Hot Storage (24 page)

   “That’s great. I’ll be ready.” In the same clothes, again. At least Patrick had a drawer full of clean socks. And tee shirts.

   The guys all left and once they were gone I went back to the motor home. Nothing I could do now anyway, except open a can of soup and settle in for the night. Even my Kindle was upstairs. I thought but did not vocalize a few choice phrases.

   I unlocked the motor home, climbed in and looked through the cupboards again while a fresh pot of coffee perked. I was going to need a list of things to replace when I finally got home. Nothing looked good so I used the same cup I had washed this morning and poured myself some coffee. Things are always better with coffee.

   A loud bang echoed through the air, followed by a metallic rattle. Afraid someone just ran into the gate I took off for the front at a run. Rounding the curve I collided with Patrick Murphy. Literally. He dropped a bag he was carrying and caught my arms, steadying me for a minute before he set me back.

   “I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “I heard a noise, sounded like someone hit the gate.”

   He bent and picked up the bag and thrust it at me. I caught it by reflex, clutching it to my chest. Whatever was inside was soft.

   “It was me at the gate. I got the other half up and it’s working. You won’t have to worry about anyone prowling around in the lot tonight.”

   “Wow, good job, man. The computer’s working?”

   He nodded. “It’s up and running, the gates are back on automatic. Open at 7 and close at 7.”

   I smiled. “Thank you. That’s a relief. I didn’t want to stand out there all weekend.”

   “Hang on a second,” he said, and went back toward the gate. Another metallic rattle sounded as the gate slid back as usual. I watched Patrick go through, pick something up and push in a code to come back through the gates. He had an extension ladder balanced on his shoulder. With a toss of his head he motioned me to follow him. We went down the drive to where the end of Building Three lay almost flat, balanced on the boxes and cartons. Bending at the waist he shoved the ladder into one of the open spaces. When he finished he straightened, wiped his hands down his thighs and looked at me.

   “You gonna open that?”

   I looked down at the plastic trash bag I still held. “Am I supposed to?”

   “It’s your stuff,” he said. “The stairs aren’t safe. I used that,” he flicked his head at the place he had slid the ladder, “went through the window and got some of your things. The apartment looks good, just some stuff out of the cupboards in the kitchen. I picked it up and set it on the counter. Anyway, I grabbed some of your stuff, thought you might want it,” he tipped his chin at the bag in my arms.

   Tears stung my eyes and I blinked several times.

   “Thanks,” I said.

   “No problem,” he said, and looked uncomfortable. “You’re gonna have to stay in the motor home for a few more days. I brought some groceries. They’re in the truck.” He turned away, towards the gate. “Take me a few minutes. The truck is around on the side street, so I could get to your window. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

   I walked back to the motor home, eager to have my own things and curious at the same time as to what was in the bag. I stepped inside and flipped the lights on. Setting the bag on the floor by the table I opened it and reached inside. The first handful I pulled out was underwear – bras and panties. I blushed looking at them, knowing that Patrick Murphy had been in my underwear drawer. At the same time I was so happy to see my underwear that tears again burned my eyes. I set them on the table and looked in the bag. The rest of the bag contained tee shirts, two pairs of jeans, socks and in the bottom my other pair of sneakers.

   I sat down on the bench seat, snuggled my sneakers to my chest like a lost child and looked at the pile of clothes. Hearing the engine of his truck pull up I gathered my clothes and carried them to the back, dumping them on the bed. I slid the folding door closed and hurried up to the front. I got to the door just as Patrick knocked. Swinging it open I stood aside to let him in. He had to turn sideways to get through the narrow door because he had a brown grocery bag in each arm. He set them on the table.

   “That’s just some basic stuff,” he said. “Hold you a couple of days till you get to a store.” He reached in the first bag and pulled out a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of strawberry jam. A package of sliced ham, another of cheese slices and a jar of mustard joined the bread. Peering inside he said, “There’s milk and cereal. Hope you like corn flakes.”

   “Let me pay you,” I said. “This is too much.”

   “No need. You’re stuck with things I like to eat. Anything you don’t like, I’ll eat next week. Is that my tee shirt?”

   Looking down I realized I was still wearing his shirt. “Yeah,” I said. “I borrowed it. I didn’t have anything clean.”

   He looked me up and down. “That’s strange.”

   I looked down, too. No spots or stains. “What’s strange?”

   “I never noticed those bumps in it before. Not when I wore it.”

   My cheeks flamed. His laugh filled the small space where we stood.

   With a smile that lit those blue eyes he tipped my chin up. “I’m sorry, Marlena, I couldn’t resist. You are so cute when you blush.”

   I’ve been called a lot of things over the years. Cute was not one of them.

   I shrugged away from his hand and turned to the remaining bag of groceries. A bottle of wine, a can of coffee and a liter of Coke. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A new hair brush and comb set. “Well, you’re here. How about dinner? I can offer you a ham sandwich or peanut butter and jelly.”

   “I have a better idea. How about you put on one of your own shirts and I take you to dinner? Thursday night is chicken and dumplings at Kelly’s.”

   “I would love that,” I said. “As long as you let me buy your dinner.”

   “How ‘bout we arm wrestle for it?”

   I smiled, looking at the biceps filling the sleeves on his tee. “I can do that,” I said.

   His eyes glinted in the soft light. “I bet you can. Come on, change your shirt. Let’s go eat.”

   I grabbed the rest of the clothes, the toothbrush and the hair brush. “Be right back,” I called over my shoulder. Patrick’s laugh followed me. I yanked his shirt over my head and picked up one of mine, pulling it on. I sat long enough to run the brush through my hair.

  Sliding the door open I went up front.

