Talk of the Town (10 page)

"I love that," she said, laughing, placing her soda-cooled palms to her cheeks. "I think we've almost got it, Gary. We hardly missed a step this time." The smile faded from her lips. "What's wrong?"

He offered her a weak smile and looked away as if he were suddenly shy and awkward.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, words failing him. It didn't happen to him often, but it did happen.

"Are you sure?"

How could he tell her what he couldn't explain? How could he tell her that she was so beautiful, she took his breath away? How could he tell her that when she laughed, he thought his heart might explode? How could he tell her that when her eyes were bright and shiny and full of happiness, he could see his life looking back at him?

"Positive. Are you getting tired? I don't want your boss to get mad if you're dragging tomorrow."

They looked at Lu, twirling on the end of Jimmy's arms, and happened to catch her eye. When Jimmy passed her behind him, she pointed out his remarkable tush and started to giggle.

"I don't think my boss is going to notice if I even show up tomorrow," she said fondly, turning back to Gary. "But maybe we should go. I don't want Harley to worry."

"Think he will?"

She smiled, recalling his earlier behavior. "Probably not."

George Strait's "Last in Love" started up on the jukebox.

"Last dance," he said, standing and holding a hand out to her.

Of course, she didn't know George Strait from B.B. King without an announcement. All she knew was that he had a nice mellow voice, and dancing in Gary's arms was something she could do forever. She could rest her head on his broad shoulder, close her eyes, hear nothing in her head but the music, feel nothing but the gentle pressure of his embrace.

Best of all, she wasn't thinking of tripping or bumping into anyone or falling down. Gary was there. He'd catch her. And her sense of security went beyond physical accidents. Emotional bumps and ego bruises. Gary was there. He'd bandage them, let her lean on him until she was strong again. She knew these things about him instinctively, and, yet, in the back of her mind lurked the question, how long? How Long? HOW LONG?

Gary, on the other hand, wasn't asking any questions. He was a planner by nature. "Last in Love" would be
their
song; the melody was slow enough for them to dance to on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Harley would be there with his kids; maybe a couple more carrot tops with their children—he made a mental note to look into additional children. He touched her hair and envisioned it streaked with gray, silver, copper, and gold. He'd be a rich man. He sighed contentedly.

Lu couldn't believe they were leaving all the fun so early, the bar not closing for thirty more minutes. Then she was totally bowled over when Gary bent low to kiss her on the cheek and thank her for coming.

For a split second Rose thought she saw tears welling in Lu's eyes. But then she laughed, warned them to set the parking brake if they weren't going straight home, blinked, and the tears were gone.

They walked the road back, a thin misty fog lending a romantic quality to the shadows and lights. Bill's was locked up tight, and the parking lot was empty except for Gary's truck. She hardly noticed that he opened the door for her again, but was acutely aware of the chilliness when he let go of her hand.

An atomic bomb couldn't have shattered the tension inside the cab. What could they say to each other during the twenty-minute ride home?

"I had a really good time."

"Me, too."

"Lu's a character, isn't she?"

"She sure is."

What about kissing? Should he? Should she let him? Would it put her back on the defensive? What would it feel like? Anything close to what it felt like simply thinking about it? Would he expect more, or realize that she was merely curious? Good Lord, what about diet-soda breath?

Redgrove was asleep when they drove through, so missing Harley's bedroom light going out as they turned the corner would have been hard to manage.

Gary laughed softly in the dark beside her.

"He doesn't trust me yet either," he said idly. The "yet" and "either" stung a bit.

"It's not that," she said, feeling a need to explain, wishing she had a blind faith in something, in anything inside her somewhere. "We're just not used to—"

"It should be that way," he interrupted. "It's okay. You don't have to trust everyone who comes along; you're smarter not to, especially if they're asking for as much as I want."

He deliberately parked the truck on the scarred concrete where the gas pumps once stood, under the burnt-out floodlight, blocking any view of them from the street and the rooms above.

"And what are you asking for?" she asked, her voice seeming too loud when he cut the soft purr of the engine.

