Getting Some Of Her Own (5 page)

“I'm satisfied with who I am right now, with what I've done with my life so far, so don't sweat the past, Mama.”

“I'm proud of you. Maybe you could have been more . . . but . . . we'll never know.”

“This food is up to your usual high standard,” he told her later, changing the subject, as he enjoyed one of his favorite meals.

“There's apple pie for dessert.” A grin spread over his face. Nothing anybody cooked tasted as good as his mother's apple pie. “That's pure bribery, Mom, and you've been using it since I was three.”

He saw her pleasure in the laugh that poured out of her. “As Yogi said, ‘If it ain't broke, don't fix it.' These apple pies are probably the reason why I'm not very good at making desserts; all I ever had to do to please you was make an apple pie.”

Lucas went to the stove, got the coffee pot and poured each of them a cup of coffee. At age fifty-eight, his mother was still beautiful. He imagined that, when she was nineteen, she must have been startlingly lovely. He sat down and voiced his thoughts. “Did you ever stop loving him?”

“No,” she said, the word barely audible.

“When did you last see him? In person, I mean?”

“The day I told him I was pregnant.”

He put his cup down and looked at her. “How could you handle it? You must have been miserable all these years.”

“Not at all. I've had you, and every time I looked at you, I saw him. Whenever I held you, I held him.”

He suppressed a whistle. “I realize that I resemble him, because—”

She interrupted him. “Resemble him? You're the spitting image of Calvin.”

“This boggles my mind. Always has. You knew he was married; you told me you did. Yet—” He shook his head.

“I fell in love with him practically on sight, son, and a nineteen-year-old-virgin is no match for a thirty-year-old married man.”

“Not by a long shot. He should have been ashamed of himself.”

She stared at him. “Why? He fell in love with me, too. Your grandfather did everything he could to break it up, but I was of age, and I couldn't stay away from Calvin.”

That didn't make sense to him, and he said as much. “You stayed away from him after you became pregnant.”

“It wasn't difficult. He wouldn't divorce his wife, and I've learned that hatred is just as powerful an emotion as love. I spent weeks deciding upon the best revenge.”

He leaned back in his chair and seared her with his gaze. “Yes, you did, and while you were planning it, all you thought of was yourself. You didn't give your child a thought.”

“You're right; I didn't, and I've paid for it every time I've caught you staring at me with your eyes narrowed while you grind your teeth. It hasn't been easy, Lucas.”

“Not for either of us.” He served the pie and poured more coffee.

“Thanks for this great supper,” Lucas told her as he was about to leave, “and especially for the conversation.” He winked—which meant he squeezed both eyes, never having learned how to wink one of them—and hugged her tightly. “You shouldn't indict yourself too harshly, Mama. If you had behaved otherwise, you wouldn't have me.”

“You are what kept me going.”

He kissed her and left. One day, when he had power behind him, he would stand face to face with Calvin Jackson and hear his side of the story. But the man was already seventy years old, and time was running out. Lucas got into his black town car and headed home, but as he drove, he had a struggle trying to keep his mind on his driving. After that short talk with his mother, he understood her less than ever. If she had hated the man, how could she still love him after so many years? Did that kind of inconsistency explain why Susan would have sex with a stranger, and then act as if he'd never been anything to her?

He wanted to rid his memory of Susan, but he didn't expect that to happen—he had to see her at least twice a week when she tutored at Wade School and lately, she appeared whenever his libido revved up. He suspected that he had just begun to pay for that delightful romp with her. If anyone had told him that sex with a woman he'd just met could be so satisfying, even memorable, he wouldn't have believed it. He had to admit that she'd carved a place for herself inside of him, and he didn't know what he'd do about it.

 

 

Unlike Lucas, Susan did not permit herself the luxury of reminiscing about their tryst. As she hurried to meet Willis Carter—hurried to the extent that one who carried a folding chair could hurry—color schemes and furnishings for her shop and the house she had yet to enter crowded Lucas out of her thoughts. “I hope this doesn't cost too much,” she said to herself, for she intended to put the fifty-three thousand dollars cash that she inherited from her aunt into an interest-bearing United States Treasury account.
And if this works out, I'd like to buy my space in this co-op building,
she thought as she tripped up the stairs.

