Chasing Rainbows A Novel

FOURTEEN


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I ignored my answering machine all weekend. Diane had called several times to check on me...and my hair. I began to feel guilty for ignoring her when she called to squeal over my letter to the editor after it ran in Sunday’s paper.

Number one, she was a great friend, always had been. Number two, it wasn’t as if she held me down while the stylist cut my hair to within an inch of its life. I did have something to do with Friday’s events.

So, here I sat bright and early Monday morning wondering just how late Diane was sleeping these days. I owed her an apology, but didn’t want to wake her up to deliver it.

When Poindexter nosed the back door, I never thought to listen before I let him outside.

He’d no sooner cleared the back steps when I heard the drone.

Had to be a 737. Or bigger.

“Shit.” I shoved my hands up into my hair--yet another reminder of my near baldness.

Poindexter was off like a shot, bounding across the yard. He barked up at the sky without a care in the world, without a thought as to how quickly Mrs. Cooke would dial my number to deliver her latest lecture on dog control.

I stood poised with my hand over the phone, ready to try out the new answering machine message I’d been practicing.

Then the doorbell rang. That noise, I hadn’t been prepared for.

I shuffled toward the front door and smoothed the front of my sweatshirt. At some point in the rebirth of my life I imagined I’d have to toss out this particular article of clothing, but I wasn’t ready for that day. Not yet.

I peered through the peephole and groaned. Mrs. Cooke stood on my front step, smiling brightly.

“Bernie?”

Apparently I’d groaned louder than I thought.

I considered using the answering machine even though she’d stopped by instead of calling, but hadn’t I lied to the woman enough over the years? Plus, the whole idea of an answering machine attached to the front door was far-fetched, even for me.

Besides, if not for Mrs. Cooke, Number Thirty-Six might never have saved Poindexter the day the dog escaped through the back door.

Truth was, I owed Mrs. Cooke a thank you, not another round of avoidance.

I sucked in a deep breath and pulled open the front door, stunned to find myself staring down into a plate of cinnamon buns.

Saliva puddled in my mouth as I stood transfixed by both the heavenly scent rising from the plate and the sight of freshly-baked pastries, ripe for the taking.

“I felt like baking,” Mrs. Cooke said with a smile. “I was hoping you hadn’t had breakfast yet.”

Gooey caramel syrup dripped over the sides of the buns, pooling around the lip of the plate.

Breakfast? Who the hell cared about breakfast? Didn’t everyone know cinnamon buns weren’t just for breakfast anymore?

“Are they still warm?” My voice cracked on the last word.

Mrs. Cooke nodded knowingly. She had me exactly where she wanted me.

“Won’t you come in?” I asked.

I delivered an awkward thank you for looking out for Poindexter as I led her to the kitchen. I’d grown so used to thinking of the woman as my nemesis I found it difficult to think of her, well, as my neighbor. Simply that. My neighbor.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening as her focus zeroed in on my hair.

“Too short.” I winced. “I know.”

“Nonsense.” She reached up to touch a strand and smiled. “It’s lovely for the New Year. And it shows off your cheekbones. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always wanted to tell you to get your hair out of your face.”

You. My mother. Ryan and just about everyone else in my life.

I forced a smile. “Thank you. Let me get us some coffee.”

Fortunately, the coffee maker had just finished its brew cycle. Mrs. Cooke moved toward the back door as I reached down two mugs from the cabinet.

“What is it he’s doing, dear?” She pointed through the glass to where Poindexter was now chasing plane number two. “I must admit he looks quite pleased with himself.”

“He’s chasing airplanes.”

“Airplanes?”

She obviously hadn’t believed this explanation when I’d delivered it in the past. Maybe it was one of those phenomenons in life you had to witness to appreciate.

“Chasing airplanes,” she repeated. “Isn’t that the darnedest thing?”

I nodded. “Cream? Sugar?”

“What about bows, dear.”

Bows? I squinted. “Bows?”

“For your hair.”

I blinked, shoving the sudden image of me with bows at my temples out of my head. Not pretty.

“I’ll think about that,” I said very slowly. “Thanks.”

“Black.” Mrs. Cooke pulled out a chair and made herself comfortable at the kitchen table.

“Black bows?” My gaze narrowed so severely I was sure my eyes must be nothing more than slits.

“Coffee, dear.” She smiled. “I take it black.”

We chatted about the weather and our holidays and my new employment at the skating rink. When she pressed for information about how I was coping, my heart squeezed.

