Ms. Miller and the Midas Man (8 page)

Of course, his first priority had to be the children. And it was. Truly. But that didn’t mean it had to be to the exclusion of his own desires, did it?

No, he decided firmly, hammering in the last of the shingles he’d gotten to patch the hole in the roof directly above Chloe’s bedroom. He’d left the elementary school feeling galvanized with energy. Not a common experience in the heat of the summer. He felt it would be best to tackle this project before he wasted the sensation on other things—like daydreaming or a long nap in the shade—and before it rained again and ruined the newly painted ceiling below.

With no effort at all he could think of a million reasons to engage Ms. Miller in a little tête-à-tête, using the play as his best excuse. The possibilities were endless.
He
was a genius. And if he was careful, very careful, he could draw her out a little. Make her laugh. Trick her somehow into talking to him,
really
talking to him. And maybe, if he was careful, just maybe he’d get close enough to touch her again.

He laid the hammer sideways along the steep pitch of the roof to consider the prospects, to let his imagination run with them, then noticed another patch of rotten shingles over the eave a few feet away.

“Damn. What I need is a new roof,” he said aloud, scooting closer to the edge. The house was old and the angle of the roof was sharp and treacherous. He’d used his last shingle, and a return trip back down to fix this new hole wasn’t on his agenda. The top of a two-story building was not a place he’d choose to be if indeed he’d had a choice. However, if he didn’t actually stand up, and if he kept his eyes focused on the shingles, it was almost tolerable. “What I
really
need is to win the lottery and buy a new house. Right, Bert?”

Bert lay on a shady spot in the grass below and barely quivered an eyebrow at the notion. The man was a dreamer.

Inadvertently, Scotty glanced down at Ms. Miller’s roof, the gray-black shingles neat and orderly. He chuckled. There was a sparrow’s nest in the gutter, he noted with a smile. She’ll be wanting that removed when the leaves start to fall and the rainy season begins, he calculated, reaching blindly for the hammer.

He reached a little farther and a little farther until he finally had to look for it.

He leaned slightly to touch it with the tips of his fingers, to inch it toward him. He almost had it when the heavy end met gravity and slipped downward, parallel with the pitch of the roof. For the briefest of seconds it lay there, then he watched as it slid slowly down each row of shingles and dropped into his own rain gutter.

With a sigh and a weary stream of expletives, he rolled over onto his back, defeated. He looked into the thick, leafy canopy above him. Shade and bright sunshine crossed his vision in a rhythmic pattern as the wind rustled gently through the treetops. He was no handyman, he lamented, content to stay as he was a few minutes longer and ponder nature’s beauty.

He could feel the warm shingles at his back through his shirt. He folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. It wasn’t so bad on the roof.

And Ms. Miller had the sweetest mouth he’d ever seen—a shapely top with a chubby lower lip that he could spend the rest of his life sucking and nibbling on. He lowered one leg and left the other bent.

She’d kept her head bent low that morning, away from him, and the nape of her neck had almost driven him insane, he recalled with a chuckle. When he finally got his hands on her—and he knew he would eventually—he’d never voluntarily let go. Someone would have to pry them apart. He sighed deeply and crossed one leg over the other.

“Awwww,” he screamed, sliding toward the edge of the roof like a log in a chute, his legs flailing in his attempts to prop his feet flat beneath him to stop himself. He heard leaves swooshing, limbs cracking, and incoherent gibbering as his life flashed before his eyes and death—if not a lifetime of excruciating pain in full body cast—rushed to meet him.

Panting and whimpering, he slowly came to the realization that everything had come to a stop. Time. Movement. His heart. It quivered in his chest uncomfortably, thumped out a beat, then another. When he had enough blood in his head to think straight, he gradually raised it to look down at his feet. The heels of his soft-soled shoes were wedged against the rim of the rain gutter...his backyard sprawled portentously miles below.

His head fell back against the roof. He sucked in long, deep breaths, and, when he could, he looked again to see how far away the ladder was.

Too far, he saw almost immediately. Squinting, he could see the ladder had fallen away from the house to rest in the branches of the old oak tree. In his fearless youth it had been part of his escape route from his bedroom window—now it seemed to have mature limbs no bigger around than number 2 lead pencils.

