Your Dream and Mine (13 page)

Trace was waiting with the food. Thomasina helped him with the drinks as they returned to the truck. According to the local radio station, the stealth was still scheduled to make an east-to-west fly-by within the hour.

“We could get a pretty good look from the mall parking lot without fighting the air-show traffic,” said Trace. “What do you think?”

Dry and comfortable and reluctant to see the date end, Thomasina agreed with the plan. Trace drove to the mall just east of the airport and parked on the outskirts. They made short work of the sandwiches, fries and milkshakes, and talked while they waited for the plane to fly over. Thomasina learned that Trace’s family had camped out in nearly all the national parks in the country one time or another.

“My dad spent forty-eight weeks of the year behind a counter, cutting meat. But every summer, we packed up the camper and spent the remaining four visiting seashores, deserts, mountains—you name it.”

Thomasina smiled at his memories. “Those were good times?”

“You bet. Get him outdoors, and Dad was a different man. He could take lost matches, rain-soaked bedding, charred potatoes—just about anything without growling.” A grin shaped Trace’s mouth. “I remember one time we hiked down into the Grand Canyon to camp overnight. Tootsie ran down the flashlight batteries reading scary stories. In the wee hours, nature called. She wasn’t gone more than a minute or two when here she came screaming back, so scared she couldn’t find the tent flap. She collapsed the whole works trying to outrun a sheet caught in a tree.”

“Of course you weren’t frightened at all,” inserted Thomasina.

“Who do you think was under the. sheet?”

Thomasina laughed. “Poor Tootsie. You’re awful.”

“So what’re you doing here?” he asked with a crooked grin.

“I’d leave, but it’s a long walk home on one shoe,” she quipped.

Trace punched up the radio volume as their easy laughter gave way to a companionable silence. He leaned back in the seat, hands resting on the steering wheel. His lashes came down, a gold-tipped fringe curling toward the cinnamon toast ridge of his cheeks.

Thomasina mulled the seed from which his dream had sprung to the harmony of wiper blades and pattering rain and a love song playing on the radio. The words were so tender and selfless and honest, it took her breath away when Trace’s eyes sought hers. As the fading strains whispered between them, the thought of Milt’s farm surfaced like a cloud skipping over the skies of contentment. What if she outbid him? Could their budding feelings for one another survive?

Softly she asked, “What’ll you do if you don’t get it?”

“Get what?” he asked.

“The farm.”

He shrugged. “It’s too early to worry.”

Or too late.

“I am, though,” she admitted. “I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

“Upset? Over what?”

“The bidding,” said Thomasina.

“Why would I be unless…?” Trace chuckled as if it were cute of her to think she might actually outbid him.
“The shirt off my back is one thing, Tommy. But Milt’s farm? You’ll have to fight me for that.”

She flushed, his dry wit hitting a nerve. Or was it just his way of warning her off the subject? She looked into his eyes for verification. It was like reaching for a step that wasn’t there. He didn’t know. How could he not? She had told him plainly.
With planes droning overhead.
She froze. Could he have missed the most critical part of last night’s explanation?

“Thomasina?” His tone flared like a match in a dark room. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m bidding on the farm, too.” She pushed the words out before courage failed.

“Milt’s farm?” Trace gaped at her from the other side of the seat. “You’re serious? But what could you possibly want with it? Unless…the camp!” He answered his own question. The windows of his soul flew down with a bang, clarifying where it was that she stood in his list of priorities.

And still she tried brokenly to repair the damage. “I thought you…I told you.…What’d you think I said?”

“Last night?” His short laugh was self-deprecating. “That you weren’t looking for anything…Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, struggling to be fair. “If I’d realized you didn’t understand…”

“You really think I’d have played kiss tag if I’d understood?”

His acid-edged words quivered home like stingers, tunneling into a bruised heart. The cab was too warm, the windshield clouded, the air too close with the rain-washed scent of him. Tears pressed hot against the back of Thomasina’s eyelids. She grabbed her purse and popped the door open.

