The Other Side of Silence (2 page)

“We weren’t much more than kids when
we got together, you and I,” said Scott very quietly.

So true, Sunny thought with a shake
of her head.  More than fifteen years ago.  They certainly weren’t kids
anymore.  “There’s no need to go over this.  It’s alright.  You probably should
get going.  Your buddy out there will be wondering where you went.”

“Roger?  He won’t notice for a
while.  He’s probably taking his time with that wheelbarrow, just looking
around.  He likes this place.  Says he always has.”

Turning about, Sunny found herself
inches from Scott’s chest.  Breathing in sharply she scented his sweat, his
deodorant, the lingering fabric softener in his clothing.  The same.  Still the
same.  Closing her eyes, Sunny stepped around him. 

“Has he been here before?  I don’t
remember him,” Sunny commented as she headed back out to the porch.  Scott
followed slowly, letting the screen door bang behind him.  He stood at her side,
leaning with his hands on the railing.  Out in the yard Roger was nowhere to be
seen.  Sunny thought she heard him, though, or at least the crack of branches
and twigs being flung into the pile they’d created.  She really should retrieve
some as kindling for the winter, she thought at a tangent, aware that Scott had
sidled a step closer.

“Nah,” he said.  “But he is familiar
with the place.  I believe he knew the prior owners or something.  He’s never
really said.  Look, Sunny…”

Even as he spoke, his hand came up
and rested against the nape of her neck, stroked beneath her bound hair and
down her back, coming to rest on the curve of her hip.  Sunny sucked in her
breath, ignoring the remembered sensations.  She had been a long time without a
man.  Deliberately.  The next guy she had sex with sure as hell wasn’t going to
be her ex-husband.

“Scott, you have a girlfriend,
remember?  I think it’s time you went on home to her.”

With a laugh he dropped his open palm
against his thigh.  Snatching up his jacket, Sunny handed it to him.  He leaped
the two porch steps to the concrete pathway, turning to look back up at her.

“I miss us, Sunny,” he said.  “You
and me, together.”

Sunny stared at him.  She didn’t know
whether to laugh or cry.  “Yeah, well,” she said.  “Too late for amends, eh? 
Go home to Kathy.”

She smiled stiffly as she said it,
flicking her fingers at him as if in playful dismissal when what she really
wanted to do was go back inside and slam the door.  Scott headed toward his
parked pickup, his stride carefree, jacket slung across his shoulder.  Sunny
felt her stomach turn.

You bastard
. 

Slowly she sat down on the top step,
arms wrapped around her legs.  Lowering her chin to her knees she watched the
purling of pale smoke from the muffler of the truck as Scott gunned the
engine.  Roger Macleod appeared from the far corner of the barn, said something
to Scott, and then headed in her direction.  Sunny sat up, observing the easy
grace of his progress.  He walked like a man who spent a great deal of time
outdoors measuring the distance from one place to another in the length of his
stride. 

Crossing the graveled driveway, he
paused on the pathway before her.  Shading her eyes, Sunny looked up at him,
neck arched.  Apparently taking note of her expression of discomfort he folded
his long legs and crouched down, arms levered across his thighs and his large
hands hanging loosely between.  The wind blew his untidy dark hair about his
brow.

“Are you alright?” he asked, holding her
gaze with his in sober speculation. 

God, she thought, what the hell was
showing in her face?  Somehow she managed to maintain a level glance against
his searching look.

“Just tired,” she said.  She recalled
all the times during the course of the day she had found him watching her as if
he might be trying to make up his mind about something, although she couldn’t
begin to imagine what.  “I’m fine,” she said.

He nodded, looking to the walkway
between his feet.  Plucking a twig from the concrete, he tossed it under the
porch with a flick of his fingers, and then turned his head to observe the path
of a swallow over the roof of the house.  He didn’t seem like a man in a
hurry.  Behind him, at the other side of the driveway, Sunny could see Scott’s
impatient expression through the windshield of his truck.

“It really was nice to meet you,
Sunny.  Thanks for the drink.”

“Thanks for all your help.  I
appreciate it.  I feel like I should give you something for it.”

He waved that off.  “You kept up your
end, right alongside the two of us.  You’re a hard worker.”

She shrugged, slightly embarrassed
yet pleased by his words. 

“You are a hard worker,” he repeated,
his lips curving.  “Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re not.”

“Thanks,” she said, wondering who
might have said otherwise.  Well, she didn’t need to wonder about that. 
Despite Scott’s maudlin confession, she knew his inclination to say things to
put himself in the best light.  She would have thought he’d gotten over that by
now, seeing as he’d blamed her for his need to do so.  Mentally, she shrugged
in dismissal.  None of it mattered anymore.  It hadn’t for a long time.

