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The sexual pull that had been new and mysterious that last winter was still there, but it was different now. He was seeing her through the eyes of an experienced man, and she was just as intriguing.
More intriguing.
Coltish legs had become longer and more shapely, budding breasts had bloomed and she’d become a provocative woman. She’d noticed him today, too, in that way. He’d watched her green eyes trail down his body. He’d felt their heat.
Rough-and-tumble tomboy had grown into sizzlinghot babe. Hot enough to make him forget his good intentions and get into trouble. And new trouble would stack on top of the old, sending the town into towering spirals of gossip.
Hurting Tracy again.
Maybe he should fix up the house and move on.
He applied the paintbrush to the edge of the freshly sanded wood of the windowsill. As he was reaching up to tackle the narrow sliver at the top of the sill, a knock sounded at the front door. Sighing, he balanced the brush across the rim of the can, wondering if he’d ever get his painting chore finished.
But on his way down the ladder, he decided Tracy must have returned. No one else would know to knock, would they? He started a mad dash toward the door, then forced himself to slow. Maybe he could drop the defensive attitude and make a more mature impression.
By the time he reached the living room, the door was opening and his grandmother was backing her way in with a brown paper bag under one arm and a plump text under the other. “It’s Gran!” she called in a voice loud enough to carry through the house. “Don’t bother coming to the door.”
“I’m already here,” Riley said from behind her. “If you didn’t want me to answer the door, why did you knock?”
She turned around and set the bag in the middle of the floor. “Even if you are my grandson, you’re a single adult male with a private life,” she said. “I couldn’t barge in.”
“You did barge in,” Riley pointed out as he watched his grandmother pitch the book beside the bag. It was hard to get used to the idea that she was enrolled in college classes, even though he knew she tended to disregard convention.
“My dear grandson, I knocked before I barged,” she said primly. “There’s a fine but distinct difference.”
“Thanks for clarifying that,” Riley said. “Next time I’m doing anything adult or private, I’ll barricade the door.”
“Just like old times,” she said with a nod. “Except I’m glad you aren’t sucking on those cancer sticks anymore.”
Riley grinned. “Same to you, Gran.”
“And we thought we had each other fooled,” she said, returning his smile. “Want some help today?”
Riley shot a glance at the astronomy text on the floor. “You planning to study while you paint?”
“Nope,” she said, lifting her palms. “I figured if I helped you paint and brought you lunch, you might help me cram this afternoon.”
Riley chuckled as he imagined his grandmother’s silvery locks amongst the hundred assorted freshman styles in the astronomy classroom at the university. “I might remember something,” he said. “That class was more interesting than most. I figured I could astound women with my knowledge.”
When his grandmother put her hands on her hips and started tapping a foot, Riley chuckled. “Help me paint. We can talk about the stars after lunch.”
Two hours and six windowsills later, Riley’s grandmother took her bag to the kitchen to pull together lunch. Riley cleaned paintbrushes and hammered lids on cans, then wandered back to check things out.
An open can of pork and beans was waiting on the counter with a plastic spoon stuck inside. Beside it lay several thick slices of bologna, a package of cream-filled cupcakes and two rather shriveled-looking plums. “This is the promised lunch?” Riley asked as he watched his grandmother eat a spoonful of beans from the can.
She nodded. “One of my favorites.”
Riley picked up a round of bologna and used it to point toward the can of beans. “Do I just use the same spoon?”
“No.” Lydia nudged the brown paper bag a few inches closer. “There’s a whole can in here with your name on it.”
“How generous.” Riley opened the bag and pulled out the beans. When he located the can opener his grandmother had left near the sink, he realized she was drinking coffee out of the cup he’d left there a while ago. “Isn’t that mine?”
Lydia scrutinized it. “Possibly.”
Riley snorted and opened the cupboard to search for a glass.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I wiped the rim first.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind about which person in the family I take after,” Riley said with a grin as he grabbed a wineglass and swooped across to fill it at the sink.