Again, his head fell to the roof with a thudding noise, and angry frustration churned in his belly. Was the principal of Tylerville High School allowed to cry? Then more constructively, he wondered if breaking through the roof into the attic was feasible. Did he dare lift his heels from the gutter? Or should he try to roll over onto his stomach?

That’s when he heard the car pulling into the drive between the two houses. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. It would be too much to hope that it would be one of his sisters. The car door opened and closed. He had to make a quick decision.

Gus was exhausted. She’d forgotten how tiring being “on” for other people could get for someone with a solitary nature. Raised in a strict, regimented environment, she was more of a social caterpillar—slow, prickly, eager to cocoon herself—than a friendly butterfly like Lydia.

She was hot too. The August heat was humid and cloying, she could feel the air passing in and out of her lungs as she breathed. A cool shower and some uninterrupted, air-conditioned “down” time would put her day in perspective.

She got out of her car and slammed the door. That idiot neighbor of hers had ruined her whole day. She glared at his house as she walked up the drive. If he was sincere about this business with the senior class play, all right. But did he have to confuse the issue with winks and innuendo? Did he have to make her skin tingle with the idea that he had ulterior motives in involving her?

“Ms. Miller?” came a croaky whisper. Scotty cleared his throat. “Ms. Miller?”

No response.

“Ms. Miller? Is that you?” Nothing. “If you’re not Ms. Miller, but you can hear me, please answer. I need help,” he said as calmly and with as much dignity as he could muster. He listened but heard nothing but the birds in the old oak tree. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

She stood still and slowly scanned the area. She frowned, narrowed her eyes, and scanned it again.

Finally, he heard footsteps on the concrete drive.

“Hello? Mary? Beth? Elaine? Chrissy?” he called, listing his sisters first, and then, as a last resort, adding, “Ms. Miller?”

“What are you up to now?” she asked, the irritation in her voice causing him to cringe. “If this is another one of your stupid tricks to get my attention...”

“No. No.”

“...I’ll tell you right now it’s not going to work.”

“No. Wait. Please.”

“I cannot
bee-lieve
the people of this town hired someone like you to set a good example for their children. You’re more of a child than all of them put together, I swear. Where are you?”

“Never mind,” he muttered softly, closing his eyes. “Just let me die here.”

“I mean it, Scotty Hammond. We’re going to have this out here and now. Show yourself or I’m going inside.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? Come out this instant. I want to know what all that business was at school this morning. Is nothing sacred to you? I’ve had time to think about it, and if you dreamed this whole scheme up just to get to me, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

He was taking his life in his hands, he knew, but there was a principle involved here. He wasn’t
totally
devious.

“That’s pretty bigheaded of you, don’t you think?” he called to her. “It just so happens that the idea for the senior class play came to me long before I ever saw you. I admit, I was leaning heavily toward
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
but all things considered,
The Wizard of Oz
is a much better idea.”

Your involvement notwithstanding,
he failed to add.

“Then why did you wink at me this morning? You did that on purpose, just so I’d think you were up to something, didn’t you? Just to annoy me.”

He wondered how long it would be before buzzards found him.

“Yes. I did it to annoy you. I
enjoy
annoying you.”

“Where the hell are you?”

He hesitated. “I don’t think I want you to know anymore. I’m beginning to like it here.”

“What?”

“I’m on the roof.”

“What?”

He took a deep breath then clipped out each word, clear and concise. “I’m on the roof of my house. I was patching a leak. I’ve lost my ladder.”

“You’ve what?”

He thought a moment, then decided he’d rather swallow shredded glass than repeat himself. He folded his arms stubbornly across his chest and listened as the squeaky gate to his backyard opened and closed.

Bert barked once. He’d intended it as a gracious greeting, but he could see the woman took it as an intruder alert. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why the woman was so afraid of him. He always wore his best, most friendly face when she was around. Still, some humans were a little more standoffish than others—so it fell to him to bridge the gap. Perhaps she’d enjoy a good joke today, he thought, standing and pointing to the man with his nose.

Gus approached the giant dog slowly, only half-sure he wouldn’t eat her. She kept turning her head to get a good look at the roof, but could see nothing until she was standing next to Bert.