   “I put the stuff away. Nice thing about a motor home, if you can’t find something, it’s never that far away. Compact,” he said when I joined him. “You ready?”

   I nodded. He stepped aside and gestured me ahead of him. As I passed him he swatted my fanny.

   “That’s sexual harassment,” I said. “You’re my boss.”

   “No it wasn’t. That door was swinging open. I was hurrying you along so you didn’t get hit.”

   I laughed in spite of myself, feeling lighter than I had in days. “You, sir, are full of soft brown stuff.”

   “Naw, sir’s my dad. I’m Patrick.” He opened the door to the truck and helped me in, leaning across my lap to snap the seat belt.

   Straightening again, he snapped his fingers. “Dang, no blush.”

   I laughed again.

   We drove over the ridge into Monarch with the radio blaring country songs and singing along. I was surprised. He had a very good singing voice and he knew all the words. At Kelly’s he held the door and guided me in with one hand on the back of my waist.

   We took a booth in the back and sat across from each other.

   Although I hadn’t known Patrick very long I knew the difference between this guy and the first one I met. And I liked this guy. We laughed and talked through dinner without ever mentioning the facility or the earthquake. When Kathy came to clear the table Patrick looked at me. “Dessert? Pie is real good here.”

   “I’m stuffed, thanks. You go ahead.”

   “Coffee?”

   “I’ll take coffee.”

   “Good. Two coffees and what kind of pie is left?”

   The pretty waitress smiled. “There might be a piece of pecan pie put back for some lonely bachelor.”

   “Dang,” Patrick said. “Lost out to the lonely guy. How about cherry?”

   For a moment Kathy looked stunned, surprised or something. “I’ll get that for you.”

   “And two coffees.”

   “Yes, sir,” she snapped and turned to the front, her feet slapping on the linoleum.

   I looked up at Patrick. “Problem?”

   “Not for me. How about you?” He smiled, folding his hands in front of him.

   “I’m fine,” I said. “Thank you for dinner.”

   “Thank you. I thought you were paying.”

   I froze for a minute, then reached back for my card case.

   Patrick’s rich laugh rumbled across the table. “I was kidding, Marlena. Wanted to see if I could get one more blush out of you before I took you home.” His eyes were as warm as the sky on a summer day as he smiled at me. “Thank you. For having dinner with me.”

   Kathy interrupted and slapped a piece of pecan pie in front of him. “Coffee will be right up,” she said.

   I watched those same eyes chill like a cold wind. “You know what? Cancel that coffee and bring me a box. I’ll take it to go. And the check.”

   “Fine.” She snatched up the pie and stormed away from the table, hips snapping side to side, feet still splatting the floor.

   Patrick watched her go, then turned to look at me. “I’m sorry about that. For the record, before you jump to the wrong conclusion, that woman has been flirting with me since I got back. It is not a mutual attraction.”

   “Not my business, Pat.”

   He looked into my eyes for a long minute before Kathy slapped a white Styrofoam box in front of him and threw the check on top of it.

   With an angelic smile Patrick thanked her. The waitress stood for another few seconds, then went back up front.

   “Ready?”

   I nodded, slid out of the booth and stood. Patrick handed me the white box, slid his hand to the back of my waist and nudged me forward. I waited at the register while he dealt with the bill, exchanging pleasantries with the other waitress. Kathy was nowhere in sight.

   When we were headed back over the hill to Jade he turned down the radio. “I have a history in this town,” he began. “One I didn’t earn or ask for. I don’t know what you’ve heard.” He glanced at me. “It isn’t true. Whatever it was, it wasn’t true. The old timers, they get a hold on something, twist it, shine it up, and put it out there for truth. The ladies grab it up, put a little frosting on it and pass it on around. The only thing I’m guilty of is being good looking. I can’t help the way I look.”

   I listened quietly. Why was he telling me? I admit I had heard a lot of stories about Patrick Murphy and none of them were flattering. All of them referred to him as “Trick”. There were various definitions of why the nickname and those, too, were far from flattering.

   The man I had just shared dinner with was a far cry from the man in the stories.

   “What?” He asked, giving me another glance.

   “I didn’t say anything.”

   “I noticed. What? What are you thinking?”

   I sighed. “I was thinking how much I enjoyed our dinner. You were right – that chicken and dumplings is the best I’ve ever eaten.”

   He laughed again, returning to the man who had shared my dinner. “You eat a lot of chicken and dumplings at home? Growing up?”

   I laughed, too. “I ate a lot of fish and a lot of rice. Depending on who was cooking, a lot of beans. Either way, a lot of spice.”

   “Sounds good,” he said. “I was expecting burritos and enchiladas.”

   “Yep, that too.” I explained my mixed parentage and the battle for the kitchen. He laughed in all the right places, was serious when I talked about losing my dad. By the time I finished we were back at the storage facility.

   Patrick pulled up to the gate, punched in his code and the gate slid smoothly back on its track. He drove back to the motor home and parked in front of it. I waited while he came around and opened my door, extending his hand to take the white box and help me down.

   I pulled his key out of my back pocket and opened the door to the motor home, reaching inside and turning on the dim interior lights. I turned to hand him the box of pie.

   “Keep it,” he said, sliding his arms around my waist. “I just wanted an excuse to spend more time with you.”

   What do you say to that? The air seemed charged, electric, as we looked at each other. Even in the dark his eyes gleamed.

   There was a shushing sound, like someone dragging something heavy across the asphalt, the gritty sound of gravel popping.

   We both looked towards the buildings.

   “What was that?”

   “I don’t know,” he said, his voice low. “I didn’t see anything when we pulled in. Stay here. Get inside and lock the door.”

   “I’m going with you,” I said, stepping inside long enough to put the box of pie on the table.