“You’re welcome,” said Roger.  He
showed no inclination to get up and leave, no discomfort in the silence
stretching between them.  His lips remained curved, his eyes steady on hers,
gauging her, it seemed.  Dark hair drifted across his brow, and she raised her
gaze to the fine strands before shifting her focus over his head once again to
the truck waiting in the drive.  Scott continued to watch them, fingers
drumming the steering wheel.

“There’s a lot to be done here,”
Roger went on, unaffected by the momentary straying of her attention.  He
didn’t even turn his head when Scott gave a light tap on the horn.  His only
acknowledgment of her ex-husband’s impatient signal was that he smiled broadly
in apology.  She met his amber gaze, and found it steady.  Quiet.  Calming. 

“First off,” he went on, “the trim on
the barn needs painting.  I could do that for you.”

If he had spoken those words
differently she might have taken offense, but there was nothing of judgment in
them, nor condescension.  His gaze remained fixed on her own.  A flush heated
her throat and cheeks.  She stood abruptly, stepping backwards up onto the
porch.  Roger Macleod rose in protracted leisure, his broad shoulders blocking
her view of Scott in the truck, the level of his head still slightly higher
than her own, despite the fact he stood below her.

“I could afford to pay you about two
hundred dollars,” she said, “plus the cost of paint.  Will that be enough?”

“More than enough,” Roger answered
quietly.  “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“No?”

“No, that’s fine,” said Sunny.

“Eight too early?”

“Eight’s fine,” she said.

Walking away with his loose,
long-legged stride, he climbed into the passenger side of the pickup.  Scott
tapped the horn again as they exited the drive.  Waiting only until the sound
of the engine had faded, Sunny grabbed her jacket from the back of the wooden
rocker, pulled out her phone and called her sister.

“Jess, it’s me.  If you haven’t put
Colin down for his nap yet, why don’t the two of you come over for a while?  I
think we need to talk.”

CHAPTER TWO

Stooping, Sunny picked up a stuffed
duck left behind the evening before when Jess took the baby and went home. 
Setting it on the counter, she tied the sash on her terry robe and reached for
the pot of coffee, filling a mug almost to the top, leaving just enough room
for a dash of creamer and a spoonful of sugar.  The garden window dripped with
the condensation of morning fog.  In the center of the rear yard the maple
stood ghostly and pale, the yellow heads of the daffodils nearly invisible in
the tarnished grass. 

Lifting the mug of coffee she took a
mouthful, grimacing, and quickly added another teaspoon of sugar.  She hadn’t
meant to make it quite so strong, but she figured her subconscious mind had
decided she might need it since she hadn’t slept well.  When she had managed to
drift off, her dreams had been such that she had awakened immediately and
repeatedly.  She only wished she could remember what they were.

Exiting the kitchen, Sunny went to
the front door and opened it, standing on the edges of her soles as she gazed
through the screen, her thoughts on the Sunday paper waiting in the box at the
main road.  A movement by the barn caught her eye.  Slipping her feet into a
pair of garden clogs left by the threshold she stepped outside, the warmth of
the coffee mug held close to her chest.

“Hi!” she called.  She hadn’t heard
Roger arrive, let alone set the metal extension ladder against the barn wall. 
That couldn’t have been a quiet enterprise.  “A little wet for painting, isn’t
it?”

From the ladder’s base Roger turned
around, waving an instrument in his hand.  “Not painting yet, just scraping. 
Did I disturb you?”

Recalling the fact she was in her
robe, Sunny pulled the terry shut across her knees.  “I didn’t realize you were
here already.  I guess I should have looked at the clock.”  Of all mornings to
oversleep.  Normally, she rose with the sun.  “Coffee?” she offered, lifting
her mug in indication she could get him a cup. 

“No, thanks,” he said.  “Had a cup. 
Two, actually, but you go ahead and enjoy yours.”  

“I will then,” she said, reaching
behind to open the door and slip back inside.  Standing just within the shadow
cast by the porch, Sunny watched him with her teeth set in her lower lip. 
Wasn’t it just yesterday she’d been rolling her eyes at the idea of any
interest in dating?  Not that they were dating.  He was a man who’d been working
at her house, but she certainly found him pleasing to the eye. 

Roger mounted the ladder, climbing
with patent fearlessness toward the highest window nearly twenty feet above the
ground, where he leaned across the stonework to apply the scraper to the
peeling window frame.  Despite the early chill he wore a tee shirt, the effort
of his movements apparent in the tightening and subsequent release of his right
arm.  With the left he held the ladder, the rigid position making the curved
muscles stand out in relief beneath the taut casing of his skin.  He looked
strong, she mused.  Well, that much was evident from the fact he had raised the
length of the ladder alone without her hearing it clatter against the stone
wall. 