Trace called her name as her feet reached for the pavement.
The key ground in the ignition. Thomasina’s heart jumped as the truck sprang to life. He backed out, then pulled ahead. Thomasina’s nose prickled at the stench of wet brakes as he stopped even with her. She hurried blindly along. Keeping pace, he reached across the seat and threw the door open.

“Get in. I’ll take you home.”

“Go away,” said Thomasina, head down, fighting tears.

“I can’t,” he said in a tone that implied he’d dearly love to. “Where’re you going? You don’t have shoes. They aren’t going to let you inside.”

Thomasina stumbled up the curb without answering, and escaped through the doors of a restaurant. She called a cab, then slid into a booth and bit her lip to keep from crying into the cup of tea the waitress set before her.

Kiss tag,
he said. Her sympathizing compromising blindness toward what it was she’d appealed to in him was galling. It’d been there all along. In X’s and O’s in his touch and in his words:
I’ll turn my back if you want to change.
All jokingly spoken, yet indicative of what it was she’d kindled. And dolt that she was, she would have stuck around and played with that quick hot flame had he not been so brutally honest.
Kiss tag.
His taunt played like a broken record in her head.

“There it is,” someone called from the table next to hers. “The stealth bomber!”

A dozen or so people hurried to the restaurant’s wide window. Thomasina followed pointing fingers and saw the plane break through the clouds. Black, silent, sleek, alien looking. As swift and deadly as not knowing the difference between budding love and a cheap forgery.

Engine idling in the parking lot, Trace went over last night’s dinner conversation, and knew right away the moment
she told him. With aircraft screaming overhead, drowning out her words. Fine timing on her part. Then to match him kiss for kiss! What was that all about? What kind of a fool did she take him for? Why was he sitting here waiting on her? Bailing out had been her choice, not his.

And still Trace waited, watching the restaurant door. Wishing he could leave, knowing he couldn’t. He nearly missed the stealth bomber’s approach. It was a beautiful thing. Sleek, black, silent and batlike. He watched it with detached appreciation. It circled once and flew over again. He reached for Thomasina’s camera, snapped a picture of the plane, then regretted the impulse as self-effacing. What did he care that she wanted a photo for her parents?

A cab pulled up to the curb. Thomasina dashed out the restaurant door and hurled herself into the cab without a glance in his direction.
A nice working girl,
Trace recalled his first impression of her. Not going to be a bit trouble. She’d been nothing but!

Trace took the film out of her camera, dropped it off at a photography shop and went home to find her car exactly where Ricky had left it that morning. Had she made it home? What did he care? She was a big girl, she could take care of herself.

Trace pulled the truck into the carriage house and was angling for the back door when Antoinette came across the backyard with a dish in her hand.

“Hi, Trace. Is Thomasina home?”

“I don’t know,” said Trace.

“Oh. I thought she left with you.” Antoinette answered his sour glance with defensive squaring of shoulders, and thrust the baking dish at him. “Give this to her, would you please? And tell her I’m sorry I forgot the kids’ program this morning.”

Trace left the dish in the laundry room along with Thomasina’s camera, wet shirt and muddy shoe. He vented his frustration, slamming the door, then kicked himself all the way up the stairs for letting her get to him.

T
homasina didn’t realize how carefully she’d protected her heart all these years until Trace so nearly broke it. She felt vulnerable, foolish for being taken in and angry. And not just with him. She was furious with herself for being so blind, seeing only what she wanted to see in him.

Now she didn’t want to see him at all. She didn’t venture downstairs the next morning until she was sure he had gone. She had been assigned another new case and scheduled for nights again, working twelve-hour shifts, from eight in the evening until eight in the morning. A mixed blessing, as it was an exhausting schedule. Yet it would keep her busy and reduce the chances of running into him while she looked for another place to live. Maybe with a little care. She could dodge him until then. Unless he sold the house out from under her first. To think she’d bought his apology, as if he hated to inconvenience her.

