Facelift (32 page)

He shrugs. “I had three older sisters.”

“Oh, boy. Now I know why you’ve stayed single.”

He laughs louder this time. “Nah. They’re all great. And I got to date all their friends.” He clasps his hands together and props them behind his head. “Seriously, growing up with them taught me a lot. And I can guarantee all my clients’ wives love me. Because if they’re going on some safari to Africa or hunting guinea in Scotland, I know what women need and want on a trip like that.”

“That’s good to know if I can ever afford a vacation.”

He winks. “I’ll give you a good discount.”

I lean my face into my hands, massage my scalp, and brush back my hair in a huffy motion. “I really thought God wanted us back together. Was that crazy?”

“I can’t tell you what God wants for you, Kaye. But I can tell you He wants what is
best
for
you
. Is that a wishy-washy husband who can’t be true to his wedding vows?” His candor and the bite in his tone surprise me. A warmth floods me. “God lets the foolish make their own decisions. Which takes Cliff out of the picture and out of your life.” He takes my hand and cups his around it. My skin tingles and my stomach completely flips over. “I think you deserve better.”

Is he makin’ a move on you?
Cliff’s words—complete with sneer and disdain—taunt me. I pull back from Jack, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze and his uncanny ability to see into my desires.

“You’re a child of God. Don’t you think God believes you deserve the best? Or do you think He wants to give you leftovers and table scraps?”

I stand suddenly, jolted by his words and the strengthening truth they ignite in me. But the distance from Jack settles my nerves. The cool decking is solid under my feet. I stare down at the still water as if staring into my own soul. My spine straightens. He’s right. I’ve been acting like a beggar.

I imagine myself in rags, holding out a tin cup, waiting for a compliment or kind word from Cliff. Suddenly I feel dirty and in need of a bath. I lean outward toward the pool and let gravity pull me down into the water. At the last second I tuck my chin, kick my feet up, and make a clean slice into the water.

Cold splashes over me, taking me down into a curtain of bubbles. I come up, laughing and sputtering and brushing my wet hair off my face. Mascara runs down my cheeks. But I’m smiling up at Jack. For a moment I tread water, feeling the weight of my jeans pulling me downward in an undertow. Then Jack stretches out a hand toward me. I lunge forward grab his hand and feel myself hauled up out of the water. Water sluices off me, forming a puddle at my feet. My T-shirt hugs me tight and I pull the material away from my skin. My jeans cling to my legs, the weight of the water tugging in a downward pull. I yank at the belt loops in the opposite direction.

I laugh again, the chill of the night settling into my bones. “I can’t believe I did that. You must think I’ve lost my mind.”

“I’m glad you didn’t shave your head. I think you’re going to be saying that a lot more in the coming months and years.”

Tilting my head, I study him, searching for underlying motives. “Why is that?”

“Because I think God has a different plan for you than you ever imagined or thought possible.”

With only a foot separating us, I imagine leaning up and kissing his mouth. But it’s a crazy thought that I bat away. No. No more men. Not now anyway. “Are you a turn-lemons-into-lemonade kind of guy?”

“Not really. I’ve seen plenty of folks get lemons and nothing sweet or satisfying ever comes from it.”

“So how do you know I won’t just wither into a bitter old woman?”

“Because”—he closes the gap between us—“you’re practical enough to know there are a lot worse things that could happen than losing ol’ Cliff. Right?” Then he cups the side of my neck, letting his thumb slide down the column of my throat. A chill passes through me that has nothing to do with the cold weather and in its wake heat takes its place. “And because you’re too beautiful for that to happen.”

Staring up at Jack, his shirt splotched from pool water, his cheeks tan and taut with a confident smile, I can’t seem to contain my exuberance. Without thinking, contemplating, or planning anything, I reach up and kiss him full on the mouth. His lips are warm and pliant. It’s that touch of flesh against flesh that stuns me, makes me question what I am doing. Confused by my own behavior, I panic. Before his arms can push me away or close around me, I pull back.

“Right,” I whisper breathless. Heat rises up inside me. “Thank you.”

Chapter Twenty-one

What was I thinking?

I’m not sure I
was
. Bubbles come up to my chin as I’m submerged in my own tub, my fingers and toes pruning, while my thoughts flounder in a sea of uncertainty. Was it some sort of desperation that had me reaching out to Jack . . . kissing him? Or is my heart’s desire Jack?

And what of him? Did he kiss me back out of want, need, desire? Or was it some sort of a pity kiss?

I sink deeper in the tub, grateful at least that I have this last refuge of my own now that Marla has moved out of my house. Which only reminds me that I need to call her and let her know her son is a royal jerk. In this, I believe, she and I will fully agree.

Like a cork bobbing in the water, my thoughts wobble and dip in a new direction. Izzie seems to be the only adult in our home these days. She figured out long ago that her father wasn’t coming back. She knew what I couldn’t see. What I didn’t
want
to see. What I
refused
to see. She knew I needed to let go. And boy did I! Of my sanity.

There I was, plunging into the deep end of the pool like a total idiot. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I was reacting. Crazily. Just like Izzie shaving her head. I needed space from Jack. Something about him unsettles me. Is it because I care about him too much? Is it because I’m afraid of being rejected again? Is it that I know if
he
rejects me it will hurt
much
more, much deeper than anything else?

But he didn’t push me away. When I think back to our conversation, he actually seemed to encourage something between us. More than that, he defended me. Me! When did Cliff ever defend me? When did my father?

