind of you to want to cheer me.”

She shook her head so hard, her ponytail almost put out her eye. “No. I'm not kind. You know that now, don't you? I—I tried to tell you. Before.”

“You're referring to your deception.”

“Well, yeah.”

“And the fact that you only took me under your wing, so to speak, but showed me the ropes, also so to speak, because you wanted my money.”

She was startled. She'd been so busy kicking herself about not telling him who she really was, she'd forgotten the reason at the middle of everything: Sweetheart was in trouble because of money: there wasn't enough. Money could save Heartbreak. No one in Sweetheart had money. If Heartbreak could be profitable, they wouldn't have to sell it to Putt N'Go. If Putt N'Go didn't have Heartbreak, they wouldn't want the other farms. Blake had money. Blake was in town for mysterious Banaan-related reasons. Ergo …

“I didn't— I—” She could almost feel her voice, low and strangled. What was she even trying to say? Was she denying it? Apologizing for it?
It wasn't so much the money; I just hated you not knowing the real me. But it's okay now, it's okay to trust me
this time
, because
this time
I'm telling the truth.
Oh God, she didn't blame him and she couldn't fix this. “Blake … that's not what I—”

“You were only interested in my money.” He let that hang there for a moment, then sighed. “I am surprised I am surprised.”

“For Heartbreak,” she managed, “not myself. And I wanted you to understand us, how it is here, more than I wanted your money. It was never just the money, bad enough as that is; it was everything else, too. I was greedy; I wanted it all.”

He just
looked
at her.

Yell, scream, stomp around, throw stuff, break something. Jesus!
The look was worse than any of those things; it was worse than all of those things.

“Natalie, do you think it matters to me, the name I write on the check, if it's the reason you tolerated me at all?”

“No, Blake. Now that I know you better, I don't think that. I'm sorry.”
Sorry sorry cripes they're just words they don't help anything they don't solve anything shut up shut up shut up.

“Open your present.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, then remembered the long brown tube from Amazon. She went to fetch it (she'd left it on the counter in the tack room), grabbed a twine cutter, and started slitting it open. She realized almost right away that it was a poster and, puzzled, she unrolled it.

She looked at it for a long time.

“I hear you talking about Degas all the time, you and Gary, Harry, and Larry. Garrett and a couple of other people in town, too. You must like his work. I thought— I wanted to show my gratitude. For being so patient with me. And as you know, I didn't have a lot of money; I couldn't show gratitude the way I usually do. So…” He gestured at the poster. “This.”

Horror and a species of dull shame was creeping through her. She couldn't look at him. Blake must have mistaken that for confusion, or surprised pleasure, because he leaned forward and seemed really engaged for the first time in over twenty-four hours.

“It's called
Two Laundresses and a Horse.
As you know, Edgar Degas is known primarily for his paintings of dancers, but he did several outdoor scenes with horses as well. And I saw that one and thought of us and Margaret of Anjou and I thought— I thought you might like it.”

“Blake. You didn't have to—it's too much.”

He frowned. “It's not the actual painting. It's only a print. Are you all right? Forgive me for being blunt, but you look awful. All the color's fallen out of your face.”

Her mouth worked. Nothing came out.
Don't lie. You can't lie to him. Not this time, not even if it's the last time he speaks to you, which it probably is.
“Not Edgar Degas. That's not what you heard. That's not what they've

(chickenshit!)—

I mean, that's not what
we've
been saying. You overheard people saying ‘Vegas Douche.'” Miserable, she finished her sad-ass explanation with, “It's, uh, it's just a dumb nickname. I don't call you that anymore.”

“Ah.”

Dear God, could you maybe strike me down with a heart attack or an aneurysm or just jab me with a lightning bolt, anything to get me the hell out of here, thanks, your friend, Natalie Lane.

“You're right,” he said after a long long long while.

“I am?”

“You're not kind.”

She nodded. Then she burst into tears, and for a minute she didn't know who was more shocked, her or Blake.

“Er. Natalie. Please don't. Natalie?” He put down the piglet, who'd almost been dozing on his lap, and then raised his hands until they sort of hovered over Natalie, like he had no idea 1) if he was allowed to touch and 2) if so, where he was allowed to touch. “I take it back.”

“Don't you dare take it back!” she nearly screamed, sobs tearing from her throat like they were trying to escape. “You're right: I'm not kind; it was shitty; I'm shitty—”

“That is
enough.
” She was shocked out of crying and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, smearing dirt and sweat around like a kid after a fight on the playground. She hadn't known his voice could go so deep and dark. “There are many words I would use to describe you, Natalie Lane, and ‘shitty' is nowhere on the list.”

“Then you're an idiot.”