He stared out the windshield for a second, then shifted his weight on the seat to face her.

"I want it all, Rose." "All" left her baffled. He'd have to get specific. "I want to be your lover, your pal, and your partner. Harley’s male influence and Earl's . . . Earl's .-. ."

"Speech therapist?"

He laughed. "Yeah. Earl's speech therapist. I want to be a part of your life. I want you in mine. I want a lot from you, Rose, and I'm more than willing to give you a lot in return. Including time."

"Time for what?"

"To get used to having me around."

Ah, why'd he have to ruin it? she wondered, semi-sick to her stomach, stiff in her chest. She couldn't remember becoming as fond of anyone as quickly as she had Gary. He was sharp arid witty. Bright and dedicated. She enjoyed his company, felt good around him. Wasn't that enough? She didn't mind holding hands or dancing with him. And it was kind of fun to wonder what it would be like to kiss him; if his lips were as soft as they looked; if they'd send chills through her body the way his breath against her neck did; what his rough hands would do to her sensitive breasts, to the warm skin on her inner thighs. . . . But she could control herself. She
was
controlling herself. Why couldn't he?

The cab was suddenly a little too warm, and she didn't have any answers for him anyway. She decided to get out.

He came around the front of the truck and met her at the front door.

"I have to go home tomorrow." This didn't surprise her. She'd been waiting for him to tell her he had to leave. "On business. I'll be back on Wednesday." He paused as if he expected her to say something. "Can I see you?"

She shrugged. "I'll probably be here."

She made an intense study of the new marks on her white sneakers, pretending that she couldn't feel him watching her.

"Rose." She looked up. The softness in his voice brought her gaze to his. "I'll be back."

An unreasoning fear rose up within her. What if he didn't come back? What if he
was
like everyone else? What if there were a car accident? What if he picked up a homicidal hitchhiker? What if he had a weak heart? Lord, what if he were crushed under a few tons of trash? Or simply disappeared? What then? What if she were doomed to wonder forever?

She flung her arms around his neck and locked his lips to hers.

Gary's shock was brief. He hardly wasted a second before looping an arm about her waist and threading his fingers into her soft and gloriously red hair. Where a pianist would shake his fingers loose of tension, he shuddered a sigh, nibbled her lower lip, then purged his restraint with a clean sweep of her honey sweet mouth.

Acting on her impulses was going to be the death of her. She could remember her mother telling her so as she stepped away slowly, feeling weak and debilitated— and as if she might like to die.

"It's . . . nice to have that over with, isn't it?" Gary said, laughing softly, teasing her gently, as if he could see the havoc in her soul.

She shook her head, disgraced.

"Ah, Rose," he said, folding his arms around her rigid form, unable to stop himself. "I'm glad you did it. One of us had to, and I would've looked like a masher."

"Now I look like one," she mumbled into his sweater.

"No. You can't," he said, stroking her hair. "Only men can be mashers; women are something else. I read that somewhere."

Awk! He was an impossible man, she decided again, stepping away. He had an answer for everything, and when he didn't he'd simply make something up.

"I should go in," she said. Already she was beginning to wish she'd paid closer attention to the kiss. All she could remember was how shockingly wonderful it had been, none of the specific details of it.

She opened the door and walked inside. It was always open, because the lock had rusted years after they lost the key to it.

"I'll see you on Wednesday." He paused. "Would you like to eat out again?"

"On a Wednesday?"

"It happens."

Of course it did. She worked Wednesdays till ten.

"I work that night."

"Okay. I'll come late and walk you home."

She was going to remind him that she worked across the street, but he knew that. He was teasing her. She smiled.

"Thank you for the nice time."

"You're welcome. And thank you."

She closed the door quietly, needing something ordinary to concentrate on. She climbed into the shadows of the stairwell, waiting for the sounds of his leaving, then turned and plopped down on the third step from the top, and buried her face in her hands.

"He's a garbageman. He's a garbageman," she began to chant, wishing he'd come back, hoping the yen in the pit of her stomach wouldn't last long. "He's a garbageman. ..."

