Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho) Page 6

  “It’s so . . . small-town. It’s nice,” she continued, smiling at a crudely drawn Superman flying over a skyscraper on Owl Drug’s front window. A skyscraper painted after watching some movie, because the tallest building in town was about three stories.

  “Yep,” he said. “Every year.”

  “Did you do this, then, when you were a kid?”

  “Oh, yeah. My brother and me. That is, until the time I painted a mermaid. Got her a little too . . . bodacious. But hey, that could have been a costume, right? Maybe she was getting dressed. I got carried away by my artistic vision, you might say.”

  She laughed. “I’ll bet.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “Worst part was, it was on the window of Paradise Flowers and Gifts. About the worst possible place. Mrs. Hodgins didn’t just make me wash it off and start over, she told my mom and dad. That was the end of my career in public art.”

  “The innocence of childhood lost,” she said, huddled in his jacket, looking up at him, her eyes dancing with laughter.

  “Yeah, well, farm kids. You never have all that much innocence to start with. But could be I had less than most.”

  “How old were you? Thirteen?”

  He grinned. “Very nearly ten.”

  “And shaving.”

  “Nah. That one took all the way until the ninth grade. I was an early bloomer.”

  “Ha. I’ll bet. I was a late one. Not sure it’s happened yet.”

  He was the one laughing at that. “Oh, it’s happened. Trust me.”

  She smiled, and they crossed Main, headed up the Maple Street hill toward the high school. She was shivering, he could see, even in his jacket. It wasn’t that cold, but then, she was from California. When he’d lived in California, he’d kept wishing it would snow, or at least get chilly from time to time. Clearly, though, opinions differed.

  “So,” he said, “on that note, my irresistible manliness and all, want to . . .” He had to stop and rack his brain. “Go to breakfast with me, say, Sunday? I’d do better by you if I could, but unfortunately, as you’ve probably noticed by now, the Breakfast Spot is the best restaurant in town. No candlelight at Pizza Hut.”

  “Don’t you have to go to church?” she asked, teasing again.

  “Does the Catholic show that much? Not every Sunday. I’m saving that for later. Doing my sinning while I’ve got the chance.”

  “Is that how it works?”

  “Well, for me, anyway. I feel a sin or two coming on right now, in fact. Could have something to do with dancing with you.”

  “Thanks,” she said after a moment. “For the invitation, I mean. But I’ve got a lot to do on Sunday. Tests to grade, lessons to plan.” She seemed to catch herself up short. He waited, but that was it.

  So busy she couldn’t have breakfast? “Uh-huh,” he said. “You know, it’ll be broad daylight. Other people all around.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m just . . . I can’t.”

  “Well, how about this? You want another dance lesson, you can show up next Friday night with Rochelle, and I’ll give it to you. No strings, no moves. Not unless you want them. I’ll even shake your hand at the door, or whatever it is guys like that do.”

  “Guys like what?”

  He smiled. “Scared guys.”

  “Maybe,” she said. There was no doubt about it, that door was slamming shut, and damned if he could see why.

  They’d turned onto Jackson, and she stopped in front of a sagging little house, its yard a bit overgrown and unkempt.

  “This is me,” she told him, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to him. “Thanks for walking me home. And for your jacket. And the lesson. I had a good time.”

  She already had her keys out, and she was taking off around the side of the house, down a couple concrete steps, then opening a door, the window beside it glowing bright a second later. The door slammed shut, and she was gone.

  She lived in the basement. The old car, the maxed-out credit card, and the basement. Professoring really didn’t pay that great.

  Rochelle came up to join him. “That went well.”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his head, sighed a little, and shrugged his jacket on again. “Pretty much shot down in flames.”

  “Gotta be a first,” Deke said, as they all turned around for Rochelle’s apartment.

  “I’ve got an ex-wife, remember?” Cal said. “I know all about getting shot down.”

  Nobody had much of an answer for that one, and they walked in silence for a couple minutes.

  “All right. Why?” Rochelle demanded at last.

  “Why what?” he asked.

  “Why couldn’t I tell Zoe who you are? When has that ever not worked out for you? Couldn’t have worked much worse, anyway.”

  “Call it a hunch. I figured I’d win her over with my looks and personality instead.”

  “Huh,” she said. “Yeah. That worked.”

  “Rub it in, why don’t you.”

  “But so you know,” she said, “I did it for you tonight, but I won’t do it for long. There’s a Girl Code, too.”

  “That bra strap,” he pointed out.

  “Only gets you so far. You’re a big boy, and you’re going to have to do this one all by yourself. Never seen you lose yet. Of course,” she had to add, “Zoe’s a cut above. I actually like her. And she actually likes women. That might be new for you.”

  “Likes women how?” he asked, exchanging another of those glances with Deke.

  “Ha,” she said. “I knew it. Don’t get your hopes up. I mean that she has friends, girlfriends. She knows how to be a friend. She’s not a snob. In fact, she just might be too good for you.”

  “She just might,” he said. “And I just might be good for her. Guess we’ll see.”