“I’m okay,” I answered. “Really...okay.”

Mrs. Cooke nodded without saying a word. She had that same I-can-see-right-through-you look my mother often used. Amazing.

“Well--” she pushed to her feet “--I’m sure you have things to do. Just holler if you ever need someone to talk to.”

“I can’t thank you enough for the visit, and breakfast--” I gestured to the half-eaten plate of cinnamon buns as I scrambled to my feet “--this has been a real treat for me.”

She paused to lean against the counter. “I’m proud of you, dear.”

I frowned. “Proud of me?”

She nodded. “For the article in yesterday’s paper. Not many people take the time to say what they think, but you did.”

She pushed away from the counter and headed toward the front door. I stood frozen to the spot, weighed down by my intake of cinnamon buns and stunned into a state of disbelief by Mrs. Cooke’s words.

“So, you read it?” I asked after several seconds of silence.

Mrs. Cooke was halfway to the front door. “I cut it out and taped it my fridge.” She waved as she let herself out. “Words to live by, dear. Did you ever think you have a gift?”

I shook my head even as I mentally nodded. Dad had always told me writing was my gift, as had my fifth grade teacher, and my ninth, and my twelfth. Yet, I’d spent a lifetime setting aside one of the things I’d loved most.

I launched myself into motion, holding open the front door as I waved goodbye. I watched Mrs. Cooke make her way down the front walk toward her house next door.

A flash of red caught the corner of my eye. A red truck. Pulling into my driveway.

Freddy.

I winced.

Mrs. Cooke had come bearing sticky buns, but Freddy had no doubt come bearing an invoice for the work he’d done.

As much as I loved how beautifully he kept the five gardens I’d insisted on putting in two years earlier and then never maintained, I couldn’t afford to keep paying him.

The savings account was only going to go so far. Until I got a salaried job, things like landscaping fell into the disposable category. Poor Freddy had to go.

I stifled a sigh. Maybe that was all right. Maybe the time had come to get a little dirt under my fingernails.

He smiled as he headed toward me, wearing dark blue jeans and a tweed jacket that made him look much older than he’d looked the last time I’d seen him.

His gray eyes danced and my stomach did this odd little thing where it balled up into a knot. Then my mouth went dry.

Too many cinnamon buns. Obviously.

Freddy’s lips quirked into a crooked grin as he stepped up onto the front step. “Still say you look incredible, Mrs. M.”

Considering I stood there without makeup, wearing a sweatshirt so ratty one cuff hung limp instead of encircling my wrist, Freddy either had a crush or he wanted something.

“Too short.” I shook my head.

He reached out to touch a strand of my hair and a shiver danced across my back. Maybe Freddy wasn’t so young after all, or maybe it had been way too long since a member of the opposite sex had reached out to touch anything of mine.

I studied the lean lines of his face. If I stared hard enough, I could almost imagine a hint of crow’s feet around his eyes.

“Sexy.” He uttered the word so softly I wasn’t sure whether I’d imagined it or not.

“Want some coffee?” Much to my embarrassment, my voice climbed three octaves on the last word.

Freddy followed me into the kitchen.

I let Poindexter in the back door, then turned to face Freddy.

Neither of us reached for coffee. Instead, we stared at each other, a palpable tension spiking to life between us. The memory of his voice ricocheted through my brain.

Sexy.

And Freddy...well...Freddy leaned so close I could smell the clean scent of soap on his suntanned skin.

He pinned me against the kitchen wall and brought his lips to mine. Shivers of delight raced through my every nerve ending and heat ignited in regions that hadn’t felt heat in years.

Either I was seriously turned on, or I was having the mother of all hot flashes.

When Freddy slid his hands up under my sweatshirt and cupped my breasts, I thought my knees might give out completely. I gripped Freddy’s shoulders and held on for dear life as he trailed kisses along the length of my neck.

The next thing I knew I was in his arms being carried toward my bedroom. Not only was the guy an incredible kisser, but he obviously possessed super human strength.

We peeled out of our clothes and for once in my life I wasn’t self conscious about my waist, my hips, my thighs. None of the assets about which I typically obsessed.

The blatant lust in Freddy’s eyes was enough to make any women feel like a supermodel.

He pressed me back against the pillows and I pushed aside the rumpled comforter.

I reached for him, ready for him to take me now. I couldn’t believe how much I wanted to feel him inside me. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

But instead he dropped his mouth to my neck, nibbling a path to one breast, then the other, suckling, kissing, driving me wild. When his mouth found my stomach, I writhed beneath him, unable to control my body’s response to his touch.

