Monkey Wrench (8 page)

“Granny Rose...”

“Don't fuss, dear. I'll be back in no time.”

What's the sense of arguing?
Susannah asked herself bitterly when Rose grabbed her large coffeepot box, called goodbye and slammed out the back door. No matter what she said to her grandmother, she was going to anger Rose and perhaps make her even sicker than she was.

Fuming, Susannah hurried for the stairs, hoping she could jump into her clothes and catch Rose before she got too far from home. But in passing the front door, she heard another noise outside and wondered if the paperboy was having some kind of trouble. It would only take thirty seconds to grab the paper and be on her way.

As she unlocked the front door, Susannah wondered if the
Tyler Citizen
was still the same small-town paper she remembered—short on world news but long on the important events of the town, like hospital admissions, birthdays, obituaries and who was selling beagle puppies or used washing machines.

Just as she unfastened the latch, another noisy bang sounded on the porch. She opened the door, but didn't find a teenage paperboy standing on the porch in front of her.

Instead, she found herself face-to-face with a very amused Joe Santori.

“Well, well, Miss Suzie,” he said, sending a smiling glance down her satin-and-lace robe with the flowing fabric of her white flannel nightgown showing beneath. His voice was smooth and bone-tinglingly low. “Did I get you out of bed?”

Susannah snatched her robe closed, appalled to be caught in her nightie by anyone, let alone Joe Santori! Did a man have a right to look so handsome in a plaid shirt and jeans?
Did his smile have to be so bold and knowing, his air so rakish?

Suddenly Susannah knew exactly why Rose had been in such a hurry to leave the house. “Damn her eyes, she's making sure I fall over you every time I turn around, isn't she?”

Joe blinked politely. “Beg your pardon?”

Susannah shook herself, mustered some composure and said, “Nothing. I'm just going to murder someone when she gets back. What's all the noise about?”

“I dropped my toolbox here and went back for some other junk I'll be needing.” Joe indicated the carved wooden toolbox sitting at his feet on the porch, but his gaze remained on Susannah, absorbing all the emotion she tried too late to conceal. He said, “I woke you, didn't I?”

“Of course not.” She edged behind the door as best she could without feeling like a fool. Seeing Joe's expression, she felt more exposed in her nightgown and robe than if she'd answered the door dressed in plastic wrap. “I just...I haven't had time to dress yet, that's all.”

Joe tilted his head so he wouldn't lose sight of her as she tried to hide behind the door. “That costume looks like cotton candy. And you look delicious.”

“It's not a costume, and I'm not... I'm—” Susannah found herself so tongue-tied that she started to blush like a love-struck teenager. “Oh, blast!”

His smile widened. He had the face of a lady-killer, she decided in that moment—not handsome, but very charming, with a dark glimmer at the back of his eyes.

In a languid drawl, he said, “Do I fluster you, Miss Suzie?”

“Yes, but I haven't the faintest idea why!”

“Maybe we ought to talk about that,” Joe replied, his grin growing wider. “As soon as I take a look around the house, that is.”

“A look around the house?” Susannah repeated stupidly. “Oh, you're here about the repairs, aren't you? I forgot.”

Standing at the door with the cold morning air whispering
around her bare toes and Joe Santori smiling down at her, Susannah felt very vulnerable. She was completely dressed, of course—swathed in layers of material, in fact. But something in Joe Santori's gaze made her feel as if she was wearing much less.

He said softly, “Would you like me to wait outside while you dress?”

“That's not necessary. It's freezing cold and you shouldn't...I mean, it's foolish to—”

“The neighbors will wonder if I step inside, though. You're the famous Susannah Atkins, and greeting a man at your door is risky business, wouldn't you say?”

“I'm sure there aren't any nosy reporters lurking in the bushes.”

“But with everyone owning a video camera these days, who knows what might happen? ‘Oh, Susannah!' could end up being exposed on national television. That's a very nice ensemble, if you ask me, but in the hands of one of those sleazy talk-show guys—”

“I'm sure the neighbors aren't watching.”

Joe laughed. “You're positive? You must forget what it's like living in Tyler. If you make one mistake, Miss Suzie, the whole population will know by sundown.”