There was a soft rapping-on-glass sound at the door. He was back. He was holding the little potted rosemary plant; she could see it from her hiding place. The soft rapping came again. She stood on trembling legs and went down the steps to the door.

"You forgot this," he said, holding the pot out to her. The tips of their fingers touched as she took it, and lightning shot up her arms and down her spine.

"Thank you," she said, making the mistake of looking at him, of meeting his gaze. Oh dear, did she look as eager to kiss again as he did? Did her attraction show as badly? Was her desire as raw? Her hopes as obvious?

Yep.

She watched as his face came closer and closer, mesmerized, shocked by the tenderness and affection in his expression, the longing and the need—for her.
For her.

His lips brushed hers, returned to press lightly, sweetly. Something warm and devastating swept through her, made her tremble. She felt his hands at her shoulders as her weight sagged against the door frame for support. His lips became urgent, his mouth hot and demanding, taking what she had forgotten how to give. He blew gently on nearly cold embers of passion, nursing them carefully, skillfully back to life.

Heat rose up within her. In her heart she could hear the walls of the dam cracking and bursting apart. She felt the power and strength of her pent-up emotions as they came crashing through the barriers.

Gary pulled away, looking as numb and confused and overwhelmed as she felt. Her chest was heaving; she couldn't get enough air. Her hands were shaking.

Her knees wobbled, and she plastered herself to the doorjamb to keep from falling when he reached out to caress her cheek with the soft skin on the back of his fingers. She swallowed hard at the hunger in his eyes, and felt pain in her chest at the adoration.

"Good night, Rosemary," he murmured.

She nodded slightly, unable to speak, ravaged by so many emotions, she couldn't feel anything. She stood there like a cigar store indian . . . maybe more like a plant stand, she supposed, taking in the scent of rosemary, holding the pot close as she watched him drive away. She was frowning. She had the distinct feeling she was forgetting something.

SIX

Waiting for Wednesday wasn't wise. She knew this. But not thinking about it was like trying to put out the fires of hell with an empty bucket.

Making coffee at the diner, she wondered how he would arrive on Wednesday night. In some outrageous and ridiculous fashion, no doubt. In sparkling sequins, maybe, barely outstriding a cheering crowd of adoring fans to bend her back over his arm and kiss his seal of ownership upon her lips? Sigh. Or on a dazzling white horse, with trumpets blasting as he rides into town, sweeps her off her feet, and gallops away into the sunset? Sigh. Sigh. Or would he descend slowly from the sky in a brightly colored balloon, lift her into the basket, kiss her, and turn up the gas for their getaway? Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

"Allergies?"

"What?" She looked over her shoulder at Lu, who was counting out change in the cash register.

"You sound as if you're having trouble breathing. Are your allergies acting up?"

"I don't have allergies," she said, stepping down from the stool she'd used to reach the top of the coffeemaker.

"It's probably all the smoke and fumes from that torch you use. I'll bet it's harder on your lungs than cigarettes. You should have it checked out."

"I'm not sick." I'm an idiot, she added mentally. I'm interested in a man. A garbageman, no less. Another big deep sigh. She went off to clean the restrooms before they opened for breakfast. Her whole day was pretty much in the toilet anyway.

~*~

She tightened the vises holding the curved portion of a bed frame at a right angle to the wrought-iron candlestick she'd found at the All Bright dump the week before. Not that it looked like a candlestick anymore. She'd cut off the top and bent the four rods out a little, as if it were blooming.

What on earth could she say when she saw him again? She had less than twenty-four hours to come up with some calm, polite but firm—very firm—way of telling Gary she couldn't see him anymore.

"I like you," she said aloud to practice an uncompromising tone of voice. "I like you a lot. More than I thought I would . . . no, more than I thought I could." She paused. "Better," she muttered inside her mask, wanting every word to be perfect. Truthful and absolute, but not cutting. "But this isn't going to work out. I'm set in my ways. I'm used to doing things my way. There just isn't any room in my life for you."