When Freddy slid his hands up under my rump and lowered his mouth between my legs, I moaned, quite sure I was about to experience sex like I’d never experienced it with Ryan, when I heard his voice.

Ryan’s voice.

“Bernie?” He sounded so close he must have been just outside the bedroom door. “The front door was open. Are you all right?”

I said nothing, too stunned to speak. Surely this was all a dream. Otherwise, I was experiencing the most surreal morning of my life.

“I came to clear out my office,” Ryan continued. “I took today off. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Mind? Why should I mind. Oh, maybe because I was this close to a mind-blowing orgasm with a man--a younger man--who actually seemed to desire me.

“How old are you?” I whispered to Freddy.

“Twenty-four,” he mumbled as he shifted his mouth to my inner thigh.

Oh my.

“Do you know how old I am?”

He shook his head. “Thirty maybe?” His words were barely audible. “And you’re hot.”

I was beginning to harbor serious feelings for the guy.

“Bernie?” Genuine concern tinged Ryan’s tone.

“Hide,” I mouthed to Freddy, who planted one more kiss on my stomach before he dashed for the master bathroom.

“I just threw up,” I hollered to Ryan. “Give me a minute.”

“Oh.” A long silence followed. “I’ll wait downstairs.”

Nothing sent a man running in the opposite direction faster than vomit.

I left Freddy in the bathroom, wrapped my faded yellow robe around myself and went downstairs. Ryan had settled into the recliner and sat flipping through my mail.

“There’s nothing for you there.”

He dropped the envelopes, guilt plastered across his face. His expression grew serious as he straightened to his full height. “You’re really red. Do you have a fever?”

I felt my face grow even hotter. “Something like that. Listen, I already packed up your office, but maybe you could come back at a better time?”

He nodded. “Sure thing. Where’s Freddy? His truck’s in the drive.”

I had to think fast. Definitely not something my brain was up to at the moment. I spotted the top of Poindexter’s ears, hiding behind the china cabinet.

Smart dog.

“Um... I think Freddy took Poindexter for a walk.”

Ryan made a face as if he didn’t believe me for a second.

“I asked him to.”

“Oh.” He nodded.

I faked a little gag. “I don’t feel so hot.”

His eyes grew huge and he bolted for the door. “I’ll give you a call later to see how you are. I can get my stuff another time.”

“Thanks,” I answered. But he’d already cleared the threshold and was halfway to his car.

Coward.

Five minutes later I watched Freddy’s truck pull out of the drive.

He’d still been ready for me when I’d returned to the bedroom. Matter of fact, I don’t think I’d ever seen a man quite so...well...ready.

But on the way back up the stairs, I’d realized Ryan wasn’t the only coward.

I was a coward, too. Too much of a coward to take a tumble in the sheets with my twenty-four-year-old landscaper, no matter how amazing his eyes were or what sort of tricks he could do with his tongue.

I was forty-one, for crying out loud. Forty-one.

I knew better than to jump into bed with the first warm body I could find. Didn’t I?

I was standing in the doorway, clutching the neck of my robe when I heard a voice.

A deep, rumbling, masculine voice.

“Maybe you’re right, Number Thirty-Two.”

I winced, praying right then and there for the ground to swallow me up. Instead, I straightened, facing my cat-walking neighbor head on.

“Right about what?”

Number Thirty-Six shrugged as he hesitated for a moment, then he resumed his walk, tipping his chin toward the tailgate of Freddy’s truck.

“Maybe everyone does have an agenda.”

When he glanced back in my direction, I’d like to say his face was expressionless, or teasing, but it was neither.

Number Thirty-Six looked disappointed.

I straightened, giving brief thought to defending myself, to telling him Freddy meant nothing, to telling him to mind his own business.

I thought about saying a lot of things, but instead I merely pushed the front door closed without saying a word.

As inexplicably guilty as I felt, I decided I didn’t owe Number Thirty-Six an explanation. The man had brought me a Christmas tree. So what?

Did that entitle him to pass judgment on my pathetic sexual almost-escapade with the landscaper?

I thought not.

Though as I headed back to the kitchen to eat every leftover cinnamon bun I could cram into my mouth, my guilt morphed from a tiny simmer to a full-out boil.

Number Thirty-Six.

Disappointed.

Damn the man.

o0o

“Conscience is that still, small voice that yells so loud the morning after.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson