Trouble Won't Wait (3 page)

I shrug, though she can’t see it. “No big deal.” Why am I always such a pushover? I’m still mad about it; why won’t I tell her that?

“I just wish Mike wouldn’t–”

“Oh. Oops. Got another call coming in. Bye.” Whew!

I take myself to lunch, with a Nora Roberts novel, at the Mexican restaurant. Dawdling with the chips and salsa, I soak up the dependability of a story with a happy ending. My entree goes untouched; someone boxes it up as I’m reading a love scene. After two hours, the server gets snippy because I’m still around. I leave him a tip equal to roughly twice my ticket total, and he smiles apologetically at me on my way out.

At home, I stare listlessly at the story on my computer screen until two o’clock, when I always go for my walk. Sure, I could have walked earlier today. But I’m used to going at this time now. Besides, I know that’s when Adam will be expecting me. Maybe. He could have been merely creating a diversion from his boredom yesterday. Or he might be working, or shopping. Or who knows? Still, as I head up the last hill, my heart pumps faster for more reasons than usual.

A GasKo truck is in Adam’s driveway. So he’s not at work. Still, he could be out and about. He must have a life besides work and watching me go by.

Keep running. Go!
the practical voice in my head tells me. Adam will only complicate my life. He already has.

Screw reason. I want to see him, need to feel noticed, wanted. A car is parked in the cemetery. Three old ladies, probably visiting the grave of a friend. As I walk in, they’re loading up to leave. They wave at me on the way out, and I smile and return the friendly gesture. By the time their car turns onto the street, Adam is heading my way, coming out a gate in his back fence. I can see his smile from far off, and I’m smiling right back.

“Hey,” I chirp, happier than I’ve been in, say, twenty-three hours or so.

“Hey.” He hands me a bottle of water. How thoughtful! Do they still
make
thoughtful men?

“Thanks.” His eyes search mine as I loosen the lid and drink.

Can he tell they’re puffy from crying so much last night? I give up trying to guess what he’s thinking, and just look back at him, sinking into those sparkling blue eyes.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come today.” He seems relieved.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be home,” I counter. Wow. He anticipated this as much as I did. “Did you work today?”

He nods. “I covered for one of my foremen, so he could go out of town with his family.”
And just where is your family?
Echoing my thoughts, he asks, “Where’s your family today?”

“Ben and Rachel are having sleepovers with friends, and Mike is out hunting water-fowl, or pheasants, or something.”

Adam’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You sure he’s not with his girlfriend?”

His bringing that up irritates me. Yet, I’m not certain I’d be here enjoying his company so, if it weren’t for The Indiscretion, as I’m now calling it–leaving names and possessive adjectives out of the title keeps it removed from me personally. I shouldn’t have told Adam about it; now he’ll be reminding me like he just did.

“I could hear him upstairs, digging around for all of his gear this morning,” I reply. “The guy single-handedly made the noise of a herd of elephants.”

Of course I’d know if he wasn’t really hunting!

Wouldn’t I?

Adam looks upward at nothing at all, as if visualizing something. When he’s finished thinking, he smiles. It seems he’s pleased with his image. His eyebrows jump in with
I’ve got it!
when he looks back at me.

“What?” I demand, still cranky about being reminded of The Indiscretion.

“You’re not sleeping with him.” He’s still grinning at his deduction.

How’d he know? I open my mouth to deny it, but what’s the use? Instead, I look away at a brown horse in the pasture next to the cemetery.

My cellphone rings, and I dig it from my pocket to see who it is. Great. “Lana the Homewrecker. Should be interesting. Think she’s trying to save her own ass, or Mike’s?” I intend to let the call go to voice mail, but Adam motions me to answer. My angst must be intrinsically interesting to him. “Hello?” It’s not my usual friendly tone, but a suspicious, affronted one.

“Mandy, it’s Lana.”

I remain silent. Let her get to her point.

“I just wanted to see if you’re okay. You were kinda weird the other night…”

“Weird?” The bitch screws my husband, and tells me I’m weird?

“Yeah, the way you walked out was just–”

“Okay, Lana, why don’t you tell me how I should react. I’m sure you have much more experience with this than I do. I mean, how do
other
wives behave when they catch their husbands balling you?”

“That was cold, Mandy. It wasn’t like we planned it. And I don’t–”

“Cold? Yeah, let me apologize, okay? I’m sure you have no blame whatsoever, so I shouldn’t take it out on
you
. Tell you what, next time I’m feeling
cold
, I’ll cuddle up with Brad, how would that be?” See how she likes the idea of another woman moving in on her turf!

Adam raises his brows and smiles at me like he’s known something all along that I’ve just figured out.

“Oh, honey, keep dreaming.” Laura’s laugh is hostile and insulting. “I’ve heard how bad the sex has been with you and Mike. And why would Brad even look at you, when he has me?” The verbal sucker punch leaves my stomach hurting as much as an actual hit.

“I’m sorry, didn’t you call to grovel or something?” I feel tears threatening, but keep them out of my voice. Adam has heard this entire conversation, and now he probably thinks it’s
my
fault Mike strayed.

“I just wanted you to know, it had never happened before, and I’d like to keep it quiet. Please?” The voice of my nemesis has turned syrupy and contrite.

Adam shakes his head at me, his eyes wide. Yeah, I want this kept quiet, too. Right now, I’d rather think Mike fell madly in love with a respectable woman, than he just had to have
this
tramp. But I’ll let Lana sweat it out. How can she actually have the nerve to call and ask me for a favor?

“Fuck off, Lana!” I snap the phone shut.

Adam claps me on the back, seemingly proud of me. I’m feeling a little proud myself, and a lot sick. A wicked combination of nerves, exhaustion and barely eating since Wednesday evening has me shaking, my heart racing, my legs suddenly weak. Irreverent as it is, I sit down hard on the nearest headstone, my hands clasping my middle.

“Hey, you okay?” Adam’s voice is soft, worried.

I can only nod. If I speak I’ll be sick all over my shoes. After a minute or so, I’m not lightheaded anymore, and stand. God, how embarrassing, to go all weak in front of him!

“You’re pale,” he tells me, and strokes my cheek with his fingertips. I must look awful, but he seems concerned, not disgusted. “You’re freezing. Come on.” He leads me toward his house. We’re halfway to his back gate when it comes to me: I cannot go in there, not in this mood.

“Adam. Hold on.”

He stops and faces me.

I press my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Do you
want
to be my revenge?”

His laugh is warm, lusty. “Would there be opportunity for advancement?” He asks like it’s a paying position, a job. “A possibility for a permanent position?”

That makes me smile, which I can see was his objective, by the way he winks and grins. “Probably not at this point. Revenge would be a temp position only.” I can’t lead him on. Angry revenge sex might be good, but adultery isn’t likely to lead to a lasting relationship.

“Then, no. I’ll keep arms’ reach away from you, Scout’s honor.” Some Freudian slip, saying
arms’ reach
, rather than
arms’ length
.

He appears sincere, so I continue following him into his yard. Through the unlocked back door, we enter his kitchen, which is neat and clean, but not compulsively so. An open bag of chips is on the counter and a dirty coffee mug sits next to its spoon. I have a fleeting memory of how easy it was to keep my kitchen this clean BC–before children.

Perched on a wooden stool in front of his counter, I watch in silence as Adam fills two thick ceramic mugs with hot cocoa, then douses them both with peppermint schnapps. He didn’t ask if I liked peppermint, or cocoa for that matter–really, is there a female who doesn’t like cocoa? It
is
chocolate, after all–but it’s fine with me. The alcohol adds to the warming effect as the drink moves down my insides.

He’s kicked up the heat, meanwhile, and the forced-air is blowing warmly in his den when I sink into a large, pine-green leather armchair, directly across from a La-Z-Boy in the same color. Between the recliner and armchair is a matching sofa. A huge, ultrathin TV occupies pretty much the entire wall above the fireplace.

