Summer's Freedom (6 page)

The other two boys stood their ground, and with a shake of her head, Maggie turned to look for Samantha. For a moment, she didn’t see her. Then a boy laughed and Maggie saw Samantha standing in the doorway where she had kicked off her shoes, talking to the tall blond rocker. His friend, the surly one, had walked on.

Sam’s eyes were starry as she gazed at the boy, who tangled his fingers with hers. Sam dipped her head bashfully as he said something in a low voice, and then she darted a glance to his face, her expression clearly shouting her infatuation.

Maggie headed toward her daughter. Sam hastily straightened, dropping the boy’s fingers. He nervously smoothed long, fine hair away from his face, the chains on his coat jangling.

“Mom,” Samantha said, “I’d like you to meet David. David, this is my mother, Mrs. Henderson.”

To Maggie’s surprise, David extended his hand to shake hers shyly. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Henderson.” He glanced down, then met her eyes squarely. “I’m sorry about that, back there.”

“So am I,” she said with some asperity.

“They’re in the wrong, you know.”

“Maybe.” Maggie looked at Samantha. “It was nice to meet you, David, but as you’ve probably heard, Sam’s on restriction for a week, and we have to go now.”

He nodded and gave Samantha a long glance. “See ya at school,” he said, touching her fingers as he passed.

“Okay,” Sam murmured. She bent swiftly to retrieve her shoes and stomped toward the car. “You didn’t have to be so rude,” she lashed out as she reached the vehicle.

Maggie unlocked the doors without speaking, then met Sam’s flashing eyes over the car. “I don’t think I was rude, Samantha. You’re overreacting.”

“I bet you would have been nicer if we’d just run into him,” Sam said, and flung herself into the car.

Maggie rolled her eyes and settled in next to her daughter. “Relax a little, sweetie.”

Sam sighed. “I just like him so much,” she said. “I want you to like him, too.”

“Give me a chance. Two minutes on the street isn’t enough time to learn much of anything.”

The girl nodded. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Maggie started the car and pulled into traffic. Actually, David had been a pleasant surprise. Although first impressions could be deceiving, he seemed like a nice boy. Now his friend…

She let the thought go unfinished, unwilling to make judgments if she didn’t have to. Samantha liked David and she had to trust her daughter’s instincts for at least long enough to see what the boy was about.

* * *

Friday night, as Maggie brushed her teeth in preparation for bed, she reviewed the past week wearily. About the only purely good thing that had happened was the removal of the stitches in her eyebrow this morning. Examining the spot in the mirror, she thought it looked good. A little pink and puckered, but all in all, not bad.

The rest of the week, however, had left much to be desired. Samantha’s moods had swung even more wildly than usual in response to her frustration at her restriction. One minute, she was the sweet, obedient child Maggie had raised, who did her chores without complaint. The next moment, she slumped from couch to kitchen to backyard, sulkily saying nothing.

In addition to the trouble on the home front, Maggie was swamped with work. Two members of her small staff had come down with colds, leaving Maggie, Sharon and three high-school interns to piece the paper together.

To further complicate matters, the newspaper offices had been flooded with letters about Proud Fox, both pro and con. Maggie had run an entire page of letters in this week’s edition, along with an editorial she had written Saturday afternoon, urging peace.

Occasionally, she’d glimpsed Joel going or coming, and she often heard his movements through the walls. There had been little time in her week beyond the press of work and family, but his presence nagged her like a half-remembered song.

She had learned that he awakened in the morning to the sound of marches on the radio, at the same time she woke up. As she lay in her bed, steeling herself for the grim process of opening her eyes, she listened to those marches and imagined him jumping up and dressing to the blood-tingling notes of the drums and fifes. It led her to believe Joel Summer was a man of energy and movement.

Through the years, she’d grown used to the noises of neighbors in apartments and the oddly intimate knowledge one gained sharing walls with strangers. Like most people, she’d learned to shut all the distractions out, trusting others to do the same.

But she’d never had a neighbor like him. As she dabbed Vitamin E oil on the puckery scar on her eyebrow, she could hear him moving around just beyond the wall and tried to ignore it. When, a moment later, she heard his shower go on, Maggie felt her mouth go instantly dry. Not ten feet away, that perfectly formed body was dripping wet and bare. The knowledge sent a rush of heat through her middle, and for the most fleeting of seconds, she let herself imagine a torrid scene in which her body was pressed against his, their slippery, wet flesh sharing the running water.

Reality snatched the sultry vision away. She glimpsed her unadorned and decidedly unfeminine face in the mirror; her hair pulled back severely, the scar pink and angry over her eye. She shook her head in disgust at herself. Bad enough to have suddenly turned into a sneaky voyeur, ignoring the unwritten but precise rules of apartment living; she now had the nerve to contemplate passionate liaisons with a man who was definitely out of her class. She imagined Joel with a confident professional woman, a lawyer or doctor, perhaps—not an overly tall and less than graceful reporter.

She flicked the light off and hurried out of the bathroom. In the peaceful sanctuary of her bedroom, she shook her head, mortified. He wasn’t a stripper or a photograph in a beefcake calendar, designed for ogling. It shamed her that she continued to think in that way about him—after all, hadn’t women been complaining about it for years?

Assumptions, assumptions, assumptions, she thought as she climbed into bed and punched down her pillow. What did she really know about Joel Summer, anyway, except that he liked birds and ought to have considered a career as a movie star? A good reporter wouldn’t be jumping to so many conclusions.

In the bedroom beyond the wall, she heard a sound. Covering her head, she groaned as another vision of him assailed her.

Maybe, she thought, it was impossible to completely eradicate the sensual part of one’s nature. Maybe she was fighting too hard to ignore him. He was an undeniably handsome man, and beauty, as she’d told Samantha, was a very important part of life.

She settled in more comfortably, her mind somewhat eased. After all, she could never get enough of the look of the first snow on the craggy summit of Pikes Peak, but by January, she ceased to notice it at all.

J
oel knelt at the foot of the lilac bushes Sunday morning, enjoying the early sunshine on his head and arms. The sweet smell of pungent earth rose to his nostrils as he dug a trench around the roots. But the mixture he poured into the prepared dugout smelled worse than a rotten egg.

“What
is
that?” asked a voice behind him. He turned to see Maggie, dressed in a simple green sundress and sandals, her hair caught back in a ponytail. The color set her golden eyes glimmering, as if small bits of light were trapped there.

He smiled. “Fish emulsion, powdered eggshells and water. Aromatic, isn’t it?”

“That’s an understatement.” She wrinkled her nose. “Is it fertilizer or something?”

“Exactly.” He lifted the bucket and moved to the next bush, cultivating the dirt around the roots with a forked hand tool. “It’ll make these bushes bloom like you won’t believe.”

“You’re a gardener, too?” Maggie folded her arms to calm the jitters she felt in his presence. She had seen him through the kitchen windows and had been unable to resist chatting with him for a few minutes.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes a brilliant, jeweled blue. “Man of many talents.” He wet the earth with the last of the mixture and stood up. “I hope you don’t mind, but it didn’t look like anyone around here was serious about gardening.”

She laughed. “Not hardly. I barely have time for myself, much less a hobby.”

Wiping his hands on a clean cloth at his belt, he said, “Do you have a few minutes for a cup of coffee?” He grinned, showing off that single, searing dimple. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

“The old tom?” Maggie asked, delighted.

“Good guess.”

“I had faith you could do it.”

“Come on, then. I’ll give you a proper introduction.”

She followed him across the grass, trying not to notice how the worn white jeans hugged his broad thighs. Then, remembering the path of least resistance that would—hopefully—help her overcome this ridiculous infatuation, she allowed herself an appreciative appraisal of his back beneath a cotton tank.

At his door, he stepped aside to let her go ahead. “Watch out in there. I ordinarily don’t have people in through the back door.”

As her eyes adjusted, Maggie saw fifty-five gallon drums neatly arranged around the small, enclosed back porch. “Is this the recycling center?” she asked with a smile.

He inclined his head a little ruefully. “You’re lucky you’re seeing it when I’ve just started over in a new house. It’s not usually a very neat area.”

Maggie looked at him. “Neatness isn’t really the point, though, is it?”

He smiled. “No, it isn’t.” For a brief second, his eyes caught hers in a gentle appraisal. He gestured toward the kitchen. “In here.”

