Passing Through Paradise (25 page)
“He’s, um, actually he’s the contractor working on the house.”
He sat down again, watching her closely. “Somebody Malloy. You mentioned him before.”
“Mike. I—I wasn’t expecting this. God knows I haven’t been thinking about meeting anyone, but we, Mike and I—” How had it happened? And what, exactly, was going on between them? She honestly didn’t know. Yet from the first moment she’d seen him, even through a blur of frustrated tears, the world had looked different— brighter, safer . . . more honest. She couldn’t explain it to herself, let alone her father.
“At first, we were cordial—I guess that’s how you’d describe it. I hired him because he promised to fix what was wrong.”
“With your house.”
“Yes. Didn’t I say that?” She frowned, then went on. “Obviously, we saw a lot of each other because of the house, but lately we’ve been getting closer.” She didn’t elaborate and knew her father wouldn’t ask more than he could bear to hear.
Her father sat forward. “So what kind of guy is he?” A few years ago, he’d asked the same thing about Victor.
Her answer had been naively sincere. “He’s perfect,” she had said. “Absolutely perfect.”
She would never say that of Malloy. She was older now, smarter. Sadder. Wise enough to know Mike wasn’t perfect. But he was . . . everything else. Caring. Strong and tender. Indecently sexy. And steady, an anchor in a stormy sea. “You’d like him, Dad. He’s a guy’s guy. He used to run a historical restoration company in Newport, and now he’s starting up in Paradise. He’s a single dad, with a boy who’s nine and a girl who just turned thirteen.”
“So is this serious?”
“I have no idea.” She knew she was hedging. The truth was, she got chills every time she thought of Mike, and one long, smoldering look from him made her heart soar. This was a conversation she should be having with Joyce or Barb, yet here she was, talking it all out with her father. Amazing. Maybe he really had changed. “There’s something you should know. He and Victor were friends when they were kids.”
“What?”
“He grew up in Paradise. He knows a lot of the locals.”
“Sandra, have you explained this to your lawyer?”
“Why should I?”
“The guy might be taking you for a ride. You got him tearing your house apart, poking around in everything. What if he’s looking for evidence against you?”
“That’s a bit melodramatic, Dad. Besides, I have nothing to h-hide.” As she spoke, she nearly choked on her own words.
“Be careful,” her father cautioned. “You’re in a tricky spot, with this lawsuit coming up. Don’t let the guy take advantage of you.”
“He would never do that,” she said, her confidence shaken.
But her father’s suspicions haunted her on the drive home. She’d gone to him, desperate for hope that her parents would reconcile and for assurance that her relationship with Mike wasn’t doomed. But instead of quelling her fears about getting involved with Mike, her father had raised more questions.
A
s soon as she got back to the house, she went looking for Mike. The crew had left for the day, but he was still there, with Springsteen playing on the radio as he put the finishing touches on a cornice of the dining room.
Watching him work would never get old for her. There was something mysteriously evocative about his manner, the way he held himself. She couldn’t pinpoint what caught and held her attention, exactly. But each move he made touched a chord deep inside her—the deft motions of his hands. The angle of his hip, jammed against the top rung of the ladder. The set of his jaw and his intent stare as he studied a carpenter’s level and made a mark with a flat blue pencil. These were routine, probably tedious chores, but he did them with such . . . skill. Maybe that was the word for it.
It was compelling in a way she couldn’t explain to herself.
Everything about him was exciting to her. She hadn’t expected to discover that about him. Especially because from all outward appearances, she had been married to a man the whole world considered exciting. When Victor had first been elected to the state legislature, he’d been— much to his chagrin—profiled as
Cosmo’s
bachelor of the month. There was even a Web site put up by fans enthralled by his looks and charisma, and each week, that site had generated everything from borderline illegal sexual favors to offers of vacation homes on Maui. The site might have solicited more than that, she thought with a grim chill.
Bringing her wandering thoughts back to Mike, she tried to imagine him being underhanded enough to spy on her. To search her home and provide information to the Winslows’ investigators. The image was simply ludicrous, a portrait in garish paint colors. He would never do that. She felt stupid, paranoid, bringing up those accusations.
Zeke woke from a nap on the window seat and trotted over to greet her, alerting Malloy. He relegated the level and hammer to his tool belt while turning to her. That was another thing she found so sexy about him. In the blink of an eye, he gave her his whole attention, his whole self, making her the center of the world.
“Hey,” he said, climbing down the ladder. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Grabbing her by the waist, he kissed her energetically. Her body flared to life like a struck match. Every time he touched her, the intimate sensations felt brand-new. She was unexplored territory, and his frank, gentle caresses mapped her most secret places, claiming her for his own. He kissed her breathless, and when she finally pulled away, she tried to remember what she had meant to say to him. Instead, she could only find a whisper: “I missed you today.”