As if to prove his point, another human figure appeared at that moment. A teenage boy ambled from around the mailbox on the corner. He was very tall and lanky, carrying a slouchy sack of newspapers over one sloping shoulder, and he walked like a camel—with a shuffling, long-legged gait. But his gaze was not that of a sleepy camel. Rather, he seemed to be scoping the neighborhood for any signs of life.

“Oh, heavens,” moaned Susannah. “That must be Lars.”

“Sure is,” Joe said cheerfully. “And he's going to wonder what you're doing talking to me in your nightgown. 'Morning, Lars! What's new?”

The boy spotted Joe on the porch and Susannah in the doorway in her white satin, flannel and lace, and his eyes, already
slightly protuberant, popped wide with excitement at having seen something interesting at last.

The boy's voice cracked as he called, “Nothin', Mr. Santori. Nothin's new. Except I heard Mrs. Atkins's granddaughter is back in town. You know—the famous TV personality!”

“No kidding?” Joe was grinning broadly.

“Yessir, have you seen her?”

“As a matter of fact, Lars, I have.”

“That wouldn't be her, would it?” Lars asked, smiling shyly as he mounted the porch steps. He had obviously recognized Susannah from a block away, but he said, “Boy, you're even prettier in person!”

“You've got good taste in women, Lars,” said Joe. He turned to Susannah. “Think it's worth losing your reputation?”

Lars wrestled a rolled-up newspaper out of his sack. “Could I have your autograph?”

“Certainly.” Susannah didn't feel much like greeting another fan at that moment, but she forced herself to be pleasant. “Do you have a pen?”

Joe took a stubby pencil from behind his ear and offered it. “Will this do?”

“Sign my bag,” Lars said, holding out the canvas sack. “In real big letters.”

Susannah complied, then said shortly, “There you go. Now, if you'll forgive me, I'd like to get in out of the cold.”

“Oh, sure. I didn't mean to keep you out here.” Lars smiled and backed off the porch, still holding his bag and admiring Susannah's signature as if it were the Holy Grail. “Thanks, Miss Atkins. I'll never forget this. I've never been so close to a celebrity before. Uh...sorry to have bothered you.”

Susannah glanced up and found Joe watching her.

He smiled curiously down at her, making no bones about admiring the way the sunlight cast its golden glow across her face. His own appearance was nothing short of breathtaking—that curly black hair, those deep brown eyes, that oh, so sexy
mouth curled in a smile that spoke more than words could say. But there was more in his expression, Susannah saw. Questions.

Susannah released a pent-up breath in a great, dizzying whoosh.

He said, “You're pretty nice to your fans.”

“It pays off.”

“But there's something...” Joe caught himself, brow twitching, and said, “You seem a little upset.”

Susannah hugged herself and stepped back into the house. “I'm not upset. Of course I like my fans. But this morning...I just—” Susannah realized she needed to share her dilemma with someone, and Joe seemed like a sympathetic ear. She turned and put one hand on the door handle, trying to decide if she could dump the whole story on him. He'd been relatively understanding yesterday.

“What is it?” he asked.

With a rush of relief, Susannah blurted out, “My grandmother was ill last night.”

Joe's face changed, his concern appearing at once, and he stepped over the threshold to cup Susannah's arm instinctively. “Is she all right? Did you take her to the hospital?”

“No, although I certainly tried to talk her into going.”

He closed the door. “What happened, exactly?”

“After you left, she fainted—just blacked out in the kitchen. I don't know why. I called the emergency number—”

“Paramedics?”

“Right. But they checked her and didn't find anything terribly wrong. They urged her to see her own doctor today, that's all.”

“Where is she now?” Joe asked in a take-charge tone. “Upstairs resting?”

“Are you kidding?” Exasperation finally getting the best of her, Susannah burst out, “She ran off to Marge's Diner—on foot! I couldn't stop her.”

Joe looked grim. “Good Lord.”

“And she's carrying a coffeepot, too.”

“Look,” Joe said, opening the door again with a jerk—he was clearly a man of action who didn't waste words. “I'll go now and pick her up in the truck. Don't worry. I'll be right back.”

