Ms. Miller and the Midas Man (2 page)

“He’s such a dog,” he said, shaking his head as he turned back to her.

“Yes, he is,” she said, mustering her resolve. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep him and your trash in your own yard.”

“Okay,” he said simply, leaning on the fence. All he had to do was keep the gate latched. “Nice day, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Very nice.” Very like the last two weeks of fine summer weather. But warmer. Much, much warmer, now that she thought of it.

“When was the last time you saw a sky that blue?” he asked.

The day before, but for politeness’ sake she looked at it again, then back at her neighbor. She could hardly take her eyes off him, as a matter of fact. He was tall—extremely tall, as the fence was high—with dark brown hair, his shoulders wide and thick under a cotton shirt, his bearing confident and easy. It was his eyes, however, that kept drawing her back to his face. Deep and dark like an all-consuming abyss. They were eyes a person could get lost in, disappear into...

“Reminds me of when I was a kid,” he said, flashing that smile again. “Bright blue sky. Long summer days with nothing to do.”

She’d grown up in Seattle, where the sky was generally overcast. And if he had nothing to do, there was always his lawn and the fence and the trash and...She merely nodded and started toward the back door. She could water the flowers later.

“You didn’t grow up here in Tylerville, did you?” he asked. He would have remembered her for sure. You didn’t see eyes like hers every day. Clear and perceptive. Hazel green, was his guess from a distance. Wide open, they were, but they revealed little of what she was thinking.

“No.”

“Where are you from?”

“Seattle originally. Then New York.” She wasn’t accustomed to telling strangers her life’s story. But if they were going to be neighbors, and if she wished to keep
his
animal and
his
trash out of
her
yard, diplomatic relations were in order.

“And now Tylerville?” He chuckled. “You hiding from someone?”

“What?” She looked startled.

“No one moves to Tylerville, Indiana, without a good reason. Rural living is fashionable now, but...Tylerville? It’s not exactly on the list of the ten best small towns to live in.”

“Well, I like it.” She didn’t want to get into this with him. She had her reasons for moving to Tylerville, none of which concerned him. Besides, hadn’t he just moved
back
to Tylerville? On purpose?

He made her nervous in a strange sort of way, as if he were interrogating her. He was watching her as if he’d like to crawl into her skin and make it his own, to know her that well.

“I grew up here,” he said. And when she didn’t seem particularly impressed by this, he added, “In this very house. My parents passed away a few years ago. I thought I’d come back and fix the place up.”

This was when she might have asked where he’d been, what he’d been doing, why he hadn’t come back sooner, if he planned to paint the house and the fence, if he’d had a happy childhood, or just about any other question she might come up with. But she didn’t.

“I’m sorry about your parents.”

Had she known them? Had she heard of the Hammond family? Was she from a large family? Was there going to be any additional information about
her
forthcoming? She was pretty tight-lipped for a woman, he thought. And in his mind, that was not a derogatory remark against her sex. It was simply one of the things he knew about women.

You see, if Scotty knew
anything,
he knew women. Nearly as many sisters as it would take to make a female basketball team, an ex-wife, a daughter, and several dozen female friends along the way made him an expert.

“They were pretty old,” he said of his parents, as if that somehow made their passing easier. Truth to tell, he was already heading down another avenue of interest. “You’ve done a nice job on this old place. I like the flowers. Old Mr. Payne had allergies, so my mom planted hers on the other side of the house, as a courtesy, I guess. The Paynes were always complaining about something, as I recall. Me, mostly. I bet I broke a window in that house at least twice every baseball season growing up.”

“It’s a nice little house,” she said, taking a few more steps toward the back door, glancing at the considerably bigger house next door. It wouldn’t have surprised her to find out that the fence had been erected as a courtesy to the Paynes as well—though why the second gate opened into her yard, she had no idea. Easier baseball retrieval?

“You haven’t lived here long. Someone else owned it the last time I was here, for my dad’s funeral.”

“No. Not long,” she said, taking several more steps away.

“You’ve done a lot of work,” he said again, running out of things to say. Pointing here and there, he added, “Painted it. Put the garden in.”