She opened the door, went inside, sat down and made notes while she waited.

Carter arrived on time. “I hope you haven't waited long, Ms. Pettiford. I'm Willis Carter.”

“I figured as much. How are you? Thank you for coming. What do you think of the space?”

“Well, you're across from the elevator, which is good, but you're on the second floor, which is bad unless you air condition the place. In this location, noise from open windows will make this a health hazard. And—”

She interrupted him. “How much is that going to increase the cost of the job?”

He walked around as if he hadn't heard her, and perspiration began to dampen her arms and her blouse. “I said—”

“I know what you said. I'll have to tell Lucas to include air-conditioning in these plans.”

She sensed that her temper was about to expose itself, and she didn't think it wise to show anger. “How much will it cost? Mr. Hamilton said it would be between two and three thousand.”

“Yeah. He told me that.” The man walked over to her, put his hands on his hips—slim hips that complemented his broad chest, long, lean body and handsome face. “What's Lucas Hamilton to you?”

Where did that question come from? Looking hard at the man, trying to size him up, she couldn't decide whether he was indicating interest or merely curious. She angled her head to the side. “I have absolutely no idea what Lucas Hamilton is to me. Anything else?” He continued to look at her, and then he laughed. “Let me in on the joke, Mr. Carter.”

He laughed harder. “Sorry. It must be me. I see things strangely sometimes. Don't worry. The job won't cost you a penny more than Lucas said it would. I need a key, and as soon as Lucas includes the air-conditioning in these plans, I'll get to work. I assume you want parquet floors in your showroom. If you want anything else, now's the time to tell me.”

“What are my alternatives?” He raised an eyebrow. “All right, so I've never opened a commercial establishment. The architects I worked for had penthouse offices.”

“Hmmm. I'll bet they did. Marble, tiles, cork, cement. I'll put wood in here, but as a decorator, I thought you might want something uh . . . different.”

He was right, but she wouldn't let him know that he thought faster than she. “Parquet will be fine. I may put an Oriental carpet in there.”

“Fine, Ms. Pettiford. I'll put a contract in the mail, and as soon as you sign it, you ought to be able to move in within thirty days.”

Susan thanked him and watched him amble out of the room as if he didn't have a care or a responsibility in the world. Yet, she didn't doubt his competence, for he projected an air of it. Besides, Lucas recommended him. She didn't know why she had such confidence in Lucas Hamilton, but she did. Maybe it was because she had trusted him with her body, and he had treated it as if it were the most precious thing ever entrusted to him.

That night, she wrote her mother:

She addressed and stamped the letter, wrote out a plan for her tutoring session the next day and got ready for bed. There was something about Willis Carter's attitude that rankled her, and she couldn't quite fathom it. For example, why he questioned her about Lucas. She suspected that he would ordinarily have charged much more than three thousand dollars for that job, but a deal was a deal, and she didn't intend to raise the matter again. She attempted to open the window and had to exert more energy than she thought she would.

“At times like this, I'd like to have a man nearby.”

She mused over the idea for a minute, and then allowed herself a good laugh. If the man was Lucas Hamilton, he would be useful for something more than opening a stuck window. She got into bed and went to sleep.

 

 

“What's up, Willis?”

“It's a good plan, but you didn't provide for air-conditioning. I'll bring it over, and you can work that in. By the way, you didn't tell me that woman is so good-looking. Man, she's a number ten and change.”

For some reason, the comment irritated Lucas. “Why should I have told you? You weren't supposed to be making
her;
you're making her shop. Remember? What time are you coming here with those plans?”

“Leaving now.”

Twenty minutes later, Lucas put the plans on his drafting board and began to study them. A roar of laughter from the direction in which Willis sat startled him, and he swung around and stared at his friend. “What's with you?”