“I haven't discounted that,” he replied, so mildly she almost laughed. He reached out and patted her shoulder, almost as if he was afraid she'd slap his hand away. She couldn't help it; she leaned into his touch, and, bolder, he rubbed circles on her back. “A few instances of bad judgment does not translate to shitty. I know you.”

This was all very nice, but she couldn't let it stand. Bad enough to cry like a sorry-ass fraud; she wouldn't take advantage of him being flummoxed to let herself off the hook.

“Blake, you're great and you've certainly proved yourself the bigger person, but give me a break. We've known each other a month. You don't know me. At best, I'm just the thing you wanted to do while you were stuck on Heartbreak.”

“My God, Natalie!” The rubbing had stopped and he sounded as appalled as he looked, so pretty appalled. “First, you are emphatically not a thing. Second, I won't deny my attraction to you, but it was to all of you, not just your delightful petite—”

“Stubby.”

“—body and striking—”

“Fat.”

“—features and stop that! Every day here I couldn't wait to see you. Why do you think I bought the toaster and the bread? There were days I'd skip breakfast in the kitchen in order to get out to Main One faster, and it's not because I wanted to ‘jump' you and it sure as hell wasn't because I was eager to let that demon pony have another crack at me. Though I did think about it,” he admitted. “About you. And me. Um. Quite a lot. But sexual fantasies about someone you just met are quite normal for a sexually active male—which might be a misnomer, as I haven't achieved intercourse for several weeks, so really it could have been anyone in my fantasies, it's a physiological reaction that doesn't necessarily translate to emotion—”

“Stop now.”

“Yes. Excellent idea.”

She paused, flattered and irked. It took her brain a second to untangle. Classic Blake, saying something wonderful and then wrecking it with science. “But if you didn't do that, you wouldn't be
you
, would you, Blake?”

“Do what?”

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“There is nothing wrong with sharing knowledge,” he huffed, piqued.

“I agree. I wasn't making fun of you; I guess I was—how can I describe this—enjoying that aspect of you.”

“Oh.” Mollified, he went on. “I've spent more time with you than anyone else since I turned eighteen. Rake turned eighteen the same day—”

“Because Rake is terrible?” she guessed.

“Yes! See, you know me, too.”

“No, you just say that a lot. Half the town knows Rake is terrible.”

“The entire town should know.” She couldn't tell if Blake was serious or not. “They need to be warned that Venice Douche is at loose in the world.”

“Trust me, it's common knowledge all over Sweetheart that Rake is terrible.”

Blake clutched her hands in his and she giggled to see her paws swallowed up in his big hammy mitts. “That is the sexiest thing anyone has ever said in the history of spoken language. And I
do
know you, Natalie Lane. I know you love chocolate but hate fudge. I know you left all of Gary's shoes outside in the rain when you found out he'd hidden all the bread from me. I know you're fiercely and equally proud of your Native American and Irish heritage, and that you tell people the reason you're not an alcoholic is because they cancel each other out.”

“It's simple math.”

“I also know you don't actually think that, not really. I know you admire your mother's ancestors and your father's forebears.”

“Don't those mean the same—”

“I know you have a reservoir of deep kindness and you don't like it when people notice. I know you're endlessly patient, and loyal, and fierce, and proud. I know your hair smells like cherry blossoms and I have pondered that mystery for a month.”

“It's my cherry blossom shampoo.”

“Mystery solved. Most of all, Natalie, I know I will miss you when I've gone. I'll think of you every day for a long, long time. Perhaps until the end of my life.”

When I've gone. Of course.
And that made sense. She'd always known he was leaving. And certainly nothing had happened in the last forty-eight hours that would have caused Blake to consider changing those plans, for which she did not blame him at all. Still, the news—not that she should have been thinking of it as news—hit her like a jab to the gut.

“Yes. Okay. I— Yes.” She began to extricate herself from his warm, comforting grip. “Thank you. For those nice things you said. I'm glad— I'm glad you don't hate me.”

“Impossible,” he murmured, releasing her.

Yeah? Give me another month, pal.

“I'll just take that—”

“No!” He had reached for the poster and she whipped it behind her back. “No, you can't. It's mine; you said you bought it for me. You said it was my present.”

“As you wish.” He seemed taken aback by her ferocious defense—if she'd been a crow she would have been flying at him and cawing in his face until he ran away. “I only meant—”

“It's mine,” she said again, calming herself. “Whatever the reason, it was a thoughtful gift, and I want to keep it. I didn't know he did horses. I only saw the ballet dancers.” She could hear herself and was amazed; she hadn't felt—or sounded—so shy in ten years. “Thank you again.”
Enough mush. Back to business—it's what he wants; he wouldn't have touched you at all if you hadn't sobbed like a teething toddler.
“I still say you need to take a break.”