Promise Me A Rainbow (20 page)

To say that their curiosity was piqued was putting it mildly. It didn’t take Sasha five seconds to accost him after class was dismissed. Catherine dared to glance into the hallway. He was ringed by pregnant teenagers.

“Hey, what’s your name, mister?” Catherine heard Sasha saying with the authority of someone whose business it was to know.

“Joseph D’Amaro,” he answered. “What’s yours?”

“Sasha.”

“Sasha what?”

“Sasha Higgins. Are you looking for Ms. Holben again?”

“Again,” he conceded.

“Are you going to take her out?”

“Yeah, is that okay?”

“Depends on whether you’re married or something like that.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Well, that’s good. ’Cause, Ms. Holben, she don’t know nothing about taking out no man.”

“She doesn’t?”

“No, she don’t. We told her the other day to call you and ask you out sometime. I bet she didn’t do it. I bet
you
called
her
.”

“I called her,” Joe confessed.

“She said you weren’t her boyfriend.”

“Well, she probably knows,” he said.

“Excuse me,” Pat said, trying to get through. She extended her hand to Joe. “I’m Pat Bauer. I work with Catherine. You don’t look like a filthy beast to me.”

“Ah . . . thank you,” Joe said, shaking her hand.

“All right!” Catherine said at the doorway. “You can all go home now.”

“Aw, Ms. Holben,” Sasha said. “We’re just checking him out for you.”

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, Sasha. Now, go,
go
. See you tomorrow. Good-bye.”

“’Bye, Ms. Holben,” they sang in chorus. And then, “’Bye, Joseph!”

He laughed and waved.

“You think I’m going to ask you about the ‘filthy beast,’ don’t you?” he said, following Catherine into the classroom.

“I have no idea what that woman was talking about,” she assured him, and he grinned.

“Does this bunch of yours always ask whatever they want like that?”

“Always. Or Sasha does, anyway. It was something I started to get them to ask things about their pregnancies. I’ve had many occasions to regret it.”

He smiled again, and it struck her that she hadn’t been wrong earlier. He
was
happy today, or at least happier than she’d ever seen him.

“I’m early,” he said unnecessarily. “I thought I’d better head out before Michael found something else for me to do. How soon can you leave here? I know it’s early to go eat, but it’s the only chance I have.”

“No, it’s all right. I have to lock up. And I have to make sure Pat gets out of the parking lot.”

“Something wrong with her car?”

“She’s . . . not well. Sometimes she covers up how bad she’s feeling. I’ve found her still sitting out there because . . .” She broke off, surprised that she was telling Joe D’Amaro a thing like that.

“You lock up, then,” he said smoothly. “I’ll watch for her. Don’t worry,” he added. “I’ll be subtle.”

He left the room, and she could hear him walking down the hallway to the end door on the parking lot side of the building. She began straightening the desks in the room, wondering if
Joe D’Amaro
and
subtle
weren’t a contradiction in terms. She picked up her briefcase and her purse, and she was ready to lock the door when he came back.

“She’s all right,” he said. “I think you’re right about her hiding how she feels. She wasn’t the same lady out there that she was in here. She was driving okay, though.”

Catherine nodded and locked the door. “So . . . how’s the family?”

“Good,” he answered as they walked down the hall. “You got anyplace special you want to go?”

“No. I’ll pay for my own meal, by the way.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m taking up your time.”

“I want to do that. I’m interested in Fritz anyway. You don’t have to feed me.”

I want to feed you
, he almost said. Which would have been an entirely dumb-ass thing for him to say. It was incredible to him how ill-at-ease he felt. One would have thought he was no older than Charlie.

“You don’t mind riding in a truck, do you?” Somehow it hadn’t mattered on Saturday, and today he needed to ask.

She smiled. “You’re asking a person with no transportation at all if she minds riding?”

“You should get a car.”

“Tell me about it.

“I’ll let you know when one of the guys on the crew breaks parole again.”

“I don’t think I need a stolen car.”

“No, Bobby’s not the car thief—I’ve got a couple of others on the crew who do that. Bobby’s not too good at keeping his appointments with his PO. Then he gets sent back, and he’s got a car he’s got to sell. See?”

“Yes, I see. Did I meet him at the cookout?”

“Yeah. He was the big guy—balding, tattoos, one front tooth missing.”

“Yes. I remember. What would I do if he got out and wanted the car back?”

“I’d give it to him,” he said dryly, and she laughed. He walked on ahead of her to open the truck door, and it occurred to him that he was entirely on his own here. He didn’t have Fritz to buffer any silences. He supposed that he wasn’t doing too badly. At least she was still willing to get into the truck. If he were only here to talk about Fritz, it wouldn’t matter, but he wasn’t here just for Fritz, and he knew it. He was here for himself. He wanted to see once and for all if he really was attracted to her or if it was something else—though he wasn’t quite sure what that something else might be. Gratitude, maybe, for helping Fritz.