Willis stood and walked toward the picture window. “I asked you what Susan was to you, and you said you had no idea. I asked her what you were to her, and she said she had no idea. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that the two of you are fooling yourselves. Hurry up and finish that. If I don't get started, she'll be hard on my tail.”

“What're you charging her?”

“Twenty-five hundred for a ten thousand dollar job, and she damned well better mean something to you.”

Susan walked into the modern three-bedroom house and stopped, fascinated. Sunlight streamed through a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window that faced Wade Lake. What she had thought—from a distance—was the front of the house, was actually a side entrance to the kitchen and laundry rooms. A stone fireplace took up much of the wall to the left of the window, and when she glanced up at the cathedral ceiling, she realized the house had been designed to fulfill her aunt's lifelong dream. She opened her purse to examine the deed, saw that the house was only four years old and that the architect was Hamilton Architectural Designs, Inc.

Awed by that discovery, she dropped to the nearest chair and gazed around her, wondering if fate had entangled her in its net, a fly in a spider's web. At the school, at her shop, and now, whatever joy she found in her home, she would have to attribute to him.

She got up and wandered into the dining room, and discovered that it had a picture window facing a wooded area and a fireplace smaller than the one in the living room. She preferred a more modern kitchen than the large, airy one she found there. Her bedroom would be the one thing she changed completely, for she wanted off-white wooden furniture in a warm, feminine setting. Fortunately, she would be able to see the lake from her bedroom window and balcony.

After touring her house for the first time, Susan made notes and called the lawyer. “Am I allowed to make changes in this house before the end of the year? I want to renovate the kitchen.”

After a minute, he said, “I don't see why you can't. As far as I'm concerned, it's yours as soon as you move in. If you move out before a year's up, the city will be entitled to take the house and sell it at fair market value. That house won an award for design.”

“I imagine it did. It's beautiful. I can't wait to move in. By the way, did Lucas Hamilton design this house?”

“He sure did. If I were you, I'd get his advice on the changes you want to make in the kitchen. Sometimes moving pipes can cause real problems.”

“Really? Thanks. I'll get in touch with him.” She hung up, wondering if Lucas would be sitting in the Baptist church when she got there the next Sunday morning. The man seemed to be every place she turned.

She walked outside, tracing the property, and observed that her land extended to the edge of the lake where a boardwalk used for a pier appeared to be deteriorating. A small rowboat, moored to the pier, lay upside down at the edge of the lake, and she read on it the address, 37 Lake Street, which meant it belonged to her. She looked at her watch and saw that she had about an hour in which to get to her tutoring class, just enough time for a quick stop at her shop to check on Willis Carter's progress.

She met Willis on the stairs. “Were you leaving?” she asked him. “I wanted to see how it's coming along.”

“Right now, it's full of dirt, cement and sawdust. Unless you want to look as if you ran smack into a flour mill, don't go in there.”

“But I—”

“Suit yourself. I've already put your air-conditioning in, and it's working. You're getting a stainless steel sink and refrigerator and a marble top counter in your kitchen. Tiny, but elegant.”

“A marble top counter? That's expensive.”

“It's only thirty-six inches square. Besides, it's what Lucas ordered, and that's what you get.”

Her eyes narrowed, as suspicion, which she thrust aside earlier, formed in her head. “Who owns this building company? You or Lucas Hamilton?”

“If you want to know something about Lucas, you have to ask him. I'm CEO of W. L. Carter Building and Contracting, Incorporated. That suit you?”

“No, because that is not the answer to my question.”

His shrug didn't soothe her nerves. “I asked you what Lucas meant to you, and you didn't answer my question, either. In fact, I asked the two of you the same question and got the same ass-backward answer from both of you.” He walked down two steps and stopped. “Lucas is my best friend and has been since we were about eighteen and college roommates. If you trust me to get this job done properly and on time, don't pop by every day to check on me. I don't like it. I usually leave this part of the job to my workers, but this seems especially important because it's yours. See you.”