“Oh my,” she said, laughter gurgling in her throat but not crossing her lips. Bert heard it and knew he deserved a reward for making her happy. He slipped his big head under her hand and scratched an itchy spot on his left hip by rubbing it against her leg.

Scotty raised his head to scowl down at her. His heart twisted and sank in his chest. She was completely beautiful. Standing there in the shade of the old oak, a sunbeam filtering through the leaves to dance light in her dark hair, to sparkle in her eyes. She was smiling, happier than he’d ever dreamed of seeing her. So incredibly beautiful, she took his breath away.

“Oh my? That’s all you’re going to say?” he asked, knowing that despite his elevation he didn’t look as lofty as he sounded.

“No. I’m sure I have more to say. Just give me a second.”

“You know,” he said solemnly, cherishing the sight of her. “It would be very unkind of you to enjoy this too much.”

“Would it? I don’t think so,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her and shifting her weight to get comfortable. “I think this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. I think I should slow down, smell a few roses, savor the moment.”

“All right,” he muttered, resting back on the roof to ease the strain on his neck. He knew women better than he knew metric conversion tables. He wouldn’t be leaving his present position till she was good and ready to let him.

Bert laid down on the woman’s foot—a clear indication that he was glad she’d decided to stay awhile. She was a quiet, undemanding soul, and he liked her.

“What’s holding you up there?” she asked.

Addressing the sky, he explained about the gutter and how he’d come to be perched on it—and when no immediate reply was forthcoming, he lifted his head again to catch her pulling a lawn chair into the shade and sitting down, crossing her long legs, and arranging the skirt of her dress.

“Comfy?”

She smiled up at him. “Yes, thank you. You?”

He grimaced. “What do you want?”

“Want? Why, nothing. Can I get you something?”

He wasn’t so humiliated that he couldn’t see the humor in the situation—knew he’d behave in the exact same way if their situations were reversed—but he was also getting a little vexed. He wasn’t used to being in this position—not his position on the roof and certainly not in the position of being someone’s joke of the day.

He restated his question. “What do I have to do to get you to push the ladder back against the house?”

Her top leg began to swing in a trifling fashion, and she smiled. “Golly. Don’t you just hate it when you have an infinite number of choices? I mean, choosing from five or six or even a dozen things isn’t bad, but when the options are unlimited, it’s so confusing. Don’t you think?”

Something deep in his heart started to make him wish he hadn’t thrown the trash in her yard, that he hadn’t teased her in church or disturbed her violin lessons or...

“So maybe you should narrow my field of selections to what you’re
willing
to do to get me to push the ladder back against the house.”

Hmmm...what wasn’t he willing to do?

“I know you don’t have too many scruples,” she went on, “and that you’d stoop pretty low to get what you want, but where exactly do you draw the line?” Just in case the negotiations went on into the night, he bent one leg, worked to get a solid footing, and started to push himself higher up the roof. “That’s an interesting question, isn’t it? How far would Scott Hammond go to get what he wants?”

Almost a foot from the gutter, he wasn’t quite ready to roll over and sit up, so he raised his head and looked down at her. “I’ll always go as far as I have to, if what I want is important to me. What’s wrong with that?”

Gus couldn’t answer. There was nothing wrong with that. Not so long ago she might have answered the same way—when some things were still important to her.

“So, what’s important to you, Scott Hammond?” She was curious. “What is it you want?”

A personal question at last. She was showing an interest in him. This was good. This was a call to sit up and think carefully.

He gathered his thoughts and spoke when he was ready.

“People are important to me. The people I love, even people I haven’t met yet. Who I am and what I do stems from their influence on me.” He paused. “I want...a full life. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing grandiose, just a job with purpose, meaning, something that’s worthwhile, worth doing. And people to love, to share with, to care for.” Keeping his knees bent, he leaned back on his arms. “I’m not a brilliant man who’ll discover the cure for some disease. I’m not an ambitious man. I’m not even a very handy man,” he said, motioning with his head at the patched roof. “I’m just a man with good intentions. I like to be happy. I like seeing other people happy. I’m a simple man. So what I want and what’s important to me are simple things.”