Is Jack simply waiting for me to be ready? Am I? I’m not sure. And I have to be sure. While blowing air bubbles out my nose, I let my body slide down in the water until I’m covered from head to toe.

It’s the final walk-through of Jack’s house before the For Sale sign goes in the yard and the information lists on MLS. After working all morning on finalizing curtains and rugs plus adding the perfect pillows to the leather sofa in the den, I meet him at the front door when he arrives. It’s a bit of a reversal, me welcoming him to his own home, and I feel as awkward as a teen at her first dance.

“Welcome.” I focus on the additions to his house rather than the way the sun lights up bits of gold in his dark hair. And then, of course, there’s that bright smile of his. I try to ignore the jitteriness in my belly and the memory of that insane kiss. “Come on in.”

His gaze remains on me rather than glancing at all the accessories and details I’ve added to his house. “How are you, Kaye?”

“Good. I’m good.” I walk ahead of him, turning sideways, and bump into the doorway.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I rub my arm but keep two steps ahead of him. Throwing my arm out wide, I step back for him to get a good look at his new décor. “So what do you think?”

His brow dips inward briefly before he dutifully walks through the house, noticing each detail, each new change from the framed photos I used from my own house to the hand towels in the guest bath. After trailing him through the den, kitchen, dining room, office, guest bedrooms and master suite, I can’t wait any longer for a response.

“Well?”

He looks at me then. “It feels . . . wrong.”

My lungs compress. “What do you mean?”

“It’s nice. But . . .”

Nice
. How I hate that word. I brace myself for what he doesn’t like and feel the prickle of disappointment in not having pleased him. This man holds my heart in his hands and with even the slightest criticism I sense he could crush me. “But?”

He makes a slow turn in his den. “It’s not
me
.”

“It’s not supposed to be. It’s not your house anymore. It’s a house on the market.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He shakes his head, his gaze landing on a black and white photo of Izzie and me in a wrought iron frame.

A hot flush bursts outward from some core place within. Does he think I’m trying to move in on him? Take over his life? I used the pictures to give the office a homey feel, and it seemed the easiest to pull them straight out of my own house. Or was it some psychological fantasy I was having?

“Jack . . .” I step toward him. Maybe we should deal with the kiss and get it over with. It’s best to state this straight out. “About the other night. I should have . . . well, I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. It was irresponsible. And I didn’t mean . . .” I can’t quite bring myself to say “anything.” Because that isn’t true. I pick up the framed picture and hold it against my middle. “I’m not trying to . . .” I’m at a loss for words.

“Make a move on me?” He pauses a moment, leaves me hanging, as if running my words through his mind again. Is he relieved about the kiss? Disappointed? Reading him is about as easy as reading a doctor’s handwriting. “It’s not
that
at all. The house doesn’t feel exactly like
you
either. I mean, I see the pictures of you and Isabel, but—”

“It’s not supposed to be a reflection of me either. If it was, then I didn’t do my job. I went with the architectural details of the house, accented and emphasized the beamed ceilings, the archways, the shapes of the rooms.” I smooth a hand over the frame. “This just seemed to fit here. But it’s not . . . well, you know.”

“You’re right.” He takes the frame from me, his hand brushing mine and sending tiny tingles along my spine. “It does belong here.” He sets it back on the shelf, tilting it just the way I had it. Izzie and I smile out at him from our framed home.

When he faces me again, he looks confused like a little boy who’s had a scarf suddenly whisked off his face after being turned around and around. “What do I do now?”

My insides jump at the implication. Does he mean—do I kiss you again? That would be all right. Definitely better for him to make a move this time. Or does he mean—how do we handle this new development? Is he having regrets, doubts, misgivings? “What do you mean?”

“Do I stay here? Get a hotel room? What?”

My stomach drops. He wasn’t thinking of
me
at all. “You can stay. Just keep things tidy. Which I don’t think will be a problem. You don’t seem the messy sort.”

His mouth compresses and forms grooves in the brackets surrounding those lips I’ve only just begun to appreciate. “Okay. I can do that.”

I should stop looking at his mouth. “When you move,” I stare into his eyes, which have some sort of hypnotic effect on me, then clear my throat, “you can make
that
place your own.”

He nods his head as if convincing himself. “All right then. Good.”

“You really don’t like it?”
Shut up, Kaye! You don’t need a pat on the back. Or a congratulatory kiss.

“The house looks beautiful. Like it’s out of
Architectural Digest.
It just doesn’t feel like it’s mine anymore.”

I place a hand on his shoulder then realize my mistake and pull my hand away. “That’s the general idea.”

“It just feels false. You know, like I’m lying.”

Is that what I’m doing by denying these feelings for him? “You’re not. You’re showing someone what their life
could
be like if they bought the house and moved in. You’re showing off the house’s potential. It’s marketing.”

The memory of us discussing dating and marketing together comes back to me. So, how can I show off my best assets to him?

“You did a great job. Really. The house is a showplace. I never imagined what could be done here.” He turns around in a tight circle, looking over the den and up at the ceiling again. “Amazing.”

“Good.” I laugh with a combination of relief and nervousness. “I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s not the only thing I like.” He steps toward me and slips a hand around my waist. “And don’t ever apologize for kissing me.”

“Oh, Jack, I . . . uh . . .” My gaze shifts to his mouth again.

“I know. I understand.”

Good because I don’t. I swallow a sudden lump in my throat.

He gives a slight shake of his head, as if he’s battling something inside himself. Then he leans forward and places a firm yet gentle kiss on my mouth. Before I can respond, he pulls back. “Thank you.”