Sweet Memories (6 page)

“A musical woman like you?”

“Music and dancing are two different things. I’ve just never cared for—”

“There’s time before New Year’s Eve to learn. Maybe we can change your mind.”

“Let me think about it, okay?”

“Sure.” He got to his feet, and the chair scraped back, then he carried their two plates across the room and set them in the sink with a soft chink.

She opened the basement door and snapped on the light above the steps. “Well, I’m not sure if mother made your bed down here or not.”

She heard his steps following her down the carpeted incline, and prayed she’d find his bed all decked out, ready for him, so she could simply wish him good-night and escape to her own room upstairs.

Unfortunately, the davenport wasn’t either opened or made up, so Theresa had little choice but to cross the room and begin the chore. She tossed the cushions aside, conscious now that Brian had snapped on the lamp, and it flooded the area with mellow light that revealed her clearly while she tugged on the folded mattress and brought it springing out into the room.

“I’ll get the bedding,” she explained, and hustled into the laundry room to find clean sheets and blankets on a shelf there. He had turned on the television set when she came back out to the family room, and a late movie was glimmering on the screen in black and white. The volume was only a murmur as she shook out a mattress pad, concentrating fully on it when Brian stepped to the opposite side of the davenport to help her.

His long fingers smoothed the quilted surface with the expertise of a soldier who’s been trained to keep his bunk in inspection-ready order. A sheet snapped and billowed in the air between them, and above it their glances met, then dropped. Images of the movie’s love scene came back to titillate Theresa, while they tucked the corners of the sheets in, and Brian’s hands pulled it far more expertly than hers, for hers were shaking and seemed nearly inept.

“Tight enough to bounce a coin,” he approved.

She glanced up to find him looking at her instead of the sheet, and wondered what this man was doing to her. She had never in her life been as sexually aware of a male as she was of him. Men had brought
 
her nothing but shame and intimidation, and she’d avoided them. Yet here she stood, gazing into the green eyes of Brian Scanlon over his half-prepared bed, wondering what it would be like to do with him the things she’d seen on a movie screen.

Redheads look ugly when they blush,
 she thought.

“The other sheet,” he reminded her, and abashed, she turned to find it.

When the bed was finally done, she found her pulses leaping like Mexican jumping beans. But there still remained one duty she, as hostess, must perform.

“If you’ll come upstairs, I’ll give you clean towels and washcloths, and show you where the bathroom is.”

“Jeff showed me after supper.”

“Oh. Oh ... good. Well, feel free to shower or ... or whatever, anytime. You can hang your wet towels over the sink in the laundry room.”

“Thank you.”

They stood one on either side of the bed, and she suddenly realized she was facing him fully for the first time without shielding her breasts. Not once since she’d met him had she noticed him looking at them. His eyes were fastened on the freckled cheeks, then they moved up to her detestable red hair, and she realized she’d been standing without moving for a full thirty seconds.

“Well ... good night then.” Her voice was soft and shaky.

“Good night, Theresa.” His was deep and quiet.

She scuttled away, racing up the stairs as if he were chasing her with ill intent. When she was settled into bed with the lights out, she heard him come upstairs and use the bathroom.

Put a pillow over your ears, Theresa Brubaker! 
But she listened to all the sounds coming from beyond her bedroom wall, and two closed doors, and envisioned Brian Scanlon performing his bedtime rituals and wondered for the first time in her life how a husband and wife ever made it through the intimacies of the first week of marriage.

Chapter Three

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, 
Theresa was awakened 
by 
the thump-thump-thump of Amy’s stereo reverberating through the floor. Rolling over, she squinted at the alarm clock, then shot out of bed as if it was on fire. Ten o’clock! She should have been up two hours ago to fix breakfast for Brian and Jeff!

Within minutes she was washed, combed, dressed in blue jeans and a loose white blouse with a black cardigan slung across her shoulders and buttoned beneath the blouse collar.

Her parents had gone to work long ago. Jeff’s door was closed, and the sound of his snoring came from beyond. It appeared Amy was still in her room, torturing her hair with a curling iron while Theresa tried to tame her springing curls by smoothing a hand over the infamous tail that bounced on her shoulders.

She crept down the hall to the kitchen but found it empty. The basement door was open—it appeared Brian was up. She was filling the coffeepot when he, slipped silently to the doorway leading directly to the kitchen from one side of the living room.

“Good morning.”

She spun around, sending water flying everywhere, pressing a hand to her heart.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were there! I thought you were still downstairs.”

“I’ve been awake for a long time. Routine is hard to break.”

“Have you been sitting in there all by yourself?”

“No.” He grinned engagingly. “With Stella.”

She grinned back. “And how did you two get along?” She put coffee in the percolator basket and set the pot on the stove burner.

“She’s a brassy old girl, but I talked sweet to her and she responded like a lady.”

It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it that made Theresa’s cheeks pink. There was an undertone of teasing, though the words were totally polite. She wasn’t used to such a tone of voice when speaking with men, but it, combined with his lazy half smile while he leaned one shoulder against the doorway, gave her the feeling she imagined a cat must have when its fur was slowly stroked the wrong way.

“I didn’t hear you playing.”

“We were whispering to each other.”

Again, she couldn’t resist smiling.

“I ... I’m sorry nobody was up to fix breakfast for you. It’s my first day of Christmas vacation, and I guess my body decided to take advantage of it. I never even wiggled at the usual wake-up time. I heard Jeff still snoring. He must have come in late.”

“It was around three.”

So—he hadn’t been able to sleep. Neither had she. “Three!”

He shrugged, his shoulder still braced on the doorway. He was wearing tight, faded blue jeans and a white football jersey that hugged his ribs just enough to make them tantalizing.

She recalled how long it had taken her to get to sleep after the curious way he’d managed to stir her senses last night, and wondered what had really kept him awake. Had he lain in the dark thinking of the movie as she had? Thinking of Jeff and Patricia in the car? Himself and her having cake and milk in the dusky kitchen?

His slow perusal was beginning to make Theresa’s nerves jump, so she shrugged. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll pour you a glass of juice?”

He obliged, though she still wasn’t rid of his gaze, even after she gave him a glass of orange juice. His eyes followed her lazily as she turned the bacon, scrambled eggs and dropped bread into the toaster. “What do you and Jeff have planned for today?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, I was hoping you could come along.”

Her heart skipped, and she was disappointed at what she had to reply. “Oh, no, I have too much to do to help mother for tomorrow night, and I have to get ready for the concert I’m playing in tonight.”

“Oh, that’s right. Jeff told me. Civic orchestra, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve been in it for three years and I really enjoy—”

“Well, good morning, you two.” It was Amy, barely giving her sister a glance, aiming her greeting primarily at Brian. To his credit, he didn’t flinch even slightly at the sight of Amy, decked out in crisp blue jeans that fit her like a shadow, a skinny little sweater that fit nearly as close, craftily styled hair with its shoulder-length auburn feather cut blown and curled back from her face in that dewy-fresh style so stunningly right for teenage girls. Her makeup application could have taught “Glue Eyes” a thing or two several years ago.

“I thought teenagers spent their vacations flopping around in baggy overalls these days,” Brian noted, managing to compliment Amy without encouraging any excess hope.

“Mmm ...” Amy simpered. “That just goes to show what you know.”

But Theresa was fully aware that had Brian not been under the roof, that’s exactly how Amy would have spent her day, only she wouldn’t have poked her nose out of her burrow until one o’clock in the afternoon.

Amy stepped delicately to the stove and lifted a piece of cooling bacon, nibbled it with a provocative daintiness that quite surprised her sister. Where in the world had Amy learned to act this way? When? Just since Brian Scanlon had walked into the house?

“Amy, if you want bacon and eggs, get yourself a plate,” Theresa scolded, suddenly annoyed by her sister’s flirtatiousness. Even though she realized how small it was to feel a twinge of irritation at this new side Amy was displaying, Theresa was undeniably piqued. Perhaps because the fourteen-year-old had the remarkably freckle-free skin, hair the color of most Kentucky Derby winners and a trim, tiny shape that must be the envy of half the girls in her freshman class at school. Theresa suddenly felt like a gaudy neon sign beside an engraved invitation, in spite of the fact that it was Amy who wore the makeup. Theresa held her sweater over her elbow as she reached to turn off a burner.

From the table, Brian observed it all—the quick flash of irritation the older sister hadn’t quite been able to hide, the guarded movements behind the camouflaging sweater and even the guilt that flashed across her face for the twinge of envy she could not quite control in moments such as these.

He rose, moved to her side and smiled down into her startled eyes. “Here, let me pour the coffee, at least. I feel like a parasite sitting there and doing nothing while you slave over a hot stove.” He reached for the pot while she shifted her eyes to the eggs she was removing from the pan.

“The cups are ...” She half turned to find Amy watching them from just behind their shoulders. “Amy will show you where the cups are.”

They had just begun eating when Jeff came slogging out of his room in bare feet and faded Levi’s, scratching his chest and head simultaneously.

“I thought I smelled bacon.”

“And I thought I smelled a rat,” returned Theresa. “Jeff Brubaker, you should be ashamed of yourself. Bringing Brian here as your houseguest, then abandoning him that way.”

Jeff shambled to a chair and strung himself upon it, more lying than sitting. “Aw hell, Brian didn’t mind, did you, Bry?”

“Nope. Theresa and I had a nice long talk, and I got to bed early.”

“What did you think of old Glue Eyes?” put in Amy.

“She’s just as cute as I expected from Jeff’s descriptions and the pictures I’ve seen,” replied Brian.

“Humph!”

Jeff leaned his elbows on the table and closely scrutinized his younger sister. “Well, lookee here now,” he sing-songed. “If the twerp hasn’t taken a few lessons from old Glue Eyes herself.”

Amy’s mouth puckered up as if it was full of alum. She glared at her brother and snapped, “I’m fourteen years old, Jeffrey, in case you hadn’t noticed! And I’ve been wearing makeup for over a year now.’’

“Oh.” Jeff lounged back in his chair once again. “I beg your pardon, Irma la douce.”

She lurched to her feet and would have stormed out of the room, but Jeff caught her by the elbow and swung her around till she landed on his lap, where she sat stiffly with her arms crossed obstinately over her ribs, an expression of strained tolerance on her face.

“Wanna come along with Brian and me to shop for mom and dad today? I’m gonna need some help deciding what to get for them.”

Her irritation dissolved like a mist before a wind. “
Reeeally?
 You mean it, Jeff?”

“Sure I mean it.” He pushed her off his lap, swatted her on the backside and sent her on her way again. “Get your room cleaned up, and we’ll go right after we eat.” When she was gone he looked at the spot from which she’d disappeared around the hallway wall. “Her jeans are too tight. Mother ought to talk to her about that.”

__________

LEFT BEHIND, 
Theresa recalled the breakfast conversation with something less than good humor. Why was it so irritating that Jeff had noticed Amy’s burgeoning maturity? Why did she herself feel lonely and left out and—
oh, admit it, Brubaker!
—jealous, because her sister of fourteen was accompanying Brian Scanlon, age twenty-three, on an innocent Christmas-shopping spree?

With the house to herself, Theresa put on her classical favorites, and spent the remainder of the morning boiling potatoes and eggs for the enormous pot of potato salad they’d take to the family gathering scheduled for the following night, Christmas Eve. In the afternoon she washed her hair, took a bath, filed her nails and rummaged in Amy’s room for some polish with a little more pizzazz than the colorless stuff she usually wore. She came up with something called “Mocha Magic” and grimaced as she painted the first stripe down a nail. 
I'm simply not a
 
“Mocha Magic” girl,
 she thought, but completed the single nail, held it aloft and assessed it stringently. She fluttered her fingers and watched the light dance across the pearlescent surface and decided—thinking in Amy’s current teenage vernacular—what the heck, go for it!

When all ten nails were finished she wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing. She imagined them glistening, catching the lights while she fingered the neck of her violin. 
I'm a conservative person trapped inside the body of a Kewpie doll,
 she decided, and left the polish on.