Kiss tag.
His taunting words echoed in her heart. One thing he’d done was to simplify her decision concerning the farm. She could bid on it now without any twinges on his behalf.

Winny and Pauly knocked on Thomasina’s door late in the morning. She was glad to see them. No mention was made of their having missed going to church with her the previous day. Thomasina was carrying the dollhouse through the laundry room on her way to the back deck when she found the things she’d left in Trace’s truck. Her casserole dish was there, as well.

Sharp-eyed Winny saw it, too. “Momma told Trace to give it to you. He must have forgot.”

Thomasina knew that was not the case. He didn’t want to see her. It touched a nerve. It shouldn’t have, since she felt the same. But it did. She played with the children until Antoinette came for them.

“The casserole was good. You did get your dish, didn’t you?” said Antoinette.

“Yes, thanks,” said Thomasina, relieved by her cordial manner.

“Thank
you.
Dad appreciated the help. There was enough left over, he’s going to reheat it for the kids’ supper tonight. I’m going to drop them by on my way to work.”

Antoinette nudged the kids toward the hedge. “Run home and wash your hands and faces. Grandpa’s waiting for us.” When the children were out of earshot, she lifted her chin and abruptly changed the subject. “Fred and I broke up.”

Thomasina caught her breath. “Not because of anything I said, I hope?”

“What else?”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Antoinette.”

“Yes, well, what you said made me mad enough to want to prove you wrong,” admitted Antoinette. “But when I talked to the kids, I saw there was some truth to what you said. I won’t be seeing him again. Don’t worry about it, it’s no great loss.”

Thomasina commiserated with an earnestness that would not have been possible before her rift with Trace. Antoinette responded in like kind, admitting she should have seen the flaws in Fred sooner. At length, Thomasina asked, “So how do you know when you’ve found the real thing?”

“I’m the wrong one to ask.” Antoinette tilted her chin and said with a hardness in her voice, “I married a guy who died cheating on me, remember? Or hadn’t you heard?”

Thomasina averted her face and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” Antoinette’s earrings jangled as she cocked her head to one side. “What’s the matter, did you and Trace have a tiff?”

“More than,” admitted Thomasina. “I wish I’d never moved here. I’m going to move out, as soon as I find another apartment.”

“Run, you mean? I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction!” said Antoinette. “Show some spunk, Thoma. Don’t let him know he got to you.”

“How am I supposed to…”

“Spit in his eye, baby.” Antoinette, half a decade younger and a couple wiser, wrapped a sisterly arm around her shoulder. “I may not know much, but I know if you run, you’ll be running all your life, taking your hurt out on yourself. Why should you suffer? Make him suffer, that’s my motto.”

“I can’t, and I wouldn’t if I could.”

“Sure you can. Find someone new. That gets to them quicker than anything. Try it, you’ll see.”

Thomasina knew Antoinette meant well. She had no desire for someone new. She thanked Antoinette for listening, turned on the shower and had a good cry.

Trace spent Monday taking a hard look at Thomasina as a serious contender for the farm. If he’d had his wits about
him, and spent a little more time noticing what she didn’t have instead of admiring her all-too-obvious assets, he’d have realized how unlikely it was that she had the
means
to outbid him. She worked a lot of hours, babied a dated car and appeared to be conservative in her spending. If she came from a wealthy family, she hadn’t mentioned it. It would surprise him, though, for there was nothing in her life-style to indicate affluence.

By Tuesday, Trace had convinced himself her camp idea was a pipe dream. It was unlikely she had any idea the price prime farm ground commanded. She was a city girl. The one time they’d talked about acreage, she’d wanted it rounded off into city blocks.

