Ms. Miller and the Midas Man (9 page)

A purpose in life and people to love? That’s all he wanted? All that was important to him? That’s all? That was all she wanted, all she’d ever wanted. So what happened? What went wrong? What was he doing so right that she was doing so wrong?
Everyone
loved Scotty Hammond.
Everything
he touched turned to gold. What was his secret? Or were some people just naturally more lovable and prone to success than others?

Whatever the innate difference was between them, she couldn’t help but resent him a little...and envy him more than she could ever say. What really got to her was the way he spoke of his good fortune. He was lucky and he knew it, content, delighted even, with what he had.

“What about you, Ms. Miller?” he asked. She could feel him watching her. “What’s important to you? What is it you want?”

“I don’t remember,” she said, getting to her feet. Keeping him captive on the roof wasn’t much fun anymore. He was clearly the better person, and she couldn’t maintain her superiority any longer—circumstantial though it was.

“You don’t remember? Or you just don’t want to tell me?” he asked, sitting up, watching her walk slowly over to the ladder.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

She grunted, using all her strength to push the tall extension ladder vertical to the house, then one inch beyond, till it fell back on its own.

“Then tell me about those scars on your wrist,” he said, making no attempt at the ladder. He watched her, waiting to see if she’d answer.

She looked at the scars on her left wrist, fingered them gently, then smiled and looked up at him.

“They really bug you, don’t they?”

“How they got there bugs me.”

“You’re going to be disappointed,” she warned him.

“Try me.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was clearly fascinated with the scars, and she was about to remove all their mystery and make them mundane. Well, he’d get used to these little disillusionments about her.

“Three years ago, almost four now, I guess,” she said, examining her wrist and what had once been a more defined Z-shaped scar traversing it. “I had surgery here. Nothing tragic. Nothing serious. Just a routine operation to release the pressure on the nerve running through it.”

“Pressure from what?” he asked, scooting toward the ladder while she was busy talking.

“The tendons in there. Carpal tunnel syndrome they call it. The tendons get inflamed and start to swell, put pressure on the nerve, usually from some prolonged repetitive motion.”

“Like playing a violin?”

He was starting down the ladder. She moved to hold it steady for him.

“Yes, exactly.”

“And what happens after a surgery like that? Obviously, you can still play the violin.”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard, stepping back from the ladder when he was relatively safe. “After a rest period and some anti-inflammatory drug therapy and wrist splints and classes on stress-reducing movement techniques and a lot of exercise. You can still play the violin.”

He stepped off the last rung and turned to her. He took her wrist in the palm of his hand, looked at it, then into her eyes, searching.

“But...”

Her hand and arm were sizzling from the heat of his. She felt small and weak before him, her failure so plain to see in her eyes.

“But you can’t seem to play as well as you did before,” she said, then cleared away the frailty she heard in her voice. “Or practice as long. Or convince anyone that just a little more time and a lot more work will restore your talent to the near perfection it once was.”

For a long moment he watched unshed tears shimmer in her eyes. He was on the verge of gathering her close, to hold her near, to absorb her pain. But she blinked and lowered her eyes away from him. Gently, almost reluctantly, she pulled her hand from his. He started to take it back but stopped, knowing his chance was lost.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said after an awkward moment passed between them. “I know you were hoping for something a little more exciting, a failed romance maybe or a...ah...”

“I’m not disappointed,” he said softly, wondering what she’d do if he kissed her. “And the only thing I was hoping for was that whatever it was, it didn’t hurt anymore.”

All right, enough was enough. If he was going to be kind to her and sympathize with her and understand her heartache, she was going to have to leave.

“It doesn’t,” she said, twisting her wrist around and around in the air for him. “See? Good as new.” She wasn’t fooling him. He knew her pain was fresh and raw and far from healed. For half a second she thought he might even suspect that her truest pain had nothing to do with her ability to play the violin. “And now that you’re safely on the ground, I think I should go.”

“But I didn’t give you anything.”

“Give me anything?”