That man is not easygoing, she realized as she pondered his refusal to answer her question directly. She didn't know whether Lucas was underwriting the work on her shop or why he would do that. She took Willis's advice and avoided the shop because of its condition; she couldn't go to her tutoring class wearing soiled clothes. She had only a ten minute walk to Wade School, and she arrived with nearly half an hour to spare. So she wandered down the hall until she saw the principal's office and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

“Hello,” she said to Lucas. “May I see you for a minute?”

“Sure. Have a seat.”

“I read the deed to my house this morning, and discovered that you designed it. It's beautiful. Congratulations. I want to rip everything out of the kitchen, and make it more modern. You know, with cabinets that have sliding drawers; stove, grill and deep fryer in the center; and so on.” She outlined the changes she wanted. “Will this entail any structural or other crucial changes?” She hated talking to him because his gaze unnerved her. His occasional smile only exacerbated the situation, and anger at her vulnerability to him began to rise up in her.

“Look,” she said, “I'm not asking you to do the work. I only want to know what kind of problems the person who does it will encounter.”

“You seem angry. Did I do something bad?”

He hadn't and he knew it, and she was not in the mood for cleverness. “You'd know that better than I. Can you help me with this?”

He looked steadily at her for a few minutes, propped both elbows on the desk and cupped his chin with his hands. “I presume you're talking about the Edith Greer house. I don't remember those plans offhand, but I have a copy in my office. If you'll come by there tomorrow morning, I'll be glad to give you whatever help I can.”

“Thanks.” She got up to leave, and he stood and walked with her to the door. “I suppose Willis Carter will do the work.” It was a statement.

He didn't react, at least not so that she could tell. “If you want him to. If not, I can certainly recommend someone else, or you could get a kitchen design specialist to do it. Unfortunately, Woodmore doesn't have one of those.” Supporting his long frame with the doorjamb, he braced his left forearm against the wall, shoved his right hand into his trouser pocket and gazed down at her. “You may find that you don't like your stove away from your sink, and if you put the sink in the middle of the kitchen, I'm fairly certain that the plumbing will have to be rearranged and reinstalled. Think about it.”

“Where is your office, Lucas?” How could he be so nonchalant about everything when her nerves were standing on end? “I can be there around eleven tomorrow morning if that suits you.”

He took a small appointment book from his shirt pocket, looked at it and said, “Fine, but twelve would be better. I'm at 1108 Parkway Street.”

“All right. Twelve it is.”

 

 

He watched her as she walked down the corridor, tall, erect and with a set of swaying hips that made his blood rush. He didn't have time to cultivate a meaningful relationship, and if he did, he wasn't sure he'd cultivate one with Susan. He was old enough to know that a man could become preoccupied with an enigma, any kind of enigma, and that if it concerned a woman, he might soon find himself enamored of her. He went to his desk, collected some papers and prepared to go to the classroom where a dozen and a half teenagers waited for assistance with their physics homework.

If I could just figure out why she maneuvered to get me in bed with her and how she can behave as if it never happened. . . . And she doesn't appear to be an aggressive woman.
He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Not again,” he said aloud when, at the end of the tutoring session, he saw Susan leaving the building holding the same little girl's hand. He'd explain to her that involvement with the children was against the rules.

 

 

His front door chimes rang at precisely twelve o'clock the following day, and it didn't surprise him, because he knew she'd be on time. He met her at the front door and stepped outside. “Hello, Susan. My office is right around here.”

“I didn't know you worked at home.”

“When I designed my house, I provided for all of my needs.” He led her to an office above his garage. “I charge myself rent for this,” he said, squeezing both eyes in his version of a wink. “Have a seat over there.” He spread the plans out on his drawing board. “I've studied these. With the sink in the center of the kitchen, we'll have to change the plumbing. That's a major job. I suggest you put the grill and deep fryer in the center as well as the sink and the stove opposite, against the wall. You can't have a stove in the center. If you'll step over here, I'll show you what I mean.”