The earthy scent of freshly brewed coffee welcomed her, and she breathed the aroma thankfully, glancing around curiously. He had either accumulated very little in the way of decorations, or he had not yet had time to put them up in the kitchen, for the walls were bare and only a single plant grew in the curtainless window. The floor, however, gleamed with a recent mopping, and his dishes had been put away.

“So, would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked, washing his hands.

“If it tastes as good as it smells, I’ll arm wrestle you for the pot.”

“It does, but I’ll share.” He filled two heavy ceramic mugs with the dark brew. “Cream or sugar?”

“All of the above. Please.”

He smiled, taking down containers of each. “Me, too. My mom raised us on a mixture of half coffee, half milk—I still drink it in almost the same combination.”

His hands dwarfed the mug, the spoon looking like a miniature between long, graceful fingers. They were hands accustomed to work by the look of the nicks and scratches marring their backs, but for their size, they were deft and nimble.

She sipped the aromatic coffee and exclaimed, “Wow!”

“Jamaica Blue Mountain. The best coffee in the world. A professor of mine used to drink it.”

“It really is fantastic. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Gesturing, he added, “I think the cat is probably still asleep on the couch.”

At the thought of going with him into the front room, Maggie felt her tension return. The kitchen was safe somehow, not as comfortable. Grow up, Maggie. Adults do sometimes have conversations in places other than kitchens.

After the barren aura of the back of the house, the living room was a surprise. It was welcoming, designed for relaxing and reading and quiet conversation. Curled in a corner of the couch, looking considerably cleaner than Maggie had ever seen him, was the old tom.

“Wake up, you old lazy,” Joel growled, scooping the cat into his arms. There were still knots in the cat’s fur, and one ear drooped sadly. He meowed softly at Joel, who turned to Maggie. “Meet Moses Many-Toes.”

She gave him a puzzled smile. “Many-Toes?”

“Look.” He tugged one of the cat’s paws, and Moses let it dangle in Joel’s hand like a lady awaiting a kiss from a count. Beyond the normal five claws and pads, this cat had three more that jutted out like a big thumb, giving his paw the appearance of a hand.

“He could practically toss a baseball,” she commented dryly. “Will he bolt if I pet him?”

“I don’t think so—just go easy. He doesn’t have much trust to spare.”

Gingerly, Maggie stretched her fingers forward for the cat to smell. When he seemed to accept her, she rubbed his blunt, broad head, carefully skirting the ear. “Why, he’s as soft as down,” she said with wonder. “You’re a good old cat, aren’t you?” The cat’s eyes blinked lazily, and a rusty purr sounded in the quiet room.

Touched that he had found refuge after so long a time of suffering, Maggie looked up at Joel to find him watching her closely. “You’re an unusual man, Joel.”

He made a depreciative noise. “So I’ve been told.” He turned to settle the cat back into his corner. “Have a seat,” he invited, taking one of the chairs by the window.

Maggie followed suit. A deep and pregnant pause fell between them, and after enduring it for a moment, casting around for something to say, she risked a glance at him. At the same moment, he turned to look at her. With a ripple of intuition, Maggie finally understood that he was nearly as nervous as she. Impulsively, she grinned. “You know, I hear your marches in the morning.”

“Do you?” He straightened. “I should turn them down, then.”

“No, please don’t. It’s part of sharing walls. You’re a hundred times more polite than a great many of the neighbors I’ve had over the years.” She sipped her coffee. “I’m sure you hear us, too.”

He grinned. “MTV when you’re gone.”

Maggie laughed. “Samantha turns it on to do her housework. Does she play it too loud?”

“No, not at all.” He glanced at Maggie and smiled. “I mean, it’s loud, but I can live with it. She’s just a kid.”

“That’s kind of you. Not everyone is patient with children.”

“I like kids.”

“Do you have any of your own?”

“No.” For a brief span, a sadness flitted over his face. “No,” he repeated, “things didn’t work that way for me.”

“You sound like you’ve lost your only chance. You must be what? Thirty-five? Men have fathered nations at sixty.”

He half shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Maggie glanced at him, at the sudden distance reflected in his eyes, and she felt again that there was something in his past that gave him pain. She sipped her coffee.