  SWEET PLACES

  It took Zoe almost all week, and a fair amount of self-discipline, too, to stop thinking about Cal.

  She’d left him standing on the sidewalk, had barely thanked him, she’d realized later with chagrin, before she’d hustled herself into her apartment. She hadn’t trusted herself to spend any longer out there.

  So she’d escaped inside; had leaned back against the scratched, faded white paint of her front door; and had taken a moment to catch her breath, with her hand patting the lace covering her galloping heart, thinking about the way he’d smiled. She’d known exactly how much her body had responded to him, because it was still humming, still lit up from the electricity of his touch, the memory of his smile.

  It had been a night out, and that was all. Exactly what Rochelle had said: dancing, drinking . . . and flirting, too, which was an added bonus, right? Coming home with a fantasy or two to help her through the lonely nights, and what was wrong with that? Even when she’d been with Mark, her latest and not-so-greatest boyfriend, she’d needed the fantasies. The sad truth was, it hadn’t been any better with Mark than it was by herself, so what would even be the point of finding someone new, somebody she could have in the flesh? Once, because Cal wouldn’t be interested in more than once. And even if he wanted something more—and there was no way he could, because men like him didn’t go for women like her—she couldn’t do a relationship. Not now.

  But a fantasy was something else again, and the mere thought of Cal was doing more for her than the very real, very solid Mark ever had. Maybe because Mark hadn’t had shoulders like that, or muscles like that. He hadn’t looked at her like that. And he’d sure never affected her like that. Cal had touched nothing but her back and hand, but her body still remembered exactly what his own hand had felt like against her. Firm and sure, but gentle, too. He had never grabbed her. He’d just . . . steered her. Showed her. Taken her where he’d wanted her to go.

  She made herself move at last, went and sat on the couch to pull off her boots. They said that the mind was the most important s
ex organ, and she guessed it was true. Before heading to her bedroom, she shrugged out of the jean jacket, unfastened the belt from around her waist, and left them on the coffee table to give back to Rochelle. She closed the door, pulled the lace dress over her head and dumped it into the hamper, then switched on her portable heater, her major indulgence, turned as usual to its highest setting.

  She shivered at the pleasure of the heated air hitting her chilled body, let it warm her. And then paused, arrested by her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

  She looked . . . good. And she felt good, too. She ran her hands down her sides to her hips, over the delicate floral lace of the pale-blue bra and bikini panties she’d worn tonight. Some of her favorites, because if you were going out, if you were going to try to get pretty, it was important to feel pretty. And she did. She felt pretty, and curvy, and good. And she looked that way, too.

  Standing in her underwear, in her bedroom. The one place she felt safe being soft, being feminine. The one place where she didn’t have to fit in, to be as tough as any of the guys, where she allowed herself to remember that she was a woman who felt, and yearned, and needed. That it was all right to want . . . whatever she wanted. That her fantasies were her own, and that they were allowed to be everything she wanted. Anything she wanted.

  If the mind were the most important sex organ, she was right there, because the woman looking back at her looked sexy. Cal hadn’t even kissed her, and it didn’t matter. Just the way he’d danced with her, just the way he’d held her, and her lips looked plumper, her eyes looked softer, her curves looked lusher. For once, she wasn’t wondering if she should try to diet away five or six—or ten—more pounds. The way he’d looked at her . . . she’d seen how much he’d wanted to touch every inch of her, how much his hands had longed to trace every curve. Almost as much as she’d wanted him to do it.

  You can be in charge all you want, but not right now. There’s only a couple of places where a man gets to be in charge. But we’re pretty jealous about those couple of sweet, sweet places.

  Fantasy was one thing, though, and reality was something else. And when she was grading midterms on Sunday, thinking about how she could have been having breakfast with Cal right now instead, flirting some more . . . This was the danger zone, and she’d been right to say no, exactly because she’d wanted to say yes so badly.

  But just because a guy flirted, just because he danced and smiled and talked like that, just because he was funny and charming and so sexy, that didn’t mean he was in love. It didn’t even mean he was in like. It just meant that he hadn’t seen anyone he’d wanted to go after more on that particular night. She couldn’t handle a one-night stand, and if it were more than that . . . she could handle that even less.

  And if her body still wanted him, so what? He probably couldn’t hit an actual erogenous zone with a set of blueprints and a guide dog. Men who looked like that didn’t have to. It was all about the fantasy, and he was one heck of a fantasy. She could leave it at that, and she was going to.

  But it was so quiet here. All right, it was lonely. She needed to talk to somebody, because it was so much harder than she’d thought to be up here in Idaho all alone. She was with students so much of the day, but somehow it wasn’t the same.

  Well, she needed to make this call anyway. She only wished . . . she wished . . . well, it didn’t matter what she wished. She needed to make it. She picked up her phone from the coffee table and dialed.

  “Santangelo.”

  He always answered the same, even in the age of caller ID, when he could see it was her. That had always sounded so professional. But today she wished for something else.

  “Hey, Dad.” She tried to inject some energy into her voice. “How are you? Working?”