The alcohol will go to my head in short order, unless I eat something. For now, I intend to relax and let it dissolve my stress. “So what do you do here all alone?” I ask. Probably watches a ton of TV. “Besides drink spiked cocoa and watch women run by?”

Adam’s eyes smile back at me, and it makes me believe I’m the only woman he watches run. Silly, yes. Gimme a break, I’m drinking on an empty stomach!

He motions for me to follow him, and we go up to his loft. In a room facing east, away from the cemetery, he has a sculpting studio. A two-foot-high likeness of a little boy, probably a nephew or a friend’s child, looks complete, standing on a shelf in a corner. A dog, some kind of Labrador, is mostly finished. Under a drop cloth is another, taller form. From its height on the workbench, it stands taller than me. All I can see of it is what looks like the loop of a shoe string.

I move to the little boy on the shelf. He looks about two years old, and a lot like Adam. If he hadn’t said he had
no
kids, I’d guess it was his son. He’s adorable, with dimples and the carefree joy a toddler exudes seconds before experiencing the tragic sorrow of having to take a nap or leave the playground. I can’t stop myself from touching his little cheek, as I would if he were really standing before me. When I look at Adam, he’s chewing his lower lip, looking pensive and guarded.

Sensing he’d rather not be pressed for details, I move on to the dog. It’s clenching a Frisbee, body poised to run. The ears are still blocks, and the tail is crude.

Adam points out the window, and I see his subject frolicking in the neighbor’s yard. “I’m giving it to the old guy next door for Christmas,” he explains.

What a softy. Wonder what the tall sculpture is of? I’ll just lift the cloth and peek…

“Do you have time for a pizza?” he blurts.

I grow still. Hmm. It sure feels good hanging here, probably too good, and I really want to stay. But I’m heading down a potentially dangerous path. Then I think of my empty house, and the
woe is me
when I return there.

“Mike won’t be back ’til late. He’s playing poker with the guys.” Mike left me a message while I was out not eating my lunch, and he’s staying over at his friend’s in Grand Junction. But I might as well start cutting out scarlet A’s to sew on my clothes, if I told Adam that.

“So what do you like on your pizza?”

I follow him back downstairs and start munching from the bag of chips while he places the order.

Adam shows me around the rest of the house: an office upstairs next to the studio, and a comfortably furnished bedroom beside his own very masculine one downstairs. In the unfinished basement is an impressive home gym. I look at his arms again. Today he’s wearing long sleeves, which outline bulky arms below broad shoulders. I move my focus back to his face.

For just a minute, we seem to hold an orbit all our own, with a gravitational force pulling us closer. My head is nearly spinning when he steps back, breaks eye contact, mumbling something about Scout’s honor.

Well, I’m not cold anymore! My heart races in my chest.

The doorbell rings. Our pizza is here, a welcome distraction. I follow Adam’s fine rear end up the stairs. What the heck am I doing here? I feel like a teenager sneaking porn on the net while his parents are out. How long until I get caught? I haven’t done anything wrong, and yet, I long to. As a kid, I learned in church that wanting it,
coveting
it is as big a sin as doing it.

We fall into easy conversation while we eat at Adam’s small pine table. I steer him clear of the wrong doctors and chiropractors in town, and tell him which dentist to use. I know a good plumber, electrician and tile guy, and add some stories I know about all of them, from school days, or talk around town.

Adam seems to enjoy the small-town flavor, listening intently and smiling.

Eventually tired of telling all, I demand, “Your turn, Mr. Adam. Pony up some juicy details about yourself.” The rum and Coke he served with the pizza is giving me courage to push where I would normally play it safe, be afraid of offending him.

“Whatcha wanta know?”

“Birthdate.”

“May eleven, seventy.”

“Mmm. Just as I thought. You’re a geezer.” He lowers his brows, tips his nose up a little, feigning insult. “Favorite color?”

“Red.”

“Mine too! Okay, favorite food?”

“Campfire marshmallows.” That’s unusual, isn’t it? “Yours?”