Regretting the whole business as a tempest in a teapot, Trace picked up Thomasina’s pictures Wednesday afternoon on his way to work, having fence mending in mind. But Thursday came and went with no sign of Thomasina. On Friday, by sheer chance, Trace noticed her car parked in front of a Laundromat in Bloomington. Now there was a piece of inside-out logic, hauling her laundry all the way to town with a washer and dryer sitting three feet beyond her kitchen door. He scratched his head, bemused she’d go to so much trouble just to avoid him.

Saturday was moving day for Milt and Mary. Trace had promised to help. Will wanted him there by nine. He heard Thomasina’s alarm go off on the other side of the wall. The radio went on next, and then the shower.

Trace rolled out of bed, flipped on the TV, cranked up the volume and ran hot water into the tub. The pressure was down as she was using water, too. He wasn’t getting much of a trickle. But the tub eventually filled. He shaved and dressed, made a cup of instant coffee, got the package
of pictures from the truck and sat down in the swing, one eye on the front door as he flipped through the snapshots.

The close-up of her in the truck, flushed, rain-soaked and laughing was the best of the lot. Trace helped himself to it, finished his coffee and waited in the swing, certain she’d be along in a minute to complain about the volume of his TV and the inadequate trickle of water.

A few minutes later he saw Thomasina shoot across the yard to her car. He got to his feet, tried to wave her down, but she sped away without acknowledging him.

Watching as Thomasina drove away, Trace shoved his hand in his pocket and conjured retribution for her game of cat and mouse. He returned the pictures to the glove box of his truck, and drove out to the farm.

Will’s sisters and Mary had everything packed up. Only part of it was being moved. The rest would be sold at the auction. The pieces of furniture Mary had chosen to take along were heavy ones. It was late afternoon before they finished the move.

Trace arrived home and found Thomasina on the back porch, in a white wicker chair. She was snacking on chocolate-covered raisins, a book in her lap. Her hair was pulled back and clipped with a butterfly clip. Judging by the paint freckles on her nose and cheery spatters on her shorts and scoop-neck T-shirt, she had been painting something yellow. He recalled Ricky mentioning something about planning to surprise his mother by painting the kitchen. It sounded like something Thomasina would have a part in.

She seemed intent on ignoring him, so Trace moved closer. His shadow fell over her chair, and still she pretended to be absorbed with her book. “Your grass needs mowing,” he tried for openers.

“I’ll mention it to Ricky,” she replied without looking up.

“He can’t. He doesn’t have time,” said Trace. “He’s working for me.”

“All the time?”

“That’s right.”

“Fine,” she said, and flipped a page. “I’ll do it myself.”

“When?”

“What do you mean,
when?
”

“I mean when are you mowing?” he pressed. “You let it get too tall, and it looks like a hay field. Anyway, it’s hard on the mower.”

“I’ll fit it in this afternoon, then,” she said, and turned another page.

Trace reached down and slanted the book so he could see the title.

She flicked him a glance. “You make a better door than window.”

He braced a hand on the arm of her wicker chair and leaned close enough to catch the scent of chocolate mingling with the honeysuckle growing just beyond the porch. He flicked the book with his thumb and forefinger. “Anything in here about standing your ground?”

She shifted in the chair and slanted him a bored glance.

“You’re like a pup chasing a whitewall tire, Tommy. You get a gravel spit at you, and you tuck tail and run.”

“Save your cracker barrel philosophy for the old boys down at Newt’s, would you?”

“There’s enough to go around. You’re spilling your raisins.” He plucked one off her knee.

She slapped his hand away and got to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Where you going?”

“Inside.”

“That’s right. Run off.” He fanned that spark of temper lighting her eye. “About what I’d expect of a somebody
who walks right past a washer and dryer and drives twenty miles to do her laundry.”

“What do you expect? You create an uncomfortable situation, and I’m supposed to cope.”

“
I
create?”

“Yes, you! With your suggestive suggestions and your…lurid remarks and your…your…your implications that I…” Her hands flew the same disjointed pattern as her words.

“That you
what?
What lurid remarks?”

“Never mind!” she snapped. “Are you going to get the lawn mower, or do you want to give me a carriage house key and I’ll go myself?”