She was redecorating the interior too. He’d seen her hauling in buckets of paint and small pieces of furniture. One night, he’d watched her go up and down a ladder a hundred times to paint the ceiling in her dining room, the window of which faced his across the double driveway. But of course, it was still too early in their relationship for him to admit that he’d been spying on her.

“If you ever need any help with anything, I’m usually around.”

“Thank you.”

He laughed. “I’ll bet you’re thinking that I should probably work on my own place before I offer to help with yours, huh?”

She had no
nice
comment to make on the subject, he could see. But instead of letting her off easy, he waited for her to say something. Anything.

“That’s up to you, Mr....um...But it was nice of you to offer.”

“Hammond. Scott Hammond. And I meant it. I’d be glad to help out.”

“I know,” she said, having heard his name a hundred times over the past few weeks, she couldn’t believe she’d forgotten it. Though, there didn’t seem to be much in her mind at the moment anyway, aside from his smile. “I mean, thank you. It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Ha—”

“Scotty.”

Her smile was small as she opened the screen door. She nodded. “Scotty. I’m glad we met.”

He wasn’t what you’d call a firm believer in love at first sight—lust maybe, not love. But he had a certain instinct about women that rarely disenchanted him. This same intuition was at present on its toes, caroling a Gregorian chant and dancing a jig.

“Are you really?” he asked, unexpectedly. She stared at him, her bright eyes curious and surprised. “Glad we met? Throwing trash in your yard, and sending Bert over to meet you was only a ploy to get your attention. I won’t go to all that trouble anymore...if there’s another way to get you to talk to me.”

What a strange man, she thought, and yet rather than run inside and lock the doors, she let the screen door swing closed.

“To get my attention?”

“Sure. It’s not like a man moves in next door to a beautiful woman every day. And I couldn’t exactly stroll up the walk and knock on your door to deliver one of my usual lines, so I thought I’d do something...neighborly. But not like borrow a cup of sugar, because that would make it seem like I’d be pestering you for groceries all the time. And not like bake you a cake, because I’m not very good at that stuff. I’d have shoveled your walk if it were snowing, but it’s summer and, well, the trash was handy. In fact, it’s been the same cans and wrappers for a week now.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “And now that you have my attention, is there a point you’d like to make?”

He loved a direct, plain-speaking woman. He really did.

“Yes. I think we should be friends.”

“Friends,” she repeated.

The way he was looking at her was a lot more than friendly. She didn’t know many men, but she knew his type. Big, hunky flirt. High on ego, low on gray matter. Putting aside his dog and his trash and the general state of his house, she’d been willing to give her new neighbor a chance. But now...?

“Definitely friends. Can’t have too many friends, right?”

This time the smile reached her eyes...and took his breath away. Those first stirrings of desire whipped themselves to a frenzy.

“Actually, Scott, you
can
have too many friends. As a matter of fact, I find myself in that exact predicament at this very moment. You may have to wait until someone I know disowns me or dies.”

He smiled back at her undaunted. He also loved a challenge.

“I’ve waited a whole week just to talk with you. I guess it’s a good thing that I’m a patient man.”

“Maybe. But I should warn you, most of my friends are young, forgiving, and very healthy.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She gave him a sharp look.

“The little kids going in and out,” he said quickly. “Your students. When the window’s open I can hear them during their violin lessons. You’re a very tolerant teacher. Me, I’d be tempted to put a couple of them out of their misery. Friday’s two-o’clock lesson is the worst. What a noise.”

She didn’t mean to, but she chuckled, thinking of poor Levy’s little tin ear. “The lessons were his mother’s idea. He’d much rather be playing soccer.”

“He’s probably better at it too.”

An awkward moment passed as they realized they were sharing an amusement. He was pleased, she was mildly annoyed.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like her new neighbor. She found him acceptable, she supposed, having known a few that were worse in New York and Seattle. Likable even, in some vague, loose fashion. But he’d already admitted to having his “usual lines” for meeting women, that the dog and the trash were simply attention-getters. She’d have to be as dumb as a tick on a dead dog not to see his intentions—the smile, the look, the flattery, the manner.