“Oh, baby,” he said, tugging her tightly against him, “I missed you, too.” Dropping the tool belt, he kissed her again, walking her backward across the foyer, never letting up until he steered her to the stairs. God, she loved this — loved the way he wanted her. The way he forgot everything else in the world but her. The way he made her forget. . .
Upstairs, they fell back on the bed together, causing the ancient springs to creak. She kissed him hungrily, wanting to pull all of him close. There was so much of him—broad shoulders and big hands and a mouth that moved over hers with unexpected tenderness.
He smelled of sweat and industrial adhesive as he crushed down on her, caressing and searching. She still had her purse hanging from her shoulder, and when he reached up to unbutton her blouse, his hand tangled in the strap.
“Let’s get organized here,” he said, pulling back.
She laughed. “I hadn’t planned on being seduced.” Now, she reminded herself. Ask him now.
“Unplanned seduction is the best kind.” He stood, pulling her up beside him. He set down her purse and lifted the blouse over her head.
Her doubts floated away, helium balloons released to the sky. She couldn’t catch them back, didn’t even want to. She unbuttoned his blue denim work shirt, parting it to bare his chest. It was still light outside, and weak sunshine through the window illuminated the contours of his body. There was something wicked and delicious about doing this in broad daylight.
“I need a shower,” he said as she tugged his shirttail from his jeans.
“Now?”
He skimmed her panty hose down, pausing to kiss the inside of her knee. Several times, lightly. “Yeah. Now.”
“But—”
Standing, he unhooked her bra and stepped back to look at her. “Now,” he repeated, then pressed one finger to her lips. Taking her hand, he led her into the adjoining bathroom.
It was as old-fashioned as the rest of the summer place, with black and white hexagonal tile and a huge, claw-footed iron tub clad in white porcelain. The brass shower head snaked to life when he turned on the water, letting it run while he shucked off the rest of his clothes. Hot billows of steam filled the room, and he grinned at her through the whitish mist. In a curiously formal gesture, he took her hand and motioned for her to step into the tub. The spray beat down on them as they kissed, and then he put a bar of soap into her hands.
She turned it over and over, letting it slip through her fingers. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Quit thinking so hard.”
“I’m not—”
“I can see it in your face.”
She took a deep breath, drawing moisture and heat into her lungs and focusing on Mike—his body, the smoothness of his skin, the taste of his mouth on hers. Her hand came up, tentative, exploring, sliding over his chest and across his collarbone, leaving a wake of soapsuds. His eyes lowered to half mast, and the sound he made in his throat told her she was on the right track. She went up on tiptoe and kissed him, then slid her hand downward, the warm rain and steam washing over them. He touched her everywhere with his hands and mouth, and she finally stopped thinking about everything except the falling water and the heat of need slipping through her. Under the steady flow of the shower, their bodies slid together, melding and searching, until she grew dizzy with need. Winding her arms around his waist, she put her mouth next to his ear. “Now,” she said. “Please.”
“Whatever the lady wants.”
Wet and dripping, half-dazed, she shut off the taps, hurrying to the bed where she welcomed him with a sigh.
They made a mess of the bedclothes, something neither of them noticed until much, much later. Sandra lent him her pink chenille robe, laughing when he put it on. Wrapping herself in a bath towel, she stripped off the damp sheets and gave him detailed instructions as he helped her remake the bed with dry linens. After they tugged the coverlet into place, he captured her around the waist and tackled her again. “That was just what I needed,” he said, nuzzling her neck.
“A shower?”
“Great sex.”
“Is it?” she asked. “Is it great?”
“What do you think?”
Her smile disappeared. She couldn’t lie or bluff about this. “It’s heaven. I never thought I—” Though it seemed absurd under the circumstances, she felt awkward even after all they had shared. Sobered by conflicting sentiments, she extricated herself from his embrace. “You’re very skilled.”
He laughed and sat up, sloppily tying the robe closed. It barely went around him. “Honey, skill has nothing to do with it.” His eyes grew dark, hooded. “It’s the way I feel about you.”
“Mike—”
“Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
Leaning down, he cupped her cheek in his hand. “I ‘m falling in love with you. Fast. And hard.”
She stared at him in devastated shock. But she didn’t say a word. She had no idea how to respond to him. Hurrying from the bed, she pulled on leggings and an over-sized sweatshirt, wanting to hide.
He watched her with an unsettling stare. “This is where you’re supposed to say, ‘Really? That’s good. I feel the same way.’”
“But I’m not falling in love,” she finally whispered, and was shocked to feel a burn of tears in her throat. “I ‘m already there.”