Sipping her coffee, Sunny continued
her perusal.  She couldn’t really tell his age.  Not too young, perhaps not
even in his thirties anymore, although still lean and hard in build, his
attractively untidy hair thick and dark and shining.  Observing the competence
of his stance as he worked, the length of his legs in his jeans, remembering
the way he had looked at her the day before, suddenly made the blood run warm
beneath her skin. 

“Crap,” she muttered to herself, and
went inside to change out of her nightclothes. 

Dressing comfortably in a sweatshirt
and jeans, Sunny peeked at him through the space in the bedroom curtains twice. 
Ridiculous behavior, Sunny O’Connell, she chastised herself, pulling on her
boots.  Clomping down the stairs to the kitchen, she poured herself a second
cup of coffee and headed outside. 

In the fifteen minutes she’d spent
getting dressed, the fog had lifted and early morning sunshine gleamed on the
damp stones of the barn.  She stopped beside the ladder, peering up at Roger
beneath the curve of her fingers above her eyes.

“Sure you don’t want a cup?” she
asked again, twitching the mug in his general direction.

“Positive.  Maybe later, if you’re
still offering,” he said, looking down scraper in hand.  “You okay?”

“I didn’t sleep well,” she confessed.

“Any particular reason?”  Not
nosiness.  A warm note of concern and nothing more.  Reaching up, she ran her
fingers through her tangled hair.

“Not really,” she said.  “One of
those nights.” 

He smiled.  “If you give me a minute,
I’d like to show you something.”  He returned to scraping the window, working
his way to the far corner. 

“Do you need any help?” she asked
him.  She felt sort of silly, standing around waiting for him to show her—what,
exactly?  Probably more damage needing repair.

“Not at the moment, although if
you’re really bored I have a spare paint brush for later,” he told her with a
chuckle. 

“I’m not bored,” she said and kicked
at a curl of paint in the grass.  No, she wasn’t bored.  She just wanted to
spend some time near him.  Good Lord.  “I’ll be in the house,” she said with a
jerk of her head.  “Come and knock when you’re ready.”

“No, wait,” he said.  “Let me just—”
And he gave one quick swipe to the window’s edge. “There.  I’m coming down.”

Sunny stepped out of the way for his
descent, conscious again of his height as he dropped down from the last couple
of rungs to stand beside her.  “This way,” he said.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

She followed him, wondering why she
should mind.  If he’d located something else needing repair of which she’d been
unaware, that would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?  Eventually, anyway.  She’ d
have to wait until she had a little more extra cash to fix it, if it wasn’t an
emergency.

Yanking open the door to the barn, he
held it for her.  She preceded him into the fragrant shadows and waited.  With
a nod, he mounted the ladder steps leading to the loft.  Ugh, she thought.  The
roof?

In the loft, he walked up to one of
the windows and pointed, watching her cross the floor to stand beside him.  “Right
there,” he said.  “I saw it earlier, when I came up to see how many of these
windows I could reach from the inside.”

Sunny hunkered down over her heels
beside the worn window sill in the upper storey of the barn, peering at the
pitted, graying wood.  Scarcely visible were a pair of initials, side by side
and linked by some kind of marking she couldn’t quite decipher.  Still, the
intent of a connection between them was made clear.  

Standing in the gloom beneath the
pitched roof behind her, Roger cleared his throat.  “I just thought it kind of
interesting from an historic standpoint, given the apparent age,” he said.

Sunny poked a finger at an old
spider’s web with its long-desiccated carcasses crisscrossing the sill, pulling
the decrepit structure away.  “I guess lovers have been doing this for a long
time,” she said, smiling down at the initials carved into the wood, barely
legible now.  There was no date, but a great many years had to have passed for
slow decay to have so obliterated what were once deeply incised letters.  Roger
did not comment, though she could feel the weight of his regard centered
somewhere near her nape.

“Back then,” she went on
thoughtfully, lifting her gaze to the view through the small, square window,
“these two probably got married in their teens and stayed together until one of
them passed away.  Nowadays, if death doesn’t end a marriage, life is likely to
do so.”

Still he said nothing.  After a
moment he came to stand near.  From the corner of her eye she observed the tilt
of his dark head in study of the initials.  He lifted a hand to rest his
fingers around the upper frame, leaning slightly forward, his other hand deep
in his pocket.

“I’m not bitter,” she stated
quietly.  “Just making an observation.”