  “When you love what you do, it isn’t work.”

  She’d heard that one a lot. “What on?”

  “I’ve got a grant proposal due Monday. Going to have to cut one of my RAs loose, because I’m going to spend the whole day fixing this. Well, my own fault. Should have known he didn’t have what it took, but I gave him a chance.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. For both of you.”

  “Too bad for me, but a good lesson for him. I gave him a chance; he didn’t make the most of it. That’s life. You’re working, too, I assume.”

  “Yep. Of course. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she tried to joke.

  “Something special you wanted to talk about?” Get to the point.

  “Um . . .” She closed her eyes, rubbed her hand over her forehead. “I went into the ditch with my car this week. Skidded on some ice. And I . . . I wondered,” she finished in a rush, “if I could borrow three hundred dollars until the end of the month. Just for ten days or so, for the repair bill.”

  “Zoe.” She could hear the sigh, and her stomach twisted. “You need to budget for emergencies.”

  “I know. Of course.” She’d known this would happen. As soon as she asked him for money, she invited him to examine her finances. That was how it worked. “But moving was expensive, and first and last month’s rent, student loans . . .”

  “Maybe you should have rented a cheaper place. And as for the loans, we’ve talked about this. I paid half of everything, all the way through the PhD. That’s more than fair. This is the struggle everybody goes through, because you don’t value what comes too easily. Everybody was poor once, at least anybody worth knowing. I ate tomato soup and scrambled eggs and rice every day through graduate school.”

  She’d heard that before, too. “I’m not asking for anything different,” she said. “I’m just asking for a loan for ten days. I know how to be poor. I’m being poor. And you only ate those things during graduate school,” she couldn’t resist pointing out. “Not once you were teaching. Times have changed. This job pays less than being a high school teacher in California.”

  “I thought you said you were doing some consulting.”

  “I am. Union City hired me to look at their groundwater table, the job I told you about. That’s when I skidded on the ice, coming back from a meeting. And I’ll get paid for that in another month or so, and it’ll help a lot. But meanwhile . . .”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll put the money into your account today. You can put it back into mine on the first. But be more careful in the future. Driving and budgeting.”

  “Sure,” she said with relief. “Thanks.”

  “And remember,” he said, “that’s exactly why you’re working so hard. To move up and out of there, to get the job and do the research that will bring you the consulting contracts. There’s your motivation. That’s what life’s all about, working toward that goal.”

  “I know. I know it is. And actually, it’s really nice here.” She looked out the sliding-glass door opposite her tiny living/dining room into the backyard. Nothing special, but the trees were pretty, lacy branches mostly bare against blue sky, and the sun was shining. She’d take a walk later to the university pool, go for a swim, give herself a reward for getting her work done. “It’s peaceful,” she went on. “It’s like a real community, you know? Where they have Girl Scouts and 4-H and county fairs. There’s a real downtown where people shop, and kids around after school playing in their yards, skateboarding at the park. And babies in the baby swings in their snowsuits. Everybody’s not just holed up in their own houses. I even know my neighbors. So, really,” she said, trying to cheer herself up, “it’s all good.”

  “Hmm,” her dad said. “I’m sure Mayberry R.F.D. is peaceful. Just remember, ‘peaceful’ doesn’t usually translate into ‘career progress.’ There’s a time in your life to stop and smell the roses, and there’s a time to plug away. This is your time to plug away. The first ten years of your career set you up for the rest of it.”

  Another maxim. “But you know,” she said slowly, “in ten years, I’ll be thirty-nine.”
/>   “Yes, you will,” he said. “And set up.”

  “But . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, you know.” She tried to laugh. “What if I decide I want the whole deal, after all? I guess my biological clock is ticking. Must be those babies in the snowsuits.” Cheeks pink with cold, warm hats and mittens and boots, stomping on the frozen puddles in City Park because it was so much fun to crack the ice. Being lifted into swings by mothers . . . and dads. Dads who were there to do that, who wanted to do it. Babies shrieking with glee as they flew through the air on those baby swings. They made her smile. They made her feel . . . something. Something new.

  “Have you met somebody?” her dad asked. “Is that what this is about? It’s too soon for that. The first year of teaching is the critical one. You don’t have time for relationships this year. It’s the easiest thing in the world for a woman to fall off that track, and this is exactly how it happens. We’ve talked about this, about how few women make it, and this is why.”

  “I know,” she said. “Never mind. I’m probably just lonely. Don’t listen to me.”

  “I was reading an article the other day,” her dad said, surprising her, because she’d figured they were done, “about some of the tech companies who are paying for their female employees to have their eggs frozen. And I thought, that’s brilliant. You can put it off until you’re established, but still know you’ve got healthy eggs, without the increased risk of having an imperfect child.”

  An imperfect child. “Sounds . . . practical,” she managed.

  “And if you want that, that’s one thing I would be willing to pay for, because it would be an investment in your career. We can look into it when you’re down here at Christmas, schedule it for next summer when you’ll have the time. I understand it’s quite a procedure, and you’d want to have it done at the best facility, of course.”