“For pushing the ladder over. For saving my life. You never told me what you wanted. Or what I had to do.”

“Oh. Forget it,” she said, in a sudden hurry to be away. Why did he always have to stand so close to her? Couldn’t he say what he had to say from the other side of the yard?

“Forget it? No way. I always pay my debts and I’m extremely indebted to you.”

She knew where this was going. Knew he’d never give up the bone she’d inadvertently thrown to him.

“Yes. Yes, you are, come to think of it. But I need more time to think of a proper payment.”

“All right.” He wanted more time with her but would have to settle for a promise of another meeting. He could sense that she’d laid a great portion of herself out in front of him, and that she was feeling exposed and vulnerable, that she’d run hard and fast if he tried to hold on to her too tight.

So, he’d let her go—for now—and try to decipher just exactly what it was that she’d revealed to him. More than the surgery, more than its lasting impact on her skills as a violinist. There was more to what she’d told him than the sad, sad facts.

Then again, he thought, watching her ease away from him. She fully expected him to let her leave without a protest. And wouldn’t it be a shame to be so predictable?

“Ms. Miller,” he said when she turned to go. “Now that you’ve saved my life, and since my dog likes you so well,” he nodded at the proud escort showing her the way to the gate, “don’t you think it’s time I called you Augusta?” He stepped in front of her. “Or maybe Gus?”

He said Gus as if it were spelled s-e-x. Soft and low, like a whisper in the dark. His dark eyes were warm, bottomless, consuming. His gaze lowered to her mouth and came back to her eyes in a blink. Was he thinking of kissing her? No, that couldn’t happen. Well, it could, but she wouldn’t like it. Well, she’d probably like it but it wouldn’t be good. Well yes, it probably would be good but she wouldn’t be happy about it. Well, maybe she would be...

“Um, sure. Augusta would be fine, I guess.”

Without touching her, he leaned forward and barely brushed his lips against hers with his eyes open. She didn’t twitch a muscle, didn’t dare. And then he did it again! A slow, thin coating of tingles washed over her. The last thing she saw was his eyes closing, slow and euphoric, as if he had a piece of heaven in his mouth. His lips pressed against hers, opened slightly, and he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue until they opened.

She lost track of what happened after that...The breeze died, the birds went silent, her world reeled. Her hands were fifty-pound weights on the ends of her arms. Her feet took root in the grass. In her belly a quiet riot took place—a coup—as long-suppressed emotions took over the established numbness.

Scott’s hands turned to fists as he fought the urge to crush her in his arms. If he didn’t stop while he had half a clear thought in his head, there would be no stopping.

He watched her eyes open, dazed and unseeing at first, murky green whirlpools of passion and confusion. She was startled—by her own behavior more than his—and this enchanted him.

He smiled. “A token of my gratitude,” he said, referring to the kiss.

A vague nod. “Or Gus. You could probably call me Gus too. Either one. Whatever.” A nervous laugh escaped her. “Just not Gussie,” she said, backing away. “My grandma used to call me Gussie. She died. Well, not because she called me that.” She laughed. “I hated it, but I wouldn’t...But when she did die...No one else calls me Gussie.” She turned, opened the gate, slipped through and closed it in one quick maneuver. “I’ve always been sort of grateful for that. I just don’t think I
look
like a Gussie.”

There was some muttering on the other side of the fence and then he heard her screen door close. He touched his lips with two fingers, amazed that he could still feel her there, warm and soft and sweet as a peach. He grinned at Bert.

“
That,
my friend, is what dreams are made of,” he said, tugging fondly on one of the dog’s ears.

B
ERTRAM T. GOODFELLOW MISSED
the young one. Not at first, of course. At first it had been something of a relief to get away from her. But lately, he’d noticed he was almost glad to see her coming.

Since he and the man had moved into the big house, she hadn’t once flung herself across his back and insisted on riding him. And the fascination she’d had with pulling his lip up over his nose to get a good look at his teeth seemed to be a thing of the past as well.