Clutching the edge of the sill, Sunny
stood up.  Outside the sun shone brightly across the furrowed fields.  She
could feel Roger’s warmth, sense the solidity of his body, even though they
were separated by a distance of a foot or more.  Still within the boundaries of
her personal space, but somehow she felt no discomfort at all.  She lifted her
chin a little, drawing a deep breath.  He smelled good, masculine, a bit sweaty
from his labors, but healthy.  She felt his eyes on her in mute study before he
turned his head toward the dusty window.

“Who farms those fields?” he asked.

“The neighbor,” she answered. 
“That’s a lot of his equipment stored downstairs.”

With a shift of his body he came
nearer.  Just a slight adjustment of his stance, casual in execution, and
surely unintentional, but her skin felt electrified beneath her clothes by his
proximity.  Please, she thought, don’t let him notice.

“Does he come here often, then?”

“Who?” she asked, distracted.

“Your neighbor.”

Oh, right.  “As often as he needs to
during the growing season.  He pays me rent for the fields and the storage, so
it’s a help.”

Squinting, she watched the shadow of
a turkey vulture undulate across the turned earth.  Roger moved, dropping his
hand.  She felt the passage of his breath warm across her cheek.  The fine
hairs that had loosened from her braid moved against her ear, over the
sensitive skin along the side of her throat.  She wanted him to touch her, just
touch her lightly where his breath had been.  Instead she took a step back,
turning to face him, his steady amber gaze.  She looked away first.

“Thank you for sharing that with me. 
I don’t think I would ever have been so observant. I’ve been up here countless
times and never noticed.”

“You’re welcome,” he said quietly.

Her eyes snapped toward his in
consternation, then away.  She left him, mumbling something about keeping him
from his work.  At the top of the steep wooden steps she turned to look back,
finding him bent toward the window sill and fitting his fingers against the
vanishing outline of those ancient initials.  Sunlight made his hair glossy as
a raven’s wing, highlighting his face and his extended arm, the rest of his
long, lean body in shadow.  He lifted his head to look through the aged glass. 
Sunlight touched his neck then above his collar, revealing a strange scar not
visible earlier, running nearly around his throat.  When he moved his head again
the scar vanished back into the shadow beneath his chin.

*        *        *

A little after noon, Sunny brought
lunch out to him, only to find he’d brought his own and had nearly finished eating
it.  She stood a moment staring at the paper plate in her hand.

“What kind of sandwich is it,
anyway?” he asked.

“Turkey, mayo, roasted peppers.”

“No,” he said with a little laugh,
holding up what remained of his sandwich.  “So is this.”

“That’s just too odd,” Sunny said,
disconcerted.

“And thoughtful.  Thank you, Sunny. 
Sit with me and eat it yourself?”

Lowering herself onto the grass
beside him, Sunny stretched her legs out, crossing her ankles, and set the
plate onto her thighs just above her knees.  But she let the sandwich rest,
turning instead to eye the trim around the windows.  It had been scraped bare,
and then sanded in preparation for a coat of primer before the application of
an earthy brown.  He had explained this process to her during one of her visits
to observe his progress.  Roger Macleod was nothing if not thorough. 

“You do good work,” she commented
with an arch of her brows.

“Wouldn’t be worth doing, otherwise,”
he stated, smiling at her.

She couldn’t help smiling back at
him.  He was friendly, easy to talk to, easy on the eyes, as well, relaxed, and
confident, very much a man who knew his place in the world and felt comfortable
with it.  A man who seemed, in some way, to possess an intuitive understanding
of the natural rhythms around him.  And of her.  So far, he gauged her mood,
her emotions, her thought processes with unerring accuracy.  He was either
extremely practiced, or he was just…right.

Okay, what
was
she thinking? 
Lifting her sandwich in both hands she took a bite, focusing her full
concentration on the mechanics of eating.  Beside her, Roger drew his leg up,
propping his arm across his knee and turning his head to gaze across the yard
and up the driveway to the newly fractured tree, giving her time to collect her
thoughts, to relax, time for the blush heating her cheeks to recede.  After a
moment, she followed the direction of his gaze with her own. 

“So what do you do,” she asked, glancing
aside at the drift of his dark hair in a current of air, “when you’re not here,
helping me out?”

He turned back slowly.  “Do you mean
for work or relaxation?”

“I meant work, but…” she let the
sentence hang.  He could answer whichever he chose, or neither. 

“I’m a carpenter,” he said, with
enough of a tone of surprise to make her wonder if his choice of occupation was
not one to which he had originally aspired, and the knowledge of it still
sometimes caught him off guard.  She glanced at his hands, his muscled arms,
capable and strong.