And they might have worked on someone else, she conceded, pegging him literally as a handsome devil.

“I’m sure Levy would appreciate your understanding,” she said, opening the screen door again. “However, it isn’t yours he needs.” She hesitated. “I hope murder isn’t your answer for all untalented students.”

Ah-ha! So she did know who he was and why he’d come back to Tylerville. If she was plugged into the local gossip circuit,
that
would explain her extraordinary lack of curiosity. In fact, if she was plugged into the local gossip circuit, she already knew more than he wanted her to.

He turned up the intensity of his smile, the dimples were guaranteed to charm. “No. Actually, I only murder the students who remind me too much of me at their age. Then it’s self-preservation.”

She nodded, believing him entirely, and tried not to smile as she turned to go inside.

“Hey. Wait a second. What about older friends?” He made an upward hand gesture and looked hopeful. “Taller friends?”

“Sorry. No vacancies,” she said, walking inside. She giggled, but didn’t realize it.

“Wait. Come back. Your name. What’s your name? All your mailbox says is Miller. What’s your first name? What should I call you?”

It would have been so simple just to close the door, or to poke her head out and give him her name. But something crazy and impulsive rose up inside her.

She pushed the screen door open, her heart fluttering wildly, and smiled back at his elated expression. “Call me...” she said slowly, “Ms. Miller.”

The expression on Scotty’s face when he turned from the fence would have alarmed a wiser woman. Getting to know
Ms. Miller
had escalated from a clear challenge to a personal quest in a split second. It wouldn’t be enough now merely to meet her and see what happened between them. Oh no. Too late for that. He liked her. She was aloof, spunky, quickwitted. It was his new and overpowering belief that in the middle of a heartbeat, he may have fallen hopelessly and totally in love with her.

It was almost like all the poets said it would be—that when you finally fell in love angels would sing and the earth would move. They didn’t, of course, but
something
had changed. Something had broken loose, snapped, rotated, altered itself inside him, and he
knew.
He knew she was different, knew she’d make a difference in his life.

He whistled all afternoon, fairly certain that he’d be dancing on the fringes of her mind for the rest of the day—he knew his women. He also suspected she was looking out her windows more often than before and that she was smiling every time she shook her head at his cheeky behavior.

Nope. None of that would have surprised him. However, he’d have been blown clean out of his sneakers to know that he was inadvertently compounding her disapproval and tampering with fate that afternoon when his cleanup crew arrived.

“A
W! WILL YOU LOOK
at that,” Gus said to her four walls, appalled, standing well hidden in the shadows of the room. “Flirting with me this morning and now
this
in the afternoon. Not one beautiful woman, but two. Cutoffs and halter tops...probably a leg man,” she muttered, craning her neck to watch the women climb the steps to the front door, standing bug-eyed and openmouthed when each received a hug and a quick kiss from him—on the mouth. He obviously had a great affection for both women, and it tied her stomach in knots.

“Kinky as a corkscrew.” She should have guessed it. Though why he should be any different from the other men she attracted, couldn’t be reasoned. Liars, cheaters, playboys every one. Take Nelson Forge, for example. His approach to love and romance was soft music, soft lights, and soft-soaping.

“Well, not this time, Mr. Scott Hammond.
Baby,
” using Nelson’s most sickening endearment. “I’ve been around this block before,” she said, walking head high, spine stiff into the kitchen for a glass of lemonade.

As a rule she limited lessons to two a day, finding more than that to be a strain on her overtrained nerves. But that particular Saturday she had three violin lessons to give, as Molly Bennett had to make up a lesson due to a conflict with a birthday party the day before. Each was a trial to her patience and a test of her dedication. Not because one child was a beginner and the other two hadn’t practiced, but because of Scott Hammond.

First, it was irritating that the odd mix of oldies, rap, and contemporary rock music went suddenly silent in the open doors and windows when ten-year-old Andrew Betz arrived for his lesson. Granted, it was considerate, but she would have much preferred that he
not
pay so much attention to the comings and goings at her house.