She stood beside him as if they were two ordinary people discussing a business project, but he wasn't fooled, for he saw, from his peripheral vision, that her right hand shook almost uncontrollably when she turned the sheet. They had discussed it for nearly an hour when hunger pangs alerted him to the time.

“I'm getting hungry,” he said. “I can send out for something. It won't take more than fifteen or twenty minutes. What would you like?”

“Oh, no. I wouldn't put you to that trouble.”

He let a grin float over his face, hoping to put her at ease. “It will be my pleasure. After that great meal you cooked for me, I can at least offer you a take-out lunch.”

Her face clouded with a frown, and he knew at once that she didn't want to be reminded of that night. He had a mind to tell her that mature adults didn't do things of which they were ashamed, but he didn't voice the thought.

“As you wish. If you want Willis to do this, let me know exactly what you want, and I'll draw up something. Then, the three of us can sit together and work it out. If you'd rather have someone else do it, I can probably suggest a couple of reliable people.”

“Thanks. I'd rather work with the two of you, but won't I have to wait until he finishes the shop?”

“Willis hires a lot of workers. Don't worry about that.”

“I won't, then. Thanks for your time. Would you please show me the way out.”

He stared at her, fighting the urge to shake her. Anger boiled up in him and, with his fists bracing his sides, he growled, “You don't have to run, Susan. You're as safe here with me as you would be in the Vatican. I don't touch a woman unless she invites me to.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he regretted saying them. “I'm sorry. That wasn't called for.” He couldn't let it go at that. “But you are the most frustrating . . . Oh, forget it, and let's try to pretend I didn't say it.”

“All right. Are you going to see me out? And will you let me know what Mr. Carter says after you speak with him about changes in my kitchen?”

The long breath he expelled didn't reflect a fraction of his exasperation. “Come on. I'll call you as soon as I put something together for Will and me to discuss.”

She thanked him, shook the hand he extended, albeit reluctantly, and left. He watched until her blue BMW turned off Parkway Street into Salem Court. One thing was certain: Susan Pettiford had a will of steel. She had made up her mind that nothing more would happen between them, no matter how she felt about him, and she was determined to pull it off. So why'd she do it in the first place?

He took his appointment book out of his shirt pocket and checked the date on which they made love.
If she has a baby around nine months after the eighth of October, I'm going to demand a DNA test, and if she refuses, I'll take her to court and demand my rights. But, damn. I just refuse to believe she lacks integrity, that she would trick a man into fathering a baby. She wouldn't. So where does that leave me?

He phoned Willis. “Susan wants you to put a new kitchen in the Edith Greer house that she inherited. I'll sketch some ideas, and the three of us can get together and thrash it out.”

“As long as you didn't tell her I'd do it for peanuts.”

“I didn't mention money, but man, you are not going to bleed her.”

“All right. I'll ask a fair price. Have you had lunch?”

“I'm about to phone for it.”

“Order me a couple of burgers and some fries, and not to worry. I won't stick it to your girl.”

“My
what
?”

“Sorry. Just kidding.”

After phoning Sam's Gourmet Burger Castle for an order of four hamburgers, two orders of French fries and two containers of coffee, Lucas put a handful of walnuts in his pocket, walked down to the trellis behind the garage and sat down. What was wrong with going after Susan Pettiford, if he wanted her? He had to admit that he was itching to find out whether what happened between them was an accident, whether they could revisit that special corner of heaven. He'd be a fool voluntarily to live another forty or fifty years and die without ever feeling like that again. He'd had a few women, but the experiences were child's play compared to the way he felt with Susan. And drat her, she made an art of denial.

“I don't care how much she denies it, or how determined she is to forget about it, I know how I made her feel.” The two squirrels he'd named Roy and Rob ran up to him and pulled on his trouser legs. He reached into his pocket and got the walnuts that he'd brought, and gave one to each. They accepted the nuts but didn't leave, so he handed each of them another walnut. It was a ritual that they played out whenever he sat beneath the trellis, for Roy and Rob knew that they were entitled to two walnuts each. Occasionally, he gave them peanuts, which they liked, but it seemed that they preferred walnuts.