“Get your shoes on and we’ll both go. Or is that a little too close for your comfort?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh yes, you do.” He warmed himself at the color flagging her paint-speckled cheeks. “You kissed me first and it’s eating you up.”

“Let’s stick to the issue, shall we?”

“Which is?”

“The farm! You want it. I want it.”

“Jeb Liddle wants it,” said Trace. “But he hasn’t quit speaking to me over it.”

“So what’re you saying?”

“I’m saying may the best man win even if she’s a woman. And no hard feelings,” said Trace.

She tipped her chin. “That isn’t what you said Sunday.”

“You caught me off guard. Anyway, I hadn’t sorted out the extenuating circumstances.”

“Which are?”

He tapped her book. “I shouldn’t have to explain that to somebody as widely read as you.”

“So what do you read, Mr. Intellectual?”

“You,” he said. “I can read you like a first-grade map!”

“Right!” Her eyes glittering like honey-roasted almonds. “I sat across the table from you and told you I was interested in Milt’s farm and you read me so well, you didn’t react until the next day!”

“It was a little noisy. I was trying my hand at Braille.”

“You were trying your hand, all right, but Braille had nothing to do with it. And just for the record, I did
not
kiss you first.”

“Didn’t you? Refresh my memory.”

“Milt and Mary’s kitchen!”

“Well, well. Look who’s blushing.” Getting no response, he shifted his feet. “Do you know what farmland goes for around here, Tommy?”

“Yes, I do, and I’ll bid you into the ground if I can.”

“You’ll get your chance, come November. But that’s a long time to carry a grudge,” he warned. “Do you want to ride out to Milt and Mary’s with me?”

“I’m mowing, remember?”

“Leave it and come to the farm,” he said. “We’ll settle this amicably.”

She gritted her teeth and glared. “I’m not going anywhere with you, though I’d be happy to help you pack.”

“I’m just checking doors for now.” He corrected her assumption he was going out there to stay. “Are you coming or not?”

She slammed the kitchen door on her way in.

“Then you wonder why the doors don’t work.” Trace wiggled his finger in his ringing ear. He’d stretched the truth saying he could read her. She was like a tricky whodunit with twists and turns that kept him on his toes, then surprised him just when he thought he had it figured out.

Through the coming week, Trace grew frustrated with Thomasina’s uncanny ability to avoid him. Sunday morning,
he finally thought of a place she couldn’t dodge him. He went to church.

Thomasina must have God in her corner, as good as she was at staying a jump ahead. She wasn’t there. Deidre was. She invited him and Ricky to stay for the potluck afterward. Trace hadn’t planned on it, but Ricky wanted to so badly, that Trace let himself be talked into it. Afterward, they went back to his house to change into work clothes. Thomasina came up the front steps in her nurse’s whites just as they were leaving.

“You worked today? On Sunday?” said Trace, his gaze skipping over her.

“I can’t have them all off. Anyway, look who’s talking.” She rallied to the battlefield, as if there’d been no weeklong pause in their last quarrel.

“We went,” Ricky spoke up. “Stayed for the potluck, too. Deidre makes a mean fried chicken.”

Trace could have wrung his neck. Instead he sent him to load tools into the truck. “Shall we save you a place next week?” he said to Thomasina when Ricky was out of earshot.

“No thank you,” she said, thawing a little. “I’m taking Pauly and Winny to Sunday school in Bloomington.”

“We have Sunday school here.”

“Yes, I know. But Antoinette promised to go if we went to Bloomington.”

“Antoinette beating my time, is she?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes. Mistrusting the angle of her jaw, Trace said, “What’s the matter? Is it harder than you thought, putting me in the ground?”

“I didn’t say
put
you, I said bid you.”

“Oh. My mistake. Guess I can quit watching my back.” Trace tried to soften her up with a grin. Failing at that, he
said, “By the way, if you have a second, I’d like to ask you about your plans for the farm.”