But gratitude wouldn’t make him intensely aware of her body the way he was now—just because she’d passed close enough to him so that he got a whiff of her perfume when she got into the truck. He recognized the scent; it was the same kind she’d worn before. But she’d been working all day, and now there was more of
her
in it. He could tell the difference, and it was more of a distraction than he cared to admit. He found himself wanting—needing—to touch her again, and he had no way, however casually, to do it. He was as thwarted as some teenage boy who wanted to put his arm around his girl in a dark movie—if teenage boys still worried about that kind of thing—and from the look of Catherine’s class, they didn’t.

He looked at her from time to time as they rode along the streets of Wilmington, but she said nothing. He kept driving, into the downtown area and past the riverfront and the
Northwind
, the Coast Guard vessel that was usually moored at the foot of Princess Street.

“Paddy’s Hollow all right?” he asked as he pulled the truck into the parking lot behind the Cotton Exchange.

“Yes, that’s fine. I like Paddy’s.”

“Okay, now, I want you to just sit here and don’t move,” he said as he stopped the truck.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to get out and go around and open your door. I don’t want you jumping out before I get there and leaving me standing there looking like a fool.”

They stared at each other across the cab of the truck, and then suddenly she smiled.

“Fair enough,” she said, and she waited for him to open the door.

“That was very good, Ms. Holben,” he said as she got out.

“Thank you. I’m just not used to it.”

“That’s what I thought. Come on. It’s going to rain.”

They had to run the last few steps across the parking lot to stay ahead of the raindrops. She let him lead the way into the Cotton Exchange and up the wooden staircase, and she felt the same pang she always felt as they passed the small inner shop with an array of baby dresses and sleepers in the window.

“Where were the broken transoms?” he suddenly asked.

“Down that way,” she answered, surprised that he had remembered.

“I want to look at them. I’m good at stained-glass repair, and I’ll do it for a reasonable price. There’s no reason why the job should go to someone else if they want it replaced.”

She had no argument for that, and she showed him the cracks in the panels of glass over two of the doors in the corridors.

“It’s probably too small a job for your time.”

“At this point in my brilliant career there’s no such thing as a ‘too small job.’ It won’t take much to fix it,” he said, making his inspection.

She was looking up at the cracks in the glass, and she suddenly realized he was looking at her. They both smiled awkwardly and started back in the direction from which they’d come.

It was raining hard when they reached the inner courtyard that led to Paddy’s Hollow. It amazed him that Catherine Holben, unlike other women he’d known, didn’t seem to care if it was raining or not.

He took her elbow as they walked over the old brick cobbling to get to the pub.
Pretty good, D’Amaro
, he thought. He’d managed to touch her after all.

This is the pub where Della had intended to apply for a job, Catherine thought, trying not to be distracted by Joe D’Amaro’s warm hand on her arm. She was glad Della had voluntarily cut the interview short. If Joe had had to do it, he probably wouldn’t have been allowed back on the premises.

The place was dark and not crowded at this time of day. It smelled of french fries and beer. They took a small table in the back, but it was too close to the piped-in music, and they moved to a booth across from the bar. Several men were deep in a game of darts, and several others sat at the bar watching television.

The waitress came promptly, and Joe offered Catherine unsolicited advice on the menu selections—all of which she politely ignored. She wanted what she wanted.

“Have you seen the renovations they’re doing on the court house?” he said when the waitress had left. “God, I wanted that contract so bad, I could taste it.”

“You wanted to talk to me about Fritz,” Catherine reminded him. She was somehow wary of small talk, as if knowing any more about him, however trivial, might cause her more difficulty in sitting here with him than she already had.

He was . . . handsome to her—when he wasn’t handsome, really—and that’s all there was to it. He was wearing beat-up work clothes, and he was scruffy-looking because he needed a haircut and a shave, and he still was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. She looked into his blue eyes. He didn’t look away, and that unnerved her. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She didn’t want to say anything. She just wanted to stare at him. She was like a child with a new toy. She just wanted to
look
so she could decide if he was as interesting as she’d first thought, though she’d really long since given up expecting to find anything bad where he was concerned. The things he’d said and done in his ruder moments were entirely understandable, now that she was beginning to know him. She did have one question, but it was one she couldn’t ask.

What kind of man
are you that you should matter
to me one way or the other?

“Catherine, I wanted to tell you again that I appreciate your help.”

She gave a small shrug. “You’re welcome.”

“I think—hope—it’s going to be better for Fritz now. I don’t know if I said the right things.”

“It doesn’t matter what you said. I think Fritz will know.”

“You sound so damn sure.”

“I am sure. I told you before. It’s not the words.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s . . . what comes out of the eyes. You have very kind eyes.”

She looked sharply away, as if it had suddenly occurred to her that she shouldn’t have made that observation, and it embarrassed her.