Nowadays, she rode around on wheels. On occasion, she and the man wrestled together on the living room rug, laughing and shrieking—until the man played dead or the young one ran off quickly to the bathroom. Sometimes they’d sit close and read, or play a game with a ball and a stick in the front yard. Today they were coloring the walls in a room on the second floor.

He’d gone up to check on them several times—but even if he hadn’t he would have known they were up to something messy. They usually were.

Three quarters of the way through his forty winks he was aroused by the distinctively light and rapid cadence of the young one’s footsteps. Because it was his job when the man wasn’t around, he followed her and found her covered head to toe with red paint in the backyard.

For a little while it looked as if she were trying to paint the fence with the front of her clothes. He didn’t want to know why. But as he grew weary of watching her and started to lay down in the shade, she toted a lawn chair over to the fence and opened the gate to the woman’s habitat.

They both liked the woman’s habitat. So bright and neat and cheerful. He thought the flowers smelled heavenly, and sniffed appreciatively as the young one picked them, roots and all. It wasn’t until she trotted over to the screen door and let herself in that Bert got worried—and only then because the woman had made no provisions for four-legged visitors.

Gus thought she heard her back door open and close, but it happened so quickly and unexpectedly that she wasn’t entirely sure she’d heard it at all. No sound followed, so she continued to practice. Bruch’s G minor concerto had the greater part of her sense and concentration, the tips of her fingers sliding against the fingerboard, the music humming in the strings of her violin. It was a deeply romantic piece she hadn’t played for several years. It somehow appealed to the confusion in her soul.

This was
his
fault, too, she thought, drawing and sliding the bow with more verve. This confusion. No matter how often she straightened the things about her—the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelves, the stacks of music, pillows on the couch—she still felt unsettled. Discontent. Itchy as poison ivy.

She’d searched high and low for music that was unfamiliar to her, music she had to focus on to play, music that would wipe out the memory of the kiss she’d shared with
that man.
Why had she allowed that to happen? Curiosity? If so, the knowing didn’t make living next door to him one bit easier.

It was fast becoming a bad habit, to have to stop playing and shake off the excited chills spreading across her shoulders and down her arms, in order to clear her mind of everything but Bruch.

“Did you goof?”

Gus jumped, then stood there staring at a little girl. At least, it looked like a little girl. Where a partial coat of bright red paint permitted, she could see short dark hair and big brown eyes with long thick lashes, a heart-shaped mouth, and a blue T-shirt with “Daddy’s Little Girl” written on the front.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Chloe. You goofed, didn’t you?” she asked, nodding with a sympathetic expression on her face. “I could tell.”

“You could?” she asked, recovering slowly, but enough to walk across to the living room window to look for the child’s father, who, no doubt, had orchestrated this intrusion. “Do you know that music? Have you heard it before?”

She thought it unlikely considering her father’s taste in music, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“No. But when you goof it hurts my ears.” She put one hand flat over one ear and a fist full of root flowers over the other. “It’s like someone is screaming.”

Gus nodded her understanding, and with no father in sight, directed herself to the next important issue.

“Those are pretty flowers. Where’d you get them?”

“I picked ’em for you,” she said, holding them out to her, shaking clumps of dirt onto the spotless hardwood floor. “If you put them in water they won’t die.”

“Thank you,” she said, unable to be angry with a face as innocent as the daisies she took in hand. “Would you like to know another trick with flowers?”

“What?”

“Well,” she said, leading the way back to the kitchen by following the path of dirt on the floor. “If you
pick
the flowers, instead of pulling them up, they’ll come back next year. Then you can pick them all over again. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“All you do is play music all day?” Chloe asked, following close on her heels.

“No. I teach music too.”

“My daddy’s a teacher.”

“Yes, I know.” The girl was on her tiptoes, peering into the sink at the flowers.

“Are you dry?”

“Yep,” she said, running her little red hands down the front of her shirt and holding them up to show no paint had rubbed off—as if Gus could tell. “This is an old shirt anyhow. Daddy made me wear it, ’case we ruined it with paint.”