T
hey ate scrambled eggs for dinner with Natalie Cole crooning on the stereo. Afterward, they let Zeke out for a run. Sandra sat on the sofa, looking out at the gathering twilight, a deep indigo sweep of sky, a scattering of stars. They didn’t talk about the words they’d spoken upstairs, but new feelings swirled like a mist in the air. Mike made a fire in the stove, and Sandra reveled in the chance to sit back while someone else warmed the house.
The pink bathrobe—which most men would regard as an abomination—did nothing to detract from his looks. She had never known anyone who could be so comfortable with himself. She envied that. Then she realized she was comfortable when she was with him. The doubts that had plagued her earlier vanished. Suspicion seemed preposterous in the wake of what they’d just shared, what they’d said to each other.
He fixed things: her house, her life, her broken heart. . . He had found her at her lowest moment, and bit by bit, he’d been lifting her up, showing her what love could be. She felt an aching surge of affection, watching the way his big shoulders strained the seams of the robe as he stacked more wood in the bin, his thick hair spilling over his collar. What she felt when she looked at him was so intense that it hurt. He was an expert at taking care of things. But who took care of him?
“I’ve got an idea,” she said with sudden inspiration. She grabbed his hand and led him into the kitchen. Setting a three-legged stool under the hanging light, she said, “You need a haircut.”
He put his hand on the back of his neck. “Yeah? You think?”
“Definitely.” She got the Fiskars from a drawer.
With a shrug of nonchalance, he took a seat on the stool. “Okay.”
Putting a dish towel around his neck, she took a comb from her purse and positioned herself in front of him, using the comb on his thick, soft hair, still damp from the shower. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”
“I trust you,” he said easily.
“I’ve always liked cutting hair,” she confessed. “No credentials in the field, but I have a knack for it. Do you think that’s weird?”
“Different strokes,” he said. “It’s probably Freudian. Or biblical, like Samson and Delilah.”
“I used to practice on dolls when I was little,” she told him, snipping and shaping the thick, dark locks. “Every doll I had wound up with a haircut. When I was six, I gave myself a Mohawk long before Mohawks were popular.”
“I bet that was a sight.”
“It’s one of the few times I ever saw my mother cry. I think I wore a hat or scarf to school for six weeks.”
“You were probably a great kid.”
“You lose, Malloy. I was a mess.” She didn’t like to think about those long-ago, lost years. Even so, she still remembered how the words used to lock in her throat, then emerge as mangled bursts of nonsense; she could still hear the hushed whispers of adults, the open jeers of the other kids. She was Sandy Bab-bab-babblecock, the girl who stuttered.
“But maybe if I hadn’t been such a mess, I wouldn’t have started writing,” she added. She used to write with an anger and eloquence far beyond her years. “In my stories, I was always the big star. The prima ballerina, the doctor curing cancer, the heroine saving a town from a flood. I was larger than life in my imagination. Maybe that’s why I’m such a Walter Mitty in reality.”
As she circled around to check the front, he grabbed her and held her still. “Not in my reality.” He kissed her briefly and hard.
“Quit distracting me, Malloy. I ‘m almost finished.”
A few minutes later, dark curls littered the newly re-finished floor. She dusted his neck with a towel and stood back to admire her work.
“Damn, I’m good,” she said. “You’re Russell Crowe.”
“Who’s Russell Crowe?”
“Duh. Didn’t you see
Gladiator?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you should. You look like him. Sparky was so right about you.”
“What did Sparky say about me?”
“She called you a living, breathing love god.”
He hooted. “Yeah, right. So I’m done?” He reached up and ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks.” He went and got a dustpan and swept up.
“Don’t you want to check yourself out in a mirror?” Sandra asked.
He dumped the clippings into a paper bag. “Does it look okay to you?”
“Living, breathing love god,” she reminded him.
“Okay by me.” He put the broom away, stuffed the bag in the trash and opened the back door. Zeke came in from his run and flopped down on the hearth.
Mike led her upstairs and they made love again, slowly, with a lingering ecstasy she found so moving that she felt like a different person. She found a new side of herself, and it was like finding a secret door in the old house, stepping through to discover another world, a place she had never been before and had never quite believed in, Neverland or Oz. The journey back was gentle and leisurely; she was reluctant to leave, to let go.
Quite late, he kissed her and slipped out of bed, groping for his jeans. “Got to go,” he whispered.
“Don’t,” she whispered back. “Stay with me.”
He hesitated.
“Please, Mike.”
“Okay.” He got back under the covers and she snuggled up against him, and happiness shimmered through her. “But why are we whispering?” he asked.
She didn’t answer; she was filled to overflowing. She understood completely what she had with him, what could be lost, and beneath her cautious joy lay a stark fear.