“You could do worse,” his grandmother said.
Riley lifted his water, and two of the town’s biggest misfits silently toasted the truth: even if no one else recognized their rare form of character, they did.
Honor and propriety were vastly different things.
“The convict my daughter chose for a husband didn’t do you any favors,” Lydia said. “I can almost hear him bellowing some drivel about women belonging in the kitchen and not out shooting hoops.”
She raised her chin and said proudly, “Your grandfather didn’t care if I ever set foot in our kitchen. He loved to cook for me.”
Riley only grunted. He’d scrounged another spoon from the back of a drawer and was chewing a mouthful of the cold, nearly tasteless beans. Leaning against the counter beside the adult who’d likely saved his sanity, he finished eating lunch with her, grateful for her company. When he’d left town to save his self-respect, he’d lost the opportunity to spend time with Lydia. Well, he was here now. The next few months should be a blast.
“Think I can make it?” his grandmother asked. She was perching her bean can on her open palm and nodding toward the trash can.
Riley laughed. “Those scrawny arms won’t lob it halfway.”
She held the can in two hands, then gave a cheeky little hop, threw the can and gloated.
“Lucky shot.” Riley scooped out his last spoonful and chewed while he wiggled his own can out in front of Lydia’s face. Turning his back to the trash can, he tossed it over his shoulder. When he heard the clank of the two cans colliding, he crowed.
And for the next little while, Riley and his sixty-seven-year-old grandmother grabbed cans, plums, spoons and wrappers and performed acrobatic tosses across the room. Most of the time, they each made it. Any misses were met with loud and vigorous hoots from the other. By the time the supply of trash was gone, Riley was ahead by a napkin. Although he didn’t say anything, he made sure his preening was obvious enough to catch notice.
Lydia smiled and looked around the room. Her eyes moved from the coffee cup to the wineglass—the only throwable objects left. After a moment’s consideration, she picked up the coffee cup and poised.
Riley grabbed the cup and returned it to the sink. “You might have noticed I’m not long on dishes here.”
His grandmother cackled as they made their way to the living room. With a limberness belying her years, she scooped the astronomy text from the floor and looked around for a place to sit. “You’re not long on furniture, either,” she said. “You need to fill this place up—unless you’re planning to leave soon.”
“I hope to stay a while, although I’ve already been warned I’m making a mistake.” Riley headed to the back bedroom to fetch two unopened gallon paint cans.
“Who told you that?” Lydia hollered.
“Tracy,” he hollered back. He paused in the bedroom when he noticed that his grandmother’s voice had sounded odd from across the walls. It had a new quality, something not obvious when she was within his sight. As he returned to set the cans a few feet apart in the middle of the living-room floor, he realized what it was—she sounded old.
But she was quiet now, so he picked up a board he’d bought to repair a rotted window and centered it between the cans. “There we have it,” he said, directing a tender smile toward his grandmother. “The amazing, instant study desk.”
“It’s good to know I didn’t waste my money on that fancy California university,” Lydia said as she sat and stretched out her legs beneath the board. She couldn’t be comfortable in that position for long. Criminy, he wouldn’t be comfortable. He’d have to pick up a table and chairs somewhere.
His grandmother didn’t complain, though. She spent a moment perusing a glossy photo of some distant galaxy, then said, “I guess you’ll have to convince her she’s wrong.”
Riley didn’t ask who his grandmother was talking about, because his mind hadn’t completely left Tracy since he’d seen her. “Convincing that woman of anything would be a pleasure,” he said as he attempted to position his legs on the other side of the board. “Is she involved?”
“As in dating?” Lydia flipped through pages until she found the one she’d dog-eared. Then she looked up.
“As in dating, engaged, married, living with…all that brouhaha.”
His grandmother shook her head. “Getting involved with the Gilberts’ youngest daughter would be a mistake,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Who said I was getting involved?” Riley asked. “I asked if she was involved.”