“But she—”

“She shouldn't be walking around in the cold if she fainted last night.”

Relieved, Susannah said, “Thank you. I really...”

But Joe was already out the door and halfway down the steps. Over his shoulder, he said, “Don't mention it.”

He left, and Susannah gratefully hurried upstairs to dress. Her overnight bag didn't carry much, but Josie had insisted Susannah carry a few essentials at all times, including a pair of jeans and a sweater. Susannah only had enough time to climb into the clothes, brush her teeth and begin to pull on a pair of sneakers before she heard Joe's pickup truck drive up to the curb in front of the house.

She peeked out the window and saw that Joe had returned alone. He was storming up the sidewalk by himself. Frightened all over again, Susannah rushed downstairs with only one shoe on and the laces flapping.

She yanked open the door, breathless. “Where is she?”

Joe's face looked stormy. “At Marge's,” he growled. “She's drinking coffee and having a wonderful time.”

Susannah stepped aside and allowed Joe into the house. “You couldn't get her to come home with you?”

“No,” he said shortly. “Are you as mule-headed as she is, or is Rose a throwback to some prehistoric female of the species?”

Susannah laughed weakly and pushed her hair back from her face. “We're both pretty stubborn. She's okay, though?”

“Just ornery,” Joe said, grouchy and annoyed. “Mostly, she wanted me to get back over here and look around the house with you.”

“I see,” said Susannah, feeling herself color once again.

“In fact, she ordered me out of Marge's at knife-point!”

“Knife-point?”

“She grabbed a knife out of Judson Ingalls's hand just as he was cutting into his bacon. She looked like a terrorist. In another town, somebody would have called the police.”

Susannah laughed at the picture he described. “Look, I'm really sorry, Mr. Santori, but I think my grandmother has decided we'd be good for each other.”

He smiled ruefully. “That's obvious.”

“And she can be relentless, in case you haven't guessed.”

“Believe me, I guessed. She said she'd come back in half an hour, and Judson volunteered to bring her home.”

Susannah relaxed. “That's kind of him.”

Joe lifted his head. “What's that noise?”

It was the oven buzzer. “Muffins,” Susannah said. “No doubt my grandmother made them so you and I could have a romantic breakfast together. Let me go shut off the oven and we can take that tour—”

“No, let me take care of the muffins.” Joe put a restraining hand on Susannah's arm. “You go get your other shoe.”

He wasn't just take-charge, he was helpful, too. “Thanks,” she said, once again glad to have someone like Joe around when she needed it.

Susannah dashed upstairs and found her shoe under the bed, where she'd thrown it when she'd heard Joe's truck. She pulled it onto her foot and began lacing it.

But she stopped, laces frozen in her hands. From downstairs in the kitchen, she heard Joe start to hum. And in a few moments, as she brushed her hair and began winding it onto the top of her head, she heard him start to sing.

And, boy, could he sing! Not just the pop-tunes-in-the-shower repertoire, but real singing, like great opera baritones Susannah had heard on the radio. Joe's voice rose from the kitchen and rumbled in the rafters. Susannah stopped fidgeting with her hair and stood very still, listening, transfixed.

How could a man's voice sound so poignant? So emotional? So wonderful?

“Stop thinking like a star-struck teenager,” Susannah lectured
herself. “He may be helpful, and he may sing like Placido Domingo, but he's not your type at all.”

No, Susannah Atkins only dated intellectuals. Or hard-driven executives. Or a combination of both. Most of the time, she dated Roger Selby, and he was a far cry from Joe Santori. Roger was very attractive—he kept fit on the racquetball court and was notoriously vigilant about his diet—but as Susannah fixed her hair, she found herself thinking that Roger was...well, kind of effete compared to Joe. Roger was witty and intelligent and a good conversationalist. But Joe seemed like a man's man, capable of talking sports or sweeping a woman off her feet if he wanted to.

He's not going to sweep
me,
of course,
she said silently to her reflection.

Susannah was not the sweepable sort. She was a very levelheaded woman who knew what she wanted out of life. And the likes of Joe Santori did not fit into her plans at all.