His grandmother arched an eyebrow. “She’s a career woman and a single mom. She doesn’t have time for anything else.”
“Wow, a single mom.” Riley pictured a little girl or boy with Tracy’s hair and eyes. “What sort of career?”
“She works for Booker Vanderveer. He came here from Chicago a few years ago when his wife took a job as a psychology professor. I’m taking her class next fall.”
“Gran, what kind of business is it?”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you ask in the first place? Booker runs an organizing business.” She chuckled. “I’ll be danged if the idea hasn’t caught on. It seems that quite a few college professors and some of the wealthier students are willing to pay through the nose for someone else to clean up their clutter.”
“An organizer…that sounds right. She was always a go-getter.”
“And despite the fact that tongues will flap faster than a flag in the wind, you’re planning to go get ’er?”
Riley snorted at his grandmother’s choice of words, but he wasn’t surprised by the boldness of the question. He also knew an answer wasn’t expected.
He had no idea what he was going to do, but Tracy’s words had felt like a dare. He could live anywhere he pleased, and he’d stay around until Tracy admitted that. Or longer.
“Actually, Booker’s the consultant,” Lydia said, breaking into his thoughts. “I’m pretty sure Tracy just manages the office.”
Frowning at the text lying between them, Riley didn’t comment. He already had the information he needed, and he was developing a plan. He wasn’t sure about the details yet, but he’d find a way to teach Tracy a lesson. Rotating the astronomy book toward his grandmother, he said, “Is this the section causing you problems?”
Lydia nodded, and the two concentrated on astronomy for the next half hour. They’d just read through a page, when his grandmother said, “I suppose you could use her.”
“Use Tracy?” Images invaded Riley’s thoughts.
“M’dear grandson, should you decide to stick around, you could use Vanderveer’s to get your business up and running.”
Riley smiled in response to Lydia’s grin, but he tapped his index finger against her book. “We’re studying now, Gran,” he reminded her. “Besides, I’m a bucket ahead of you.”
But when he noticed the snap of her eyes, he knew he’d never truly catch up to the lightning-quick workings of his grandmother’s mind. Hadn’t she just manipulated him into staying a while?
TRACY STOOD IN LINE at the strip-mall print shop, waiting to pick up a case of forms for Booker. The young woman behind the service desk was working slowly, even for a Monday morning. She’d taken six minutes to fill the first order, and was only now greeting the next customer.
Hannah was beginning to fidget, despite the lemon drop and yo-yo Tracy had found in the depths of her purse and offered as a bribe. The four-year-old bundle of fresh-faced charm and relentless energy was eating the candy with loud smacks, and had just banged the toy into the ankle of the man fifth in line.
Apologizing profusely, Tracy pulled Hannah closer. Even while she swore to herself that tomorrow she’d drop Hannah off at day care before errands, the little girl tried to work the yo-yo again. Of course, she let go of the string and the toy rolled between the legs of the older woman behind them. Hannah dropped to the floor to skitter along after it.
“Hannah, bring me the yo-yo,” Tracy said. When she heard the impatience in her voice, she softened her tone. “I’ll get you to school soon. You won’t miss circle time.”
The little girl’s dark eyes were solemn as she dropped the yo-yo into Tracy’s outstretched hand. Tracy felt a pang of remorse. It wasn’t Hannah’s fault they were running late. It was hers. She’d overslept, which was something she didn’t do. Then again, she hadn’t been herself all weekend.
Another employee appeared from a side door to hasten across the shop, so Tracy grabbed Hannah’s hand and followed him. “I’m here to pick up a case of forms for Vanderveer’s,” she announced to a set of pumping elbows.
He was practically running, but after her statement, he glanced over his shoulder and stopped. “I’m just the passport photographer,” he said in a voice with a timbre that reminded her of Riley’s.
Tracy scowled. Since Saturday morning, Riley’s traits were popping up in every man within her path. The knowledge that he was back in town had thrown her for a loop, despite her best efforts to forget about him.
The photographer was staring at Tracy’s face, probably wondering about the sudden switch from smile to frown.
Tracy gentled her expression. “I don’t mind,” she said, once again assuming a calmness she didn’t feel. Raising an eyebrow, she pulled Hannah close and waited for the man to get the box. Surely, even a passport photographer could make time for something so simple.
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said in a voice that sounded only nervous now. As he hurried around the counter to ask his co-worker where to find the Vanderveer job, Tracy saw a tall, muscular man in hip-hugging jeans pass by the front window.
No. It wasn’t Riley. Just a guy who reminded her of Riley, of course.
Still, in a town the size of Kirkwood, Tracy knew she’d run into him eventually. She didn’t have to have anything to do with him, though. After all, her parents and his parents had avoided one another for years, and they’d been next door neighbors.
Her behavior this weekend had been flighty, at best. She kept imagining what scintillating thing she might say to Riley, even though she had no intention of speaking to him again. It was as if all those years hadn’t passed at all, and she was still a teenager harboring a crush on the boy next door.
Except her imagination had grown up. Instead of substituting herself as the recipient of his kisses down by the train trestle, she was picturing entire weekends spent in bed with him. Heaven knew where Hannah would be during all these misbegotten fantasies.
But Tracy lived in the real world, and Hannah was fine right where she was—at her side.
The little girl had been delighted with the unusual laxity in their routine—especially when she’d been indulged with a three-hour play-clay session yesterday afternoon. Tracy had sat across the table from her, punching a glob of tangerine-colored clay into unrecognizable shapes. Muttering under her breath. Getting up countless times to replay a Beauty and the Beast sound track on the stereo.
Several times this weekend, Tracy had picked up the phone to call her sister in San Diego. She wondered if Karen knew about Riley’s return. Though she’d married her fourth husband several years ago, Karen might still be in touch with Riley. It seemed to Tracy that her sister had never gotten over him. Either that, or she had horrendous taste in men.
“Here you go, ma’am.” The photographer thrust a box against Tracy’s midsection. Gripping it under one arm, Tracy was all the way to the door before she remembered to say thanks and instruct the photographer to send the bill to Vanderveer’s.
Then to summon her daughter.
After she’d put the box in the trunk and Hannah in her child seat, Tracy got in and started the car. Ten minutes later, she realized that she’d driven past the turn for the day-care center and was heading toward the office. She turned at the next corner.
While she circled around the day-care center parking lot, she glanced toward the seat beside her and suddenly realized she’d forgotten to bring Hannah’s little backpack.
Tracy sighed as she pictured it next to the front door of the duplex, with Hannah’s lunch card on top. Exactly where Tracy had put them so she wouldn’t forget. Most of the time, she didn’t. Now she’d have to swing by home and the day care on her lunch break, and the dry cleaning would have to be put off another day.
“I forgot your backpack, Hannah-bean,” Tracy said as she parked. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring it before lunch.”
After she’d dropped Hannah off with a hug and a kiss, Tracy returned to her car and tried to shift her mind to her morning’s work. Since she hadn’t started typing the reports she’d taken home this weekend, she knew she had a tall stack awaiting her. She also had folders to file and phone messages to transcribe, and she wanted to free herself of mundane chores as soon as possible.
Booker had promised to let her sit in on a couple of consultations if she did.
When she passed the Mercedes parked in the first spot in front of Vanderveer’s, Tracy made an immediate turn to claim her regular place next to it—and nearly rammed into the motorcycle parked there.
She slammed on her brakes and flinched, waiting for the impact. She was lucky—she’d missed by inches. Her heart pounding, she threw her car into reverse and backed up, slamming on her brakes when she heard a screech and a honk, and glanced in her rearview mirror.
